[illustration: ben swung his hat and shouted, and at last caught the notice of the people on the bank.--p. .] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the telegraph messenger boy or the straight road to success by edward s. ellis author of "down the mississippi," "life of kit carson," "lost in the wilds," "red plume," etc. chatterton-peck company new york, n. y. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by n. l. munro copyright, , by the mershon company ------------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page i. on a log ii. the collision iii. the office boy iv. a message in the night v. in storm and darkness vi. "tell mother i am all right" vii. a thrilling voyage viii. the cipher telegram ix. the translation x. farmer jones xi. the value of courtesy xii. a call xiii. at the grandin mansion xiv. the conspiracy xv. an affray at night xvi. the third telegram xvii. decidedly mixed xviii. between two fires xix. baffled! xx. watching and waiting xxi. "lay low!" xxii. the battle of life xxiii. face to face xxiv. startling discoveries xxv. in the nick of time xxvi. conclusion ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the telegraph messenger boy chapter i on a log i made the acquaintance of ben mayberry under peculiar circumstances. i had charge of the western union's telegraph office in damietta, where my duties were of the most exacting nature. i was kept hard at work through the winter months, and more of it crowded on me during the spring than i could manage with comfort. i strolled to the river bank one summer afternoon, and was sauntering lazily along when i noticed a young urchin, who was floating down-stream on a log, which had probably drifted thither from the lumber regions above. the boy was standing upright, with a grin of delight on his face, and he probably found more real enjoyment in floating down-stream in this style than any excursionist could obtain in a long voyage on a palace steamer. he had on an old straw hat, through the crown of which his brown hair protruded in several directions; his pantaloons were held up by a single suspender, skewered through them in front by a tenpenny nail--an arrangement which caused the garments to hang in a lopsided fashion to his shoulders. he was barefooted, and his trousers were rolled up to his knees. he wore no coat nor vest, and his shirt was of the coarsest muslin, but it was quite clean. this boy was ben mayberry, then ten years old, and he was a remarkable fellow in more than one respect. his round face was not only the picture of absolutely perfect health, but it showed unusual intelligence and brightness. his figure was beautiful in its boyish symmetry, and no one could look upon the lad without admiring his grace, of which he was entirely unconscious. in addition to this, ben mayberry was known to possess two accomplishments, as they may be called, to an extraordinary degree--he was very swift of foot and could throw with astonishing accuracy. both of these attainments are held in high esteem by all boys. i had met ben at intervals during the year past, but could hardly claim to be acquainted with him. i usually bought my morning paper of him during the cold weather, and i knew that his father was killed by a blasting accident some years before. ben was the only child of his widowed mother, who managed to eke out a subsistence somehow with the aid of the little fellow, who was ever ready and cheerful with his work. while i stood looking at ben, drifting slowly down-stream, and reflected that the water was fully two fathoms deep at that point, three other boys stopped on the bank below me to view him. they were strangers to me, but i observed they were unusually well dressed. they had that effeminate, exquisite appearance which satisfied me they were visitors from boston, sauntering along the river in order to learn whether there was anything in our town worthy of their attention. they were apparently of nearly the same age, and each was certainly one or two years older than ben mayberry. "hello," exclaimed one, as the three came to an abrupt halt, "look at that country boy out on that log over there; he thinks he's smart." "he's trying to show off, rutherford," said another. "i say, boys, let's stone him," suggested the third, in a voice so guarded that i was barely able to catch the words. the proposition was received with favor, but one of them looked furtively around and noticed me. his manner showed that he was in fear of my stopping their cruel sport. "who cares for him?" said one of the party, in a blustering voice that it was meant i should hear; "he's nobody. i'll tell him my father is one of the richest men in boston and is going to be governor some day." "and i'll let him know that my father has taken me and our folks all over yurrup. pooh! he daresn't say anything." soothed by this conclusion, the three began throwing stones at ben. ben was close at hand, and the first boy who flung a missile poised and aimed with such deliberation that i was sure ben would be hit; but the stone missed him by fully ten feet. it was not until two more had been thrown that ben awoke to the fact that he was serving as a target for the city youth. "what are you fellers doing?" he demanded, looking angrily toward them. "who you trying to hit?" they laughed, and the tallest answered, as he flung another missile with great energy but poor aim: "we're going to knock you off that log, country! what are you going to do about it?" "i'll show you mighty soon," answered the sturdy lad, who straightway pushed the long pole in his hand against the bottom of the river, so as to drive the log in toward the shore where his persecutors stood pelting him. there was something so plucky in all this that several others stopped to watch the result. i secretly resolved that if ben got the worst of it (as seemed inevitable against three boys), i would interfere at the critical moment. "he's coming ashore to whip us!" exclaimed the tallest lad, almost dropping to the ground with laughter. "i hope he will; i've been taking sparring lessons of professor sullivan for a year, and i would like the fun of knocking him out of time. i can do it in three rounds, and i want you boys to stand back and leave him to me. i'll paralyze him!" the others were reluctant, each claiming the happiness of demolishing the countryman; but the tallest, who was called rutherford, at last secured their pledge that they would keep their hands off and allow him to have all the fun to himself. "i'll try the cross-counter on him, the upper cut, and then i'll land a left-hander on his jug'lar that'll knock him stiff. oh, how i ache to get him within reach!" chapter ii the collision meanwhile ben mayberry was vigorously working the log in toward shore. it moved slowly, but the current was sluggish, the space brief, and he was certain to land in a few minutes. one of the stones struck ben on the shoulder. it must have angered him, for instead of trying to dodge the rest, he used his pushing-pole with more energy than before and paid no heed to the missiles, several of which were stopped by his body. it was plain that the valorous little fellow meant to attack the three city lads, who were pestering him not only with stones, but with taunts that were far more exasperating. "wonder who blacked his shoes?" "ain't that hat a beauty? he can comb his hair without taking it off." "that one suspender must have cost him a good deal." "by gracious, he's going to chew us up," laughed the tallest, as the log approached land; "stand back, boys, you promised him to me, and i don't want either of you to say you helped me to knock him out in the third round." the next minute the log was so close that the nimble-footed ben leaped ashore and strode straight for the valiant rutherford, who immediately threw himself in "position." his attitude was certainly artistic, with his left foot thrown forward, his right fist clinched and held across his breast, and his left extended ready to be shot forward into the first opening that his enemy presented. but it is one thing to assume the proper pugilistic attitude; it is altogether another to act the part of a trained pugilist. "come on, country!" called out the exultant rutherford; "but i hope you've bid your friends farewell." the other boys stood back and watched the singular contest. i carefully approached so as to be ready to protect ben when it should become necessary. the brave fellow never hesitated, but the instant he landed lightly on the shore he went straight for rutherford, who, it was plain, was slightly surprised and disconcerted by his unscientific conduct. but the city youth kept his guard well up, and the moment ben was within reach he struck a violent blow intended for the face. but ben dodged it easily, dropping his head and running with cat-like agility directly under the guard of his antagonist, who, before he could understand precisely what it meant, found himself clasped around the waist and thrown on his back with such violence that a loud grunt was forced from him, and his handsome new hat rolled rapidly down into the water. and i am free to confess that i was delighted when i saw ben give him several of his "best licks," which made the tall boy roar for mercy. "take him off, boys! he's killing me! quick! i can't live much longer." the others were terrified at the hurricane-like style in which the boy had turned the tables on the scientific rutherford, but they could not stand by and see their companion massacred without raising a finger to help him. "pull him off!" yelled the victim, twisting his body and banging his legs in the soft earth in his vain effort to free himself from ben, who was pegging away at him. "pull him off! put me on top, and i'll settle him!" one of the boys ran forward and reached out his hand, intending to catch ben by the shoulder and fling him to the ground; but, to my intense amazement and equally intense delight, ben caught his arm, jerked him forward across the body of rutherford, and belabored both of them. it was one of the neatest feats i ever saw performed, and, under the circumstances, i would have pronounced it impossible had it not been done before my own eyes. both the hats of the boston youths were floating down the river, and they were so close to the water's edge that they were covered with mud. the vigor of the assault on the two was increased rather than diminished, and we spectators were cruel enough to laugh heartily over the exhibition, accompanied as it was by the frenzied yells of the two lads who were receiving the wrathful attentions of ben mayberry. the third boy could not stand it. he must have thought they had come in collision with a gorilla or some sort of wild animal, for he started up the river bank, shouting "murder!" at the top of his voice. ben, having got through with the two under him, sprang off and allowed them to rise, standing ready to renew the fight should they show any desire to do so. [illustration: ben caught his arm, jerked him across the body of rutherford, and belabored both of them.--p. .] but they were too thoroughly vanquished. their plight was laughable, and yet pitiable. they were coated with mud from head to foot, and their pretty hats, with their polka-dot bands, were gone too far down the river to be recovered. they seemed dazed for a minute or so, but as soon as they realized they were on their feet they started off after their flying companion, never pausing to look behind them, but running as though a bengal tiger was at their heels. "ben," said i, walking forward as soon as i could assume a serious expression of countenance, "do you not know it is very wrong to fight?" "that's what i was tryin' to teach them city chaps. i guess they'll think so after this." "you certainly did your best to convince them it isn't wise to attack you; but, ben, what have you been doing lately?" "my last job was whipping them," replied the urchin, with a roguish twinkle of his blue eyes; "but that was fun, and if you mean work, i hain't had anything but selling papers since last summer, but sometimes i run errands." "do you go to school?" "yes, sir." "would you like a job?" "indeed i would, sir, for mother finds it hard work to get along, and sometimes there isn't anything to eat in the house. once, when i was a little fellow, when i saw mother crying, and there was no bread, i slipped out at night and stole a loaf, but mother would not touch it when i brought it home, and made me take it back. she told me i must starve before i did wrong, and so i will. i have been trying to get a job all summer, but everybody says i am too young and small. i take all the exercise i can, so as to make me grow, and that's one reason why i pitched into them city chaps and laid 'em out." "well, ben, you know where the office of the western union is; come around there to-morrow morning, at eight o'clock, and i will give you something to do." "oh, i'm very thankful to you, sir, and this will make my mother the happiest woman in damietta." i saw tears in the bright eyes, as ben ran home to carry the good news to his mother. chapter iii the office boy when i approached the office the next morning, little ben mayberry was standing outside, smiling and expectant. my heart was touched when i saw what pains his mother had taken to put her boy in presentable shape. he had on a pair of coarse shoes, carefully blacked, and a new, cheap hat replaced the dilapidated one of the day before. he wore a short coat and a vest, which must have served him as his sunday suit for a long time, as they were much too small for him. but there was a cleanly, neat look about him which attracted me at once. his face was as rosy as an apple, and his large, white teeth were as sound as new silver dollars. his dark hair, which was inclined to be curly, was cut short, and the ill-fitting clothes could not conceal the symmetry of his growing figure. "well, ben," said i cheerily, as i shook his hand, "i am glad to see you are here on time. you are young, you know, but are old enough to make a start. as i expect you to reach the top of the ladder, i mean that you shall begin at the bottom round." i am not sure he understood this figurative language, but i made it clear to him the next minute. "you are to be here every morning before seven o'clock, to sweep out the office and make it ready for business. you must see that all the spittoons are cleaned, that the ink wells at the desk are provided with ink, that the pens are good enough for use (i never yet have seen a public office where the writing facilities were not wretched), abundance of blanks on hand, and that everything is tidied up. in summer, you must wash off the ice and place it in the cooler, and in winter, see that the fires are going and the office comfortable at the time we go there for business. can you do it, ben?" "yes, sir, and glad to have the chance." "this will give you some opportunity to attend the public school, which, of course, you will take advantage of. then, when you can, you will begin to study telegraphy. i will see that you have every chance, and, at the same time, i will give you a lift now and then in your studies. this is the first step, ben; in this country anything is possible to the boy who has brains, pluck, and application. everything now depends on yourself; with the help of heaven you will succeed; if you fail, it will be your own fault. to-day you start on your career, which will lead to success and happiness or to failure and misery." ben listened respectfully to what i said, and seemed impressed by my words. i took him inside the office, explained to him more particularly his duties, gave him a key with which to enter in the morning, and told him to be on hand at six o'clock on the morrow, until which time he was excused. his wages were to be two dollars a week, to begin from the day on which i engaged him. ben raised his hat, bade me good-day, and went home, and i am sure there was no happier boy in damietta than he. it goes without saying that he attended to his duties faithfully from the very first. he went to the public school when he could gain the chance. i learned that he was a favorite there, on account of his manliness and excellent scholarship. in conjunction with the principal we arranged to give him private instruction at night, so that during the day he could devote his energies to learning telegraphy, in which he displayed great aptitude. as i was manager of the office, it was in my power to advance ben as rapidly as circumstances warranted. he was given to understand from the first that he would be assisted to the extent to which he proved himself deserving, and no further. i did not intend to spoil him by undue favors, nor did i allow him to see how much i really thought of him. one of the surest means of ruining a boy is by partiality and too rapid advancement; but i gave him an encouraging word now and then, and took pains to let his mother know that he was meeting my high expectations, and that he was fully worthy of the hopes she entertained of him. i shall never forget the glow which came into the pinched face when i addressed her thus, nor the devout expression which overspread her countenance at my liberal praise of her child. "ben has always been obedient to his father and mother. i have never known him to swear or tell an untruth, and he never took anything that was not his own--that is," the poor lady hastened to add when she recalled the painful circumstance, "he never forgot himself but once." "he told me about it; few could blame him for that misstep; i cannot think the distressing necessity will ever arise again. should heaven spare his life he will become your staff, upon which you can soon lean your whole weight." she gave a faint sigh of happiness. "my boy ben has never brought a pang to his mother's heart." ah, my young friend, can your mother say that? when that dear head is laid low, when those loving eyes shall be closed forever, and the sweet voice is hushed in the tomb, will you be able to say through your blinding tears: "i never brought a pang to her heart!" chapter iv a message in the night at the end of a month ben mayberry was made a messenger boy of the office under my charge. this cannot be called a very momentous promotion, inasmuch as many of our telegraphists begin there; but it doubled ben's wages at once, and led to his appearance in the attractive blue uniform which the boys of the western union wear. in his case it seemed to add two inches to his stature at once. ben was our best messenger from the first. he was acquainted with the city of damietta from one end to the other, and his superior fleetness of foot enabled him to outstrip the others, while his cheerful, intelligent manner added to his popularity with our customers. as he was so young, i determined to keep him messenger for a longer time than was really necessary, affording him all the opportunity he could ask in which to learn telegraphy. he picked it up rapidly, and i was surprised when i found him reading messages over the wires by sound. as everyone knows, it takes a skillful operator, or rather one of experience, to do this, a proof that ben was applying himself to learning the business with all the power at his command. in more than one instance, those who knew the high estimation in which the boy was held exerted themselves to put annoyances and obstructions in his way. all manner of pretexts were made for detaining him, and he showed no little originality and ingenuity in outwitting his very attentive friends. he continued to apply himself evenings, when not on duty at the office, and his progress was excellent in every respect. the kind principal showed great interest in him, and at the age of twelve ben mayberry possessed what may be called a good elementary english education. before, however, these two years had passed he could receive and send messages in a very acceptable manner. his wages had been advanced, and he now had his mother in comfortable quarters, dressed tastefully himself, and was developing into a handsome youth, whose brilliant work had already attracted the notice of the general superintendent. ben had been an operator a little less than a year when he met with a most extraordinary experience, which to-day is a theme of never-ending wonder to those who were living in damietta at the time. one evening a rough-bearded man entered the office, and stepping to the counter, said to me: "my name is burkhill--g. r. burkhill--and i am staying at the hotel in moorestown. i am expecting a very important dispatch to-night, but i cannot wait for it. if it reaches this office before ten o'clock, i wish to have it delivered to the hotel." moorestown lay directly across the river, and was reached by the long, covered bridge which spanned the stream. it was beyond our "jurisdiction," that is, outside the circle of free delivery, which mr. burkhill understood, as he remarked that he would pay well for the trouble. i assured him that i would see that the telegram reached him that night, if received before ten o'clock. thanking me, he said good-evening, passed out, mounted his horse, and galloped away in the wintry darkness. it was in the month of february, but the weather was mild for that season, and there had been a plentiful fall of rain. ben was on duty until ten, and he was in the very act of rising from his seat when he called out: "helloa! here comes the message for mr. burkhill." it was quite brief and ben wrote it out rapidly, took a hasty impression, thrust it into the damp yellow envelope, and whistled for a messenger boy. there was only one present, and he was a pale, delicate lad, who had gone on duty that day after a week's illness. "helloa, tim; do you want to earn a half dollar extra?" asked ben, as the boy stood expectantly before him. "i would like to, if it isn't too hard for me." ben looked sharply at him and saw that the boy was in too weak a state to undertake the task. there was no other messenger within call, and mr. burkhill was doubtless impatient for the message whose delivery i had guaranteed. "it won't do for you to cross the river to-night," said ben decisively; "the air is damp and raw, and i think it is going to rain again. i'll do it for you, and whatever extra i collect from mr. burkhill you shall have, tim; now go home and go to bed." and waving me a good-night, ben hurried out of the door and vanished down the street. "it's just like him," i muttered, as i prepared to go home; for except on special occasions we closed our office at ten, or shortly after. "that isn't the first kindness he has done that boy, and everyone in the office is bound by gratitude to him." as i stepped out on the street i observed that the fine mist was turning into rain, and another of those dismal nights, which are often experienced in the middle states during the latter part of winter, was upon the city. i did not feel sleepy after reaching home. my wife and two children had retired and were sound asleep. there was no one astir but myself, and drawing my chair to the fire, i began reading the evening paper. fully an hour had passed in this manner and i was in the act of rising from my chair, with the purpose of going to bed, when a sharp ring of the bell startled me as though i had heard burglars in the house. i felt instinctively that something serious had happened as i hurried to the door. "did ben mayberry take a telegraphic message across the river to-night?" asked the man, whom i recognized as a policeman. "he started to do so," i answered tremblingly. "what's wrong." "it's the last message he'll ever deliver; he has probably been killed!" chapter v in storm and darkness "yes, it's the last message he'll ever deliver," repeated the policeman; "ben mayberry has probably been killed!" these were the terrible words spoken by the man who had rung my bell in the middle of the night, and startled me almost out of my senses. i swallowed the lump in my throat, and with a voice tremulous with emotion, said: "no, no! it cannot be. who would kill him?" "i don't mean he was murdered," the officer hastened to add, seeing my mistake. "he was on the middle span of the bridge when it was carried away by the flood, and that's the last of him!" i drew a great sigh of relief. there was something unspeakably dreadful in the thought of noble ben mayberry being killed by anyone, and it lifted a vast burden from my shoulders to be told that no such awful fate had overtaken him. but instantly came the staggering terror that the boy had gone down in the wreck and ruin, and at that moment was floating among the great masses of ice and débris that were sweeping swiftly down the river toward the sea. "how was it?" i asked, after the officer had refused my invitation to enter. "the river began rising very fast at dark, but the bridge has stood so many freshets we were hopeful of this. the water was at the top of the abutments at nine o'clock and was still creeping up. jack sprall, who is off duty to-night, was down by the bridge watching things. a little after ten o'clock, ben mayberry came along and said he had a message which he had promised to deliver to a gentleman at the hotel in moorestown. jack told him the bridge was unsafe, but ben said he knew how to swim, and started across, whistling and jolly as usual. jack said at the same time he heard the sound of wheels, which showed that a wagon or carriage had driven on from the other side, which never ought to have been allowed when things were looking so shaky. ben had just about time to reach the middle of the bridge when the crash came, and the big span was wiped out, as though it was a chalk mark on a blackboard." "how do you know of a surety that ben mayberry did not save himself?" "he is very active and strong, i know, which made jack hope he had pulled through. in spite of the danger of the rest of the bridge going, jack crept out over it to the abutment, and shouted to ben. "it seemed that a couple of men had done the same from moorestown, and they stood on the other abutment, with the middle of the river sweeping between and threatening to take away the rest of the tottering bridge every minute. "when jack called, they answered, though it was too dark to see each other, and they asked jack whom he was looking for. he told them that ben mayberry had gone on the bridge a few minutes before from this side, and he was afraid he had been swept away. they said there could be no doubt of it, as he had not reached the span on which they were standing. they then asked jack whether he had seen anything of a horse and carriage, which drove on the bridge from the moorestown side, and which they had come out to see about. of course jack could only make the same answer, and when they explained, it was learned that the carriage contained a lady and small child--so three lives have been lost from people not doing their duty in keeping folks out of danger." "does the mother of ben know anything about this?" i asked, with a shudder at the thought of her terrible grief. "yes; i went up to her house and told her first, as i thought it my duty to do." "poor woman! she must have been overcome." "she was at first, and then when she asked me to tell her all about it, and i had done so, she said very quietly that she didn't believe her boy was drowned." "nor do i believe it!" i exclaimed, with a sudden thrill of hope. "ben mayberry is one of the best swimmers i ever saw; he went down with the lumber of the central span, and even if he could not swim, he had a good chance to float himself on some of the timbers or blocks of ice which are buoyant enough to support a dozen men." "all that is very true," replied the policeman, who seemed to have thought of everything; "and i don't deny that there is just the barest possibility in the world that you're right. but you mustn't forget that the roof of the bridge was over him, and has shut out the chance of his helping himself. don't you believe that, if he was alive, he would have answered the calls that jack made to him? jack has a voice like a fog-horn, and ben would have heard him if he was able to hear anything." this view of the case staggered me, and i hardly knew what to say, except to suggest that possibly ben had answered the call, and was unheard in the rushing waters; but the officer shook his head, and i confess i shared his doubts. "just as the splintering timbers went down, jack did hear the shout of ben; he heard, too, the scream of a woman, and that awful cry which a horse sometimes makes when in the very extremity of peril, but that was all." i could not sleep after such horrifying tidings, when the policeman had gone; i went into the house and donned my overshoes and rubber coat. fortunately my family had not been awakened by the ringing of the bell, and i did not disturb them; but, carefully closing and locking the door after me, i went out in the storm and darkness, oppressed by a grief which i had not known for years, for ben mayberry was as dear to me as my own son, and my heart bled for the stricken mother who, when she most needed a staff to lean upon during her declining years, found it cruelly snatched from her. chapter vi "tell mother i am all right" there is a fascination in the presence of danger which we all feel. the news of the dreadful disaster spread with astonishing rapidity, and when i reached the river-side it seemed as if all damietta were there. the lamps twinkled in the hands of innumerable men moving hither and thither in that restless manner which showed how deep their feelings were. people were talking in guarded voices, as if the shadow of an awful danger impended over them, and the wildest rumors, as is the case at such times, were afloat. it was said that six, eight, and a dozen persons had gone down with the bridge and were irrecoverably lost. other structures above us were carried away (though no one stopped to explain how the tidings had reached ahead of the flood itself), and it was asserted that not a span would be left on the stream at daybreak. the flickering lanterns gave a glimpse of the scene which rendered it more impressive than if viewed under the glare of midday. some daring ones ventured out to the first abutment despite the danger, and we saw the glare of their lanterns on the rushing, muddy water and the immense blocks of ice. some of the latter would impinge against the stone abutment with a prodigious grinding crash, spin around several times, and then mount up from the water, crowded by others behind, as though it was about to climb over the massive stone. then it would tumble back with a splash and swiftly sweep out of sight in the darkness. again, trees, with their bushy tops tossing above the surface, glided by as if caught in a rushing mill-race, and a grotesque character was given to the whole scene by the sudden crowing of some cocks, which must have been frightened by the twinkling lights so near them. few in damietta went to bed that night. there was a continual walking to and fro, as people are seen to do when some great calamity is about to break upon them. several mounted horses and rode down the river-bank for miles, in the weak hope of picking up tidings of the lost ones. no one could be found who knew the lady and child in the carriage which came upon the bridge from the other side. there were innumerable guesses as to their identity, but they were guesses and nothing more. no doubt was entertained that when communication could be opened with moorestown on the morrow, we would learn who they were. i stayed at the river-side for an hour, weighed down by the greatest grief of my life. i was anxious to do something, but there was absolutely nothing for me to do. ben was gone, and his friends could not begin an intelligent search for him before the morrow. i turned on my heel to go home, when a shout went up that the span on the other side of the center was going. there could be no doubt that the splintering crash and the grinding swirl of waters and ice were caused by the destruction of that span which dissolved into nothingness almost in a moment. this started the cry that the timbers nearest us were breaking up. those who were on it made a rush for shore, which was not reached a minute too soon. the entire span suddenly lifted up and was "snuffed out" so promptly that the wonder was how it had withstood the flood so long. this occurrence struck me as decisive of the fate of my young friend ben mayberry. it gave me an appreciation of the tremendous irresistibility of the freshet, which must have ended the lives of the hapless party almost on the instant. the bravest swimmer would be absolutely helpless in the grasp of such a terrific current, and in a night of pitchy darkness would be unable to make the first intelligent effort to save himself. at last i went home through the drizzling rain, as miserable a mortal as one could imagine. when i reached the house i was glad to find that my family were still asleep. it would be time enough for them to learn of my affliction and the public disaster on the coming morrow. the pattering of the rain on the roof accorded with my feeling of desolation, and i lay awake until almost daylight, listening, wretched, dismal, and utterly despairing. i slept unusually late, and i was glad, when i went down to my breakfast, to learn that some kind neighbor had told my family all i knew, and indeed, a little more. the river rose steadily until daylight, by which time it was two feet above the abutments, and not a vestige of the bridge remained. but the water had reached its highest point, for, after remaining stationary an hour, it had begun to fall, and was now a couple of inches lower than "high-water mark." there were two things which i dreaded--the sight of the furious river, and to meet the sad, white face of ben mayberry's mother. i felt that i could give her no word of comfort, for i needed it almost as much as did she. she must have abandoned all hope by this time, and her loss was enough to crush life itself from her. when walking along the street i found that everyone was talking about the unexampled flood. it had overflowed the lower part of the city, and people were making their way through the streets in boats. scores of families were made homeless, and the sights were curious enough to draw multitudes thither. i kept away from every point where i could catch so much as a glimpse of the freshet. "you have robbed me of the brightest and best boy i ever knew," i muttered, in bitterness of spirit; "he was one whom i loved as if he were a son." the shadow of death seemed to rest on the office when i reached it. the loss of ben mayberry was a personal affliction to everyone there. only the most necessary words were spoken, and the sighing, which could be heard at all times, came from the heart. i went to my desk in a mechanical way, and had just placed my hand on the instrument, when i was thrilled by a call which i would have recognized among a thousand. others heard and identified it also, and held their breath. the next instant this message reached me: "dear mr. melville--tell mother i am all right, but in need of dry clothing. "ben mayberry." chapter vii a thrilling voyage on the night that ben mayberry started across the bridge to deliver the cipher message to mr. burkhill in moorestown, he had reached the center span before he felt he was in personal danger. the few lamps which twinkled at long distances from each other were barely enough for him to see where he was going, and they did little more than make the darkness visible. by the faint light he observed a carriage and single horse approaching. the animal lifted his feet high, walked slowly, and snuffed the air as he turned his head from side to side, like an intelligent creature which feels he is approaching danger. the rattling of the narrow planks under his hoofs and the carriage wheels could be heard above the roar and sweep of the angry river beneath. suddenly the bridge trembled under a blow received from a gigantic piece of ice, which went grinding and splashing with such violence that its course could be followed by the bulging upward of the planks between ben and the horse. "my gracious! this won't do," exclaimed the boy, more alarmed for the vehicle and its occupants than for himself. he ran forward to grasp the bridle of the horse with the purpose of turning him back, when he saw that he had stopped of his own accord, and was snorting with terror. ben reached up to seize the bit, when he was made dizzy by the abrupt lifting of the planking underneath, and was thrown violently forward on his face. the brave boy knew what it meant, and kept his senses about him. it was utterly dark, and he was in the icy water with a terrified horse struggling fiercely, and in danger of beating out the boy's brains with his hoofs, while the shriek of the agonized mother rose above the horrid din: "save my child--save my child!" fortunately for ben mayberry the bridge broke up in a very unusual manner. instead of the roof coming down upon him, it seemed to fall apart, as did the narrow planking. thus his movements were not interfered with by the structure, and realizing what a desperate struggle for life was before him, he drew off his cumbersome overcoat with great deftness, and then swam as only a strong swimmer can do in the very extremity of peril. he heard nothing more of the horse, which had doubtless perished after a struggle as brief as it was fierce; but, unable to see anything at all, ben struck out toward the point whence came the cry of the mother, and which was close at hand. he had scarcely made three strokes when he came in violent collision with a huge block of ice in his path. without attempting to go around it, he grasped the edge, and, by a determined effort, drew himself upon it. fragments of the bridge were all around, and he felt some of the timber upon the support. while crawling carefully toward the other side, he shouted: "helloa! where are you? answer, and i'll help you." a faint cry made itself heard amid the rushing waters and the impenetrable darkness. it was just ahead, and the next instant ben had reached the other side of the ice raft, where, steadying himself with one hand, he groped about with the other, uttering encouraging words as he did so. suddenly he caught hold of a delicate arm, and with another cheery shout, he began drawing with all his strength. it was a hard task, under the circumstances, but he quickly succeeded, and was not a little amazed to find that instead of a lady he had helped out a small girl. but it was the cry of a mother that had reached his ears, and he did his utmost (which unfortunately was little) to help her. he called again and again, but there was no answer. he asked of the child the whereabouts of her parents, but the little one was almost senseless with bewilderment, cold, and terror, and could give no intelligible answer. "she must be drowned," was the sorrowful conclusion of ben, who was forced to cease his efforts; and i may as well add at this point, that he was right; the mother's body being carried out to sea, where it was never found. for the time, ben and the little girl were safe, but it will be seen that their condition was pitiable. it was a wintry night, the water was of an arctic temperature, and their clothing was saturated. the icy floor on which they were supported would have added to their terrible discomfort, had he not been able to gather together several of the planks within reach, with which he made a partition between them and the freezing surface. ben shouted at the top of his voice, but he was so far below the place where the bridge had stood that no one heard him, and he finally gave it up, knowing that even if he made himself known to friends, they would be powerless to help him so long as the darkness lasted. the child, so far as he could judge, was no more than nine or ten years old, but she was richly clad, as he learned from the abundance of furs, silks, and velvet. she had luxuriant hair, which streamed about her shoulders, and he was sure she must be very beautiful. she was alive, but faint and suffering. she did not wish to talk and ben did not urge her, although he was curious to know her identity. "i will learn all in the morning," he said to himself; "that is, if we are spared until then." he was too excited and terrified to fall asleep, even had his discomfort not been too great to permit it, and he found he needed his wits about him. now and then the cake of ice which supported them was crowded by others, until it seemed on the point of being overturned, in which event another terrible struggle would be necessary to save himself and the little girl. then again, there seemed to be eddies and whirlpools in the current, which threatened to dislodge them or to break up the miniature iceberg into fragments, as the bridge itself was destroyed. chapter viii the cipher telegram the almost interminable night came to an end at last and the dull gray of morning appeared in the east. ben mayberry chafed the arms of the little stranger, and even slapped her vigorously to prevent her succumbing to the cold. he was forced to rise to his feet himself at intervals and swing his arms and kick out his legs, to fight off the chilliness which seemed to penetrate to his very bones. as soon as the boy could make use of his eyes he found himself drifting through the open country, where the river was fully double the width at damietta. this gave the masses of ice much more "elbow room," and decreased the danger of capsizing. houses and villages were seen at intervals, and multitudes of people were along the bank gathering driftwood and "loot," and watching the unparalleled flood of waters. ben swung his hat and shouted, and at last caught the notice of the people on the bank. two sturdy watermen sprang into a boat and began fighting their way out to the helpless ones. it was a hard task, but they succeeded, and ben and little dolly willard (as she had given her name) were safely taken off. a crowd waited to welcome them and they received every possible attention. both were taken to the nearest farmhouse, where a kind-hearted mother took dolly in charge, for the little one needed it sadly enough. they were within half a mile of a village which was connected with damietta by telegraph, and before ben would do anything more than swallow a cup of hot coffee, and change his clothing, he was driven to the office, where he sent the message which was the first word we received in damietta to tell us that he was alive. i lost no time in hurrying to the humble dwelling of mrs. mayberry, where i made known the joyful tidings. i shall never forget the holy light which illumined the thin face as she clasped her hands in thankfulness and said: "i had not given up all hope, but i was very near doing so." ben was driven into damietta late that afternoon, where a royal welcome awaited him. he was cheered, shaken by the hand, and congratulated over and over again, and for a time it looked as though he would be pulled asunder. when he finally tore himself loose and rushed into our office, the operators and messenger boys were equally demonstrative, but he did not mind them. i stood at my desk with a swelling heart, waiting for him. suddenly he turned and caught my hand. "he that is born to be hanged will never be drowned----" he was laughing when he spoke the jest, but his voice trembled, and all at once he broke down. quickly withdrawing both hands, he put them over his face and cried like a heartbroken child. he had stood it like a hero to this point, but now, with the crowd outside peering into the windows, he sobbed with uncontrollable emotion, while my own heart was too full to speak. as soon as he could master himself he said: "i must not wait any longer; mother expects me." he was out of the door in a twinkling, and in a few minutes the mother and son were in each other's arms. the reader may think that the most remarkable part of ben mayberry's adventure on the night of the flood has already been told, but it proved to be the beginning of a train of incidents of such an extraordinary nature that i hasten to make them known. there was a direct connection between his experience on that terrible night in february and the wonderful mystery in which he became involved, and which exercised such a marked influence on his after-life. fortunately, little dolly willard suffered no serious consequences from her frightful shock and exposure. she received such excellent care that she speedily recovered, and as soon as we could re-establish communication with moorestown and engage her in conversation, we learned something of her history. she lived in new york city and had come to moorestown on a visit with her mother and uncle george. he was the g. r. burkhill who failed to receive the cipher dispatch which ben mayberry undertook to deliver to him on that eventful night. dolly said her father was dead, or had been gone from home a very long time. uncle george claimed and took her to the city, first sending a cipher dispatch to a party in the metropolis, and directing me, in case of an answer, to hold it until he called or sent for it. two days later an answer arrived in the same mystic characters as before. as it has much to do with the incidents which follow, i give this remarkable telegram in full: "new york, february th,---- "george r. burkhill, moorestown: "nvtu vzhs ujmm ezkk tbn gzr b adssdg dizodf rntsg zpvs azmj xjmm jddo. "tom." cipher telegrams are sent every day in the week, and we did not concern ourselves with this particular one, which would have received no further thought, but for an odd circumstance. on the day mr. burkhill sent his message to new york, he was followed into our office by a man who was shabbily dressed, and who impressed me as what is commonly called a "beat." he spoiled several blanks without sending a message and then abruptly tore them up, put the pieces in his pocket, and walked out after mr. burkhill. he was in the office several times the succeeding two days, made some inquiries, and sent off a couple of messages. just after ben mayberry had received the cipher telegram given above, i happened to look across my desk and observed that the fellow had taken every letter, marking it down, as he easily interpreted it by sound. it was only by accident that i made this discovery, for the man acted precisely as if he were preparing a message to send away. chapter ix the translation mr. g. r. burkhill overwhelmed ben mayberry with thanks for the heroic manner in which he saved his niece and strove to save his sister. he offered the boy a handsome reward, but i am glad to say ben refused to accept it. he promised to write the boy concerning the little one, but he must have forgotten his promise, as a long time passed without anything being heard from him. when i discovered that the seedy lounger about our office had carefully taken down the cipher telegram addressed to burkhill, i was indignant, for it was well known that one of the most important duties which the telegraph companies insist upon is the inviolability of the messages intrusted to their wires. nothing less than a peremptory order from the court is sufficient to produce the telegrams placed in our care. i was on the point of leaving my desk and compelling the impudent stranger to surrender the cipher he had surreptitiously secured, but i restrained myself and allowed him to go without suspecting my knowledge of his act. "ben," said i, addressing my young friend, whom i trusted beyond any of the older operators, "did you notice that fellow who just went out?" "yes, sir; i have seen him before. he followed me home last night, and after i went in the house, he walked up and down the pavement for more than half an hour. he was very careful, but i saw him through the blinds." "has he ever said anything to you?" "nothing, except in the office." "he took down every letter of that cipher telegram you just received for mr. burkhill." the boy was surprised and sat a minute in deep thought. "mr. melville," he said, "if you have no objection, i shall study out that cipher." "that i think is impossible; it has been prepared with care, and it will take a greater expert than you to unravel it." ben smiled in his pleasing way as he answered: "i am fond of unraveling puzzles, and i believe i can take this apart." "i will be surprised if you succeed; but if you do, keep it a secret from everyone but myself." "you may depend on that." the odd times which ben could secure through the day were spent in studying the mysterious letters; but when he placed it in his pocket at night and started for home, he had not caught the first glimmer of its meaning. but he was hopeful and said he would never give it up until he made it as clear as noonday, and i knew that if it was within the range of accomplishment, he would keep his word. i have told enough to show my readers he was unusually intelligent and quick-witted, but i am free to confess that i had scarcely a hope of his success. "i've got it!" that was the whispered exclamation with which ben mayberry greeted me the next morning when he entered the office. "no! you're jesting," i answered, convinced, at the same time, that he was in earnest. "i'll soon show you," was his exultant response. "how was it you struck the key?" "that is hard to tell, more than you can explain how it is, after you have puzzled your brain for a long time over an arithmetical problem, it suddenly becomes clear to you." he sat down by my desk. "i figured and studied, and tried those letters every way i could think of until midnight, and was on the point of going to bed, when the whole thing flashed upon me. you know, mr. melville, that in trying to unravel a cipher, the first thing necessary is to find the key-word, for it must be there somewhere; and if you look sharp enough it will reveal itself. one single letter gave it to me." "how was that?" "if you will look at the telegram," said ben, spreading it out before me, "you will notice that in one instance only is a single letter seen standing by itself. that is the letter 'b,' which i concluded must stand for the article 'a,' for i know of no other, unless it is 'i.' now, the letter 'b' is the second one in the alphabet, and stands next in order to 'a.' if this system is followed throughout the cipher, we have only to take, instead of the letters as written, the next in order as they occur in the alphabet. but when i tried it on the following word, it failed entirely. luckily i tested the second in the same manner, and i was surprised to find it made a perfect word, viz.: 'chance.' the third came to naught, but the fourth developed into 'your.' that proved that every other word of the message was constructed in this manner, and it did not take me long to bring them out into good english. this was a big help, i can tell you, and it was not long before i discovered that in the alternate words the system reversed; that is, instead of taking the letter immediately succeeding, the writer had used that which immediately precedes it in the alphabet. applying this key to the telegram, it read thus: "'must wait till fall; sam has a better chance south. your bank will keep.'" "now," added ben, who was warranted in feeling jubilant over his success, "that is a very ordinary cipher--one which hundreds would make out without trouble. had the writer run his letters all together--that is, without any break between the words--i would have been stumped. besides, he uses no blind words, as he ought to have done; and it looks very much as if he calls everything by its right name, something which i should think no person anxious to keep such a secret would do. if he means 'bank,' he might as well have called it by another name altogether." "i think ordinarily he would have been safe in writing his cipher as he has done; but, be that as it may, i am confident you have made a most important discovery." chapter x farmer jones the conclusion which i formed respecting the cipher telegram, so cleverly translated by ben mayberry, was that it concerned an intended robbery of one of the banks in damietta, and that the crime, for the reason hinted in the dispatch, was postponed until the succeeding autumn. under such circumstances it will be seen that it was my duty to communicate with the general manager of the company, which i proceeded to do without delay. in reply, he instructed me to place myself in communication with the mayor of the city, whose province it was to make provision against what certainly looked like a contemplated crime. this instruction was carried out, and the mayor promptly took every means at his command to checkmate any movement of the suspected party. he arranged to shadow him by one of the best detectives in the country, while i agreed to notify him of the contents of any more suspicious telegrams passing over the wires. it need hardly be said that the friends of ben mayberry and myself took care that his exploit on the memorable winter night should not pass by unnoticed. the single daily paper published in damietta gave a thrilling account of the carrying away of the bridge, and the terrible struggle of the boy in the raging river--an account which was so magnified that we laughed, and ben was angry and disgusted. one of the best traits of the boy was his modesty, and it was manifest to everyone that this continued laudation was distasteful to him in the highest degree. the cap-sheaf came when one of the metropolitan weeklies published an illustration of the scene, in which ben was pictured as saving not only the mother and daughter, but the horse as well, by drawing them by main force upon an enormous block of ice! there was not the slightest resemblance to the actual occurrence, and the picture of our young hero looked as much like me as it did like ben, who would have cried with vexation had not the whole thing been such a caricature that he was compelled to laugh instead. but the general manager received a truthful account from me, together with the statement that ben mayberry alone deserved the credit for deciphering the telegram which foreshadowed an intended crime. corporations, as a rule, are not given to lavish rewards, but the letter which the manager sent to ben was more highly prized than if it had been a gold watch studded with diamonds, or a deed for the best house in diamietta. his heart throbbed when he read the warm words of praise from the highest officer in the company, who told him to continue faithfully in the path on which he had started, and his reward was certain. that letter ben to-day counts among his most precious prizes, and nothing would induce him to part with it. the best thing about this whole business was the fact that ben never lost his head through the profusion of compliments from those in authority. he realized that the straight road to success lay not through accidental occurrences, which may have befriended him, but it was only by hard, painstaking, and long-continued application that substantial and enduring success is attained. ben was always punctual at the office, and never tried to avoid work which he might have contended, and with good reason, did not belong to him. his obliging disposition was shown by his volunteering to deliver the message which nearly cost him his life. the duty of the telegraphist is very confining, and so exacting that the most rugged health often gives way under it, and persons take to other business before completely broken up. but this debility is often the fault of the operators themselves, who sit bent over their desks, smoking villainous cigarettes or strong tobacco, who ride in street cars when they should gladly seize the chance to walk briskly, and who, i am sorry to say, drink intoxicating liquors, which appear to tempt sedentary persons with peculiar power. ben mayberry had none of these baneful habits. he lived a long distance from the office, and although the street cars passed within a block of his home, i never knew him to ride on one, no matter how severe the weather might be. besides this, he belonged to a baseball club, and, in good weather, when we were not pushed, managed to get away several times a week during which he gained enough vitality and renewed vigor to last him for days. one particularly busy afternoon, just as ben had finished sending off a lengthy dispatch, someone rapped sharply on the counter behind him, and turning, he saw an honest-looking farmer, who had been writing and groaning for fully twenty minutes before he was ready to send his telegram. "can you send that to makeville, young man?" "yes, sir," answered ben, springing to his feet, and taking the smeared and blotted paper from his hand. "jist let me know how much it is; i s'pose it ain't more than twenty or thirty cents. there ain't much use in sending it, but sally jane, that's my daughter, was anxious for me to send her a telegraphic dispatch, 'cause she never got one, and she'll feel proud to see how the neighbors will stare." ben had started to count the words, but he paused, and repressing a smile over the simplicity of the man, said: "it is very expensive to send messages by telegraph, and it will cost you several dollars to send this----" "thunderation!" broke in the indignant old man, growing red in the face. "i won't patronize any sich frauds." he started to go out, when ben checked him pleasantly. "it will be too bad to disappoint your daughter, and we can arrange to send her a message with very little expense. there are many words here which can be left out without affecting the sense. please run your pen through these, and let me look at it again." chapter xi the value of courtesy the following is the message as first written out by the old farmer: "sally jane jones, makeville,--i take my pen in hand to inform you that i arrived safely in damietta this morning. i have seen jim, your brother. his baby is dead in love with me, and they all join in sending their love to you. i expect to eat my supper with cousin maria and sleep in their house by the river. i will be home to-morrow afternoon. meet me at the station with the roan mare, if she ain't too tired to draw the buggy. "your affectionate father, "josiah a. jones." when ben mayberry had explained how much could be saved by crossing out the superfluous words in this message, while its main points would be left, the farmer's anger turned to pleasure. he took his pen, nodded several times, and turned smilingly to the desk, where he stood for fully a quarter of an hour, groaning, writing, and crossing out words. he labored as hard as before, and finally held the paper off at arm's length and contemplated it admiringly through his silver spectacles. "yes; that'll do," he said, nodding his head several times in a pleased way; "that reads just the same--little abrupt, maybe, but they'll git the hang of it, and it'll please sally jane, who is a good darter. here, young man, jist figger onto that, will you, and let me know how much the expense is." ben took the paper, and under the labored manipulation of the old farmer, he found it was changed in this amazing fashion: "i take my hand--damietta. jim, your brother--the baby is dead--i expect to eat cousin maria, and sleep in the river to-morrow afternoon--with the roan--if she ain't too buggy. your affectionate father, "josiah a. jones." it was hard for ben to suppress his laughter, but the farmer was looking straight at him, and the boy would not hurt his feelings. he surveyed the message a minute, and then said: "perhaps i can help you a little on this." "you can try if you want to," grunted the old man; "but i don't think you can improve much on that." under the skillful magic of the boy's pencil the telegram was speedily boiled into this shape: "met jim--all well--meet me with roan to-morrow afternoon. j. a. jones." "there are ten words," explained ben, "and that will cost you twenty-five cents. besides, it tells all that is necessary, and will please your daughter just as much as if it were five times as long." mr. jones took it up again, held it up at arm's length and then brought it closer to him, while he thoughtfully rubbed his chin with the other hand. "i s'pose that's right," he finally said, "but don't you think you orter tell her i have arrived in damietta?" "she must know you have arrived here, or you couldn't send the telegram to her." "umph! that's so; but hadn't i orter explain to her that the jim i met was her brother?" "is there any jim you expect to see except your son?" "no, that's so. i swan to gracious! but i thought it wasn't more'n perlite ter tell her that cousin maria's baby is dead in love with me." "i am sure that every baby which sees you will fall in love with you, and your daughter must be aware of that." at this rather pointed compliment the farmer's face glowed like a cider apple, and his smile seemed almost to reach to his ears. "i swan; but you're a peart chap. what wages do you git?" "forty-five dollars a month." "well, you airn it, you jist bet; but i was goin' to say that i orter speak of the roan mare, don't you think?" "have you more than one horse that is of a roan color?" "no, sir." "then when you speak of the roan, they must know that you can only mean the roan mare." the old gentleman fairly beamed with pleasure, and reaching solemnly down in his pockets, he fished out another silver quarter, which he handed to ben, saying: "i like you; take it to please me." "i thank you; i have been paid," replied ben, pushing the coin back from him. "confound it! take this, then; won't you?" as he spoke he banged down a large, red apple on the counter, and looked almost savagely at ben, as if daring him to refuse it. the boy did not decline, but picking it up, said: "thank you; i am very fond of apples. i will take this home and share it with my mother." "the next time i come to town i'll bring you a peck," and with this hearty response the farmer stumped out of the door. i had been much amused over this scene, especially when ben showed me the astonishing message the farmer had prepared to send his daughter. ben laughed, too, after the old gentleman was beyond hearing. "it's a pleasure to do a slight favor like that. i think i feel better over it than mr. jones does himself." "i think not," said i; "for it so happens that instead of that gentleman being farmer jones, he is mr. musgrave, the district superintendent, who took a fancy to find out whether his operators are as kind and obliging as they should be, i am quite sure you lost nothing that time by your courtesy and accommodating spirit." chapter xii a call i have spoken of ben mayberry's fondness for athletic sports, and the great benefit he gained from the exercise thus obtained. when business permitted, i visited the ball grounds, where his skill made him the favorite of the enthusiastic crowd which always assembled there. he played shortstop, and his activity in picking up hot grounders and his wonderful accuracy in throwing to first base were the chief attractions which brought many to the place. he was equally successful at the bat, and, when only fourteen years old, repeatedly lifted the ball over the left-field fence--a feat which was only accomplished very rarely by the heaviest batsmen of the visiting nines. there were many, including myself, who particularly admired ben's throwing. how any living person can acquire such skill is beyond my comprehension. ben was the superior of all his companions when a small urchin, and his wonderful accuracy improved as he grew older. to please a number of spectators, ben used to place himself on third base, and then "bore in" the ball to first. in its arrowy passage it seemed scarcely to rise more than two or three feet above the horizontal, and shot through the air with such unerring aim that i really believe he could have struck a breast-pin on a player's front nine times out of ten. i never saw him make a wild throw, and some of his double plays were executed with such brilliancy that a veteran player took his hand one day as he ran from the field, and said: "ben, you'll be on a professional nine in a couple of years. harry wright and the different managers are always on the lookout for talent, and they'll scoop you in." "i think not," said the modest ben, panting slightly from a terrific run. "i am a little lucky, that's all; but though i'm very fond of playing ball i never will take it up as a means of living." "there's where your head ain't level, sonny. why, you'll get more money for one summer's play than you will make in two or three years nursing a telegraph machine. besides that, think of the fun you will have." "that's all very good, and i can understand why baseball is so tempting to so many young men. but it lasts a short time, and then the player finds himself without any regular business. his fingers are banged out of shape; he has exercised so violently that more than likely his health is injured, and he is compelled to work like a common laborer to get a living. ten years from now there will hardly be one of the present professionals in the business, i'm sure." "i guess you ain't far from the fact, but for all that, if i had the chance that you have, i would be mighty glad to take in all the baseball sport i could." but ben was sensible in this respect, and steadily refused to look upon himself as training for the professional ball field. in looking back to that time, i am rejoiced that such is the fact. there are many of my readers who recall the popular players of years ago--mcbride, wright, fisler, sensenderfer, mcmullen, start, brainard, gould, leonard, dean, spalding, sweeney, radcliffe, mcdonald, addy, pierce, and a score of others. among them all i recall none still in the field. some are dead, and the rest are so "used up" that they would make a sorry exhibition if placed on the ball field to-day. ben mayberry was a swift and skillful skater, and in running there was not a boy in damietta who could equal him. it was by giving heed to these forms of healthful exercise, and by avoiding liquor and tobacco, that he preserved his rosy cheeks, his clear eye, his vigorous brain, and his bounding health. "why, how do you do, ben?" the lad looked up from his desk in the office, one clear, autumn day, as he heard these words, and i did the same. there stood one of the loveliest little girls i ever looked upon. she seemed to be ten or eleven years of age, was richly dressed, with an exuberant mass of yellow hair falling over her shoulders. her large, lustrous eyes were of a deep blue, her complexion as rich and pink as the lining of a sea shell, and her features as winsome as any that phidias himself ever carved from parian marble. ben rose in a hesitating way and walked toward her, uncertain, though he suspected her identity. "is this--no, it cannot be----" "yes; i am dolly willard, that you saved from drowning with my poor mamma last winter. i wrote you a letter soon after i got home, but you felt too important to notice it, i suppose." and the laughing girl reached her hand over the counter, while ben shook it warmly, and said: "you wrote to me? surely there was some mistake, for i never got the letter; i would have only been too glad to answer it. maybe you forgot to drop it in the office." "i gave it to uncle george, and told him to be careful and put it in the mail, and he said he did so when he came home, so it was not my fault. but i am visiting at my cousin's in commerce street, at mr. grandin's----" "i know the place." "they are going to have a grand party there to-night, and i've come down to ask you to be sure and be there." "i am delighted to receive your invitation, but----" "you can go," said i, as ben looked appealingly toward me. "thank you, sir. yes, miss dolly, i count upon great pleasure in being present." "if you don't come, i'll never speak to you again," called the pretty little miss as she passed out of the door. "i am sorry and troubled about one thing," said ben to me, when we stood together. "this uncle george of dolly's is the g. r. burkhill who received that cipher dispatch. i am satisfied he is a villain, and there's trouble close at hand." chapter xiii at the grandin mansion ben mayberry was born in damietta, and his parents, as i have shown, were extremely poor. he had been a barefooted urchin, who was ready to fight or engage in any reckless undertaking. as he grew older and became more thoughtful, he assumed better clothing, grew more studious, and, helped by his fine ability and prepossessing looks, became popular. in addition, his remarkable skill in athletic sports made him well liked among the rougher element, who would have been glad had he consented to "train with their crowd." in spite of all this, ben failed to secure the social recognition to which he was entitled. many who would greet him most cordially on the street never thought of inviting him to their homes. damietta had been a city long enough to develop social caste, which lay in such distinct strata that there seemed no possibility of their ever mingling together. i was glad, therefore, when dolly willard called at the office and personally invited ben to attend the party at mr. grandin's, which was one of the most aristocratic families in damietta. they were originally from the south, but had lived in the city a long time. my young friend was somewhat dubious about going, as he had never before been invited to cross the threshold; but there was no refusing the warm invitation of dolly, who had walked all the way to the office on purpose to secure his presence at the gathering that evening. ben mayberry was proud of dolly; that is, proud that it had fallen to his lot to befriend such a splendid girl, but there were several things that made him thoughtful. in the first place, my reader will recall that the cipher telegram which was of such a compromising character was addressed to her uncle. ben had hunted out from the files in the office the first disguised message, and it clearly referred to a contemplated robbery of one of the banks in damietta. this g. r. burkhill was a criminal who was playing a desperate game, in which he was likely to lose. it was unfortunate that he was connected by relationship with dolly willard, who was the cousin of the grandins; but it was certainly impossible that either dolly, the grandins, or mrs. willard herself, knew the character of the man. such was the view ben took of the matter, adding to himself: "i hope he will keep away, and that nothing more of the intended robbery will be heard. it is now the fall of the year, and they seemed to agree that it was the time when the crime was to be attempted." it was one of the grandest children's parties ever given in damietta. little dolly willard had mourned her mother's loss as deeply as could any child, but those of her years soon rally from affliction, and she was among the happiest of the three-score boys and girls who gathered in the roomy parlors of the grandin mansion that beautiful night in october. the wages which ben mayberry received enabled him to dress with excellent taste, and, poor as he was, there was none of the sons of the wealthiest merchants in damietta who was more faultlessly attired that evening. true, some of them sported handsome gold watches, and one or two displayed diamonds, of which ben had none, but otherwise a spectator would have placed the young telegraphist on the same social footing with the aristocratic youths around him. among the numerous misses present were many dressed with great elegance, and possessing much personal beauty; but dolly willard, by common consent, surpassed them all in personal loveliness, while the rich and severe simplicity of her attire showed either the exquisite taste of herself or of someone who had the care of her. among such an assemblage of misses and youths there are as many heart-burnings as among their elder brothers and sisters. dolly was decidedly the belle of the evening. some of the other girls were so envious over her superior attractions that they openly sneered at her, but the aspiring youth were dazzled by the sprightly girl, who attracted them as though she were a magnet and they had a big supply of steel about their persons. when ben mayberry entered the parlor a little late, dolly was standing among a group of lads who were smiling and bowing, and making desperate attempts to be funny with a view of drawing her attention especially to them. it was natural that she should be somewhat coquettish, but the instant she caught sight of ben mayberry she almost ran to him. "i was afraid you wouldn't come," she exclaimed, taking both his hands in hers; "and if you hadn't, i never, never, never would have spoken to you again." ben unquestionably was a handsome lad. his bright eyes, his white, even teeth, his slightly roman nose, his well-shaped head, his clear, bright eye, and his rosy cheeks flushed with excitement, rendered him an attractive figure among the bright faces and well-dressed figures. his superb physical poise lent a grace to all his movements, while he was self-possessed at the most trying times. he made a laughing reply to dolly, who at once seated herself beside him and began chatting in her liveliest style, which was very lively indeed. to those who approached, she introduced him as the young man who had saved her life the preceding winter, until ben begged her to make no further reference to it. many of the other girls gathered around, and showed their admiration of ben in a most marked manner. these were mostly from boston or new york, who had heard of the young hero, but had never looked upon him before. dolly was talking away with lightning speed to ben, who managed to edge in a word now and then, when a dapper young man of sixteen years spruced forward. "they are going to form for the lancers, miss dolly; i believe i have your promise for my partner." "i thank you, rutherford, but i have changed my mind, and will dance with master ben." this was a daring and almost unwarranted act on the part of the little empress, for ben had not yet spoken to her on the matter. but he was quick to seize the advantage, and, instantly rising to his feet, offered his arm to dolly, and started toward the dancing-room, as though the whole thing had been prearranged before the other party presented himself. this act brought him face to face with the disappointed young man, whose countenance flushed with anger. "rutherford, this is he who saved my life last winter, master ben mayberry; my friend, rutherford richmond." the two saluted each other somewhat distantly; and with feelings which it would be hard to describe, ben recognized the tall, rather callow youth as the rutherford who stoned him several years before, when he was floating down the river on a log, and to whom ben in turn had given a most thorough castigation. chapter xiv the conspiracy rutherford richmond recognized ben mayberry at the same instant that the latter identified him. but neither gave any evidence of the fact that could be understood by other parties. ben took his position with dolly by his side, and they were without doubt the handsomest couple on the floor that evening. their mutual interest was so marked that everyone present noticed it, and it caused comment without end. "yes, i believe he sweeps out the office for a telegraph company. he manages to save up enough money in the course of a year to buy a decent suit of clothes." ben mayberry was sitting down at the end of one of the dances, when he overheard these words, which he knew referred to him. dolly had excused herself for a few minutes, and he was alone, sniffing at a fragrant bouquet which he was protecting from all damage for her benefit. he knew, further, that the remark was intended for his ears, but he affected not to know it, while he furtively glanced behind him. there stood master rutherford richmond, with three or four lads. they were all jealous of ben, and were discussing his merits for his own especial benefit. "i understand he gets fifty cents a week for his work," observed another, making sure his voice was elevated enough to be heard half across the room, "which is a big sum for him." "i don't understand why miss jennie" (referring to jennie grandin, who gave the party) "allows such cattle here," struck in a third, in the same off-hand manner. rutherford richmond took upon himself to give the reason. "it was all on account of dolly. you know she is kind-hearted, and i understand this booby went to her and begged that she would give him a chance to see how a party of high-toned people looked. she couldn't very well refuse, and now she is trotting him around for the rest of us to laugh at." ben mayberry's cheeks burned, for none of these words escaped him. he would have given a good deal to have been outside alone for a few minutes with master rutherford richmond. but he could not call him to account under the circumstances, and he still sniffed at the bouquet in his hand, and affected to be very much interested in the action of a couple of misses on the opposite side of the room. "if miss jennie permits anything of this kind again," volunteered rutherford, "it will cause trouble. a good many will want to know, before they allow their children to come, whether they are liable to meet the telegraph office boy and the great ball player here; if there's danger they will stay at home." "i think the scum of society should be kept in its place," observed another, scarcely less bitter than young richmond in his jealousy of the lad who claimed so much of the attention of the little belle of the evening. this kind of talk was going on when, to ben's great relief, dolly came tripping to him. he added gall to the cup of the envious youths by rising, giving her his arm, and then glancing triumphantly back at them, as he escorted her to the dining room. they knew the meaning of the glance, and they were fierce enough to assault him had they dared to do so. the party came to an end before midnight. ben mayberry had saluted his friends, and was in the hall preparatory to going home, when someone slyly pulled his arm. turning, he saw that it was ned deering, a little fellow whose father was the leading physician in damietta. ned was a great admirer of ben, and he now seized the occasion to say: "look out, ben, when you get down by the bridge over the creek; they're going for you." "whom do you mean?" "that rutherford richmond and another fellow mean to hide in carter's alley, and when you come along will pounce down on you. they wanted me to go with 'em, but i begged off without letting 'em know i meant to tell you." "where are they?" asked ben, glancing furtively about him. "they slipped out ahead, and are hurrying down there. you had better take another way home. they are awful mad, and will knock the stuffing out of you." ben mayberry smiled over the earnest words and manner of the boy, and thanked him for his information. "don't let 'em know i told you," added the timid fellow, as ben moved out the door; "for if they find out that it was me that was the cause of your going the other way home, why, they'd punch my head for me. that richmond, they say, is a reg'lar fighter--has science, and can lay out anybody of his size." "they will never know you said anything to me, ned, for i shall take the usual way, and will be slow, so as to give them plenty of time to get there ahead of me." the little fellow looked wonderingly at ben as he walked away, unable to comprehend how anyone should step into a yawning chasm after being warned of his peril. chapter xv an affray at night ben mayberry was so desirous that rutherford richmond and his brother conspirator should be given all the time they needed to complete their scheme for waylaying and assaulting him, that he lingered on the road longer than was really necessary. finally he turned down the street, which crossed by the creek that ran through the center of damietta. it was a clear moonlight night, and, except in the shadow, objects could be seen distinctly for a considerable distance. he advanced with great care, and with all his wits at command, for he was confident the warning given him by ned deering was well founded. when within a block of the bridge he saw someone peep out of carter's alley and instantly draw back his head, as though fearful of being observed. a moment later, a second person did the same. rutherford richmond and his confederate were on hand. they did not look like the two boys as seen in the glare of mr. grandin's parlors, for they had disguised themselves, so far as possible, with a view of preventing their recognition by the boy whom they meant to assault. they knew they were liable to get themselves into trouble by such an outrageous violation of law, and they meant to take all the precautions necessary. each had donned a long flapping overcoat, which must have belonged to some of the older members of the families, as it dangled about his heels. they also wore slouch hats like a couple of brigands, which they pulled down over their eyes, so as to hide their features. they had no weapons, for it was calculated that by springing upon ben unawares they would easily bear him to the pavement, when both would give him a beating which he would remember for a lifetime. ben was whistling softly to himself, and he was glad that at the late hour no one else was seen in the immediate neighborhood, for all he asked was a clear field and no favor. as he walked by the open end of carter's alley, he dimly discerned two figures, which seemed plastered against the wall in the dense shadow, where they were invisible to all passers-by, unless their suspicion was directed to the spot. ben gave no evidence that he noticed them, and moved along in his deliberate fashion, changing his whistling to a low humming of no particular tune; but he used his keen eyesight and hearing for all they were worth. he had gone no more than a dozen feet beyond, when he heard a rapid but cautious footstep behind him. it increased in swiftness, and was instantly followed by a second. the two boys were approaching him stealthily from the rear. still ben walked quietly forward, humming to himself, and with no apparent thought of what was coming. suddenly, when richmond was in the very act of making a leap upon his shoulders, ben turned like a flash, and planted a stunning blow directly in the face of the exultant coward, who was knocked on his back as if kicked by a vigorous mule. his companion was at the elbow of richmond when struck in this emphatic fashion, and for the instant was bewildered by the unexpected catastrophe. before he could recover he imagined the comet which was expected at that season had caught him directly between the eyes, and he went backward over richmond, with his two legs pointing upward, like a pair of dividers, toward the stars. ben's blood was up, and he waited for the two to rise, intending to "lay them out" more emphatically than before. the lad whose name he did not know lay still, but rutherford recovered with remarkable quickness, and began struggling to his feet, without paying heed to his hat, which had rolled into the gutter. "that ain't fair to strike a fellow that way, when he ain't expecting it," growled the assassin. "why didn't you stand still like a man and not hit below the belt?" "all right; i give you notice then, friend rutherford, that i am going for you again, and this time above the belt." richmond, finding he must fight, threw up his hands and did his best to guard against the blows whose force he knew so well. he did possess some knowledge of sparring, but so did ben, who was much the stronger and more active of the two. he advanced straight upon richmond, made several feints, and then landed a blow straight from the shoulder, at the same time parrying the cross-counter which the lad came near getting in on the face. it so happened that, at that moment, the other young scamp was in the act of rising, and had got upon his hands and knees. as richmond was sent spinning backward he came in collision with him, and turned a complete somersault, the air seeming to be full of legs, long hair, hats, and flapping overcoats. "murder! help! help! police! police!" these startling cries were shouted at the top of their voices by the discomfited poltroons, and were heard a long distance on the still night. suddenly the rattle of running feet sounded on the planks of the bridge, and ben caught sight of a policeman running toward the spot. "what does this mean?" he demanded, when he came face to face with ben, whom he motioned to stop. "those two fellows attacked me when i was passing carter's alley, and i--well, i defended myself as best i could." "oh, ben, that is you; i didn't know you at first," said the policeman. "this is rather serious business; i'll run 'em in." advancing to where the boys were once more climbing to their feet, he grasped each by the collar. "i'll take you along with me, young gents; this is serious business for you." they begged piteously to be let off, declaring that it was only a joke, but the officer was inexorable, and marched them to the station house, where they spent the rest of the night, ben mayberry having been notified to be on hand at nine o'clock the next morning, when the police justice would make an investigation. chapter xvi the third telegram when the father of rutherford richmond's friend, at whose house the young bostonian was visiting, learned the facts, he was indignant beyond description. he declared that ben mayberry had served the young scapegraces right, except he ought to have punished both more severely, which was rather severe, as was shown by the blackened eyes and bruised faces. ben declined to push the matter on the morrow, as the boys had been punished, and he had proved he was able to take care of himself, as against them, at any time. but the gentleman insisted that he would not permit the matter to drop, unless his son and rutherford agreed to go to the telegraph office and beg the pardon of the boy whom he learned they had insulted under mr. grandin's roof. rutherford and his friend consented, and they humiliated themselves to that extent. the succeeding day rutherford went home to boston, and did not reappear in damietta until long afterward, when he hoped the disgraceful episode was forgotten. on the following week dolly willard returned to new york, and ben, for the first time in his life, began to feel as though his native city had lost a good deal of the sunshine to which it was entitled. "she will visit damietta again," he said to himself, with just the faintest sigh, "and she promised to write me; i hope she won't forget her promise." and, indeed, the sprightly little miss did not lose sight of her pledge. it may be suspected that she took as much pleasure in expressing on paper her warm friendship for ben, as he did in reading the pure, honest sentiments, and in answering her missives, which he did with great promptness. it was just one week after the memorable night of the party, while i was sitting at my desk, that the following cipher dispatch came over the wires, addressed to g. r. burkhill, moorestown: "fwfszuijoh hr pl nm ujnf sgtqdezw bu bnqmdq. tom." i passed the message to ben, whose eyes sparkled as he took it in hand. it required but a few minutes for him to translate it by the method which has already been made known, and the following rather startling words came to light: "everything is o. k. on time thursday at corner." this unquestionably referred to the same unlawful project outlined in the former dispatches. mr. burkhill had not been in the office for months. as yet, of the three telegrams sent him, he had not received one. the first was lost in the river, the second had been on file more than half a year, and we now had the third. but the latter did not lie uncalled for even for an hour. remembering the instruction received from the manager, i took a copy of the message, with the translation written out by ben, to the office of the mayor, where i laid the facts before him. this was on wednesday, and the contemplated robbery was fixed for the following night. by his direction i sent a dispatch at once to the address of the detective in new york, who, it had been arranged, was to look after the matter. the reply to this message was the rather surprising information that detective maxx had been in damietta several days, and knew of the contemplated robbery. he was shadowing the suspected party, and if he deemed it necessary, he would call on the mayor for assistance. while i was absent from the office, who should walk in but mr. g. r. burkhill. he greeted ben with much effusion, shaking him warmly by the hand, inquiring how he got along, and telling him that his niece sent her special regards to him. "i have been on a trip to new orleans," he added, "or i would have been down in damietta sooner, for i like the place." "the summer isn't generally considered a good time to go so far south," ventured ben. "that is true, as relates to northerners, but i was born in the crescent city, and have no fear of yellow jack; fact is, i have had the confounded disease myself. by the way, have you a message for me?" "we have two, in fact i may say three, for the copy of the first one that went down the river with me has never been handed you, and one came a day or two after you left." "i know what they are, so you needn't mind about them. i will take the last, if you please." "it arrived within the last half hour," explained ben, as he handed the damp sheet to him. the boy watched his countenance while burkhill was reading it. it took several minutes for him to study out its meaning, but he did so without the aid of pencil or paper. a strange glitter came into his gray eyes as the meaning broke upon him, and he muttered something to himself which the lad did not quite catch. then he turned to the desk, and was engaged only a minute or two when he handed a return message to ben, paying for it as the man had done who forwarded the other to him. it was this: "uibu rthsr fybdumz vhkk cf qdzex. "g. r. burkhill." applying his rule (which compelled him to go to the end of the alphabet, when, for instance, the letter "a" demanded to be represented by a preceding letter), ben mayberry very readily translated the cipher as follows: "that suits exactly. will be ready. "g. r. burkhill." chapter xvii decidedly mixed during the summer succeeding the carrying away of the bridge which connected damietta with moorestown, it was built in a more substantial manner than before. it was an easy matter, therefore, to cross from one place to another, and carriages and pedestrians went back and forth between the two states at almost every hour of the day. damietta was a large city, while moorestown was only a small town; but the latter was pleasantly located and had a large and excellent hotel, where quite a number of guests spent the most sultry months of summer. in damietta were three banks, and the cipher telegrams which i have laid before the reader, beyond a doubt referred to one of them, but it was impossible to fix with certainty upon the right one. as a matter of prudence, therefore, it was determined to keep the three under surveillance. the mechanics' bank, as it was called before it adopted the national system, stood on the corner, and the general impression prevailed that this was the institution referred to, as it will be remembered that the word "corner" occurred in one of the telegrams. a few minutes' reflection convinced me that it was utterly out of the question for the intended robbery to succeed. such desperate projects depend mainly on their secrecy for success. the watchmen in all the banks were instructed to be unusually vigilant, the policemen were apprised of what was suspected, a number of officers were to lounge upon the streets near at hand in citizens' clothes, and aristides maxx, one of the most skillful detectives in the metropolis, was engaged upon the case. the general belief was that the burglars, discovering what thorough preparations were on foot, would not make the attempt. that sort of gentry are not the ones to walk into any trap with their eyes open. respecting detective maxx, there was much wonderment, and the mayor was vexed that he did not show up. some doubted his presence in damietta, but the superior officer of the city felt that courtesy demanded that maxx should report to him before trying to follow up any trail of his own. if he was with us, he was so effectually disguised that no one suspected his identity. "i wonder whether that seedy, tramp-like fellow who stole the cipher dispatch, can be detective maxx?" said ben to me on wednesday night before he started for home. "it is not impossible," i answered, "for detectives are forced to assume all manner of disguises. he may have chosen to stroll about the city in that make-up." "but if it is the detective, why did he go to all the trouble of copying off the telegram by sound when he could have got it from us with the translation merely by making himself known?" "i admit that, if he is a detective, he acts, in my judgment, in a very unprofessional way. he was so persistent in his attentions that he must have known he was sure to draw unpleasant, if not dangerous suspicion, to himself." "do you know," said ben, with a meaning smile, "that i half believe this stranger and burkhill are partners? they have been here at the same time, they show interest in the same thing, and like enough are working out the same scheme of robbery." this had never occurred to me, and i was struck with its reasonableness, when i came to think it over. the ill-favored individual signed the name "john browning" to the dispatch which he sent some months before, as a pretext for visiting our office so much--but that was clearly an alias. "well," said i, "it is all conjecture any way. with the ample warning the authorities have received, i do not believe there is the slightest prospect of a robbery being committed. i intend to retire to-morrow night at my usual hour with little fear of my slumbers being disturbed." a few minutes after, we bade each other good-night, and wended our way quietly homeward. my experience was singular, after parting with my young friend--not meaning to imply that anything unusual occurred to me; but the mental processes to which i was subjected that evening, in the light of subsequent events, were very peculiar, to say the least. i am convinced that the inciting cause was the remark made by ben mayberry to the effect that he believed the seedy individual was a confederate of burkhill, and that the two were perfecting a scheme for robbing one of the banks--most likely the mechanics'. "ben is right," i said to myself. "his bright mind has enabled him to grasp the truth by intuition, as a woman sometimes does when a man has been laboring for hours to reach the same point." but before i could satisfy myself that the boy was right, a still stronger conviction came to me that he was wrong. the men were not pals--as they are called among the criminal classes--and they were not arranging some plan of robbery. while i was clear on this point, i was totally unable to form any theory to take the place of the one i had demolished. who was the pretended john browning, and what was the dark scheme that was being hatched "in our midst," as the expression goes? these were the questions which presented themselves to me, and which i could not answer in a manner thoroughly satisfactory to myself. "they are all wrong--everybody is wrong!" i exclaimed to myself; "whatever it is that is in the wind, no one but the parties themselves knows its nature." this was the conclusion which fastened itself in my mind more firmly the longer i thought. "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, and it is the only thing which will protect us in this case--helloa!" so rapt was i in my meditation that i had walked three squares beyond my house before i awoke to the fact. it was something which i had never done before in all my life. chapter xviii between two fires in the meantime, ben mayberry underwent an experience more peculiar than mine. i cannot speak of the mental problems with which he wrestled, but, as he explained to me afterward, he had settled down to the belief that the mechanics' bank was the one against which the burglars were perfecting their plans. he was hopeful that the only outcome of the conspiracy would be the capture of the criminals, though he felt more than one pang when he reflected that the principal one was a relative of dolly willard, who was the personification of innocence and goodness to him. ben had acquired the excellent habit of always being wide awake, excepting, of course, when he lay down for real slumber. thus it was that he had gone but a little distance on his way home when he became aware that someone was following him. i doubt whether there is a more uncomfortable feeling than that caused by such a discovery. the certainty that some unknown person, with no motive but a sinister one, is dodging at your heels, as the mountain wolf slinks along behind the belated traveler, awaiting the moment when he can spring upon him unawares, is enough to cause the bravest man to shiver with dread. the night was very dark. the day had been cloudy, and there was no moon; but ben was in a large city, with an efficient police system (that is, equal to the average), there were street lamps, the hour was not unusually late, and there were other persons beside himself abroad. and yet, in the heart of the metropolis, at the same hour, crimes have been perpetrated whose mystery has never been unraveled to this day. ben mayberry may have felt somewhat uneasy, but there was not so much fear as there was curiosity to know what earthly reason any living man could have for following him in that stealthy fashion. surely no one could suspect him of being burdened with wealth. the only article of any account about his person was a silver watch, which had cost him sixteen dollars. he never carried a pistol, for he saw no necessity for doing so. if he should find himself beset by enemies who were too strong to be resisted, he could run as rapidly as any person in the city, and a short run in damietta was enough to take him to a place of safety inaccessible to his assailants. when he turned into the narrow street which led across the bridge where he had his affray with rutherford richmond and his companion, he reflected that it was perhaps the most dangerous spot in the neighborhood. there was a single lamp just before stepping on the bridge, where one might run against another before seeing him. he hesitated a minute as he made the turn. it was easy enough to reach his home by a different route, which was somewhat longer, but which was well lighted all the way, and there could be little risk in taking it. "i'll stick to the usual way," muttered ben, striding resolutely forward; "i don't believe anything like murder is contemplated." at that moment he would have felt much more comfortable had he possessed a pistol, or some kind of weapon, but he did not hesitate, now that he had "put his hand to the plow." a minute later he stepped on the bridge, where the gas lamp shone upon him, and, with his usual deliberate tread, passed off in the gloom of the other side. the instant he believed himself beyond sight of his pursuer, he quickened his gait but continually looked back in the hope of gaining a view of the man, for the boy was naturally eager to learn who it was that was playing such a sinister trick on him. just beyond, on the limit of his field of vision, ben saw a shadowy figure cross quickly, to the other side of the street. the stranger did this before coming within the glare of the lamp, which would have revealed him too plainly to those who might be curious to secure a glimpse of his features. an instant later his footfall was heard on the bridge, and he was walking rapidly toward ben, crossing again to the same side of the street, as soon as over the stream. the boy stepped lightly but briskly forward until he reached carter's alley, into which he entered a couple of yards, and then came to a sudden halt. at the moment of doing so, his foot struck something hard. he knew what it was, and, stooping down, picked up a large stone, which he held tightly grasped in his hand. such a weapon was very formidable in the grip of a vigorous boy, who could throw with the skill and accuracy of ben mayberry. the lad had scarcely halted when he caught the tip, tip of his pursuer, who was evidently determined to overtake him before he reached the lighted regions beyond. ben was astonished just then, to note that a second person was just approaching from the opposite direction in the same guarded fashion. "it must be there are two of them," was the sensible conclusion of the boy; "they have agreed to meet here, where i wouldn't have much show against them." it followed that the party of the second part was waiting for the coming of young mayberry, doubtless with the understanding that his partner in crime should follow him to a certain point near at hand, when the two would close in on him. ben had never suspected any such conspiracy as this, and, had he gone a little further, he would have walked directly into the arms of the second ruffian, while peering behind him at the shadowy villain who "still pursued him." but the lad had stopped short and disconcerted the plans of the conspirators by so doing. the one who was lying in wait was quick to miss the boy whom he had seen cross the bridge, and, suspecting something was wrong, he hastened stealthily toward the creek to learn the explanation. chapter xix baffled! it so happened that the two men stopped directly at the mouth of the alley, within a few feet of ben mayberry, who could hear their guarded words, though he could not catch the first glimpse of their figures. a whistled signal or two first made them certain of each other's identity, and then the one who had crossed the bridge gave utterance to an oath, expressive of his anger, as he demanded: "where has he gone?" "how should i know?" growled the other. "i waited where you told me to wait, and finding he didn't come, i moved down to meet him, but he don't show up." "'sh! not so loud. he can't be far off." "i don't know how that is, but he's given us the slip. there's an alley right here, and he has turned into that." "i don't hear him." "of course not. because he's standing still and listening to us." "flash your bull's-eye into the alley." when ben mayberry heard this order he trembled, as well he might, for he was so close to the scoundrels that the first rays of the lantern would reveal him to them. indeed he dare not move, lest the noise, slight as it was, would bring them down on him. he grasped the ragged stone in his hand and braced himself for the explosion that he was sure was at hand. but fortunately, and most unexpectedly, the crisis passed. the other villain growled in return: "what do you mean by talking about a bull's-eye? i doused the glim long ago." "why did you do that?" "the cops are watching us too close. i had hard work to dodge one of 'em to-night. do you s'pose i meant to have him find any of the tools on me? not much." the other emitted another sulphurous expression, and added the sensible remark: "then there's no use of our hanging around here. he's smelt a mice and dodged off, and we won't get another such a chance to neck him." these words sounded very strange to ben mayberry. well might he ask himself what earthly purpose these scamps could have in wishing to waylay him in such a dark place, where he was not likely to secure help. the latter part of their conversation proved they contemplated violence. "there's one thing certain," ben said to himself, "if i manage to get out undiscovered, i will see that i am prepared for such gentlemen hereafter." the couple suddenly stopped talking, for the sound of approaching footsteps were heard. the two moved into the alley, and a minute after a heavy man came ponderously along with a rolling tread. he was puffing at a cigar, whose end glowed so brightly that the tip of his nose and his mustache were seen by the three standing so near him. ben believed the wretches intended to assault and rob the citizen, and doubtless they were none too good to do so. in case the attempt was made, ben meant to hurl the stone in his hand at the spot where he was sure they were, and then yell for the police. policy alone prevented the commission of the crime. "we could have managed it easily," whispered one, as the portly citizen stepped on the bridge and came in sight under the lamp-light, "but i guess it was as well we didn't." "no; it wouldn't have paid as matters stand. we might have made a good haul, but the excitement to-morrow would have been such that we wouldn't have had a show to-morrow night." the heart of the listening bob gave a quick throb, for this was another proof of the intended crime on thursday evening. "well," added one, "that telegraph fellow was too smart for us this time, and has given us the slip. we may as well go home, for there's nothing more to do." thereupon they began walking toward the creek, with the deliberate tread of law-abiding citizens, who, if encountered anywhere on the street at any hour, would not have been suspected of being "crooked." ben mayberry had good cause for feeling indignant toward these ruffians, who clearly intended personal violence toward him, and who were, in all probability, desperadoes from the metropolis, brought into damietta for the most unlawful purposes. when they had gone a short distance, ben stepped out of the alley upon the main street, and stood looking toward the bridge. this was slightly elevated, so that in approaching from either side, one had to walk up-hill. the illumination from the lamp, of which i have made mention, gave a full view of the structure itself and all who might be upon it. ben saw his pursuer, in the first place, when he stepped on the planks, but the light was at his back, and he shrouded his face so skillfully that not a glimpse was obtained of his features. in a few minutes the conspirators slowly advanced out of the gloom and began walking up the slight ascent toward the bridge, becoming more distinct each second. when they reached the middle of the structure, they were in plain sight, but their backs were toward ben, who, however, had them where he wanted them. "i think i can plug one of them," muttered the shortstop of the damietta club, as he carefully drew back his arm and fixed his eye on the fellows. "at least, here goes." gathering all his strength and skill, he hurled the stone at the one who, he believed, had been lying in wait for him. the whizzing missile shot through the air like a cannon-ball, and landed precisely where the thrower intended, directly between the shoulders of the unsuspecting villain, who was thrown forward several paces by the force of the shock, and who must have been as much jarred as though an avalanche had fallen on him. chapter xx watching and waiting what imaginings were driven into the head of the ruffian by the well-directed missile it would be impossible to say, but it is safe to conclude he was startled. his hat fell off, and, without stopping to pick it up, he broke into a frantic run, closely followed by his companion, neither of them making the least outcry, but doubtless doing a great deal of thinking. ben mayberry laughed until his sides ached, for the tables had been turned most completely on his enemies; but he became serious again when he wended his way homeward, for there was much in the incidents of the day to mystify and trouble him. his mother had retired when he reached his house, but there was a "light in the window" for him. the fond parent had such faith in her son that she did not feel alarmed when he was belated in coming home. ben made a confidante of her in many things, but the truth was he was outgrowing her. she was a good, devout lady, but neither mentally nor physically could she begin to compare with her boy. had he made known to her the contemplated robbery, or his own narrow escape from assault, she would have become nervous and alarmed. ben did not tell her about the affray with rutherford richmond and his companion, for it would only have distressed her without accomplishing any good. he saw that his terrible adventure the preceding winter, on the wrecked bridge, had shocked her more than many supposed, and more than she suspected herself. the consequences became apparent months afterward, and caused ben to do his utmost to keep everything of a disquieting nature from his beloved mother. on the morrow ben told me the whole particulars of his adventures on the way home, and asked me what i made of it. "i give it up," i answered. "it's beyond my comprehension." "do i look like a wealthy youth?" he asked, with a laugh. "it is not that; they have some other purpose." "do they imagine i carry the combination to some safe in the city, and do they mean to force it from me?" "nothing of that sort, as you very well know. it looks as if they really meditated doing you harm." "there is no room for doubt; and it was a lucky thing, after all, that the night was so dark, and the city don't furnish many lamps in that part of the town. do you think i ought to tell the mayor or some officer about this?" "could you identify either of the men if you should meet him on the street?" "i could not, unless i was allowed to examine his back, where the stone landed." "then there's no use of telling anyone else, for no one could help you. you had better carry a pistol, and take a safer route home after this. one of these days, perhaps, the whole thing will be explained, but i own that it is altogether too much for any fellow to find out just now." it was natural that i should feel nervous the entire day, for there was every reason to believe we were close upon exciting incidents, in which fate had ordered that ben mayberry and myself would have to make the initial movements. neither burkhill, the tramp-like looking individual, nor any character to whom the least suspicion could attach, put in an appearance at the telegraph office during the day; this was another disappointment to ben and myself. the mayor also was disposed to be uncommunicative, for when i dropped in on him during the afternoon, he was short in his answers, barely intimating that everything was in a satisfactory shape. when asked whether detective maxx had revealed himself, he said: "i have seen nothing of him, and do not care to see him. his help is not needed." i am convinced that the action of the famous detective had a great deal to do with the ill-humor of the mayor, who was generally one of the most affable of men. i was pretty well used up, and at eleven o'clock i closed the office and went home, separating as usual from ben mayberry, who, i was satisfied, intended to know whether anything was amiss before he lay down to slumber. although the impression was general that it was the mechanics' bank which was the objective point of the conspirators, yet the chief of police, as i have intimated, had stationed his men so as to be ready for instant use, should it prove to be any one of the moneyed institutions. ben mayberry was so well satisfied that it was the mechanics' that, after leaving me, he went in that direction, anxious to see a first-class burglary attempted and foiled. the institution, it will be remembered, stood on the corner of one of the main streets, and a lamp was burning directly opposite. the cashier reported that two suspicious characters had called during the day and made some inquiries about drafts on new york, and the officers, who had spent much time in the neighborhood, were convinced that they had seen the same individuals stealthily viewing the bank from the outside. when ben reached the vicinity he saw no person, although he well knew that in almost every dark nook and hiding place, a guardian of the law was stationed, quietly awaiting the moment when the lawbreakers would dare show themselves. ben knew, too, that more than one pair of eyes carefully scrutinized him as they did every pedestrian who passed. he continued along until he reached a point where he could stand without being noticed by anyone. then he stopped, and, wide awake as ever, resolved that he would see the thing out if he was forced to stand where he was until the rising of the sun on the morrow. chapter xxi "lay low!" the clock in the tower of the city hall solemnly boomed the hour of midnight. damietta lay wrapped in slumber--that is, so far as the majority of her citizens were concerned. her guardians of the peace, as a rule, were wide awake, and the dozens stationed within the vicinity of her three national banks were particularly so. ben mayberry counted the strokes of the iron tongue, and reflected that thursday was gone, and friday had begun. as yet nothing had been seen or heard to indicate that anything unlawful was contemplated in this immediate neighborhood. more than once he was so well convinced that my view of the case was correct, that he was on the point of starting homeward, but he checked himself and stayed. at such a time the minutes drag with exceeding slowness, and it seemed to ben that fully a couple of hours had gone by, when the huge clock struck one. during the interval a number of pedestrians had passed, and a party of roystering youths rode by in a carriage, each one singing independently of the other, and in a loud, unsteady voice, but nothing yet had occurred on which to hang a suspicion. the peculiar, ringing, wave-like tones, which are heard a few minutes after the striking of a large bell, were still lingering in the air and gradually dying out, when one of the policemen gave a guarded whistle, which was a signal for the others to "lay low," or in better english, to keep themselves unusually wide awake. a minute after two men were heard approaching, and became dimly visible in the partial illumination of the street. it so happened that they walked directly by where ben was standing. they did not notice him, though he plainly saw them. they were of large frame, and walked with a slight unsteadiness, as though under the influence of liquor. "there's the bank," said one, in an undertone, as though he was imparting a momentous secret to the other. "that's so; if we could only get in, knock the watchman on the head, and kick in the door of the safe, we would make a good haul." "suppose we try it, jack----" for more than two hours a burly watchman had been hidden close at hand, without ben suspecting his presence. the last sentence was in the mouth of the speaker when this policeman sprang upon the amazed strangers, who were discussing the burglary of the bank. he must have been surcharged with faithfulness, for, instead of waiting until an overt act was committed, as all had been instructed to do, he rushed upon the men in a burst of enthusiasm which knew no restraint and passed all bounds. "yes, you'll rob the bank, will you?" he shouted, swinging his club aloft and bringing it down on the heads of the others. "i'll show you--we've been watching you. we know you. you're a fine set of cracksmen. you think damietta is a country town, but you'll learn different----" these vigorous observations were punctuated with equally vigorous whacks of the club, which it seemed must crack the skulls of the men, and in all probability would have done so had they not risen to the exigencies of the case and turned upon the policeman with remarkable promptitude. both of them were powerful, and finding themselves assailed in this fashion, one knocked the officer half-way across the street, wrenched his club from his grasp, and began laying it over his head. the stricken guardian of the peace shouted for help, and tried desperately to draw his revolver. finally he got it out, but before he could use it that also was taken from him, and it looked as though little would be left of him. [illustration: the policeman brought his club down on the heads of the others.--p. .] but the other policemen came running up, and took a hand in the fracas. while some went for the one who was belaboring the representative of the law, others made for the second burglar. but he was more muscular, if possible, than his friend, and he laid about him with such vigor that three officers were prostrated before he could be secured. calling to his friend, the two gave themselves up, demanding to know why peaceable citizens should be clubbed when quietly walking along the street. "we had not uttered a disrespectful word," said the first, "but were joking together, when that brass-buttoned idiot pounced upon us. we simply defended ourselves, as every man has a right to do, and we don't propose to let the matter rest here." "he lies!" shouted the officer who had fared so ill, as he came forward, his hat off, and his clothing covered with dust; "he was arranging to rob the bank; they are the burglars that we've been watching for days; i know 'em all right." "we shall have to take you along," said the chief, who saw that matters were considerably mixed. at this point ben thought it was his duty to interfere. "if you will permit me, i am satisfied that some mistake has been made. these gentlemen did nothing----" "he's one of 'em," broke in the first officer, whose wrath could not be appeased; "he's been their dummy; he was on the lookout to give 'em warning; run him in, too." despite ben mayberry's protests, he was forced to go with the prisoners; but on the way to the lock-up he was recognized by several officers, including the chief, who ordered his release, ben promising to appear in the morning at the hearing. on the morrow several important facts came to light. the two individuals who had been so roughly used were honest countrymen, whose references to the robbery of the bank were purely in jest--such a project as burglary never entering their thoughts. the policeman who assailed them made a humble apology, and they agreed to let the matter drop. another fact that was established was that the policemen of damietta were very much like those of other cities. the third truth was, that no burglary took place on thursday night or friday morning, and everything was as quiet as the surface of a summer mill-pond, with the single exception of the incident just narrated. chapter xxii the battle of life after all the elaborate preparations for the capture of the burglars, the whole business had fallen so flat that the officers of the law themselves laughed at the farcical termination. nothing criminal was attempted, and damietta never was more peaceful in all its history than it was during the many weeks and months which followed. and yet, in spite of all this, there could be no question that such a burglarious scheme at one time was contemplated. the cipher telegrams, and the surveillance to which ben mayberry was subjected, together with the attempted assault upon him, made this too manifest to be disputed. "they simply discovered the preparations made by the authorities," i said to ben, "and they had prudence enough to withdraw." "do you believe they have given it up altogether?" "i doubt it. they have simply deferred the execution until some safer time. we must continue to be on the lookout for telegrams in cipher. these gentry have evil designs upon damietta, as will be proven before we are many years older." when ben mayberry reached the age of fifteen, he attained an important epoch in his life. he had long been one of the most skillful operators in the district, being remarkably quick and accurate. i have told enough to prove his courteous disposition toward all who entered our office. the pretended mr. jones, who acted the part of the ignorant farmer, was, as i have stated, a high official of the company, who took odd means to test the character and skill of our employees. the test in the case of young mayberry proved most satisfactory in every respect. at my request, i was transferred to one of the cities in the eastern states, where the climate agreed better with me. i was given charge of an important office, an advance made in my wages, and everything was done to make the change agreeable. such being the fact, it is no assumption on my part to say that my administration of the exacting duties in damietta had been fully appreciated by my superior officers. ben mayberry was made manager of the office in his native city at a salary of seventy-five dollars per month. this statement the reader may doubt, for i am quite certain that no telegraphist of his age was ever given such an important charge, nor is anyone so young paid such a liberal salary; but, did i feel at liberty to do so, i could locate ben mayberry so closely that all skeptics could ascertain the facts, in a brief time, precisely as i have given them. we have many office managers, in different parts of the country, who lack several years of their majority; but, as a rule, their stations are not very important, and their pay is nothing like what ben received. there were exceptional circumstances in his case. he was unusually bright, he was very attentive, he was courteous, cheerful, and never shirked work. he was popular with our patrons, and much of the increase in the business of the damietta office was due to ben alone. this became known to those above him, and they felt that an unusual promotion on his part would not only be a just recognition of his ability and devotion, but would do much to stimulate others to imitate the good example set by the boy. in addition to all this, it cannot be denied that fortune favored ben in a marked degree. the fact that he was swept down the river in the darkness and tempest, while trying to deliver a telegram for a messenger who was ill, and that he saved the life of a little girl, could not fail to operate strongly to his benefit. but he would have reached the end all the same, without these aids, just as you, my young friend, may attain the topmost round by climbing up, up, up, step after step, step after step. there is no cup in this life without some drops of bitterness, and, despite the promotion of ben, which he fully appreciated, he was cast down by another circumstance, which troubled him more than he would admit to his closest friends. he had not seen sweet dolly willard since the grand children's party at mr. grandin's, more than two years previous. she had written him regularly every week for months, and he had been equally prompt in answering. ben wrote a beautiful hand, and his missives to dolly were long and affectionate. she would have visited her cousins in damietta, had they not made a visit to europe, which shut off the possibility of her doing so for some time to come. ben felt that under the circumstances it was hardly the thing for him to make a call upon dolly in new york, though she invited him to do so. but during the very week that ben was given charge of the damietta office, the mail failed to bring the usual letter from dolly. he waited impatiently for several days and then wrote to her. there was no response to this, and he felt resentful. he held out for a fortnight, and then was so worried that he was forced to write again. but this was equally fruitless of results, and he became angry. "she is getting to be quite a large girl; her folks are wealthy, and she has begun to realize that i am nothing but a poor telegraphist. her folks have told her she must look higher, and she has come to that same mind herself. ah, well; let it be so!" that was expressive of his feelings. sometimes ben felt like rebelling against his fate. he had applied himself hard for years; he possessed an excellent education; he held a prominent position in the greatest telegraph company of the country, with a prospect of further advancement before him, and yet, because he was poor, he was looked down upon by those who were his inferiors in everything except the single one of wealth. "it is a great disappointment," he sometimes murmured, "but i am young; most folks would laugh that one of my age should take such a fancy to a little girl like dolly, and they would say i am certain to get over it very soon. and just there is where they would all make a great mistake." and ben mayberry was right on that point. chapter xxiii face to face ben mayberry was sitting at his desk in the damietta office, one beautiful day in indian summer, attentive as ever to his duties, when a carriage drove up to the door containing a young gentleman and a lady. the former sprang lightly out and ran into the office, after the manner of one who was in a hurry to send an important telegram. suddenly, while ben was looking at the youth he recognized him as rutherford richmond, with whom he had had several important meetings. "why, rutherford, you have grown so much i didn't recognize you; i am glad to see you; how have you been?" ben reached his hand over the counter as he greeted the young man, but the latter affected not to hear him. turning to the desk, he wrote out a message with great rapidity, wheeled about, and, without the slightest evidence of ever having seen ben, handed him the paper and ordered the dispatch to be sent to new york. this was the telegram: "richard willard, no.-- avenue, new york: "dolly and i reached here safe. big party at grandin's to-morrow; sure of grand time. will take good care of dolly. "rutherford richmond." as the writer hurried out the door, ben followed him with his eyes. there, in a handsome, single-seated carriage, sat a beautiful miss of thirteen or fourteen, elegantly dressed and looking straight toward him. it was dolly willard, more enchanting than ever, her eyes luminous with health and her cheeks as pink and rosy as the delicate tint of the coral. ben was too shocked to salute her, and probably it was as well he did not do so, for she simply stared with scarcely less directness than did her companion. only by the most supreme exertion was the youth enabled to choke down his rebellious emotions, so that none in the office noticed his excitement. it was the same on the morrow, and, as if the fates had combined to crush him in absolute wretchedness, he encountered rutherford and dolly riding out as he was making his way homeward. he affected not to see them, but he could not avoid furtively watching dolly, who certainly was the most winsome-looking young miss he had ever seen. "to-night another party is given by the grandins. their girls are ladies, and they treated me well when i was there more than two years ago, but in this matter dolly has had all to say--that is, she and rutherford. well, if she is that sort of girl, i don't want anything to do with her." that night, in spite of himself, ben could not stay at home; he strolled along, a prey to his bitter thoughts, and mechanically walked in the direction of the splendid grounds of the wealthy jeweler, mr. grandin. the sound of music from within aroused him. he saw the lights glimmering through the beautiful shade trees, and could catch sight of the gayly-dressed figures flitting by the open windows. "i can't feel any worse," muttered ben, walking through the open gate, confident that he would attract no special attention. he sauntered up the graveled walk, turning off to the right and moving slowly along, with his gaze fixed upon the gay lads and lasses within, who seemed to be in the very height of enjoyment. at that instant someone caught his arm, and ben turned with an apology for his forgetfulness. "i beg pardon, but i was so interested in the scene that i did not notice where i stepped----" he paused, fairly gasping for breath, for there stood dolly willard at his side, with her hand upon his arm. the light streaming from the windows fell upon her charming face, on which there was an expression that young mayberry did not understand. "ben," said she, in a voice that sounded unnatural, "i've got something i want to say to you." "and i have a good deal that i would like to say to you," he retorted, firing up, now that the little empress stood before him. chapter xxiv startling discoveries "you say you have something to speak about," added the boy, looking into the enchanting face, as it reflected the light from the windows near at hand; "i have only to suggest that it took you a good time to find it out." "it is not i, but you who are to blame." "possibly i am to be blamed for being born poor while you are rich; but i have paid for my mistake, and it is now too late to correct it." the conversation had reached this point when the two seemed to conclude it was altogether too public to be in good taste. several persons, standing near, stepped a little closer, so as to catch every word. "it is so warm in there," said dolly; "even with the windows open, that i came outdoors to get the fresh air. aunt maggie put my shawl about my shoulders so that i wouldn't take cold. now, ben, if you will walk with me to the summer-house yonder, we can sit down by ourselves, finish our talk, and then part forever." the last expression sent a pang to the boy's heart, but he did not allow her to see it. he followed her a short distance to one of the romantic little lattice-work structures which mr. grandin had placed on his grounds. a few rays of silvery moonlight penetrated the leafy shelter, so the two were not in complete darkness when they sat down on the rustic seat. "i am ready to listen to you," said ben in his most frigid voice, the two being separated by a space of several feet. "in the first place, if you thought so lightly of me, you never should have told me different nor asked me to correspond with you." "i do not understand you." "how can you help understanding me?" "because i see no reason for your words. i thought all the world of you; the greatest pleasure of my life was to write to you and to receive your letters in return. all at once you stopped writing; i sent you three letters, and you paid no attention----" "ben, how dare you! it was you who laughed at my letters, and took no notice of them, except to show them to your friends and ridicule what i put on paper." ben mayberry sprang to his feet. like a flash it came upon him that some dreadful misunderstanding had been brought about by other parties, for which dolly was not to blame. "tell me the whole story, dolly," he said in a kinder voice than he had used since they met, as he resumed his seat. "well," said she, beginning to feel the same suspicion that thrilled her companion, "there is a good deal to say, but i will make it short. you know my father and mr. grandin are cousins, so the girls are really my second cousins. rutherford richmond is the son of an old friend of father, who lives in boston. father has a large insurance office, and he agreed to take rutherford until he learned the business, so as to take charge of the same kind of office in boston, which his father is going to fix up for him. that's how it is rutherford has been living with us for some months. "well, a good while ago, i wrote you a letter, begging you to come and visit me; father said i might do so. you didn't accept the invitation. i wrote you again and got no answer to it; i was frightened, and thought maybe you were ill, and wrote once more, but there was no answer to it. i would have sent a letter to cousin jane to find out about you, but she was in europe. after a while i sent a fourth letter, very long, and full of things which i wouldn't have anyone else know for the world. i sent----" "who by?" "rutherford took it and several other letters, and placed them in the mail-box at father's office, so they were sure to go. but there was no answer to the last, and then i gave up. i felt awful bad; but i was nearly wild when rutherford came to me one day and said he had something which he thought he ought to tell me. when he said it was about you, i was dreadfully excited. he told me that he had made the acquaintance of a young man from damietta, who was a close friend of yours. that young person, whose name rutherford would not give, said that you showed all my letters to him and several others, and made fun of them. i wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't proved what he said?" "how did he prove it?" "by repeating what i had written; he gave me half of what was in that last letter, which he said was repeated to him by the person you told. he had them so exactly that my face burned like fire, and i was never so angry in all my life. i knew you must have done what rutherford said, for how could he know what i had written you?" "he knew it by opening your letter, reading the contents, and then destroying it. that letter, dolly, i never saw, nor did i see the three which preceded it. i also sent you three letters, of which i never heard." now that the way was opened, full explanations quickly followed. there could be no earthly doubt that the last three letters sent by ben mayberry to dolly willard had been intercepted by rutherford richmond, who had not hesitated to do the same with those sent by dolly, though most probably he had simply destroyed the three, and read only the last. "you risked your life to save mine and that of my mother," she said in a tremulous voice, "and it was an awful thing for you to believe i could ever fail to think more of you than of anyone else in the world." "i guess i shall have to own up," laughed the happy ben; "but we were both placed in a false position." "but we shall never be again----" "dolly, dolly! where are you?" the cries came from a gay party of misses who came trooping forth to look for the belle, whose absence so long from her friends had attracted inquiry. she sprang up. "good-by, ben; i must go." she caught his hand and returned the pressure, then hurried out and met her young friends, who escorted her back to the house, while ben quietly departed without attracting attention. it was past midnight, but ben thought nothing of time. he had turned off from the street and entered the main business avenue of damietta. just as he came opposite the large jewelry establishment of mr. grandin he glanced through the plate-glass window. a light was burning dimly in the rear of the store, as was the custom with many of the merchants in the city, but at the instant of looking ben saw something like a shadow flit by the light. he looked again, and was certain that another movement had taken place, though he could not define its character. he paused only an instant, when he walked on again; but in that instant he became convinced that burglars were operating in the jewelry establishment of mr. grandin. he walked slowly forward, humming to himself, as was his custom, but wide awake and alert. fifty feet further, he detected the shadowy figure of a man standing in one of the adjoining doorways. ben pretended not to see him, and continued humming gayly to himself. ben sauntered along in the same aimless fashion until sure he was not watched, when he turned and made his way directly to the police office. the chief was there and ben quickly told him everything he knew. "those are the parties who arranged to rob the bank year before last," said the chief, "but found out they were suspected." "they certainly managed it well this time; that is, so far, for there hasn't a single cipher telegram passed through our office since." "well, we are ready to move," said the chief, as he observed that four of his best officers were awaiting his orders. chapter xxv in the nick of time ben would have liked to accompany the officers, but that would have been unprofessional on their part, and he did not make the request. he waited until they had been gone several minutes, when he slipped out and passed down the street, determined to see what was to be seen. the chief managed the delicate and dangerous business with great skill. the first notice the burglars had of danger was from the rear. they were down behind a screen of dark muslin they had put up, carefully working at the safe, which contained diamonds and jewelry of immense value. they had already drilled a considerable distance into the chilled iron, when the "philistines descended upon them." the burglars sprang up like tigers, but they were caught so fairly that they were borne to the floor and handcuffs clicked around their wrists in a twinkling. there were only two, and the three policemen mastered them without difficulty. but there were two others on the street outside, and they were quick to discover what was going on within. one of these was dandy sam, who ran forward and peered through the front window. his companion was at his elbow, and they instantly saw that something was wrong. they turned to flee, when they found themselves face to face with the chief and his aid. "hold up your hands!" commanded the chief, leveling his pistol at the villains. one of them complied, but dandy sam fired point-blank at the chief, whirled on his heel, and ran like a deer down the street. the chief was not touched, and pistol in hand he started after the criminal, leaving his aid to attend to the second one. dandy sam was fleet of foot and was gaining on his pursuer, when he came face to face with ben mayberry, who was hurrying toward the scene of the burglary with a view of seeing how it terminated. the two encountered where the lamp-light showed the face of each. ben knew the scamp on the instant, from the description given him, and the sight of the flying rascal told him the truth. ben had his pistol in his pocket, but he could not bear the thought of shooting a person, especially when there was a possible doubt of the necessity. ben compromised matters by darting into the road, where he caught up a stone weighing fully a pound. the chief was some distance away shouting "stop thief!" and firing his pistol over his head, so there could be no doubt that dandy sam was "wanted." ben mayberry stood about as far from the fugitive as the space between first and second base--thirty yards--when the stone left his hand like a thunderbolt. as before, it sped true to its aim, but struck higher than then, sending the scoundrel forward on his face, and stunning him; only for a minute or so, but this was sufficient. while he was in the act of climbing to his feet again, the chief dropped upon him; there was a click, and dandy sam was at the end of his career of crime, at least for a considerable time to come. the chief started for the station-house with his man, whom he watched closely despite the stunning blow he had received. a few minutes later the other three officers came in with their prisoners, who were caught in the very act of committing burglary. the aid was absent so long that the chief felt uneasy, and started out in quest of him, but at that moment he appeared with his man. "he went peaceably enough for a while," explained the aid, "and then he tried to bribe me to let him go. when he found that wouldn't work he became ugly, and i had to use my club, but he ain't hurt much." his face was bleeding, but ben mayberry, with a shock, recognized the prisoner as g. r. burkhill, the uncle of dolly willard. the capture of the burglars made great excitement in damietta, and the part taken by ben mayberry once more placed his name in everyone's mouth. it was he who discovered the criminals, and was the direct means of securing the desperado, dandy sam, the leader of the notorious gang. it was a great shock to all, except a few, to find that burkhill, the brother-in-law of dolly willard's father, was also one of the guilty ones. but there were others (and among them mr. willard and mr. grandin) who were not surprised in the least. the facts in this singular affair, as they ultimately came to light, were as follows: george r. burkhill was the black sheep in a most estimable family, of which mrs. willard, the mother of dolly, was a member. she was the sister of burkhill, and the only one who clung to the bad brother, pronounced incorrigible by everyone else, even when a small boy. she believed there was some good in him, and, in the face of protests, she labored to bring him to a sense of right. it was through her influence that he was saved from condign punishment for more than one serious offense. all four of the burglars were duly tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years. rather curiously, both dandy sam and burkhill died during the third year of their imprisonment, and it is safe to say the world was the gainer thereby. some few days after the capture of the burglars, came a glowing letter from dolly, who had gone home to new york, in which she said that her father insisted that ben should come and make them a visit, and would accept no excuse for refusing. "i'll go this time!" exclaimed ben, knowing he would have no trouble in obtaining permission to take a brief vacation. and go he did. chapter xxvi conclusion in closing the history of ben mayberry, the telegraph messenger boy, it seems to me i can do no better than by using the words of the hero himself. the following letter i received only a few days since. it is the last which has come to hand from ben, who writes me regularly, as he has done ever since i was transferred from the office in damietta. i should add that the date of the letter is nine years subsequent to that of his visit to the metropolis as the guest of mr. james willard: "my dear mr. melville,--i am now in my twenty-fifth year. in looking back it seems only a few years ago that you called me to you, on the street of my native city, and offered to make me general utility boy in the telegraph office of damietta. my mother and i were nearly starving at the time, and no kindness could have been more appropriate than yours, nor could anyone have shown greater tact and wisdom in cultivating the good instincts of a ragged urchin, who, otherwise, was likely to go to ruin. "you awakened my ambition and incited me to study; you impressed upon me the beauty and truth of the declaration that there is no royal road to learning; that if i expected to attain success in any walk of life it could only be done by hard, unremitting, patient work. there are many rounds to the ladder, and each must climb them one by one. "good fortune attended me in every respect. it was the providence of god which saved me and enabled me to help save sweet dolly when the bridge went down in the storm and darkness, and her mother was lost; yet, but for my determination to do my best at all times, and never to give up so long as i could struggle, i must have succumbed. "it was extremely fortunate that i saw the burglars at work in the jewelry establishment of mr. grandin on that memorable night in damietta. the same stroke of fortune might have fallen to any boy, but it was incomplete until i was able to bring the leader to the ground with the stone which i hurled at him. "it may be said that all these are but mere incidents of my history, and possibly i may have magnified their importance; but, though my progress was rapid, it never could have carried me successfully along without the regular, systematic, hard work with which i employed my spare hours, when not devoted to exercise. in this world that which wins, is work, work, work! "when i was fifteen years old, i was made the manager of the office in damietta, with a larger salary than i was entitled to. three years later, the partiality of mr. musgrave made me assistant superintendent, and now i have been general superintendent of the district for more than two years, with a handsome salary, which enables me to give my dear mother comforts and elegances of which the good lady never dreamed. "i married dolly shortly after my promotion to the office of general superintendent, and the little fellow that is learning to lisp 'papa,' you know, has been named after you, my old, true, and invaluable friend, to whose counsel and kindness i feel i am so much indebted. "dolly sits at my elbow and continually reminds me that i must insist that you come down and spend christmas with us. a chair and plate will be placed at the table for you, and you must allow nothing less than providence itself to keep you away. "as ever, "your devoted friend, "ben." the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the frontier boys by capt. wyn. roosevelt. this noted scout and author, known to every plainsman, has lived a life of stirring adventure. in boyhood, in the early days, he traveled with comrades the overland route to the west,--a trip of thrilling experiences, unceasing hardships and trials that would have daunted a heart less brave. his life has been spent in the companionship of the typically brave adventurers, gold seekers, cowboys and ranchmen of our great west. he has lived with more than one indian tribe, took part in a revolution at hawaii and was captured in turn by pirates and cannibals. he writes in a way sure to win the heart of every boy. frontier boys on the overland trail. frontier boys in colorado, or captured by indians. frontier boys in the grand canyon, or a search for treasure. frontier boys in mexico, or mystery mountain. finely illustrated. cloth, mo. attractive cover design. price c per volume. chatterton-peck co. new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the comrades series by ralph victor. this writer of boys' books has shown by his magazine work and experience that this series will be without question the greatest seller of any books for boys yet published; full of action from start to finish. cloth, mo. finely illustrated; special cover design. price, c per volume. comrades on the farm, or the mystery of deep gulch. comrades in new york, or snaring the smugglers. comrades on the ranch, or secret of the lost river. comrades in new mexico, or the round-up. comrades on the great divide (in preparation). ralph victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boy's stories of the present day. he has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with sears in india, has voyaged with jack london, and was a war correspondent in natal and japan. the lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many.--"progress." chatterton-peck co. new york transcribed from the t. nelson and sons edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org little alice's palace; or, the sunny heart. london: t. nelson and sons, paternoster row; edinburgh; and new york. . {i:miss mason and lolly: p .jpg} chapter i. the rain was pattering, pattering steadily upon the roof of a little brown cottage that stood alone by the country roadside. there had been a long and dreary winter, and now the bright spring was coming, with its buds and leaves and flowers, to gladden the earth, that had all the time seemed to be dead. as the shower came down, the little green blades of grass sprang up to catch the drops; and they seemed almost to laugh and sing, so full of joy were they when they could lift their heads from the dust. it was so much sweeter to be out once more from their prison-house and to exult with all god's fair creation; so they bathed themselves in the falling shower, and made themselves fresh and clean; and nobody would ever have believed that they came out from their dark beds in the earth. little alice looked out of the windows of the brown cottage, and saw them nodding gaily to her as they were taking their bath; and so she smiled back again, and talked to them from her perch in the window-seat as if they were brothers and sisters, with eyes and ears to see and hear, and hearts to return her love. indeed, there was no one else to whom she could talk the livelong day. no father, for he was dead; no living brothers and sisters; no mother at home, for they were very poor, and her mother must be gone at early dawn to labour for their food and clothing and shelter;--and so alice had to make companions of the blades of grass that nodded at her through the drops. "oh, you beauties!" said she gladly; "and i know who made you, too, and what a great, good god he is to send you here--bright little creatures that you are. how pleasant it will be down by the brook-side when the sun comes out, and you and i and the blue violets and the dandelions have our visiting-time together! never a little girl had such joy as i have!" and alice put her face close to the pane, and looked up into the sky to thank her kind heavenly father for sending her such blessings. it seemed as if she could see him bending graciously down towards her, as her sunday-school teacher had often represented him to her; and then she thought of him who was upon the earth, and who took up little children in his arms and blessed them; and she put out her hands towards the heavens, saying earnestly, "me, too, dear saviour: bless me too!" so absorbed was she that she didn't hear anybody enter the room until a timid voice said,-- "who were you speaking to, alice?" there was such a woful figure by the door as she turned her head--no bonnet, no shoes, and a tattered frock, all draggled with dirt and rain, and the long, uncombed locks straggling about the child's shoulders, and such a blue, pinched look in the thin face! "oh, it's you, maddie, is it?" said alice, jumping from the window and taking the hand of the new-comer. "but it was a pity to get so wet. i'm glad you've come. we'll keep house together till it clears away, and then maybe we'll have a nice walk. first we must dry your clothes, though." and she put some sticks in the fireplace, and putting a match to them, stationed maddie before the blaze, while she held the skirt out to dry. "isn't it pleasant here?" asked alice, with a beaming smile. maddie looked around, with a half shrug, upon the cheerless room, with its bit of a table and the one chair and the low, curtainless window, and then her eyes fell upon the scantily-clad little girl by her side; and then she shivered, as the dampness of her clothes sent a creeping chill through her frame; but she didn't say it was pleasant. "aren't you afraid to stay here so much alone, alice?" she asked, giving another glance about the room. "but i never stay _alone_, maddie!" answered the dear child. "i have plenty of company--'tabby,' and the flies, and now and then a spider, and everything that goes by the door, and the clouds and the sunshine and the leaves and the--oh dear! so many things, maddie, that i can't begin to tell you." and she stopped short for want of breath. "and somebody you were talking to. who was that?" asked maddie. "ah, yes, best of all! don't you know, maddie?" said alice, sinking her voice to a whisper, and gazing earnestly at her young companion. "miss mason told me how he is everywhere, and sees and hears us, and that he loves us better than our mother or father can do, and watches over us and keeps us from all harm. if you go to the school with me you'll learn all about it, maddie dear. no, no; i'm never _alone_ though mother _is gone_ all the long day." "do you _see_ him, alice?" asked maddie earnestly. "not as i see _you_, maddie," returned her companion with reverence; "but when i look up into the sky, and sometimes when i sit here by myself and speak things that i have learned from my bible, i seem to feel some strange brightness all above and around me; and it's so real to me that it's just like seeing with these eyes. miss mason says 'it's my soul that sees.' whatever it is, it's very beautiful, maddie." and alice clasped her hands in a sort of ecstasy, and drew near to the window to look up once more into the heavens, whither her eyes and her heart so continually turned. chapter ii. the shower did not last long, and the warm sun melted the diamonds from the grass, so that it was soon fit for the little girls to go out into the freshness and enjoy the pleasant air. "don't you think this a pretty cottage?" asked alice, as they stepped outside and stood looking upon her home. "see the moss all over the shingles; how velvety it is! tabby goes up there to sleep on the soft cushion in the sun. and here's where i put my convolvuluses, and they climb up and run all over the window and make such a nice curtain, with the pink and blue and white and purple mixed with the green; and they reach up to the very chimney, maddie, and hug it round, and then trail down upon the roof. oh, i think it's elegant! and here's my flower-bed, right under the window, where mother can smell the blossoms as we sit sewing when she has a day at home. we take real comfort here, mother and i, maddie." and so the little blithesome child prattled about her humble home, while her companion looked in astonishment upon her, wondering why it was that alice always seemed so happy, while _she_ was so miserable. "we'll go down by the brook-side now," said alice. "there's my grand palace. such hangings! all blue and gold and crimson; and carpets that your feet sink into; and a great mirror, such as the richest man couldn't buy. don't you know what i mean, maddie?" and alice laughed gleefully as they reached the brook-side, and pointed to the heavens above, so brilliant in the sunny radiance, and down to the green and flowery turf beneath their feet, and to the clear stream that reflected all things, like the purest glass. and she said, "now, don't you like my palace, maddie?" "yes, it's very pretty here," said maddie; but she didn't seem to feel about it as alice did, who was in such good spirits that she could keep neither her feet nor her tongue still, but frisked about the green like a young deer, and chattered like a magpie, only in far sweeter tones. "_this_ is my _bower_," said she, lifting up the drooping branches of a willow and shutting herself and maddie within. "here i come for a nap when i am tired of play; and the leaves rustle in the wind, making a pleasant sound, and the birds sit on the boughs and sing me asleep, and i dream always happy dreams. when awake, i think about the pure river that my bible speaks of, and the tree of life that is on either side, and the beautiful light that isn't like the sun, nor the moon, nor the blaze of a candle, but comes from the face of god, and is never hidden from us to leave us in darkness." maddie sat down upon a large stone that alice called her throne, and looked eagerly up at her companion for more; for alice's words seemed to her like some beautiful story out of a book. "did you ever go into any great house, maddie?" asked alice. "no, never," said maddie. "i passed by mrs. cowper's one day, and looked in at the open door when somebody was coming out, but i couldn't see much." "that's just where i went with mother," said alice; "and little mary took me into a high room, the walls all velvet and satin and gold, so that my eyes ached for looking; and there were such heaps of pretty things on the tables and all about the place; but it didn't make me feel glad as i do when i get out here in my grand palace with these living, breathing things around me. o maddie, there isn't anything on earth so beautiful as what god has made!" "do you stay out here always?" asked maddie. "oh no," said alice; "that would be idle. when mother has work i stay at home to help her. i've learned to sew nicely now, and can save mother many a stitch. to-day's my holiday, and i can play with you as long as you please. i've brought some dinner, and we'll set a table in my dining- hall." and she took from her pocket a little parcel, and led maddie from the bower to a hollow near the brook, where was a flat rock, and there she spread her frugal fare. there were two pieces of homemade bread and a small slice of cold bacon, which she put upon leaves in the middle of the rocky table; and gathering some violets, she placed them in bunches here and there, till the table was sweet with their delicious fragrance. just as the children were about to help themselves to the food, there came some little tired feet over the grass; and a more forlorn figure than maddie's stood a few yards off, looking shyly, but wistfully, at them. "now, lolly, you may just run home again as quick as you can," said maddie sharply. "we haven't enough dinner for alice and me. go, now!" and she went towards her and gave her a slight push, at which the child cried, but without turning away or making a step towards home. "is that your sister?" asked alice, going up to maddie. "yes; she's always running after me," returned maddie, with an ill-natured frown. "poor little thing!" said alice. "i wish my sister nellie had lived. i shouldn't be cross to her, i know. come here, lolly: you shall have some of _my_ dinner." and she led the little grateful child to the wild table, that seemed to her like a fairy scene, with the fresh leaf-plates, and the pure sweet flowers breathing so delightfully. "mother makes capital bread--doesn't she, maddie?" said alice, as she ate her small portion with evident relish, while she shared the remnant with her guests. "now, maddie," said she, as they finished the repast, "you clear the table and wash the dishes, and lolly and i'll go to my mirror to make ourselves nice to sit down, and then i'll tell you the story my teacher told me the other day, if you would like to hear it." maddie gladly agreed to this; and lolly gave herself up to the gentle hands of her new friend, who took her to the brook and washed her face until the dirt all vanished and her cheeks were like two red roses. then she took her pocket-comb, and, dipping it into the water, made the child's hair so smooth that lolly didn't know herself when she looked into the brook, and asked, "what little girl it was with such bright eyes and fresh rosy cheeks?" and when alice told her that it was herself, she laughed with delight, and said "she would come every day to dress herself by alice's mirror if she could look so nice." and then alice and maddie and lolly went to the bower for the story. alice sat down on the grassy bank, and lolly laid her head upon her friend's lap, while maddie crowded close to her to listen. "i don't know that i can remember it very well," said alice; "but i'll tell it as nearly as i can like miss mason. she called it 'the little exiled princess,' and this is it." chapter iii. once upon a time there was a little girl no bigger than lolly here, sitting in the dirt by the roadside, crying. her frock was all ragged and soiled, and the tears had run over the dust upon her face, making it streaked, and disfiguring it sadly. altogether, she was a very miserable little object, when a lady, walking along the road, suddenly came upon her, and stopped to see what was the matter. as the lady gazed upon the strange, ragged little creature, there came tears into her eyes, and she said softly, as if speaking to herself,-- "who would think that this is the daughter of a great king?" the child, seeing a beautiful lady before her, jumped from the ground, and, with shame, began to shake herself from the dirt that clung to her garments; but the stranger, taking no notice of her untidy condition, clasped the child's fingers in her white hand, and told her to lead her to her home. it was a brown cottage, very like mine, only _that_ one was hung with cobwebs, and the dust was an inch thick upon the floor, and the window was so begrimmed that scarcely any light came through. "ugh!" said the lady, as she stood upon the threshold and looked in. "bring me a broom!" and she brushed away the hanging webs, and made the floor neat and clean, and taught the child to wash the window, until the bright sun came in and played about the floor and upon the walls; and then she made the little girl wash her face and hands, and put on a better frock, that she found in the chest. "now, my little princess," said she, "come outside for a while, in the fresh air, and i will talk to you." "why do you call me 'little princess'?" asked the child, as they sat down upon the cottage-step, while the birds twittered about them and the sweet breath of summer touched their cheeks. "because you are the daughter of a great king," said the lady, gently stroking her soft, brown hair, that she had found so tangled and shaggy, but had made so nice and smooth. "my father was a poor man, and he lies in the graveyard," said the little girl, as she looked wonderingly at her friend. "yes; but i mean your heavenly father," said the lady--"he whom we call god. surely you have heard of him, my dear child!" the little girl said that she had heard of him; but, from what she could learn, the lady knew that she looked upon him as one that is afar off; and she wished to teach her how very near he is continually, even round about her bed and about her path, and spying out all her ways. "do you live here all alone, dear child?" asked she kindly. her words were so sweet and gentle that they sounded like the murmur of the brook near the little child's home. "all day long alone, while mother is away at her work," answered the child, with her eyes full of sad tears. "and what do you do with the weary hours? do they not seem very dull and dreary to you?" asked the lady. "ah, yes," said the little one. "i have nobody to play with or talk to; and i'm glad when the night comes and i can creep into bed and shut my eyes and forget everything." "what if you had some kind friend ever near, to smile on you and bless you,--somebody to whom you could tell all your little sorrows as you are now doing to me?" said the lady. "would that be pleasant?" "oh yes, indeed!" returned the child. "will you stay?" for she had felt it very sweet to be sitting there with the kind lady's words falling like music upon her ear, and her heart was lighter and happier than it had been in all her life. "i cannot always be with you," said the lady. "but there is one who 'will never leave you.' how beautiful he has made everything about you!" and she looked upon the green earth, with the peeping flowers, and upon the delicate shrubs that skirted the roadside, and the wild-roses and creeping plants along the hedges, and then she looked up into the blue heavens, with such an expression of love that the child gazed at her with rapture. "such a good god!" said the lady, still looking up with the bright light upon her face. "and such a wondrously beautiful world, where we may walk joyously, with his love in our hearts as well as all about our path; and yet we sit in the dust weeping, and forget that he is our father, and that he is watching for us to turn towards him--poor, wandering, wayward children that we are!" though the lady spoke as if to herself, the child knew that she was thinking of her; for she had not quite put away the shame of her first appearance; and she touched her white hand timidly with her brown finger, and said, really in earnest, "i won't sit in the dirt again." "that's a dear child," said her friend. "you must never again forget that, although you are poor, and must live in this world for a while, you are in truth a little exiled princess, and your glorious home is with the great king, your father, in the skies; and it does not become the daughter of so great a king to put herself on a level with the beasts; but you must lift yourself up more and more towards heaven." the little girl looked at her, and straightened her figure to its greatest possible height. "not to carry yourself proudly, as the daughter of an earthly king might do," continued the lady, "but be above doing a mean or low thing, and try to be heavenly and pure, like your blessed lord and father; and then he will lift you up to his beautiful, high throne." the child's head drooped again, and she looked despondingly at her teacher, as if she did not really know what to do. "i'm going now," said the lady; "but i shall come once a week to see how you get on. i shall not expect the cobwebs to gather any more in the cottage, nor the dust to collect upon the floor, nor to shut out the sun from the window, nor the little princess's face to be dirty and ugly; because that would offend the pure and holy god, who made this world fresh and clean and beautiful, and expects his children to keep it so. do you think you will remember 'our father'?" "'who art in heaven,'" said the child, calling to mind the prayer taught her some time in her life, but long since almost forgotten. "not in heaven _only_, dear child," said the lady. "i want you to think of him as close beside you always, wherever you go. can you read?" "a little." the lady opened a pocket-bible, and drawing the little girl closer to her, said, "now, say after me,-- "'whither shall i go from thy spirit? or whither shall i flee from thy presence? if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. if i say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.' "you see, my dear child," said she, as she reverently closed the book, "we cannot get away from god if we would, and surely we would not try to hide ourselves from so kind a friend and father if we could. only when we are doing something that we are ashamed of do we shun the face of one who loves us; and if we try to flee from the eye of god we may be sure we are guilty of some wickedness. how much sweeter is it to do what we know will please him, and look freely up into his face, as a good child delights to meet his earthly parent's smile!" the lady rose to go, and the child looked wistfully at her and then at the little bible. "ah yes; i will give you this. it will tell you what to do." and she put the book into the child's hands. "you will read a chapter every day till i come?" the little girl gladly promised, but was sad at the parting; for never an hour passed so cheerily as the hour with the kind teacher. "you may be sure i'll come again, for _he_ sends me," said the lady. and she looked up once more with the heavenly face, and then stooped till her soft lips touched the child's forehead; and, while the pressure of the gentle kiss thrilled through the very soul of the little girl, her friend was gone. chapter iv "did she come again?" asked maddie, who had got upon her knees in front of alice, with mouth and eyes and ears wide open for the story. "oh yes; many and many a time," said alice. "and she taught the little girl to see her father's love in the trees, and the flowers, and all about, as she walked amid his beautiful creation; and she learned to be a neat, tidy little girl, instead of the dirty, miserable creature that sat crying in the dirt by the roadside when she first saw her friend. the lady taught her to look upon herself as greatly beloved by her father, and after that she was not miserable any more." "did you ever see the little princess?" asked lolly, raising her head from alice's lap and looking earnestly at her. "yes, indeed. every day since the lady came to her," said alice. "she lives in the same cottage now; but it has grown to be a beautiful place; for god's flowers are all about it, and god's sun streams in at the window, and all over the mossy roof, like a golden flood,--and god himself is always with her to keep her from harm and from being lonely or sad." and as alice said this, the tears glistened in her blue eyes, as the dew-drops sparkle through the sunlight in the violets. "we'll go and see her now," continued she; "and i'll show you two other little exiled princesses." and she took lolly and maddie down by the brook-side, and bade them look in her great mirror; and there they saw themselves and alice--all children of the great king. "ah, now i know!" said maddie, clapping her hands. "_you_ are the little princess, alice, and miss mason is the good lady. is she so nice as all that?" "_just as nice_, dear maddie," replied alice; "and if you and lolly will go with me to the sunday-school, she'll tell us a great many more beautiful stories, to help us on our way to our heavenly home. "but come. it is nearly time for us to go now. mother will be looking for me. good-bye." and the little girl with the sunny heart bounded into the cottage with a smile and a kiss for her mother. chapter v. when alice left the children, they went sauntering along the road towards home. very slowly they walked, and not joyously and hopefully, as little children do who think of their father's house as the brightest and dearest spot in the whole world. it was a long distance from the brown cottage of their friend; but the freshness of the evening made it delightful to be out, and they had been resting so many hours that they were not weary. besides, the twinkling stars came out in the sky, and there was shining above them the calm, bright moon; and altogether it was so serene and lovely, that they almost wished they could be always walking in some pleasant path that should have no unpleasant thing at the end--such as they felt their home to be. presently they came to a bend in the road, and a few steps from the corner was a low-roofed house, a ruinous-looking place, with rags stuffed in the broken window-panes. there were green fields around it, and tall trees gracefully waving near it; but the old house spoiled the landscape by its slovenly, shabby appearance. a dim light was burning in the room nearest the children; and as they approached, they could see their father and mother sitting at a table, eating their coarse supper of bread and cold salt pork. lolly thought what a pleasant table alice had by the brook-side, and the scent of the violets seemed even now to reach her, and the music of the waters was in her ears, and the bright, happy face of her little playmate came freshly before her, making the dingy room where her parents sat, with the gloom of the dim light and the tattered dusty furniture, still more uninviting and cheerless. lolly lingered outside the door, while maddie entered. she sat down upon the step, and called to mind all that alice had said to them that day. she was younger than maddie by a year or two, but her soul was older--that is, it was more thoughtful and earnest; and instead of dwelling always on the things of earth, she had a wistful longing for something higher and better, which alice's words had begun to satisfy. the cool breeze played upon her cheek, and the sound of the air, as it rustled the leaves, and the breath of the flower-scented meadows fell soothingly upon her senses; and as she looked up into the starry sky, with its myriads of gleaming lights, and recalled the story, she felt within herself that indeed she was a little princess as well as alice, and that far above all the glory of the heavens her father was awaiting her return to the heavenly palace. "maddie and i mustn't forget these things," said she to herself; "but must try to get ready for our better home." so much was lolly thinking of the things she had heard in the story, that she might have sat there in the dew all night, but that her mother called her to eat her supper and go to bed. maddie was already fast asleep upon a trundle-bed, that was pushed under the great bed by day, and drawn out at night; for there were only the two rooms in the house, and they had to make the most of all the space. lolly had never felt the house so small and close as on this night; for her soul was swelling with such large free thoughts, that the four narrow walls of the bedroom seemed to press in upon her and almost to stop her breath. she could not go to bed until she had opened the window and looked up once more into the bright sky; and as she did so, she said very earnestly, "o my father!" she did not know any prayers. she had never been taught to call upon god. most that she had ever heard of the other life was through alice's story that day; and her heart was so glad of the knowledge, that it already began to go out towards her heavenly home and her gracious father. as she spoke these words, there came such a happy feeling to her spirit--a feeling that she was not alone, but that she was watched over and protected; and with a sense of security and safety, such as she had never before known, she lay down beside her sister, and was soon sweetly slumbering. chapter vi. lolly was awakened in the morning by the fretful voice of her mother, as she went scolding about the house, trying to pick up something for breakfast; and she heard her father answering her in no pleasant mood, and kicking about the floor whatever came in his way. it was a sad awakening for poor lolly, and, for the minute, it put wholly out of her mind the pleasure of the previous day, and the lesson learned in the green and sunny place by the brook-side; and she was sorely tempted to cover her head with the bed-clothes, and sleep again, until her parents were off to their work, and then give herself up to idleness and play, as she had always done. but the bright happy face of alice came before her to help her, and she was out of bed in a minute. "maddie, maddie!" said she, leaning over her sister and giving her the least bit of a shake in order to arouse her; "come, get up. the sun is shining on the wall, and it is a beautiful day. i want you to go with me for alice." "get away!" returned maddie in a huff. "i haven't slept half enough!" and, settling herself again, she dropped off into a heavier slumber; while lolly, seeing that it would do no good to disturb her, dressed herself and went into the other room. her mother was baking a cake, and her father sat near, idle. both looked surprised to see lolly up so early. there was a woollen-factory in the village, perhaps half a mile away, and they were off generally long before the children were up; and maddie and lolly usually ate such pickings as they left upon the table, and spent their days as they pleased, with little thought or care from their parents. lolly could not wait to get her breakfast. she cared for nothing to eat, now that her mind was intent upon some great thing, and she sped away over the dewy grass to find her new friend. she had never been in alice's house, for they had only lived a little while in the place where they now were, and maddie alone had found out their neighbour. her sister would not always let her play with her, and it was only a mere chance that led her to follow maddie the day before and get acquainted with alice. i did not mean to say _chance_. i would rather say a kind watchful _providence_--which is the true and right word for a christian to use; because everything that happens in this world is governed by god's over- ruling power for some good purpose; and lolly was led to the spot where her sister and alice were at play, expressly that she might learn something of her bright, eternal home. now that she had seen the sunny-hearted little girl once, it took her but very few minutes to find her again. the distance seemed nothing at all; and, from the time she left her own door, she could see the cheerful face all along her way, making her walk very pleasant and not in the least lonely. the cottage door was wide open, and the sunlight lay in golden streaks on the floor at the entrance, where tabby had stretched herself comfortably. lolly could see into the little square room at the right. the table was spread with a neat, white cloth, and alice and her mother were eating their breakfast together. there were two white plates on the table, and white cups and saucers, and a smoking dish of porridge. all this lolly could see as she stood hesitating near the door; but, in a minute, alice caught a glimpse of her little, shy face, and ran to lead her in. "you must have some of this nice breakfast," said she, giving lolly a plateful of the porridge, and pouring some milk on it from a small white pitcher. lolly looked timidly at alice's mother, to see if she might eat it; and the kind pleasant smile she received made her feel quite at home, so that she needed no further urging. soon after the mother went away, and left alice to put the room in order; and, when all things were right, alice said "she could go with lolly as well as not that day, and they would make a pretty place of the shabby cottage; for it was just in the best spot--so wild and shady and green." it was rather a sorrowful task at the beginning, and almost any other little girl than alice would have been quite discouraged. there was a great deal of rubbish in the sitting-room, and the floor and windows looked as if they had never known anything of soap and water. maddie sat upon the top of a half-barrel, swinging her brown, soiled feet, and playing with a black puppy, that was snapping at her toes; while the table was strewn with crumbs and dirty dishes from the morning's meal, and chips and sticks and bits of rags were upon the floor. she looked as if she had just got out of bed. her face was dull, and her hair showed no touch of brush or comb, and her nails were long and dirty; but she jumped from her perch with some signs of shame as she saw alice, so neat and tidy, at the door; and she began to scramble about as if she wished to make things a little better. "may i help you to-day, maddie?" asked alice. "i haven't any work at home, and i like to get things tidy. we'll make such a room of this before night!" and, without another word, she began in earnest to bring order out of strange confusion. lolly was a capital helper, because her heart was in the matter, and she really wanted a pleasant, cheerful home; but maddie was content to look on, and scarcely moved a finger to help. they packed away the wood and chips in the closet under the lowest shelf, and washed the dishes and set them up edgewise in their proper places; and they mopped the floor, and scrubbed the windows and table, and brought boughs of evergreen to hang upon the nails around the walls and make it cheerful and pretty. alice thought of this. she said, "rich folks hang paintings on their walls--and these are god's pictures, the work of his almighty fingers, and so beautiful! why not put them where we can always look at them, and in them see his love and kindness?" lolly thought her the most wonderful little girl in all the world, and clapped her hands for joy as she looked upon the altered room. then they went outside, and swept the sticks and chips from the lawn; and maddie managed to hunt up a hammer and some old rusty nails, and to help alice to fasten the loose boards upon the door, which improved it more than anything else could do. it was so low from the roof to the ground that by stepping on a chair they could easily reach; and they trained a running rose-bush, that had been long neglected, and hung, trailing, over the grass, so that it nearly covered the whole side of the cottage, and would soon be like a bright green mantle over the dark walls. chapter vii. just as they had finished their labours, and alice had prevailed upon maddie to put herself in a little better order, and the three young friends had seated themselves upon the step to get something from alice's bible--some words of love and blessing, as alice said, from their heavenly father--there came a lady up the road towards them. she was walking very slowly along, with her parasol shielding her face, so that it was quite concealed from the children; but alice knew her dress, and ran quickly to meet her, crying joyously, "it is miss mason, dear lolly!" maddie ran into the cottage and hid behind the door, like a foolish little girl; but lolly sat still, very glad that the good teacher was coming to speak to her, yet trembling with a sort of nervous fear; because she was a shy little girl, and so seldom saw strangers. she wondered that alice dared go so fearlessly up and walk along, with her hand in miss mason's hand, and her face upturned towards the lady's, while she talked as freely as if it had been herself or maddie listening. but when miss mason stood by the step and stooped down to kiss her sun- burned cheek, and said sweetly, "so this is your little friend lolly, is it, alice?" she did not wonder any longer; for her heart leaped to meet the gentle lady, and she could not take her eyes from such a kind and loving face. "where's maddie?" asked miss mason, with a smile. she could see her peeping through the crack of the door; and, understanding the case, she said carelessly,-- "i suppose she will join us by-and-by. we will sit here and read in alice's book until she comes, and then i want to talk to you. alice told me you lived here, lolly, and i want you to go to the sunday-school. we are very happy there, are we not, alice?" alice answered with a beaming face, and she and lolly sat, one on each side of the teacher, and listened as she read to them from god's holy word. she read first about the creation of this beautiful world, and the garden where adam and eve were placed; and, when she had made lolly and maddie understand all about how sin came--for maddie, attracted by the sweet voice and pleasant manner, had crept softly from her hiding-place and curled herself upon the step behind the lady--miss mason turned to the new testament and read to them a few verses about jesus, who took upon himself our nature and suffered for our sins. the children were much impressed by the story of the saviour's sufferings and death; and when the teacher told them that every naughty word and deed of theirs was like a nail in the saviour's feet or hands, they felt that they would never again do a wicked thing. then she told them how impossible it would be for them to keep from sin without god's continual help; and she taught them how to look up to him and ask for his aid and blessing. and when she had made sure that they could say a short prayer, and had obtained a promise from them that they would go every sunday to the sunday-school, she kissed them all three very affectionately, and went on to search for others of her heavenly father's wandering children. "when she had gone quite out of sight, and they were taking another good look at the changed rooms, that seemed so grand to them all, lolly said thoughtfully to alice,-- "do you think the great king will like to come here now?" "he _is_ here," said alice reverently. "don't you feel it, lolly? we never see him, you know, as we see each other; but we feel that he is near, just as you feel that your mother is in the room even when the darkness hides her from your eyes." lolly repeated the little prayer softly, "o my heavenly father, i will try to love thee. wilt thou not come unto me, and be with me wherever i am, and help me to be thy child?" and, as she said the words, she knew that god was with her, and that from that hour there was a presence in the house that would drive away all the gloom, and make such brightness as filled the cottage of her little friend. it was time for alice to go; but she lingered a little while longer to teach maddie how to prepare the supper, so that when her mother came home weary from her labour, there might be no more hard work for her to do, but real comfort and rest. "now, don't get tired of housekeeping," said she, as she tied on her sun- bonnet to go. "i shall run over some day to see how you get on; and i'm sure it's so much prettier to be sweet, and clean, and tidy, that you'll love to keep the house nice." and away she tripped to make things pleasant for her own dear, hard-working mother. sunny little girl! she knew how many tiresome steps her diligent hands and loving heart could save her poor widowed mother; and in everything she did there was a tender thought of the warm heart against which her infant head had lain when her little feet and hands were weak and helpless. she was glad now that they had grown strong to aid, that she could give back some of the care and effort. alice never dreamed of growing impatient in her mother's service. she did not wait to be asked to help her, but watched for opportunities, and so proved a great blessing and treasure in the lowly cottage home, that would have been very dismal and sad without her sunny, buoyant little body. chapter viii. peter rand and his wife came lagging up the road as the sun was setting. they had passed an uncommonly laborious day, and were completely tired out with their toil. they were very silent, and were thinking what a sad, miserable home was theirs, and how little of cheer they had in life. nothing seemed bright to them, although the earth was like a paradise for greenness and fragrance and beauty. as they drew near the house, mr. rand was very much surprised by the great change in the outward aspect of the place. he could scarcely believe that he had not mistaken the road, and come to some other cottage than the slovenly one that he had left in the morning. his wife, intent upon the supper that her hungry appetite craved, had pressed forward in haste to prepare it. as she entered the door, however, she started back with the strange feeling that she was in the house of some neighbour; but pug, the little dog, ran frisking about her, and convinced her that is was indeed her own house. the table was set in the middle of the room, and the dishes were arranged in nice order; and just in the centre was lolly's pewter mug, with a bunch of sweet, blue violets to grace it all. there was the savoury odour of the baking cake from the fire, and the fumes of the steeping tea filled the room, and already gave a sense of refreshing to the weary work-people. the rags were taken from the windows, and square bits of paper were pinned over the openings; and the floor was neat and clean, and the beautiful green boughs hung upon the walls, and the children sat, with clean hands and faces, awaiting the return of father and mother. they looked so bright and happy that the weary couple quite forgot their fatigue, and chatted merrily over their pleasant meal, praising the children for their thoughtful work, and saying they didn't believe there was a more beautiful home in the world than theirs. altogether, it was a very happy evening. maddie and lolly made their father and mother sit down quietly while they cleared off the table, and washed the dishes, and swept the crumbs away; and then they all had a cozy little time, talking of new hopes and plans. for the change was so comfortable that it put life and spirits into every soul; and the father said he would get some glass and putty and mend the windows; and the mother would make some white curtains, and the children would get evergreen and form it into wreaths to loop them up. oh, it takes so little to make a cheerful, happy home! it is only the idle and vicious that need be really miserable. if god does not always give us plenty of money, he furnishes us with so many rich things in this world of his, that we may adorn even a lowly and barren place until it shall appear richer than the gayest palace. maddie and lolly found this out through alice; and every day they hunted the woods for mosses and flowers, and their father made little shelves to put them on, and formed many a pretty seat of twisted branches of trees; so that by-and-by their cottage was one of the prettiest places anywhere around, and attracted the notice of everybody that passed it. miss mason came very often, now that she had found them out; and she not only prevailed on the parents to send their children to sunday-school, but they themselves went regularly to church, and tried to serve the great and holy god who had put it into the hearts of their children to make their earthly place of abode something akin to the better home. so soon as they began to feel the presence of the heavenly king, all the despondency and gloom vanished, and, even though poor and hard-working, they were happy in the possession of such riches as nothing but the love and favour of our heavenly father can give. chapter ix. it was not very long after the children learned to look away from earth to the blest abode beyond the skies, when lolly began to droop and grow weak and listless; and, although her parents and maddie thought it was but a trifling illness, she herself felt that her father was about to call her home. she was not afraid to die; and, when she grew so languid that her little feet lost the power to take her to the sunday-school, miss mason and alice and the kind minister came often to talk to her of her approaching joy. there was one beautiful little story that the minister used to tell her over and over again, she liked it so much. i do not know whether he made it, or whether he got it from some book; but i want to tell it to you, for i like it as well as lolly did. it is this:--"there was a bright, beautiful butterfly that was about to die. she had laid her eggs on a cabbage-leaf in the garden; and, as she thought of her children, she said to a caterpillar that was crawling upon the leaf, 'i am going to die. i feel my strength fast failing, and i want you to take care of my little ones.' "the caterpillar promised, and the butterfly folded her wings and breathed her last. "then the caterpillar did not know what to do. she wanted some instruction with regard to her charge: so she thought she would ask a lark, that went soaring up into the blue sky. at first the lark was silent, and plumed his wings and went up--up--up, as if to gather wisdom for his answer; and then he came, singing, down and said,-- "'i'll tell you something about your charge; but you won't believe me. these young butterflies that you look for will become caterpillars.' "'poh! poh!' said the old caterpillar. 'i don't believe a word of it.' "'no; i told you you wouldn't. and what do you suppose they will live upon?' said the lark. "'why, the dew and the sweet honey from the flowers, to be sure,' replied the caterpillar. 'that is what all butterflies live on.' "'they won't, indeed,' said the lark. 'they will eat cabbage-leaves.' and he went soaring away again into the clear heavens. "presently, back he came and said to the caterpillar,-- "'i'll tell you something stranger still about yourself. you'll be a beautiful butterfly.' "the caterpillar laughed at the idea; but, as she turned around and saw the eggs upon the leaf all hatched into little crawling caterpillars, she was forced to believe what the lark had said concerning herself; and she went about as happy as could be, telling everybody what a glorious change would come to her after she had folded herself in her close chrysalis." the minister told lolly that this caterpillar in the chrysalis was like us worms of the dust when lying in the narrow grave enshrouded in our death-robes; and that, like as the caterpillar bursts his darksome bonds and soars away upon butterfly pinions, so shall we come forth from the tomb on the resurrection day, and with angel-wings mount upward to the world of light and peace. then he read a few verses to her from that beautiful account of the rising from the dead, in the fifteenth chapter of the first epistle to the corinthians. lolly would lie upon her sick-bed and fasten her earnest eyes upon him as he read and as he spoke so sweetly to her of the other life; and then she would look away through the open window to the heavens above, and seem to see the face of her father, who was drawing her slowly to himself. the orphans of glen elder, by margaret murray robertson. chapter one. aunt janet's visit. "up to the fifth landing, and then straight on. you canna miss the door." for a moment the person thus addressed stood gazing up into the darkness of the narrow staircase, and then turned wearily to the steep ascent. no wonder she was weary; for at the dawn of that long august day, now closing so dimly over the smoky town, her feet had pressed the purple heather on the hills that skirt the little village of kirklands. a neighbouring farmer had driven her part of the way, but she had walked since then seven-and-twenty miles of the distance that lay between her and her home. but it was not weariness alone that deepened the shadow on her brow as she passed slowly upwards. uncertainty with regard to the welfare of dear friends had long been taking the form of anxious fears; and now her fears were rapidly changing into a certainty of evil. her heart sickened within her as she breathed the hot, stifling air; for she knew that her only brother's orphan children had breathed no other air than that during the long, hot weeks of summer. at length she reached the door to which she had been directed; and, as she stood for a moment before it, the prayer that had often risen in her heart that day, burst, in strong, brief words, from her lips. there was no sound in the room, and it was some time before her eyes became accustomed to the dim light around her. then the glimpse she caught, through the half-open door, of one or two familiar objects,--the desk which had been her father's, and the high-backed chair of carved oak in which her mother used to sit so many, many years ago,--assured her that she had reached her journey's end. on a low bed, just opposite the door through which she gazed, lay a boy, apparently about ten years of age. his face was pale and thin, and he moved his head uneasily on his pillow, as though very weary or in pain. for a time all sense of fatigue was forgotten by the traveller, so occupied was she in tracing in that fair little face a resemblance to one dearly beloved in former years--her only brother, and the father of the child. suddenly he raised himself up; and, leaning his head upon his hand, spoke to some one in another part of the room. "oh me! oh me!" he said faintly; "the time seems so long! surely she must be coming now." "it's saturday night, you ken," said a soft voice, in reply. "she can't be home quite so soon to-night. but the shadow of the speir has got round to the yew-tree at the gate, and it won't be long now." the little head sank back on the pillow again, and there was a pause. "oh me!" he murmured again, "it seems so long! i wish it was all at an end." "what do you wish was at an end?" said the same low voice again. "all these long days and my mother's going out when she's not able to go, and you sewing so busy all the day, and me waiting, waiting, never to be well again. oh, lily, i wish i was dead." there was the sound of a light step on the floor, and a little girl's grave, pale face bent over the boy. "whisht, archie!" said she, gravely, as she smoothed the pillow and placed his restless head in a more easy posture. "do you not ken it's wrong for you to say the like of that? it's an awful thing to die, archie." "well, if it's wrong to be weary of lying here, i can't help it," said the child; "but it's surely not wrong to wish to die and go to heaven, yon bonny place!" "but it is wrong not to be willing to live, and suffer too, if it be god's will," said his sister, earnestly. "and what would _we_ do if you were to die, archie, my mother and me?" "i am sure you could do far better than you can do now. you wouldn't need to bide here longer. you could go to glen elder to aunt janet, you and my mother. but i'll never see glen elder, nor aunt janet, nor anything but these dark walls and yon bit of the kirk-yard." "whisht, archie," said his sister, soothingly. "aunt janet has gone from glen elder, and she's maybe as ill off as any of us. i doubt none of us will ever go there again. but we won't think of such sad things now. lie still, and i'll sing to you till my mother comes home." she drew a low stool to the side of the bed, and, laying her head down on the pillow beside him, she sang, in a voice low and soft but clear as a skylark's, the sweetest of all the sweet psalmist's holy songs. it must have been a weary day for her too. she got through the first two verses well; but as she began, "yea, though i walk through death's dark vale," her eyes closed, and her voice died away into a murmur, and then ceased. her brother lay quite still, too; nor did either of them move when the traveller went forward into the room. many sad and some bitter thoughts were in her heart, as she stood gazing upon them in the deepening twilight. she thought of the time when her only brother, many years younger than herself, had been committed to her care by her dying mother. she thought of the love they had borne each other in the years that followed; how the boy had come to her for sympathy in his childish joys and sorrows; how he had sought her counsel, and guided himself by it, in riper years. she recalled with sadness the untoward events which had interfered to separate him from her and from his early home as he advanced to manhood. things had not gone well with him in the last years of his life, and he sank under a burden of care too heavy to be borne by one of his sensitive nature. now he was dead, and she grieved to think that she, his sister, in her old age of poverty, could not offer a home to his widow and orphan children. the youth and middle age of mrs blair had been more free from trial than is the common lot; but the last few years had been years of great vicissitude. she was now a widow and childless; for though it might be that her youngest son was still alive, she did not know that he was; and his life had been the cause of more sorrow than the death of all her other children had been. she had been involved in the pecuniary troubles that had borne so heavily upon her brother, and when old age was drawing near she found herself under the necessity of leaving glen elder, the home where her life had been passed, to seek a humbler shelter. since then she had lived content with humble means, as far as she herself was concerned, but anxious often for the sake of those whom she loved and longed to befriend. she had known they must be poor, but she had not heard of their poverty from themselves. they resided in a remote and thinly peopled district in scotland, where the means of communication were few and difficult. nothing but vague reports had reached her. she had hoped against hope till the time came when she could set her fears at rest, or know the worst, by seeing them herself. now, standing in the bare room, in the midst of many marks of want and sickness, it grieved her bitterly to feel how little she could do to help them. "god help them!" she said aloud; and her voice awoke the sleeper before her. for an instant the startled girl stood gazing at the stranger; then, advancing timidly, she held out both hands, exclaiming: "aunt janet!" "yes, it is aunt janet," said mrs blair, clasping her in her arms; "if indeed this can be the little lily i used to like so well to see at glen elder. you are taller than my little lassie was," she added, bending back the fair little face and kissing it fondly. "but this is my wee lily's face; i should know it anywhere." "oh, aunt janet," cried the child, bursting into tears; "i am so glad you are come! we have needed you so much!" mrs blair sat down on the bed, still holding the child in her arms. poor lilias! tears must have been long kept back, her aunt thought, for she seemed to have no power to check her sobs, now that they had found way. half chiding, half soothing her with tender words, she held her firmly till she grew calm again. in a little while the weary child raised herself up, and said: "don't be vexed with me, aunt janet. i don't often cry like that; but i am so glad you have come. we have needed you sorely; and i was sure you would come, if you only knew." mrs blair would not grieve her by telling her how little she could do for them now that she had come; but she still held her in her arms, as she bent down to kiss the little lad, who was gazing, half in wonder, half in fear, at the sight of his sister's tears; and as she got a better view of his thin pale face, she resolved that, if it were possible, he at least should be removed from the close, unhealthy atmosphere of his present home. "you must be weary, aunt," said lilias, at last, withdrawing herself from her arms, and untying the strings of her bonnet, which had not yet been removed. "come and rest here in the armchair till mother comes home. oh, she will be so glad!" mrs blair suffered herself to be led to the chair which had been her mother's; and, as she rested in it, she watched with much interest the movements of the little girl. in a few minutes there was a fire on the hearth, and warm water prepared, and then, kneeling down, she bathed the hands and face and weary feet of her aunt. mrs blair felt a strange sweet pleasure in thus being waited on by the child. many months had passed since she had looked on one united to her by the ties of blood; and now her heart was full as she gazed on the children of her brother. there was something inexpressibly grateful to her in the look of content that was coming into the grave, wistful eyes of the little lad, and in the caressing touch of lily's hand. in the interest with which she watched the little girl as she went about intent on household cares, she well-nigh forgot her own weariness and her many causes of anxiety. there was something so womanly, yet so childish, in her quiet ways, something so winning in the grave smile that now and then played about her mouth, that her aunt was quite beguiled from her sad thoughts. in a little while lily went to the door, and listened for her mother's returning footsteps. "i wonder what can be keeping her so late?" she said, as she returned. "this is not a busy time, and she said that she would be early home. sometimes she is very late on saturday night." once more she went to the head of the stairs to listen; and then, returning, she sat herself on a stool at her aunt's feet. "and so you are very glad to see me, lily?" said mrs blair, smiling upon the child's upturned face. the bright smile with which the girl answered faded quickly as her aunt continued: "and you are very poor now, are you?" "yes, we are poor; and, yet, not so very poor, either. we have had some work to do, my mother and i; and we have never been a whole day without food. if archie were only well again! that's our worst trouble, now. and mother, too, though she won't own to being ill, often gets very weary. but now that you are come, all will be well again." "and maybe you'll take us all home to glen elder for a wee while, as you used to do," said archie, speaking for the first time since his aunt's coming. "archie so pines for the country," said lilias; "and we can hardly make ourselves believe that you live anywhere but at glen elder." "my home now is very unlike glen elder," said mrs blair, sadly. "but there is fresh air there, and there are bonny heather hills; so cheer up, archie, laddie; it will go hard with me if i canna get you to kirklands for a while at least, and you'll be strong and well before winter yet." the boy smiled sadly enough, and the tears started in his eyes; but he did not answer. "archie is thinking that, maybe, he'll never be well again," said his sister. "the doctor says he may be a cripple all his life." this was a new and unexpected sorrow to mrs blair; and her countenance expressed the dismay she felt, as she questioned them about it. "it was the fever. archie was ill with the fever all the winter; and when the spring came he didn't get strong again, as we had hoped, and the disease settled in his knee. the doctor said if he could have got away into the country he might have grown strong again. and maybe it's not too late yet," added the little girl, eagerly. "i'm sure the very sight of the hills, these bonny summer days, might make one strong and well." "well, he'll get a sight of the hills before very long, i trust; and i don't despair of seeing him strong and well yet," said mrs blair, hopefully; and the children, reassured by her cheerful words, smiled brightly to each other, as they thought of the happy days in store for them. death had visited the homes of both since mrs blair and her sister-in-law met last, and to both the meeting was a sad one. lilias' mother was scarcely more calm than lilias had been, as she threw herself into the arms of her long-tried friend. her words of welcome were few; but the earnest tearful gaze that she fixed upon her sister's face told all that her quivering lips refused to utter. when the first excitement of their meeting was over, mrs blair was shocked to observe the change which grief and care had made in her sister's face and form. she looked many years older than when she had last seen her. there was not a trace of colour on her cheek or lip, and her whole appearance indicated extreme weariness and languor. little was said of the exertions and privations of the last few months; but that these must have been severe and many was to mrs blair only too evident. the food placed upon the table was of the simplest and cheapest kind, and of a quality little calculated to tempt the appetite of an invalid; and she noticed with pain that it was scarcely tasted either by the sick boy or his mother. "you are not well to-night, mother," said lilias, looking anxiously at her as she put aside the untasted food. "yes, dear, i am as well as usual; but i am tired. the night is close and sultry, and the walk has tired me more than usual. i have not hard work now," she added, turning to mrs blair. "this is not a busy time, and my employer is very considerate; but her place of business is quite at the other end of the town, and it's not so easy walking two or three miles on the pavements as it used to be among the hills at home." "i fear you carry a heavier heart than you used to do in those days," said mrs blair, sadly. "but are you not trying your strength more than you ought with these long walks?" mrs elder might have replied that she had no choice between these long walks and utter destitution for herself and her children; but she said, cheerfully, that it was only since the weather had become so warm that she had found the walk at all beyond her strength, and the hot weather would soon be over now. "it's the country air mother wants, as well as me," said archie; and the gaze which the weary mother turned upon her sister was as full of wistful longing as the little lad's had been. after a little pause, she said: "sometimes i think it would be great happiness to get away to some quiet country place, where i might earn enough to support myself and them. the din and dust of this noisy town are almost too much for me, sometimes; and i am not so strong as i once was. i think it would give me new life to breathe the air of the hills again. but if such is not god's will, we must even be content to bide here till the end comes." and she sighed heavily. "whisht, ellen, woman," said her sister; "don't speak in such a hopeless voice as that. whatever comes, god sends; and what he sends to his own he sends in love, not in anger. he has not left you to doubt that, surely?" "oh, no; i am sure of that. i have seen that it has been in love that he has dealt with us hitherto." and in a moment she added, a bright smile lighting up her pale face as she spoke: "and i think i can count on a place prepared for me at last by my saviour; but, for my children's sakes, i would like to wait a while. i would like to take them with me when i go." "it may be that one of them will get there before you," said her sister. "he knows best, and will send what is best for his own." "yes, i know it," said mrs elder, in a startled voice, as she turned to look at the pale face of her boy, now almost death-like in the quietness of sleep. the silence was long and tearful; and then she added, as if unconscious of the presence of another: "so that we are all guided safely to his rest at last, it matters little though the way be rough. `i will trust, and not be afraid.'" long after the tired children slept, the sisters sat conversing about many things. not about the future. firm as was their trust in god, the future seemed dark indeed, and each shrank from paining the other by speaking her fears aloud. of her husband mrs elder spoke with thankfulness and joy, though with many tears. he had known and loved the saviour, and had died rejoicing in his salvation. she had prayed that god would give her submission to his will as the end drew near;-- and he had given her not only submission, but blessed peace; and no trouble, however heavy, should make her distrust his love again. had her husband been cut off in the midst of his days, without warning, she must have believed that it was well with him now. but, in the memory of the time before his death, the blessedness of his present state seemed less a matter of faith than of sure and certain knowledge. there could be no gloom, either in the past or the future, so thick but the light of that blessed assurance might penetrate it. in the darkest hours that had fallen on her since then (and some hours had been dark indeed), it had cheered and comforted her to think of the last months of his life. it was, in truth, the long abiding in the land of beulah, the valley and the shadow of death long past, and the towers and gates of the celestial city full in sight. "no; whatever may come upon us now," she added humbly, "nothing can take away the knowledge that it is well with him." through the whole of the long history, given with many tears, mrs elder never spoke of the poverty that had fallen upon them, or of her own ill-remunerated toil. his last days had been days of comfort, undisturbed by any apprehension with regard to the future of his wife and children; for the stroke which deprived them of the last remnant of their means did not fall till he was at rest. the candle had long since sunk in the socket, and they were sitting in the darkness, which the moonlight, streaming in through the small attic window, only partially dispelled. not a sound but the soft breathing of the sleeping children, and the hum of voices from the city below, broke the stillness of the pause which followed. each was busy with her own thoughts. the prevailing feeling in mrs blair's heart was gratitude, both for her dead brother and her living sister's sake. that his last days had been days of such peace and comfort, that his trust in christ had been so firm, and his hope of happiness so sure, was matter for fervent thanksgiving. nor were the humble resignation and patient faith of his wife less a cause of rejoicing to her. she felt rebuked for her own fears and faithlessness as the narrative went on, and she thanked god for the love that had been so mercifully mingled in the bitter cup that had been given them to drink. long after her sister was sleeping by her side did mrs blair lie awake, revolving in her mind some possible plan for finding a home for the widow and her children in the country, for that none of them could long endure such a life as they had lately been living was only too evident. it seemed to her that she had never felt her poverty till now. bitterly did she regret her inability to help them. from the abundance that had blessed her youth and middle age a mere pittance had been saved, scarcely enough to maintain herself, and altogether insufficient to enable her to gratify her benevolent feelings by doing for them as she wished. she had removed from her early home to a little hamlet among the hills, and had taken up her abode in a cottage scarcely better than a mountain shieling; and there the last few years had been passed. she had opened a school for the children of the cottagers, happy in being useful in this way to those whom she could now assist in no other. to this home, poor as it was, she longed to take the widow and children of her brother. many a plan she considered for eking out her scanty means that she might do so; and the grey dawn was beginning to break before she closed her eyes in sleep. the future was still dark before her. she saw no way to bring about what she so earnestly desired. there was nothing to do but leave it all in the hand which is strong to help in time of need. and what better could she do than cling to the promise which god has given? "god of the widow! father of the fatherless! interpose for them," she prayed. and her prayer was heard and answered. chapter two. how aunt janet's prayer was answered. yes: her prayer was heard and answered; but it was in god's way, not in hers. when mrs blair woke from her short and unrefreshing slumber, she found that the morning was far advanced. lilias had been long astir. breakfast was ready; and the child was now standing beside her mother, assisting her to dress. but the effort to sit up seemed too much for mrs elder. "it's no use trying, lilias, my dear," she said, at last, laying her aching head back on the pillow again. "i'm either too ill or too weary to rise. thank god, it is the day of rest. i shall be better to-morrow." but this was not to be. through all that long day she lay, tossing in restless wakefulness or moaning in feverish slumber. mrs blair, too, worn out by her long journey and her sleepless night, seemed unable to make the slightest exertion. lilias went from one to the other, ministering to their wants; and her loving voice and gentle touch brought comfort to their hearts, though she could not soothe their bodily pain. "you are a kind little nurse, lilias," said her aunt, detaining the hand that had been laid lovingly on her. "i am sure you have the will to help us, if you only had the power." "oh, i wish i could do something for you, aunt! i am afraid you are very weary. maybe if i were to read a little to you, the time wouldn't seem so long," and she laid her hand on her own little bible as she spoke. "yes, love, read: i shall be very glad to listen." so she read, in her clear, childish voice, psalm after psalm, till her aunt could not but wonder at the skill with which she seemed to choose those most suitable to their circumstances. by-and-by, after a little pause, she said: "some way, i like the psalms, aunt. do you not like them? they seem to say what we want to say so much better than we can ourselves." "yes, my child; that is true. and so you like the psalms best, do you?" said her aunt. "not _best_,--at least, not always;--only when i am weary or sad. there are some chapters in the new testament that i like best of all. this is archie's chapter." and she turned to the fifteenth of luke. "archie thinks it is grand, this about the joy among the angels in heaven; and this, too, about the father's love;" and she read, "`but when the father saw him, he had compassion upon him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.'" "archie never tires of that," she said, smiling at her brother, who had been sitting with his eyes fixed upon her, listening as she read. "and this is the one i like best, about mary, and martha, and lazarus." and she read the eleventh chapter of john, but paused before she got to the end. "i never like to read the rest, about their taking counsel to slay him, so soon after they had seen all this. sometimes i can hardly make it seem true, it is so sad. but i like the story, oh, so much!" and she read again slowly, "`now jesus loved martha, and her sister, and lazarus.'" and again, "`jesus said unto her, i am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'" "do you like it, aunt?" "yes, love; it is a fine chapter." "it's maybe not better than many and many a one here," said lilias, slowly turning over the leaves of her bible; "but i happened on it once when i needed something to help me, and i've liked it ever since." "and what time was that?" asked her aunt, much interested. "oh, it was long ago," answered lilias, lowering her voice, and looking to see if her mother still slept. "it was just after father died. mother was ill, and i thought god was sending us too much trouble; and i came upon this chapter, and it did me so much good! not that i thought jesus would raise up my father again, but i knew he could do greater things than that if he pleased; and i knew he had not forgotten us in our troubles, more than he had forgotten mary and martha, though he stayed still in the same place where he was, two whole days after they had sent for him because their brother was sick. no trouble has seemed so bad since then; and none ever will again, come what may." "come what may!" little was lilias thinking of all that might be hidden in those words. she gradually came to know, as that night and the next day and night passed away, and the dawning of the third day found her mother no better, but rather worse. mrs blair had concealed her own anxiety, for the children's sake. believing her sister's illness to be the consequence of over-exertion, she had thought that rest and quiet would be sufficient to restore her; but these three days had made no change for the better, and, fearing the worst, she asked lilias if she knew any doctor to whom they might apply. "yes; there is dr gordon, who attended my father and archie. we have not seen him for a long time, but i think i could find his house." and, with trembling eagerness, she prepared to go out. it rained violently, but lilias scarcely knew it, as she ran rather than walked along the street. it was still early, and the doctor had not gone out. when the servant carried in the little girl's message, he repeated the name several times, as if to recall it. "mrs elder!--i had lost sight of her this long time. yes, certainly i will go. where does she live now?" the servant replied that the child who brought the message was waiting to show him the way; and in a few minutes he was ready to go with her. lilias, who was standing at the door, started homeward as soon as he appeared, and hurried on almost as rapidly as she came, so that the doctor had some difficulty in keeping her in sight. "are you sure you are not mistaking the way?" said he, as lilias waited for him at the corner of the street, or rather the alley that led to the attic; "surely mrs elder cannot be living in a place like this?" lilias threw back her bonnet, and now, for the first time, looked in the doctor's face. "yes, sir, we have lived here ever since the time you used to come and see archie." "oh, he! my lily of the valley, this is you, is it? well, don't cry," he added; for his kindly voice had brought the tears to the child's eyes. "we shall have your mother quite well in a day or two again, never fear." but he looked grave indeed as he stood beside her, and took her burning hand in his. "you don't think my mother will be long ill?" said lilias, looking up anxiously into his face as he stood beside the bed. "no, my child; i don't think she will be long ill," said he, gravely. and lilias, reassured by his words, and fearing no evil, smiled almost brightly again, as she went quietly about her household work. "you think her dying, then?" said mrs blair, to whom his words conveyed a far different meaning. "she is not dying yet; but, should her present symptoms continue long, she cannot possibly survive. she must have been exerting herself far beyond her strength or living long without nourishing food, to have become reduced to a state so frightfully low as that in which i find her." "she has been doing both, i fear," said her sister, sadly. "she has sacrificed herself. and, yet, what could she do? they have had nothing for many months between them and want, but the labour of her hands, and the few pence that poor child could earn. god help them!" "god help them, indeed!" echoed the doctor earnestly. he gave her what hope he could. he said it was possible, only just possible, that she might rally. it would depend on the strength of her constitution. nothing that he could do for her would be left undone. "in the mean time, we must hope for the best." but, with so much cause to fear, it was no easy thing to hope; and to mrs blair the day was a long and anxious one. her sister seemed conscious at intervals; but for the greater part of the time she lay quite still, giving no evidence of life, save by her quick and laboured breathing. when dr gordon came again at night there was no change for the better; and, though he did not say so, it was evident to mrs blair that he anticipated the worst. "and must she die without recovering consciousness? can she speak no word to her children before she goes?" "it is possible she may die without speaking again. but if she revives so much as to speak, it will be very near the end." lilias had gone out on an errand, so that she did not see the doctor; and her aunt's heart grew sick at the thought of telling her that her mother must so soon die. archie evidently had some idea of his mother's state; for, though he did not speak, he gazed anxiously into his aunt's face as she turned away from the bed. "poor boy! poor, helpless child!" she murmured, stooping suddenly over him. poor boy, indeed! he knew it all now. he asked no questions. he needed to ask none; but he hid his face in the pillow, and sobbed as if his heart would break. at length lilias' footstep was heard on the stair, and he hushed his sobs to listen. she came up step by step, slowly and wearily; for the watching and anxiety of the last few days and nights were beginning to tell upon her. "well, aunt?" she said, laying down the burden she had brought up, and looking hopefully into her aunt's face. mrs blair could not speak for a moment; and lilias, startled by her grave looks, exclaimed: "does dr gordon think my mother worse?" "she is not much better, i fear, love," said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and holding her hands firmly in her own. lilias gave a fearful glance into her face. the truth flashed upon her; but she put it from her in terror. "we must have patience, aunt. she has had no time to grow better yet." "yes, love; we must have patience. whatever god shall see fit to send on us, we must not distrust him, lilias." "yes, we must have patience," said the child, scarcely knowing what she said. she went and knelt down beside the bed, and spoke to her mother; but her voice had no power to rouse her from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen. in a little while she rose, and went quietly about arranging the things in the room. then, with needless care, the supper was placed on the table; for none of them could taste food. then her brother was prepared for bed; but all the time she spoke no word, and went about like one in a dream. when she stooped to kiss her brother a good-night, the little boy clasped his arms about her neck, and wept aloud. but she did not weep; she laid her head down on the pillow beside him, gently soothing him with hand and voice; and, when at last he had sobbed himself to sleep, she disengaged his arms from her neck, and, rising, placed herself on a low stool beside her mother's bed. mrs blair thought it better to leave her to herself. indeed, what could she say to comfort her? and so the child sat a long time gazing into her mother's face, her own giving no sign of the struggle that was going on within. at first the one thought that filled her mind was that it was impossible her mother could be going to die. it seemed too dreadful to be true; and, then, it was so sudden! her father had been with them for months after they knew that he must die, and her mother had been quite well only three days ago. no; it could not be! and, yet, such things had been before. she thought of a little girl, rosy and strong, who had sickened and died in three short days; and it might be so with her mother. how should she ever live without her? oh, if she could only die too, and have done with life and its struggles! everything was forgotten in the misery of the moment; and with a moan that revealed to her aunt something of what she was suffering, she leaned forward on the bed. "lily," said a voice beside her. lilias started. it was the first time her mother had spoken during the day, and the child bent eagerly over her and kissed her. "lily, love, read to me the twelfth of hebrews," said her mother, in a low, changed voice. by a strong effort lilias quieted herself, and read on till she came to the eleventh verse: "`now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; but afterwards it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby.'" "you believe that, lily?" said her mother. "yes, mother," said the child, in a trembling voice. "and you'll mind it by-and-by, darling, and comfort your brother with the words? it won't be for long, lily. you'll soon be with us there." "mother! mother!" gasped the child, losing her self-control, as she threw herself upon the bed and clasped her arms about her mother's neck. for a few minutes her frame shook with her sobs. fearing the effect of this strong emotion on the mother, mrs blair came to the bed; but she did not speak, and by a strong effort she calmed herself again. "lily," said her mother, in a moment or two, "i have many things to say to you, and i have not much strength left. you must calm yourself, darling, and listen to me." "but, mother, you are not much worse to-night, are you?" "god is very good to us both, my child, in giving me a little strength and a clear mind at the last. what i have to say will comfort you afterwards, lily. i want to tell my darling what a comfort she has been to me through all my time of trouble. i have thanked god for my precious daughter many a time when i was ready to sink. archie will never want a mother's care while he has you; and for his sake, love, you must not grieve too much for me. it will only be for a little while; and, then, think how happy we shall be." there was a pause. "will you promise, lily?" "yes, mother; i promise. it will only be for a little while." "i do not fear to leave my darlings. god will keep them safe till we meet again." there was a long silence after that; and then she called her sister by name, and mrs blair bent over her. "kiss me, janet. god sent you to us now. comfort--alex's bairns." again there was silence. the mother's hand moved uneasily, as if in search of something. her sister lifted it, and laid it over her daughter's neck, and then it was at rest. not a sound broke the stillness of the hour. they thought she slept; and she did sleep; but she never woke again. the early dawn showed the change that had passed over her face, and lilias knew that she was motherless. of how the next days passed, lilias never had a distinct remembrance. she only knew that when, on the third morning, strangers came to bear her mother away, it seemed a long, long time since she died. it seemed like looking back over years, rather than days, to recall the time when she lay with her arms clasped around her neck, and listened to her dying words. during this time, mrs blair had watched her niece with some anxiety. there was no violent bursts of grief, but there was a look of desolation on her face which it was heartbreaking to see. she was quiet and gentle through all; willing, indeed eager, to render assistance to her aunt when it was required; but as soon as she was free again she returned to the low stool beside the bed on which her mother lay. the time was passed by archie in alternate fits of violent weeping and depression almost amounting to stupor. lilias tried hard to perform the promise made to her dying mother. she put aside her own sorrow to soothe his. she read to him; she sang to him; and when he would listen to neither reading nor singing, she would murmur such words of comfort as her mother had spoken to her; and their burden always was, "they are so happy now. they have found such rest and peace; and it will be but a little while, and then we shall be with them there." and then, when he grew quiet and listened to her, she would try to meet his wistful looks with a smile; but when he was quiet or asleep, she always returned to the place beside her dead mother. but they bore her mother away at last; and then for a moment lilias' strength and courage forsook her. the cry of her desolate heart would no longer be hushed. "oh, mother! mother!" even the sound of her brother's weeping had not power, for a time, to recall her from the indulgence of her grief. on the morning of her sister's death, mrs blair had written to a friend, asking him to make arrangements for conveying the orphans to her humble home; and they were to leave the town on the day succeeding that of the funeral. little was left to be done. a few articles of furniture were to be disposed of, a few trifles, heirlooms in the family for several generations, were to be taken with them; and it was with a feeling of relief that mrs blair welcomed the honest carrier of kirklands who was on the morrow to convey them away from the unhealthy town to the free fresh air of their native hills. only one thing more remained to be done, and the afternoon was nearly over before mrs blair found courage to speak of it. "lilias, if you are not too weary, i should like you to go out for me to dr gordon's, love, if it will not be too much for you." "i'm not weary, aunt. i'll go, if you wish." but she grew very pale, remembering the last time she had gone there. "lilias," said her aunt, drawing her towards her, and kissing her fondly, "you have been my own brave, patient lassie to-day. you have not forgotten your mother's words?" "oh, aunt, i wish to be patient, indeed i do. but i fear i am not really patient at heart." and she wept now as though her heart would break. her aunt let her weep freely for a few minutes, and then she said: "it's not wrong for you to weep for your mother, lilias; you must do that. but you know `he doth not afflict willingly;' and you can trust his love, though you cannot see why this great sorrow has been sent upon you. you can say, `thy will, not mine, be done.'" "i am trying, aunt janet," said lilias, looking up with a wavering smile on her lips, almost sadder to see than tears, as her aunt could not help thinking. she said no more, but kissed her and let her go. it was with a grave face and slow step that lilias took her way to dr gordon's house. when she was fairly in the street, a wild desire seized her to go to the place where her father and mother lay, and she took a few rapid steps in that direction. it was not in the narrow kirk-yard seen from their window, but quite away in another part of the town, nearer to the place where they used to live, and lilias paused before she had gone far, for she doubted if it would be right to venture down at that hour. she stood still a moment. "i shall not see them. they are not there. i must have patience." and she turned slowly back again. it was growing dark in the room in which, for a few minutes, she waited for dr gordon, and through the half-open door she caught a glimpse of a pleasant parlour, echoing with the music of voices. happy, cheerful voices they were; but lilias's heart grew sadder as she listened, and when at last dr gordon appeared, it was with difficulty that she could restrain her tears. speaking very fast, as if she were afraid that her voice would fail her, she said: "we are going away, sir, to-morrow with my aunt, mrs blair, and she sent me with this to you." the doctor took what the child held towards him, but instantly replaced it in her hands. "and so that was your aunt i saw the other day?" said he. "yes; aunt janet blair, our father's sister. we are going to live with her in the country, and it's far away; and, if you please, sir, would you come and see archie again? my aunt didn't bid me ask you, but it would be such a comfort if you would." and she looked up beseechingly into his face. "yes, surely, with a good will," said dr gordon heartily; "and to-night, too, it must be, if you are going to-morrow. no, no, my lassie," he added, as lilias made another attempt to place the money in his hand. "i have not yet eaten orphans' bread, and i'm not going to begin now." "but my aunt sent it, sir; and she was not always poor; and i think she would like you to take it." his only answer was to press her fingers more closely over the little packet of money, as he drew her towards the parlour-door. "i will go with you by-and-by, but first you must come in and see my boys. mrs gordon wants to see you, too," said he. the room into which they passed was a large and pleasant one, and lilias never forgot it, nor the kind words which were spoken to her there. the bright yet softened light of a lamp made all parts of it visible. over the mantelpiece was a large mirror, and there were heavy crimson curtains on the windows, and many pictures on the walls. on a low chair, near the fire, sat a lady with a boy in her arms, and several other children were playing about the room. they became quiet as their father entered, and gazed with some curiosity on the stranger. "this is my little friend, lilias elder," said the doctor. "it is fortunate she came to-night. we might not have found her to-morrow." mrs gordon received lilias very kindly, speaking to her in a voice so tender, that, in spite of herself, it brought the tears to her eyes. noticing her emotion, mrs gordon did not speak to her again for a moment, and the children gathering round her, she quickly recovered herself in receiving and returning their greetings. when tea was fairly over, and the boys had gone to bed, a long conversation took place between lilias and her friends. dr gordon was the father of six sons, but he had no daughter, and his heart overflowed with love and pity for the orphan girl. through all the long illness of her father and brother, she had been an object of interest to the kind physician. her never-wearying attention to both, and the evident comfort and support she had been to her mother in all her trials, had filled him with admiration and pleasure. for months he had lost sight of the family, and various circumstances had occurred to withdraw his thoughts from the subject; but now that he had found lilias an orphan and in want, he longed to take her to his heart and home. "i ought, perhaps, to have spoken first to your aunt, your natural guardian; but i think she will be willing to give you up to us. we will try and make you happy, my child." lilias shed many grateful tears as their plans were unfolded to her; but to all their kind words she had but one answer. it could not be. she could never leave archie. he was ill and lame, and had no one else, and she had promised her mother always to take care of him. it was in vain that they assured her that his health and comfort should be cared for; that, though for the present they might be separated, he would still be her brother, and that her change of circumstances would be, as beneficial to him as to her in the end. they urged her to consider, and not to decide hastily. they would wait, weeks or months, till her brother was better, so that she could leave him with her aunt. but no. it could not be. it would seem like forsaking him. she had promised their mother always to take care of him. nothing could make it right to break that promise. "indeed you must not be grieved, or think me ungrateful," she pleaded. "it would not be right. it would break archie's heart to part from me now." and so they let her go. dr gordon did not speak to her, but he held her hand firmly as they passed down the street. lilias thought he was angry at her decision; but he was not angry. he was only grieved. when they reached the door, she lingered. "indeed, sir, i could not do any other way; and, if you please, don't tell my aunt all you have said to me to-night: she might think i would be sorry afterwards, and i wish you wouldn't tell her." "well, child, i will not tell her, since it is your wish. but remember, if any trouble comes upon you, you must write and let me know." and lilias joyfully assented to the condition. the doctor's visit comforted them all greatly. archie's case he thought by no means so hopeless as he had once thought it. true, he might still be lame; but he might be strong and healthy for all that. the fresh air of the hills would, he believed, work wonders for him: so he bade him take heart; and the poor lad's pale face brightened as he said it. to mrs blair he spoke of her brother in terms of respect and affection that won her confidence at once; and when he earnestly entreated her to consider him as a friend to the children, and to apply to him if trouble should overtake them, she promised to do so, without hesitation or reserve. when he bade "good-bye" to lilias, he took her face between his hands and kissed her many times on lip and brow, calling her a firm little thing, though she seemed so gentle; and then he prayed, "god bless her," and they were left alone. chapter three. the new home. it was not without many tears that the two children bade farewell to the little, dark room that had been their home so long. true, they had suffered much in it. many long, restless days and painful nights had archie passed there; but it was associated with the memory of their mother, and it was like a second parting from her to leave it. the morning was dark and dull. a heavy mist lay on the town, and for the first few miles their journey was silent and sad. but, as the sun rose higher, the clouds parted and the mist rolled away, revealing to the unaccustomed eyes of the children pleasant glimpses of hill and valley. their way, after they had fairly left the great city and its suburbs behind them, lay through quiet and unfrequented roads. they crossed a broad moor, and then for a time passed between low hills covered with broom or heather. afterwards they came upon cultivated land lying around long, low farm-houses. sometimes these dwellings were close by the road, and then they caught, with delight, glimpses of barn-door fowls and garden-flowers; and sometimes there were children playing on the green slopes around their homes. but oftener the farm-houses were far away on the hill-sides or in the quiet valleys. in some early fields they saw the reapers busy with the harvest; but most of the way was quiet,--even lonely. for miles and miles they saw no living thing save a grey plover whistling over their heads, or now and then a flock of sheep among the hills far away. much of the way mrs blair walked, and sometimes lilias walked with her; but she soon became weary. it was a day long to be remembered by the children,--their first day among the hills. after so long in the close streets of the town, it seemed as though they could never get enough of the clear, fresh air and the pleasant country sights and sounds. everything seemed beautiful to them, moors, and hills, and golden harvest-fields. they did not talk much, only now and then one would point out to the other some new object of interest, a glimpse of blue water caught between the hills, or a lark upspringing from some grassy knoll, singing as it soared. in the middle of the day they stopped near a little village to rest. the carrier went with his horse to the inn; but they sat down in the shadow of a tree by the wayside, and ate the simple food they had brought with them. it was sunset before they reached their aunt's home; and a pleasant place it seemed to them, though so poor and small. it stood at a little distance from the village of kirklands. on one side was a plot of garden-ground, which some former occupant of the cottage had redeemed from the common beyond. it was sheltered on two sides by a hawthorn hedge; and a low, whitewashed paling separated it from the highway. there was little in it, except a few common vegetables, a border of daisies and hearts-ease, and a rose-bush or two; but to lilias it seemed a charming place; and it was not without reluctance that she obeyed her aunt's summons to come within when the dew began to fall. it was, indeed, a new life that the brother and sister began at the cottage. during the first few weeks, the greater part of the time, when the days were fine, was passed out-of-doors. at first, archie could not get beyond the turf seat at the end of the cottage; but lilias found her way across the wide common and away to the hills and glens beyond. after a time, archie was able, by the help of his crutches, to go with her; and many a pleasant path and quiet resting-place they found for themselves. their favourite resort was at the most distant point to which archie for a while was able to go. a great grey rock, partly covered with heather and wild creepers, jutted out into the dry bed of a mountain stream. passing round it, they found a low seat made by an abrupt rent in the rock, over which hung a slender mountain-ash. in the winter, or after heavy rains, this channel was filled with water; but now a tiny rivulet only trickled down the middle of the bed, making a pleasant murmur among the smooth, white pebbles over which it passed. here the children spent many a happy hour. their most common theme of conversation was their father and mother, and the events of the past two years. the memory of the time before that was more like a dream than like the recalling of events that had really taken place. of their mother they spoke oftenest,--sometimes with tears and regret for their own loss, but sometimes, too, with joy at the thought of her gain, and the blessed rest to which she had attained. "do you think she was glad to go?" asked archie, one day, after they had been talking a long time. "yes; i think she was very glad to go; but at first it grieved her sorely to think of leaving us behind. i almost think she would have gone sooner but for that. after aunt janet came, it was different. after that she seemed willing to go at any time." there was a pause, and then archie said: "it is a pity that she didn't know, before she went away, how we should come here, and what a bonny place it is. lily, do you think she sees us now?" "i don't know. she may. anyway, after that night she was willing to leave us. indeed, she told me the night she died that she didn't fear for us." the remembrance of that night always made lilias' cheek grow pale; and she did not speak again for some time. at last she said: "yes, this is a bonny place, and we have been very happy here; but there is one thing i am grieved for. you know, archie, aunt janet is poor, and i fear in this place i shall not be able to find anything to do to help her. i fear i can't bide here long." the thought of having to part from his sister had never come into archie's mind, and he looked at her in astonishment, as he said: "but where would you go?" "oh, i don't know yet. only i think it's not right to burden aunt janet more than can be helped. i heard mrs stirling say that mrs graham, at the manse, wanted some one to sew and help among the children; and maybe i would do for her." "oh, lily, surely you wouldn't go away. what should i ever do without you?" said archie, weeping. "whisht, archie," said his sister, soothingly; "do you think i would like to go away from you? but if it is right, we mustn't think whether it is pleasant or not. we won't grieve before the time, however. maybe i'll never have to go. we'll speak to aunt janet." and so that night, after archie was asleep, lilias spoke to her aunt. "are you weary of me, lilias, that you wish to leave me so soon?" asked her aunt, gravely. "oh, aunt, you cannot think that. if it were only not wrong for me to bide here always!" "and why do you not think it right to bide here always?" asked her aunt. "because i am young and strong, and i ought to be working for you, rather than that you should be doing so much for me." "but you have been working for me. you have helped me greatly since you came here." "yes, a little, perhaps," said lilias, thoughtfully. "but that's not what i mean. are you not very poor now, aunt janet?" "well, i cannot say that i am very rich," said her aunt, smiling. "but i'm not so poor but that i can shelter my brother's orphan bairns for a while at least." and then she added, gravely, "i have no doubt but you could make yourself very useful, and i dare say mrs graham would like to have you there; but there are many reasons why such a thing is not to be thought of." "will you tell me some of them, aunt?" "you have no need to go, my child; and, even if you had, you are not strong enough. you are by no means fit for the work you would have to do there; though you could have no better place than the manse. no, no, my lassie, you must bide here among the hills, and gather health and strength for the struggles that life must bring to you as well as to others. all you could gain would but ill repay you for the loss of health; and you are not very strong, dear." "but i am stronger than one would think to see me; and i'll be getting stronger, living in a country place. i think i might be strong enough for mrs graham." "but, even if you were strong enough, for all our sakes, it is not to be thought of that you should go now. archie would pine without you. and unless you are weary of this quiet place, and wish for a change, you must put away all thought of leaving us, for a time at least." "weary! oh, no, aunt. and i know archie would miss me; but he could spare me; and i could go if it was right. i can do a great many things, and i would try to learn." "yes, you can do a great many things; and that is one reason why i can't spare you, lily. i think i have the best right to my brother's daughter." and she drew the little girl fondly towards her as she spoke. "oh, aunt," exclaimed lilias eagerly, "if i could really help you and be a comfort to you, i would like nothing half so well." "you can be useful to me. you are a comfort to me. i hardly know how i could part from you now, dear. our way of living must be very humble; but that will not be so bad as being parted--will it, my lily? you have learnt to love me a little, my child?" lilias answered by putting her arms round her aunt's neck, and kissing her again and again. then in a low voice she said: "you mind me of my father." "and you mind me of the brother i loved and watched over as a child, and honoured as a man. if it is god's will, we will not be parted, my beloved child." and so it was settled, and lilias's heart was set at rest about the matter; and in the morning her face told the tidings to archie before her lips could speak the words. mrs blair's cottage lay at the distance of several miles from the kirk of dunmoor, which she had all her life attended. it was some time before archie was able to go so far, and lilias had stayed at home with him. at length, one fine, clear sabbath in the end of september, mrs blair yielded to their entreaties to be permitted to go with her; and early in the morning they set out. instead of going by the highway, they took a pleasanter path over the hills, resting often, for archie's sake, on some grey stone or mossy bank. the length of the way was beguiled by pleasant talk. mrs blair told them of the sabbath journeys to the kirk from glen elder when she and her little brother were all in all to each other; and lilias and archie could never grow weary of hearing of their father's youthful days. many in the kirk that day looked with interest on the children of alexander elder, as they sat by his sister's side, in the very same seat where he used to sit so many years ago; and many an earnest "god bless them!" went up to the father of the fatherless in their behalf. yes, it was the very same seat in which their father used to sit; and lilias could hardly repress her tears as she saw his initials, with a date many years back, carved in the dark wood before her. the psalm-book, too, which he had used, had never been removed; and his name, in a large schoolboy's hand, was written many times on its blank leaves. many of the psalms were marked, too, as having been learnt at such or such a time; and it was long before lilias could think of anything but the little lad like archie (only rosy and strong) who had sat there with his sister so many years ago. the voice that spoke from the brown old pulpit was the same to which he had listened; for the aged minister had been her grandfather's friend, and her father had grown up beneath his eye, one of the dearest of a well-beloved flock. his face and voice were to lilias like those of a dear, familiar friend; and when he spoke of the things of which she loved to hear, she could no longer restrain her tears: indeed, she never thought of trying. "for my ways are not as your ways; neither are my thoughts as your thoughts," were the words from which he spoke; and when he told them how it was oftentimes the way of our good father in heaven to lead his chosen, worn and weary, fainting beneath heavy burdens, over rough places, through darkness and gloom, but all safe home at last, the words went to the child's heart as though they had been spoken to her alone of all who were waiting for a portion there; and her heart made answer, "what does it matter? it is only for a little while, and then all safe home at last. not one forgotten, not one left out, in that day." archie, too, listened intently, but not with tears. there was an earnest look in his eyes, and a grave smile about his mouth, as though he were hearing some glad tidings; and when the minister sat down, he leaned over towards his sister, and whispered softly: "i like that." and lilias smiled in reply. when the service was over, and mrs blair and the children had passed out into the kirk-yard, mrs graham, the minister's widowed daughter, came and invited them into the manse till it should be time for the service in the afternoon. mrs blair went with her; but archie was shy, and liked better to stay out in the pleasant kirk-yard; and lilias stayed with him. the place had a quiet sabbath look about it, which suited well the feelings of the children; and, as the resting-place of many friends of their father, it was full of interest to them. many of the people who had come--from a distance stayed also, and seated themselves, in small parties, here and there among the grave-stones; but not a loud or discordant voice arose to break the silence that reigned around. the kirk itself was a quaint old building, around which many interesting historical associations clustered. the large stones of which it was built were dark with age; and the ivy that grew thickly over the western wall gave it the appearance of an ancient ruin. dark firs and yew-trees grew around the kirk-yard, and here and there over the grave of a friend the hand of affection had planted a weeping-willow. on a low slab beneath one of these the brother and sister sat for a time in silence, broken at last by archie. "oh, lily! this is a bonny quiet place. how i wish they were lying here!" "yes," said lilias, softly, "among their friends. but it makes no difference. i never think of them as lying there." "oh, no! they are not there. i suppose it is all the same to them. but yet, if i were going to die, i would like better to lie down here in this quiet place than among the many, many graves yonder in the town. wouldn't you, lily?" "yes; for some things i would. i should like to be where the friends i love could often come. look yonder how all the people are sitting beside the graves of their own friends. that is ellen wilson and her brother beside their father's grave. i read the name on the stone as i came in this morning. and mrs stirling's husband and children are buried there in the corner where she is sitting. she told me about them the last time she was in. i think the folk here must mind their friends better than they would if they never saw their graves." "but we'll never forget our father and mother, though we can't see their graves," said archie, eagerly; "i do wish they were lying here beside my grandfather and all the rest." lilias did not answer, for they were about to be interrupted. only one of the persons who were approaching them was known to her, and she did not think her a very agreeable acquaintance, and a slight feeling of impatience rose within her as she drew near. mrs stirling was one of those unfortunate persons who constantly move in an atmosphere of gloom. her face seemed to express a desire to banish all cheerfulness and silence all laughter wherever she came. she had never, even in her best days, been blessed with a heavenly temper, and much care and many sorrows had made it worse. men had dealt hardly with her, and god, she believed, had done the same. one short month had made her a widow and childless, and then other troubles had followed. from circumstances of comfort she had been reduced, by the carelessness and dishonesty of those whom she had trusted, to a state of comparative poverty. this last trouble had been, in a measure, removed, but the bitterness it had stirred in her heart had never subsided. if a subject had a dark side, she not only chose to look at it herself, but held it up before the eyes of all concerned. having once been deceived, she never ceased to suspect, and, which was still worse, she even strove (from the best of motives, as she believed) to excite suspicion and discomfort in the minds of others; and, notwithstanding her well-known character as a prophesier of evil things, she did sometimes succeed in making people unhappy. she was, as the minister said, a pitiable example of the effects of unsanctified affliction, and a warning to all who felt inclined to murmur under the chastening hand of god. during one or two visits at mrs blair's cottage, mrs stirling had made lilias uncomfortable, she scarce knew why; and now, though she did not say so to archie, she heartily wished she would stay at the other end of the kirk-yard. "weel, bairns," she said, as she drew near, "your aunt didna take you with her into the manse. are you not weary sitting so long on the stones?" "no," said lilias. "archie liked better to bide out here. this is a bonny place." "oh, ay, it's a bonny place enow," said mrs stirling. then, turning to archie, she said, "and so you liked better to bide out here than to go in to your dinner at the manse? well, it's a good bairn that likes to do what it's bidden. i dare say mrs blair would have felt some delicacy in taking you both into the manse parlour; though why she should, is more than the like of me knows." to this there was no reply to be made; and in a minute, turning again to lilias, she asked: "and when are you going to the manse as nurse, my dear?" lilias said she was not going at all. "no! where then? to pentlands? i told your aunt that mrs jones, the housekeeper, wanted a lassie to help in the kitchen; but it's a place full of temptations for a young thing like you. i wonder at mrs blair." lilias replied, rather hastily, that she was not going anywhere just now; she was going to bide at home with her aunt. "well, well, my dear, you needn't be angry at my asking; though there's little wonder that the daughter of alexander elder shouldn't like to have it said that she ought to go and gain her bread as a servant. we can't always part with our pride when we part with our money. nobody knows that better than i do." "it's not pride that keeps me at home," said lilias, in a low voice. "i would go gladly if my aunt thought it needful; but she says it is not." "oh, well, my dear, i dare say your aunt knows best. she may have money that i didn't know of. maybe you wasn't so ill off as is said." "whisht! do you not see that you are vexing the bairns? never mind her, my dear," said the pleasant-looking young woman whom lilias had called ellen wilson, sitting down on the stone beside her. "i think this part of the country seems to agree with you both. your brother looks much better than he did when he came first." lilias smiled gratefully in answer to this, and looked with loving pride at her brother. but nancy stirling had not yet said her say. "looks better, does he? i wonder how he could have looked before? such a whitefaced creature i have seldom seen. he reminds me of the laddie that died at pentlands, of a decline, a month since. i doubt he isn't long for this world." "whisht!" again interrupted ellen, "you don't know what you are saying, i think." "archie is much better," said lilias, eagerly. "he couldn't set his foot to the ground when we first came here; and now he can walk miles." "oh, ay; change of air is ay thought good for the like of him. but it's a deceitful complaint. we all ken that your father died of consumption,--and your mother too, it's likely." "no," said lilias, in a low voice. "she died of fever." "mrs stirling," exclaimed ellen wilson, "i canna but wonder that one that has had the troubles you have had, should have so little consideration for other folks. do you not see that you are vexing the bairns?" "weel, it's not my design nor my desire to vex them,--poor things! it never harmed me to get a friend's sympathy; though it's little ever i got. i'll not trouble them." and she went and seated herself at a little distance from the children. an old man, with very white hair, but a ruddy and healthy countenance, had been walking up and down the path, his hands clasped behind his back, and his staff beneath his arm. as he passed the place where mrs stirling sat, he paused, saying in a cheerful, kindly voice: "this is a bonny day, mrs stirling." "oh, ay," replied nancy, drearily; "it's a bonny day." "and a fine harvest we are getting," said the old man, again,--"if we were only thankful to god for his undeserved goodness." "oh, ay; considering all things, the harvest's not so bad in some places, and in others it's just middling. it's not got in yet. we must wait awhile before we set ourselves up upon it." "it would ill become us to set ourselves up on that, or any other good gift of the lord," said the old man, gravely; "but you and i, nancy, have seen many a different harvest from this in our day. we are ready enough to murmur if the blessing be withheld, and to take it as our right when it is sent. there's many a poor body in the countryside who may thank god for the prospect of an easy winter. he has blessed us in our basket and in our store." "oh, well, i dare say i'm as thankful as my neighbours, though i say less about it," said nancy, tartly. "i dare say there's many a poor body will need all they have, and more, before the winter's over." "you see you needn't mind what mrs stirling says," said ellen, who with the children had listened to the conversation thus far. "she's always boding ill. it's her nature. she has had many things to make the world look dreary to her,--poor woman! yonder is james muir, one of our elders,--a good man, if ever there was one. he knew your father, and your grandfather too." yes, he had known their father well; and the next time he turned down the path he stopped to speak to them. not in many words, but kindly and gravely, as his large, kind heart prompted; and lilias felt that he was one that might be relied on in time of need. "there's your aunt again, with mrs graham and the manse bairns," said ellen, as they approached. they rose, and went to meet them at the kirk door; and while their aunt and mrs graham waited to speak a few words to james muir, they exchanged sly glances with the young people designated by ellen as "the manse bairns." they were the grandchildren of the aged minister. their father, his only son,--a minister too,--had, within a year, died in the large town where he had been settled, and his widow had come with her children to the manse, which was now their home. too shy to speak to the strangers, they cast many a look of sympathy on the lame boy and his sister who were both fatherless and motherless. by-and-by the little jessie ventured to put into archie's hand a bunch of brilliant garden-flowers that she had carried. archie did not speak; but his smile thanked her, and the flowers bloomed in the cottage-window for many days. chapter four. life at kirklands. but all the days in kirklands were not sunny days. the pleasant harvest time went over, and the days grew short and rainy. not with the pleasant summer rain, coming in sudden gusts to leave the earth more fresh and beautiful when the sunshine came again, but with a dull, continuous drizzle, dimming the window-panes, and hiding in close, impenetrable mist the outline of the nearest summits. the pleasant rambles among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side, were all at an end now. the swollen waters of the burn hid the stone seat where the children had loved to sit, and the sere leaves of the rowan-tree lay scattered in the glen. even when a blink of sunshine came, they could not venture out among the dripping heather, but were fain to content themselves with sitting on the turf seat at the house-end. for all aunt janet's prophecy had not come true, thus far. there were no roses blooming on archie's cheeks yet; and sometimes, when lilias watched his pale face, as he sat gazing out into the mist, she was painfully reminded of the time when he used to watch the shadow of the spire coming slowly round to the yew-tree by the kirk-yard gate. but there were no days now so long and sad as those days had been. the memory of their last great grief was often present with them; but the sense of orphanhood grew less bitter, day by day, as time went on. archie was not quite strong and well yet, but he was far better than he had been for many a long month; and lilias' feeling of anxiety on his account began to wear away. gradually they found for themselves new employments and amusements, and their life fell into a quiet and pleasant routine again. a new source of interest and enjoyment was opened to them in the return of mrs blair's scholars after the harvest-holidays were over. there were between fifteen and twenty girls, and a few boys, whose ages varied from six to twelve or fourteen. they were taught reading, writing, and the catechism; and some of the elder girls were taught to knit and sew. archie used sometimes to be weary of the hum of voices and the unvaried routine of the lessons; but lilias never was. to her it was a constant pleasure to assist her aunt. indeed, after a time some of the classes were entirely given up to her care. she had never been much with other children, but her gentle tones and quiet womanly ways gave her a control over them; and even the roughest and most unruly of the village children learnt to yield her a ready obedience. mrs blair had striven to do faithfully the work she had undertaken of instructing these ignorant children; but at her age the formation of new habits was by no means easy. the constant attention to trifles which the occupation required was at times inexpressibly irksome to her; and the relief which the assistance of lilias gave her was proportionally great. "i'm sure i know not how i ever got on without my lassie," she said, one day, after watching with wonder and delight the patience with which she arranged the little girls' work,--a task for which patience was greatly needed. "i shall grow to be a useless body if i let you do all that is to be done in this way. are you not weary with your day's work, lilias, my dear?" "weary!" said lilias, laughing. "i don't need to be weary, for all i have done. it's only play to hear the bairns read and spell. i like it very much." "but it's not play to take out and put into shape, and to sew as you have been doing for the last hour. i fear i put too much upon you, lilias." "oh, now you are surely laughing at me. i wish i could do ten times as much. do i really help you, aunt janet?" "ay, more than you know, my darling. but put by your work for a night, and run down the brae, and freshen the roses that are just beginning to bloom on your cheeks. we mustn't let them grow white again, if we can help it." but the best time of all was when the children had gone home,--when, with the door close shut against the wintry blast, they sat together around the pleasant firelight, talking, or reading, or musing, as each felt most inclined. from her father's well-chosen library mrs blair had preserved a few books, that were books indeed,--books of which every page contained more real material for thought than many a much-praised modern volume. read by themselves, the quaint diction of some of these old writers must have been unintelligible to the children; but with the grave and simple comments of their aunt to assist their understanding, a new world of thought and feeling was opened to them. many a grave discussion did they have on subjects whose names would convey no idea to the minds of most children of their age. there was often a mingling of folly and wisdom in their opinions and theories, that amused and surprised their aunt. archie's lively imagination sometimes ventured on flights from which the grave expostulations of lilias could not always draw him. "to the law and to the testimony, archie, lad," was his aunt's never-failing suggestion; and then his eager, puzzled face would be bent over the bible, till his wild imaginings vanished of themselves, without waiting to be reasoned away. but the history of their country was the chief delight of those long winter evenings. one read aloud; but the eyes of both rested on the page with an eagerness that did not pass away after the first perusal. the times and events that most interested them were gone over and over, till they were ready to forget that they of whom they read had long since passed away: murray and douglas, john knox and rutherford, and mary, lived and laboured, and sinned and suffered, still in their excited feelings. it is true, their interest and sympathy vacillated between the contending parties. they did not always abide by their principles in the praise or blame awarded. their feelings were generally on the side of the sufferers, whoever they might be; and if their eyes sparkled with delight at the triumphant energy of knox, their tears for poor queen mary were none the less sincere. but it was the history of the later times that stirred their hearts to their inmost depths,--the times... "when in muirland and valley the standard of zion, all bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying." ...when charles strove to put in shackles the scottish mind, and quench in the scottish heart that love for the pure and simple truth for which the best and noblest have died. about these times and these men they were never weary of reading and speaking. "there will never more be such times in scotland," said archie, as lilias shut the history, and took down the bible and psalm-books for their evening worship. "thank god, no!" said his aunt, hastily; "though one might think, from your face, that it is no matter of thankfulness to you." "i don't wish those times to come back," said the boy musingly; "but i wish i had lived then. it must have been worth a man's while to live in those days." "and why is it not as much worth a man's while to live in the days that are to come as in the days that are past?" asked his aunt, with a smile. archie looked up quickly. "i know what you are thinking, aunt:--that a poor cripple lad could have done as little then as he can do now." and archie sighed. "no: i was thinking that it needs as much courage and patience, and as much of god's grace, for a poor cripple lad to bear (as he would have him bear) the trouble he sends, as would have stood a man in good stead before the face of claverhouse himself. the heroes of history are not always the greatest heroes, after all, archie, my laddie." "maybe not, aunt; but, then, it's only a sore leg i have to bear; and who is the better whether i bear it well or ill?" "archie, man, you are speaking foolishly," returned, his aunt, gravely. "it matters much to yourself whether you bear your trouble well or ill. it was sent to you for discipline, and that you might be better fitted for the honouring of his name; and he who sent it can make it answer these ends in you as well as though he had cast your lot in those troublous times, and made you a buckler of strength against his foes and the foes of his people." "but, aunt," said lilias, "it's surely not wrong to wish to be placed where we can do much for him? i don't wonder archie should wish to have lived in those days." "no, love: such a wish is not wrong, provided it doesn't act as a temptation to neglect present opportunities. we are all by nature self-seekers, and in no small danger of giving ourselves credit for wishing to serve the lord, when, maybe, he sees it is ourselves we wish to serve. the best evidence we can give that we would honour him in a larger sphere is, that we strive to honour him in the sphere in which he has placed us." "but after all, aunt, it would be grand to be able to do as much for god's cause as some of those men did. i can't think that any one, to say nothing of a poor cripple lad, has an opportunity to do as much now as those men had." "to do is a great thing in the sight of men. but i am thinking that, in his sight who sees further than men can see, _to suffer_ may be greater than _to do_. but have patience, archie, lad. he who has given you to suffer now, may give you to do before you die. you may have to fight the battles of the lord in high places. who knows?" "that would be near as well as to fight with the dragoons: would it not, archie?" said lilias, laughing. "i'm sure it would be far easier." "maybe not, my lassie," said her aunt, gravely. "there may be battles fierce and sore that are bloodless battles; and scotland may not be through all her warfare yet. but take the books, bairns, and let us be thankful that, whatever may befall us or our land, we have always the same word to guide us." there was one drawback to the happiness of the children, this winter; and it was felt for a time to be no slight one. they could not go to the kirk at dunmoor, their father's kirk. the winter rains had made the way over the hills impassable; and the distance by the high-road was too great for them. they learnt in a little while to love the kindly voice of the minister of kirklands parish, and they soon got many a kindly greeting from the neighbours at the kirk door. but it was not the same to lilias as sitting in her father's seat, and listening to the voice of her father's friend; and the getting back to the dear old kirk at dunmoor was always told over as one of the pleasant things which the spring would bring back again. at christmas-time there came a new scholar to the school, and no small stir did her coming make there. for the first nine years of her life, elsie ray had been the neglected child of a careless and indolent mother. at her death, elsie had come to the neighbourhood of kirklands, to live with her grandfather and her aunt. she thus passed from one extreme of misfortune to the other. from roaming at large in whatever place and in whatever company she chose, she became at once the in-door drudge of her aunt and the out-door drudge of her grandfather. the father and daughter agreed perfectly in one respect. their ruling passion was the same,--the love of money. it was believed in the neighbourhood that they had laid by a considerable sum; but nothing could be more wretched than their usual mode of life. their business was the keeping of cows and poultry; and they found an efficient assistant in the strong and energetic elsie. the life of constant occupation which she was obliged to live with them was less dangerous to an active-minded child than the idle, sauntering existence she had passed with her mother. but it left her no time for improvement; and she seemed likely to grow up in ignorance. the chance visit of an uncle saved her from this sad fate. her grandfather so far attended to his remonstrances as to send her, during three or four of the least busy months, to mrs blair's school. it would be difficult to imagine a more unpromising pupil than elsie appeared to be when lilias first took her in hand; for to lilias' special care was she committed. wonder unspeakable to the children in the school was the sight of a girl of elsie's age who could not say the catechism, which every scotch child begins to learn almost in infancy. but this was by no means the greatest defect in the education of the new-comer; for it soon appeared that "great a" and "crooked s" were as utter mysteries to her as any sentence in the catechism. and their wonder was by no means silent wonder. more than once during the first week was elsie's ready hand raised to resent the mockery of her tormentors. it needed constant watchfulness on the part of lilias to keep the peace; and nothing but her earnest and gentle encouragement would have prevented the girl from giving up, in disgust, the attempt to learn to read. this was only for a short time, however. her rapid improvement in reading, as well as sewing, was a constant source of wonder and delight to her young teacher; and soon the mocking of the children was silenced. nor was it in these things alone that improvement appeared. incited partly by the precept and partly by the example of lilias, a great change soon became visible in her appearance and manners. there was a decided attempt at neatness in her rather shabby garments; and a look from lilias, or even the remembrance of her, had power to stay the utterance of the rude or angry word ere it passed her lips. her naturally affectionate disposition had been chilled by the life she had been leading for the last few years, and her heart opened gratefully to the kindness of lilias. under her influence, her good qualities were rapidly developed; and she soon became a great favourite with them all. "it has made a great difference, elsie's being here," lilias often said; and when one morning elsie came with swollen eyes to say that she could come no more, lilias felt inclined to weep with her. she comforted her, however, telling her she would often come with archie to see her while she was feeding her cows on the hills, and that when the winter came again her grandfather would let her come back to the school. so elsie dried her eyes, and promised to let no day pass without trying to read at least one whole chapter in the little testament that lilias gave her at parting. there was no lack of incidents to break the monotony of their life during the winter. among the most frequent and by no means the least interesting of these were the visits of mrs stirling. she never passed to or from kirklands--where all her little purchases were made--without calling; and a wonderful interest she seemed to take in all that concerned the children, especially lilias; and she always met with a welcome. not that her visits were usually very cheerful affairs. the conversation generally turned upon the troubles of life--great and small, and especially her own--those she had experienced and those she dreaded. mrs blair was often greatly amused by the earnest and grave attempts of lilias to make the world look brighter to poor nancy. sometimes these attempts took the form of sympathy, sometimes of expostulation; and more than once there was something like gentle rebuke in the child's words and tones. she could not boast of success, however. if mrs stirling could not reply in words, she never failed to enter a protest against the cheerful philosophy of lilias, by a groan, or a shake of the head, expressive of utter incredulousness. she was never angry, however, as mrs blair was sometimes afraid she might be. indeed, she seemed greatly to enjoy the little girl's conversation; and sometimes her visits were rather unreasonably lengthened. archie she never addressed but in terms of the deepest commiseration. at every visit she saw, or seemed to see, that he was changing for the worse; and "poor, helpless bairn!" or "poor pining laddie!" were the most cheerful names she gave him. her melancholy anecdotes of similar cases, and her oft-repeated fears that "he would never see the month of june," vexed and troubled lilias greatly. at first they troubled archie too; but he soon came not to heed them; and one day, when she was in a more than usually doleful mood, wondering what lilias would do without him, and whether it would save his life if his leg were cut off, he quite offended her by laughing in her face. "to think of me wasting good breath sympathising with you!" she exclaimed. "no, no! you're not so near heaven as i thought you. you're none too good to bide in this world a while yet. to think of the laddie laughing at me!" chapter five. summer days at kirklands. and so the winter passed away, and the spring came again,--the sunshine and showers of april, more than renewing the delight of the children's first weeks in kirklands. they had never been in the country in the early spring before; and even "bonny glen elder," in the prime of summer, had no wonders such as revealed themselves day by day to their unaccustomed eyes. the catkins on the willows, the gradual swelling of the hawthorn-buds, the graceful tassels of the silver birch, were to them a beauty and a mystery. the gradual change of brown fields to a living green, as the tender blades of the new-sown grain sprang up, was wondrous too. the tiny mosses on the rocks, the ferns hidden away from other eyes, were searched for and rejoiced over. no wild flower by the wayside, no bird or butterfly, no new development of life in any form, but won from them a joyful greeting. and so there were again the pleasant wanderings among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the burn-side. but they were not so frequent now, for lilias' life was a very busy one, and she could not, even if she had wished, have laid aside the duties she had taken upon herself. but her freedom was all the sweeter when her duties were done; and seldom a day passed without an hour or two of bright sunshine and fresh air, and never before had the world seemed half so beautiful. and lilias had another source of happiness, better than birds or flowers or sunshine: archie was growing strong again. before may was out, his crutches occupied a permanent place behind the cottage-door, and he was away on the hill without them, drinking in life and health with every breath of balmy air. he was no longer the little cripple, painfully following the footsteps of his sister, slackened to suit his lagging pace. lame he was still, and always might be, and a slender "willow-wand of a laddie," as mrs stirling still declared; but there was a tinge of healthy colour on cheek and lip, and instead of the look that reminded lilias of the shadow creeping round to the gate of the kirk-yard, there came back to his face and blithe look of earlier days. his very voice and smile seemed changed; and his laughter, so seldom heard for many a weary month, was music to his sister's ear. her joy in his returning health was altogether unmingled. sometimes, when weary of the noise and confinement of school, it quite rested and refreshed her to remember that he was out in the air and sunshine. she never murmured that he enjoyed it all without her; and when he came home at night, telling, triumphantly, of the miles and miles he had walked and the new sights he had seen among the hills, her delight was quite as great as his. at first archie had no other interest in his wanderings than that which pleasant sights and sounds and a consciousness of returning strength gave him. it was happiness enough to lie down in some quiet valley, with only his beloved book as his companion, or, seated on some hill-side, to gaze on a landscape whose loveliness has been the theme of many a poet's song. but pleasant sights and sounds, and even his beloved book, did not always suffice him for companionship; and he soon found his way to more than one shieling among the hills; and more than one solitary shepherd soon learnt to look for the coming of the lad, "so old-fashioned, yet so gladsome." sometimes he read to them from his favourite books; but oftener they talked, and archie heard many a legend of the countryside from the lips that could tell them best. his father and grandfather were well remembered by many whom they had befriended in time of need; and the lad listened with delight to their praises, and with equal delight repeated them to his aunt and lilias when he came home. but there were other things, which archie spoke of in whispers to his sister when they were away together among the hills,--mysterious hints of their cousin hugh blair, and of his mother's troubles with him before he went away. not that he had much to tell about him, for there was little said; but that little was enough to excite the curiosity and interest of the children with regard to him; and they were never weary of wondering why he went away, and where he was now, and whether he would ever come home again. "i wonder whether aunt janet thinks much about him? i wonder why she never names him to us?" said archie, one day, after they had been speaking about him. lilias was looking very grave. "i'm sure she often thinks of him. and i don't wonder that she seldom speaks about him, when she can have little that is good to say." "maybe she thinks him dead," said archie. "no: i don't think that," said lilias, sadly. and after a moment she added, "last night the sound of her voice wakened me. she was praying for him; and it minded me of the `groanings that cannot be uttered.' i am afraid aunt janet has troubles we know nothing about." yes, mrs blair had troubles which the children did not know of, which they could hardly have comprehended had they known; and, of late, fears for archie had mingled with them. the remembrance of her utter failure in guiding and governing her own son was ever present with her, filling her with anxiety with regard to archie's future. she had no fears for lilias, nor when her brother was a cripple had she fears for him. but now that he was strong and well,--now that he must necessarily be exposed to other influences, some of which could not but be evil, her heart grew sick with a feeling of self-distrust as to her own power to guide him. it was this which made her listen with something like regret when archie told of new friends made among the hills. his frank, open nature made him altogether unsuspicious of evil in others; and, knowing him to be easily influenced, she could not but fear that he might be led astray. night after night, when archie came home, she listened earnestly to hear the names of those with whom he had met; and, though she never heard anything from the boy's lips or saw anything in his actions to make her fear that he was changing for the worse, she could not feel quite at ease concerning him. for there ever came back to her the thought of her son,--her wandering but still beloved hugh; and many and earnest were the prayers that ascended both for the guileless child and the erring, sinful man, that through all the snares and temptations of life they might be brought safe home at last. she could not speak of her fears to lilias. she could not find it in her heart to lay the burden of this dread upon the child. she was so full of the new happiness of seeing her brother strong and well again, that she could not bear to let the shadow of this cloud fall upon her. it would do no good; and she had really nothing but her fears to tell. so in silence she prayed, night and day, that god would disappoint her fears for archie, and more than realise his sister's hope for him. mrs stirling's visits to the cottage did not become less frequent as the summer advanced, and her interest in lilias seemed to increase with every visit. not that she had ceased to torment the child with her discontented repinings for the past, or her melancholy forebodings for the future. there was always some subject for comment ready; and nancy never let pass unimproved an opportunity to say something depressing. but lilias was learning not to mind her; and this was all the easier to do, now that archie's ill-health could no longer be her theme. "oh, ay! he's looking not so ill," said she, one day, while she stood with lilias at the gate, watching archie, as he dug in the little garden; "and he's not very lame. if you could only be sure that it wouldn't break out again. eh me! but he's growing to look awful like his cousin hugh. it's to be hoped that he won't turn out as he has done." lilias gave a startled look towards the house-end, where her aunt was sitting, as she answered, hurriedly: "archie's like my father." "you needna be feared that i'll speak that name loud enough for her to hear," said nancy, answering lilias' look rather than her words. "i have more respect for her than that. poor body! she must carry a sore heart about with her, for all she looks so quiet and contented like." lilias sighed. the same thought had come into her own mind many and many a time within the last few months. "did my cousin hugh do anything so very bad?" she asked, looking anxiously into mrs stirling's face. "i dare say the folk that blame him most have done far worse things than anything they can lay to his charge," said nancy; "but there's little doubt he did what made him fear to look on his mother's face again, or wherefore should he not have come back? his name has never, to my knowledge, passed her lips from that day till this." "but donald ross, up among the hills, told archie that folk thought he had 'listed for a soldier, and that he couldna come back again." "well, maybe not," said nancy. "far be it from me to seek to make worse what is bad enough already. it's not unlikely. but, as i was saying, archie's growing awfu' like him, and it is to be hoped he will not take to ill ways. you should have an eye upon him, lilias, my woman, that he doesn't take up with folk that `call evil good, and good evil.' it was that was the ruin of hugh blair,--poor laddie!" "archie sees no one among the hills that can do him harm," said lilias, hastily,--"only donald ross and the muirlands shepherds, and now and then a herd-laddie from alliston. he ay tells us, when he comes home, who he has seen." "eh, woman! i didn't mean to anger you," exclaimed nancy. "i declare, your eyes are glancing like two coals. but, if your aunt is wise, she'll put him to some kind of work before long. laddies like him must ay be about something; and if they are doing no good it's likely they'll be doing evil. your aunt should know that well enough, without the like of me to tell her." "but archie is such a mere child," remonstrated lilias, forgetting for the moment that it was mrs stirling, the grumbler for the countryside, that was speaking. "what ill can he get among the hills? and, besides, what work could he do? it's health for him to wander about among the hills. it makes him strong." "you're a child yourself for that matter," said nancy; "and i'm thinking what with those children's catechism and work, and one thing and another, you do the most part of a woman's work. and what's to hinder your brother more than you? it would keep him out of harm's way." lilias suffered this conversation to make her uncomfortable for a few days, and then she wisely put it from her. she would not speak to archie. she would not even seem to distrust him. and still the boy came and went at his pleasure, enjoying his rambles and his intercourse with his new friends, glad to go forth, and glad to come home again, where the sight of his face always made sunshine for his sister. and mrs blair still went about with outward calm, but carrying within her a heavy and anxious heart, as by the sighs and prayers of many a sleepless night, lilias well knew. this was the child's one sorrow. sometimes she longed to speak to her aunt about her cousin, and comfort her by weeping with her; but she never had courage to broach the subject. the wanderer's name had never been mentioned between them; and lilias had something like a feeling of guilt upon her in hearing, as she could not but hear, the midnight mourning of the stricken mother. "and to think that this trouble has been upon her for so many years!" she thought to herself, one night, as she lay listening to her aunt's sighs and murmured prayers. "it must be ten years at least; for i have no recollection of my cousin hugh. and she has carried about this great grief all that time alone, and has sought comfort from no one. oh, if i could but comfort her!" for lilias did not know that there are some sorrows to which sympathy adds only bitterness. summer brought another pleasure to them all. their sabbath journeys over the hills to the kirk of dunmoor were renewed; and, sitting in her father's seat, and listening to the words of salvation from the lips of her father's friend, lilias grew more and more into the knowledge of "the peace of god that passeth all understanding." although but a child in years, early sorrow had taught her some lessons that childhood seldom learns. the heaviest of their sorrows did not press--upon them now. there was not the poverty, the ceaseless toil, the constant and sometimes vain struggle for bread. she could speak of her father and mother calmly now, and archie was strong and well again. and so the look of patience which her face had worn when her aunt first saw it lying on archie's pillow in the dim attic room, was changing into a look of quiet content. yet she was still unlike other children in many respects, though the difference was rather to be felt than seen. good james muir did not speak to her as he did to the manse children or to archie, but wisely and gravely, as he might have spoken to her aunt. annie graham, though a full year the elder, much to her own surprise, and to the surprise of all who knew her self-reliance, found herself deferring to the opinions of lilias elder. not but that she enjoyed, as much as any of them, the simple pleasures that were within their reach; even little jessie's never-absent laughter was not more full of heartfelt mirth than hers. but as they came to know lilias better, they all felt that there was "something beyond." even little jessie said "she was like one that was standing on a sure place, and was not afraid;" and so she was. one sabbath morning, in the kirk, lilias was startled by the sight of familiar faces in the minister's seat, faces associated in her mind with a bright parlour, and kind words spoken to her there. the quick smile and whisper exchanged by the two lads told her that the gordon boys had recognised her too. "that's my father's `bonny lily,'" said robert gordon to young john graham, who was looking gravely at the boys carrying on a whispered conference notwithstanding the reading of the psalm. and, when the sermon was over, and lilias, with her aunt and her brother, stood in the kirk-yard, the boys pressed eagerly forward to shake hands with her, and express their joy at seeing her again. "they are dr gordon's sons, aunt," said lilias, in answer to mrs blair's look of surprise. "i saw them that night." and the vivid remembrance of "that night" made her cheek grow pale. "i hardly knew you,--you have grown so bonny," said robert, gravely. lilias laughed. "come into the manse, and you will see your young friends without interruption," said kind mrs graham. "come, archie." and so they passed a pleasant hour in the manse garden. the gordons had come to pass their summer holidays with their cousins; and they would often come over the hills to see her, they said. they had a very pleasant time sitting on the grass in the shadow of the fir-trees. even young john graham, as he paced up and down the walk with a book in his hand, condescended to show a little curiosity as to the subject of their conversation, so earnest did their tones become at last; and john graham was a college student, and a miracle of wisdom in his sister's eyes. he wondered if it was all "sabbath talk" that engrossed them so much; and his wonder changed to serious doubts, as his little sister jessie's voice rose above the voices of all the rest. but wise john was mistaken this time. the subject that engrossed them so much was at the same moment engrossing good james muir and his brother elders on the other side of the kirk-yard wall. it was the sermon and the minister they were discussing. jessie was eloquent on the subject. of course there never was such a preacher as her grandfather,--not even the great dr chalmers himself, the child declared; and all the rest agreed. even robert gordon, whose taste, if the truth must be told, did not lie at all in the direction of sermons, declared that he had not been very weary that day in the kirk. jessie looked a good deal scandalised at this faint praise; but it was much from master robert, if she had but known all. then the question was started whether john would ever preach as well; and john had to pay the usual penalty of listeners, for all agreed that this was not to be thought of, at least, not for a long time to come. this was the beginning of more frequent intercourse between lilias and archie and the manse children. lilias was not often with them at first, for the "harvest-play" of the village children did not come so soon as the town-boys' holidays, and she could seldom be prevailed upon to leave her aunt alone in the school. but archie's company soon became indispensable to the lads in their daily rambles among the hills. he had explored the country to some purpose; and not even the manse boys knew so many places of interest as he did, and he was often their leader in their long excursions. it was a point of honour with archie never to confess that he was tired while he could stand; and it was only a fortunate chance that prevented these long-continued wanderings from being an injury to him. they went one day to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood. archie, as usual, led the way; and they had got well on their return, when he was obliged to confess to himself (though not to his companions) that he could go no farther. they had just left the hills, and stood on the turnpike-road between dunmoor and kirklands, the other lads to go to the manse, and archie to go home, a good two miles away yet. it seemed to him that he never could go so far; and, only waiting till the other lads were out of sight, he threw himself down on the grass at the roadside, utterly exhausted. the sound of wheels startled him in a little time, and soon john graham, in the manse gig, made his appearance. he drew up at the sight of archie, and, in some surprise, asked him what ailed him. "nothing," said archie, rising painfully. "we have been at the head of the colla hill; and i'm afraid i'm tired: that's all." "and that's enough, i think," said john; for the lad's limbs were trembling under him. "really, these lads are very inconsiderate. you should not have let them lead you such a chase." "it was me that led them," said archie,--not exactly liking master john's tone. "and i'll soon be rested again." but the horse's head was already turned, and john's strong arm lifted the weary boy to the seat at his side, and he was soon safely set down at the cottage-door. but it was some time before archie appeared among the boys again, so long that john, after taking his brother davie severely to task for his thoughtlessness, one fine morning walked over the hills to see if archie were really ill. "ill? no! what should make me ill?" but archie looked pale and weary, in spite of his denial. he was upon the turf seat at the end of the house; and, sitting down beside him, john took up the book he had been reading. it was a volume of flavel. "have you read much of this?" john asked, wondering at his taste. "do you like it?" "i haven't read much of it to-day; but lilias and i read it last winter to my aunt, and i liked it well, not so well to read to myself, though, as some others." "what others?" asked john. "oh, the history of scotland, and the tales of the covenanters, and some books of poetry that my aunt has got. but i like flavel too. don't you?" "oh, yes," replied john, smiling, and a little confused. "to tell the truth, i have not read much of him. tell me what you think of him. of this, for instance." and he read the quaint heading of a chapter in the book he held in his hand. it never came into archie's mind that young john graham was "just trying him," as boys say; and, in perfect simplicity and good faith, he gave an abstract of the chapter, with comments of his aunt's, and some of his own upon it. it was not very clear or very complete, it is true; but it was enough to change considerably the expression of john's face as he listened. this was the beginning of a long conversation. john graham had laid out for himself three hours of hard reading after his bracing tramp over the hills; but it was past noon when he went in to see mrs blair before he went away. he did not think the morning wasted; though in general, like all hard students, he was a miser respecting his time. when he was going away, he offered archie any of his books, and said he would help him to understand them while he stayed at home. "that won't be long now, however," he added. "but why don't you go to school?" "i should like to go to dunmoor parish school with davie; but my aunt thinks it's too far." "well, i think, after your scramble to colla's head, and the ten good miles besides, that you walked the other day, you might be able to walk to dunmoor school. it is not far, if you were only stronger." oh, archie was strong; quite strong enough for that, if only his aunt and lilias thought so; and maybe they might, if john would speak to them about it. and so it was arranged; and when john went back to college and the gordon boys went home, archie found himself at david graham's side, under the firm and not ungentle rule of the dunmoor parish schoolmaster. lilias' joy was scarcely less than his own; and the delight of welcoming him home at night quite repaid her for his absence during the day. as for her, she began again the business of teaching with wonderful cheerfulness, and went on with wonderful success. mrs blair's office of schoolmistress was becoming hers only in name, she declared; for lilias did all that was to be done, while she sat quietly in her armchair, knitting or sewing, only now and then administering a word of caution or reproof to the little ones about her. the children loved their young teacher dearly. not one of them but would have travelled miles to do her a pleasure; and over two or three her influence for good was very easily seen. when the summer and autumn work was fairly over, elsie ray came back again to the school; and elsie was a very different girl now from the shy, awkward, ill-clad creature who had come there a stranger last year. naturally affectionate, as well as bright, she had from the first attached herself to lilias in a peculiar manner, and, to please her, she had done her utmost to overcome her faults and improve herself in every way. her clothes, of her own making, were now as neat as they had been before untidy. her leisure time during the summer's herding had not been misemployed, and she was fast acquiring the reputation of being the best reader, writer, and sewer in the school; and no small pride did she feel in her acquirements. in short, as mrs stirling declared, "she had become a decent, purpose-like lass, and lilias elder should have the credit of it." of the last fact elsie was as well persuaded as nancy was; and her gratitude and devotion to lilias were in proportion. no sacrifice would she have considered too great to give proof of her gratitude to lilias; and her goodwill stood her friend in good stead before the winter was over. chapter six. clouds with silver linings. lilias' troubles were not over yet. even now a cloud was gathering, little, indeed, at first, and distant, but destined to overshadow her for many a weary month. indeed, there were two, as lilias sometimes thought, while she stood watching for her brother's home-coming beneath the rowan-tree in the glen. the way over the hills was hardly safe in the darkness, and the days were growing short again, and archie could seldom get home by daylight now. she began to fear that it would be as their aunt had more than once hinted,--that he must stay at home till spring. for herself, lilias would have liked nothing half so well as a renewal of last winter's pleasures; but she was by no means sure that archie would agree with her. "he has got a taste of the school, and nothing else will content him now. and, besides, so clever as the master says he is, it would be such a pity to take him away just as he has well begun." but how to help it was the question; and lilias revolved it in her mind so constantly that it quite depressed and wearied her at last, and a feeling akin to despondency began to oppress her. she did not speak to archie of any change. he went and came, day by day, rejoicing in the new sources of delight that his books and his school afforded, evidently believing that his plans were settled for the winter; and lilias would not disturb him a day sooner than was necessary, and so she bore her burden alone. in a little while she found that she never need have borne it at all. the disappointment that she dreaded for archie never came; and this was the way it was averted. it was saturday afternoon,--a half-holiday in the school. the children had gone home, and there was quietness in the cottage. lilias had given the last stroke of neatness to the little room. the dinner-table was set, and they were waiting for archie. lilias went to the gate and strained her eyes in the direction of the hill-path; and, with a slight sigh of disappointment, she hurried towards the house again. a strange voice close by her side startled her. "you needn't spoil your eyes looking for archie to-day, for i have given him leave to go with davie to the manse, and i dare say mrs graham winna let him want his dinner; and i'll take mine with you. you can get archie any time, but it's not often that i am seen in any house but my own. you needn't look so disappointed." lilias' smile quickly chased the shadow from her face as she cheerfully invited the schoolmaster to come in; and, stooping low, he entered. mrs blair had known peter butler all his life, and she had often received him in a very different place from the low room into which he passed, but never with a more kindly welcome than she gave him now. she had none of that kind of pride which would make her shrink from a necessary exposure of her poverty to eyes that had seen her prosperity; and it was with no trace of embarrassment that she rose, and offered him the armchair to rest himself in after his long walk; but he declined it with respectful deference. "many thanks, mrs blair, ma'am," said he, seating himself on the end of a form near the door. placing his hat beneath it, he took from his pocket a black silk cap, and deliberately settled it on his head. "you'll excuse me, ma'am: i have used myself to wear this in the school, till it wouldna be safe to go without it. at my time of life, health mustna be trifled with, you ken." mrs blair begged the master to make himself comfortable, and there was a moment's pause. "i have taken the liberty to give yon laddie archie a play this afternoon. i would like to have a few words with you concerning him, if you have no objection." mrs blair eagerly assented, and lilias' hand was arrested in the act of lifting the dinner from the hearth to the table. and she stood gazing at the master with a look so entreating as slightly to discompose him. "it's not ill i have to tell of him, lassie. you need not look so like frightened." lilias set down the dish in some confusion. "and if you'll allow me to suggest, ma'am, you'll take your dinner while it's in season. my news will keep." the master had dined before he left home; but, with a delicacy that would have done honour to a man of greater pretension, he accepted mrs blair's invitation as frankly as it was frankly given. a humble meal it was, and the master's eyes grew dim, remembering other days, as, reverently lifting his cap from his broad, bald brow, he prayed for god's blessing on the offered mercies. during the meal, mr butler talked fluently enough on many subjects; but when the dinner was fairly over, and mrs blair and lilias sat still, evidently waiting to hear what he had to say, he seemed strangely at a loss for words, and broke down several times in making a beginning. at last he said: "well, mrs blair, the short and the long of it is this. i have a favour to ask from you. you see, it's dull enough down at my house at this time of the year, and i find it long sitting by myself when the bairns have gone home. i have a certain solace in my books, it's true; but i begin to think there is some sense in the wise man's declaration, that `much study is a weariness to the flesh.' at any rate, it comes to that at my time of life. so i wish you would spare that laddie of yours to me for awhile, and i'll promise you that what will be for my good will not be for his ill. that's what i have to say." there was a moment's silence; and then mrs blair thanked him for his proposal, and for the manner in which it had been made. it was very kind in him, she said, to put the matter in that way, as though the obligation would be on his side. but it would be a great interruption to the quiet which she knew he valued so much, to have a lad like archie always coming and going about him, and she doubted whether it would be right to accept his generous offer; though she feared the short days and the distance by the road would keep archie away from the school for a few weeks at least. the master listened with great attention, and said: "to your first remark, mrs blair, ma'am, with all due deference, i must say, i put it in that light because it's the true light, and i see not well how i could put it in any other. and as for his being an interruption, if i should find him so at any time i would but to bid him hold his peace or go to his bed, or i could send him over to the manse to davie yonder. he'll be no interruption to him, i'll warrant. and as to his biding at home, it must by no means be. he has just got well begun in more things than one, and there is no saying what might be the effect of putting a stop to it all. he might not take to his books so well again. not that i think that, either; but it would be an awful pity to hinder him. he'll do himself and me credit yet, if he has the chance." lilias smiled at these praises of her brother, and mrs blair asked: "really and truly, mr butler, apart from your wish to help him for his father's sake, do you wish for your own sake to have the boy to bide with you for awhile?" "really and truly for my own sake. i consider the obligation on my side. but just for the sake of argument, mrs blair, ma'am, we'll suppose it to be otherwise. do you mind the little house that once stood in pentlands park, and how many of my mother's dark days your presence brightened there? and do you not mind, when i was a reckless laddie, well-nigh worsted in the battle of life, that first your father, and then your brother, took me by the hand and warded off the sore blows of poverty and neglect? and do you think i'm too bold in seeking an opportunity to show that i didn't forget, though i can never repay? is it too great a favour for me to ask, mrs blair?" the master's voice had nearly failed him more than once while he was speaking. he was very much in earnest; and to what he had said, mrs blair could have only one reply. turning to lilias, she said: "well, my dear, shall it be?" the master had, with a few exceptions, a sort of friendly contempt for all womankind. with regard to "lassie bairns" there was _no_ exception; and he was by no means pleased that the answer to his question should be referred to one of these. but lilias' answer appeased him. "oh, yes,--surely, aunt. it will be much for archie's good. and, besides," she added, with a little hesitation, "i don't wonder that the master wants archie for his own sake." "a sensible-like lassie, that," said the master to himself, looking at her with some such curiosity as he would have looked at a strange beetle in his garden-path, "that is wise like." "yes, if the master thought about archie, as you do," said mrs blair. "but have you counted the cost? it will be a sad lonely winter to you without your brother, lily." lilias considered a moment, and drew a long breath. "but it will be so much better for him; and he will come home sometimes." "that he shall," said the master, "at regular times, on which you shall agree between you, and at no other,--that you need not be troubling yourselves needlessly about him. and he shall come in time, too, that there need be no waste of good eyesight watching for him." and so it was settled. but archie was by no means so delighted with the arrangement as lilias had anticipated. he could hardly be persuaded that he could not in the winter walk backwards and forwards over the hills, as he had done in the fine days of summer and autumn. but when he was fairly settled in his little closet in the schoolmaster's quiet home, with a table full of books, and time to read them, and his friend davie coming and going at his pleasure, he settled down with great content. he did not miss his sister as she missed him. poor lilias! many and many a time, during the first week of their separation, she asked herself if she had indeed counted the cost. she accused herself of selfishness in regretting a change which was so much for his good, and strove by attention to her duties to quiet the pain at her heart. "i ought to be glad and thankful," said she to herself, again and again,--"glad and thankful;" but the dull pain ached on, and the days seemed like weeks; and when saturday afternoon came at last, and archie rushed in, with a joyful shout, a few minutes before he was expected, she surprised herself and him by a great flood of tears. "lilias, my child, what ails you?" said her aunt, while archie stood gazing at her in silent consternation. it was some time before she found her voice to speak. "it's nothing, aunt; indeed it's nothing, archie. i had no thought of crying. but i think my tears have been gathering all the week, and the sight of you made them run over in spite of me." "lily," said archie, gravely, "i won't go to the school again. you have been wearying for me, lily." it had been something more than "wearying,"--that dull pain that had ached at lilias' heart since they parted. it was like the mother's unappeasable yearning for her lost darling. her cheek seemed to have grown pale and thin even in these six days. archie stood with one hand thrown over her neck, while with the other he pushed back the fair hair that had fallen on her face, and his eyes looked lovingly and gravely into hers. the tears still ran fast over her cheeks; but she forced back the sobs that were ready to burst out again; and in a little while she said, with lips that quivered while they smiled: "nonsense, archie! you must go to the school. i haven't wearied much: have i, aunt? everything has been just the same this week, except that you didn't come home." "a woeful exception," said her aunt to herself; but aloud she said, "yes; just the same. we have missed you sadly; but we couldn't think of keeping you at home on that account. how do you like biding with the master?" "oh, i liked it well, after the first night or two. i have been twice at the manse, and davie has been with me; and the master has more books than i could read in years and years; and i have had a letter from john graham. it came with one to davie." and soon lilias was listening to his history of the week's events with as much interest as he took in giving it. she strove by her cheerfulness to make archie forget her reception of him. indeed, it did not require a very great effort to be cheerful now. her heart had been wonderfully lightened by the shedding of the tears that had been gathering all the week; and she soon laughed heartily over the merry stories he had to tell about his sworn friend davie graham and the master. but archie did not forget. that night, as they stood by the rowan-tree, looking down on the foaming waters beneath, he said: "lily, i don't believe davie graham's sisters love him as you love me." "they wouldn't need. davie graham's not like you. besides, they have other brothers, and i have only you." "yes; that may make a difference. but i'm sure i've been more trouble to you than brothers generally are to their sisters. i wonder you don't tire of it, lily." "that's what makes me miss you so much. oh, archie! i thought the week would never be done." "it can't be right for me to bide at dunmoor, when you miss me so much, lily. i ought to give up the school for awhile, i think." but lilias would not hear of such a thing. stay from the school for her sake! no, indeed. that would never do, when he needed to go so much, and when she had been wishing for it for his sake so long! and, besides, it would be as much for her good as his, in the end. she would far rather have him a great scholar by-and-by than to have his company now. "if aunt janet were only well again!" she added, after a little pause; and a shadow passed over her face as she spoke. this was the cloud that had been gathering and darkening; and it was not very long before that which lilias had feared came upon her. her aunt grew worse and worse; and, when christmas-time came round, she was not able to leave her bed. privations to which she had been little accustomed during the greater part of her life were beginning to tell on her now. at first she was only feeble and incapable of exertion; but her illness soon assumed a more decided form, and a severe rheumatic attack rendered her, for a time, quite helpless. she was always cheerful, and strove to comfort lilias by telling her that, though her illness was painful, it was not dangerous, and when the spring came round she might hope to be strong and well again. but months must pass before then, and the heart of lilias sickened at the thought of all her aunt must suffer. even archie's absence came to seem but a small matter in comparison with this greater trial. by every means in her power she strove to soothe her sufferings; but, alas! it was little she could do, and slowly the winter passed away. "oh, so differently from the last!" thought lilias, many a time. it was long a matter of earnest discussion between them whether the school should be kept up through the winter, or not. mr blair was fearful that it would be too much for the child; but, hoping day by day to be better, and able to take her accustomed place among them, she yielded to lilias' entreaties, and consented that they should come for awhile. lilias made a new discovery about this time. after her aunt's illness the housekeeping affairs fell altogether into her hands; and she was startled to find how very small the sum was that must cover their expenses from year's end to year's end. the trifle received from the school-children, paltry as it was, seemed quite too precious to be given up. her aunt's comforts were few, but they must be fewer still without this. no: the school must be kept up, at any cost of labour and pains to her. "let me just try it a while, aunt," she pleaded; "i am sure i can get on with you to advise me; and the days will seem shorter with the bairns coming and going." and so her aunt yielded, though only half convinced that she did right. there is no better promoter of cheerfulness than constant and earnest occupation; and so lilias found it. she had no time during the day to think of the troubles that seemed gathering over them, and at night she was too weary to do so. but, though weary in body, her patience and energy never flagged. indeed, never were so many children so easily taught and governed before. the gentle firmness of their young teacher wrought wonders among them. her grave looks were punishment enough for the most unruly, and no greater reward of good behaviour could be given than to be permitted to go on an errand or do her some other little favour when school was over. but her chief dependence for help was on elsie ray. her gratitude for lilias' kindness when she first came to the school was unbounded; and she could not do too much to prove it. it was elsie who brought in the water from the well and the fuel from the heap. it was elsie who went far and near for anything which the varying appetite of the invalid might crave. lilias quite learnt to depend on her; and the day was darker and longer than usual, that failed to bring elsie to the school. mrs stirling's visits, too, became more frequent as the winter wore away; and there was seldom a saturday afternoon, be it raining or shining, that failed to bring her to the cottage. nor was she by any means unwelcome there. for nancy could be very helpful, when she willed it; and, by some strange witchcraft or other, lilias had crept into her murmuring, though not unkind heart. it is true that she always came and went with the same ominous shake of the head, and the same dismal prophecy that, "unless she was much mistaken, mrs blair would never set her foot to the ground again;" but she strove in various ways to soothe the pain of the sufferer, and her strong arms accomplished many a task that lilias in her weakness must have left undone. once, in lilias' absence from the cottage, she collected and carried off the used linen of the family which had been accumulating for weeks, and quite resented the child's exclamation of surprise and gratitude when she brought them back done up in her very best style. "she had done it to please herself, as the most of folks do favours; and there need be no such ado made about it. if she had thought it a trouble, she would have left it alone." she was never weary of suggesting new remedies for mrs blair's complaint, and grumbled by the hour if each in turn had not what she called a fair trial. fortunately, her remedies were not of the "kill or cure" kind. if they could do no good, they could do little harm; and mrs blair was generally disposed to submit to a trial of them. in all her intercourse with lilias there was a singular blending of respectful tenderness with the grumbling sourness that had become habitual to her. the child's unfailing energy and patience were a source of never-failing admiration to her; yet she always spoke to her as if she thought she needed a great deal of encouragement, and not a little reproof and advice, to keep her in the right way. "you mustn't grumble, lilias, my dear, that you have to bear the yoke in your youth. i dare say you need all you're getting. many a better woman has had more to bear. we all have our share of trouble at one time or another. who knows but you may see prosperous days yet,--you and your aunt together? though indeed that's more than i think," she added, with the old ominous shake of the head; "but, grumble here or grumble there, it will make little difference in the end." lilias would listen sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears in her wistful eyes, but always with a respect which was all the more grateful to nancy that it was not often given by those on whom she bestowed her advice. but notwithstanding the kindness of friends, and (what lilias valued even more) the weekly visits of archie, the afternoon walks, and the long evening spent in talking over all that the week had brought to each, the winter passed away slowly and heavily. to the children in the school, lilias always appeared in all respects the same; as indeed she was during school-hours. but when the little ones had gone home, and her household duties were all over, when there was no immediate call for exertion, her strength and spirits flagged. sitting in the dim light of the peat fire, her weary eyes would close, and her work would fall upon her lap. it is true, the lowest tone of her aunt's voice would awaken her again, as indeed it would at any hour of the night; but, waking still weary and unrefreshed, no wonder that the power to step lightly and speak cheerfully was sometimes more than she could command. she was always gentle and mindful of her aunt's comfort; but as the spring drew near she grew quiet and grave, and her laugh, which had been such pleasant music in the cottage, was seldom heard. "you never sing now, lily," said her aunt, one night, as lilias was busily but silently putting things to rights after the children had gone home. "don't i?" said lilias, standing still. "well, maybe not, though i had not thought about it. i am waiting for the birds to begin again, i suppose; and that won't be long now." but spring seemed long in coming. march passed over, and left matters no better in the cottage. indeed, it was the worst time of all. the damp days and bleak winds aggravated mrs blair's illness, and increased her suffering. the young lambs and calves at home needed elsie's care, and she could seldom come now; and lilias' burden grew heavier every day. two rainy saturdays in succession had presented archie's coming home; and time seemed to move on leaden wings. "you have need of patience, lily," said her aunt one night, as the child seated herself on a low stool and laid her head down on the side of the bed. "have i, aunt?" said she, raising herself quickly, for she thought her aunt's words were intended to convey reproof. "yes; and god is giving it to you, my child. it ought to be some comfort to you, love, that you are doing good in the weary life you are leading. you are not living in vain, my child." "i am quite happy, aunt," said lilias, coming near, and speaking in a low, wondering voice. "blessed with the peace _he_ gives his own through his dear son our saviour: thank god for that!" said her aunt, as she returned her caress. march passed and april too, and may came warm and beautiful, at last. it brought the blessing so earnestly longed for by the weary lilias,-- comparative health to her aunt. although she was not quite well yet, she was no longer confined to her bed; and, with some assistance, could walk about the house, and even in the little garden, now bright with violets and daisies. "she had aged wonderfully," mrs stirling said; as indeed she had. lilias could see that, but she had great faith in the "bonny summer days," and thought that now their troubles were nearly at an end. the return of spring had not made the schoolmaster willing to part with archie, and he was seldom at home more than once or twice a week. but, though lilias still missed him, she had long ago persuaded herself that it would be selfishness on her part to wish it otherwise. it was for archie's good; and that was more than enough to reconcile her to his continued absence. but the pleasant may days did not make lilias her old self again. she did not begin to sing with the birds, though she tried sometimes. the old burden was there, and she could not. often she accused herself of ingratitude, and wondered what ailed her, that she could not be so cheerful as she used to be. the feeling of weariness and depression did not wait now till the children had gone home. sometimes it came upon her as she sat in the midst of them, and the hum of their voices would die away into a dull murmur, and she would fall into a momentary forgetfulness of time and place. sometimes it came upon her as an inexpressible longing for rest and quiet, and to get away from it all for a little while. her spirits were unequal; and it required a daily and unceasing effort to go about quietly, as she used to do. more than once she startled herself and others by sudden and violent bursts of weeping, for which, as she truly said, she could give no reason. in vain she expostulated with herself; in vain she called herself ungrateful and capricious. the weary weight would not be reasoned away. at length the knowledge that she was overtired, and not so well as usual, relieved her heart a little; but not very long. she was ill; and that was the cause of all her wretched feelings. she was not selfish and ungrateful. she would be her old self again when she grew better. yes; but would she ever grow better? and when? and how? never in the school. she knew now that she had been doing too much for her strength,--that the longing to get away from the noise and turmoil did not arise from dislike of her work, but from inability to perform it. and yet, what could she do even now? her aunt was not able to take her old place in the school. must it be given up? they needed the small sum it brought in as much as ever they had done, and more. archie was fast outgrowing the clothes so carefully preserved, and where could he get more? and there were other things, comforts which her aunt needed, which must be given up, unless the school could be kept on. she could not go to service now. she could not leave her aunt. if she could only get something to do that could be done at home. or if she could only be a herd-girl, like elsie ray, or keep the sheep of some of the farmers, so that she might come home at night. then she would soon get strong, and, maybe, have the children again after the harvest. oh, if she only had some one to tell her what to do! the thought more than once came into her mind to write to dr gordon; but she did not. he could not advise her. he could help them in no other way than to send them money. no: something else must be tried first. oh, if she only knew what to do! it would not have solaced lilias much to know that the very same thoughts were hourly in the mind of her aunt. none of mrs blair's friends knew the exact amount of her yearly income. none of them knew how small the sum was that the widow's little family had to maintain them, or imagined the straits to which they were sometimes reduced. mrs blair blamed herself for not having done before what now seemed inevitable. she ought to have asked assistance, alms she called it, before it came to this pass with them; and yet she had done what she thought was for the best. she had hoped that her illness would not last long,--that when spring came all would go on as usual again. but this could not be now. she had watched lilias with great anxiety. she had seen the struggle which it had sometimes cost her to get through the days; and she knew that it could not go on long. her own strength came back, but slowly. she could not take lilias' place; and the children must go. some change must be made, even if it involved the necessity of lilias' leaving her for a while. indeed, it might have been better, she sometimes thought, if she had never sought to keep the child with her. it would be hard to part from her now. lilias, in the meantime, had come to the same resolution. the school must be given up and she must tell her aunt and archie; but first she must think of something else, weeding, or herding, or going out to service. suddenly a new thought presented itself. it would not have won for her much credit for wisdom in the parish, this idea of hers; but lilias only wondered that it had not occurred to her before. "i'll ask mrs stirling's advice. if she's not down before saturday, i'll go up and speak to her. she'll surely know of something that i can do." chapter seven. a friend in need. mrs stirling's cottage stood not far from the high-road that leads to dunmoor, at the distance of a mile and a half from kirklands. it was nancy's own, and though humble and small, it was yet a very comfortable abode; for her reputation for neatness and order was as well established as her reputation for grumbling. there were no evidences of a refined taste about the place; but perfect order prevailed. there was not a weed in the garden without, nor a speck in the house within. every article made of wood was as white as soap and sand or as bright as turpentine and wax and much rubbing could make it; and every piece of metal was dazzling to behold. there were some relics of former grandeur, too; for mrs stirling had not always lived in so humble a home. her husband had been prosperous in a small way, but the property he left had been sadly mismanaged after his death, or there would have been a larger portion for his widow. but she had enough to supply her simple wants; and there were those among her neighbours so uncharitable as to say that she enjoyed the opportunity for murmuring which its loss afforded, more than she could have enjoyed the possession of twice her means. "mrs stirling might be as happy as the day is long, with nobody to trouble her from one year's end to the other," was the frequent remark of many a toil-worn mother, fighting with poverty and cares, in the midst of many children. yet none of them would have changed her life of care for nancy's solitary comfort. not that nancy did not enjoy life in her way. she enjoyed greatly putting things to rights and keeping things in order. she enjoyed her garden and her neighbours' good-natured envy on account of its superiority to their own. and, much more than people supposed, she enjoyed doing a good turn to any one who really needed it. it is true that her favours were, as a general thing, conferred ungraciously; but even those who had the least patience with her infirmities of temper availed themselves of her good offices, acknowledging that, after all, "her bark was worse than her bite." during the last few months of their intercourse, lilias had seen comparatively little of mrs stirling's characteristic ungraciousness, and she felt very grateful to her for her many kindnesses during the winter. unconsciously to herself, in seeking her advice she was making the return which her friend could best appreciate. mrs stirling was standing at the door, with her water-bucket in her hand, as lilias came in sight that saturday afternoon. "eh! yon's lilias elder coming up the hill. what can bring her here? i don't know the day when i have seen her so far from home. eh, but she's a bonny, genteel little lassie! there's no doubt of that." it could not have been her apparel that called forth mrs stirling's audible acknowledgment of lilias' gentility; for her black frock was faded and scant, and far too short, though the last tuck had been let down in the skirt; and her little straw bonnet was not of this nor of last year's fashion. but nancy's declaration was not a mistake, for all these disadvantages. her greeting was characteristic. "what made you come up the hill at that pace, you thoughtless lassie? anybody to see you might think you had breath enough and to spare; and, if i'm not mistaken, you need it all." lilias laughed as she shook hands, and then sat down wearily on the door-step. "ah, sit down and rest yourself. you'll be going to meet your brother, or, maybe, to take your tea at the manse?" said mrs stirling, inquiringly. "no: archie's not coming home till the evening. he's going to broyra with davie graham. i'm going no farther to-day. i came to see you, mrs stirling. i want you to advise me." nancy would not acknowledge to herself, and certainly she would not acknowledge to lilias, that she was a good deal surprised and flattered by this announcement; and she merely said: "well, sit still and rest yourself first. i'm going down to the burn to get a drop of soft water to make my tea. it makes it best. sit still and rest; for you look weary." weary she was, too weary even to take in the lovely scene before her, the hills and valleys in their fresh may garments. far away on the dusty highway a traveller was approaching; and her eyes fastened themselves mechanically upon him. sometimes he lingered and looked back over the way he had come, and then hurried on, as though his business would not brook delay. still watching him as he advanced, lilias idly wondered whence he came, and whither he was going, and whether it was hope or fear that urged him to such speed. then she thought of the many travellers on the highway of life, weary and ready to faint with the journey; and, closing her eyes, she strove to send a thought over her own uncertain future. she could see only a little way before her. the school must be given up; but what was to come after, she could not tell. she could think of no plan to bring about what she most wished--the power to do something and yet stay at home with her aunt. change and separation must come, and she could not look beyond these; and then she sighed, as she had done many a time before. "oh, if i were only strong and well again!" so occupied was she with her thoughts that she had not noticed the return of mrs stirling from the brook, and was only made aware of it when she put a cut-glass goblet filled with water in her hand. a very beautiful goblet it was, no doubt equal to the one for which the roman emperor, in the story, paid a small fortune; and you may be sure it was a great occasion in mrs stirling's eyes that brought it from the cupboard in the corner. no lips save those of the minister had touched the brim for many a month. but lilias was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the unwonted honour; and, strange to say, the slight was not resented. placing the glass in lilias's hand, mrs stirling went into the house again. as lilias raised it to her lips, her eyes fell again upon the approaching stranger toiling along the dusty road, and her hand was arrested. he had again slackened his pace, and his face was turned full upon lilias as he drew near. upon it care or grief, or it might be crime, had left deep traces. now it wore a wild and anxious look that startled lilias, as, instead of passing along the high-road, he rapidly came up the garden-path towards her. "can you tell me if i am on the high-road to kirklands?" he asked, as he drew near. "yes; go straight on. it is not much more than a mile from this place." he did not turn to go when she had answered him, but gazed for a moment earnestly into her face, and then said: "perhaps you can tell me--but no: i will not ask. i shall know the worst soon enough." the look of pain deepened in his face, and his very lips grew pale as he spoke. "you are ill!" exclaimed lilias, eagerly offering him the water she held in her hand. he drank a little, and, giving back the glass, thanked her and went away. but before he had gone far he turned again, and, coming to lilias, said in a low, hoarse voice: "child, i see the look of heaven's peace on your face. your wish must bring good to one like me. bid me god-speed." "god speed you!" said lilias, reverently, and wondering much. "and god avert the evil that you dread!" she watched while he continued in sight, forgetting, for the time, her own troubles in pity for his. "there are so many troubles in life," she thought; "and each one's own seems worst to bear. when will it all end?" poor, drooping lily! she had sat so long in the shadow of care that she was in danger of forgetting that there were lightsome places on the earth; and "when will it end?" came often to her lips now. not that she was growing impatient under it; but she felt herself so weak to do or to endure. "if i only were strong and well again! if god would only make me well again, and show me what to do!" mrs stirling's voice startled her at last. "come into the house, lilias, my dear. there's a cold wind creeping round the hill, and the ground is damp yet. you mustn't sit longer there." she placed a seat for her in the bright little kitchen. "i won't put you into the parlour, for a fire's pleasant yet, may though it be. sit down here, and i'll be through with my baking in a few minutes." the kettle was already singing on the hearth, and fresh cakes were toasting at the fire. after the usual saturday tidying-up, the room was "like a new pin;" and lilias's eyes expressed her admiration as she looked, about her. nancy hastened her work and finished it, and, as she seated herself on the other side of the hearth, she said: "well, my dear, what were you thinking to ask me?" in a few words lilias told her all her trouble: how, though the spring had come, her aunt was by no means well yet, nor able to take charge of the school again; how she sometimes felt she was growing ill herself, at least she was sometimes so weary that she feared she could not go on long. indeed, she tried not to be weary, but she could not help it. the feeling would come upon her, and then she grew dazed and stupid among the children; and she must try and get something else to do. this was what she wanted to be advised about. by a strong effort, in her capacity of adviser, nancy was able to keep back the words that came to the tip of her tongue:--"i knew it. anybody might have seen the upshot. to put a lassie like that to do the work of a strong woman! what could one expect?" she did not speak aloud, however, but rose and mended the fire under the tea-kettle, asking, as she sat down again: "and what are you thinking of doing, my dear?" "it's not that i'm really ill," continued lilias, eagerly. "i think it's because i have been within doors so much. if i could get something to do in the open air, i should soon be as well as ever again. i can't go to service now, because i must stop at home with my aunt at night. she can't be left. but i thought if i could be a herd-girl like elsie ray, or get weeding to do, or light field-work, or something--" and she looked so eagerly and so wistfully that nancy was fain to betake herself to mending the fire again. for there was a strange, remorseful feeling stirring not unkindly at nancy's heart. to use her own words, she "had taken just wonderfully to this old-fashioned child." her patience, her energy, her unselfishness, her devotion to her aunt, had ever excited her admiration and respect. but that there was "a good thick layer of pride" for all these good qualities to rest upon, nancy never doubted. "and why not? who has better right? the lassie is bonny and wise, and has good blood and a good name. few have so much to be proud of. and if mrs blair thinks it's more becoming in her brother's daughter to teach children the catechism than to go out to common service, who can blame her that mind her youth and middle age?" indeed, it had always been a matter of congratulation to mrs stirling that this "leaven of pride" prevented lilias's absolute perfection; but now, to see "that delicate lassie, so bonny and gentle, more fit for the manse parlour or the drawing-room at pentlands than any other place,"-- to see her so utterly unmindful of pride or station, wishing so eagerly, for the sake of those she loved, to become a herd-girl or a field-labourer, quite disarranged all nancy's ideas. by another great effort, she checked the expression of her feelings, and asked: "and what does your aunt say to all this?" "oh, i have said nothing to her yet. it would only trouble her; and if i can get nothing else to do, i must keep the children till the `harvest-play' comes. that won't be so very long now." "but, dear me, lassie! it must be that you have awful little to live on, if the few pence you could earn would make a difference," said nancy, forgetting, in her excitement, her resolution to say nothing rashly. "surely it's not needful that you should slave yourself that way." "my aunt would not like me to speak about it. but i ought to do all i can; and i would like herding best." nancy's patience was ebbing fast. "well, lass, you've sought advice from me, and you shall get it. you're just as fit for herding as you are for breaking stones. now, just be quiet, my dear. what do you ken about herding, but what you have learnt beneath elsie ray's plaid on a summer's afternoon? and what good could you do your aunt,--away before four in the morning, and not home till dark at night, as you would need to be?" the last stroke told. "i could do little, indeed," thought lilias; but she could not speak, and soon nancy said: "as for light field-labour, if such a thing was to be found in the countryside, which is not my thought, your aunt would never hear of such a thing. field-labourers canna choose their company; and they are but a rough set at best. weeding might do better. if you could have got into the pentlands gardens, now. but, dear me! it just shows that there's none exempt from trouble, be they high or be they low. folk say the laird o' pentlands is in sore trouble, and the sins of the father are to be visited on the children. the lady of pentlands and her bairns are going to foreign parts, where they needn't think shame to be kenned as puir folk. there will be little done in the pentlands gardens this while, i doubt. there's broyra, but that is a good five miles away: you could never go there and come back at night." "but surely there's something that i can do?" said lilias, entreatingly. "yes, there's just one thing you can do. you can have patience, and sit still, and see what will come out of this. if i were you, and you were me, you could, i don't doubt, give me many a fine precept and promise from the scriptures to that effect. so just take them to yourself, and bide still a while, till you see." "i'll have to go on with the school yet," said lilias, quietly. "no, no, my lass: you'll do no such thing as that, unless you're tired of your life. you have been at that work over-long already, or i'm mistaken. go into the house and look in the glass. your face will never be paler than it is at this moment, lilias elder, my dear." "i'm tired," said lilias, faintly, her courage quite forsaking her, and the tears, long kept back, finding their way down her cheeks. "tired! i'll warrant you're tired; and me, like an old fool, talking away here, when the tea should have been ready long since." and nancy dashed into her preparations with great energy. the tea was made in the little black teapot, as usual; but it was the best tray, and nancy's exquisite china, that were laid on the mahogany stand brought from the parlour for the occasion; for nancy seemed determined to do her great honour. by a strong effort, lilias checked her tears after the first gush, and sat watching the movements and listening to the rather unconnected remarks of her hostess. "it's not often they're taken down, except to wash," she said, as with a snowy napkin she dusted the fairy-like cream-pot. "there's but few folk of consideration coming to see the like of me. young mr crawford doesn't seem to think that i belong to him,--maybe because i go so often to dunmoor kirk. he hasn't darkened my door but once yet, and he's not like to do it now. they say he's to be married to one of fivie's daughters; and i mind fivie a poor herd-laddie. eh me! but the lord brings down one and puts up another! to think of the lady of pentlands having to leave yon bonny place! who would have thought it? this is truly a changeful scene. folk must have their share of trouble at one time or other of their lives. there was never a truer word said than that." "yes," said lilias, softly: "it is called a pilgrimage,--a race,--a warfare." nancy caught the words. "ay, that's a good child, applying the scripture, as you ought to do. but you can do that at your leisure, you know. sit by the table and take your tea. i dare say you need it." and indeed lilias, faint and weary, did need it. she thought she could not swallow a crumb; but she was mistaken. the tea was delicious; for mrs stirling was a judge of tea, and would tolerate no inferior beverage. "i'm willing to pay for the best; and the best i must have," was the remark that generally followed her brief but emphatic grace before meat; and it was not omitted this time. "it will do you good, lilias, my dear." and it did do her good. the honey and cakes were beyond praise, and lilias ate and was refreshed. when the tea was over, mrs stirling rather abruptly introduced the former subject of conversation. "and what were you going to do with your brother when you made your fine plans for the summer?" she asked. "archie's at the school, you know," answered lilias, shrinking rather from nancy's tone and manner than from her words. "yes; he's at the school just now. but he wasn't going to stop at the school, surely, when you went to the herding?" "oh yes; he is far better at the school." "ay, he's better at the school than playing. but wherefore should not he go to the weeding or the herding as well as you?" "archie! why, he's but a child! what could he do?" "and what are you but a child?" asked nancy, smiling. "i'm thinking there is little over the twelve months between you." "but archie never was strong. it would never do to expose him to all kinds of weather or to fatigue. don't you mind such a cripple as he was when we came here? you used to think he wouldn't live long. don't you mind?" "yes, i mind; but he did live, and thrive too; and he's the most life-like of the two to-day, i'm thinking. fatigue, indeed! and he ranging over the hills with that daft laddie davie graham, and playing at the ball by the hour together! what should ail him, i wonder?" "but even if archie were strong and well, and could gain far more than i can, it would yet be far better for him to be at the school. a man can do so little in the world if he has no education; and now is archie's time to get it." "well, it may be. and when's your time coming?" asked nancy, drily. "oh, it is quite different with me," said lilias, with a feeble attempt at a laugh. "a woman can slip through the world quietly, you know. i shan't need learning as archie will. and, besides, i can do a great many things; and i can learn though i don't go to the school." "learn, indeed! and slip through the world quietly!" exclaimed mrs stirling, with an expression of mingled pity and contempt. "these may be your doctrines, but they're not mine. but it's easy seen what will be the upshot of this. it's just your aunt and your father over again. she would have laid her head beneath alex elder's feet, if it would have pleasured him; and you are none behind her. such ways are neither for your good nor his. there are plenty of folk that'll say to-day that your father would have been a stronger man if he hadn't been so much spared as a laddie." "if archie grows up to be such a man as my father was, i shall have no more to wish for him!" exclaimed lilias, rising, with more of spirit in her voice and manner than mrs stirling had ever witnessed there before. "eh, sirs! did you ever hear the like of that in all your born days?" (lifting her hands as if appealing to an invisible audience). "as though i would say a word to make light of her father! it's well-known there were few left like him in the countryside when he went away. and for her to put herself in such a passion! not that i'm caring, lilias, my dear. i think it has done you good. i haven't seen you with such a colour in your face this good while. but it ill becomes you to be offended with the like of me." "i'm not angry. i didn't mean to be angry," said lilias, meekly enough now; "but i can't bear to think you should suppose i would do anything that is not for archie's good. i'm sure i wish to do what is right." "i'm as sure of that as you are," said nancy; "but lilias, my dear, you must mind that it's not the sapling that has the closest shelter that grows to be the strongest tree. with you always to think and do for him, your brother would never learn to think and do for himself. it is not real kindness to think first of him. you must let him bear his share of the burden." "but he's such a child," said lilias; "and he was never strong, besides." "now, only hear her!" exclaimed nancy, again appealing to an invisible audience. "you would think, to hear her speak, she was three-score at least. lilias elder, hear what i'm saying to you. you are just taking the best way to ruin this brother of yours, with your petting. all the care that you are lavishing on him now, he'll claim as his right before long, and think himself well worthy of it, too. do you not wonder sometimes, that he is so blithe-like, when you have so much to make you weary? i doubt the laddie is overfull of himself." "you are wrong, mrs stirling!" exclaimed lilias, the indignant colour again flushing her face. "archie is not full of himself. he would do anything for my aunt or me. and why should he not be blithe? i'm blithe, too, when he is at home; and, besides, he doesna know all." the thought of what that "all" was--the struggle, the exhaustion, the forced cheerfulness--made her cheek grow pale; and she sat down again, saying to herself that nancy was right, and that, for a while at least, she must rest. "no; and he'll never ken as much as is for his good, if it depends on you. but he'll hear something ere he's many days older." "mrs stirling," said lilias, rising, and speaking very quietly now, "you must not meddle between me and my brother. he is all i have got; and i know him best. he never was meant for a herd-boy or a field-labourer. he must bide at the school; and he'll soon be fit for something better; and can you not see that will be as much for my good as his? i must just have patience and wait; and you are not to think ill of archie." "me think ill of him! no, no; i think he's a fine laddie, as his father was before him, and that makes it all the more a pity that he should be spoiled. but if you'll promise to be a good bairn, and have patience till you are rested and quite strong again, and say no more about your fine plans till then, i'll neither make nor meddle between you. must you go? well, wait till i cover the fire with a wet peat, and i'll go down the brae with you. i dare say you are all right; your aunt will be wearying for you." as nancy went bustling about, lilias seated herself again upon the door-step. the scene was changed since she sat there before; but it was not less lovely with the long shadows upon it than it was beneath the bright sunshine. it was very sweet and peaceful. the never-silent brook babbled on closely by, but all other sounds seemed to come from a distance. the delicate fringes of young birches waved to and fro with a gentle, beckoning motion; but not a rustle nor a sigh was heard. yes, it was very sweet and peaceful; and as she let her eyes wander over the scene, lilias had a vague feeling of guilt upon her in being so out of tune with it all. even in the days when she and archie used to sit waiting, waiting for their weary mother it had not been so bad. she wondered why everything seemed so changed to her. "i suppose it is because i'm not very well. i mind how weary and restless archie used to be. i must have patience till i grow stronger. and maybe something will happen that i'm not thinking about, just as aunt janet came to us then. there are plenty of ways beyond my planning; and the lord has not forgotten us, i'm sure of that. i must just wait. there is nothing else i can do. there! i won't let another tear come to-night, if i can help it." she did her best to help it, for mrs stirling came bustling out again, and they set off down the brae. she had leisure to help it, too; for from the moment the great door-key was hidden in the thatch, till they paused beside the stepping-stones, she did not need to speak a word. nancy had all the talk to herself, and rambled on from one thing to another, never pausing for an answer, till they stood beside the brook. here nancy was to turn back. "and now, lilias, my dear, you'll mind what i have been saying to you, and that you have promised to have patience? it winna be easy. you have ay been doing for your aunt and your brother; and the more you had to do the better you liked it. but it's one thing to do, and it's another thing to sit with your hands tied and see them needing the help you canna give. i doubt you may have a sorer heart to carry about with you than you have kenned of yet. no, that i'm feared for you in the end. and, though it's no pleasant thing to ask favours, i have that faith in you that i would come to you, and wouldna fear to be denied. i ken you would have more pleasure in giving than in withholding; and i would take a gift from you as freely as i ken it would be freely given." she paused a moment, and lilias tried to say that indeed she might trust her, for it would give her more pleasure than she had words to tell, to be able to do anything for so kind a friend. "as to that, we'll say nothing," said nancy, drily. but suddenly, changing her tone and manner, she added, "what i have to say is this. you'll not refuse to me what i wouldna refuse to you, you that are far wiser and better than i am, or ever expect to be? what's the use of having friends if you canna offer them a helping hand in their time of need? and mind, i'm no giving it," she added, opening her hands and showing three golden sovereigns. "there's no fear but i'll get them back with interest. there's nine-and-twenty more where these came from, in the china teapot in the press; though that's neither here nor there. and, lilias, my dear, no soul need ever know." the last words were spoken beseechingly. lilias did not refuse the gift in words. she had no words at her command. but she shut nancy's fingers back upon the gold, and, as she did so, she stooped and touched the brown wrinkled hand with her lips. "indeed, it is not pride," she said, at last. "you must not think it's pride. but i am only a child; and it is my aunt who must accept and thank you for your kindness." nancy's face was a sight to see. at first she could have been angry; but her look changed and softened strangely at the touch of lilias's lips upon her hand. "my dear," said she gently, "it's easy to say `my aunt,' but it is you who have borne the burden for her this while, poor helpless body!" "yes," said lilias, eagerly. "just because she is helpless, we must consider her the more; and she might not be pleased at my speaking to you first. but if we really need it, we will come to you; for you are a true friend. and you won't be angry?" she added, wistfully, as she held out her hand for good-bye. "angry with you! my little gentle lammie!" her tones, so unlike nancy's usually sharp accents, brought back the child's tears with a rush, and she turned and ran away. nancy stood watching her as she went over the stepping-stones and up the bank, and she tried to walk quietly on. but as soon as she was out of sight she ran swiftly away, that she might find a hiding-place where she could cry her tears out without danger of being seen. "it's the clearing-shower, i think; and i must get it over before i go home. if archie were to see me crying, i should have to tell him all; and i'm sure i don't know what would happen then." as the thought passed through her mind, a footstep sounded on the rocky pathway, and her heart leaped up at the sound of her brother's voice. in a moment he was close beside her. she might have touched him with her outstretched hand. but the last drops of the clearing-shower were still falling. "and i'm not going to spoil his pleasant sabbath with my tears," she said to herself. so she lay still on the brown heather, quite unseen in the deepening gloaming. "lily!" cried archie, pausing to listen--"lily!" he grasped a branch of the rowan-tree, and swung himself down into the torrent's bed. "lily! are you here, lily?" she listened till the sound of his footsteps died away, and then swung herself down as he had done. dipping her handkerchief into the water of the burn, she said to herself, as she wiped the tear-stains from her face, "i'll be all the brighter to-morrow for this summer shower." and she laughed softly to herself as she followed the sound of her brother's voice echoing back through the glen. chapter eight. the prodigal's return. "i have stayed too late. they'll be wondering what has kept me," said archie to himself, as he saw the firelight gleaming from the cottage-window. "i wonder where lily can be, that she didn't come to meet me? i wonder if anything has happened?" something had happened. he paused a moment at the door to listen, as a strange voice reached his ear. it was a man's voice. going in softly, he saw his aunt in her accustomed seat, and close beside her, with his head bowed down on his hands, sat a stranger. there was a strange look, too, on his aunt's face, the boy thought, and the tears were running down over her cheeks. wondering and anxious, he silently approached her. "archie, are you come home?" said she, holding out her hand to him as he drew near. "hugh, this is your uncle's son. archie, this is your cousin hugh come home again." with a cry archie sprang forward--not to take his cousin's offered hand, but to clasp him round the neck; and, trembling like a leaf, the returned wanderer held him in a close embrace. "i knew you would come back," said archie at last through his tears. "i always told lilias you would be sure to come back again.--oh, aunt janet, are you not glad?--and you'll never go away again? oh, i was sure you would come home soon!" even his mother had not received her prodigal without some questioning, and the sudden clasping of archie's arms about his neck, the perfect trust of the child's heart, was like balm to the remorseful tortures of hugh blair, and great drops from the man's eyes mingled with the boy's happy tears. "archie," said his aunt after a little time, "who spoke to you of your cousin hugh?" "oh, many a one," answered archie, as he gently stroked his cousin's hair. "donald ross, and the muirlands shepherds, and mrs stirling." and then he added, in a hushed voice, "lilias heard you speak his name in your prayers often, when you thought her sleeping." hugh blair groaned in bitterness of spirit. the thought of his mother's sleepless nights of prayer for him revealed more of the agony of all those years of waiting than her lips could ever utter. he thought of this night and that in his career of reckless folly, and said to himself: "it may have been then or there that my name was on her lips. o god, judge me not in thine anger!" the words did not pass his lips, but the look he turned to his mother's face was a prayer for pardon, and she strove to smile as she said hopefully, "it is all past now, my son. god did not forget us--blessed be his name!" "and lily!" exclaimed archie, starting up at last. "lily! where are you? oh, will she not be glad?" "i am here, archie. what has happened?" said lilias at the door. "cousin hugh has come home again," he whispered, drawing her forward; and then she saw the stranger who had taken the water from her hand. he knew her, too, as the child who had bidden him "god-speed!" "ah! is this the wee white lily of glen elder?" he said softly. lilias's greeting was very quiet. "i am glad you are come home again, cousin hugh," said she, as she gave him her hand; and then she looked at her aunt. "god has been better to me than my fears. he has given me the desire of my heart--blessed be his name!" whispered mrs blair, as lilias bent over her. all that it is needful to give here of hugh blair's story may be given in a few words. he had not enlisted as a soldier, as had been at first believed. but, in an hour of great misery and shame, he had gone away from home, leaving behind him debt and dishonour, fully resolved never to set foot in his native land again till he had retrieved his fortunes and redeemed his good name. to redeem one's good name is easily resolved upon, but not so easily accomplished. he took with him, to the faraway land to which he had exiled himself, the same hatred of restraint, the same love of sinful pleasures, that had been his bane at home. it is true he left the companions who had led him astray and encouraged him in his foolish course; but, alas! there are in all lands evil-doers enough to hinder the well-doing of those who have need to mend their ways. he sinned much, and suffered much, before he found a foothold for himself in the land of strangers. many a mother's prayers have followed a son into just such scenes of vice and misery as he passed through before god's messenger, in the shape of sore sickness, found him. alone in a strange land, he lay for weeks dependent on the unwilling charity of strangers. the horrors of that fearful illness, the dreariness of that slow convalescence, could not be told. helpless, homeless, friendless, with no memories of the past which his follies had not embittered, no hopes for the future which he dared to cherish, it was no wonder that he stood on the brink of despair. but he was not forsaken utterly. when he was ready to perish, a countryman of his own found him, and, for his country's sake, befriended him. he took him from the poisoned air of a tropical city away to the country, amid whose hills and slopes reigns perpetual spring; and here, under the influences of a well-ordered home, he regained health both of body and of mind, and found also in his countryman and benefactor a firm and faithful friend. now, indeed, he began life anew. bound by many ties of gratitude to his employer and friend, he strove to do his duty, and to honour the trust reposed in him; and he did not strive in vain. during the years that followed, he became known as an honourable and a successful man; and when at last, partly for purposes of business and partly with a view to the re-establishment of his health, he determined to return home for a time, he was comparatively a man of means. he had all this time been doing one wrong and foolish thing, however. he had kept silence towards his mother. he had not forgotten her. he made many a plan, and dreamed many a dream, of the time when, with all stains wiped from his name and his life, he would return to make her forget all that was painful in the past. he had never thought of her all these years but as the honoured and prosperous mistress of glen elder. it had never come into his mind that, amid the chances and changes of life, she might have to leave the place which had been the home of her youth and her middle age. when he returned, to find a stranger in his mother's place, it was a terrible shock. all that he could learn concerning her was that she had had no choice but to give up the farm, and that on leaving it she had found a humble but welcome shelter in a neighbouring county; but whether she was there still, or whether she was even alive, they could not tell him. as he stood before the closed door of what had once been his home, it seemed to him that a mark more fearful than that of cain was upon him. heart-sick with remorse, he turned away. not daring to make further inquiries, lest he might learn the worst, he went on, past familiar places, with averted eyes, feeling in his misery that the guilt of his mother's death must rest upon his sinful soul unless he might hear her living lips pronounce the pardon of which he knew himself to be unworthy. god was merciful to him. he opened the door of the humble cottage by the common, to inquire his way; and there, in the old armchair so well remembered, sat his mother, with her bible on her knee. she did not know him, but she gave him kindly welcome, bidding him sit and rest, as he seemed weary. she did not know him till she felt his hot tears dropping on her hands, and heard him praying for pardon at her feet. it would do no good to tell what passed between the mother and the son. that the meeting was joyful, we need not say; but it was very sorrowful, too. for years of sin and years of suffering must leave traces too deep for sudden joy to efface. hugh blair had left his mother in the prime of life, a woman having few equals as regards all that in a woman is admired. he returned to find her feeble, shrunken, helpless, with the hair beneath her widow's cap as white as snow. he had redeemed his good name; he had returned to surround her last days with comfort; he had brought wealth greater than had blessed her most prosperous time. but for all those years of poverty and doubt and anxiety, those years which had made her old before her time, what could atone for these? and as for her, even amid her thankful gladness the thought would come, "how shall i ever learn to put trust in him, after all these years? can his guileless child's heart come back again to him?" oh, yes! the meeting was sorrowful, as well as glad. with the joy of archie and lilias no misgiving mingled. their cousin hugh had come home again. that was enough for them. in his youth he had done many foolish things, and maybe some wrong things, they thought. he had sinned against god and his mother. he had left his home, like the prodigal, choosing his own will and way rather than do his duty. but now, like the prodigal, he had come home repenting; and the best robe and the ring for his hand these happy children made ready for him. "there is joy among the angels to-night, lily," said archie, coming back to whisper it to her, after she thought he was asleep. "yes: `this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost and is found,'" answered lilias softly. "and now aunt janet's midnight prayers will be changed to thanksgivings," was the last thought of the weary child, as she lay down that night. her first thought in the morning was that her aunt would not want the children for a few days at least, now that her cousin had come home, and she would get rest and be well again. her next was that mrs stirling's golden sovereigns might stay with the other nine-and-twenty in the china teapot; and a curious feeling of regret mingled itself with the pleasure of the thought. "i almost wish that i had taken them,--just to show her that it wasn't pride; but i dare say hugh would be better pleased as it is. i wonder if he is strong and ready at doing things? he doesn't look very strong; but he is a man and will know how to manage things; and my aunt will not be anxious and cast down any more. and now i see how foolish i was to vex myself with what was to happen to us. i might have known that the lord was caring for us all the time. `yet have i not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'" lilias repeated the words with a sudden gush of happy tears, hiding her face in the pillow, lest her aunt should see. hugh and archie went over the hills to the kirk at dunmoor that day; but lilias dreaded the long walk a little, and she dreaded a great deal the wondering looks and curious questioning which the sight of the stranger would be sure to call forth. so she went to the kirk close at hand, saying nothing to the people who spoke to her of her cousin's return, lest their coming and going might break the sabbath quiet of her aunt. and a very quiet afternoon they had together. her aunt sat silent, thinking her own thoughts; and lilias sat "resting," she said, with her cheek on her little bible, and her eyes fixed on the faraway clouds, till the cousins came home again. as for archie, it was with a radiant face, indeed, that he went into the full kirk, holding the hand of his cousin hugh. some in the kirk remembered him, others guessed who he might be; and many a doubtful glance was sent back to the days of his wayward youth, and many an anxious thought was stirred as to whether his coming home was to be for good or for ill. it was well for him that he had learnt to hide his thoughts from his fellow-men, to suffer and give no sign of pain, or he would have startled the sabbath quiet of the kirk that day by many a sigh and bitter groan. sitting in his old familiar place, and listening to the voice which had taught and warned his childhood, it came very clearly and sharply before him how impossible it is to undo an evil deed. closing his eyes, he could see himself sitting there a child, as his young cousin sat now at his side; and between this time and that lay years darkened by deeds which, in the bitterness of his remorse and self-upbraidings, he said to himself "could never be outlived--never forgotten." these years had been lost out of his life--utterly lost for all good; but, oh, how full of sin to him, of pain to others! his sin might be forgiven, washed away in that blood which cleanseth from all sin. but could his mother, could others, who had suffered through it, ever quite outlive the shame and pain? it seemed to him that the grave, earnest faces about him were settling themselves into sternness at the stirring of the same bitter memories and accusing thoughts; and he would fain have escaped from the glances, some of them kind and others half averted, that followed him into the kirk-yard when the service was over. but he could not escape. who could resist the look on archie's joyful face, so frankly challenging a welcome for the returned wanderer? not james muir, nor the master, nor scores besides. not even nancy stirling herself, when archie, sending a smile up into her face, said-- "this is my cousin hugh come home again." "oh, ay! he's come home again. i kenned him when he was a guileless laddie, like yourself, archie, man," said nancy, not sparing her little prick to the sore heart. "and where's your sister to-day? is your aunt so ill yet as to need to keep her from the kirk?" she added, with the air of finding a grievance in lilias's absence. "or is the lassie not well herself? she looked weary and worn enough when i bade her good-night at the stepping-stones in the gloaming. you're not come home over soon, maister hugh. it's time your mother had some one to care for her besides these bairns." archie looked indignant; but hugh said gravely and gently-- "you are right, mrs stirling. you have been a kind friend to my mother and my cousin lilias, they tell me, and i thank you from my heart." nancy looked not a little discomfited at this unexpected answer. "it would have been liker hugh blair to turn on his heel and go his own way," said she afterwards; "but it may be that many a thing that was laid to his door in the old days belonged less to him than to those who beguiled him into evil, poor lad! and, whether or not, it would ill become me to cast up to him his past ill-deeds to-day." "and all the folk were so glad to see him!" said archie when he came home. hugh was lingering outside, speaking to a friend who had walked with them over the hills, and archie spoke fast and earnestly to have all told before he came in. "and they all minded on you, aunt, and said how thankful you would be, and how the lord was good to you in your old age. and james muir said he hoped he was never to go away again; and allan grant said that english smith was to give up glen elder, and why should it not go back into the old hands again? they all said he would surely stay in the countryside now." "and what said my son to that?" asked mrs blair tremulously. she had not ventured to ask him herself yet. "oh, he said little. i think it was because his heart was so full. and, lily, he put five golden sovereigns into the poor's box! steenie muir told me that he saw his grandfather count it, and he heard him say that now surely the lord was to bring back the good days to glen elder; and he thanked god for your sake, aunt. and, lily, who kens but you may be `the wee white lily of glen elder' again?" "a `wee white lily,' indeed," said her aunt fondly and gravely; but lilias laughed, first at the thought of the golden sovereigns and nancy's "nine-and-twenty more," destined still to be hidden away in the china teapot, and then a little at being called the "lily of glen elder." "it's like a story in a book, aunt. it would be too much happiness to have the old days come back again--the happy days at glen elder;" and then her ready tears flowed at the thought that followed-- "they can never--never quite come back again." chapter nine. light at eventide. "bonny glen elder!" repeated archie to himself many times, as, holding his cousin's hand, he walked over the fair sloping fields and through the sunny gardens. his cousin repeated it, too, sometimes aloud, sometimes sighing the words in regretful silence, remembering all that had come and gone since the happy days when he, a "guileless laddie," had called the place his home. the farm had been rented by the elder family for three generations. archie's father had never held it. it had been in the hands of hugh's father during his short lifetime; but archie's father and grandfather had been born there, and his great-grandfather had spent the greater part of his life on the place; and it quite suited archie's ideas of the fitness of things that it should again be held by his cousin, who, though he did not bear the name, was yet of the blood of these men, whose memory was still honoured in the countryside. it suited hugh's ideas, too, but with one difference. he knew two or three things that archie did not know. he had not come back a very rich man, according to his ideas of riches, though he knew the people about him might call him rich. he had come home with no plan of remaining, for he was a young man still, and looked upon the greater part of his life's work as before him. and through the talk he was keeping up with archie as they went on, there was running all the time the question, "should the rest of his work be done in india or in glen elder?" it was not an easy question to answer. he felt, with great unhappiness, that, whatever the answer might be, it must give his mother pain. one thing he had determined upon. his mother was to be again the mistress of glen elder. this might be brought to pass in one of two ways. he could lease the farm, as his forefathers had done, and be a farmer, as they had been, living a far easier life than they had lived, however, because of the means he had acquired during the last ten years. or, he could purchase glen elder, and invest the rest of his fortune for the benefit of his mother and his little cousins, and then go back to his business in india again. he thought his mother would like the first plan best; but it did not seem the best to him. he was afraid of himself. he had never, in his youth, liked a quiet, rural life, and his manner of life for the past ten years had not been such as to prepare him to like it better. he feared that he could never settle down contented and useful in such a life; and he knew that an unwilling sacrifice would never make his mother happy. and, yet, would it be right to leave her, feeble and aged as she was? of course his going away would be different now. he would leave her in comfortable circumstances, with no doubt about his fate, no fears as to his well-doing, to harass her. but even in such a case it would not be right to go away without her full and free consent. it spoiled the pleasure of his walk--that and some other thoughts he had; and he sighed as he sat down to rest on a bank where he had often rested when a child. "i can fancy us all living very happily here, if some things were different," he said at last. "what things, cousin hugh?" asked archie, in some surprise. hugh laughed. "i ought to have said, `if i were different myself,' i suppose." "but you _are_ different," said archie. "yes," said his cousin gravely, after a moment's hesitation; "but oh, lad, i have many sad things to mind, and sinful things, too. all these years cannot be blotted out nor forgotten." "but they are past, cousin hugh, and forgiven, and in one sense blotted out. there is nothing of them left that need hinder you from being happy here again." "ah, well, that may be. god is good. but i was thinking of something else when i spoke first. i was thinking that i am not a farmer." "but you can learn to be one. it's easy enough." "i am afraid i should not find it easy. i am afraid i should not do justice to the place. it spoils one for a quiet life, to be knocked about in the world as i have been. and i know i could never make my mother happy if i were discontented myself; at least, if she knew of my discontent." "she would be sure to see it. you couldn't hide it from her, if discontent was in your heart. my aunt doesn't say much, but she sees clearly. but why should you not be happy here? i can't understand it." "no; i trust you may never be able to understand it. archie, lad, it is one of the penalties of an evil life that it changes the nature, so that the love of pure and simple pleasures, which it drives away, has but a small chance of coming back again, even when the life is amended. it is a sad experience." "but an evil life, cousin hugh! you should not say that," said archie sorrowfully. "well, what would you have? a life of disobedience to one's mother, ten years of forgetfulness--no, not forgetfulness, but neglect of her. surely that cannot be called other than an evil life. and it bears its fruit." there was a long pause; and then archie said: "cousin hugh, i'll tell you what i would do. i would speak to my aunt about it. if it is true that you could never settle down contented here, she will be sure to see that it is best for you to go, and she will say so. i once heard james muir say that he knew no woman who surpassed my aunt in sense and judgment. she will be sure to see what is right, and tell you what to do." pleasure and pain oddly mingled in the feelings with which hugh listened to his cousin's grave commendation of his mother's sense and judgment; but he felt that there was nothing better to be done than to tell her all that was in his heart, and he lost no time in doing so, and archie's words were made good. she saw the situation at a glance, and told him "what to do." much as she would have liked to have her son near her, she knew that he was too old to acquire new tastes, and too young to be content with a life of comparative inactivity. she told him so, heartily and cheerfully, not marring the effect of her words by any murmurs or repinings of her own. she only once said: "if you could but have stayed in scotland, hugh, lad; for your mother is growing old." "who knows but it may be so arranged?" said hugh thoughtfully. "there is a branch of our house in l--. it might be managed. but, whether or not, i have a year, perhaps two, before me yet." but it came to pass, all the same, that before the month of may was out they were all settled at glen elder. though "that weary spendthrift," maxwell of pentlands, as mrs stirling called him, could not break the entail on the estate of pentlands, as for the sake of his many debts and his sinful pleasures he madly tried to do, he could dispose of the outlying farm of glen elder; and hugh blair became the purchaser of the farm and of a broad adjoining field, called the nether park. so he owned the land that his fathers had only leased; or, rather, his mother owned it, for it was purchased in her name, and was hers to have and to hold, or to dispose of as she pleased. his mother's comfort, hugh said, and the welfare of his young cousins, must not be left to the risks and chances of business. they must be put beyond dependence on his uncertain life or possible failure, or he could not be quite at rest with regard to them when he should be far away. glen elder had not suffered in the hands of english smith. as a faithful servant of the owner, he had held it on favourable terms, and had hoped to hold it long. so he had done well by the land, as all the neighbours declared; though at first they had watched his new-fangled plans with jealous eyes. it was "in good heart" when it changed hands, and was looking its very best on the bright may day when they went home to it. it was a happy day to them all, though it was a sad one, too, for hugh and his mother. but the sadness passed away in the cheerful bustle of welcome from old friends; and it was not long before they settled down into a quiet and pleasant routine. the coming home, and the new life opening before her, seemed for a long time strange and unreal to lilias. she used to wake in the morning with the burden of her cottage-cares upon her, till the sight of her pleasant room, and the sunshine coming in through the clustering roses, chased her anxious thoughts away. the sense of repose that gradually grew upon her in her new home was very grateful to her; but she did not enter eagerly into the new interests and pleasures, as her brother did. indeed, she could do very little but be still and enjoy the rest and quiet; for, when all necessity for exertion was over, that came upon her which must have come soon at any rate: her strength quite gave way, and, for some time, anxiety on her account sobered the growing happiness of the rest. even her aunt did not realise till then how much beyond her strength had been the child's exertions during the winter and spring. not that she would acknowledge herself to be ill. she was only tired, and would be herself again in a little while. but months passed before that time came. for many a day she lay on the sofa in the long, low parlour of glen elder, only wishing to be left in peace, smiling now and then into the anxious faces of her aunt and archie, saying "it was so nice to be quiet and to have nothing to do." but this passed away. in a little while she was beguiled into the sunny garden, and before the harvest-holidays set archie at liberty she was quite ready and able for a renewal of their rambles among the hills again. as for mrs blair, the return of her son, and the coming home to glen elder, did not quite renew her youth; but when the burden that had bowed her down for so many years was taken away, the change in her was pleasant to see. for a long time she rejoiced with trembling over her returned wanderer; but as day after day passed, each leaving her more assured that it was not her wayward lad that had returned to her, but a true penitent and firm believer in jesus, a deeper peace settled down upon her long-tried spirit, and "i waited patiently for the lord; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. he hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. and he hath put a new song in my mouth," became a part of her daily thanksgiving. as for him, if it had been the one desire of his life to atone for the sorrow he had caused her in his youth, he could not have done otherwise than he did. he made her comfort his first care. her slightest intimation was law to him. silently and unobtrusively, but constantly, did he manifest a grave and respectful tenderness towards her, till she, as well as others, could not but wonder, remembering the lad who would let nothing come between him and the gratification of his own foolish desires. "you dinna mind your cousin hugh, lilias, my dear?" said mrs stirling to her one day. "i mind him well--the awfulest laddie for liking his own way that ever was heard tell of! you see, being the only one left to her, his mother thought of him first always, till he could hardly do otherwise than think first of himself; and a sore heart he gave her many a time. there's a wonderful difference now. it must just be that," added she, meditatively. "`a new heart will i give you, and a right spirit will i put within you.' lilias, my dear, he's a changed man." a bright colour flashed into lilias's face, and tears started in her eyes. "i am sure of it! we may be poor and sick and sorrowful again, but the worst of my aunt's troubles can never come back to her more." he was very kind to his young cousins, partly because he wished to repay the love and devotion which had brightened so many of his mother's dark days, but chiefly because he soon loved them dearly for their own sakes. lilias he always treated with a respect and deference which, but for the gentle dignity with which his kindness was received by her, might have seemed a little out of place offered to one still such a child. with archie he was different. the gravity and reserve which seemed to have become habitual to hugh blair in his intercourse with others never showed itself to him. the frank, open nature of the lad seemed to act as a charm upon him. the perfect simplicity of his character, the earnestness with which he strove first of all to do right, filled his cousin with wonder, and oftentimes awoke within him bitter regret at the remembrance of what his own youth had been; and a living lesson did the unconscious lad become to him many a time. no one rejoiced more heartily than did mrs stirling at the coming home of hugh blair and the consequent change of circumstances to his mother and his little cousins; but her joy was expressed in her own fashion. one might have supposed that, in her opinion, some great calamity had befallen them, so dismal were her prophecies concerning them. "it's true you have borne adversity well, and that is in a measure a preparation for the well-bearing of prosperity. but there's no telling. the heart is deceitful, and it is no easy to carry a full cup. you'll need grace, lilias, my dear. and you'll doubtless get it if you seek it in a right spirit." but, judging from mrs stirling's melancholy tones and shakings of the head, it was plain to see that she expected there would be failure somewhere. with keen eyes she watched for some symptoms of the spoiling process in lilias, and was slow to believe that she was not going to be disappointed in her, as she had been in so many others. but time went on, and lilias passed unscathed through what, in nancy's estimation, was the severest of all ordeals. she was sent to a school "to learn accomplishments," and came home again, after two years, "not a bit set up." so mrs stirling came to feel at last that she might have faith in the stability of her young favourite. "she's just the very same lilias elder that used to teach the bairns and go wandering over the hills with her brother; only she's blither and bonnier. she's miss elder of the glen now, as i heard young mr graham calling her to his friend; but she's no' to call changed for all that." and mrs stirling was right. lilias was not changed. prosperity did no unkind office for her. those happy days developed in her no germ of selfishness. still her first thought was for others, the first desire of her heart still was to know what was right, and to obtain grace and strength to do it. in some respects she might be changed, but in this she was the very same. she grew taller and wore a brighter bloom on her cheeks, and she gradually outgrew the look that was older than her years; but she never lost the gentle gravity that had made her seem so different from the other children in the eyes of those who knew her in her time of many cares. nancy had not the same confidence in archie. not that she could find much fault with him; but he had never been so great a favourite with her as his sister, and his boyish indifference to her praise or blame did not, in her opinion, accord with the possession of much sense or discretion. "and, miss lilias, my dear, it's no' good for a laddie like him to be made so much of," said she. "the most of the lads that i have seen put first and cared for most have, in one way or another, turned out a disappointment. either they turned wilful, and went their own way to no good; or they turned soft, and were a vexation. and it would be a grievous thing indeed if the staff on which you lean should be made a rod to correct you, my dear." but lilias feared no disappointment in her brother. "`the law of the lord is in his heart, none of his steps shall slide,'" she answered softly to mrs stirling; and even she confessed that surely he needed no other safeguard. a great deal might be told of the happy days that followed at glen elder. hugh blair never went back to india again. he married--much to his mother's joy--one whom he had loved, and who had loved him, in the old time, before evil counsels had beguiled him from his duty and driven him from his home,--one who had never forgotten him during all those sorrowful days of waiting. their home was at a distance; but they were often at glen elder, and mrs blair's declining days were overshadowed by no doubt as to the well-doing or the well-being of her son. archie went first to the high school, and then to college. the master was loth to part from his favourite pupil; but david graham was going. it would be well, the master said, for davie to get through the first year of the temptations while his brother john was there "to keep an eye on him;" and davie's best friends and warmest admirers could not but agree, and, though not even the doubting nancy was afraid for archie as his master was afraid for his more thoughtless friend, it was yet thought best that the friends should go together. archie had some troubles in his school and college life, as who has not? but he had many pleasures. he gained honour to himself as a scholar, and, what was better, he was ever known as one who feared god and who sought before all things his honour. lilias passed her school-days with her friend anne graham, in the house of the kind dr gordon. it need not be said that they were happy, and that they greatly improved under the gentle and judicious guidance of mrs gordon, and that lilias learnt to love her dearly. and when their school-days were over, there followed a useful and happy life at home. the girls kept up their old friendship begun that day in the kirk-yard, with fewer ups and downs than generally characterise the friendships of girls of their age. another than lilias might have fancied anne's tone to be a little peremptory sometimes; but, if miss graham thought herself wiser than her friend in some things, she as fully believed in her friend's superior goodness; and not one of all the little flock that lilias used to rule and teach in the cottage by the common, long ago, deferred more to her than, in her heart, did anne. so a constant and pleasant intercourse was kept up between them, and lilias was as much at home in the manse as in the glen. they still pursued what davie derisively called "their studies." that is, they read history and other books together, some of them grave and useful books, and some of them not quite so useful, but nice books for all that. lilias delighted in poetry, and in the limited number of works of imagination permitted within the precincts of the manse. anne liked them too; but, believing it to be a weakness, she said less about her enjoyment of them. indeed, it was her wont to check the raptures of lilias and her little sister jessie over some of their favourites, and to rebuke the murmurs of the latter over books that were "good, but not bonny." they had other pleasures, too--gardening, and rambles among the hills, and cottage-visiting. but the chief business and pleasure of lilias was in caring for the comfort of her aunt, and in the guiding of the household affairs at glen elder. matters within and without were so arranged that, while she might always be busy, she was never burdened with care; and so the quiet days passed on, each bringing such sweet content as does not often fall to the lot of any household for a long time together. but, though lilias took pleasure in her friends and her home, her books and her household occupations, her best and highest happiness did not rest on these. afterwards, when changes came, bringing anxious nights and sorrowful days, when the shadow of death hung over the household, and the untoward events of life seemed to threaten separation from friends who were none the less dear because no tie of blood united them, the foundation of her peace was unshaken. "for they that trust in the lord shall be as mount zion, that cannot be removed." here for the present our story must close. they went home to glen elder in may. three years passed, and may came again, and glen elder and kirklands, and all the hills and dales between, were looking their loveliest in their changing robes of brown and purple and green. the air was sweet with the scent of hawthorn-blossoms, and vocal with the song of birds and the hum of bees. there was not a fleck of cloud on all the sky, nor of mist on all the hills. the day was perfect, warm, bright, and still; such a day as does not come many times in all the scottish year. nancy stirling stood at her cottage-door, looking out over the green slope, and the burn running full to the fields beyond, and the faraway hills; and, as she looked, she sighed, and quite forgot the water-bucket in her hand, and that she was on her way to the burn for water to make her afternoon cup of tea. we speak of spring as a joyful season; we say, "the glad spring," and "the merry, merry may;" and it is a glad season to the birds and the bees, the lambs and the little children, and to grown people, too, who have nothing very sad to remember. but the coming back of so many fair things as the spring brings reminds many a one of fair things which can never come again; and hearts more contented than mrs stirling's was, sometimes sigh in the light of such a day. "it's a bonny day," said she to herself, "a seasonable day for the country; and we should be thankful." but she sighed again as she said it; and, for no reason that she could give, her thoughts wandered away to a row of graves in the kirk-yard, and farther away still, to a home and a time in which she saw herself a little child, so blithe, so full of happy life, that, as it all came back, she could not but wonder how she ever should have changed to the troubled, dissatisfied woman that she knew herself to be. "oh, well! it couldna but be so, in a world like this. such changes ay have been, and ay must be," said she, trying to comfort herself with the "old philosophy." but she did not quite succeed. for the passing years had changed her, and it came into her mind, as it had often come of late, that she might perhaps have made a better use of all that life had brought her. but it was not a pleasant thought to pursue; and she gave a little start of relief and pleasure as she caught sight of two figures coming slowly up the brae. "it's lilias elder and archie. she'll have nothing left to wish for now that she has him home again. eh! but she's a bonnie lassie, and a good! and archie, too, is a well-grown lad, and not so set up as he might be, considering." it was lilias and her brother. archie was at home, after his first session at the college; and nancy was right; lilias had little left to wish for. "well, bairns," she said, after the first greetings were over, "will you come in, or will you sit down here at the door? it's such a bonny day. so you're home again, archie, lad, and glad to be, i hope?" "very glad," said archie. "i never was so glad before." "you said that last time," said lilias, laughing. "well, maybe i did. but it's true all the same. i'm more glad every time." "and you didna come home before it was time," said nancy. "you're thinner and paler than your aunt likes to see you, i'm thinking." "i'm perfectly well, i assure you," said archie. "he will have a rest and the fresh country air again," said lilias. "he has been very close at his books." "well, it may be that," said mrs stirling. "and so you're glad to be home again? you havena been letting that daft laddie, davie graham, lead you into any mischief that you would be afraid to tell your sister about, i hope?" archie laughed, and shook his head. lilias laughed a little, too, as she said-- "oh no, indeed. even john says they have done wonderfully well: and after that you need have no fear." "it's not unlikely that two or three things might happen in such a place, and john graham be none the wiser. and it's not likely that he'll say any ill of your brother in your hearing," said nancy drily. "not that i'm misdoubting you, archie, man; and may you be kept safe, for your sister's sake!" "for a better reason than that, i hope, mrs stirling," said lilias gravely. "well, so be it; though his sister is a good enough reason for him, i hope. but where have you been? to see bell ray? how is she to-day, poor body?" "we have not been there," said lilias. "we meant to go when we came from home; but we stayed so long down yonder that we had no time. i am going some day soon." "and where's `down yonder,' if i may ask?" demanded mrs stirling. "at the moor cottage," said lilias. "we came over the hills to see it again, just to mind us of old times." "and we stayed so long, speaking about these old times, that we are likely to be late home," said archie; "and they are all coming up from the manse, to have tea in the glen. we must make haste home, lily." "yes; and we stayed a while at the old seat under the rowan-tree. we could only just reach it, the burn is so full. and look at all the flowers i found in the cottage-garden--heart's-ease, and daisies, and sweet-brier, and thyme. it seemed a pity to leave them, with nobody to see them. give me something to put them in, mrs stirling, and i'll leave some of them for you. we will have time enough for that, archie, never fear." she sat down on the door-step, and laid the flowers on her lap. "and wherefore should you be caring to mind yourselves of the old times, i wonder?" said nancy, as she sat down beside her, holding the jug for the flowers in her hand. "some of those days were sad enough, i'm sure. maybe it's to make you humble?" "yes, and thankful," said lilias softly. "and those days were very pleasant, too, in one way," said archie. "ay, to you, lad. but some of them brought small pleasure to your sister, i'm thinking," said nancy sharply. "you're a wise lad, but you dinna ken everything that came in those old times, as you call them." "but some of the things that i like best to remember happened on some of the very worst of those days," said lilias. "i should never have known half your goodness, for one thing. do you mind that last day that i came to you? oh, how weary i was that day!" "and much good i did you," said nancy. "indeed you did, more than i could tell you then, more than i can tell you now," said lilias, giving the last touch to the flowers as she rose. "i like to think of those days. we are all the happier now for the troubles of the old times." "and truly i think you'll ay be but the happier for whatever time may bring you," said nancy musingly, as she watched them hastening over the hill together. "`to mind us of the old times,'" quoth she. "there are few folk but would be glad to forget, and to make others forget, `the hole of the pit.' and look at these flowers, now! who but lilias elder would think of a poor body like me caring for what is good neither to eat nor to drink? she's like no one else. and as for her brother, he's not so set up as folk might expect. may they be kept safe from the world's taint and stain! i suppose the lord can do it. i'm sure he can. `the law of the lord is in his heart, none of his steps shall slide.' she said it of her brother once; and if it is true of him it's true of her. it is that that makes the difference. they have no cause to be afraid, even though `the earth be removed.' eh! but it is a grand thing to have the lord on our side! nothing can go far wrong with us then." [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: looking out for father] little meg's children by hesba stretton author of 'jessica's first prayer,' 'alone in london,' 'pilgrim street,' 'no place like home,' etc. with a frontispiece by harold copping and other illustrations london the religious tract society paternoster row and st. paul's churchyard contents chap. i. motherless ii. little meg as a mourner iii. little meg's cleaning day iv. little meg's treat to her children v. little meg's neighbour vi. little meg's last money vii. little meg's disappointment viii. little meg's red frock in pawn ix. little meg's friends in need x. little meg as charwoman xi. little meg's baby xii. the end of little meg's trouble xiii. little meg's father xiv. little meg's farewell little meg's children chapter i motherless in the east end of london, more than a mile from st paul's cathedral, and lying near to the docks, there is a tangled knot of narrow streets and lanes, crossing and running into one another, with blind alleys and courts leading out of them, and low arched passages, and dark gullies, and unsuspected slums, hiding away at the back of the narrowest streets; forming altogether such a labyrinth of roads and dwellings, that one needs a guide to thread a way among them, as upon pathless solitudes or deserts of shifting sands. in the wider streets it is possible for two conveyances to pass each other; for in some of them, towards the middle of their length, a sweeping curve is taken out of the causeway on either side to allow of this being done; but in the smaller and closer streets there is room spared only for the passage to and fro of single carts, while here and there may be found an alley so narrow that the neighbours can shake hands, if they would, from opposite windows. many of the houses are of three or four stories, with walls, inside and out, dingy and grimed with smoke, and with windows that scarcely admit even the gloomy light which finds a way through the thick atmosphere, and down between the high, close buildings. a few years ago in one of these dismal streets there stood a still more dismal yard, bearing the name of angel court, as if there yet lingered among those grimy homes and their squalid occupants some memories of a brighter place and of happier creatures. angel court was about nine feet wide, and contained ten or twelve houses on each side, with one dwelling at the further end, blocking up the thoroughfare, and commanding a view down the close, stone-paved yard, with its interlacing rows of clothes-lines stretched from window to window, upon which hung the yellow, half-washed rags of the inhabitants. this end house was three stories high, without counting a raised roof of red tiles, forming two attics; the number of rooms in all being eight, each one of which was held by a separate family, as were most of the other rooms in the court. to possess two apartments was almost an undreamed-of luxury. there was certainly an advantage in living in the attics of the end house in angel court, for the air was a trifle purer there and the light clearer than in the stories below. from the small windows might be seen the prospect, not only of the narrow court, but of a vast extent of roofs, with a church spire here and there, and the glow of the sky behind them, when the sun was setting in a thick purplish cloud of smoke and fog. there was greater quiet also, and more privacy up in the attics than beneath, where all day long people were trampling up and down the stairs, and past the doors of their neighbours' rooms. the steep staircase ended in a steeper ladder leading up to the attics, and very few cared to climb up and down it. it was perhaps for these reasons that the wife of a sailor, who had gone to sea eight months before, had chosen to leave a room lower down, for which he had paid the rent in advance, in order to mount into higher and quieter quarters with her three children. whatever may have been her reason, it is certain that the sailor's wife, who had been ailing before her husband's departure, had, for some weeks past, been unable to descend the steep ladder into the maze of busy streets, to buy the articles necessary for her little household, and that she had steadily refused all aid from her neighbours, who soon left off pressing it upon her. the only nurse she had, and the only person to whom she would entrust her errands, was her eldest child, a small, spare, stunted girl of london growth, whose age could not be more than ten years, though she wore the shrewd, anxious air of a woman upon her face, with deep lines wrinkling her forehead and puckering about her keen eyes. her small bony hands were hard with work; and when she trod to and fro about the crowded room, from the bedside to the fireplace, or from the crazy window to the creaking door, which let the cold draughts blow in upon the ailing mother, her step was slow and silent, less like that of a child than of a woman who was already weary with much labour. the room itself was not large enough to cause a great deal of work; but little meg had had many nights of watching lately, and her eyes were heavy for want of sleep, with the dark circles underneath them growing darker every day. the evening had drawn in, but meg's mother, her head propped up with anything that could be made into a pillow, had watched the last glow of the light behind the chimneys and the church spires, and then she turned herself feebly towards the glimmer of a handful of coals burning in the grate, beside which her little daughter was undressing a baby twelve months old, and hushing it to sleep in her arms. another child had been put to bed already, upon a rude mattress in a corner of the room, where she could not see him; but she watched meg intently, with a strange light in her dim eyes. when the baby was asleep at last, and laid down on the mattress upon the floor, the girl went softly back to the fire, and stood for a minute or two looking thoughtfully at the red embers. 'little meg!' said her mother, in a low, yet shrill voice. meg stole across with a quiet step to the bedside, and fastened her eyes earnestly upon her mother's face. 'do you know i'm going to die soon?' asked the mother. 'yes,' said meg, and said no more. 'father'll be home soon,' continued her mother, 'and i want you to take care of the children till he comes. i've settled with mr grigg downstairs as nobody shall meddle with you till father comes back. but, meg, you've got to take care of that your own self. you've nothing to do with nobody, and let nobody have nothing to do with you. they're a bad crew downstairs, a very bad crew. don't you ever let any one of 'em come across the door-step. meg, could you keep a secret?' 'yes, i could,' said meg. 'i think you could,' answered her mother, 'and i'll tell you why you mustn't have nothing to do with the crew downstairs. meg, pull the big box from under the bed.' the box lay far back, where it was well hidden by the bed; but by dint of hard pulling meg dragged it out, and the sailor's wife gave her the key from under her pillow. when the lid was open, the eyes of the dying woman rested with interest and longing upon the faded finery it contained--the bright-coloured shawl, and showy dress, and velvet bonnet, which she used to put on when she went to meet her husband on his return from sea. meg lifted them out carefully one by one, and laid them on the bed, smoothing out the creases fondly. there were her own best clothes, too, and the children's; the baby's nankeen coat, and robin's blue cap, which never saw the light except when father was at home. she had nearly emptied the box, when she came upon a small but heavy packet. 'that's the secret, meg,' said her mother in a cautious whisper. 'that's forty gold sovereigns, as doesn't belong to me, nor father neither, but to one of his mates as left it with him for safety. i couldn't die easy if i thought it wouldn't be safe. they'd go rooting about everywhere; but, meg, you must never, never, never let anybody come into the room till father's at home.' 'i never will, mother,' said little meg. 'that's partly why i moved up here,' she continued. 'why, they'd murder you all if they couldn't get the money without. always keep the door locked, whether you're in or out; and, meg dear, i've made you a little bag to wear round your neck, to keep the key of the box in, and all the money i've got left; it'll be enough till father comes. and if anybody meddles, and asks you when he's coming, be sure say you expect him home to-day or to-morrow. he'll be here in four weeks, on robin's birthday, may be. do you know all you've got to do, little meg?' 'yes,' she answered. 'i'm to take care of the children, and the money as belongs to one of father's mates; and i must wear the little bag round my neck, and always keep the door locked, and tell folks i expect father home to-day or to-morrow, and never let nobody come into our room.' 'that's right,' murmured the dying woman. 'meg, i've settled all about my burial with the undertaker and mr grigg downstairs; and you'll have nothing to do but stay here till they take me away. if you like, you and robin and baby may walk after me; but be sure see everybody out, and lock the door safe afore you start.' she lay silent for some minutes, touching one after another the clothes spread upon the bed as meg replaced them in the box, and then, locking it, put the key into the bag, and hung it round her neck. 'little meg,' said her mother, 'do you remember one sunday evening us hearing a sermon preached in the streets?' 'yes, mother,' answered meg promptly. 'what was it he said so often?' she whispered. 'you learnt the verse once at school.' 'i know it still,' said meg. '"if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"' 'ay, that's it,' she said faintly; 'and he said we needn't wait to be god's children, but we were to ask him for good things at once, because he had sent his own son to be our saviour, and to die for us. "them that ask him, them that ask him"; he said it over and over again. eh! but i've asked him a hundred times to let me live till father comes home, or to let me take baby along with me.' 'may be that isn't a good thing,' said meg. 'god knows what are good things.' the dying mother pondered over these words for some time, until a feeble smile played upon her wan face. 'it 'ud be a good thing anyhow,' she said, 'to ask him to forgive me my sins, and take me to heaven when i die--wouldn't it, meg?' yes, that's sure to be a good thing,' answered meg thoughtfully. 'then i'll ask him for that all night,' said her mother, 'and to be sure take care of you all till father comes back. that 'ud be another good thing.' she turned her face round to the wall with a deep sigh, and closed her eyelids, but her lips kept moving silently from time to time. meg cried softly to herself in her chair before the fire, but presently she dozed a little for very heaviness of heart, and dreamed that her father's ship was come into dock, and she, and her mother, and the children were going down the dingy streets to meet him. she awoke with a start; and creeping gently to her mother's side, laid her warm little hand upon hers. it was deadly cold, with a chill such as little meg had never before felt; and when her mother neither moved nor spoke in answer to her repeated cries, she knew that she was dead. chapter ii little meg as a mourner for the next day, and the night following, the corpse of the mother lay silent and motionless in the room where her three children were living. meg cried bitterly at first; but there was robin to be comforted, and the baby to be played with when it laughed and crowed in her face. robin was nearly six years old, and had gained a vague, dim knowledge of death by having followed, with a troop of other curious children, many a funeral that had gone out from the dense and dirty dwellings to the distant cemetery, where he had crept forward to the edge of the grave, and peeped down into what seemed to him a very dark and dreadful depth. when little meg told him mother was dead, and lifted him up to kneel on the bedside and kiss her icy lips for the last time, his childish heart was filled with an awe which almost made him shrink from the sight of that familiar face, scarcely whiter or more sunken now than it had been for many a day past. but the baby stroked the quiet cheeks, whilst chuckling and kicking in meg's arms, and shouted, 'mam! mam! mam!' until she caught it away, and pressing it tightly to her bosom, sat down on the floor by the bed, weeping. 'you've got no mam but me now, baby,' cried little meg. she sat still for a while, with robin lying on the ground beside her, his face hidden in her ragged frock; but the baby set up a pitiful little wail, and she put aside her own grief to soothe it. 'hush! hush!' sang meg, getting up, and walking with baby about the room. 'hush, hush, my baby dear! by-by, my baby, by-by!' meg's sorrowful voice sank into a low, soft, sleepy tone, and presently the baby fell fast asleep, when she laid it upon robin's little mattress, and covered it up gently with an old shawl. robin was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing at his mother with wide-open, tearless eyes; and little meg softly drew the sheet again over the pale and rigid face. 'robbie,' she said, 'let's sit in the window a bit.' they had to climb up to the narrow window-sill by a broken chair which stood under it; but when they were there, and meg had her arm round robin, to hold him safe, they could see down into angel court, and into the street beyond, with its swarms of busy and squalid people. upon the stone pavement far below them a number of children of every age and size, but all ill-clothed and ill-fed, were crawling about, in and out of the houses, and their cries and shrieks came up to them in their lofty seat; but of late their mother had not let them run out to play in the streets, and they were mostly strangers to them except by sight. now and then meg and robin cast a glance inwards at the quiet and still form of their mother, lying as if silently watching them with her half-closed eyes, and when they spoke to one another they spoke in whispers. 'mother is going to live with the angels,' said meg. 'what are angels?' asked robin, his glittering black eyes glancing at the bed where she lay in her deep sleep. 'oh, i'm not quite sure,' answered meg. 'only they're beautiful people, who are always white and clean, and shining, like that big white cloud up in the sky. they live somewhere up in the sky, where it's always sunny, and bright, and blue.' 'how 'll mother get up there?' inquired robin. 'well, i suppose,' replied meg, after some reflection, 'after they've put her in the ground, the angels 'll come and take her away. i read once of a poor beggar, oh such a poor beggar! full of sores, and he died, and the angels carried him away somewhere. i thought, may be, they'd come for mother in the night; but i suppose they let people be buried first now, and fetch 'em away after.' 'i should like to see some angels,' said robin. they were silent again after that, looking down upon the quarrelling children, and the drunken men and women staggering about the yard below. now and then a sharper scream rang through the court, as some angry mother darted out to cuff one or another of the brawling groups, or to yell some shrill reproach at the drunken men. no sound came to the ears of the listening children except the din and jarring tumult of the crowded city; but they could see the white clouds floating slowly across the sky over their heads, which seemed to little meg like the wings of the waiting angels, hovering over the place where her mother lay dead. 'meg,' said robin, 'why do they call this angel court? did the angels use to live here?' 'i don't think they ever could,' she answered sadly, 'or it must have been a long, long time ago. perhaps they can't come here now, so they're waiting for mother to be taken out to the burying-ground afore they can carry her up to the sky. may be that's it.' 'meg,' whispered robin, pressing closer to her side, 'what's the devil?' 'oh, i don't know,' cried meg; 'only he's dreadfully, dreadfully wicked.' 'as wicked as father is when he's drunk?' asked robin. 'oh, a hundred million times wickeder,' answered meg eagerly. 'father doesn't get drunk often; and you mustn't be a naughty boy and talk about it.' it was already a point of honour with little meg to throw a cloak over her father's faults; and she spoke so earnestly that robin was strongly impressed by it. he asked no more questions for some time. 'meg,' he said at last, 'does the devil ever come here?' 'i don't think he does,' answered meg, with a shrewd shake of her small head; 'i never see him, never. folks are bad enough without him, i guess. no, no; you needn't be frightened of seeing him, robbie.' 'i wish there wasn't any devil,' said robin. 'i wish everybody in london was good,' said meg. they sat a while longer on the window-sill, watching the sparrows, all fluffy and black, fluttering and chattering upon the house-tops, and the night fog rising from the unseen river, and hiding the tall masts, which towered above the buildings. it was dark already in the court below; and here and there a candle had been lit and placed in a window, casting a faint twinkle of light upon the gloom. the baby stirred, and cried a little; and meg lifted robin down from his dangerous seat, and put two or three small bits of coal upon the fire, to boil up the kettle for their tea. she had done it often before, at the bidding of her mother; but it seemed different now. mother's voice was silent, and meg had to think of everything herself. soon after tea was over she undressed robin and the baby, who soon fell asleep again; and when all her work was over, and the fire put out, little meg crept in beside them on the scanty mattress, with her face turned towards the bed, that she might see the angels if they came to carry her mother away. but before long her eyelids drooped over her drowsy eyes, and, with her arm stretched lightly across both her children, she slept soundly till daybreak. no angels had come in the night; but early in the morning a neighbouring undertaker, with two other men, and mr grigg, the landlord, who lived on the ground-floor, carried away the light burden of the coffin which contained meg's mother. she waited until all were gone, and then she locked the door carefully, and with baby in her arms, and robin holding by her frock, she followed the funeral at a distance, and with difficulty, through the busy streets. the brief burial service was ended before they reached the cemetery, but meg was in time to show robin the plate upon the coffin before the grave-digger shovelled down great spadefuls of earth upon it. they stood watching, with sad but childish curiosity, till all was finished; and then meg, with a heavy and troubled heart, took them home again to their lonely attic in angel court. chapter iii little meg's cleaning day for a few days meg kept up closely in her solitary attic, playing with robin and tending baby; only leaving them for a few necessary minutes, to run to the nearest shop for bread or oatmeal. two or three of the neighbours took the trouble to climb the ladder, and try the latch of the door, but they always found it locked; and if meg answered at all, she did so only with the door between them, saying she was getting on very well, and she expected father home to-day or to-morrow. when she went in and out on her errands, mr grigg, a gruff, surly man, who kept everybody about him in terror, did not break his promise to her mother, that he would let no one meddle with her; and very quickly the brief interest of angel court in the three motherless children of the absent sailor died away into complete indifference, unmingled with curiosity: for everybody knew the full extent of their neighbours' possessions; and the poor furniture of meg's room, where the box lay well hidden and unsuspected under the bedstead, excited no covetous desires. the tenant of the back attic, a girl whom meg herself had seen no oftener than once or twice, was away on a visit of six weeks, having been committed to a house of correction for being drunk and disorderly in the streets; so that by the close of the week in which the sailor's wife died no foot ascended or descended the ladder, except that of little meg. there were two things meg set her heart upon doing before father came home: to teach robin his letters, and baby to walk alone. robin was a quick, bright boy, and was soon filled with the desire to surprise his father by his new accomplishment; and meg and he laboured diligently together over the testament, which had been given to her at a night school, where she had herself learned to read a little. but with the baby it was quite another thing. there were babies in the court, not to be compared with meg's baby in other respects, who, though no older, could already crawl about the dirty pavement and down into the gutter, and who could even toddle unsteadily, upon their little bare feet, over the stone flags. meg felt it as a sort of reproach upon her, as a nurse, to have her baby so backward. but the utmost she could prevail upon it to do was to hold hard and fast by a chair, or by robin's fist, and gaze across the great gulf which separated her from meg and the piece of bread and treacle stretched out temptingly towards her. it was a wan, sickly baby with an old face, closely resembling meg's own, and meagre limbs, which looked as though they would never gain strength enough to bear the weight of the puny body; but from time to time a smile kindled suddenly upon the thin face, and shone out of the serious eyes--a smile so sweet, and unexpected, and fleeting, that meg could only rush at her, and catch her in her arms, thinking there was not such another baby in the world. this was the general conclusion to meg's efforts to teach her to walk, but none the less she put her through the same course of training a dozen times a day. sometimes, when her two children were asleep, little meg climbed up to the window-sill and sat there alone, watching the stars come out in that sky where her mother was gone to live. there were nights when the fog was too thick for her to see either them or the many glittering specks made by the lamps in the maze of streets around her; and then she seemed to herself to be dwelling quite alone with robin and baby, in some place cut off both from the sky above and the earth beneath. but by-and-by, as she taught robin out of the testament, and read in it herself two or three times a day, new thoughts of god and his life came to her mind, upon which she pondered, after her childish fashion, as she sat in the dark, looking out over the great vast city with its myriads of fellow-beings all about her, none of whom had any knowledge of her loneliness, or any sympathy with her difficulties. after a week was past, meg and her children made a daily expedition down to the docks, lingering about in any out-of-the-way corner till they could catch sight of some good-natured face, which threatened no unkind rebuff, and then meg asked when her father's ship would come in. very often she could get no satisfactory answer, but whenever she came across any one who knew the ocean king, she heard that it would most likely be in dock by the end of october. robin's birthday was the last day in october, so her mother's reckoning had been correct. father would be home on robbie's birthday; yet none the less was meg's anxious face to be seen day after day about the docks, seeking someone to tell her over again the good news. the last day but one arrived, and meg set about the scrubbing and the cleaning of the room heartily, as she had seen her mother do before her father's return. robin was set upon the highest chair, with baby on his lap, to look on at meg's exertions, out of the way of the wet flooring, upon which she bestowed so much water that the occupant of the room below burst out upon the landing, with such a storm of threats and curses as made her light heart beat with terror. when the cleaning of the room was done, she trotted up and down the three flights of stairs with a small can, until she had filled, as full as it would hold, a broken tub, which was to serve as a bath for robin and baby. it was late in the evening when all was accomplished, and meg looked around her with a glow of triumph on the clean room and the fresh faces of the children. very weary she felt, but she opened her testament, in which she had not had time to give robin a lesson that day, and she read a verse half aloud to herself. 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.' 'i wish i could go to jesus,' sighed little meg, 'for i've worked very hard all day; and he says he'd give me rest. only i don't know where to go.' she laid her head down on the pillow beside the baby's slumbering face, and almost before it rested there a deep sleep had come. perhaps meg's sigh had gone to jesus, and it was he who gave her rest; 'for so he giveth his beloved sleep.' chapter iv little meg's treat to her children robin's birthday dawned brightly, even into the dark deep shadows of angel court, and meg was awakened by the baby's two hands beating upon her still drowsy face, and trying to lift up her closed eyelids with its tiny fingers. she sprang up with a light heart, for father was coming home to-day. for the first time since her mother's death she dragged the box from under the bed, and with eager hands unlocked the lid. she knew that she dare not cross the court, she and the children, arrayed in the festive finery, without her father to take care of them; for she had seen other children stripped of all their new and showy clothes before they could reach the shelter of the larger streets. but meg was resolved that robin and baby at least should not meet their father in rags. she took out the baby's coat and hood, too small now even for the little head it was to cover, and robin's blue cap and brown holland pinafore. these things she made up into a bundle, looking longingly at her own red frock, and her bonnet with green ribbons: but meg shook her head at herself admonishingly. it never would do to risk an appearance in such gorgeous attire. the very utmost she could venture upon was to put some half-worn shoes on her own feet and robin's; for shoes were not in fashion for the children of angel court, and the unusual sound of their tread would attract quite as much attention as little meg dare risk. she dressed her children and set them on the bed, while she put her own rough hair as smooth as she could by a little glass in the lid of the trunk. her bonnet, which had originally belonged to her mother, had been once of black silk, but it was now brown with years, and the old shawl she pinned over the ragged bodice of her frock was very thin and torn at the edges; but meg's heart was full of hope, and nothing could drive away the smile from her careworn face this morning. with the baby in her arms she carefully descended the ladder, having put the door-key into the bag round her neck along with the key of the box and her last half-crown. then with stealthy steps she stole along under the houses, hushing robin, who was inclined to make an unnecessary clatter in his shoes; but fortunately the inhabitants of angel court were not early risers, and meg was off in good time, so they reached the outer streets safely, without notice or attack. before going down to the docks meg drew robin into an empty archway, and there exchanged his ragged cap and pinafore for those she had put up into her bundle. having dressed the baby also, she sat and looked at them both for a minute in mute admiration and delight. there could not be a prettier boy than robin in all london, she was sure, with his bright black eyes and curly hair, that twisted so tightly round her fingers. as for the baby with her shrewd old-womanish face, and the sweet smile which spoke a good deal plainer than words, meg could scarcely keep from kissing her all the time. how pleased and proud father would be! but when she remembered how she should have to tell him that mother was dead and buried, and none of them would ever see her again, meg's eyes were blinded with tears, and hiding her face in the baby's neck, she cried, whether for joy or sorrow she could hardly tell; until robin broke out into a loud wail of distress and terror, which echoed noisily under the low vault of the archway. little meg roused herself at the sound of robin's cry, and taking his hand in hers, with the baby upon her arm, she loitered about the entrance to the dockyard, till a good-tempered looking burly man came near to them. meg planted herself bravely in his way, and looked up wistfully into his red face. 'please, sir,' she said, 'could you tell me if father's ship's come in yet?' 'father's ship!' repeated the man in a kindly voice. 'why, what's the name of father's ship?' 'the ocean king,' said meg, trembling. 'it's in the river, my little lass,' he said, 'but it won't be in dock till night. father can't be at home afore to-morrow morning at the soonest.' 'thank you kindly, sir,' answered meg, her voice faltering with her great joy. her task was ended, then. to-morrow she would give up the key of the box with its secret treasure, which she hardly dared to think about, and then she could feel like a child once more. she did feel almost as gay as robin who was pattering and stamping proudly along in his shoes, and in the consciousness that it was his birthday. nobody else had such a thing as a birthday, so far as he knew; certainly none of his acquaintances in angel court, not even meg herself, for meg's birthday was lost in the depth of the ten years which had passed over her head. he scarcely knew what it was, for he could neither see it nor touch it; but he had it, for meg told him so, and it made him feel glad and proud. it was a bright, warm, sunny autumn day, with enough freshness in the breeze coming off the unseen river to make the air sweet and reviving; for meg was skirting about the more open streets, without venturing to pass through the closer and dirtier alleys. 'robbie,' she said after a time, when they had come to a halt upon the steps of a dwelling-house, 'robbie, i'll give you a treat to-day, because it's your birthday. we'll not go home till it's dark; and i'll take you to see temple gardens.' 'what are temple gardens?' demanded robin, his eyes eager for an answer. 'oh, you'll see,' said meg, not quite able to explain herself. 'i went there once, ever so many years ago, when i was a little girl. you'll like 'em ever so!' 'do we know the road?' asked robin doubtfully. 'i should think so!' replied meg; 'and if we didn't, there's the police. what's the police good for, if they couldn't tell a person like me the road to temple gardens? we'll have such a nice day!' the children trotted along briskly till they reached the broad thoroughfares and handsome shops of the main streets which traverse london, where a constant rush of foot passengers upon the pavement, and of conveyances in the roadway, hurry to and fro from morning to midnight. poor little meg stood for a few minutes aghast and stunned, almost fearful of committing herself and her children to the mighty stream; but robin pulled her on impatiently. he had been once as far as the mansion house, before the time when their mother's long illness had made them almost prisoners in their lonely attic; and meg herself had wandered several times as far as the great church of st paul. after the first dread was over, she found a trembling, anxious enjoyment in the sight of the shops, and of the well-dressed people in the streets. at one of the windows she was arrested by a full-size vision of herself, and robin, and the baby, reflected in a great glass, a hundred times larger than the little square in the box-lid at home. she could not quite keep down a sigh after her own red frock and best bonnet; but she comforted herself quickly with the thought that people would look upon her as the nurse of robin and baby, sent out to take them a walk. they did not make very rapid progress, for they stopped to look in at many shop windows, especially where there were baby-clothes for sale, or where there were waxen figures of little boys, life-size, dressed in the newest fashions, with large eyes of glass beads, not unlike robin's own black ones. the passage of the crossings was also long and perilous. meg ran first with the baby, and put her down safely on the other side in some corner of a doorway; then with a sinking and troubled heart, least any evil person should pick her up, and run away with her as a priceless treasure, she returned for robin. in this way she got over several crossings, until they reached the bottom of ludgate hill, where she stood shivering and doubting for a long time, till she fairly made up her mind to speak to the majestic policeman looking on calmly at the tumult about him. 'oh, if you please, mr police,' said meg, in a plaintive voice, 'i want to get these two little children over to the other side, and i don't know how to do it, except you'd please to hold baby while i take robbie across.' the policeman looked down from his great height, without bending his stiff neck, upon the childish creature who spoke to him, and meg's spirit sank with the fear of being ordered back again. but he picked up robin under his arm, and bidding her keep close beside him, he threaded his way through the throng of carriages. this was the last danger; and now with restored gaiety meg travelled on with her two children. [illustration: the policeman picked up robin under his arm, and threaded his way through the throng of carriages.] by-and-by they turned from the busy fleet street under a low archway, and in a minute they were out of the thunder of the streets which had almost drowned their voices, and found themselves in a place so quiet and so calm, with a sort of grave hush in the very air, that robin pressed close to meg's side, with something of the silent and subdued awe with which he might have entered a church. there were houses here, and courts, but not houses and courts like those from which they had come. here and there they came upon a long corridor, where the sun shone between the shadows of the pillars supporting the roof; and they looked along them with wondering eyes, not knowing where they could lead to, and too timid to try to find out. it was not a deserted place, but the number of people passing to and fro were few enough to make it seem almost a solitude to these poor children, who had travelled hither from the over-crowded slums of the east end. they could hear their own voices, when they spoke, ring out in such clear, echoing tones, that meg hushed robin, lest some of the grave, stern, thoughtful gentlemen who passed them should bid them begone, and leave the temple to its usual stillness. the houses seemed to them so large and grand, that meg, who had heard once of the queen, and had a dim notion of her as a lady of extraordinary greatness and grandeur, whispered to robin confidentially that she thought the queen must live here. they came upon a fountain in the centre of a small plot of grass and flowers, enclosed within high railings; and robin uttered a shrill cry of delight, which rang noisily through the quiet court where its waters played in the sunshine. but at last they discovered, with hearts as eagerly throbbing as those of the explorers of some new country, the gardens, the real temple gardens! the chrysanthemums were in full blossom, with all their varied tints, delicate and rich, glowing under the brightness of the noontide sun; and robin and meg stood still, transfixed and silent, too full of an excess of happiness to speak. 'oh, meg, what is it? what is it?' cried robin at last, with outstretched hands, as if he would fain gather them all into his arms. 'is it gardens, meg? is this temple gardens?' meg could not answer at first, but she held robin back from the flowers. she did not feel quite at home in this strange, sweet, sunny place; and she peeped in cautiously through the half-open iron gate before entering. there were a few other children there, with their nursemaids, but she felt there was some untold difference between her and them. but robin's delight had given him courage, and he rushed in tumultuously, running along the smooth walks in an ecstasy of joy; and meg could do nothing else but follow. presently, as nobody took any notice of her, she gave herself up to the gladness of the hour, and toiled up and down, under the weight of the baby, wherever robin wished to go, until he consented to rest a little while upon a seat which faced the river, where they could see the boats pass by. this was the happiest moment to meg. she thought of her father's ship coming up the river, bringing him home to her and the children; and she had almost lost the recollection of where she was, when robin, who had been very quiet for some time, pulled her by the shawl. 'look, meg,' he whispered. he pointed to a seat not far from them, where sat a lady, in a bright silk dress, and a velvet bonnet with a long rich feather across it. there were two children with her, a girl of meg's age, and a boy about as big as robin, dressed like a little highlander, with a kilt of many colours, and a silver-mounted pouch, and a dirk, which he was brandishing about before his mother, who looked on, laughing fondly and proudly at her boy. meg gazed, too, until she heard robin sob, and turning quickly to him, she saw the tears rolling quickly down his sorrowful face. 'nobody laughs to me, meg,' said robin. 'oh yes, robbie, i laugh to you,' cried meg; 'and father 'll laugh when he comes home to-morrow; and maybe god laughs to us, only we can't see his face.' 'i'd like to go home,' sobbed robin; and meg took her baby upon her tired arm, and turned her steps eastward once more. as they left temple gardens, languid and weary, meg saw the friendly man who had spoken kindly to them that morning at the docks passing by in an empty dray, and meeting her wistful eyes, he pulled up for a minute. 'hullo, little woman!' he shouted. 'are you going my way?' he pointed his whip towards st paul's, and meg nodded, for her voice could not have reached him through the din. 'hoist them children up here, that's a good fellow,' he said to a man who was standing by idle; and in a few seconds more they were riding triumphantly along fleet street in such a thrill and flutter of delight as meg's heart had never felt before, while robin forgot his sorrows, and cheered on the horses with all the power of his shrill voice. the dray put them down at about half a mile from angel court, while it was still broad daylight, and robin was no longer tired. meg changed her last half-crown, and spent sixpence of it lavishly in the purchase of some meat pies, upon which they feasted sumptuously, in the shelter of a doorway leading to the back of a house. chapter v little meg's neighbour when their feast was over, the children sauntered on slowly, not wishing to enter angel court till it was dark enough for robin's and baby's finery to pass by unseen; but as soon as it was dark they turned out of the main thoroughfare into the dingy streets more familiar to them. as they entered the house meg heard the deep gruff voice of mr grigg calling to her, and she went into his room, trembling, and holding the baby very tightly in her arms. it was a small room, the same size as their own attic, and the litter and confusion throughout made it impossible to go in more than a step or two. mr grigg was seated at a stained wooden table, upon which stood two large cups and a black bottle of gin, with a letter lying near to mr grigg's large and shaking hand. coming in from the fresh air of the night, meg coughed a little with the mingled fumes of gin and tobacco; but she coughed softly for fear of giving offence. 'here's a letter come for your mother, little meg,' said mr grigg, seizing it eagerly, 'i'll read it to you if you like.' 'oh no, thank you, sir,' answered meg quickly; 'father's coming home, and he'll read it to-morrow morning. his ship's in the river, and it'll be in dock to-night for certain. so he'll be home to-morrow.' upon hearing this news mr grigg thought it best to deliver up the letter to meg, but he did it so reluctantly that she hurried away lest he should reclaim it. robin was already halfway upstairs, but she soon overtook him, and a minute afterwards reached their own door. she was about to put the baby down to take out the key, when, almost without believing her own eyes, she saw that it was in the lock, and that a gleam of firelight shone through the chinks of the door. meg lifted the latch with a beating heart, and looked in before venturing to enter. the fire was lighted, but there seemed to be no other disturbance or change in the attic since the morning, except that in her mother's low chair upon the hearth there sat a thin slight woman, like her mother, with the head bowed down, and the face hidden in the hands. meg paused, wonder-stricken and speechless, on the door-sill; but robin ran forward quickly, with a glad shout of 'mother! mother!' at the sound of robin's step and cry the woman lifted up her face. it was a white, thin face, but younger than their mother's, though the eyes were red and sunken, as if with many tears, and there was a gloom upon it, as if it had never smiled a happy smile. meg knew it in an instant as the face of the tenant of the back attic, who had been in jail for six weeks, and her eye searched anxiously the dark corner under the bed, where the box was hidden. it seemed quite safe and untouched, but still meg's voice was troubled as she spoke. 'i thought i'd locked up all right,' she said, stepping into the room, while robin took refuge behind her, and regarded the stranger closely from his place of safety. 'ay, it was all right,' answered the girl, 'only you see my key 'd unlock it; and i felt cold and low coming out of jail to-day; and i'd no coal, nor bread, nor nothing. so i came in here, and made myself comfortable. don't you be crusty, little meg. you'd be the same if you'd been locked up for six weeks. i wish i were dead, i do.' the girl spoke sadly, and dropped her head again upon her hands, while meg stood in the middle of the floor, not knowing what to do or say. she sat down after a while upon the bedstead, and began taking off the baby's things, pondering deeply all the time what course of action she ought to follow. she could place herself so as to conceal completely the box under the bed; but if the girl's key would unlock her attic door, how was she ever to leave it for a moment in safety? then the thought flashed across her that father would be at home to-morrow, and she would no longer have to take care of the hidden treasure. in the meantime robin had stolen up to the stranger's side, and after closely considering her for some moments, he stroked her hand with his own small fingers. 'i thought you were mother, i did,' he said. 'it's my birthday to-day.' for one instant the girl looked at him with a smile in her sunken eyes, and then she lifted him on to her lap, and laid her face upon his curly head, sobbing bitterly. 'little meg,' she said, 'your mother spoke kind to me once, and now she's dead and gone. i wonder why i wasn't took instead o' her?' meg's tender heart closed itself no longer against the stranger. she got up from her seat, and crossing the floor to the fireside, she put the baby down by robin on her lap. 'you didn't ought to go into a person's room without asking leave,' she said; 'but if you'll hold baby for me, i'll soon get tea. i've got a little real tea left, and father 'll buy some more to-morrow. you mind the children till it's ready.' it was soon ready, and they drank and ate together, with few words. meg was intent upon getting her weary children to bed as soon as possible, and after it was over she undressed them at once. before robin got into bed she addressed the girl hesitatingly. 'robbie always says his prayers aloud to me,' she said; 'you won't mind, will you?' 'go on,' answered the girl, with a sob. 'robbie,' said meg, as he knelt at her knee, with his hands held up between both her hands, 'robbie, it's your birthday to-day; and if i was you i'd ask god for something more than other days. i'd ask him to bless everybody as well as us if i was you. if everybody was good, it'd be so nice.' 'yes, meg,' replied robin promptly, closing his black eyes before he began his prayer. 'pray god, bless father on the big sea, and bless me, and meg, and baby, and take care of us all. pray god, bless everybody, 'cept the devil. amen.' but robin did not get up from his knees. he dropped his head upon meg's lap, and when she moved he cried, 'stop a minute!' meg waited patiently until he lifted up his face again, and shutting his eyes very tightly, said, 'pray god, bless everybody, and the devil, and make him a good man. amen.' 'robbie,' said meg mournfully, 'i don't think the devil can be made good. he doesn't want to be good. if anybody wants to be good, god can make 'em good, anybody in all the world; but he won't if they don't want to.' robin was already half asleep, and gave little heed to meg's words. she tucked him snugly into his place beside baby, and stooping over them, kissed both their drowsy faces with a loving and lingering tenderness. then she turned to the fire, and saw the strange girl there upon her knees before her mother's chair, weeping again in a passion of tears. chapter vi little meg's last money 'what's the matter with you?' asked meg, laying her small rough hand upon the girl's head. 'oh, meg, meg!' she cried, 'i do want to be good, and i can't. you don't know how wicked i am; but once i was a good little girl like you. and now i can never, never be good again.' 'yes, you can,' answered little meg, 'if you ask god.' 'you don't know anything about it,' she said, pushing away meg's hand. 'i don't know much,' replied meg meekly; 'but jesus says in the bible, that if our fathers 'll give us good things, god 'll much more give good things to anybody as asks for 'em.' 'but i'm too bad to ask him,' said the girl. 'i don't know what's to be done, then,' answered meg. 'the bible says, "those that ask him"; and if you are too bad to ask him, i suppose he won't give you any good things.' the girl made no reply, but crouching down upon the hearth at meg's feet, she sat looking into the fire with the expression of one who is thinking deeply. meg too was silent for a time, smiling now and then as she recollected that father would be at home to-morrow. 'i don't know what you're called,' said meg, after a very long silence. 'oh, they call me kitty, and puss, and madcap, and all sorts o' names,' answered the girl, with a deep sigh. 'but that's not your christen name?' said meg. 'no,' she replied. 'what does your mother call you?' asked meg. for a moment little meg was terrified, for the girl seized her hands in a strong and painful grasp, and her red eyes flamed with anger; but she loosed her hold gradually, and then, in a choking voice, she said, 'don't you never speak to me about my mother!' 'have you got any money, kitty?' inquired meg, by way of turning the conversation. 'not a rap,' said kitty, laughing hoarsely. 'i've got two shillings left,' continued meg, 'and i'll give you one; only, if you please, you mustn't come into my room again, at least till father's at home. i promised mother not to let anybody at all come here. you'll not be angry, will you?' 'no, i'm not angry,' said kitty gently, 'and you must always do what your mother told you, little meg. she spoke kind to me once, she did. so i'll go away now, dear, and never come in again: but you wouldn't mind me listening at the door when robbie's saying his prayers sometimes?' 'no,' answered meg; 'and you may listen when i read up loud, if you like. i always read something afore i go to bed, and i'll speak up loud enough for you to hear.' 'i'll listen,' said kitty, standing up to go to her own dark, cold attic, and looking round sadly at meg's tidy room, all ready as it was for her father's arrival. 'i suppose you'd not mind me kissing the children afore i go?' 'oh no,' said meg, going with her to the bedside, and looking down fondly upon the children's sleeping faces. the baby's pale small face wore a smile upon it, as did robin's also, for he was dreaming of the gardens he had visited on his birthday. the girl bent over them, but she drew back without kissing them, and with a sharp painful tone in her voice she said, 'i wish i was dead, i do.' chapter vii little meg's disappointment if meg had been up early on robin's birthday, she was out of bed and about her preparations still earlier the next morning. she had time to go over again most of her brushing and rubbing of the scanty furniture before the children awoke. she reached out all their best clothes, and her own as well, for she did not intend to go down to the docks to meet her father, but thought it would be best to wait at home for his arrival. her hands were full, and her thoughts also, for some time; and it was not till the nearest clock struck eleven that she could consider all her preparations completed. when all her work was done, meg helped robin up to the window-sill, and climbed after him herself to the perilous seat, with the baby held fast upon her lap. it was the first time the baby had been allowed to occupy this dangerous place, and for the first few minutes meg was not without her fears; but it was weary and languid this morning, and sat quite still upon her lap, with its little head resting upon her shoulder, and its grave eyes looking out inquiringly upon the strange world in which it found itself. meg and robin watched every man who entered the court; and every now and then robin would clap his hands, and shout loudly, 'father, father!' making meg's arms tremble, and her heart beat fast with expectation. but it was nine months since he had gone away, and robin had almost forgotten him, so that it always proved not to be her father. hour after hour passed by, and meg cut up the last piece of bread for the children and herself, and yet he never came; though they stayed faithfully at their post, and would not give up looking for him as long as the daylight lasted. but the night drew near at last, an early night, for it was the first day in november, and london fogs grow thick then; and meg kindled the fire again, and sat down by it, unwilling to undress the children before he came. so she sat watching and waiting, until the baby fell into a broken, sobbing slumber on her lap, and robin lay upon the floor fast asleep. at length meg resolved to lay the children in bed, dressed as they were, and steal down herself to the docks, under the shelter of the fog, to see if she could learn any news of the ocean king. she drew the old shawl over her head, which well covered her red frock, and taking off her shoes and stockings--for father would not miss them in the night--she crept unseen and unheard down the dark staircase, and across the swarming, noisy court. the fog was growing thicker every minute, yet she was at no loss to find her way, so familiar it was to her. but when she reached the docks, the darkness of the night, as well as that of the fog, hid from her the presence of her good-natured friend, if indeed he was there. there were strange noises and rough voices to be heard, and from time to time the huge figure of some tall man appeared to her for an instant in the gloom, and vanished again before little meg could find courage to speak to him. she drew back into a corner, and peered eagerly, with wistful eyes, into the thick yellow mist which hid everything from them, while she listened to the clank of iron cables, and the loud sing-song of the invisible sailors as they righted their vessels. if she could only hear her father's voice among them! she felt sure she should know it among a hundred others, and she was ready to cry aloud the moment it reached her ears--to call 'father!' and he would be with her in an instant, and she in his arms, with her own clasped fast about his neck. oh, if he would but speak out of the darkness! meg's keen eyes grew dim with tears, and her ears seemed to become dull of hearing, from the very longing to see and hear more clearly. but she rubbed away the tears with her shawl, and pushed the tangled hair away behind her small ears, and with her hands pressed against her heart, to deaden its throbbing, she leaned forward to pierce, if possible, through the thick dark veil which separated her from her father. she had been there a long time when the thought crossed her, that perhaps after all he had been knocking at the door at home, and trying to open it; waking up the children, and making them cry and scream with terror at finding themselves quite alone. she started up to hurry away; but at that moment a man came close by, and in the extremity of her anxiety meg stopped him. 'please,' she said earnestly, 'is the ocean king come in yet?' 'ay,' was the answer. 'came in last night, all right and tight.' 'father must be come home, then,' thought meg, speeding away swiftly and noiselessly with her bare feet along the streets to angel court. she glanced up anxiously to her attic window, which was all in darkness, while the lower windows glimmered with a faint light from within. the landlord's room was full of a clamorous, quarrelling crew of drunkards; and meg's spirit sank as she thought--suppose father had been up to their attic, and finding it impossible to get in at once, had come down, and begun to drink with them! she climbed the stairs quickly, but all was quiet there; and she descended again to hang about the door, and listen, and wait; either to discover if he was there, or to prevent him turning in when he did come. little meg's heart was full of a woman's heaviest care and anxiety, as she kept watch in the damp and the gloom of the november night, till even the noisy party within broke up, and went their way, leaving angel court to a brief season of quietness. meg slept late in the morning, but she was not disturbed by any knock at the door. robin had crept out of bed and climbed up alone to the window-sill, where fortunately the window was shut and fastened; and the first thing meg's eyes opened upon was robin sitting there, in the tumbled clothes in which he had slept all night. the morning passed slowly away in mingled hope and fear; but no step came up the ladder to their door, and kitty had gone out early in the morning, before meg was awake. she spent her last shilling in buying some coal and oatmeal; and then, because it was raining heavily, she stationed herself on the topmost step of the stairs, with robin and baby, waiting with ever-growing dread for the long-delayed coming of her father. it was growing dark again before any footstep came further than the landing below, and then it was a soft, stealthy, slipshod step, not like the strong and measured tread of a man. it was a woman who climbed the steep ladder, and meg knew it could be no one else but kitty. the girl sat down on the top step beside them, and took robin upon her lap. 'what are you all doing out here, little meg?' she said, in a low, gentle voice, which meg could scarcely believe to be the same as that which had sometimes frightened her by its shrill shrieks of drunken merriment. 'we're looking for father,' she answered weariedly. 'he's never come yet, and i've spent all my money, and we've got no candles.' 'meg,' said kitty, 'i can pay you back the shilling you gave me on tuesday night.' 'but you mustn't come into our room, if you do,' answered meg. 'no, no, i'll not come in,' said she, pressing a shilling into meg's hand. 'but why hasn't father come home?' 'i don't know,' sobbed meg. 'his ship came in the night of robbie's birthday, that's two days ago; and he's never come yet.' 'the ship come in!' repeated kitty, in a tone of surprise. 'what's the name o' the ship, meg?' 'father's ship's the ocean king,' said robin proudly. 'i'll hunt him up,' cried kitty, rising in haste. 'i'll find him, if he's anywhere in london. i know their ways, and where they go to, when they come ashore, little meg. oh! i'll hunt him out. you put the children to bed, dear; and then you sit up till i come back, if it's past twelve o'clock, i'll bring him home, alive or dead. don't cry no more, little meg.' she called softly up the stairs to say these last words, for she had started off immediately. meg did as she had told her, and then waited with renewed hope for her return. it was past midnight before kitty tapped quietly at the door, and she went out to her on the landing. but kitty was alone, and meg could hardly stand for the trembling which came upon her. 'haven't you found father?' she asked. 'i've found out where he is,' answered kitty. 'he's at the other end of the world, in hospital. he was took bad a-coming home--so bad, they was forced to leave him behind them; and he'll work his way back when he's well enough, so jack says, one of his mates. he says he may come back soon, or come back late, and that's all he knows about him. what shall you do, little meg?' 'mother said i was to be sure to take care of the children till father comes home,' she answered, steadying her voice; 'and i'll do it, please god. i can ask him to help me, and he will. he'll take care of us.' 'he hasn't took care o' me,' said kitty bitterly. 'may be you haven't asked him,' said meg. kitty was silent for a minute, and then she spoke in a voice half choked with sobs. 'it's too late now,' she said, 'but he'll take care of you, never fear; and oh! i wish he'd let me help him. i wish i could do something for you, little meg; for your mother spoke kind to me once, and made me think of my own mother. there, just leave me alone, will you? i'm off to bed now, and you go to bed too. i'll help you all i can.' she pushed meg back gently into her attic, and closed the door upon her; but meg heard her crying and moaning aloud in her own room, until she herself fell asleep. chapter viii little meg's red frock in pawn meg felt very forlorn when she opened her heavy eyelids the next morning. it was certain now that her father could not be home for some time, it might be a long time; and how was she to buy bread for her children and herself? she took down her mother's letter from the end of a shelf which supplied the place of a chimney-piece, and looked at it anxiously; but she dared not ask anybody to read it for her, lest it should contain some mention of the money hidden in the box; and that must be taken care of in every way, because it did not belong to her, or father even, but to one of his mates. she had no friend to go to in all the great city. once she might have gone to the teacher at the school where she had learned to read a little; but that had been in quite a different part of london, on the other side of the river, and they had moved from it before her father had started on his last voyage. meg sat thinking and pondering sadly enough, until suddenly, how she did not know, her fears were all taken away, and her childish heart lightened. she called robin, and bade him kneel down beside her, and folding baby's hands together, she closed her own eyes, and bowed her head, while she asked god for the help he had promised to give. 'pray god,' said little meg, 'you've let mother die, and father be took bad at the other side of the world, and there's nobody to take care of us 'cept you, and jesus says, if we ask you, you'll give us bread and everything we want, just like father and mother. pray god, do! i'm not a grown-up person yet, and robin's a very little boy, and baby can't talk or walk at all; but there's nobody else to do anythink for us, and we'll try as hard as we can to be good. pray god, bless father at the other side of the world, and robbie, and baby, and me; and bless everybody, for jesus christ's sake. amen.' meg rose from her knees joyfully, feeling sure that her prayer was heard and would be answered. she went out with her children to lay out the shilling kitty had returned to her the day before; and when they come in she and robin sat down to a lesson in reading. the baby was making a pilgrimage of the room from chair to chair, and along the bedstead; but all of a sudden she balanced herself steadily upon her tiny feet, and with a scream of mingled dread and delight, which made meg and robin look up quickly, she tottered across the open floor to the place where they were sitting, and hid her face in meg's lap, quivering with joy and wonder. meg's gladness was full, except that there was a little feeling of sorrow that neither father nor mother was there to see it. 'did god see baby walk?' inquired robin. 'i should think he did!' said meg confidently; and her slight sorrow fled away. god could not help loving baby, she felt sure of that, nor robin; and if he loved them, would he not take care of them himself, and show her how to take care of them, till father was at home? the day passed almost as happily as robin's birthday; though the rain came down in torrents, and pattered through the roof, falling splash, splash into the broken tub, with a sound something like the fountain in temple gardens. but when kitty's shilling was gone to the last farthing, and not a spoonful of meal remained in the bag, it was not easy to be happy. robin and baby were both crying for food; and there was no coal to make a fire, nor any candle to give them light during the long dark evenings of november. kitty was out all day now, and did not get home till late, so meg had not seen her since the night she had brought the news about her father. but a bright thought came to her, and she wondered at herself for not having thought of it before. she must pawn her best clothes; her red frock and bonnet with green ribbons. there was a natural pang at parting with them, even for a time; but she comforted herself with the idea that father would get them back for her as soon as he returned. she reached them out of the box, feeling carefully lest she should take any of robin's or the baby's by mistake in the dark; and then she set off with her valuable bundle, wondering how many shillings she would get for them, and whether she could make the money last till her father came. the pawnbroker's shop was a small, dingy place in rosemary lane; and it, and the rooms above it, were as full as they could be with bundles such as poor meg carried under her old shawl. a single gas-light was flaring away in the window, and a hard-featured, sharp-eyed man was reading a newspaper behind the counter. meg laid down her bundle timidly, and waited till he had finished reading his paragraph; after which he opened it, spread out the half-worn frock, and held up the bonnet on his fist, regarding them both with a critical and contemptuous eye. some one else had entered the shop, but meg was too absorbed and too anxious to take any heed of it the pawnbroker rolled the frock up scornfully, and gave it a push towards her. [illustration: the pawnbroker spread out the half-worn frock, and held up the bonnet on his fist.] 'tenpence for the two,' he said, looking back at his newspaper. 'oh! if you please,' cried little meg, in an agony of distress, 'you must give me more than tenpence. i've got two little children, and no bread, nor coals, nor candles. i couldn't buy scarcely anythink with only tenpence. indeed, indeed, my red frock's worth a great deal more; it's worth i don't know how many shillings.' 'you go home, little meg,' said kitty's voice behind her, 'and i'll bring you three shillings for the frock, and one for the bonnet; four for the two. mr sloman's an old friend o' mine, he is; and he'll oblige you for my sake. there, you run away, and i'll manage this little bit o' business for you.' meg ran away as she was told, glad enough to leave her business with kitty. by-and-by she heard her coming upstairs, and went out to meet her. kitty placed four shillings in her hand. 'meg,' she said, 'you let me do that sort o' work for you always. they'll cheat you ever so; but i wouldn't, not to save my life, if you'll only trust me. you ask me another time. is that the way god takes care of you?' 'he does take care of me,' answered meg, with a smile; 'or may be you wouldn't have come into the shop just now, and i should have got only tenpence. i suppose that's taking care of me, isn't it?' 'i don't know,' said kitty. 'only let me do that for you when you want it done again.' it was not very long before it wanted to be done again; and then meg by daylight went through the contents of the box, choosing out those things which could best be spared, but leaving robin's and baby's fine clothes to the last. she clung to these with a strong desire to save them, lest it should happen that her father came home too poor to redeem them. the packet of money, tied up and sealed, fell at last to the bottom of the almost empty box, and rolled noisily about whenever it was moved, but no thought of taking any of it entered into meg's head. she was almost afraid of looking at it herself, lest the secret of it being there should get known in angel court; and whenever she mentioned it in her prayers, which she did every night, asking god to take care of it, she did not even whisper the words, much less speak them aloud, as she did her other requests, but she spoke inwardly only, for fear lest the very walls themselves should hear her. no one came near her attic, except kitty, and she kept her promise faithfully. since the four bearers had carried away her mother's coffin, and since the night kitty came out of jail, the night of robin's birthday, no stranger's foot had crossed the door-sill. but november passed, and part of december, and meg's stock of clothes, such as were of any value at the pawn-shop, was almost exhausted. at the end of the year the term for which her father had paid rent in advance would be over, and mr grigg might turn her and her children out into the streets. what was to be done? how was she to take care of robin, and baby, and the money belonging to one of father's mates? chapter ix little meg's friends in need these were hard times for little meg. the weather was not severely cold yet, or the children would have been bitterly starved up in their cold attic, where meg was obliged to be very careful of the coal. all her mother's clothes were in pledge now, as well as her own and robin's; and it seemed as if it would soon come to pawning their poor bed and their scanty furniture. yet meg kept up a brave spirit, and, as often as the day was fine enough, took her children out into the streets, loitering about the cook-shops, where the heat from the cellar kitchens lent a soothing warmth to their shivering bodies. about the middle of december the first sharp frost set in, and meg felt herself driven back from this last relief. she had taken the children out as usual, but she had no shoes to put on their feet, and nothing but their thin old rags to clothe them with. robin's feet were red and blue with cold, like her own; but meg could not see her own, and did not feel the cold as much for them as for robin's. his face had lost a little of its roundness and freshness, and his black eyes some of their brightness since his birthday; and poor meg's heart bled at the sight of him as he trudged along the icy pavement of the streets at her side. there was one cook-shop from which warm air and pleasant odours came up through an iron grating, and meg hurried on to it to feel its grateful warmth; but the shutters of the shop were not taken down, and the cellar window was unclosed. little meg turned away sadly, and bent her bare and aching feet homewards again, hushing baby, who wailed a pitiful low wail in her ears. robin, too, dragged himself painfully along, for he had struck his numbed foot against a piece of iron, and the wound was bleeding a little. they had turned down a short street which they had often passed through before, at the end of which was a small shop, displaying in its window a few loaves of bread, and some bottles containing different kinds of sweetmeats, such as they had indulged in sometimes in the palmy days when father was at home. the door was divided in the middle, and the lower half was closed, while the upper stood open, giving a full view of the shop within. meg's old brown bonnet just rose above the top of the closed half, and her wistful face turned for a moment towards the tempting sight of a whole shelf full of loaves; but she was going on slowly, when a kindly voice hailed her from the dark interior. 'hollo, little woman!' it shouted, 'i haven't set eyes on you this many a day. how's robbie and baby.' 'they're here, sir, thank you,' answered meg, in a more womanly way than ever, for she felt very low to-day. 'we're only doing middling, thank you, sir.' 'why, father's ship's come in,' said her good-natured friend from the docks, coming forward and wiping his lips, as if he had just finished a good meal. 'what makes you be doing only middling?' 'father didn't come home in the ship,' replied meg, her voice faltering a little. 'come in and tell us all about it,' he said. 'hollo, mrs blossom! just step this way, if you please.' there was a little kitchen at the back of the shop, from which came a very savoury smell of cooking, as the door opened, and a round, fat, rosy-cheeked woman, of about fifty years of age, looked out inquiringly. she came a step or two nearer the door, as meg's friend beckoned to her with a clasp-knife he held in his hand. 'these little 'uns look cold and hungry, don't they, mrs blossom?' he said. 'you smell something as smells uncommon good, don't you?' he asked of meg, who had sniffed a little, unconsciously. 'yes, please, sir,' answered meg. 'i've ate as much as ever i can eat for to-day,' said her friend, 'so you give 'em the rest, mrs blossom, and i'll be off. only just tell me why father's not come home in his ship.' 'he was took bad on the other side of the world,' replied meg, looking up tearfully into his good-tempered face, 'and they was forced to leave him behind in a hospital. that's why.' 'and what's mother doing?' he asked. 'mother's dead,' she answered. 'dead!' echoed her friend. 'and who's taking care of you young 'uns?' 'there's nobody to take care of us but god,' said meg, simply and softly. 'well, i never!' cried mrs blossom, seizing the baby out of meg's, and clasping it in her own arms. 'i never heard anything like that.' 'nor me,' said the man, catching up robin, and bearing him off into the warm little kitchen, where a saucepan of hot tripe was simmering on the hob, and a round table, with two plates upon it, was drawn up close to the fire. he put robin down on mrs blossom's seat, and lifted meg into a large arm-chair he had just quitted. 'i guess you could eat a morsel of tripe,' he said, ladling it out in overflowing spoonfuls upon the plates. 'mrs blossom, some potatoes, if you please, and some bread; and do you feed the baby whilst the little woman gets her dinner. now, i'm off. mrs blossom, you settle about 'em coming here again.' he was off, as he said, in an instant. meg sat in her large arm-chair, grasping a big knife and fork in her small hands, but she could not swallow a morsel at first for watching robin and the baby, who was sucking in greedily spoonfuls of potatoes, soaked in the gravy. mrs blossom urged her to fall to, and she tried to obey; but her pale face quivered all over, and letting fall her knife and fork, she hid it in her trembling hands. 'if you please, ma'am, i'm only so glad,' said little meg as soon as she could command her voice. 'robbie and baby were so hungry, and i hadn't got anythink to give 'em.' 'i suppose you aint hungry yourself neither,' observed mrs blossom, a tear rolling down a little channel between her round cheeks and her nose. 'oh, but ain't i!' said meg, recovering herself still more. 'i've had nothink since last night, and then it were only a crust as kitty give me.' 'well, dear, fall to, and welcome,' answered mrs blossom. 'and who's kitty?' 'it's a grown-up person as lives in the back attic,' answered meg, after eating her first mouthful. 'she helps me all she can. she's took all my things to the pawn-shop for me, because she can get more money than me. she's as good as can be to us.' 'are all your things gone to pawn?' inquired mrs blossom. 'i've got baby's cloak and hood left,' she replied mournfully. 'he wouldn't give more than a shilling for 'em, and i thought it wasn't worth while parting with 'em for that. i tried to keep robbie's cap and pinafore, that were as good as new, but i were forced to let 'em go. and our shoes, ma'am,' added meg, taking robin's bare and bleeding foot into her hand: 'see what poor robbie's done to himself.' 'poor little dear!' said mrs blossom pityingly. 'i'll wash his poor little feet for him when he's finished his dinner. you get on with yours likewise, my love.' meg was silent for some minutes, busily feasting on the hot tripe, and basking in the agreeable warmth of the cosy room. it was a wonderfully bright little spot for that quarter of london, but the brightness was all inside. outside, at about three feet from the window, rose a wall so high as to shut out every glimpse of the sky; but within everything was so clean and shining, even to the quarried floor, that it was difficult to believe in the mud and dirt of the streets without. mrs blossom herself looked fresh and comely, like a countrywoman; but there was a sad expression on her round face, plain enough to be seen when she was not talking. 'my dear,' she said when meg laid down her knife and fork, and assured her earnestly that she could eat no more, 'what may you be thinking of doing?' 'i don't hardly know,' she answered. 'i expect father home every day. if i could only get enough for the children, and a crust or two for me, we could get along. but we can't do nothink more, i know.' 'you'll be forced to go into the house,' said mrs blossom. 'oh, no, no, no!' cried little meg, drawing robin to her, and with a great effort lifting him on to her lap, where he almost eclipsed her. 'i couldn't ever do that. we'll get along somehow till father comes home.' 'where is it you live?' inquired mrs blossom. 'oh, it's not a nice place at all,' said meg, who dreaded having any visitor. 'it's along rosemary lane, and down a street, and then down another smaller street, and up a court. that's where it is.' mrs blossom sat meditating a few minutes, with the baby on her lap, stretching itself lazily and contentedly before the fire; while meg, from behind robin, watched her new friend's face anxiously. 'well,' she said, 'you come here again to-morrow, and i'll ask mr george what's to be done. that was mr george as was here, and he's my lodger. he took you in, and maybe he'll agree to do something.' 'thank you, ma'am,' said meg gratefully. 'please, have you any little children of your own?' the tears ran faster now down mrs blossom's cheeks, and she was obliged to wipe them away before she could answer. 'i'd a little girl like you,' she said, 'ten years ago. such a pretty little girl, so rosy, and bright, and merry, as all the folks round took notice of. she was like the apple of my eye, she was.' 'what was she called?' asked meg, with an eager interest. 'why, the neighbours called her posy because her name was blossom,' said mrs blossom, smiling amidst her tears. 'we lived out in the country, and i'd a little shop, and a garden, and kept fowls, and pigs, and eggs; fresh eggs, such as the like are never seen in this part o' london. posy they called her, and a real posy she was.' mrs blossom paused, and looked sadly down upon the happy baby, shaking her head as if she was sorely grieved at heart. 'and posy died?' said meg softly. 'no, no!' cried mrs blossom. 'it 'ud been a hundred times better if she'd died. she grew up bad. i hope you'll never live to grow up bad, little girl. and she ran away from home; and i lost her, her own mother that had nursed her when she was a little baby like this. i'd ha' been thankful to ha' seen her lying dead afore my eyes in her coffin.' 'that's bad,' said little meg, in a tone of trouble and tender pity. 'it's nigh upon three years ago,' continued mrs blossom, looking down still upon the baby, as if she were telling her; 'and i gave up my shop to my son's wife, and come here, thinking maybe she'd step in some day or other to buy a loaf of bread or something, because i knew she'd come up to london. but she's never so much as passed by the window--leastways when i've been watching, and i'm always watching. i can't do my duty by mr george for staring out o' the window.' 'watching for posy?' said little meg. 'ay, watching for posy,' repeated mrs blossom, 'and she never goes by.' 'have you asked god to let her go by?' asked meg. 'ay, my dear,' said mrs blossom. 'i ask him every blessed day o' my life.' 'then she's sure to come some day,' said meg joyfully. 'there's no mistake about that, because jesus says it in the bible, and he knows all about god. you've asked him, and he'll do it. it's like father coming. i don't know whether he'll come to-day or to-morrow, or when it'll be; but he will come.' 'god bless and love you!' cried mrs blossom, suddenly putting baby down in meg's lap, and clasping all three of them in her arms. 'i'll believe it, i will. he's sent you to give me more heart. god love you all!' it was some while before mrs blossom regained her composure; but when she did, and it was time for meg and the children to go home before it was quite dark, she bound up robin's foot in some rags, and gave meg a loaf to carry home with her, bidding her be sure to come again the next day. meg looked back to the shop many times before turning the corner of the street, and saw mrs blossom's round face, with its white cap border, still leaning over the door, looking after them, and nodding pleasantly each time she caught meg's backward glance. at the corner they all three turned round, meg holding up baby as high as her arms could reach, and after this last farewell they lost sight of their new friend. chapter x little meg as charwoman meg and her children did not fail to make their appearance the next morning at mrs blossom's shop, where she welcomed them heartily, and made them comfortable again by the kitchen fire. when they were well warmed, and had finished some bread, and some coffee which had been kept hot for them, mrs blossom put on a serious business air. 'mr george and me have talked you over,' she said, 'and he's agreed to something. i can't do my duty by him as i should wish, you know why; and i want a little maid to help me.' 'oh, if you please,' faltered little meg, 'i couldn't leave our attic. i promised mother i wouldn't go away till father comes home. don't be angry, please.' 'i'm not angry, child,' continued mrs blossom. 'i only want a little maid to come mornings, and go away nights, like a char-woman.' 'mother used to go charing sometimes,' remarked meg. 'i'm not a rich woman,' resumed mrs blossom, 'and mr george has his old father to keep, as lives down in my own village, and i know him well; so we can't give great wages. i'd give you a half-quartern loaf a day, and mr george threepence for the present, while it's winter. would that suit your views?' 'what could i do with robbie and baby?' asked meg, with an air of perplexed thought. 'couldn't you leave 'em with a neighbour?' suggested mrs blossom. meg pondered deeply for a while. kitty had told her the night before that she had got some sailors' shirts to sew, and would stay at home to make them. she could trust robin and the baby with kitty, and instead of lighting a fire in her own attic she could give her the coals, and so save her fuel, as part payment for taking charge of the children. yet meg felt a little sad at the idea of leaving them for so long a time, and seeing so little of them each day, and she knew they would miss her sorely. but nothing else could be done, and she accepted mrs blossom's offer thankfully. 'you needn't be here afore nine o' the morning,' said mrs blossom; 'it's too early for posy to be passing by; and you can go away again as soon as it's dark in the evening. you mustn't get any breakfast, you know, because that's in our bargain; and i'd never grudge you a meal's meat for the children either, bless 'em! they shall come and have a good tea with us sometimes, they shall--specially on sundays, when mr george is at home; and if you'd only got your clothes out o' pawn, we'd all go to church together. but we'll see, we'll see.' meg entered upon her new duties the next morning, after committing the children, with many lingering kisses and last good-byes, into kitty's charge, who promised faithfully to be as kind to them as meg herself. if it had not been for her anxiety with regard to them, she would have enjoyed nothing better than being mrs blossom's little maid. the good woman was so kindly and motherly that she won meg's whole heart; and to see her sit by the shop window, knitting a very large long stocking for mr george, but with her eyes scanning every woman's face that went by, made her feel full of an intense and childish interest. she began herself to watch for posy, as her mother described her; and whenever the form of a grown-up girl darkened the doorway, she held her breath to listen if mrs blossom called her by that pet name. mr george also was very good to meg in his bluff way, and bought her a pair of nearly new shoes with his first week's wages, over and above the threepence a day which he paid her. with mrs blossom she held many a conversation about the lost girl, who had grown up wicked, and was therefore worse than dead; and before long mr george observed that meg had done her a world of good. christmas day was a great treat to meg; for though mr george went down into the country to see his old father, mrs blossom invited her and the children to come to dinner, and to stay with her till it was the little ones' bedtime. when they sat round the fire in the afternoon she told them wonderful stories about the country--of its fields, and gardens, and lanes. 'i like gardens,' said robin, 'but i don't like lanes.' 'why don't you like lanes?' asked mrs blossom. 'i know lots of lanes,' he answered. 'there's rosemary lane, and it's not nice, nor none of 'em. they ain't nice like temple gardens.' 'rosemary lane!' repeated mrs blossom. 'why, the lanes in the country are nothing like the lanes in london. they're beautiful roads, with tall trees growing all along 'em, and meeting one another overhead; and there are roses and honeysuckles all about the hedges, and birds singing, and the sun shining. only you don't know anything about roses, and honeysuckles, and birds.' 'are there any angels there?' asked robin, fastening his glistening eyes upon her intently. 'well, no,' said mrs blossom, 'not as i know of.' 'is the devil in the country?' pursued robin. 'yes,' answered mrs blossom, 'i suppose he's there pretty much the same as here. folks can be wicked anywhere, or else my posy wouldn't have grown up bad.' robin asked no more questions, and mrs blossom was glad to talk of something else. it was a very happy day altogether, but it came too quickly to an end. meg wrapped up her children well before turning out into the cold streets, and mrs blossom gave them a farewell kiss each, with two to meg because she was such a comfort to her. when they reached their own attic they heard kitty call to them, and meg opened her door. she was sitting without any fire, stitching away as for her life at a coarse striped shirt, lighted only by a small farthing candle; but she laid down her task for a minute, and raised her thin pale face, and her eyes half blinded with tears and hard work. 'where have you been all day, little meg?' she asked. 'me and the children have been at mrs blossom's, answered meg, 'because it's christmas day: and i wish you'd been there as well, kitty. we'd such a good dinner and tea. she gave me a bit of cake to bring home, and you shall have some of it.' 'no, no,' said kitty, 'it 'ud choke me.' 'oh, it couldn't; it's as nice as nice can be,' said meg. 'you must just have a taste of it.' 'did you go talking about that posy again?' asked kitty, bending diligently over her work. 'we always talk about her,' answered meg, 'every day. mrs blossom's watching for her to go by all day long, you know.' 'she'll never go by,' said kitty shortly. 'oh, she's certain sure to go by some day,' cried meg. 'mrs blossom asks god to let her go by, every day of her life; and he's positive to do it.' 'if she's grown up so wicked,' argued kitty, 'she didn't ought to go back to her mother, and her such a good woman. god won't send her back to her mother, you'll see.' 'but if god sent her back, her mother 'ud never think of her being wicked, she loves her so,' said little meg. 'if robbie were ever so naughty, i'd keep on loving him till he was good again.' 'well, posy'll never go home no more,' said kitty; and hot tears fell fast upon her work. 'she will, she will,' cried meg. 'i expect her every day, like father. perhaps they'll both come home to-morrow. i wish you'd ask god to let posy and father come home to-morrow.' 'i'm too bad to ask god for anything,' sobbed kitty. 'well, i don't know,' said meg sorrowfully. 'you're not bad to me or the children. but i must go to bed now. let us kiss you afore we go. mrs blossom kissed me twice, and said i was a comfort to her.' kitty threw down her work, and clasped meg strongly in her arms, pressing down meg's head upon her breast, and crying, 'oh, my dear little meg! my good little meg!' then she put them all three gently out of her room, and bade them good-night and god bless them, in a husky and tremulous voice. chapter xi little meg's baby the new year came, but meg's father had not arrived. kitty was having a mad outburst, as if she had so long controlled herself that now it was necessary to break out into extra wickedness. she came home late every night, very drunk, and shouting loud snatches of songs, which wakened up the inmates of the lower stories, and drew upon her a storm of oaths. but she continued always good-natured and kind to meg, and insisted upon having the daily charge of robin and the baby, though meg left them in her care with a very troubled and anxious spirit. things were looking very dark to the poor little woman; but she kept up as brave a heart as she could, waiting from day to day for that long-deferred coming of her father, in which she believed so firmly. it was a little later than usual one evening, for the days were creeping out since the new year, when meg climbed wearily upstairs to kitty's attic, in search of her children, but found that they were not there. mr grigg told her that he had seen kitty take them out with her in the afternoon; and even while he was speaking, meg saw her staggering and rolling into the court, with the baby fast asleep in her drunken arms. meg took it from her without a word, and led robin away upstairs. robin's face was flushed, and his hand was very hot; but the baby lay in her arms heavily, without any movement or sign of life, except that the breath came through her parted lips, and her eyelids stirred a little. meg locked the door of her attic, and laid her baby on the bed, while she lighted the fire and got their tea ready. robin looked strange, but he chattered away without ceasing, while he watched her set the things in readiness. but the baby would not awake. it lay quite still on meg's lap, and she poured a little warm tea into its mouth, but it did not swallow it, only slept there with heavy eyelids, and moving neither finger nor foot, in a strange, profound slumber. it was smaller and thinner than when mother died, thought meg; and she lifted up the lifeless little hand to her lips, half hoping that its eyes would unclose a little more, and that sweet, loving smile, with which it always welcomed her return, would brighten its languid face. but baby was too soundly asleep to smile. little meg sat up all night, with the baby lying on her lap, moaning a little now and then as its slumbers grew more broken, but never lifting up its eyelids to look into her face and know it. when the morning dawned it was still the same. could the baby be ill? asked meg of herself. it did not seem to be in any pain; yet she carried it to the door, and called softly for kitty to come and look at it; but there was no reply, only from below came up harsh sounds of children screaming and angry women quarrelling. oaths and threats and shrieks were all the answer meg's feeble cry received. she sat down again on her mother's low chair before the fire, and made the baby comfortable on her lap; while robin stood at her knee, looking down pitifully at the tiny, haggard, sleeping face, which meg's little hand could almost cover. what was she to do? there was no one in angel court whom she dare call to her help. baby might even die, like the greater number of the babies born in that place, whose brief lives ended quickly, as if existence was too terrible a thing in the midst of such din and squalor. at the thought that perhaps baby was going to die, two or three tears of extreme anguish rolled down little meg's cheeks, and fell upon baby's face; but she could not cry aloud, or weep many tears. she felt herself falling into a stupor of grief and despair, when robin laid his hand upon her arm. 'why don't you ask god to waken baby?' he asked. 'i don't know whether it 'ud be a good thing,' she answered. 'mother said she'd ask him over and over again to let her take baby along with her, and that 'ud be better than staying here. i wish we could all go to heaven; only i don't know whatever father 'ud do if he come home and found us all dead.' 'maybe god'll take me and baby,' said robbie thoughtfully, 'and leave you to watch for father.' 'i only wish baby had called me meg once afore she went,' cried little meg. the baby stirred a little upon her knees, and stretched out its feeble limbs, opening its blue eyes wide and looking up into her face with its sweet smile of welcome. then the eyelids closed again slowly, and the small features put on a look of heavenly calm and rest. meg and robin gazed at the change wonderingly without speaking; but when after a few minutes meg laid her hand gently upon the smooth little forehead, the same chill struck to her heart as when she had touched her mother's dead face. it did not seem possible to little meg that baby could really be dead. she chafed its puny limbs, as she had seen her mother do, and walked up and down the room singing to it, now loudly, now softly; but no change came upon it, no warmth returned to its death-cold frame, no life to its calm face. she laid it down at length upon the bed, and crossed its thin wee arms upon its breast, and then stretching herself beside it, with her face hidden from the light, little meg gave herself up to a passion of sorrow. 'if i'd only asked god, for christ's sake,' she cried to herself, 'maybe he'd have let baby wake, though i don't know whether it's a good thing. but now she's gone to mother, and father'll come home, and he'll find nobody but me and robbie, and the money safe. oh! i wish i'd asked god.' 'meg,' said robin, after she had worn herself out with sobs and tears, and was lying silently beside baby, 'i'm very poorly. i think i'll go to live with the angels, where mother and baby are gone.' meg started up, and gazed anxiously at robin. his bright eyes were dimmed, and his face was flushed and heavy; he was stretched on the floor near the fire, in a listless attitude, and did not care to move, when she knelt down beside him, and put her arm under his head. it ached, he said; and it felt burning hot to her touch. meg's heart stood still for a moment, and then she dropped her tear-stained sorrowful face upon her hands. 'pray god,' she cried, 'don't take robbie away as well as baby. maybe it wasn't a good thing for baby to stay, now mother's dead, though i've done everythink i could, and there's been nobody to take care of us but you. but, pray god, do let robbie stay with me till father comes home; for jesus christ's sake. amen.' meg rose from her knees, and lifted up robin as gently as she could, soothing him, and talking fondly to him as she took off his clothes. when that was finished she laid him on the same bed where the baby was sleeping its last long sleep, with its tiny face still wearing an unspeakable calm; for robin's little mattress had been sold some time ago. the day was just at an end, that sorrowful day, and a lingering light from the west entered through the attic window, and lit up the white, peaceful features with the flushed and drowsy face of robin beside it. meg felt as if her heart would surely break as she stooped over them, and kissed them both, her lips growing cold as they touched baby's smiling mouth. then drawing her old shawl over her head, she locked the attic door securely behind her, and ran as fast as her feet could carry her to mrs blossom's house. 'robbie's very ill,' gasped meg, breathlessly, as she burst into the shop, the shutters of which were already put up, though it was still early in the night, 'and i want a doctor for him. where shall i find a doctor?' mrs blossom had her bonnet and cloak on, and looked very pale and flurried. when she answered meg she kept her hand pressed against her heart. 'i'm just a-going to one,' she said, 'the best at this end o' london, dr christie, and you'd better come along with me. he knows me well. meg, i've seen somebody go by to-day as was like posy, only pale and thin; but when i ran out, she was gone like a shadow. i'm a-going to tell dr christie; he knows all about posy and me.' but meg scarcely heard what mrs blossom said. all her thoughts and interest centred in robin, and she felt impatient of the slow progress of her companion. they seemed to her to be going a long, long way, until they came to better streets and larger houses; and by-and-by they saw a carriage standing before a door, and a gentleman came out and got into it hurriedly. 'why, bless me!' exclaimed mrs blossom, 'there's dr christie. stop him, meg, stop him!' meg needed no urging, but rushed blindly across the street. there was all at once a strange confusion about her, a trampling of horses' feet, and a rattling of wheels, with a sudden terror and pain in herself; and then she knew no more. all was as nothing to her--baby and robin alone in the attic, and mrs blossom and posy--all were gone out of her mind and memory. she had thrown herself before the horses' heads, and they had trampled her down under their feet. when little meg came to herself again it was broad daylight, and she was lying in a room so bright and cheerful that she could neither imagine where she was nor how she came there. there was a good fire crackling noisily in the low grate, with a brass guard before it, and over the chimney-piece was a pretty picture of angels flying upwards with a child in their arms. all round the walls there hung other pictures of birds and flowers, coloured gaily, and glittering in gilded frames. another little bed like the one she lay in stood in the opposite corner, but there was nobody in it, and the place was very quiet. she lay quite still, with a dreamy thought that she was somehow in heaven, until she heard a pleasant voice speaking in the next room, the door of which was open, so that the words came readily to her ears. 'i only wish we knew where the poor little thing comes from,' said the voice. 'i'm vexed i don't,' answered mrs blossom. 'i've asked her more than once, and she's always said it's down a street off rosemary lane, and along another street, and up a court. but there's a girl called kitty living in the back attic, as takes care of the children when meg's away. she's sure to be taking care o' them now.' in an instant memory came back to little meg. she recollected bending over robin and the baby to kiss them before she came away, and locking the door safely upon them. oh! what had become of robbie in the night? she raised herself up in bed, and uttered a very bitter cry, which brought to her quickly mrs blossom and a strange lady. 'i want robbie,' she cried. 'i must get up and go to him directly. it's my robbie that's ill, and baby's dead. i'm not ill, but robbie's ill, if he isn't dead, like baby, afore now. please to let me get up.' 'tell me all about it,' said mrs blossom, sitting down on the bed and taking meg into her arms. 'we're in dr christie's house, and he'll go and see robbie in a minute, he says.' 'baby died yesterday morning,' answered meg, with tearless eyes, for her trouble was too great for tears; 'and then robbie was took ill, and i put them both in bed, and kissed them, and locked the door, and came away for a doctor, and there's been nobody to take care of 'em all night, only god.' meg's eyes burned no longer, but filled with tears as she thought of god, and she laid her head upon mrs blossom's shoulder, and wept aloud. 'god has taken care of them,' said mrs christie, but she could say no more. 'where is it you live, deary?' asked mrs blossom. 'it's at angel court,' answered meg. 'but there mustn't nobody go without me. please to let me get up. i'm not ill.' 'you're very much bruised and hurt, my poor child,' said mrs christie. 'i must go,' pleaded meg urgently, 'i must get up, i promised mother i'd never let anybody go into our room, and they mustn't go without me. they're my children, please. if your little children were ill, you'd go to 'em wouldn't you? let me get up this minute.' it was impossible to withstand little meg's earnestness. mrs blossom dressed her tenderly, though meg could not quite keep back the groan which rose to her quivering lips when her bruised arm was moved. a cab was called, and then mrs blossom and meg, with dr christie, got into it, and drove away quickly to angel court. chapter xii the end of little meg's trouble it was early in the evening after meg had gone in search of a doctor, that kitty came home, more sober than she had been for several nights, and very much ashamed of her last outbreak. she sat down on the top of the stairs, listening for little meg to read aloud, but she heard only the sobs and moanings of robin, who called incessantly for meg, without getting any answer. kitty waited for some time, hearkening for her voice, but after a while she knocked gently at the door. there was no reply, but after knocking again and again she heard robin call out in a frightened tone. 'what's that?' he cried. 'it's me, your own kitty,' she said; 'where's little meg?' 'i don't know,' said robin, 'she's gone away, and there's nobody but me and baby; and baby's asleep, and so cold.' 'what are you crying for, robbie?' asked kitty. 'i'm crying for everything,' said robin. 'don't you be frightened, robbie,' she said soothingly; 'kitty'll stay outside the door, and sing pretty songs to you, till meg comes home.' she waited a long time, till the clocks struck twelve, and still meg did not come. from time to time kitty spoke some reassuring words to robin, or sang him some little songs she remembered from her own childhood; but his cries grew more and more distressing, and at length kitty resolved to break her promise, and unlock meg's door once again to move the children into her own attic. she lit a candle, and entered the dark room. the fire was gone out, and robin sat up on the pillow, his face wet with tears and his black eyes large with terror. the baby, which lay beside him, seemed very still, with its wasted puny hands crossed upon its breast; so quiet and still that kitty looked more closely, and held the light nearer to its slumbering face. what could ail it? what had brought that awful smile upon its tiny face? kitty touched it fearfully with the tip of her finger; and then she stood dumb and motionless before the terrible little corpse. she partly knew, and partly guessed, what had done this thing. she recollected, but vaguely enough, that one of her companions, who had grown weary of the little creature's pitiful cry, had promised to quiet it for her, and how speedily it had fallen off into a profound, unbroken slumber. and there it lay, in the same slumber perhaps. she touched it again; but no, the sleep it slept now was even deeper than that--a sleep so sound that its eyelids would never open again to this world's light, nor its sealed lips ever utter a word of this world's speech. kitty could scarcely believe it; but she could not bear to stay in that mute, gentle, uncomplaining presence; and she lifted up robin to carry him into her own room. oh that god had but called her away when she was an innocent baby like that! robin's feverishness was almost gone; and now, wrapped in kitty's gown and rocked to sleep on her lap, he lay contented and restful, while she sat thinking in the dark, for the candle soon burned itself out, until the solemn grey light of the morning dawned slowly in the east. she had made up her mind now what she would do. there was only one more sin lying before her. she had grown up bad, and broken her mother's heart, and now she had brought this great overwhelming sorrow upon poor little meg. there was but one end to a sinful life like hers, and the sooner it came the better. she would wait till meg came home and give up robin to her, for she would not hurry on to that last crime before meg was there to take care of him. then she saw herself stealing along the streets, down to an old pier she knew of, where boats had ceased to ply, and where no policeman would be near to hinder her, or any one about to rescue her; and then she would fling herself, worthless and wretched as she was, into the rapid river, which had borne so many worthless wretches like her upon its strong current into the land of darkness and death, of which she did not dare to think. that was what she would do, saying nothing to any one; and if she could ask anything of god, it would be that her mother might never find out what had become of her. so kitty sat with her dark thoughts long after angel court had awakened to its ordinary life, its groans, and curses, and sobs; until the sun looked in cheerily upon her and robin, as it did upon meg in mrs christie's nursery. she did not care to put him down, for he looked very pretty, and happy, and peaceful in his soft sleep, and whenever she moved he stirred a little, and pouted his lips as if to reproach her. besides, it was the last time she would hold a child in her arms; and though they ached somewhat, they folded round him fondly. at last she heard a man's step upon the ladder mounting to the attics, and meg's voice speaking faintly. could it be that her father was come home at last? oh! what would their eyes see when they opened that door? kitty held her breath to listen for the first sound of anguish and amazement; but it was poor little meg's voice which reached her before any other. 'robbie! oh, robbie!' she cried, in a tone of piercing terror, 'what has become of my little robbie?' 'he's safe, he's here, meg,' answered kitty, starting to her feet, and rushing with him to meg's attic. it was no rough, weather-beaten seaman, who was just placing meg on a chair, as if he had carried her upstairs; but some strange, well-clad gentleman, and behind him stood an elderly woman, who turned sharply round as she heard kitty's voice. 'posy!' cried mrs blossom. no one but her own mother could have known again the bright, merry, rosy girl, whom the neighbours called posy, in the thin, withered, pallid woman who stood motionless in the middle of the room. even meg forgot for a moment her fears for robin. dr christie had only time to catch him from her failing arms, before she fell down senseless upon the floor at her mother's feet. 'let me do everything for her,' exclaimed mrs blossom, pushing away dr christie; 'she's my posy, i tell you. you wouldn't know her again, but i know her. i'll do everything for her; she's my girl, my little one; she's the apple of my eye.' but it was a very long time before mrs blossom, with dr christie's help, could bring posy to life again; and then they lifted her into her poor bed, and dr christie left her mother alone with her, and went back to meg. robin was ailing very little, he said: but the baby? yes, the baby must have died even if little meg had fetched him at once. nothing could have saved it, and it had suffered no pain, he added tenderly. 'i think i must take you two away from this place,' said dr christie. 'oh, no, no,' answered meg earnestly; 'i must stay till father comes, and i expect him to-day or to-morrow. please, sir, leave me and robbie here till he comes.' 'then you must have somebody to take care of you,' said dr christie. 'no, please, sir,' answered meg, in a low and cautious voice, 'mother gave me a secret to keep that i can't tell to nobody, and i promised her i'd never let nobody come into my room till father comes home. i couldn't help you, and mrs blossom, and kitty coming in this time; but nobody mustn't come in again.' 'my little girl,' said dr christie kindly, 'i dare say your mother never thought of her secret becoming a great trouble to you. could you not tell it to me?' 'no,' replied meg, 'it's a very great secret; and please, when baby's buried like mother, me and robbie must go on living here alone till father comes.' 'poor child!' said dr christie, rubbing his eyes, 'did you know baby was quite dead?' 'yes,' she answered, 'but i didn't ask god to let baby live, because mother said she'd like to take her with her. but i did ask him to make robin well, and bring back posy; and now there's nothing for him to do but let father come home. i knew it was all true; it's in the bible, and if i'm not one of god's own children, it says, "them that ask him." so i asked him.' meg's voice sank, and her head dropped; for now that she was at home again, and robin was found to be all right, her spirit failed her. dr christie went out upon the landing, and held a consultation with mrs blossom, in which they agreed that for the present, until meg was well enough to take care of herself, she should be nursed in kitty's attic, with her own door kept locked, and the key left in her possession. so dr christie carried meg into the back attic, and laid her upon kitty's mattress. kitty was cowering down on the hearth, with her face buried on her knees, and did not look up once through all the noise of meg's removal; though when her mother told her what they were doing she made a gesture of assent to it. dr christie went away; and mrs blossom, who wanted to buy many things which were sorely needed in the poor attic, put her arm fondly round kitty's neck. 'posy,' she said, 'you wouldn't think to go and leave little meg alone if i went out to buy some things, and took robin with me?' 'no, i'll stop,' said kitty, but without lifting her head. when they were alone together, meg raised herself as well as she could on the arm that was not hurt, and looked wistfully at kitty's bowed-down head and crouching form. 'are you really posy?' she asked. 'i used to be posy,' answered kitty, in a mournful voice. 'didn't i tell you god would let your mother find you?' said meg; 'it's all come true, every bit of it.' 'but god hasn't let baby live,' muttered kitty. 'i never asked him for that,' she said falteringly; 'i didn't know as baby was near going to die, and maybe it's a better thing for her to go to mother and god. angel court ain't a nice place to live in, and she might have growed up bad. but if people do grow up bad,' added meg, in a very tender tone, 'god can make 'em good again if they'd only ask him.' as little meg spoke, and during the silence which followed, strange memories began to stir in the poor girl's heart, recalled there by some mysterious and divine power. words and scenes, forgotten since childhood, came back with wonderful freshness and force. she thought of a poor, guilty, outcast woman, reviled and despised by all save one, who had compassion even for her, forgave all her sins, stilled the clamour of her accusers, and said, 'thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.' she remembered the time when the records of his infinite love had been repeated by her innocent young lips and pondered in her maiden heart. like some echo from the distant past she seemed to hear the words, 'by thine agony and bloody sweat; by thy cross and passion; by thy precious death and burial, good lord deliver us. o lamb of god, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.' 'oh! meg! meg!' cried kitty, almost crawling to the corner where she lay, and falling down beside her on the floor, with her poor pale face still hidden from sight, 'ask god for me to be made good again.' little meg stretched out her unbruised arm, and laid her hand upon kitty's bended head. 'you must ask him for yourself,' she said, after thinking for a minute or two: 'i don't know as it 'ud do for me to ask god, if you didn't as well.' 'what shall i say, meg?' asked kitty. 'if i was you,' said meg, 'and had grow'd up wicked, and run away from mother, i'd say, "pray god, make me a good girl again, and let me be a comfort to mother till she dies; for jesus christ's sake. amen."' there was a dead silence in the back attic, except for the near noise and distant din which came from the court below, and the great labyrinth of streets around. little meg's eyes shone lovingly and pityingly upon kitty, who looked up for an instant, and caught their light. then she dropped her head down upon the mattress, and gave way to a storm of tears and sobs. 'o god,' she cried, 'do have mercy upon me, and make me good again, if it's possible. help me to be a good girl to mother. god forgive me for jesus christ's sake!' she sobbed out this prayer over and over again, until her voice fell into a low whisper which even meg could not hear; and so she lay upon the floor beside the mattress until her mother came back. mrs blossom's face was pale, but radiant with gladness, and posy looked at it for the first time fully. then she gave a great cry of mingled joy and sorrow, and running to her threw her arms round her neck, and laid her face upon her shoulder. 'god'll hear me and have mercy upon me,' she cried. 'i'm going to be your posy again, mother!' chapter xiii little meg's father the baby was buried the next morning, after meg had looked upon it for the last time lying very peacefully and smilingly in its little coffin, and had shed some tears that were full of sorrow yet had no bitterness upon its dead face. mrs blossom took robin to follow it to the grave, leaving kitty in charge of little meg. the front attic door was locked, and the key was under meg's pillow, not to be used again until she was well enough to turn it herself in the lock. the bag containing the small key of the box, with the unopened letter which had come for her mother, hung always round her neck, and her hand often clasped it tightly as she slept. meg was lying very still, with her face turned from the light, following in her thoughts the little coffin that was being carried in turns by mrs blossom and another woman whom she knew, through the noisy streets, when kitty heard the tread of a man's foot coming up the ladder. it could be no one else but dr christie, she thought; but why then did he stop at the front attic door, and rattle the latch in trying to open it? kitty looked out and saw a seafaring man, in worn and shabby sailor's clothing, as if he had just come off a long voyage. his face was brown and weather-beaten; and his eyes, black and bright, were set deep in his head, and looked as if they were used to take long, keen surveys over the glittering sea. he turned sharply round as kitty opened her door. 'young woman,' he said, 'do you know aught of my wife, peggy fleming, and her children, who used to live here? peggy wrote me word she'd moved into the front attic.' 'it's father,' called little meg from her mattress on the floor; 'i'm here, father! robin and me's left; but mother's dead, and baby. oh! father, father! you've come home at last!' meg's father brushed past kitty into the room where meg sat up in bed, her face quivering, and her poor bruised arms stretched out to welcome him. he sat down on the mattress and took her in his own strong arms, while for a minute or two meg lay still in them, almost like one dead. 'oh!' she said at last, with a sigh as if her heart had well-nigh broken, 'i've took care of robin and the money, and they're safe. only baby's dead. but don't you mind much, father; it wasn't a nice place for baby to grow up in.' 'tell me all about it,' said robert fleming, looking at kitty, but still holding his little daughter in his arms; and kitty told him all she knew of her lonely life and troubles up in the solitary attic, which no one had been allowed to enter; and from time to time meg's father groaned aloud, and kissed meg's pale and wrinkled forehead fondly. but he asked how it was she never let any of the neighbours, kitty herself, for instance, stay with her, and help her sometimes. 'i promised mother,' whispered meg in his ear, 'never to let nobody come in, for fear they'd find out the box under the bed, and get into it somehow. we was afraid for the money, you know, but it's all safe for your mate, father; and here's the key, and a letter as came for mother after she was dead.' 'but this letter's from me to peggy,' said her father, turning it over and over; 'leastways it was wrote by the chaplain at the hospital, to tell her what she must do. the money in the box was mine, meg, no mate's; and i sent her word to take some of it for herself and the children.' 'mother thought it belonged to a mate of yours,' said meg, 'and we was the more afeared of it being stole.' 'it's my fault,' replied robert fleming. 'i told that to mother for fear she'd waste it if she knew it were mine. but if i'd only known----' he could not finish his sentence, but stroked meg's hair with his large hand, and she felt some hot tears fall from his eyes upon her forehead. 'don't cry, father,' she said, lifting her small feeble hand to his face. 'god took care of us, and baby too, though she's dead. there's nothink now that he hasn't done. he's done everythink i asked him.' 'did you ask him to make me a good father?' said fleming. 'why, you're always good to us, father,' answered meg, in a tone of loving surprise. 'you never beat us much when you get drunk. but robin and me always say, "pray god, bless father." i don't quite know what bless means, but it's something good.' 'ah!' said fleming, with a deep sigh, 'he has blessed me. when i was ill he showed me what a poor sinner i was, and how jesus christ came into the world to save sinners, "of whom i am chief." sure i can say that if anybody can. but it says in the bible, "he loved me, and gave himself for me." yes, little meg, he died to save me. i felt it. i believed it. i came to see that i'd nobody to fly to but jesus if i wanted to be aught else but a poor, wicked, lost rascal, as got drunk, and was no better than a brute. and so i turned it over and over in my mind, lying abed; and now, please god, i'm a bit more like being a christian than i was. i reckon that's what bless means, little meg.' as he spoke the door opened, and mrs blossom came in with robin. it was twelve months since robin had seen his father, and now he was shy, and hung back a little behind mrs blossom; but meg called to him in a joyful voice. 'come here, little robbie,' she said; 'it's father, as we've watched for so long.--he's a little bit afeared at first, father, but you'll love him ever so when he knows you.' it was not long before robin knew his father sufficiently to accept of a seat on his knee, when meg was put back into bed at mrs blossom's entreaties. fleming nursed his boy in silence for some time, while now and then a tear glistened in his deep eyes as he thought over the history of little meg's sorrows. 'i'm thinking,' said mrs blossom cheerfully, 'as this isn't the sort o' place for a widow man and his children to stop in. i'm just frightened to death o' going up and down the court. i suppose you're not thinking o' settling here, mr fleming?' 'no, no,' said fleming, shaking his head: 'a decent man couldn't stop here, let alone a christian.' 'well, then, come home to us till you can turn yourself round,' continued mrs blossom heartily; 'me and mr george have talked it over, and he says, "when little meg's father do come, let 'em all come here: posy, and the little 'uns, and all. you'll have posy and the little 'uns in your room, and i'll have him in mine. we'll give him some sort o' a shakedown, and sailors don't use to lie soft." so if you've no objections to raise, it's settled; and if you have, please to raise 'em at once.' robert fleming had no objections to raise, but he accepted the cordial invitation thankfully, for he was in haste to get out of the miserable life of angel court. he brought the hidden box into the back attic, and opened it before little meg, taking out of it the packet of forty pounds, and a number of pawn-tickets, which he looked at very sorrowfully. after securing these he locked up the attic again, and carrying meg in his arms, he led the way down the stairs, and through the court, followed closely by mrs blossom, posy, and robin. the sound of brawling and quarrelling was loud as usual, and the children crawling about the pavement were dirty and squalid as ever; they gathered about meg and her father, forming themselves into a dirty and ragged procession to accompany them down to the street. little meg looked up to the high window of the attic, where she had watched so often and so long for her father's coming; and then she looked round, with eyes full of pity, upon the wretched group about her; and closing her eyelids, her lips moving a little, but without any words which even her father could hear, she said in her heart, 'pray god, bless everybody, and make them good.' chapter xiv little meg's farewell about a month after robert fleming's return dr christie paid a visit to mrs blossom's little house. he had been there before, but this was a special visit; and it was evident some important plan had to be decided upon. dr christie came to hear what mrs blossom had to say about it. 'well, sir,' said mrs blossom, 'a woman of my years, as always lived in one village all her life till i came to london, it do seem a great move to go across the sea. but as you all think as it 'ud be a good thing for posy, and as mr fleming do wish little meg and robin to go along with us, which are like my own children, and as he's to be in the same ship, i'm not the woman to say no. i'm a good hand at washing and ironing, and sewing, and keeping a little shop, or anything else as turns up; and there's ten years' good work in me yet; by which time little meg'll be a stout, grown-up young woman; to say nothing of posy, who's old enough to get her own living now. i can't say as i like the sea, quite the contrairy; but i can put up with it; and mr fleming'll be there to see as the ship goes all right, and doesn't lose hisself. so i'll be ready by the time the ship's ready.' they were all ready in time as mrs blossom had promised, for there were not many preparations to be made. little meg's red frock was taken out of pawn, with all the other things, and mrs blossom went down to her native village to visit it for the last time; but posy shrank from being seen there by the neighbours again. she, and meg, and robin went once more for a farewell look at temple gardens. it was the first time she had been in the streets since she had gone back to her mother, and she seemed ashamed and alarmed at every eye that met hers. when they stood looking at the river, with its swift, cruel current, posy shivered and trembled until she was obliged to turn away and sit down on a bench. she was glad, she said, to get home again, and she would go out no more till the day came when mr george drove them all down to the docks, with the few boxes which contained their worldly goods. dr christie and his wife were down at the ship to see them off, and they kissed meg tenderly as they bade her farewell. when the last minute was nearly come, mr george took little meg's small hand in his large one, and laid the other upon her head. 'little woman, tell us that verse again,' he said, 'that verse as you've always gone and believed in, and acted on.' 'that as mother and me heard preached from the streets?' asked meg. mr george nodded silently. 'it's quite true,' said little meg, in a tone of perfect confidence, 'because it's in the bible, and jesus said it. besides, god did everythink i asked him. "if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"' the end turnbull and spears, printers, edinburgh. some popular stories by hesba stretton author of "jessica's first prayer" cobwebs and cables. engravings by gordon brown. imperial mo, gilt edges, s. half brothers. crown vo, s. carola. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. through a needle's eye. illustrated. large crown vo, cloth, full gilt, s. d. david lloyd's last will. bede's charity. illustrated. crown vo, gilt edges, s. d. the children of cloverley. illustrated. crown vo, s. enoch roden's training. illustrated. crown vo, s. fern's hollow. illustrated. crown vo, s. the fishers of derby haven. illustrated. crown vo, s. in the hollow of his hand. illustrated. crown vo, s. pilgrim street. a story of manchester life. illustrated. crown vo, s. a thorny path. illustrated. crown vo, s. alone in london. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. cassy. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. the crew of the dolphin. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. the king's servants. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. little meg's children. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. the lord's purse-bearers. crown vo, cloth, gilt, s. d. lost gip. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. max kromer. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. the storm of life. illustrated. crown vo, s. d. the lamplighter by maria s. cummins author of "mabel vaughan," "el fureidis," "haunted hearts." a. l. burt, publisher - duane street new york the lamplighter chapter i. light in darkness. "good god! to think upon a child that has no childish days, no careless play, no frolics wild, no words of prayer and praise." --landon. it was growing dark in the city. out in the open country it would be light for half-an-hour or more; but in the streets it was already dusk. upon the wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking house, sat a little girl, earnestly gazing up the street. the house-door behind her was close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. it was a chilly evening in november, and a light fall of snow had made the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever. many people were passing, but no one noticed the little girl, for no one in the world cared for her. she was clad in the poorest of garments; her hair was long, thick, and uncombed, and her complexion was sallow, and her whole appearance was unhealthy. she had fine dark eyes; but so large did they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face that they increased its peculiarity without increasing its beauty. had she had a mother (which, alas! she had not), those friendly eyes would have found something in her to praise. but the poor little thing was told, a dozen times a-day, that she was the worst-looking child in the world, and the worst-behaved. no one loved her, and she loved no one; no one tried to make her happy, or cared whether she was so. she was but eight years old, and alone in the world. she loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit the street-lamp in front of the house where she lived; to see his bright torch flicker in the wind; and then when he so quickly ran up his ladder, lit the lamp, and made the place cheerful, a gleam of joy was shed on a little desolate heart, to which gladness was a stranger; and though he had never seemed to see, and had never spoken to her, she felt, as she watched for the old lamplighter, as if he were a friend. "gerty," exclaimed a harsh voice within, "have you been for the milk?" the child made no answer, but gliding off the door-step, ran quickly round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight. "what's become of that child?" said the woman who spoke, and who now showed herself at the door. a boy who was passing, and had seen gerty run, and who looked upon her as a spirit of evil, laughed aloud, pointed to the corner which concealed her, and walking off with his head over his shoulders, to see what would happen next, said to himself, "she'll catch it!" gerty was dragged from her hiding-place, and with one blow for her ugliness and another for her impudence (for she was making faces at nan grant), was despatched down a neighbouring alley for the milk. she ran fast, fearing the lamplighter would come and go in her absence, and was rejoiced, on her return, to catch a sight of him just going up his ladder. she stood at the foot of it, and was so engaged in watching the bright flame, that she did not observe the descent of the man; and, as she was directly in his way, he struck against her, and she fell upon the pavement. "hallo, my little one!" exclaimed he, "how's this?" as he stooped to lift her up. she was on her feet in an instant; for she was used to hard knocks, and did not mind a few bruises. but the milk was all spilt. "well! now, i declare!" said the man, "that's too bad!--what'll mammy say?" and looking into gerty's face, he exclaimed, "my, what an odd-faced child!--looks like a witch!" then, seeing that she looked sadly at the spilt milk, he kindly said, "she won't be hard on such a mite as you are, will she? cheer up, my ducky! never mind if she does scold you a little. i'll bring you something to-morrow that you'll like; you're such a lonely-looking thing. and if the old woman makes a row, tell her i did it.--but didn't i hurt you? what were you doing with my ladder?" "i was seeing you light the lamp," said gerty, "and i an't hurt a bit; but i wish i hadn't spilt the milk." just then nan grant came to the door, saw what had happened, and pulled the child into the house, amidst blows and profane, brutal language. the lamplighter tried to appease her, but she shut the door in his face. gerty was scolded, beaten, deprived of her usual crust for her supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. poor little child! her mother had died in nan grant's house five years before; and she had been tolerated there since, not so much because when ben grant went to sea he bade his wife to keep the child until his return--he had been gone so long that no one thought he would ever come back--but because nan had reasons of her own for doing so, and, though she considered gerty a dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries by trying to dispose of her elsewhere. when gerty found herself locked up for the night in the dark garret--gerty hated and feared the dark--she stood for a minute perfectly still, then suddenly began to stamp and scream, tried to beat open the door, and shouted, "i hate you, nan grant! old nan grant, i hate you!" but nobody came near her; and she grew more quiet, lay down on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. she wept until she was exhausted; and then gradually she became still. by-and-by she took her hands from her face, clasped them together convulsively, and looked up at a little glazed window near the bed. it was but three panes of glass unevenly stuck together. there was no moon; but as gerty looked up, she saw shining upon her _one_ bright star. she thought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. she had often been out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and had not noticed them much; but this one, all alone, so large, so bright, and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her; to say, "gerty! gerty! _poor_ little gerty!" she thought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long time ago seen or dreamt about. suddenly she asked herself, "who lit it? somebody lit it! some good person, i know. oh! how could he get up so high?" and gerty fell asleep, wondering who lit the star. poor little, untaught, benighted soul! who shall enlighten thee? thou art god's child, little one! christ died for thee. will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within, to kindle a light that shall never go out, the light that shall shine through all eternity! gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are roused by merry voices, or by a parent's kiss, who have kind hands to help them dress, and knowing that a nice breakfast awaits them; but she heard harsh voices below; nan's son, and two or three boarders had come in to breakfast, and gerty's only chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on the spot when they had finished, to take that portion of what remained which nan might shove towards her. so she crept downstairs, waited a little till they had all gone out, and then she slid into the room. she met with a rough greeting from nan, who told her she had better drop that ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she wanted it, but keep out of her way, and not come near the fire, where she was at work, or she'd get another dressing, worse than she had last night. gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so she was not disappointed; but, glad of the miserable food left for her on the table, she swallowed it eagerly, and she took her little old hood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to her mother, and ran out of the house. back of nan grant's house was a large wood and coal-yard, and beyond that a wharf, and the thick, muddy water of a dock. gerty might have found many playmates in this place. she sometimes did mingle with the boys and girls, ragged like herself, who played in the yard; but not often--there was a league against her among the children of the place. poor, ragged, and miserably cared for, as they were, they knew that gerty was more neglected and abused. they had often seen her beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child; told that she belonged to nobody, and had no business in any one's house. thus they felt their advantage, and scorned the little outcast. perhaps this would not have been the case if gerty had mingled freely with them, and tried to be on friendly terms; but, while her mother lived, she did her best to keep her little girl away from the rude herd. perhaps that habit of avoidance, but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her from joining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left her to do as she liked. she seldom had any intercourse with them. nor did they abuse her except in words; for, singly, they dared not cope with her--spirited, sudden, and violent, she had made herself feared as well as disliked. once a band of them had united to vex her; but, nan grant coming up just when one of the girls was throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from gerty's feet, into the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping, and put them all to flight. gerty had not had a pair of shoes since; but nan grant, for once, had done her a good service, and the children now left her in peace. it was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when gerty sought shelter in the wood-yard. there was an immense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out of sight of any of the houses. of different lengths, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps. near the top was a little sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forming a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, and from that looking out upon the water. this was gerty's haven of rest, and the only place from which she never was expelled. here, during the long summer days, the little lonesome child sat brooding over her griefs, her wrongs, and her ugliness; sometimes weeping for hours. now and then she would get a little more cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors as they laboured on board their vessels, or rowed to and fro in little boats. the warm sunshine was so pleasant, and the men's voices so lively, that the poor little thing sometimes forgot her woes. but summer was gone, and the schooner and the sailors were gone too. the weather was cold, and for a few days had been so stormy, that gerty had to stay in the house. now, however, she made the best of her way to her little hiding-place; and, to her joy, the sunshine had dried up the boards, so that they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright and pleasant, that gerty forgot nan grant, forgot how cold she had been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. her thoughts rambled about sometime; but, at last, fixed upon the kind look and voice of the old lamplighter; and then, for the first time since the promise was made, it came into her mind that he had engaged to bring her something the next time he came. she could not believe he would remember it; but still he might--he seemed to be so sorry for her fall. what would he bring? would it be something to eat? oh, if it were only some shoes! perhaps he did not notice that she had none? gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to be back before it was time to light the lamp, so that nothing should prevent her seeing him. the day seemed very long, but darkness came at last; and with it came true--or rather trueman flint, for that was the lamplighter's name. gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude nan grant's observation. true was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry. he had only time to speak a few words to gerty; but they were words coming straight from a good and honest heart. he put his great, smutty hand on her head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt, and said. "it was a plaguy shame she should have been whipped, too, and all for a spill o' milk, that was a misfortin', and no crime." "but here," added he, diving into one of his huge pockets, "here's the critter i promised you. take good care on't; don't 'buse it; and i'm thinking, if it's like the mother i've got at home, 'twon't be a little ye'll be likin' it, 'fore you're done. good-bye, my little gal;" and he shouldered his ladder and went off, leaving in gerty's hands a little grey-and-white kitten. gerty was so taken by surprise on finding in her arms a live kitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, that she stood irresolute what to do with it. there were a many cats, of all sizes and colours, inhabitants of the neighbouring houses and yard; frightened-looking creatures, which, like gerty herself, ran about, and hid themselves among the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubts about their having a right to be anywhere. gerty had often felt a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one, and carry it home; for she knew that food and shelter were grudgingly accorded to herself, and would not be extended to her pets. her first thought, therefore, was to throw the kitten down, and let it run away. but while she was hesitating, the little animal pleaded for itself in a way she could not resist. frightened by its long journey in true flint's pocket, it crept from gerty's arms up to her neck, clung there, and, with feeble cries, seemed to ask her to take care of it. its eloquence prevailed over all fear of nan grant's anger. she hugged pussy to her bosom, and resolved to love and feed it, and keep it out of nan's sight. how much she came in time to love that kitten no words can tell. her little, fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto expressed itself only in angry passion, sullen obstinacy, and hatred. but there were in her soul fountains of warm affection, a depth of tenderness never yet called out, and a warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an object upon which to expend themselves. so she poured out such wealth of love on the poor kitten as only such a desolate little heart has to spare. she loved the kitten all the more for the care she was obliged to take of it, and the trouble it gave her. she kept it, as much as possible, out among the boards, in her favourite haunts. she found an old hat, in which she placed her hood, to make a bed for pussy. she carried it a part of her scanty meals; she braved for it what she would not have done for herself--for almost every day she abstracted from the kettle, when she returned with the milk for nan grant, enough for pussy's supper, at the risk of being discovered and punished, the only risk of harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought of, in connection with the theft; for her ideas of abstract right and wrong were utterly undeveloped. so she would play with her kitten for hours among the boards, talk to it, and tell it how much she loved it. but in very cold days she was puzzled to know how to keep herself warm out of doors, and the risk of bringing the kitten into the house was great. she would then hide it in her bosom, and run with it into her little garret. once or twice, when she had been off her guard, her little playful pet had escaped from her, and scampered through the lower room and passage. once nan drove it out with a broom; but there cats and kittens were not so uncommon as to excite inquiry. how was it that gerty had leisure to spend all her time at play? most children of the poorer class learn to be useful while they are young. nan grant had no babies; and being a very active woman, with but a poor opinion of children's services, she never tried to find employment for gerty, much better satisfied for her to keep out of her sight; so that, except her daily errand for the milk, gerty was always idle--a fruitful source of unhappiness and discontent. nan was a scotchwoman, not young, and with a temper which, never good, became worse as she grew older. she had seen life's roughest side, and had always been a hard-working woman. her husband was a carpenter, but she made his house so uncomfortable, that for years he had followed the sea. she took in washing, and had a few boarders; by which she earned what might have been an ample support for herself, had it not been for her son, a disorderly young man, spoilt in early life by his mother's management, and who, though a skilful workman, squandered his own and a large part of his mother's earnings. nan had reason for keeping gerty, though they were not so strong as to prevent her often being inclined to get rid of the encumbrance. chapter ii. comfort and affliction. "mercy and love have met thee on thy road, thou wretched outcast!" --wordsworth. gerty had had her kitten about a month, when she took a violent cold from exposure to damp and rain; and nan, fearing she should have trouble with her if she became seriously ill, bade her stay in the house, and keep in the warm room. gerty's cough was fearful; and she would have sat by the fire all day, had it not been for her anxiety about the kitten. towards night the men were heard coming in to supper. just as they entered the door of the room where nan and gerty were, one of them stumbled over the kitten, which had slyly come in with them. "cracky! what's this 'ere?" said the man whom they called jemmy; "a cat, i vow! why, nan, i thought you hated cats!" "well, 'tan't none o' mine; drive it out," said nan. jemmy tried to do so; but puss, making a circuit round his legs, sprang forward into the arms of gerty. "whose kitten's that, gerty?" said nan. "mine!" said gerty, bravely. "well, how long have you kept cats?" asked nan. "speak! how came you by this?" gerty was afraid of the men. she did not like to confess to whom she was indebted for the kitten; she knew it would only make matters worse, for nan had never forgiven true flint's rough expostulation against her cruelty in beating the child for spilling the milk, and gerty could not think of any other source to which she could ascribe the kitten's presence, or she would not have hesitated to tell a falsehood; for her limited education had not taught her a love or habit of truth where a lie would better serve her turn, and save her from punishment. she was silent, and burst into tears. "come," said jemmy, "give us some supper, nan, and let the gal alone." nan complied, ominously muttering, however. the supper just finished, an organ-grinder began to play at the door. the men stepped out to join the crowd, who were watching the motions of a monkey that danced to the music. gerty ran to the window to look out. delighted with the gambols of the creature, she gazed until the man and monkey moved off--so intently, that she did not miss the kitten which had crept down from her arms, and, springing upon the table, began to devour the remnants of the repast. the organ-grinder was not out of sight when gerty saw the old lamplighter coming up the street. she resolved to watch him light his lamp, when she was startled by a sharp and angry exclamation from nan, and turned just in time to see her snatch her darling kitten from the table. gerty sprang to the rescue, jumped into a chair, and caught nan by the arm; but she firmly pushed her back, and threw the kitten half across the room. gerty heard a sudden splash and a piercing cry. nan had flung the poor creature into a large vessel of steaming hot water. the poor animal writhed an instant, then died in torture. gerty's anger was aroused. without hesitation, she lifted a stick of wood, and violently flung it at nan, and it struck the woman on the head. the blood started from the wound; but nan hardly felt the blow, so greatly was she excited against the child. she sprang upon her, caught her by the shoulder, and opening the house-door, thrust her out. "ye'll never darken my doors again, yer imp of wickedness!" said she, leaving the child alone in the cold night. when gerty was angry, she always cried aloud--uttering a succession of piercing shrieks, until she sometimes quite exhausted her strength. when she found herself in the street she commenced screaming--not from fear of being turned away from her only home, and left alone at nightfall to wander about the city, and perhaps freeze before morning--she did not think of herself for a moment. horror and grief at the dreadful fate of the only thing she loved in the world entirely filled her little soul. so she crouched down against the side of the house, her face hid in her hands, unconscious of the noise she was making. suddenly she found herself placed on trueman flint's ladder, which leaned against the lamp-post. true held her high enough to bring her face opposite his, and saw his old acquaintance, and kindly asked her what was the matter. but gerty could only gasp and say, "oh, my kitten! my kitten!" "what! the kitten i gave you? well, have you lost it? don't cry! there--don't cry!" "oh, no! not lost! oh, poor kitty!" and gerty cried louder and coughed so dreadfully, that true was frightened for the child. making every effort to soothe her, he told her she would catch her death o' cold, and she must go into the house. "oh, she won't let me in!" said gerty "and i wouldn't go if she would." "who won't let you in?--your mother?" "no! nan grant?" "who's nan grant?" "she's a horrid, wicked woman, that drowned my kitten in bilin' water." "but where's your mother?" "i ha'n't got none." "who do you belong to, you poor little thing?" "nobody; and i've no business anywhere!" "with whom do you live, and who takes care of you?" "oh, i lived with nan grant; but i hate her. i threw a stick of wood at her head, and i wish i had killed her!" "hush! hush! you musn't say that! i'll go and speak to her." true moved to the door, trying to draw gerty in; but she resisted so forcibly that he left her outside, and, walking into the room, where nan was binding up her head with a handkerchief, told her she had better call her little girl in, for she would freeze to death out there. "she's no child of mine," said nan; "she's the worst little creature that ever lived; it's a wonder i've kept her so long; and now i hope i'll never lay eyes on her agin--and, what's more, i don't mean. she ought to be hung for breaking my head! i believe she's got an ill spirit in her!" "but what'll become of her?" said true. "it's a fearful cold night. how'd you feel, marm, if she were found to-morrow morning all _friz_ up on your door-step!" "how'd i feel! that's your business, is it? s'posen you take care on her yourself! yer make a mighty deal o' fuss about the brat. carry her home, and try how yer like her. yer've been here a talkin' to me about her once afore, and i won't hear a word more. let other folks see to her, i say; i've had more'n my share, and as to her freezin', or dyin' anyhow, i'll risk her. them children that comes into the world, nobody knows how, don't go out of it in a hurry. she's the city's property--let 'em look out for her; and you'd better go, and not meddle with what don't consarn you." true did not wait to hear more. he was not used to an angry woman, who was the most formidable thing to him in the world. nan's flashing eyes and menacing attitude warned him of the coming tempest, and he hastened away. gerty had ceased crying when he came out, and looked into his face with the greatest interest. "well," said he, "she says you shan't come back." "oh, i'm so glad!" said gerty. "but where'll you go to?" "i don't know! p'raps i'll go with you, and see you light the lamps." "but where'll you sleep to-night?" "i don't know where; i haven't got any home. i'll sleep out where i can see the stars. but it'll be cold, won't it?" "my goodness! you'll freeze to death, child." "well, what'll become of me, then?" "the lord only knows!" true looked at gerty in perfect wonder. he could not leave her there on such a cold night; but he hardly knew what he could do with her at home, for he lived alone, and was poor. but another violent coughing decided him to share with her his shelter, fire, and food, for one night, at least. "come," said he, "with me;" and gerty ran along by his side, never asking whither. true had a dozen lamps to light before his round was finished. gerty watched him light each with as keen an interest as if that were the only object for which she was in his company; and it was only after they had walked on for some distance without stopping, that she inquired where they were going. "going home," said true. "am i going to your home?" said gerty. "yes," said true, "and here it is." he opened a little gate leading into a small yard, which stretched along the whole length of a two-storied house. true lived in the back part of it; and both went in. gerty was trembling with the cold; her little bare feet were quite blue with walking on the pavements. there was a stove in the room, but no fire in it. true immediately disposed of his ladder, torch, etc., in an adjoining shed, and bringing in a handful of wood, he lit a fire. drawing an old wooden settle up to the fire, he threw his great-coat over it, and lifting little gerty up, he placed her gently upon the seat. he then prepared supper; for true was an old bachelor, and did everything for himself. he made tea; then, mixing a great mugful for gerty, with plenty of sugar and all his milk, he brought a loaf of bread, cut her a large slice, and pressed her to eat and drink as much as she could; for he concluded, from her looks, that she had not been well fed; and so much pleased did he feel in her enjoyment of the best meal she had ever had, that he forgot to partake of it himself, but sat watching her with a tenderness which proved that he was a friend to everybody, even to the most forlorn little girl in the world. trueman flint was born in new hampshire; but, when fifteen years old, being left an orphan, he had made his way to boston, where he supported himself by whatever employment he could obtain; having been a newspaper-carrier, a cab-driver, a porter, a wood-cutter, indeed, a jack-at-all-trades; and so honest, capable, and good-tempered had he always shown himself, that he everywhere won a good name, and had sometimes continued for years in the same employ. previous to his entering upon the service in which we find him, he had been a porter in a large store, owned by a wealthy and generous merchant. being one day engaged in removing some casks, he was severely injured by one of them falling upon his chest. for a long time no hope was entertained of his recovery; and when he began to mend, his health returned so gradually that it was a year before he was able to be at work again. this sickness swallowed up the savings of years; but his late employer never allowed him to want for any comforts, provided an excellent physician, and saw that he was well taken care of. but true had never been the same man since. he rose from his sick-bed debilitated, and apparently ten years older, and his strength so much enfeebled, that he was only fit for some comparatively light employment. it was then that his kind master obtained for him the situation of lamplighter; and he frequently earned considerable sums by sawing wood, shovelling snow, and other jobs. he was now between fifty and sixty years old, a stoutly-built man, with features cut in one of nature's rough moulds, but expressive of much good nature. he was naturally reserved, lived much by himself, was little known, and had only one crony, the sexton of a neighbouring church. but we left gertie finishing her supper, and now she is stretched upon the wide settle, sound asleep, covered up with a warm blanket, and her head resting upon a pillow. true sits beside her; her little, thin hand lies in his great palm--occasionally he draws the blanket closer around her. she breathes hard; suddenly she gives a nervous start, then speaks quickly; her dreams are evidently troubled. true listens intently to her words, as she exclaims eagerly, "oh, don't! don't drown my kitty!" and then, again, in a voice of fear, "oh, she'll catch me! she'll catch me!" once more; and now her tones are touchingly plaintive and earnest--"dear, dear, good old man! let me stay with you; do let me stay!" tears are in trueman flint's eyes; he lays his great head on the pillow and draws gerty's little face close to his; at the same time smoothing her long, uncombed hair with his hand. he, too, is thinking aloud--what does _he_ say? "catch you!--no, she _shan't_! stay with _me_!--so you shall, i promise you, poor little birdie! all alone in this big world--and so am i. please god, we'll bide together." chapter iii. the law of kindness. little gerty had found a friend and a protector; and it was well she had, for neglect and suffering had well-nigh cut short her sad existence. the morning after true took her home, she woke in a high fever. she looked around, and found she was alone in the room; but there was a good fire, and preparation for breakfast. for a moment or two she was puzzled to know where she was, and what had happened to her; for the room seemed quite strange, it now being daylight. a smile passed over her face when she recalled the events of the previous night, and thought of kind old true, and the new home she had found with him. she went to the window to look out, though her head was giddy, and she could hardly walk. the ground was covered with snow, and which dazzled gerty's eyes, for she suddenly found herself quite blinded--her head grew dizzy, she staggered and fell. trueman came in a moment after, and was frightened at seeing gerty stretched upon the floor, and was not surprised that she had fainted in trying to walk. he placed her in bed, and soon succeeded in restoring her to consciousness; but for three weeks she never sat up, except when true held her in his arms. true was a rough and clumsy man about most things; but not so in the care of his little charge. he was something of a doctor and nurse in his simple way; and, though he had never had much to do with children, his warm heart taught him all that was necessary for gerty's comfort. gerty was patient; but would lie awake whole nights suffering from pain and weariness through long confinement to a sick-bed, without uttering a groan, lest she might waken true, who slept on the floor beside her, when he could so far forget his anxiety about her as to sleep at all. sometimes, when in great pain, true carried her in his arms for hours; but gerty would try to appear relieved before she was so, and feign sleep that he might put her to bed again and take some rest himself. her little heart was full of love and gratitude to her kind protector, and she spent much time in thinking what she could do for him when she got well. true was often obliged to leave her to attend to his work; and during the first week she was much alone, though everything she could possibly want was put within her reach. at last she became delirious, and for some days had no knowledge how she was taken care of. one day, after a long sleep, she woke restored to consciousness, and saw a woman sitting by her bedside sewing. she sprang up in bed to look at the stranger, who had not observed her open her eyes, but who started when she heard her move, and exclaimed, "oh, lie down, my child! lie down!" laying her hand gently upon her. "i don't know you," said gerty; "where's my uncle true?" for that was the name by which true had told her to call him. "he's gone out, dear; he'll be home soon. how do you feel--better?" "oh, yes! much better. have i been asleep long?" "some time; lie down now, and i'll bring you some gruel--it will be good for you." "does uncle true know you are here?" "yes. i came in to sit with you while he was away." "come in?--from where?" "from my room. i live in the other part of the house." "i think you're very good," said gerty. "i like you. i wonder why i did not see you when you came in." "you were too sick, dear, to notice; but i think you'll soon be better now." the woman prepared the gruel, and, after gerty had taken it, reseated herself at her work. gerty laid down in bed, with her face towards her new friend, and, fixing her large eyes upon her, watched her while she sat sewing. at last the woman looked up, and said, "well, what do you think i am making?" "i don't know," said gerty; "what are you?" the woman held up her work, so that gerty could see that it was a dark calico frock for a child. "oh! what a nice gown!" said gerty. "who it is for?--your little girl?" "no," said the woman, "i haven't got any little girl; i've only got one child, my boy willie." "willie; that's a pretty name," said gerty. "is he a good boy?" "good? he's the best boy in the world, and the handsomest!" answered the woman. gerty turned away, and a look so sad came over her countenance, that the woman thought she was getting tired, and ought to be kept very quiet. she told her so, and bade her to go to sleep again. gerty lay still, and then true came in. "oh, mrs. sullivan," said he, "you're here still! i'm very much obleeged to you for stayin'; i hadn't calkerlated to be gone so long. and how does the child seem to be, marm?" "much better, mr. flint. she's come to her reason, and i think, with care, will do well now. oh, she's awake," he added, seeing gerty open her eyes. true came to the bedside, stroked back her hair, now cut short, and felt her pulse, and nodded his head satisfactorily. gerty caught his great hand between both of hers, and held it tight. he sat down on the side of the bed, and said, "i shouldn't be surprised if she needed her new clothes sooner than we thought of, marm. it's my opinion we'll have her up and about afore many days." "so i was thinking," said mrs. sullivan; "but don't be in too great a hurry. she's had a very severe sickness, and her recovery must be gradual. did you see miss graham to-day?" "yes, i did see her, poor thing! the lord bless her sweet face! she axed a sight o' questions about little gerty here, and gave me this parcel of _arrer-root_, i think she called it. she says it's excellent in sickness. did you ever fix any, mrs. sullivan, so that you can jist show me how, if you'll be so good; for i declare i don't remember, though she took a deal o' pains to tell me." "oh, yes; it's very easy. i'll come in and prepare some by-and-by. i don't think gerty'll want any at present; she's just had some gruel. but father has come home, and i must be seeing about our tea. i'll come in again this evening, mr. flint." "thank you, marm, thank you; you're very kind." during the few following days mrs. sullivan came in and sat with gerty several times. she was a gentle woman, with a placid face, very refreshing to a child that had long lived in fear, and suffered a great deal of abuse. one evening, when gerty had nearly recovered, she was sitting in true's lap by the fire, carefully wrapped in a blanket. she had been talking to him about her new acquaintance and friend, when suddenly she said, "uncle true, do you know what little girl she's making a gown for?" "for a little girl," said true, "that needs a frock and a many other things; for she hasn't got any clothes, except a few old rags. do you know any such little girl, gerty?" "i guess i do," said gerty, with a very knowing look. "well, where is she?" "an't she in your lap?" "what, you!--why, do you think mrs. sullivan would spend her time making clothes for you?" "well," said gerty hanging her head, "i shouldn't _think_ she would, but then you _said_----" "well, what did i say?" "something about new clothes for me." "so i did," said true; "they _are_ for you--two whole suits, with shoes and stockings." gerty opened her large eyes in amazement, and clapped her hands, and true laughed too. "did she buy them, uncle true? is she rich?" asked gerty. "mrs. sullivan?--no, indeed!" said true. "miss graham bought 'em, and is going to pay mrs. sullivan for making them." "who is miss graham?" "she's a lady too good for this world--that's sartin. i'll tell you about her some time; but better not now, for it's time you were abed and asleep." one sabbath, after gerty was nearly well, she was so much fatigued that she went to bed before dark, and for three hours slept soundly. on awaking, she saw that true had company. an old man, much older than true, was sitting on the opposite side of the stove, smoking a pipe. his dress, though ancient and homely, was neat; and his hair was white. he had sharp features, and gerty thought from his looks he could say sharp things. she rightly conjectured that he was mrs. sullivan's father, mr. cooper; and she did not widely differ from most other people who knew the old church-sexton. but both his own face and public opinion somewhat wronged him. his nature was not a genial one. domestic trials, and the fickleness of fortune, had caused him to look on the dark side of life--to dwell upon its sorrows, and frown upon the bright hopes of the young and the gay. his occupation did not counteract a disposition to melancholy; his duties in the church were solitary, and in his old age he had little intercourse with the world, had become severe toward its follies, and unforgiving toward its crimes. there was much that was good and benevolent in him, however; and true flint knew it. true liked the old man's sincerity; and many a sabbath evening had they sat by that same fireside, and discussed questions of public policy, national institutions, and individual rights. trueman flint was the reverse of paul cooper in disposition and temper, being very sanguine, always disposed to look upon the bright side of things, and ever averring that it was his opinion 'twould all come out right at last. on this evening they had been talking on several of such topics; but when gerty awoke she found herself the subject of conversation. "where," asked mr. cooper, "did you say you picked her up?" "at nan grant's," said true. "don't you remember her? she's the same woman whose son you were called up to witness against, at the time the church-windows were broken. you can't have forgotten her at the trial, cooper; for she blew you up with a vengeance, and didn't spare his honour the judge either. well, 'twas just such a rage she was in with this 'ere child the first time i saw her; and the _second_ time she'd just turned her out o' doors." "ah, yes, i remember the she-bear. i shouldn't suppose she'd be any too gentle to her own child, much less a stranger's; but what are you going to do with the foundling, flint?" "do with her?--keep her, to be sure, and take care on her." cooper laughed rather sarcastically. "well, now, i s'pose, neighbour, you think it's rather freakish in me to be adoptin' a child at my time o' life; and pr'haps it is; but i'll explain. she'd a died that night i tell yer on, if i hadn't brought her home with me; and many times since, what's more, if i, with the help o' your darter, hadn't took good care on her. well, she took on so in her sleep, the first night ever she came, and cried out to me all as if she never had a friend afore (and probably she never had), that i resolved then she should stay, at any rate, and i'd take care on her, and share my last crust with the wee thing, come what might. the lord's been very marciful to me, mr. cooper, very marciful! he's raised me up friends in my deep distress. i knew, when i was a little shaver, what a lonesome thing it was to be fatherless and motherless; and when i see this little sufferin' human bein' i felt as if, all friendless as she seemed, she was more specially the lord's, and as if i could not sarve him more, and ought not to sarve him less, than to share with her the blessings he had bestowed on me. you look round, neighbour, as if you thought 'twan't much to share with any one; and 'tan't much there is here, to be sure; but it's a _home_,--yes, a _home_; and that's a great thing to her that never had one. i've got my hands yet, and a stout heart, and a willin' mind. with god's help, i'll be a father to the child; and the time may come when she'll be god's embodied blessin' to me." mr. cooper shook his head doubtfully, and muttered something about children, even one's own, not being apt to prove blessings. trueman added, "oh, neighbour cooper, if i had not made up my mind the night gerty came here, i wouldn't have sent her away after the next day; for the lord, i think, spoke to me by the mouth of one of his holy angels, and bade me persevere in my resolution. you've seen miss graham. she goes to your church regular, with the fine old gentleman her father. i was at their house shovelling snow, after the great storm three weeks since, and she sent for me to come into the kitchen. well may i bless her angel face, poor thing!--if the world is dark to her she makes it light to other folks. she cannot see heaven's sunshine outside, but she's better off than most people, for she's got it in her, i do believe, and when she smiles it lets the glory out, and looks like god's rainbow in the clouds. she's done me many a kindness since i got hurt so bad in her father's store, now five years gone; and she sent for me that day, to ask how i did, and if there was anything i wanted that she could speak to the master about. so i told her all about little gerty; and, i tell you, she and i both cried 'fore i'd done. she put some money into my hand, and told me to get mrs. sullivan to make some clothes for gerty; more than that, she promised to help me if i got into trouble with the care of her; and when i was going away, she said, 'i'm sure you've done quite right, true; the lord will bless and reward your kindness to that poor child.'" true was so excited that he did not notice what the sexton had observed. gerty had risen from her bed and was standing beside true, her eyes fixed upon his face, breathless with the interest she felt in his words. she touched his shoulder; he looked round, saw her, and stretched out his arms. she sprang into them, buried her face in his bosom, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "shall i stay with you always?" "yes, just as long as i live," said true, "you shall be my child." chapter iv. first steps to improvement. it was a stormy evening. gerty was standing at the window, watching for true's returning from his lamplighting. she was neatly dressed, her hair smooth, her face and hands clean. she was now quite well--better than for years before her sickness; a pale, slender-looking child, with eyes and mouth disproportionately large to her other features; her look of suffering had given place to a happy though rather grave expression. on the wide window-sill in front of her sat a plump and venerable cat, parent to gerty's lost darling, and for that reason very dear to her; she was quietly stroking its back, while the constant purring that the old veteran kept up proved her satisfaction at the arrangement. suddenly a rumbling, tumbling sound was heard in the wall. the house was old, and furnished with ample accommodation for rats. one would have thought a chimney was falling brick by brick. but it did not alarm gerty; she was used to rat-inhabited walls, and accustomed to hearing such sounds all her life, when she slept in the garret at nan grant's. not so, however, with the ancient grimalkin, who pricked up her ears, and gave every sign of a disposition to rush into battle. gerty glanced round the room with an air of satisfaction; then, clambering upon the window-sill, where she could see the lamplighter as he entered the gate, she took the cat in her arms, smoothed her dress, and gave a look of pride at her shoes and stockings, and strove to become patient. but it would not do; she could not be patient; it seemed to her that he never came so late before, and she was beginning to think he never would come at all, when he turned into the gate. he had brought some person with him. he did not look tall enough to be mr. cooper, but she concluded it must be he, for whoever it was stopped at his door further up the yard and went it. impatient as gerty had been for true's arrival, she did not run to meet him as usual, but waited until she heard him come in through the shed, where he was in the habit of stopping to hang up his ladder and lantern. she then ran and hid behind the door by which he must enter the room. she evidently had some great surprise in store for him. the cat was more mindful of her manners, and went to meet him, rubbing her head against his legs, which was her customary welcome. "hollo, whiskers," said true, "where's my little gal?" he shut the door behind him as he spoke, thus disclosing gerty to view. she sprang forward with a bound, laughed, and looked first at her own clothes and then in true's face, to see what he would think of her appearance. "well, i declare!" said he, lifting her up in his arms, and carrying her nearer to the light; "little folks do look famous! new frock, apron, shoes! got 'em all on! and who fixed your hair? my! you an't none too handsome, sartain, but you do look famous nice!" "mrs. sullivan dressed me all up, and brushed my hair; and _more too_--don't you see what _else_ she has done?" true followed gerty's eyes as they wandered around the room. he looked amazed to satisfy her anticipations, great as they had been. he had been gone since morning, and things had indeed undergone a transformation. woman's hands had evidently been at work clearing up and setting to rights. until gerty came to live with true his home had never been subjected to female intrusion. living alone, and entertaining scarcely any visitors, he tried to make himself comfortable in his own way, regardless of appearances. in his humble apartment sweeping day came but seldom, and spring-cleaning was unknown. the corners of the ceiling were festooned with cob-webs; the mantle-piece had accumulated a curious medley of things, while there was no end to the rubbish that had collected under the grate. during gerty's illness, a bed made up on the floor for true, and the various articles required in her sick-room, had increased the clutter to such an extent that one almost needed a pilot to conduct him in safety through the apartment. mrs. sullivan was the soul of neatness in her rooms, in her own dress for simplicity, and freedom from the least speck or stain. it was to nurse gerty, and take care of her in true's absence, that she first entered a room the reverse of her own; the contrast was painful to her, and it would have been a real pleasure to clear up and put it to rights; and she resolved as soon as gerty got well, to exert herself in the cause of cleanliness and order, which was, in her eyes, the cause of virtue and happiness, so completely did she identify outward neatness and purity with inward peace. on the day previous to that on which the great cleaning operations took place, gerty was observed by mrs. sullivan standing in the passage near her door, and looking wistfully in. "come in, gerty," said the kind little woman; "come in and see me.--here," added she, seeing how timid the child felt in intruding into a strange room; "you may sit up here by the table and see me iron. this is your little dress. i am smoothing it out, and then your things will all be done! you'll be glad of some new clothes, shan't you?" "very glad, marm," said gerty. "am i to take them away, and keep them all myself?" "yes, indeed," said mrs. sullivan. "i don't know where i'll put 'em all; there an't no place in our room--at least, no very nice place," said gerty, glancing at the open drawer, in which mrs. sullivan was placing the little dress, adding it to a pile of neatly-folded garments. "why, part of them, you know, you'll be wearing," said mrs. sullivan; "and we must find some good place for the rest." "you've got good places for things," said gerty, looking round the room; "this is a beautiful room." "why, it isn't very different from mr. flint's. it's just the same size, and two front windows like his. my cupboard is the best; yours is only a three-cornered one; but that's all the difference." "oh, but yours don't look a bit like ours. you haven't got any bed here, and all the chairs stand in a row, and the table shines, and the floor is so clean, and the stove is new, and the sun comes in so bright! i wish our room was like this! i think ours is not half so big. why, uncle true stumbled over the tongs this morning, and he said there wasn't room to swing a cat." "where were the tongs?" said mrs. sullivan. "about the middle of the floor, marm." "well, you see i don't keep things in the middle of the floor. i think if your room were all cleaned up, and places found for everything, it would look almost as well as mine." "i wish it could be made as nice," said gerty; "but what could be done with those beds?" "i've been thinking about that. there's that little pantry--or bathing-room, i think it must have been when this house was new, and rich people lived in it; that's large enough to hold a small bedstead and a chair or two; 'twould be quite a comfortable little chamber for you. the rubbish in it might just as well be thrown away." "oh, that'll be nice!" said gerty; "then uncle true can have his bed back again, and i'll sleep on the floor in there." "no," said mrs. sullivan; "you shan't sleep on the floor. i've got a very good little cross-legged bedstead that my willie slept on when he lived at home; and i'll lend it to you, if you'll take good care of it and of everything else that is put into your room." "oh, i will," said gerty. "but can i?" added she, hesitating; "do you think i can? i don't know how to do anything." "you never have been taught to do anything, my child; but a girl eight years old can do many things if she is patient and tries to learn. i could teach you to do a great deal that would be useful, and that would help your uncle true very much." "what could i do?" "you could sweep the room every day, you could make the beds, with a little help in turning them; you could set the table, toast the bread, and wash the dishes. perhaps you would not do these things so well at first; but you would keep improving, and get to be a nice little housekeeper." "oh, i wish i could do something for uncle true!" said gerty; "but how could i ever begin?" "in the first place, you must have things cleaned up for you. if i thought mr. flint would like it, i'd get kate m'carty to come in some day and help us; and i think we could greatly improve his home." "oh, i know he'd like it," said gerty; "'twould be grand! may i help?" "yes, you may do what you can; but kate'll be the best hand; she's strong, and knows how to do cleaning very well." "who's she?" said gerty. "kate?--she's mrs. m'carty's daughter in the next house. mr. flint does them many a good turn--saws wood, and so on. they do most of his washing; but they can't half pay him all the kindness he's done that family. kate's a clever girl; she'll be glad to come and work for him any day. i'll ask her." "will she come to-morrow?" "perhaps she will." "uncle true's going to be gone all day to-morrow," said gerty; "he's going to get in mr. eustace's coal. wouldn't it be a good time?" "very," said mrs. sullivan. "i'll try and get kate to come to-morrow." kate came. the room was thoroughly cleaned and put in order. gerty's new clothes were delivered to her own keeping; she was neatly dressed in one suit, the other placed in a little chest found in the pantry, and which accommodated her small wardrobe very well. it was the result of mrs. sullivan's, kate's, and gerty's combined labour which astonished true on his return from his work; and the pleasure he manifested made the day a memorable one in gerty's life, one to be marked in her memory as long as she lived, as being the first in which she had known _that_ happiness--perhaps the highest earth, affords--of feeling that she had been instrumental in giving joy to another. gerty had entered heart and soul into the work, when she had been allowed. she could say with truth, "_we_ did it--mrs. sullivan, kate, and _i_." none but a loving heart like mrs. sullivan's would have sympathized in the feeling which made gerty so eager to help. but _she_ did, and allotted to her many little services, which the child felt herself more blessed in being permitted to perform than she would have done at almost any gift bestowed upon her. she led true about to show him how cleverly mrs. sullivan had made the most of the room and the furniture; how, by moving the bed into a recess, she had reserved the whole square-area, and made a parlour of it. it was some time before he could be made to believe that half of his property had not been spirited away, so incomprehensible was it to him that so much additional space and comfort could be acquired by a little system. but his astonishment and gerty's delight reached their climax when she took him into the lumber-closet, now transformed into a snug and comfortable bed-room. "well, i declare! well, i declare!" was all the old man could say. he sat down beside the stove, now polished, and made, as gerty declared, new, just like mrs. sullivan's; warmed his hands, for they were cold with being out in the frosty evening, and then took a general view of his reformed domicile, and of gerty, who was about to set the table, and toast the bread for supper. standing on a chair, she was taking down the cups and saucers from among the regular rows of dishes shining in three-cornered cupboard, being deposited on the lower shelf, where she could reach them from the floor, a plate containing some smoothly cut slices of bread, which the thoughtful mrs. sullivan had prepared for her. true watched her motions for a minute or two, and then indulged in a short soliloquy. "mrs. sullivan's a clever woman, sartain, and they've made my old house here complete, and gerty's getting to be like the apple of my eye, and i'm as happy a man as----" chapter v. where is heaven? here true was interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the door. "here, uncle true, here's your package. you forgot all about it, i guess; and i forgot it, too, till mother saw it on the table, where i'd laid it down. i was so taken up with just coming home, you know." "of course--of course!" said true. "much obleeged to you, willie, for fetchin' it for me. it's brittle stuff it's made of, and most likely i should have smashed it 'fore i got it home." "what is it?--i've been wondering." "why, it's a little knick-knack i've brought home for gerty here, that----" "willie! willie!" called mrs. sullivan from the opposite room, "have you been to tea, dear?" "no, indeed, mother; have you?" "why, yes; but i'll get you some." "no, no," said true; "stay and take tea with us, willie; take tea here, my boy. my little gerty is making some famous toast, and i'll have the tea presently." "so i will," said willie! "no matter about any supper for me, mother, i'm going to have my tea here with uncle true. come, now, let's see what's in the bundle; but first i want to see little gerty; mother's been telling me about her. where is she? has she got well? she's been very sick, hasn't she?" "oh, yes, she's nicely now," said true. "here, gerty, look here. why, where is she?" "there she is, hiding behind the settle," said willie, laughing. "she ain't afraid of me, is she?" "well, i didn't know as she was shy," said true; "you silly little girl," added he, "come out here and see willie. this is willie sullivan." "i don't want to see him," said gerty. "don't want to see willie!" said true; "why, you don't know what you're sayin'. willie's the best boy that ever was; i 'spect you and he'll be great friends by-and-by." "he won't like me," said gerty; "i know he won't." "why shan't i like you?" said willie, approaching the corner where gerty had hid herself. her face was covered with her hands. "i guess i shall like you first-rate when i see you." he stooped down, and, taking her hands from her face and holding them in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her, and pleasantly said, "how are you, cousin gerty--how do you do?" "i an't your cousin!" said gerty. "yes, you are," said willie; "uncle true's your uncle, and mine too!--so we're cousins--don't you see?--and i want to get acquainted." gerty could not resist willie's good-natured words and manner. she suffered him to draw her out of the corner towards the lighter end of the room. as she came near the lamp, she tried to free her hands in order to cover her face up again; but willie would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened package, he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, and in a few minutes she was quite at her ease. "there, uncle true says it's for you," said willie; "and i can't think what 'tis, can you?" gerty felt, and looked wonderingly in true's face. "undo it, willie," said true. willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to every one, representing the little samuel in an attitude of devotion. "oh, how pretty!" exclaimed gerty, full of delight. "why didn't i think?" said willie; "i might have known what 'twas by feeling." "why! did you ever see it before?" said gerty. "not this same one; but i've seen lots just like it." "have you?" said gerty. "i never did. i think it's the beautifullest thing that ever was. uncle true, did you say it was for me? where did you get it?" "it was by an accident i got it. a few minutes before i met you, willie, i was stoppin' at the corner to light my lamp, when i saw one of those _furrin_ boys with a sight o' these things, and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walking with 'em a-top of his head. i was just a wonderin how he kept 'em there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and the first thing i knew, whack they all went! he'd spilt them everyone. lucky enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the side-walk, and the most of 'em fell into that and wasn't hurt. some went on to the bricks, and were smashed. well, i kind o' pitied the feller; for it was late, and i thought like enough he hadn't had much luck sellin' of 'em, to have so many left on his hands----" "on his head, you mean," said willie. "yes, master willie, or on the snow," said true; "any way you've a mind to have it." "and i know what you did, uncle true, just as well as if i'd seen you," said willie; "you set your ladder and lantern right down, and helped him to pick 'em all up--that's just what you'd be sure to do for anybody." "this feller, willie, didn't wait for me to get into trouble; he made return right off. when they were all set right, he bowed and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if i'd been the biggest gentleman in the land; talkin,' too, he was, all the time, though i couldn't make out a word of his lingo; and then he insisted on my takin' one o' the figurs. i wasn't agoin' to take it, for i didn't want it; but i happened to think little gerty might like it." "oh, i shall like it!" said gerty. "i shall like it better than--no, not better, but almost _as well_ as my kitten; not _quite_ as well, because that was alive, and this isn't; but _almost_. oh, an't he a cunning boy?" true, finding that gerty was wholly taken up with the image, walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two children to entertain each other. "you must take care and not break it, gerty," said willie. "we had a samuel once, just like it, in the shop; and i dropped it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million pieces." "what did you call it?" asked gerty. "a samuel; they're all samuels." "what are _sammles_?" inquired gerty. "why, that's the name of the child they're taken for." "what do you s'pose he's sittin' on his knee for?" willie laughed. "why, don't you know?" said he. "no," said gerty; "what is he?" "he's praying," said willie. "is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too?" "yes, of course; he looks up to heaven when he prays." "up to where?" "to heaven." gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the eyes were turned, then at the figure. she seemed very much dissatisfied and puzzled. "why, gerty," said willie, "i shouldn't think you knew what praying was." "i don't," said gerty; "tell me." "don't you ever pray--pray to god?" "no, i don't.--who is god? where is god?" willie looked inexpressibly shocked at gerty's ignorance, and answered reverently, "god is in heaven, gerty." "i don't know where that is," said gerty. "i believe i don't know nothin' about it." "i shouldn't think you did," said willie. "i _believe_ heaven is up in the sky; but my sunday-school teacher says, 'heaven is anywhere where goodness is,' or some such thing," he said. "are the stars in heaven?" asked gerty. "they look so, don't they?" said willie. "they're in the sky, where i always used to think heaven was." "i should like to go to heaven," said gerty. "perhaps, if you're good, you will go some time." "can't any but good folks go?" "no." "then i can't ever go," said gerty, mournfully. "why not?" asked willie; "an't you good." "oh no! i'm very bad." "what a queer child!" said willie. "what makes you think yourself so very bad?" "oh, i _am_," said gerty, in a very sad tone; "i'm the worst of all. i'm the worst child in the world." "who told you so?" "everybody. nan grant says so, and she says everybody thinks so; i know it too, myself." "is nan grant the cross old woman you used to live with?" "yes. how did you know she was cross?" "oh, my mother's been telling me about her. well, i want to know if she didn't send you to school, or teach you anything?" gerty shook her head. "why, what lots you've got to learn! what did you used to do when you lived there?" "nothing." "never did anything; don't know anything; my gracious!" "yes, i do know one thing," said gerty. "i know how to toast bread;--your mother taught me;--she let me toast some by the fire." as she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and turned towards the stove; but she was too late--the toast was made, the supper ready, and true was just putting it on the table. "oh, uncle true," said she, "i meant to get the tea." "i know it," said true, "but it's no matter; you can get it to-morrow." the tears came into gerty's eyes; she looked very much disappointed, but said nothing. they all sat down to supper. willie put the samuel in the middle of the table for a centre ornament, and told so many funny stories that gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, and showed herself, for once, a merry child. after tea, she sat beside willie on the great settle, and, in her peculiar way, gave him a description of her life at nan grant's, winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten. the two children were in a fair way to become as good friends as true could possibly wish. true sat on the opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe; his elbows on his knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all their conversation. he laughed when they laughed; took long whiffs at his pipe when they talked quietly; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when gerty recounted her childish griefs. he often heard it afterwards, but never _without crying_. after gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, she sat for a moment without speaking, then becoming excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone, and began uttering the most bitter invectives against nan grant. the child's language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of future revenge. true looked troubled at hearing her talk so angrily. since he brought her home he had never witnessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and the few weeks subsequent to it. true's own disposition was so amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that anyone, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of anger and bitterness. gerty had shown herself so mild and patient since she had been with him, that it had never occurred to him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. now, however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling of her little fist as she menaced nan with her future wrath, he had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in the control of his little charge. for the moment she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hitherto considered her. he saw in her something which needed a check, and felt himself unfit to apply it. he _was_ totally unfit to cope with a spirit like gerty's. it was true he possessed over her one mighty influence--her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. it was that which made her so submissive and patient in her sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do something in return. it was that love, illumined by a higher light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and self-denial. it was that which cheered the old man's latter years, and shed joy on his dying bed. willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive language; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention to him. he could not help smiling at her childish wrath, nor could he resist sympathising with her in a degree. but he was conscious that gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand what made everybody think her so bad. after gerty had railed about nan a little while, she stopped of her own accord; though an unpleasant look remained on her countenance. it soon passed away, however; and when, a little later in the evening, mrs. sullivan appeared at the door, gerty looked bright and happy, listened with evident delight while true uttered warm expressions of thanks for the labour which had been undertaken in his behalf, and, when willie went away with his mother, said her good night, and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her eyes looked so bright, that willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing, "she's a queer little thing, an't she, mother? but i kind o' like her." chapter vi. the first prayer. it would have been difficult to find two children of the poorer class whose situations in life had presented a greater contrast than those of gerty and willie. gerty was a neglected orphan; she had received little of that care, and still less of that love, which willie had enjoyed. mrs. sullivan's husband was an intelligent country clergyman; but as he died when willie was a baby, leaving little property for the support of his family, the widow and her child went home to her father. the old man needed his daughter; for death had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he was alone. from that time the three had lived together in humble comfort, for, though poor, industry and frugality secured them from want. willie was his mother's pride, her hope, her constant thought. she spared no care to provide for his physical comfort, his happiness, and his education and virtue. she might well be proud of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early evidences of a noble nature, won him friends even among strangers. it was his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his full grey eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild, the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming high health, which gave promise of power to the future man. no one could have been in the boy's company half an hour without loving and admiring him. he had a warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, which his mother's love and the world's smiles had fostered; an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural politeness towards his superiors; a quick apprehension; a ready command of language; and a sincere sympathy in others' pleasures and pains. he was fond of study, and until his twelfth year his mother kept him constantly at school. at that time he had an opportunity to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive business, and wanted a boy to assist in the shop. the wages offered by mr. bray were not great, but there was a prospect of an increased salary; and it was not a chance to be overlooked. fond as he was of his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear the burden of labour in the family. his mother and grandfather consented to the plan, and he gladly accepted mr. bray's proposals. he was sadly missed at home; for, as he slept at his employer's during the week, he rarely could make a passing visit to his mother, except on saturday, when he came home at night and passed sunday. so saturday night was mrs. sullivan's happy night, and the sabbath became a more blessed day than ever. when willie reached his mother's room on the evening of which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and mr. cooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them. willie had always much to relate concerning the occurrences of the week. mrs. sullivan was interested in everything that interested willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear; for though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem to listen, he usually heard all that was said. he seldom made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or contemptuous expression regarding individuals or the world in general; thereby evidencing want of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, and this formed a marked trait in his character. willie's spirits would receive a momentary check, for _he_ loved and trusted _everybody_. willie did not fear his grandfather, who had never been severe to him, or interfered with mrs. sullivan's management; but he sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. on the present occasion the conversation turned upon true flint and his adopted child. mr. cooper had been unusually bitter, and, as he took his lamp to go to bed, declared that gerty would never be anything but a trouble to flint, who was a fool not to send her to the almshouse at once. there was a pause after the old man left the room; then willie exclaimed, "mother, what makes grandfather hate folks?" "why, he don't, willie." "i don't mean exactly _hate_--i don't suppose he does _that, quite_; but he don't seem to think a great deal of anybody--do you think he does?" "oh yes; he does not show it much," said mrs. sullivan, "but he thinks a great deal of you, willie, and he wouldn't have anything happen to me for the world; and he likes mr. flint, and----" "oh yes; but i don't mean that; he doesn't think there's much goodness in folks, nor to think anybody's going to turn out well, and----" "you're thinking of what he said about little gerty." "well, she an't the only one. that's what made me speak of it now, but i've often noticed it before, particularly since i went away from home, and am only here once a week. now i think everything of mr. bray; and when i was telling how much good he did, and how kind he was to old mrs. morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he didn't believe it, or didn't think much of it." "oh, well, willie, you mustn't wonder much at that. grandpa's had many disappointments. you know he thought everything of uncle richard, and there was no end to the trouble he had with him; and there was aunt sarah's husband--he seemed to be such a fine fellow when sally married him, but he cheated father at last, so that he had to mortgage his house in high street, and finally gave it up entirely. he's dead now, and i don't want to say anything against him; but he didn't prove what we expected, and it broke sally's heart. that was a dreadful trial to father, for she was the youngest, and his pet. and just after that, mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and a quack doctor prescribed for her, and father always thought that did her more hurt than good. so that he has had a great deal to make him look on the dark side now, but you mustn't mind it, willie; you must take care and turn out well yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough; he's as pleased as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things of you one of these days." here the conversation ended; but willie added another to his many resolves, that, if his health and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes groundless. oh, what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever present with him a high, a noble, and unselfish motive! what an incentive to exertion, perseverance, and self-denial! fears that would otherwise appal, discouragements that would dishearten, labours that would weary, opposition that would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, he struggles for the victory! persons born in wealth and luxury seldom achieve greatness. they were not born for labour; and, without labour, nothing that is worth having can be won. a motive willie had long had. his grandfather was old, his mother weak, and both poor. he must be the staff of their old age; must labour for their support and comfort; he must do _more_:--they hoped great things of him; they _must_ not be disappointed. he did not, however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world, forget the present, but sat down and learned his sunday-school lessons. after which, according to custom, he read aloud in the bible; and then mrs. sullivan, laying her hand on the head of her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy--one of those mother's prayers which the child listens to with reverence and love, and remembers for life. after willie went home that evening, and gerty was left alone with true, she sat beside him for some time without speaking. her eyes were intently fixed upon the white image which lay in her lap. true was not the first to speak; but finding gerty unusually quiet, he looked inquiringly in her face, and said--"well, willie's a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn't he?" gerty answered "yes" without, however, seeming to know what she was saying. "you like him, don't you?" said true. "very much," said gerty, in the same absent way. it was not willie she was thinking of. true waited for gerty to talk about her new acquaintance; but she did not speak for a minute or two. then looking up suddenly, she said--"uncle true, what does samuel pray to god for?" true stared. "samuel!--pray!--i guess i don't know exactly what you're saying." "why," said gerty, holding up the image, "willie says this little boy's name is samuel; and that he sits on his knees, and puts his hands on his breast _so_, and looks up, because he's praying to god, that lives up in the sky. i don't know what he means--_way_ up in the sky--do you?" true took the image and looked at it attentively; scratched his head, and said--"well, i s'pose he's about right. this 'ere child is prayin', sartain, though i didn't think on it afore. but i don't jist know what he calls it a samuel for. we'll ask him sometime." "well, what does he pray for, uncle true?" "oh, he prays to make him good: it makes folks good to pray to god." "can god make folks good?" "yes. god is very great; he can do anything." "how can he _hear_?" "he hears and sees everything in the world." "and does he live in the sky?" "yes," said true--"in heaven." many more questions gerty asked, which true could not answer; many questions that he had never asked himself. true had a humble, loving heart, and a child-like faith; he had enjoyed but little religious instruction, but he earnestly tried to live up to the light he had. true had never inquired into the sources of belief, and he was not prepared to answer the questions suggested by the inquisitive mind of little gerty. he answered her as well as he could, however; and, where he was at fault, referred her to willie, who, he told her, went to sunday-school, and knew a great deal about such things. all the information that gerty could gain amounted to the knowledge of these facts: that god was in heaven; that his power was great; and that people were made better by prayer. but her mind was so intent upon the subject, that the thought even of sleeping in her new room could not efface it. after she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her bosom, and true had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long time with her eyes wide open. just at the foot of the bed was the window. the sky was bright with stars; and they revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the author of such distant and brilliant lights. as she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought, "god lit them! oh, how great he must be! but a _child_ might pray to him!" she rose from her little bed, approached the window, and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands precisely in the attitude of samuel, she looked up to heaven. she spoke no word, but her eyes glistened with a tear that stood in each. was not each tear a prayer? she breathed no petition, but she longed for god and virtue. was not that very wish a prayer? her little, uplifted heart throbbed vehemently. was not each throb a prayer? and did not god in heaven, without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept that first homage of a little, untaught child; and did it not call a blessing down? chapter vii. treasured wrongs. "revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils."--milton. the next day was sunday. true generally went to church half the day at least, with the sexton's family; but gerty having no bonnet could not go, and true would not leave her. so they spent the morning wandering round among the wharves and looking at the ships, gerty wearing her old shawl over her head. willie came in the evening to say good-bye before returning to mr. bray's. he was in a hurry, for his master had his doors closed early, especially on a sunday night. but mr. cooper made his usual visit; and when he had gone, true, finding gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on. she did not wake until morning; and then, surprised and amused at finding herself dressed, ran out to ask true how it happened. true was making the fire; and gerty having been told all about it, helped to get the breakfast ready, and to put the room in order. she followed mrs. sullivan's instructions, and in a few weeks she learned to make herself useful in many ways, and, as mrs. sullivan had prophesied, gave promise of becoming a clever little housekeeper. her active and willing feet saved true many steps, and she was of essential aid in keeping the rooms neat, that being her especial ambition. mrs. sullivan looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her; and nothing made gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. she met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. kate m'carty thought her the smartest child in the world, and would oft come in and wash the floor, or do some other work which required more strength than gerty possessed. one sunday gerty, who had a nice little hood, bought by true, was returning with mr. cooper, mr. flint, and willie, from the afternoon service at church. the two old men were engaged in discussion, and the children talked earnestly about the church, the minister, the people, and the music, all of which were new to gerty, and greatly excited her wonder. as they drew near home, willie remarked how dark it was growing in the streets; and then, looking down at gerty, whom he held by the hand, he said, "gerty, do you ever go out with uncle true, and see him light the lamps?" "no, i never did," said gerty, "since the first night i came. i've wanted, but it's been so cold, he would not let me; he said i'd have the fever again." "it won't be cold this evening," said willie; "it'll be a beautiful night; and, if uncle true's willing, we will go with him. i've often been; you can look into the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting round the fire in their parlours." "and i like to see him light those great lamps," said gerty; "they make it look so bright and beautiful all around. i hope he'll let us go; i'll ask him; come," said she, pulling him by the hand. "no--wait," said willie; "he's busy talking with grandpa--we can ask him at home." as soon as they reached the gate she broke away from him, and, rushing up to true, made known her request. he readily consented, and the three soon started on the rounds. for a time gerty's attention was so engrossed by the lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. but when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of a large apothecary's shop, her delight knew no bounds. the brilliant colours displayed in the windows captivated her fancy; and when willie told her that his master's shop was similar she thought it must be a fine place to spend one's life in. then she wondered why this was open on sunday, when all the other stores were closed, and willie, stopping to explain, they found that true was some distance in advance. he hurried gerty along, telling her that they were now in the finest street they should pass through, and they must haste, for they had nearly reached the house he most wanted her to see. when they came up with true, he was placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block of buildings. many of the front windows were shaded, so that the children could not see in; but some had no curtains, or they had not yet been drawn. in one parlour there was a pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered; and here gerty would fain have lingered. in another, a brilliant chandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped her hands in delight, and willie could not prevail upon her to leave the spot, until he told her that farther down the street was another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see some beautiful children. "how do you know there'll be children there?" said she, as they walked along. "i don't know, certainly," said willie; "but i think there will. they used always to be up at the window when i came with uncle true, last winter." "how many?" asked gerty. "three, i believe; there was one little girl with such beautiful curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. she looked like a wax doll, only a great deal prettier." "oh, i hope we shall see her!" said gerty, dancing along on the tops of her toes. "there they are!" exclaimed willie; "all three, i declare, just as they used to be!" "where?" said gerty; "where?" "over opposite, in the great stone house. here, let's cross over. it's muddy; i'll carry you." willie lifted gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in front of the house. true had not yet come up. it was he that the children were watching for. gerty was not the only child that loved to see the lamps lit. it was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see any one out of doors; but willie and gerty had so much better chance to look in. the mansion was a fine one, evidently the home of wealth. a clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave gerty her first impressions of luxurious life. there was an air of comfort combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating to the child of poverty and want. a table was bountifully spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate, above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting look. a gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy chair by the fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's arrangements at the tea-table; and the children of the household, smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking out, as we have just narrated. they were sweet, lovely-looking little creatures; especially a girl, of the same age as gerty, the eldest of the three. her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little round plump figure. gerty's admiration and rapture were such, that she could find no expression for them, and directing willie's notice first to one thing and then another; "oh, willie, isn't she a darling? and see what a beautiful fire--what a splendid lady! what is that on the table? i guess it's good! there's a big looking-glass; and oh, willie! an't they dear, handsome children?" true now came up, and as his torch-light swept along the side-walk gerty and willie became the subjects of notice and conversation. the curly-haired girl saw them, and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. though gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like being stared at and talked about; and hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up, though willie laughed at her, and told her it was now her _turn_ to be looked at. when true moved off, she began to run, so as to escape observation; but willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back to have one more look, and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. then the servant-girl drew down the window-blinds. gerty then took willie's hand, and they tried to overtake true. "shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, gerty!" said willie. "yes, indeed," said gerty; "an't it splendid?" "i wish i had just such a house," said willie. "i mean one of these days." "where will you get it?" exclaimed gerty, much amazed at so bold a declaration. "oh, i shall work, and grow rich, and buy it." "you can't; it would take a lot o' money!" "i know it; but i can earn a lot, and i will, too. the gentleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he first came to boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich as well an another?" "how do you suppose he got so much money?" "i don't know how _he_ did; there are a great many ways. some people think it's all luck, but i guess it's as much smartness as anything." "are you smart?" willie laughed. "an't i?" said he. "if i don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say i an't." "i know what i'd do if i was rich," said gerty. "what?" asked willie. "first, i'd buy a great nice chair for uncle true, with cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it--just exactly like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, i'd have great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so as to make the room as _light_--as _light_ as it could be!" "seems to me you're mighty fond of lights, gerty," said willie. "i be," said the child. "i hate old, dark, black places; i like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and uncle true's torch----" "and i like bright eyes!" interrupted willie; "yours look just like stars, they shine so to-night. an't we having a good time?" "yes, real." and so they went on--gerty dancing along the side-walk, willie sharing in her gaiety and joy, and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and protecting the wild little creature. they talked of how they would spend that future wealth which they both calculated upon one day possessing; for gerty had caught willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and grow rich. willie said his mother was to wear a gay cap, like that of the lady they had seen; this made gerty laugh. she thought that demure little widow would be ridiculous in a flowered headgear. good taste is inborn, and gerty had it in her. she felt that mrs. sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, neat, and sober-looking, would altogether lose her identity. willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for his reward. happy children! what do they want of wealth? what of anything, material or tangible, more than they now possess? they have what is worth more than riches or fame--they are full of childhood's faith and hope. with a fancy and imagination unchecked by disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many thousand children have built before, that children will always be building to the end of time. far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. undeceive not the little believers, ye wise ones! check not that god-given hopefulness, which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over many a rough spot in life's road. it lasts not long at the best; then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard. they had reached the last lamp-post in the street, but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed any further, pulled hard at willie's hand, and tried to induce him to retrace his steps. "what's the matter, gerty?" said he, "are you tired?" "no, oh no! but i can't go any further." "why not?" "oh, because--because--" and here gerty putting her mouth close to willie's ear, whispered, "there is nan grant's; i see the house! i had forgot uncle true went there; and i am afraid!" "oho!" said willie, drawing himself up with dignity, "i should like to know what you're afraid of, when i'm with you! let her touch you if she dares! and uncle true, too!--i _should_ laugh." very kindly did willie plead with the child, telling her that nan would not be likely to see _them_, but they might see _her_; and that was just what he wanted--nothing he should like better. gerty's fears were soon allayed. when they stood in front of the house, gerty was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of nan. nan was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbours. her countenance expressed great anger, and her face was now so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of vixen, virago, or scold. "which is she?" said willie; "the tall one, swinging the coffee-pot in her hand? i guess she'll break the handle off, if she don't look out." "yes," said gerty, "that's nan." "what's she doing?" "oh, she's fighting with mrs. birch; she does always with somebody. she don't see us, does she?" "no, she's too busy. come, don't let's stop; she's an ugly-looking woman, just as i knew she was. i've seen enough of her, and i'm sure you have--come." gerty lingered. courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen, she was gazing at nan, and her eyes glistened, not with the innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of kindled passion--a fire that nan had kindled long ago, which had not yet gone out, and which the sight of nan had now revived in full force. willie, thinking it was time to be at home, and perceiving mr. flint and his torch far down the street, left gerty, and started himself, to draw her on, saying, "come, gerty, i can't wait." gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, stooped, and picking up a stone, flung it at the window. there was a crash of broken glass, and an exclamation in nan's well-known voice; but gerty was not there to see the result. the instant she heard the crash her fears returned, and flying past willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of true. willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, "why, gerty, do you know what you did?--you broke the window!" gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid willie, pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do. true inquired what window? and gerty acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on purpose. true and willie were shocked and silent. gerty was silent too, for the rest of the walk; there were clouds on her face, and she felt unhappy in her little heart. willie bade them good night at the house door, and as usual they saw no more of him for a week. chapter viii. a new friend. "father," said mrs. sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing to take a number of articles which he wanted for his saturday's work in the church, "why don't you get little gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things? you can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, i know." "she'd only be in the way," said mr. cooper; "i can take them myself." but when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal hod on one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of chips in his hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. mrs. sullivan called gerty, and asked her to go and help him carry his tools. gerty was pleased with the proposal, and started off with great alacrity. when they reached the church the old sexton took them from her hands, and telling her she could play about until he went home, but to be sure and do no mischief, he went into the vestry to commence sweeping, dusting, and building fires. gerty had ample amusement for some time, to wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine closely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the gallery. then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination addressed a large audience. she was growing weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered unseen, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and gerty, seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest pleasure. he had not played long before the door opened and two visitors entered. one was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, with hair thin and grey, and features rather sharp; but remarkable for his benignant expression of countenance. a young lady, apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his arm. she was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark brown cloak, and a bonnet of the same colour, relieved by some light-blue ribbon about the face. she was somewhat below the middle size, but had a good figure. her features were small and regular; her complexion clear but pale; and her light-brown hair was neatly arranged. she never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly up the aisle. the two approached the spot where gerty sat, but without perceiving her. "i am glad you like the organ," said the gentleman; "i am not much of a judge of music, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that hermann plays it remarkably well." "nor is my opinion of any value," said the lady; "for i have little knowledge of music, much as i love it. but that symphony sounds very delightful to me; it is a long time since i have heard such touching strains; or, it may be partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church this afternoon. i love to go into a large church on a week-day. it was very kind of you to call for me this afternoon. how came you to think of it?" "i thought you would enjoy it, my dear. i knew hermann would be playing about this time; and, besides, when i saw how pale you were looking i knew the walk would do you good." "it has done me good. i was not feeling well, and the clear, cold air was just what i needed; i knew it would refresh me; but mrs. ellis was busy, and i could not go out alone." "i thought i should find the sexton here," said the gentleman. "i want to speak to him about the light; the afternoons are so short now, and it is dark so early, i must ask him to open more of the blinds, or i cannot see to read my sermon to-morrow. he may be in the vestry-room; he is always about here on saturday; i will go and look for him." just then mr. cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman, came up, and after receiving his directions about the light, requested him to go with him somewhere, for the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then said, "i suppose i ought to go to-day; and, as you say you are at leisure, it is a pity i should not; but i don't know----" then, turning to the lady, he said, "emily, mr. cooper wants me to go to mrs. glass's with him; and i shall be absent some time. should you mind waiting here until i return? she lives in the next street; but i may be detained, for it's about the library-books being so mischievously defaced, and i am afraid that her oldest boy had something to do with it. it ought to be inquired into before to-morrow." "oh, go, by all means," said emily; "don't mind me; it will be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. mr. hermann's playing is a great treat to me, and i don't care how long i wait; so do not hurry on my account, mr. arnold." thus assured, mr. arnold led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, and went with mr. cooper. all this time gerty had been unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on the upper stair, secured from sight by the pulpit. hardly had the doors closed, however, with a loud bang, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs. the moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near, started, and exclaimed, "who's that?" gerty stood still, and made no reply. strange the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the movement was above her head. there was a moment's pause, and then gerty began again to run down the stairs. the lady sprang up, and, stretching out her hand, said, "who is it?" "me," said gerty, looking up in the lady's face; "it's only me." "will you stop and speak to me?" said the lady. gerty not only stopped, but came close up to emily's chair, irresistibly attracted by the sweetest voice she had ever heard. the lady placed her hand on gerty's head, and said, "who are you?" "gerty." "gerty who?" "nothing else but gerty." "have you forgotten your other name?" "i haven't got any other name." "how came you here?" "i came with mr. cooper, to help him to bring his things." "and he's left you here to wait for him, and i'm left too; so we must take care of each other, mustn't we?" gerty laughed at this. "where were you?--on the stairs?" "yes." "suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with me a little while: i want to see if we can't find out what your other name is. where do you say you live?" "with uncle true." "true?" "yes. mr. true flint i live with now. he took me home to his house one night, when nan grant put me out on the side-walk." "why, are you that little girl? then i've heard of you before. mr. flint told me all about you." "do you know my uncle true?" "yes, very well." "what's your name?" "my name is emily graham." "o! i know," said gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping her hands together; "i know. you asked him to keep me; he said so--i _heard_ him say so; and you gave me my clothes; and you're beautiful; and you're good; and i love you! o! i love you ever so much!" as gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look passed over miss graham's face, a most inquiring and restless look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her memory. she did not speak, but, passing her arm around the child's waist, drew her closer to her. as the peculiar expression passed from her face, and her features assumed their usual calmness, gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder, exclaimed, "are you going to sleep?" "no.--why?" "because your eyes are shut." "they are always shut, my child." "always shut!--what for?" "i am blind, gerty; i can see nothing." "not see!" said gerty; "can't you see anything? can't you see me now?" "no," said miss graham. "o!" exclaimed gerty, drawing a long breath, "_i'm so glad_." "_glad!_" said miss graham, in the saddest voice that ever was heard. "o yes!" said gerty, "so glad you can't see me!--because now, perhaps, you'll love me." "and shouldn't i love you if i saw you?" said emily, passing her hand softly and slowly over the child's features. "oh, no!" answered gerty, "i'm so ugly! i'm glad you can't see how ugly i am." "but just think, gerty," said emily, in the same sad voice, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the world?" "can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're in? are you in the dark?" "in the dark all the time--day and night in the dark." gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, "it's too bad! it's too bad!" the child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years, emily wept bitterly for her blindness. it was but for a few moments, however. quickly recovering herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, "hush! hush! don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! it's not too bad; i can bear it very well. i'm used to it, and am quite happy." "i shouldn't be happy in the dark; i should _hate_ to be!" said gerty. "i _an't_ glad you're blind; i'm really _sorry_. i wish you could see me and everything. can't your eyes be opened, any way?" "no," said emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will talk about you. i want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly." "because folks say that i am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly children." "yes, people do," said emily, "love ugly children, if they are good." "but i an't good," said gerty, "i'm really bad!" "but you _can be good_," said emily, "and then everybody will love you." "do you think i can be good?" "yes, if you try." "i will try." "i _hope_ you will," said emily. "mr. flint thinks a great deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him." she then asked concerning gerty's former way of life, and became so interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone away. gerty was very communicative. the sweet voice and sympathetic tones of emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been passed among the poorer and lowest classes of people, she felt no awe and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, a lady of polished mind and manners. on the contrary, gerty clung to emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a palace. once or twice she took emily's nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her favourite mode of expressing her warmth of gratitude and admiration. the excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon miss graham's feelings. the latter perceived how neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated, lest early abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature capable of the best attainments. the two were still entertaining each other, when mr. arnold entered the church hastily. as he came up the aisle, he called to emily, saying, "emily; dear, i fear you thought i had forgotten you. i have been longer than i intended. were you not tired of waiting?" "i thought it was but a very little while. i have had company, you see." "what, little folks," said mr. arnold, good-naturedly. "where did this little body come from?" "she came to the church this afternoon with mr. cooper. isn't he here for her?" "cooper?--no: he went straight home after he left me; he's probably forgotten all about the child. what's to be done?" "can't we take her home? is it far?" "it is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our way; altogether too far for you to walk." "oh, no, it won't tire me; i'm quite strong now, and i would know she was safe home." if emily could but have seen gerty's grateful face that moment, she would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness. chapter ix. mental darkness. the blind girl did not forget little gerty. emily graham never forgot the sufferings, the wants, the necessities of others. she could not see the world without, but there was a world of love and sympathy within her, which manifested itself in abundant charity, both of heart and deed. she loved god with her whole heart, and her neighbour as herself. her own great misfortunes and trials were borne without repining; but the misfortunes and trials of others became her care, the alleviation of them her greatest delight. emily was never weary of doing good. but never had she been so affected as now by any tale of sorrow. children were born into the world amid poverty and privation. she could not account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger; but the impulse to know more of her was irresistible, and sending for true, she talked a long time with him about the child. true was highly gratified by miss graham's account of the meeting in the church, and of the interest the little girl had inspired in one for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect. gerty had previously told him how she had seen miss graham, and had spoken in the most glowing terms of the dear lady who was so kind to her, and brought her home when mr. cooper had forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man that the fancy was mutual. emily asked him if he didn't intend to send her to school? "well, i don't know," said he; "she's a little thing, and an't much used to being with other children. besides, i don't exactly like to spare her." emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and write; and that the sooner she went among other children, the easier it would be to her. "very true, miss emily, very true," said mr. flint. "i dare say you're right; and if you think she'd better go, i'll ask her, and see what she says." "i would," said emily. "i think she might enjoy it, besides improving very much; and, about her clothes, if there's any deficiency, i'll----" "oh, no, no, miss emily!" interrupted true; "there's no necessity; she's very well on't now, thanks to your kindness." "well," said emily, "if she should have any wants, you must apply to me. you know we adopted her jointly, and i agreed to do anything i could for her; so you must never hesitate--it will be a pleasure to serve either of you. my father always feels under obligations to you, mr. flint, for faithful service that cost you dear in the end." "oh, miss emily," said true, "mr. graham has always been my best friend; and as to that 'ere accident that happened when i was in his employ, it was nobody's fault but my own; it was my own carelessness, and nobody's else." "i know you say so," said emily, "but we regretted it very much; and you mustn't forget what i tell you, that i shall delight in doing anything for gerty. i should like to have her come and see me, some day, if she would like, and you'll let her." "sartain, sartain," said true, "and thank you kindly; she'd be glad to come." a few days after gerty went with true to see miss graham, but the housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that she was ill and could see no one. so they went away full of disappointment and regret. emily had taken a severe cold the day she sat so long in the church, and was suffering with it when they called; but, though confined to her room, she would have been glad to have a visit from gerty, and was sorry that mrs. ellis should have sent them away. on saturday evening, when willie was present, true broached the subject of gerty's going to school. gerty was much displeased with the idea; but it met with willie's approbation; and when gerty learned that miss graham also wished it, she consented, though reluctantly, to begin the next week, and try how she liked it. so next monday gerty went with true to one of the primary schools, was admitted, and her education began. when willie came home the next sunday, he rushed into true's room, eager to hear how gerty liked going to school. she was seated at the table, with her spelling-book; and she exclaimed, "oh, willie! willie! come and hear me read!" her performance could hardly be called reading. she had not got beyond the alphabet, and a few syllables she had learned to spell; but willie bestowed upon her much well-merited praise, she had been very diligent. he was astonished to hear that gerty liked going to school, liked the teachers and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. he had fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and go into tantrums about it--which was the expression he used to denote her fits of ill-temper. willie promised to assist her in her studies; and the two children's literary plans soon became as high-flown as if one had been a poet-laureate and the other a philosopher. for two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. gerty went regularly to school, and made rapid progress. every saturday willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised, and encouraged her. but he had heard that, on two occasions, she had nearly had a brush with some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. this soon reached a crisis. one day, when the children were in the school-yard, during recess, gerty saw true in his working-dress, passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp-filler. shouting and laughing, she pursued and overtook him. she came back in a few minutes, seeming much delighted, and ran into the yard full of happy excitement. the troop of large girls, whom gerty had already had some reason to distrust, had been observing her, and one of them called out saying---- "who's that man?" "that's my uncle true," said gerty. "your what?" "my uncle, mr. flint, that i live with." "so you belong to him, do you?" said the girl, in an insolent tone of voice. "ha! ha! ha!" "what are you laughing at?" said gerty, fiercely. "ugh! before i'd live with him!" said the girl--"old smutty!" the others caught it up, and the laugh and epithet old smutty circulated freely in the corner of the yard where gerty was standing. gerty was furious. her eyes glistened, she doubled her little fist, and, without hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd. but they were too many for her, and, helpless as she was with passion, they drove her out of the yard. she started for home on a full run, screaming with all her might. as she flew along the side-walk, she brushed stiffly against a tall, stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the same direction, with a much smaller person leaning on her arm. "bless me!" said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equilibrium from the suddenness of the shock. "why, you horrid little creature!" as she spoke, she grasped gerty by the shoulder, and, before she could break away, gave her a slight shake. this served to increase gerty's anger, and, her speed gaining in proportion, it was but a few minutes before she was crouched in a corner of true's room behind the bed, her face to the wall, and covered with both her hands. here she was free to cry as loud as she pleased; for mrs. sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in the house to hear her. but she had not indulged long in her tantrum when the gate at the end of the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps were heard coming towards mr. flint's door. gerty's attention was arrested, for she knew by the sound that a stranger was approaching. with a strong effort she controlled herself so as to keep quiet. there was a knock at the door, but gerty did not reply to it, remaining concealed behind the bed. the knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the latch and walked in. "there doesn't seem to be any one at home," said a female voice, "what a pity." "isn't there? i'm sorry," replied another, in the sweet musical tones of miss graham. gerty knew the voice at once. "i thought you'd better not come here yourself," rejoined the first speaker, who was no other than mrs. ellis, the identical lady whom gerty had so frightened and disconcerted. "oh, i don't regret coming," said emily. "you can leave me here while you go to your sister's, and very likely mr. flint or the little girl will come home in the meantime." "it don't become you, miss emily, to be carried round everywhere, and left, like an express parcel, till called for. you caught a horrid cold that you're hardly well of now, waiting there in the church for the minister; and mr. graham will be finding fault next." "oh, no, mrs. ellis; it's very comfortable here; the church must have been damp, i think. come, put me in mr. flint's arm-chair, and i can make myself quite contented." "well, at any rate," said mrs. ellis, "i'll make up a good fire in this stove before i go." as she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and, after stirring up the coals, and making free with all true's kindlewood, waited till the fire burnt up, and then, having laid aside emily's cloak, went away with the same firm step with which she had come, and which had so overpowered emily's noiseless tread, that gerty had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. as soon as gerty knew that mrs. ellis had really departed, she suspended her efforts at self-control, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, "o dear! o dear!" "why, gerty!" exclaimed emily, "is that you?" "yes," sobbed gerty. "come here." the child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran, threw herself on the floor by the side of emily, buried her face in the blind girl's lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. her whole frame was agitated. "why, gerty," said emily, "what is the matter?" but gerty could not reply; and emily desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be somewhat composed. she lifted gerty up into her lap, laid her head upon her shoulder, and with her handkerchief wiped the tears from her face. her soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child, and when she was calm, emily, instead of recurring at once to the cause of her grief, questioned her upon other topics. at last, however, she asked her if she went to school. "i _have been_," said gerty, raising her head from emily's shoulder; "but i won't ever go again!" "what!--why not!" "because," said gerty, angrily, "i hate those girls; yes, i hate 'em! ugly things!" "gerty," said emily, "don't say that; you shouldn't hate anybody." "why shouldn't i?" said gerty. "because it's wrong." "no, it's not _wrong_; i say it _isn't_!" said gerty; "and i do hate 'em; and i hate nan grant, and i always shall! don't _you_ hate anybody?" "no," answered emily, "_i don't._" "did anybody ever drown your kitten? did anybody ever call your father old smutty?" said gerty. "if they had, i know you'd hate 'em just as i do." "gerty," said emily, solemnly, "didn't you tell me, the other day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be good, and would try!" "yes," said gerty. "if you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others." gerty said nothing. "do you not wish god to forgive and love you?" "god, who lives in heaven--who made the stars?" said gerty. "yes." "will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?" "yes, if you try to be good and love everybody." "miss emily," said gerty, after a moment's pause, "i can't do it, so i s'pose i can't go." just at this moment a tear fell upon gerty's forehead. she looked thoughtfully up into emily's face, then said-- "dear miss emily, are you going there?" "i am trying." "i should like to go with you," said gerty. still emily did not speak. she left the child to the working of her own thoughts. "miss emily," said gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "i mean to _try_, but i don't think i _can_." "god bless you, and help you, my child!" said emily, laying her hand upon gerty's head. for fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. gerty lay perfectly still in emily's lap. by-and-by the latter perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. when mrs. ellis returned, emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. she did so, and turning to emily, exclaimed, "my word, miss emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that came so near being the death of us!" emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing a woman of mrs. ellis' inches, but said nothing. why did emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a mighty sorrow? why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and heavenly aid? why did she so beseechingly ask of god his blessing on the little child? because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, how a temper like that of gerty's might, in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of early joy. and so she prayed to heaven for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity. chapter x. an earthly messenger of peace. the next sabbath afternoon found gerty seated on a stool in emily's room. her large eyes were fixed on emily's face, which always seemed to fascinate the little girl; so attentively did she watch her features, the charm of which many an older person than gerty had felt, but could not describe. it was not beauty; though once her face was illumined by beautiful hazel eyes: nor was it fascination of manner, for emily's manner and voice were so soft and unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. it was not compassion for her blindness, though that might well excite sympathy. but it was hard to realise that emily was blind. it was a fact never forced upon her friend's recollection by any repining or selfish indulgence on the part of the sufferer; and, as there was nothing painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed as they were by her long eyelashes, it was not unusual for persons to converse upon things which could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the moment, her sad deprivation: and emily never sighed, never seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze, but quite satisfied with the pictures which she formed in her imagination, would talk pleasantly upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions. some said that emily had the sweetest mouth in the world, and they loved to watch its ever varying expression. but true christians knew the source whence she derived that power by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and old, and won their love--_they_ would have said the same as gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at emily on the very sunday afternoon of which we speak, "miss emily, i know you've been with god." gerty was a strange child; but she had felt emily's superiority to any being she had ever seen; and she reposed confidence in what she told her, allowed herself to be guided by one whom she felt loved her and sought her good; and, as she sat at her feet, and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face, knew, by her earnest attention, and by the little hand which had sought hers, and held it tight, that one great point was won. gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle with the girls. true's persuasions had failed; she would not go. but emily understood the child's nature better than true did, and urged upon her more forcible motives than the old man had thought of employing, that _she_ succeeded where _he_ had failed. gerty considered that her old friend had been insulted, and that was the chief cause of her indignation with her schoolmates; but emily placed the matter in a different light, and convincing her at last that, if she loved uncle true, she would show it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish anger, she finally obtained gerty's promise that she would go to school the next morning. the next morning true, much pleased, went with her, and inquiring for the teacher, stated the case to her in his blunt, honest way, and then left gerty in her special charge. miss browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good feelings, saw the matter in the right light; and taking an opportunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited gerty's temper by their rudeness, made them so ashamed of their conduct, that they ceased to molest the child. the winter passed away, and spring days came, when gerty could sit at the open window, when birds sang in the morning among the trees, and the sun at evening threw bright rays across true's great room, and gerty could see to read almost until bed-time. she had been to school steadily all winter, and had improved rapidly. she was healthy and well; her clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked by emily, and the care of it superintended by mrs. sullivan. she was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so joyously, that true declared his birdie knew not what it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips of her toes. the old man could not have loved her better had she been his own child; and he sat by her side on the wide settle, which, in warm weather, was moved outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she read various pleasing stories. the old man's interest in the story-books was as keen as if he had been a child himself. emily, who gave these books, knew their influence on the hearts of children, and most judiciously did she select them. gerty's life was now as happy as it had been wretched and miserable. all the days in the week were joyous; but saturday and sunday were marked days; for saturday brought willie home to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh, and play with her. he had so many pleasant things to tell, was so full of life, so ready to enter into all her plans, and promote her amusement, that on monday morning she began to count the days until saturday would come again. sunday afternoon gerty always spent with emily, listening to her sweet voice, and imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. emily preached no sermons, nor did she weary the child with precepts. it did not occur to gerty that she went there to be _taught_ anything; but gradually the blind girl imparted light to the child's dark soul, and the lessons that are divine were implanted in her so naturally, that she realized not the work that was going on, but long after--when goodness had grown strong within her, and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles--she felt, as she looked back, that on those blessed sabbaths, sitting at emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of that immortal light that never could be quenched. it was a grievous trial to gerty to learn that the graham's were about to go into the country for the summer. mr. graham had a pleasant residence about six miles from boston, to which he resorted as soon as the planting season commenced; for though devoted to business during the winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation during the summer; and ledgers and day-books were to be supplanted by the delights of gardening. emily promised gerty that she should pass a day with her when the weather was fine; a visit which gerty enjoyed three months in anticipation, and more than three in retrospection. it was some compensation for emily's absence that, as the days got long, willie was often able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two in the evening; and willie's visits always tended to comfort gerty. chapter xi. progress of knowledge. it was one pleasant evening in april that gerty, who had been to see miss graham and bid her good-bye, before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of the yard, weeping bitterly. she held in her hand a book and a new slate, emily's parting gifts; but she had not removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was bedewed with tears. she was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders; and, as she turned round, she found herself encircled by willie's arms, and face to face with willie's sunny countenance. "why, gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome, when i've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening. mother and grandfather are gone out, and when i come to look for you, you're crying so i can't see your face for tears. come, come! _do_ leave off; you don't know how you look!" "willie!", sobbed she, "do you know miss emily's gone?" "gone where?" "way off, six miles, to stay all summer!" but willie only laughed. "six miles!" said he; "that's a terrible way, certainly!" "but i can't see her any more!" said gerty. "you can see her next winter," rejoined willie. "oh, but that's so long!" said the child. "what makes you think so much of her?" "she thinks much of me; she can't see me, and she likes me better than anybody, but uncle true." "i don't believe it; i don't believe she likes you half as well as i do. i _know_ she don't! how can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in her life, and i see you all the time, and love you better than i do anybody in the world, except my mother." "do you _really_, willie?" "yes, i do. i always think, when i come home--now i'm going to see gerty; and everything that happens all the week, i think to myself--i shall tell gerty that." "i shouldn't think you'd like me so well." "why not?" "oh, because you're so handsome, and i an't handsome a bit. i heard ellen chase tell lucretia davis, the other day, that she thought gerty flint was the worst-looking girl in the school." "then she ought to be ashamed of herself," said willie, "i guess she an't very good-looking. i should hate the looks of _her_ or any _other_ girl that said that." "oh, willie!" exclaimed gerty, "it's true." "no, it an't _true_," said willie. "to be sure, you haven't got long curls, and a round face, and blue eyes, like belle clinton's, and nobody'd think of setting you up for a beauty; but when you've been running, and have rosy cheeks, and your great black eyes shine, and you laugh so heartily, i often think you're the brightest-looking girl i ever saw in my life: and i don't care what other folks think, as long as i like your looks. i feel just as bad when you cry, or anything's the matter with you, as if it were myself, and worse." such professions of affection by willie were frequent, and always responded to by a like declaration from gerty. nor were they mere professions. the two children loved each other dearly. that they loved _each other_ there could be no doubt; and if in the spring the bond between them was already strong, autumn found it cemented by still firmer ties; for, during emily's absence, willie filled her place, and his own too; and though gerty did not forget her blind friend, she passed a most happy summer, and made such progress in her studies at school that, when emily returned in october, she could hardly understand how so much had been accomplished in so short a time. miss graham's kindly feeling towards her little _protégé_ had increased by time and absence, and gerty's visits to emily became more frequent than ever. the profit derived from these visits was not all on gerty's part. emily had, during the previous winter, heard her read occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency; now she had discovered that the little girl had attained to a much greater degree of excellence. she read understandingly, and her accent and intonations were so admirable that emily found rare pleasure in listening to her. for the child's benefit, and for her own gratification, she proposed that gerty should come every day and read to her for an hour. gerty was only too happy to oblige her dear miss emily, who, in making the proposal, represented it as a personal favour to herself, and a plan by which gerty's eyes could serve for them both. it was agreed that when true started on his lamplighting expeditions he should take gerty to mr. graham's, and call for her on his return. thus gerty was punctual in her attendance at the appointed time; and none but those who have tried it are aware what a large amount of reading may be effected in six months, if an hour is devoted to it each day. emily, in her choice of books, did not confine herself to such as came strictly within a child's comprehension. she judged that a girl of such keen intelligence as gerty was naturally endowed with would be benefited by what was beyond her comprehension; but that, in the effort she would be called upon to make, would enlarge her capacity, and be an incentive to her genius. so history, biography, and books of travels were perused by gerty at an age when most children's literary pursuits are confined to stories and pictures. the child gave the preference to this comparatively solid reading; and, aided by emily's explanations, she stored up in her mind much useful information. from the time gerty was first admitted until she was twelve years old, she attended the public schools, and was rapidly promoted; but what she learned with miss graham, and acquired by study with willie at home, formed nearly as important a part of her education. willie was very fond of study, and was delighted at gerty's participation in his favourite pursuit. they were a great advantage to each other, for each found encouragement in the other's sympathy and co-operation. after the first year or two of their acquaintance, willie was in his fifteenth year, and beginning to look quite manly. but gerty's eagerness for knowledge had all the more influence upon him; for if the little girl of ten years was patient and willing to labour at her books until after nine o'clock, the youth of fifteen must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. when they had reached these ages, they began to study french together. willie's former teacher continued to feel a kindly interest in the boy who had long been his best scholar, and who would certainly have borne away from his class the first prizes, had not a higher duty called him to inferior labours previous to the public exhibition. finding that willie had much spare time, he advised him to learn the french language, which would prove useful to him--and offered to lend him such books as he would need at the commencement. willie availed himself of his teacher's advice and his kind offer, and began to study in good earnest. when he was at home in the evening, he came into true's room, partly for the sake of quiet and partly for the sake of being with gerty, who was at the time occupied with her books. gerty had a strong desire to learn french too. willie wished her to try, but thought she would not persevere. but to his surprise, she discovered a wonderful determination, and a decided talent for language; and as emily furnished her with books like willie's, she kept pace with him, oftentimes translating more during the week than he could find time to do. on saturday evening, when they had always had a fine study-time together, true would sit on his old settle watching willie and gerty side by side, at the table, with their eyes bent on the page, which to him seemed a labyrinth. gerty looked out the words with great skill, her bright eyes diving, as if by magic, into the dictionary, and transfixing the right word at a glance, while willie's province was to make sense. almost the only occasion when true disturbed them was when he heard willie talk about making sense. "making sense, willie!" said the old man; "is that what ye're after? well, you couldn't do a better business. i'll warrant you a market for it; there's want enough on't in the world!" it was but natural that, with emily to advise and direct, and willie to aid and encourage, her intellect should rapidly expand and strengthen. but how is it with that little heart of hers, that, at once warm and affectionate, impulsive, sensitive, and passionate, now throbs with love and gratitude, and now again burns as vehemently with the consuming fire that a sense of wrong, a consciousness of injury to herself or her friends, would at any moment enkindle? has she, in two years of happy childhood, learned self-control? has she also attained to an enlightened sense of the distinction between right and wrong, truth and falsehood? in short, has emily been true to her self-imposed trust, her high resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of the little ignorant one? has gerty learned religion? has she found out god, and begun to walk patiently in that path which is lit by a holy light and leads to rest? she has _begun_; and though her footsteps often falter, though she sometimes turns aside, and, impatient of the narrow way, gives the rein to her old irritability, she is yet but a child, and there is a foundation for hopefulness in the sincerity of her good intentions, and the depth of her contrition when wrong has had the mastery. emily has taught her where to place her strong reliance, and gerty looks to higher aid than emily's, and she leans on a mightier arm. how much gerty had improved in the two years that had passed since she first began to be so carefully instructed and provided for, the course of our story must develop. we cannot pause to dwell upon the trials and struggles, the failures and victories, that she experienced. it is sufficient to say that miss graham was satisfied and hopeful, true proud and over-joyed, while mrs. sullivan, and even old mr. cooper, declared she had improved wonderfully in her behaviour and her looks. chapter xii. an adventure and a misfortune. one saturday evening in december willie came in with his french books under his arm, and, after the first salutations, exclaimed, as he put the grammar and dictionary on the table, "oh, gerty! before we begin to study, i _must_ tell you and uncle true the funniest thing that happened to-day; i have been laughing so at home, as i was telling mother about it!" "i heard you laugh," said gerty. "if i had not been so busy, i should have come in to hear what it was that was so very droll. but do tell us!" "why, you will not think it's anything like a joke when i begin, and i should not be much amused, if she hadn't been the very queerest old woman that ever i saw in my life." "old woman!--you haven't told us about one!" "but i'm going to," said willie. "you noticed how everything was covered with ice this morning. how splendidly it looked, didn't it? i declare, when the sun shone on that great elm-tree in front of our shop, i thought i never saw anything so handsome in my life. but, there, that's nothing to do with my old woman--only that the side-walks were just like everything else, a perfect glare." "i want to hear about your old woman," said gerty. "i was standing at the shop-door, about eleven o'clock, looking out, when i saw the strangest-looking figure coming down the street. she had on some kind of a black silk or satin gown, made very scant, and trimmed all round with some brownish-looking lace--black it had been once, but it isn't now--then she had a grey cloak, of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out of the ark, if it hadn't been for a little cape, of a different colour, that she wore outside of it, and which must have been dated a generation further back. her bonnet! oh dear! it was twice as big as anybody's else, and she had a figured lace veil thrown over one side, that reached nearly to her feet. but her goggles crowned all; such immense horrid-looking things i never saw. she had a work-bag made of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colours in the rainbow sewed on to it, zigzag: then her pocket-handkerchief was pinned to her bag, and a great feather fan--at this season of the year!--that was pinned on somewhere--by a string, i suppose--and a bundle-handkerchief, and a newspaper! oh, gracious! i can't think of half the things; but they were all pinned together with great brass pins, and hung in a body on her left arm. her dress, though, wasn't the strangest thing about her. what made it funny was her way of walking: she looked quite old and infirm, and it was evident she could hardly keep her footing on the ice; and yet she walked with such a consequential little air! oh, gerty, it's lucky you didn't see her! you'd have laughed from then till this time." "some poor, crazy crittur, wasn't she?" asked true. "oh, no!" said willie, "i don't think she was; though queer enough, but not crazy. just as she got opposite the shop door her feet slipped, and she fell flat on the pavement. i rushed out, for i thought the fall might have killed the poor little thing; and mr. bray, and a gentleman whom he was waiting upon, followed me. she did appear stunned at first; but we carried her into the shop and she came to her senses in a minute or two. crazy you asked if she were, uncle true! no, not she! she's as bright as you are! as soon as she opened her eyes, and seemed to know what she was about, she felt for her work-bag and all its appendages; counted them up, to see if the number were right, and then nodded her head very satisfactorily. mr. bray poured out a glass of cordial and offered it to her. by this time she had got her airs and graces back again; so when he recommended her to swallow the cordial, she retreated with a little old-fashioned curtsey, and put up both her hands to express her horror at the idea of such a thing. the gentleman standing by smiled, and advised her to take it, as it would do her no harm. she turned round, made another curtsey to him, and asked, in a little cracked voice, 'can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candour and gallantry, that it is not an exhilarating potion?' the gentleman could hardly keep from laughing; but he told her it was nothing that would hurt her. 'then,' said she, 'i will venture to sip the beverage; it has most aromatic fragrance.' she seemed to like the taste as well as the smell, for she drank every drop of it; she turned to me and said, 'except upon this gentleman's assurance of the harmlessness of the liquid, i would not have swallowed it in your presence, my young master, if it were only for the _example_. i have set my seal to no temperance pledge, but i am abstemious because it becomes a lady; it is with me a matter of choice, a matter of _taste_.' she now seemed quite restored, and talked of starting again on her walk; but it was not safe for her to go alone on the ice, and mr. bray thought so, for he asked her where she was going? she told him, in her roundabout way, that she was going to pass the day with mistress somebody, that lived near the common. i touched mr. bray's arm, and said, in a low voice, that if he could spare me, i'd go with her. he said he shouldn't want me for an hour; so i offered her my arm and told her i should be happy to wait upon her. you ought to have seen her then. if i had been a grownup man, and she a young lady, she couldn't have tossed her head or giggled more. but she took my arm and we started off. i knew mr. bray and the gentleman were laughing to see us, but i didn't care; i pitied the old lady, and i did not mean she should get another tumble. "every person we met stared at us; we were such a grotesque looking couple. she accepted my proffered arm, and clasped her hands together round it, making a complete handle of her two arms; and so she hung on with all her might. but i ought not to laugh at the poor thing, for she needed somebody to help her along, and i'm sure she wasn't heavy enough to tire me out, if she did make the most of herself. i wonder who she belongs to. i shouldn't think her friends would let her go about the streets so, especially such walking as it is to-day." "what's her name?" inquired gerty. "didn't you find out?" "no," answered willie; "she wouldn't tell me. i asked her, but she only said, in her little cracked voice (and here willie began to laugh immoderately), that she was the _incognito_, and that it was the part of a true and gallant knight to discover the name of his fair lady. oh, i promise you she was a case! why, you never heard anyone talk so ridiculously as she did! i asked her how old she was. mother said that was very impolite, but it's the only uncivil thing i did or said, as the old lady would testify herself if she were here." "how old is she?" said gerty. "sixteen." "why, willie, what do you mean?" "that's what she told me," said willie; "and a true and gallant knight must believe his fair lady." "poor body!" said true; "she's childish!" "no, she isn't uncle true," said willie; "you'd think so part of the time, to hear her run on with her nonsense; and then, the next minute, she'd speak as sensible as anybody, and say how much obliged she was to me for being willing to put myself to so much trouble for the sake of an old woman like her. just as we turned into beacon street we met a school of girls, blooming beauties, handsome enough to kill, my old lady called them; and when they came in sight, she seemed to take it for granted i should get away from her, and run after some of them. but she held on with a vengeance! it's lucky i had no idea of forsaking her, for it would have been impossible! some of them stopped and stared at us--of course i didn't care how much they stared; but she seemed to think i should be terribly mortified; and when we had passed them all, she complimented me again and again on my spirit of conformity, her favourite expression." here willie was out of breath. true clapped him upon the shoulder. "good boy, willie?" said he, "clever boy! you always look out for the old folks, and that's right. respect for the aged is a good thing; though your grandfather says it's very much out of fashion." "i don't know much about fashion, uncle true; but i should think it was a pretty mean sort of a boy that would see an old lady get one fall on the ice, and not save her from another by seeing her safe home." "willie's always kind to everybody," said gerty. "willie's either a hero," said the boy, "or else he has got two pretty good friends--i rather think it's the latter. but, come, gerty, charles the twelfth is waiting for us, and we must study as much as we can to-night. we may not have another chance very soon, for mr. bray isn't well this evening; he seems threatened with a fever, and i promised to go back to the shop after dinner to-morrow. if he should be sick, i shall have plenty to do without coming home at all." "oh, i hope mr. bray is not going to have a fever," said true and gerty, in the same breath. "he's such a clever man!" said true. "he's so good to you, willie!" added gerty. willie hoped not, too; but his hopes gave way to his fears, when he found on the following day that his kind master was not able to leave his bed, and the doctor pronounced his symptoms alarming. a typhoid fever set in, which in a few days terminated the life of the excellent apothecary. the death of mr. bray was a dreadful blow to willie. the shop was closed, the widow having decided to dispose of the stock, and remove into the country. willie was thus left without employment, and deprived of mr. bray's valuable assistance. his earnings had promoted the comfort of his mother and grandfather, who had thus been enabled to relax their own labours. the thought of being a burden to them was intolerable to the independent spirit of the boy; and he tried to obtain another place. he applied to the different apothecaries in the city, but none of them wanted a youth of his age. he returned home at night, disappointed, but not discouraged. if he could not obtain employment with an apothecary, he would do something else. but what should he do? that was the question. he had long talks with his mother about it. she felt that his talents and education entitled him to fill a position equal to that he had already occupied; and could not endure the thought of his descending to more menial service. willie, without pride, thought so too. he knew he could give satisfaction in a station which required more business talent than his situation at mr. bray's had ever given scope to. so he had made every possible inquiry, but he had no one to speak a good word for him, and so he met with no success, and day after day returned home silent and depressed. chapter xiii. brightening prospects. this was altogether a new experience to willie, and a very trying one. but he bore it bravely; kept all his worst struggles from his anxious mother and desponding grandfather, and resolved to hope against hope. gerty was now his chief comforter. he told her all his troubles, and, young as she was, she was a wonderful consoler. always looking on the bright side, she did much towards keeping up his hopes and strengthening his resolutions. she knew more than most children of the various ways, in which she sometimes made valuable suggestions to willie, of which he gladly availed himself. among others, she one day asked him if he had applied at the agency offices. he had never thought of it--wondered he had not, but would try. he did so, and for a time was buoyed up with hopes held out to him; but they proved fleeting, and he was now almost in despair, when his eye fell upon an advertisement in a newspaper, which seemed to afford another chance. he showed it to gerty. it was just the thing. gerty was so sanguine, that willie presented himself the next day at the place specified with a more eager countenance than he had ever yet worn. the gentleman talked with him some time; asked a great many questions, hinted his doubts about his capability, and finally declared he was not eligible. he returned with such a heavy heart that he could not meet his mother, and so he went to true's room. it was the night before christmas. true had gone out, and gerty was alone. she was preparing a cake for tea--one of the few branches of the cooking department in which she had acquired some skill. she was just coming from the pantry, with a scoop-full of meal in her hand, when willie entered. he tossed his cap upon the settle, and leaned his head upon his hands, and this betrayed the defeat the poor boy had met with. it was so unlike willie to come in without speaking--it was such a strange thing to see his bright young head bowed down with care, and his elastic figure looking tired and old, that gerty knew at once his brave heart had given way. she laid down the scoop, and walking up to him, touched his arm with her hand, and looked up anxiously into his face. her sympathetic look was more than he could bear. he laid his head on the table, and in a minute more gerty heard great heavy sobs, each one of which sank deep into her soul. she often cried herself--it seemed only natural; but willie--the laughing, happy, light-hearted willie--she had never seen _him_ cry; she didn't know he _could_. she crept up on the rounds of his chair, and putting her arm round his neck, whispered, "i shouldn't mind, willie, if i didn't get the place; i don't believe it's a _good_ place." "i don't believe it is, either," said willie, lifting up his head; "but what shall i do? i can't get any place, and i can't stay here doing nothing." "we like to have you at home," said gerty. "it's pleasant enough to be at home. i was always glad enough to come when i lived at mr. bray's and was earning something, and could feel as if anybody was glad to see me." "_everybody_ is glad to see you _now_." "but not as they were _then_," said willie; "mother always looks as if she expected to hear i'd got something to do; and grandfather, i believe, never thought i should be good for much; and now, as i was beginning to earn something, and be a help to them, i've lost my chance!" "but that an't your fault, willie; you couldn't help mr. bray's dying. i shouldn't think mr. cooper would blame you for not having anything to do _now_." "he don't _blame_ me; but if you were in my place you'd feel just as i do, to see him sit in his arm-chair in the evening, and groan and look up at me, as much as to say, 'it's _you_ i'm groaning about.'" "have heart," said gerty; "i think you'll be rich, some time--and _then_ won't he be astonished!" "oh, gerty! you're a nice child, and i think i can do anything. if ever i am rich, i promise to go shares with you; but 'tan't so easy. i used to think i could make money when i grew up; but it's pretty slow business." here he was on the point of leaning down upon the table again, and giving himself up to melancholy; but gerty caught hold of his hands. "come," said she, "willie, don't think any more about it. people have troubles always, but they get over 'em; perhaps next week you'll be in a better shop than mr. bray's, and we shall be as happy as ever. do you know," said she, changing the subject, "it's just two years to-night since i came here?" "is it?" said willie. "did uncle true bring you home with him the night before christmas?" "yes." "why, that was santa claus carrying you to good things, instead of bringing good things to you, wasn't it?" gerty did not know anything about santa claus, that special friend of children; and willie, who had only lately read about him in some book, undertook to tell her what he knew of the veteran toy-dealer. finding the interest of the subject had engaged his thoughts, gerty returned to her cooking, listening attentively to his story. when he had finished, she was kneeling by the stove; her eyes twinkled with such a merry look, that willie exclaimed, "what are you thinking of, gerty, that makes you look so sly?" "i was thinking that perhaps santa clans would come for you to-night. if he comes for folks that need something, i expect he'll come for you, and carry you to some place where you'll have a chance to grow rich." "very likely," said willie; "he'll clap me into his bag and trudge off with me as a present to somebody--some old cr[oe]sus, that will give me a fortune for the asking. i do hope he will; for, if i don't get something to do soon, i shall despair." true now came in, and interrupted the conversation by the display of a fine turkey, a christmas present from mr. graham. he had also a book for gerty, a gift from emily. "isn't that queer," exclaimed gerty. "willie was just saying you were my santa clans, uncle true; and i do believe you are." as she spoke she opened the book, and in the frontispiece was a portrait of that individual. "it looks like him, willie, i declare it does!" shouted she; "a fur cap, a pipe, and just such a pleasant face; oh, uncle true, if you only had a sack full of toys over your shoulder, instead of your lantern and that great turkey, you would be a complete santa claus. haven't you got anything for willie, uncle true?" "yes, i've got a little something; but i'm afeared he won't think much on't. it's only a bit of a note." "a note for me?" inquired willie. "who can it be from?" "can't say," said true, fumbling in his pockets; "only just round the corner i met a man who stopped me to inquire where mrs. sullivan lived. i told him she lived jist here, and i'd show him the house. when he saw i lived here too, he gave me this little scrap o' paper, and asked me to hand it to master william sullivan. i s'pose that's you, an't it?" he handed willie the slip of paper; and the boy, taking true's lantern in his hand, and holding the note up to the light, read aloud:--"r. h. clinton would like to see william sullivan on thursday morning, between ten and eleven o'clock, at no. ---- wharf." willie looked up in amazement. "what does it mean?"? said he; "i don't know any such person." "i know who he is," said true; "why, it's he that lives in the great stone house in ---- street. he's a rich man, and that's the number of his store--his counting-room rather--on ---- wharf!" "what! father to those pretty children we used to see in the window?" "the very same." "what can he want of me?" "very likely he wants your sarvices," suggested true. "then it's a place!" cried gerty, "a real good one, and santa claus came and brought it: i said he would! oh, willie, i'm so glad!" willie did not know whether to be glad or not. he could not but hope, as gerty and true did, that it might prove the dawning of some good fortune; but he had reasons for believing that no offer from this quarter could be available to him, and therefore made them both promise to give no hint of the matter to his mother or mr. cooper. on thursday willie presented himself at the appointed time and place. mr. clinton, a gentlemanly man, received him kindly, asked but few questions, and telling him that he was in want of a young man to fill the place of junior clerk in his counting-room, offered him the situation. willie hesitated; for, though the offer was most encouraging, mr. clinton made no mention of any salary; and that was a thing the youth could not dispense with. seeing that he was undecided, mr. clinton said, "perhaps you do not like my proposal, or have made some other engagement?" "no, indeed," answered willie, quickly. "you are very kind to feel so much confidence in a stranger as to be willing to receive me, and your offer is a most welcome one; but i have been in a retail store, where i obtained regular earnings, which were very important to my mother and grandfather. i had far rather be in a counting-room like yours, sir, and i think i might learn to be of use; but i think there are numbers of boys, sons of rich men, who would be glad to be employed by you, and would ask no compensation for their services, so that i could not expect any salary, at least for some years. i should indeed, be well repaid, at the end of that time, by the knowledge i might gain of mercantile affairs; but, unfortunately, sir, i can no more afford it than i could afford to go to college." the gentleman smiled. "how did you know so much of these matters, my young friend?" "i have heard, sir, from boys who were at school with me, and are now clerks in mercantile houses, that they received no pay, and i always considered it a perfectly fair arrangement; but it was the reason why i felt bound to content myself with the position i held in an apothecary's shop, which, though it was not suited to my taste, enabled me to support myself, and to relieve my mother, who is a widow, and my grandfather, who is old and poor." "your grandfather is----" "mr. cooper, sexton of mr. arnold's church." "aha!" said mr. clinton, "i know him. what you say, william, is true. we do not pay any salary to our young clerks, and are overrun with applications at that rate; but i have heard good accounts of you, my boy (i shan't tell you where i had my information, though i see you look very curious), and, moreover, i like your countenance, and believe you will serve me faithfully. so, if you will tell me what you received from mr. bray, i will pay you the same next year, and after that increase your salary, if i find you deserve it; and you may commence with me on the first of january." willie thanked mr. clinton and departed. the merchant was reminded of the time when he too, the only son of his mother, and she a widow, had come alone to the city, sought long for employment, and finding it at last, had sat down to write and tell her how he hoped soon to earn enough for himself and her. and the spirits of those mothers who have wept, prayed, and thanked god over similar communications from much-loved sons, may know how to sympathise with good mrs. sullivan, when she heard from willie the joyful tidings. true exclaimed, "ah! master willie, they needn't have worried about yon, need they? i've told your grandfather more than once, that i was of the 'pinion 'twould all come out right at last." chapter xiv. the ministering angel. "i wonder," said miss peekout, as she leaned on the sill of the front window, and looked up and down the street--"i wonder who that slender girl is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old man leaning on her arm? i always see them at just about this time, when the weather permits. she's a nice child, and seems to be very fond of the old man--probably her grandfather. i notice she's careful to leave the best side of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes; she needs to do so, for he totters sadly. poor little thing! she looks pale and anxious; i wonder if she takes all the care of the old man!" but they are now quite out of sight. "i _wonder_," said old mrs. grumble, as she sat at her window, a little further down the street, "if i should live to be old and infirm--(mrs. grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper)--i _wonder_ if anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me as that little girl does of her grandfather! no, i'll warrant not! who can she be?" "there, look, belle!" said one young girl to another, on their way to school; "there's the girl that we meet every day with the old man. how can you say you don't think she's pretty? i admire her looks!" "you always do manage, kitty, to _admire_ people that everybody else thinks are horrid-looking." "horrid-looking!" replied kitty; "she's anything but _horrid-looking_! do notice, now, belle, when we meet them, she has the _sweetest_ way of looking up in the old man's face, and talking to him. i _wonder_ what is the matter with him! do see how his arm shakes--the one that's passed through hers!" the two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in silence. "_don't you_ think that she has an interesting face?" said kitty, eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing. "she's got handsome eyes," answered belle. "i don't see anything else that looks interesting about her. i _wonder_ if she don't hate to walk in the street with that old grandfather; trudging along so slow, with the sun shining in her face, and he leaning on her arm, and shaking so that he can hardly keep on his feet! catch me doing it." "why, belle!" exclaimed kitty, "how can you talk so? i'm sure i pity that old man dreadfully." "lor!" said belle, "what's the use of pitying? if you are going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. look,"--belle touched her companion's elbow--"there's willie sullivan, father's clerk: an't he a beauty? i want to speak to him." but before she could address a word to him, willie, who was walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant "good morning, miss isabel;" and ere she had recovered from the surprise and disappointment, was some rods down the street. "polite!" muttered the pretty isabel. "why, belle! do see," said kitty, who was looking back over her shoulder, "he's overtaken the old man and my interesting little girl. look--look! he's put the old man's other arm through his, and they are all three walking off together. isn't that quite a coincidence?" "nothing very remarkable," replied belle, who seemed a little annoyed. "i suppose they are persons he's acquainted with. come, make haste; we shall be late at school." reader! do _you wonder_ who they are, the girl and the old man? or have you already conjectured that they are gerty and trueman flint? true is no longer the brave, strong, sturdy protector of the lonely child. true has had a paralytic stroke. his strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. he sits all day in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking with gerty. the blow suddenly struck down the robust man, and left him feeble as a child. and the little orphan girl who, in her weakness, her loneliness, and her poverty, found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to him--his staff, his comfort, and his hope. during four or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has been gaining strength for the time when _he_ should be the leaning, _she_ the sustaining power; and when the time came, she was ready to respond to the call. with the simplicity of a child, but a woman's firmness; with the stature of a child, but a woman's capacity; the earnestness of a child, but a woman's perseverance--from morning till night, the faithful little nurse and housekeeper labours untiringly in the service of her first, her best friend. ever at his side, ever attending to his wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man, what he once prophesied she would become--god's embodied blessing to his latter years, cheering his pathway to the grave. though disease had robbed true's limbs of their power, the blast had spared his mind, which was clear and tranquil as ever; while his pious heart was fixed in humble trust on that god whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged, and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial he was able to say, in perfect submission, "thy will, not mine, be done!" only about two months previous to the morning of which we have been speaking had true been stricken down. he had been in failing health, but had still been able to attend to his duties until one day in june, when gerty went into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen, although it was much later than his usual hour. on going to the bedside and speaking to him, she saw that he looked strangely, and had lost the power of speech. bewildered and frightened, she ran to call mrs. sullivan. a physician was summoned, the case pronounced one of paralysis, and for a time it was feared that it would prove fatal. he soon, however, began to amend, recovered his speech, and in a week or two was well enough to walk about with gerty's assistance. the doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as possible, and every pleasant morning, before the day grew warm, gerty presented herself equipped for those walks, which excited so much observation. at the same time she made such little household purchases as were necessary, that she might not go out again and leave true alone. on the occasion alluded to, willie accompanied them as far as the provision shop; and, having seen true comfortably seated, proceeded to the wharf, while gerty stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner. she purchased a bit of veal suitable for broth, gazed wistfully at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away and sighed. she held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money; it had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing light; it was no use to think about the vegetables; and she sighed, for she remembered how true enjoyed the green peas last year. "how much is the meat?" asked she of the butcher, who named the sum. it was _so little_ that it almost seemed to gerty as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts too, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any more. as he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter, and asked, in an undertone, what kind of nourishment mr. flint was able to take. "the doctor said any wholesome food." "don't you think he'd relish some green peas? i've got some first-rate ones, fresh from the country; and, if you'd think he'd eat 'em, i should like to send you some. my boy shall take round half-a-peck or so, and i'll put the meat right in the same basket." "thank you," said gerty; "he likes green peas." "very well! then i'll send him some beauties;" and he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that gerty thought he did not see how the colour came into her face and the tears into her eyes. but he _did_ see, and that was the _reason_ he turned away so quickly. true had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinner exceedingly, and, after eating heartily of it, fell asleep in his chair. the moment he awoke, gerty sprung to his side, exclaiming, "uncle true, here's miss emily!--here's dear miss emily come to visit you." "the lord bless you, my dear, dear young lady!" said true, trying to rise from his chair and go towards her. "don't rise, mr. flint; i beg you will not," said emily, whose quick ear perceived the motion. "from what gerty tells me, i fear you are not able. please give me a chair, gerty, nearer to mr. flint." she drew near, took true's hand, but looked inexpressibly shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become. "ah, miss emily," said he, "i'm not the same man as when i saw you last; the lord has given me a warning, and i shan't be here long." "i am so sorry i did not know of this!" said emily. "i should have come to see you before, but i never heard of your illness until to-day. george, my father's man, saw you and gertrude at a shop this morning, and he told me. gertrude should have sent me word." gerty was standing by true's chair, smoothing his grey locks with her slender fingers. as emily mentioned her name, he turned and looked at her. o what a look of love he gave her! gerty never forgot it. "miss emily," said he, "'twas no need for anybody to be troubled. the lord provided for me his own self. all the doctors and nurses in the land couldn't have done half so much for me as this little gal o' mine. it wa'nt at all in my mind, some four or five years gone--when i brought the little barefoot mite of a thing to my home, and when she was sick and e'en a'most dyin' in this very room, and i carried her in my arms night and day--that her turn would come so soon. ah! i little thought then, miss emily, how the lord would lay me low--how those same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and i'd go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. truly god's ways are not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts." "oh, uncle true!" said gerty, "i don't do much for you, i wish i could do a great deal more. i wish i could make you strong again." "i dare say you do, my darlin', but that can't be in this world; you've given me what's far better than strength o' body. yes, miss emily," added he, "it's you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. i loved my little birdie; but i was a foolish man, and i should ha' spiled her. you knew better what was for her good, and mine too. you made her what she is now, one of the lambs of christ, a handmaiden of the lord. if anybody'd told me, six months ago, that i should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day, and not know who was going to furnish a living for me or birdie either, i should ha' said i never could bear my lot with patience, or keep up any heart at all. but i've learned a lesson from this little one. when i first got so i could speak, after the shock, and tell what was in my mind, i was so troubled a' thinkin' of my sad case, and gerty with nobody to work or do anything for her, that i said, 'what shall we do now?--what shall we do now?' and then she whispered in my ear, 'god will take care of us, uncle true!' and when i forgot the sayin', and asked, 'who will feed and clothe us now!' she said again, 'the lord will provide.' and, in my deepest distress, when one night i was full of anxiety about my child, i said aloud, 'if i die, who will take care of gerty?' the little thing that i supposed was sound asleep in her bed, laid her head down beside me, and said, 'uncle true, when i was turned out into the dark street all alone, and had no friends nor any home, my heavenly father sent you to me; and now, if he wants you to come to him, and is not ready to take me too, he will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of my life.' after that, miss emily, i gave up worryin' any more. her words, and the blessed teachin's of the holy book that she reads every day, have sunk deep into my heart, and i'm at peace. "i used to think that, if i lived and had my strength spared me, gerty would be able to go to school and get a sight o' larnin', for she has a nateral liking for it, and it comes easy to her. she's but a slender child, and i never could bear the thought of her bein' driv to hard work for a livin'; she don't seem made for it, somehow. i hoped, when she grew up, to see her a school-mistress, like miss browne, or somethin' in that line; but i've done bein' vexed about it now. i know, as she says, it's all for the best, or it wouldn't be." gerty, whose face had been hid against his shoulder, looked up, and said bravely, "oh, uncle true, i'm sure i can do almost any kind of work. mrs. sullivan says i sew very well, and i can learn to be a milliner or a dressmaker; that isn't hard work." "mr. flint," said emily, "would you be willing to trust your child with me? if you should die, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge?" "miss emily," said true, "would i think her safe in angel-keepin'? i should believe her in little short o' that, if she could have you to watch over her." "oh, do not say that," said miss emily, "or i shall fear to undertake so solemn a trust. i know that my want of sight, my ill-health, and my inexperience, almost unfit me for the care of a child like gerty. but, since you approve of the teaching i have already given her, and are so kind as to think a great deal better of me than i deserve, i know you will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her; and if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death i will gladly take gerty to my home, see that she is well educated, and, as long as i live, provide for and take care of her, you have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his) that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability i will try to make her happy." gerty's first impulse was to rush towards emily, and fling her arms around her neck; but she was arrested in the act, for she observed that true was weeping like an infant. in an instant his feeble head was resting upon her bosom; her hand was wiping away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. it was an easy task, for they were tears of joy--of a joy that had quite unnerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness. the proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations, that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon; and, after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the words--"but your father, miss emily!--mr. graham!--he's partickler, and not over-young now. i'm afeard he wouldn't like a little gal in the house." "my father if indulgent to _me_," replied emily; "he would not object to any plan i had at heart, and i have become so much attached to gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort to me. i trust, mr. flint, that you will recover a portion, at least, of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many a year yet; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anxiety on her account, i take this opportunity to tell you that, if i should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me." "ah, miss emily!" said the old man, "my time's about out, i feel right sure o' that; and, since you're willin', you'll soon be called to take charge on her. i haven't forgot how tossed i was in my mind the day after i brought her home with me, with thinkin' that p'raps i wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable; and then, miss emily, do you remember you said to me, 'you've done quite right; the lord will bless and reward you?' i've thought many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your words were, what i thought 'em then, a whisper right from heaven! and now you talk o' doing the same thing yourself; and i, that am just goin' home to god, and feel as if i read his ways clearer than ever afore, _i tell you_, miss emily, that you're doin' right, too; and, if the lord rewards you as he has done me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in love and care all you ever do for her.--gerty?" "she's not here," said emily; "i heard her run into her own room." "poor birdie!" said true, "she doesn't like to hear o' my leavin' her; i'm sad to think how some day soon she'll almost sob her heart away over her old uncle. never mind now! i was goin' to bid her be a good child to you; but i think she will, without biddin'; and i can say my say to her another time. good-bye, my dear young lady;"--for emily had risen to go, and george, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her--"if i never see you again, remember that you made an old man so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for; and that you carry with you a dyin' man's best blessin', and his prayer that god may grant such perfect peace to your last days as now he does to mine." that evening, when true had already retired to rest, and gerty had finished reading aloud in her little bible, as she always did at bed-time, true called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favourite prayer for the sick. she knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request. "now, darlin', the prayer for the dyin';--isn't there such a one in your little book?" gerty trembled. there _was_ such a prayer, a beautiful one; and the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar, knew it by heart--but could she repeat the words? could she command her voice? her whole frame shook with agitation; but uncle true wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to him, and she would try. concentrating all her energy and self-command, she began; and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went on to the end. once or twice her voice faltered, but with new effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat; and her voice sounded so clear and calm, that uncle true's devotional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's sufferings; for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat and throbbed, and threatened to burst. she did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer--she could not--but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bedclothes. for a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room; then the old man laid his hand upon her head. she looked up. "you love miss emily, don't you, birdie?" "yes, indeed." "you'll be a good child to her when i'm gone?" "o, uncle true!" sobbed gerty, "you mustn't leave me! i can't live without you, _dear_ uncle true!" "it is god's will to take me, gerty; he has always been good to us, and we mustn't doubt him now. miss emily can do more for you than i could, and you'll be very happy with her." "no, i shan't--i shan't ever be happy again in this world! i never was happy until i came to you; and now, if you die, i wish i could die too!" "you mustn't wish that, darlin'; you are young, and must try to do good in the world, and bide your time. i'm an old man, and only a trouble now." "no, no, uncle true!" said gerty, earnestly; "you are not a trouble--you never could be a trouble! i wish _i'd_ never been so much trouble to _you_." "so far from that, birdie, god knows you've long been my heart's delight! it only pains me now to think that you're a spendin' all your time, and slavin' here at home, instead of goin' to school, as you used to; but, o! we all depend on each other so!--first on god, and then on each other! and that 'minds me, gerty, of what i was goin' to say. i feel as if the lord would call me soon, sooner than you think for now; and, at first, you'll cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt; but miss emily will take you with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you;--how we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there's no partin's; and willie'll do everything he can to help you in your sorrer; and in time you'll be able to smile again. at first, and p'raps for a long time, gerty, you'll be a care to miss emily, and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way o' schoolin', clothin', and so on; and what i want to tell you is, that uncle true expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what miss emily says; and, by-and-by, may be, when you're bigger and older, you'll be able to do somethin' for her. she's blind, you know, and you must be eyes for her; and she's not over strong, and you must lend a helpin' hand to her weakness, just as you do to mine; and, if you're good and patient, god will make your heart light at last, while you're only tryin' to make other folks happy; and when you're sad troubled (for everybody is sometimes), then think of old uncle true, and how he used to say, 'cheer up, birdie, for i'm of the 'pinion 'twill all come out right at last.' there, don't feel bad about it; go to bed, darlin', and to-morrow we'll have a nice walk--and willie's goin' with us, you know." gerty tried to cheer up, for true's sake, and went to bed. she did not sleep for some hours; but when, at last, she did fall into a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning. she dreamed that morning was already come; that she and uncle true and willie were taking a pleasant walk; that uncle true was strong and well again--his eye bright, his step firm, and willie and herself laughing and happy. and, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths together, the messenger came--a gentle, noiseless messenger--and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul of good old true, and carried it home to god! chapter xv. a new home. two months have passed since trueman flint's death, and gertrude has for a week been domesticated in mr. graham's family. it was through the newspaper that emily first heard of the little girl's sudden loss, and, acquainting her father with her plans concerning the child, she found no opposition to fear from him. he reminded her, however, of the inconvenience that would attend gertrude's coming to them at once, as they were soon to start on a visit to some distant relatives, and would not return until near the time to remove to the city for the winter. emily felt the force of this objection; for, although mrs. ellis would be at home during their absence, she knew that she would be a very unfit person to console gertrude in her time of sorrow. this thought troubled emily; and she regretted much that this unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. but there was no help for it; for mr. graham's plans were arranged, unless she would make gertrude's coming, at the very outset, disagreeable. she started for town, therefore, the next morning, quite undecided what course to pursue. the day was sunday, but emily's errand was one of charity and love, and would not admit of delay; and an hour before the time for morning service mrs. sullivan saw mr. graham's carriage stop at the door. she ran to meet emily, and guided her into her neat parlour to a comfortable seat, placed in her hand a fan (for the weather was very warm), and then told her how thankful she was to see her, and how sorry she felt that gertrude was not at home. emily wonderingly asked where gertrude was, and learned that she was out walking with willie. a succession of inquiries followed, and a touching story was told by mrs. sullivan of gertrude's agony of grief, and the fears she had entertained lest the girl would die of sorrow. "i couldn't do anything with her myself," said she. "there she sat, day after day, last week, on her little stool, by uncle true's easy-chair, with her head on the cushion, and i couldn't get her to move or eat a thing. she didn't appear to hear me when i spoke to her; and if i tried to move her, she didn't struggle, but she seemed just like a dead weight in my hands: and i couldn't bear to make her come away into my room, though i knew it would change the scene, and be better for her. if it hadn't been for willie, i don't know what i should have done, i was getting so worried about the poor child; but he knows how to manage her better than i do. when he is at home we get along very well, for he takes her right up in his arms (he's very strong, and she's as light as a feather), and either carries her into some other room, or out in the yard; and he contrives to cheer her wonderfully. he persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. last evening they went over chelsea bridge, where it was cool and pleasant; and i suppose he diverted her attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than i've seen her, and quite tired. i got her to go to bed in my room, and she slept soundly all night, so that she really looks like herself to-day. they've gone out again this morning, and, being sunday, and willie at home all day, i've no doubt he'll keep her spirits up, if anybody can." "willie shows very good judgment," said emily, "in trying to change the scene for her, and divert her thoughts. i'm thankful she has had such kind friends. i promised mr. flint she should have a home with me when he was taken away, and not knowing of his death until now, i consider it a great favour to myself, as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of her. i felt sure you have been all goodness, or it would have given me great regret that i had not heard of true's death before." "o, miss emily!" said mrs. sullivan, "gertrude is so dear to us, and we have suffered so much in seeing her suffer, that it was a kindness to ourselves to do all we could to comfort her. why, i think she and willie could not love each other better if they were own brother and sister: and willie and uncle true were great friends! indeed, we shall all miss him very much. my old father doesn't say much about it, but i can see he's very downhearted." mrs. sullivan now informed emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer's wife, living about twenty miles from boston, had invited them all to pass a week or two with her at the farm; and, as willie was now to enjoy his usual summer vacation, they proposed accepting the invitation. she spoke of gertrude's accompanying them, and enlarged upon the advantage it would be to her to breathe the country air, and ramble about the fields and woods, after all the fatigue and confinement she had endured. emily, finding that gertrude would be a welcome guest, cordially approved of the visit, and also arranged with mrs. sullivan that she should remain under her care until mr. graham removed to boston for the winter. she was then obliged to leave, without waiting for gertrude's return, though she left many a kind message for her, and placed in mrs. sullivan's hands a sufficient sum of money to provide for all her wants. gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, country fare, healthful exercise, and kindness and sympathy, brought the colour into her cheek, and calmness and happiness into her heart. soon after the sullivan's return from their excursion, the grahams removed to the city, and gertrude had now been with them about a week. "are you still standing at the window, gertrude. what are you doing, dear?" "i'm watching to see the lamps lit, miss emily." "but they will not be lit at all. the moon will rise at eight o'clock, and light the streets sufficiently for the rest of the night." "i don't mean the street-lamps." "what do you mean, my child?" said emily, coming towards the window, and lightly resting a hand on gertrude's shoulders. "i mean the stars, dear miss emily. oh, how i wish you could see them, too!" "are they very bright?" "o, they are beautiful! and there are so many! the sky is as full as it can be." "how well i remember when i used to stand at this very window, and look at them as you are doing now! it seems to me as if i saw them this moment, i know so well how they look." "i love the stars--all of them," said gertrude; "but my own star i love the best." "which do you call yours?" "that splendid one over the church-steeple; it shines into my room every night, and looks me in the face. miss emily (and she spoke in a whisper), it seems to me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. i think uncle true lights it every night. i always feel as if he were smiling up there, and saying, 'see, gerty, i'm lighting the lamp for you.' dear uncle true! miss emily, do you think he loves me now?" "i do, indeed, gertrude; and i think, if you make him an example, and try to live as good and patient a life as he did, that he will really be a lamp to your feet, and as bright a light to your path as if his face were shining down upon you through the star." "i was patient and good when i lived with him; at least, i almost always was; and i'm good when i'm with you; but i don't like mrs. ellis. she tries to plague me, and she makes me angry, and i don't know what i do or say. i did not mean to be impertinent to her to-day, and i wish i hadn't slammed the door; but how could i help it, miss emily, when she told me before mr. graham, that i tore up the last night's _journal_, and i _know_ that i did not. it was an old paper that she saw me tying your slippers up in, and i am almost sure that she lit the library fire with the _journal_ herself; but mr. graham will always think i did it." "i have no doubt, gertrude, that you had reason to feel provoked, and i believe you when you say that you were not to blame for the loss of the newspaper. but remember, my dear, that there is no merit in being patient and good-tempered, when there is nothing to irritate you. i want you to learn to bear even injustice, without losing your self-control. mrs. ellis has been here a number of years; she has had everything her own way, and is not used to young people. she felt, when you came, that it was bringing new care and trouble upon her, and it is not strange that when things go wrong she should sometimes think you in fault. she is a very faithful woman, very kind and attentive to me, and very important to my father. it will make me unhappy if i have any reason to fear that you and she will not live pleasantly together." "i do not want to make you unhappy; i do not want to be a trouble to anybody," said gertrude, with some excitement; "i'll go away! i'll go off somewhere, where you will never see me again!" "gertrude!" said emily, seriously and sadly. her hands were still upon the young girl's shoulders, and, as she spoke, she turned her round, and brought her face to face with herself. "gertrude, do you wish to leave your blind friend? do you not love me?" so touchingly grieved was the expression of the countenance that met her gaze, that gertrude's proud spirit was subdued. she threw her arms round emily's neck, and exclaimed, "no! dear miss emily, i would not leave you for all the world! i will do just as you wish. i will never be angry with mrs. ellis again for your sake." "not for _my_ sake, gertrude," replied emily, "for your own sake; for the sake of duty and of god. a few years ago i should not have expected you to have been pleasant and amiable towards anyone whom you felt ill-treated you; but now that you know so well what is right; now that you are familiar with the life of that blessed master who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; now that you have learned faithfully to fulfil so many important duties; i had hoped that you had learned also to be forbearing under the most trying circumstances. but do not think, gertrude, because i remind you when you have done wrong i despair of your becoming one day all i wish to see you. what you are experiencing now being a new trial, you must bring new strength to bear upon it; and i have such confidence in you as to believe that, knowing my wishes, you will try to behave properly to mrs. ellis on all occasions." "i will, miss emily, i will. i'll not answer her back when she's ugly to me, if i have to bite my lips to keep them together." "o, i do not believe it will be so bad as that," said emily, smiling. "mrs. ellis's manner is rather rough, but you will get used to her." just then a voice was heard in the entry, "to see _miss flint_! really! well, _miss flint_ is in miss emily's room. she's going to entertain company, is she?" gertrude coloured, for it was mrs. ellis's voice, and her tone was very derisive. emily stepped to the door, and opened it.--"mrs.ellis." "what say, emily?" "is there anyone below?" "yes; a young man wants to see gertrude; it's that young sullivan, i believe." "willie!" exclaimed gertrude, starting forward. "you can go down and see him, gertrude," said emily, "come back here when he's gone; and, mrs. ellis, i wish you would step in and put my room a little in order. i think you will find plenty of pieces for your rag-bag about the carpet--miss randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her dressmaking." mrs. ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a couch at the side of the fire-place, with her coloured rags in one hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of gertrude. "what are you going to do with her, emily?" said she; "send her to school?" "yes. she will go to mr. w.'s this winter." "why! isn't that a very expensive school for a child like her?" "it is expensive, certainly; but i wish her to be with the best teacher i know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. he thinks as i do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. i talked with him about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade at once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit her for anything. he was willing i should manage the matter as i pleased, and i resolved to send her to mr. w.'s. so she will remain with us for the present. i wish to keep her with me as long as i can, not only because i am fond of the child, but she is delicate and sensitive; and now that she is so sad about old mr. flint's death, i think we ought to do all we can to make her happy; don't you, mrs. ellis?" "i always calculate to do my duty," said mrs. ellis, rather stiffly. "where is she going to sleep when we get settled?" "in the little room at the end of the passage." "then, where shall i keep the linen press?" "can't it stand in the back entry? i should think the space between the windows would accommodate it." "i suppose it must," said mrs. ellis, flouncing out of the room, and muttering to herself, "everything turned topsy-turvy for the sake of that little upstart!" mrs. ellis was vexed. she had long had her own way in the management of all household matters at mr. graham's, and had become rather tyrannical. she was capable, methodical, and neat; accustomed to a small family, and now for many years quite _unaccustomed_ to children; gertrude was in her eyes an intruder--one who must of necessity be in mischief, continually deranging her most cherished plans. she saw in the new inmate a formidable rival to herself in miss graham's affections; and mrs. ellis could not brook the idea of being second in the regard of miss emily, who, owing to her peculiar misfortune, and to her delicate health, had long been her special charge, and for whom she felt the greatest tenderness. owing to these circumstances, mrs. ellis was not favourably disposed towards gertrude; and gertrude was not yet prepared to love mrs. ellis very cordially. chapter xvi. who are happy? emily sat alone in her room. mr. graham had gone to a meeting of bank-directors. mrs. ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room. willie detained gertrude in the little library, and emily was indulging in a long train of meditation. her head rested on her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted despondency. as thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. she gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made gertrude's approaching step unheard. "is anything the matter, miss emily?" said gertrude. "do you like best to be alone, or may i stay?" the sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched emily. she drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "o, yes, stay with me;" then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "but what is the matter with you, gerty? what makes you tremble and sob so?" at this, gertrude broke forth with, "o, miss emily, i thought you were crying when i came in, and i hoped you would let me come and cry with you; for i'm so miserable i can't do anything else." calmed herself by the agitation of the child, emily tried to discover the cause of this new affliction. willie had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country; as gertrude expressed it, to the other end of the world--to india. mr. clinton was interested in a mercantile house in calcutta, and had offered william the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. the prospect was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary was sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming more dependent upon him. the chance, too, of future advancement was great; though the young man's affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. he agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather. "miss emily," said gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, "how can i bear to have willie go away? how can i live without willie? he is so kind, and loves me so much! he was always better than any brother, and, since uncle true died, he has done everything in the world for me. i believe i could not have borne uncle true's death if it had not been for willie; and now how can i let him go away?" "it is hard, gertrude," said emily, kindly, "but it is no doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that." "i know it," replied gertrude--"i suppose it is; but, miss emily, you do not know how i love willie. we were so much together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything of each other; he was so much older than i, and always took such good care of me. o, i don't think you have any idea what friends we are!" gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated through emily's whole frame. her voice trembled as she answered, "_i_, gertrude! _not know_, my child! i know better than you imagine, how dear he must be to you. i, too, had----" then she paused abruptly, and there were a few moments' silence, during which emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and then returning, said, in a low voice which had recovered its usual calmness, "o gertrude! in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realise how much you have to be thankful for. think, my dear, what a blessing it is that willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends." "yes," replied gerty; "he says he shall write to me and his mother very often." "then, too," said emily, "you ought to rejoice at the good opinion mr. clinton must have of willie: the confidence he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. i think that is very flattering." "so it is," said gerty; "i did not think of that." "and you have lived so happily together," continued emily, "and will part in such perfect peace. o gertrude! gertrude! such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so much worse things in the world. be patient, my dear child; do your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, that will repay you for all you suffer in the separation." emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "miss emily," said she, "i begin to think that everything has trouble." "certainly, gertrude; can you doubt it?" "i did not use to think so. i knew i had, but i thought other folks were more fortunate. i fancied that rich people were all very happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, i supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, i took it for granted nothing ever vexed you now. and then, willie!--i believed once that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn't any place, i saw him really cry; and then, when uncle true died, and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak, he felt so badly. and so, miss emily, since i see that you and willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you try to keep them back, i think the world is full of trials, and that every one gets a share." "it is the lot of humanity, gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise." "then, who can be happy, miss emily?" "those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod." "it is very hard, miss emily." "it is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to god in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven." willie's departure was sudden, and mrs. sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems necessary. her hands were therefore full of work, and gerty, whom emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel's sailing, was of great assistance to her. willie was very busy during the day, but was always with them in the evening. on one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and gertrude having just put aside her sewing, he said to her, "come, gerty, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner." "o willie!" said gertrude, "do not speak of our never being together in the old place again! i cannot bear the thought; there is not a house in boston i could ever love as i do this." "nor i," replied willie; "but there is one chance in a hundred if i should be gone five years that there would not be a block of brick stores in this spot when i come to look for it. i wish i did not think so, for i shall have many a longing after the old home." "but what will become of your mother and grandfather if this house is torn down?" "it is not easy to tell, gerty, what will become of any of us by that time; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, i hope i shall be able to provide a better house than this for them." "you won't be here, willie." "i know it, but i shall be always hearing from you, and we can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. the idea of any such changes, after all," added he, "is what troubles me most in going away; i think they would miss me and need me so much. gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you?" "i!" said gertrude, in amazement; "such a child as i!--what can i do?" "if i am gone five or ten years, gerty, you will not be a child all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a man, especially such a good brave woman as you will be. i have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of uncle true; and, whenever i imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, i always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for i know if you are, you will be a greater help than i could be. so i leave them in your care, gerty, though you _are_ only a child yet." "thank you, willie," said gertrude, "for believing i shall do everything i can for them. i certainly will, as long as i live. but, willie, _they_ may be strong and well all the time you are gone; and i, although i am so young, may be sick and die--nobody knows." "that is true enough," said willie, sadly; "and i may die myself; but it will not do to think of that. it seems to me i never should have courage to go, if i didn't hope to find you all well and happy when i come home. you must write to me every month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and i am sure she will want you to do nearly all the writing; and, whether my letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you know. and, gerty, you must not forget me, darling; you must love me just as much when i am gone--won't you?" "forget you, willie! i shall be always thinking of you, and loving you the same as ever. what else shall i have to do? but you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different, and you will not think half as much of me, i know." "if you believe that, gertrude, it is because you do _not_ know. you will have friends all around you and i shall be alone in a foreign land; but every day of my life my heart will be with you and my mother." they were now interrupted by mr. cooper's return, nor did they afterwards renew the conversation; but the morning willie left them, when mrs. sullivan was leaning over a neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and mr. cooper's head was bowed lower than usual, willie whispered to gerty, "gerty, dear, for my sake take good care of _our_ mother and grandfather--they are _yours_ almost as much as mine." on willie's thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle and strive among men, mr. cooper, who could not yet believe that the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him many a caution against indulgent hopes which never would be realised. and mrs. sullivan, with tears, said, "love and fear god, willie, and do not disappoint your mother." we pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at his home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction, the last breakfast they all took together (gertrude among the rest), or the final farewell embrace. and willie went to sea. and the pious, loving, hopeful woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice, and gave him up without a murmur. none knew how she struggled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained her. and now began gertrude's residence at mr. graham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. she attended school, and laboured diligently at her studies. her life was varied by few incidents, for emily never entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any, and gertrude formed no intimate acquaintance among her companions. with emily she passed many happy hours; they took walks, read books, and talked much with each other, and miss graham found that in gertrude's observing eyes, and her feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outer world. in errands of charity and mercy gertude was either her attendant or her messenger; and all the dependants of the family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement, and a dignity of bearing which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune. mrs. ellis's prejudices against her was still strong; but, as gertrude was always civil, and emily prudently kept them much apart, no unhappy result ensued. she went often to see mrs. sullivan, and, as the spring advanced, they began to look for news of willie. no tidings had come, however, when the season arrived for the grahams to remove into the country for the summer. a letter written by gertrude to willie, soon after they were established there, will give some idea of her situation and mode of life. after dwelling upon the disappointment of having not yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last visit she had made to his mother before leaving the city, she wrote: "but you made me promise, willie, to write about myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred at mr. graham's which concerned me in anyway; so if my letter is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for i have much to tell of our removal to d----, and of the way in which we live here, so different from our life in boston. i think i hear you say, when you have read so far, 'o dear! now gerty is going to give me a description of mr. graham's country-house!'--but you need not be afraid; i have not forgotten how, the last time i undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had lived there all your life, for i oft described it to you. everything looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then; and, though i will not describe it to you again, i must just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than i expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses not nearly so large. miss emily asked me, a day or two ago, how i liked the place, and if it looked as it used formerly. i told her the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was always so with things we had seen when we were little children. "i need not tell you that miss emily is kind to me as ever; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world. i can never do half enough, willie, to repay her for all her goodness to me; and yet, she is so pleased with little gifts, and so grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might do something to make her happy. i found a few violets in the grass yesterday, and when i brought them to her she kissed and thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little ben gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a single stem, and then rang at the front-door bell, and asked for miss ga'am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for his trouble, and a 'thank you, bennie,' that he will not soon forget. wasn't it pleasant in miss emily, willie? "mr. graham has given me a garden, and i mean to have plenty of flowers for her by-and-by--that is, if mrs. ellis doesn't interfere; but i expect she will, for she does in almost everything. willie, mrs. ellis is my _great_ trial. she is just the kind of person i cannot endure. i believe there are some people that other people _can't_ like--and she is just the sort i can't. i would not tell anybody else so, because it would not be right, and i do not know that it is right to mention it at all; but i always tell you everything. miss emily talks to me about her, and says i must learn to love her, and _when i do_ i shall be an angel. "there, i know you will think that is some of gerty's old temper; and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me; it is in little things that i cannot tell very easily, and i would not plague you with them if i could, so i won't write about her any more--i will try to love her dearly. "you will think that now, while i am not going to school, i shall hardly know what to do with my time; but i have plenty to do. the first week after we came here i found the mornings very dull. you know i am always an early riser; but, as it does not agree with miss emily to keep early hours, i never see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after i am up and dressed. when we were in boston, i always spent that time studying; but this spring, miss emily, who noticed that i was growing fast, and heard mr. arnold notice how pale i looked, fancied it would not do for me to spend so much time at my books; and so, when we came to d----, she planned my study-hours, which are very few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast, and in her own room. she always advised me, if i could, to sleep later in the morning; but i could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering around the garden. one day i was quite surprised to find mr. graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits; but he is a queer man. he asked me to come and help him plant onion-seeds, and i rather think i did it pretty well; for after that he let me plant a number of things, and label little sticks to put down by the side of them. at last, to my joy, he offered to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where i might raise flowers. and so i am to have a garden. but i am making a very long story, willie, and have not time to say a thousand other things that i want to. o! if i could see you, i could tell you in an hour more than i could write in a week. in five minutes i expect to hear miss emily's bell, and then she will send for me to come and read to her. "i long to hear from you, dear willie, and pray to god morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your loving gerty." chapter xvii. the ruling passion controlled. a few weeks after the date of this letter, gerty learned through george, who went daily to the city to attend to the marketing, that mrs. sullivan had left word at the shop of our old acquaintance, the butcher, that she had received a letter from willie, and wanted gerty to come into town and see it. emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be impossible to arrange it, as charlie, the only horse mr. graham kept, was in use, and she saw no other way of sending her. "why don't you let her go in the omnibus?" asked mrs. ellis. gerty looked gratefully at mrs. ellis; it was the first time that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views. "i don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach," said emily. "safe!--what, for that great girl!" said mrs. ellis, whose position in the family had no forms of restraint with miss graham. "do you think it is?" inquired emily. "she seems a child to me, to be sure; but as you say, she is almost grown up, and i dare say is capable of taking care of herself. gertrude, are you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in boston to mrs. sullivan's?" "perfectly well, miss emily." a place was therefore secured, and gertrude set forth on her expedition with beaming eyes and a full heart. she found mrs. sullivan and mr. cooper well, and rejoicing over the tidings from willie, who, after a long but agreeable voyage, had reached calcutta in health and safety. a description of his new home, his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, except what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, a large share of which were for gerty. gertrude dined with mrs. sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. she took her seat, and as she waited for the coach to start, amused herself with the passers-by. it was nearly three o'clock, and she began to think she should be the only passenger, when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose approach she had not perceived. she moved towards the door, and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular-looking being she had ever beheld. it was an old lady, small, and considerably bent with years. she had been vainly endeavouring to mount the inconvenient vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling to the driver to help her. "sir," said she, in measured tones, "is this travelling equipage under your honourable charge?" "what say, marm?--yes, i'm the driver;" saying which, he came up to the door, opened it, and without waiting for the polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand beneath her elbow, and lifted her into the coach and shut the door. "bless me!" ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies, "that individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady, without detriment to her habiliments. o dear, o dear!" added she, "i've lost my parasol." she rose as she spoke; but the sudden starting of the coach threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not been for gertrude, who caught her by the arm, and reseated her, saying as she did so, "do not be alarmed, madam; here is the parasol." as she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old lady's waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place, was supposed lost. and not a parasol only did she bring to light; numerous other articles, connected with the same green string--a large reticule of various colours, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, and other articles. they were partly hidden under a thin black silk shawl, and gertrude began to think her companion had been on a pilfering expedition. if so, however, the culprit seemed remarkably at ease, for, before the coach had gone many steps, she deliberately placed her feet on the opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. in the first place, much to gertrude's horror, she took out all her teeth, and put them in her work-bag; then drew off a pair of black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones; removed her lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. she next untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a large cotton handkerchief, and loosing her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her eyes as she did so, evidently intending to go to sleep. she did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and gertrude, occupied with observing some heavy clouds that were rising from the west, forgot to observe her fellow traveller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of "my dear young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse weather?" "i think it will rain very soon," replied gertrude. "this morn, when i ventured forth," soliloquised the old lady, "the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters took part in the universal joy; and now before i get home, my delicate lace flounces (glancing at the skirt of her dress) will prove a sacrifice to the pitiless storm." "does the coach pass your door?" asked gertrude. "no; oh, no! not within half-a-mile. does it better accommodate you, my young miss?" "no. i shall have a mile to walk." the coach had reached its destination, and the two passengers alighted. gertrude would have started at once on her walk, but was prevented by the old lady, who begged her to wait, as she was going the same way. the old lady refused to pay the fare demanded by the driver; and declared it was not the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the excess into his pocket. gertrude was impatient, for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents; but the matter being compromised, she was permitted to proceed. they had walked about a quarter-of-a-mile, and at a very slow rate, when the rain fell; and now gertrude was asked to unloose the huge parasol, and carry it over her companion and herself. in this way they had walked nearly as much more of the distance, when the waters began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were thrown open. just then gertrude heard a step behind them, and, turning, she saw george, mr. graham's man, running in the direction of the house. he recognised her at once, and exclaimed, "miss gertrude, you'll be wet through; and miss pace too. sure, and ye'd better baith hasten to her house, where ye'll be secure." so saying, he caught miss pace in his arms, and signing to gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady in safety beneath her own porch; and gerty also gained its shelter. miss pace was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her consciousness; and it was arranged that gertrude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that george should call for her when he passed that way with the carriage on his return from the depot. miss patty pace was not a person of much hospitality. she owned the cottage which she occupied and lived alone, keeping no servants and entertaining no visitors. she was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a small part of her life had been passed in d----, and all her friends and connexions lived either in boston or at a much greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses. but though, through her travelling propensities and her regular attendance at church, she was well known, gertrude was perhaps the first visitor who had ever entered her house. even when she was at her door, she had to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally lead her hostess into the parlour, and help her off with her innumerable capes, shawls, and veils. once come to a distinct consciousness of her situation, however, and miss patty pace conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she was remarkable. suffering a thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had sustained, she expressed nearly as many fears lest gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. it was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the scarf she had thrown over it, that miss patty could be prevailed upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire, and change her lace flounces for something more suitable for home wear. as soon as she left the room, gertrude, whose curiosity was excited, took a nearer view of many articles, both of ornament and use, which had attracted her attention, from their singular appearance. miss pace's room was remarkable as its owner. its furniture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every age and fashion. gertrude's quick eye was revelling amid the few relics of ancient eloquence, and the numerous specimens of folly and bad taste, when the old lady returned. a neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of the much-valued flounces, she now looked more lady-like. she held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach and prevent her taking cold; and when gertrude, who could scarcely keep from laughing in her face, declined the beverage, miss patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment satisfied her visitor she was a women of sense, and the next that she was either foolish or insane. the impression which gertrude made upon miss patty was more decided. miss patty was delighted with the young miss, and declared she had an intellect that would do honour to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and motions more graceful than those of a swan. when george came for gertrude, miss pace was sorry to part with her, invited her to come again, and she promised to do so. the satisfactory news from willie, and the amusing adventures of the afternoon, had given to gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy, that she bounded into the house, and up the stairs, with that fairy quickness uncle true had so loved to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had rarely permitted her to exercise. at the door of her room she met bridget, the housemaid. on inquiring what was going on there, she learned that during her absence her room had received a thorough cleaning. alarmed at the idea of mrs. ellis having invaded her premises, she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, which, as she continued her observations, swelled into angry excitement. when gertrude went from mrs. sullivan's to mr. graham's house in the city, she took with her a trunk containing her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she put on the shelf of a closet in her chamber. there it remained during the winter, unpacked, and when the family went into the country, the box went also, carefully protected by its owner, who had put it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening before her expedition to the city had been engaged in inspecting its contents, endeared to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. there was the figure of the samuel, uncle true's first gift, defaced by time and accident. there, too, were his pipes, dark with smoke and age; but as she thought what comfort they had been to him, she felt them a consolation to her. she had also his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life; also his fur cap, beneath which she had often seen the kindly smile, and could hardly realise that there was not one for her still hidden beneath its crown. all these things, excepting the lantern and cap, gertrude had left upon the mantel-piece; and on entering the room, her eye sought her treasures. they were gone. the mantel-piece was empty. she ran towards the corner for the old box. it was gone. to rush after the housemaid and question her was but the work of an instant. bridget was a new-comer, a stupid specimen, but gertrude obtained from her all the information she needed. the image, the pipes, and the lantern were thrown among a heap of broken glass and crockery, and smashed to atoms. the cap, said to be moth-eaten, and the other articles had been cast into the fire at mrs. ellis's orders. gertrude allowed bridget to depart, unaware of the greatness of her loss; then, shutting the door, she wept. she rose from the bed suddenly, and started for the door; then, some new thought seeming to check her, she returned again to the bedside, and, with a loud sob, fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. once or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and going to face her enemy; but each time something came across her mind and detained her. it was not fear; oh, no! gertrude was not afraid of anybody. it must have been some stronger motive than that. whatever it might be, it was something that had a soothing influence, for, after every fresh struggle, she grew calmer, and rising, seated herself in a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked out. the shower was over, and the smiles of the refreshed earth were reflected in a glowing rainbow. a little bird came and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted forth a _te deum_. a persian lilac-bush, in full bloom, sent up a delicious fragrance. a wonderful calm stole into gertrude's heart, and she felt "the grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce trouble." she had conquered; she had achieved the greatest of earth's victories, a victory over herself. the brilliant rainbow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to heaven and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise. the sound of the tea-bell startled her. she bathed her face and brushed her hair, and went downstairs. there was no one in the dining-room but mrs. ellis; mr. graham had been detained in town, and emily was suffering severe headache. gertrude took tea alone with mrs. ellis, who, unaware of the great value gertrude attached to her old relics, was conscious she had done an unkind thing. next day mrs. prime, the cook, came to emily's room, and produced the little basket, made of a nut, saying, "i wonder now, miss emily, where miss gertrude is; for i've found her little basket in the coal-hole, and i guess she'll be right glad on't--'tan't hurt a mite." emily inquired, "what basket?" and the cook, placing it in her hands, gave an account of the destruction of gertrude's property, which she had herself witnessed with indignation. she described the distress of gertrude when questioning bridget, which the sympathising cook had heard from her chamber. as emily listened to the story, she thought the previous afternoon she heard gertrude sobbing in her room, but that she concluded that she mistook. "go," said she, "and carry the basket to gertrude; she is in the little library; but please, mrs. prime, don't tell her that you have mentioned the matter to me." emily expected for several days, to hear from gertrude the story of her injuries; but gertrude kept her trouble to herself. this was the first instance of complete self-control to gerty. from this time she experienced more and more the power of governing herself; and, with each new effort gaining new strength, became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she had had to contend with. she was now nearly fourteen years old, and so rapid had been her recent growth that, instead of being below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age. freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented her, however, from suffering from this circumstance. her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and flowers prospering under her careful training, she had always a bouquet ready to place by emily's plate at breakfast-time. chapter xviii. the nurse. mr. graham's garden was very beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer houses, and arbours covered with grape-vines; but a high, broad fence hid it from public view, and the house, standing back from the road, was old-fashioned in its appearance. the summer was passing most happily, and gertrude, in the enjoyment of emily's society, and in the consciousness that she was rendering herself useful and important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a stop was suddenly put to all her pleasure. emily was taken ill with a fever, and gertrude, on her entering the sick-room, to share in its duties, was rudely repulsed by mrs. ellis, who had constituted herself sole nurse, and who declared that the fever was catching, and miss emily did not want her there. for three or four days gertrude wandered about the house, inconsolable. on the fifth morning after her banishment from the room, she saw mrs. prime, the cook, going upstairs with some gruel; and, giving her some beautiful rose-buds which she had gathered, she begged her to give them to emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her. she lingered about the kitchen awaiting mrs. prime's return, in hopes of some message, at least, from the sufferer. but when the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and as she threw them on the table, the kind-hearted woman gave vent to her feelings. "well! folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers as cross as bears! 'tan't for me to say whether it's so 'bout cooks, but 'bout nurses there an't no sort o'doubt! i would not want to go there, miss gertrude; i'm sure she'd bit your head off." "wouldn't miss emily take the flowers?" asked gertrude, looking quite grieved. "well, she hadn't no word in the matter. you know she couldn't see what they were; and mrs. ellis flung 'em outside the door, vowin' i might as well bring pison into the room with a fever as roses. i tried to speak to miss emily, but mrs. ellis set up such a hush-sh-sh i s'posed she was goin' to sleep, and jest made the best o' my way out. ugh! don't she begin to scold when there's anybody taken sick!" gertrude sauntered out into the garden. she had nothing to do but think anxiously about emily, who, she feared, was very ill. her work and her books were all in emily's room, where they were usually kept; the library might have furnished amusement, but it was locked up. so the garden was the only thing left for her, and there she spent the rest of the morning; and many others, for emily grew worse, and a fortnight passed away without gertrude's seeing her, or having any other intimation regarding her health than mrs. ellis's occasional report to mr. graham, who, as he saw the physician every day, and made frequent visits to his daughter, did not require that particular information which gertrude was eager to obtain. once or twice she had asked mrs. ellis, who replied, "don't bother me with questions! what do you know about sickness?" one afternoon gertrude was sitting in a large summer-house at the end of the garden; her own piece of ground, fragrant with mignonette and verbena, was close by, and she was busily engaged in tying up some little papers of seeds, when she was startled by hearing a step beside her, and looking up, saw dr. jeremy, the family physician, entering the building. "ah! what are you doing?" said the doctor, in a quick manner peculiar to him. "sorting seeds, eh?" "yes, sir," replied gerty, blushing, as she saw the doctor's keen black eyes scrutinising her face! "where have i seen you before?" asked he, in the same blunt way. "at mr. flint's." "ah! true flint's! i remember all about it. you're his girl! nice girl, too! and poor true, he's dead! well, he's a loss to the community! so this is the little nurse i used to see there. bless me! how children do grow!" "doctor jeremy," asked gertrude, in an earnest voice, "will you please to tell me how miss emily is?" "emily! she an't very well just now." "do you think she'll die?" "die! no! what should she die for? i won't let her die, if you'll help me to keep her alive. why an't you in the house taking care of her?" "i wish i might!" exclaimed gertrude, starting up; "i wish i might!" "what's to hinder?" "mrs. ellis, sir; she won't let me in; she says miss emily doesn't want anybody but her." "she's nothing to say about it, or emily either; it's my business, and i want you. i'd rather have you to take care of my patients than all the mrs. ellises in the world. she knows nothing about nursing; let her stick to her cranberry-sauce and squash-pies. so, mind, to-morrow you're to begin." "o, thank you, doctor." "don't thank me yet; wait till you've tried it--it's hard work taking care of sick folks. whose orchard is that?" "mrs. bruce's." "is that her pear-tree?" "yes, sir." "by george, mrs. bruce, i'll try your pears for you!" as he spoke, the doctor, a man some sixty-five years of age, stout and active, sprung over a stone wall, which separated them from the orchard, and reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound. as gertrude watched the proceeding, she observed the doctor stumble over some obstacle, and only saved himself from falling by stretching forth both hands, and sustaining himself against the trunk of the tree. at the same instant a head, adorned with a velvet smoking-cap, was slowly lifted from the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, stared at the intruder. nothing daunted, the doctor at once took the offensive ground towards the occupant of the place, saying, "get up, lazy bones! what do you lie there for, tripping up honest folks?" "whom do you call honest folks, sir?" inquired the youth, apparently undisturbed by the doctor's epithet and inquiry. he showed much _sang froid_. "i call myself and my little friend here remarkably honest people," replied the doctor, winking at gertrude, who, standing behind the wall and looking over, was laughing at the way in which the doctor had got caught. the young man turned, and gave a broad stare at gertrude's merry face. "can i do anything for you, sir?" asked he. "yes, certainly," replied the doctor. "i came here to help myself to pears; but you are taller than i--perhaps, with the help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that best branch." "a remarkably honourable and honest errand!" muttered the young man. "i shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause." and, drawing down the branch, so that he could reach it with his hand, shook it vigorously. the ripe fruit fell on every side; and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, started for the other side of the wall. "have you got enough?" asked the youth, in a very lazy tone of voice. "plenty, plenty," said the doctor. "glad of it," said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the grass, and still staring at gertrude. "you must be very tired," said the doctor, stepping back a pace or two; "i'm a physician, and should advise a nap." "are you, indeed!" replied the youth, in the same half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice; "then i think i'll take your advice;" and he threw himself upon the grass, and closed his eyes. having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house, and invited gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing at his boyish feat, looked at his watch. "half-past four! the cars go in ten minutes. who's going to drive me down to the depot?" "i don't know, sir," replied gertrude. "where's george?" "he's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left white charlie harnessed in the yard; i saw him fasten him to the chain, after he drove you up from the cars." "ah! then you can drive me down to the depot." "i can't, sir; i don't know how." "but you must; i'll show you how. you're not afraid?" "o, no, sir; but mr. graham----" "never you mind mr. graham--do you mind me. i'll answer for your coming back safe enough." gertrude was naturally courageous; she had never driven before, but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often afterwards called upon by dr. jeremy to perform the same service, she soon became skilful in the use of the reins. dr. jeremy was true to his promise of installing gertrude in emily's sick room. the next visit he made to his patient, he spoke in terms of the highest praise of gertrude's devotion to her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she had been expelled from the chamber. "she is timid," said emily, "and is afraid of catching the fever." "don't believe it," said dr. jeremy; "'tan't like her." "do you think not?" inquired emily, earnestly. "mrs. ellis----" "told a lie," interrupted the doctor. "gerty wants to come and take care of you, and she knows how as well as mrs. ellis any day; it isn't much you need done. you want quiet, and that's what you can't have with that great talking woman about. so i'll send her to jericho to-day, and bring my little gertrude up here. she's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her shoulders." it is not to be supposed that gertrude could provide for emily's wants any better than mrs. ellis; and emily, knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to jericho; for, though dr. jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not be dispensed with. so, though emily, dr. jeremy, and gertrude were all made happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick-room, the housekeeper was never conscious that anyone knew her ill-will to gertrude. there were care and tenderness in gertrude, which only the warmest love could have dictated. when emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, she found a cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from mrs. ellis's deep snoring that it was not her hand that held it--when she observed that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless--she realised the truth that dr. jeremy had brought her a most excellent medicine. a week or two passed away, and she was able to sit up, though not yet able to leave her room. a few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise. "drive out two or three times every day," said he. "how can i?" said emily. "george has so much to do, it will be very inconvenient." "let gertrude drive you; she is a capital hand." "gertrude," said emily, smiling, "i believe you are a great favourite of the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. you never drove, did you?" "hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks?" inquired the doctor. "is it possible?" asked emily. upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, charlie was harnessed into the carriage, and emily and mrs. ellis went out to drive with gertrude, an experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. in the early autumn, when emily's health was restored, old charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes mrs. ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned buggy, and emily declared that gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great source of happiness. once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, gertrude saw again the lazy youth whom dr. jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend dr. jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name. gertrude blushed; she was sensitive about her name, and, though she went by that of flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no surname of her own. emily had tried to find nan grant, in order to learn from her something of gertrude's early history; but nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her. chapter xix. changes. it was the twilight of a sultry september day, and, wearied by excessive heat, emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze. the western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. ten years had passed since emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting gertrude in mr. arnold's church. she had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain. even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore, time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life. still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as emily acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become, what uncle true bade her be, eyes to her benefactor. on the present occasion, as emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. she held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her features. at length, some one approaches the gate. none but emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam gertrude, for she has now become a young lady. she is some inches taller than emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station. gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle does not hide the roundness of her taper waist. is gertrude a beauty? by no means. hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would pronounce her beautiful. but there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch--tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. such a face was gertrude's. there are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere--and such a form was gertrude's. whatever charm these attractions might give her--and many estimated it highly--it was greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all. as she perceived miss graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately over emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend, "here i am again, miss emily! have you been alone since i went away?" "yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were travelling about in boston this excessive warm day." "it has not hurt me in the least; i only enjoy this cool breeze all the more--it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!" "but, gerty," said emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you coming away from the house for? you have not been to tea, my child." "i know it, emily, but i don't want any supper." they walked slowly and in perfect silence. at last emily said, "well, gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?" "o yes, a great deal, but----" "but you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak it; is it not so?" "i ought not to have the vanity, dear emily, to think it would trouble you very much; but ever since last evening, when i told you what mr. w. said, and what i had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, i have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do." "and i, on the other hand, gertrude, have been reproaching myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the matter, lest i should be influencing you against your duty. i feel that you are right, gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, i ought to do everything i can to forward your plans." "dear emily!" said gertrude, "if you thought so from what i told you yesterday, you would be convinced had you observed all that i have to-day." "why! are matters any worse than they were at mrs. sullivan's?" "much worse than i described to you. i did not then know all that she had to contend with; but i have been at their house since i left home this morning (for mr. w. did not detain me five minutes), and it does not seem safe for such a delicate woman as mrs. sullivan to be alone with mr. cooper, now that his mind is in such a state." "but do you think you can do any good?" "i know i can, dear emily; i can manage him much better than she can, and do more for his comfort. he is like a child now, and full of whims. when he can be indulged, mrs. sullivan will please him at any amount of inconvenience, and even danger to herself, not only because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but she is afraid of him, he is so irritable and violent. she tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things, such as going out late at night, when it is unsafe, and sleeping with his window wide open." "poor woman!" exclaimed emily; "what does she do in such cases?" "i can tell you, emily, for i saw an instance of it to-day. when i went in this morning, he was preparing to make a coal-fire in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming intense in the city." "and mrs. sullivan?" said emily. "was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying." "poor thing!" murmured emily. "she could do nothing with him," continued gertrude, "and had given up in despair." "she ought to have a strong woman or a man to take care of him." "that is what she dreads worse than anything. she says it would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to be by a stranger; and, besides, she shrinks from the idea of having anyone in the house to whom she is unaccustomed. she is very neat and particular in all her arrangements, has always done her work herself; and declares she would sooner admit a wild beast into her family than an irish girl." "her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her yet, has it?" "oh, no. she was saying to-day how strange it seemed when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a new tenement, that, just as she had moved in and got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great trial." "it seems strange to me," said emily, "that she did not sooner perceive its approach. i noticed when i went with you the failure in the old man's intellect." "i had observed it for a long time," remarked gertrude, "but never spoke of it to her; and i do not think she was in the least aware of it, until about their removal, when the breaking-up of old associations affected his mind." "sad thing!" said emily. "how old is he?" "i believe he is very old; i remember mrs. sullivan's telling me some time ago that he was near eighty." "is he so old as that? then i am not surprised that these changes have made him childish." "oh, no. melancholy, as it is, we may come to the same if we live to his age; and as he seems generally contented, i do not lament it so much on his own account as mrs. sullivan's." "does it seem hard for her to bear up under it?" "i think it would not be if she were well; but there is something the matter with her, and i fear it is more serious than she allows, for she looks very pale, and has had several alarming ill turns lately." "has she consulted a physician?" "no; she doesn't wish for one, and says she shall soon be better; but i do not feel sure that she will, especially as she takes no care of herself; and that is one reason i wish to be in town as soon as possible. i am anxious to have dr. jeremy see her, and i can bring it about without her knowing that he comes on her account." "you speak confidently of being in town, gertrude; so i suppose it is all arranged." "oh, i have not told you, have i, about my visit to mr. w.? dear, good man, how grateful i ought to be to him! he has promised me the situation." "i had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to you at mrs. bruce's." "you hadn't, really! why, emily, i was almost afraid to mention it to him. i couldn't believe he would have sufficient confidence in me; but he was so kind! i hardly dare tell you what he said about my capacity to teach, you will think me so vain." "you need not tell me, my darling; i know from his own lips how highly he appreciates your ability." "dear uncle true always wanted me to be a teacher; it was the height of his ambition. he would be pleased, wouldn't he, dear emily?" "yes, proud to see you assistant in a school like mr. w.'s. but he would think as i do, that you are undertaking too much. you expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every morning, and yet you propose to be nurse to mrs. sullivan, and guardian to her poor old father. my dear child, you are not used to so much care, and i shall be constantly troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give way." "oh, dear emily, there is no cause for any anxiety on my account. i am well and strong, and capable of all that i have planned for myself. my only trouble is in leaving you; and i fear you will miss me, and perhaps feel as if----" "i know what you would say, gertrude. you need not fear that; i am sure of your affection. i am sure you love me next to your duty, and i would not that you should give me the preference. so dismiss that thought from your mind, and do not believe that i would be selfish enough to desire to retain you. i only wish, my dear, that for the present you had not thought of entering the school. you might then have gone to mrs. sullivan's, stayed as long as needed, and perhaps found, by the time we are ready to start on our southern tour, that your services could be dispensed with; in which case you could accompany us on a journey which i am sure your health will by that time require." "but, dear emily, how could i do that? i could not propose myself as a visitor to mrs. sullivan, however useful i might intend to be to her; nor could i speak of nursing to a woman who will not confess that she is ill. it seemed to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to bring it about; for i have been with you so long that mrs. sullivan thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive way of life. it was only when mr. w. spoke of his wanting an assistant, and hinted that he should like to employ me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. i knew if i told mrs. sullivan that i was engaged to teach there, and that you were not coming to town, and represented to her that i wanted a boarding-place for the winter, she would insist that i should go nowhere else." "and it proved as you expected?" "exactly; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of my being with her, that i realised still more how much she needed some one." "she will have a treasure in you, gertrude." "no, indeed! the feeling i have is, that however little i may be able to accomplish, it will be more than anyone else could do for mrs. sullivan. she has lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city, and i do not know of anyone, except myself, whom she would willingly admit under her roof. she is used to me, and loves me; i am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist in whatever she is doing, although she often says i live a lady's life now, and am not used to work. she knows, too, that i have an influence over her father; and i _have_--strange as it may seem to you--i _have_ more than i know how to account for myself. i think it is partly because i am not afraid of him, and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because i am more of a stranger than mrs. sullivan. but there is another cause; he associates me in his mind with willie; for we were for some years constantly together, both left the house at the same time, and he knows that it is through me that the correspondence with him is carried on. since his mind has been so weak, he thinks continually of willie, and i can at any moment, however irritable he may be, make him calm and quiet, by proposing to tell him the latest news from his grandson. it does not matter how often i repeat the contents of the last letter, it is always new to him; and you have no idea, emily, what power this gives me. mrs. sullivan sees how easily i can guide his thoughts, and i noticed what a load of care was taken from her mind by having me there to-day. she looked so happy when i came away to-night, and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during the winter to have me with her, that i felt repaid for any sacrifice it has been to me. but when i came home, and saw you, and thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it might be before i should live with you again, i felt as if----" gerty could say no more. she laid her head on emily's shoulder, and wept. emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. "we have been very happy together, gerty," said she, "and i shall miss you sadly; half the enjoyment of my life has of late years been borrowed from you. but i never loved you half so well as i do now, at the time we must part; for i see in the sacrifice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most important traits of character a woman can possess. i know how much you love the sullivans, and you have certainly every reason for being attached to them; but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing without a murmur the southern tour from which you expected so much pleasure, proves that my gerty is the brave, good girl i always hoped and prayed she might become. you are in the path of duty, gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your own conscience, if in no other way." as emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden, and were met by a servant-girl, who announced that mrs. bruce and her son were in the parlour, and had asked for them both. "did you get her buttons in town, gertrude?" inquired emily. "yes, i found some that were an excellent match for the dress; she probably wants to know what success i had; but how can i go in?" "i will return to the house with kate, and you can go in at the side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. i will excuse you to mrs. bruce for the present; and when you have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and report concerning the errand she entrusted to you." chapter xx. frustrated plans. when gertrude entered the room in half-an-hour, her face showed no mental distress. mrs. bruce nodded to her good naturedly from a corner of the sofa. mr. bruce rose and offered his chair at the same time that mr. graham pointed to a vacant window-seat near him, and said kindly, "here is a place for you, gertrude." declining these civilities, she withdrew to an ottoman near an open glass door, where she was immediately joined by mr. bruce, who, seating himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced conversation with her. mr. bruce--the gentleman who, some years before, wore a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass--had recently returned from europe, and, glorifying in the renown acquired from a moustache, a french tailor, and the possession of a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with more complacency than ever. "so you've been in boston all day, miss flint?" "yes, nearly all day." "didn't you find it distressingly warm?" "somewhat so." "i tried to go in to attend to some business that mother was anxious about, and even went down to the depot; but i had to give it up." "were you overpowered by the heat?" "i was." "how unfortunate!" remarked gertrude, in a half-compassionate, half-ironical tone of voice. mr. bruce looked up, to judge from her countenance whether she were serious or not; but there being little light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he could not decide the question, and therefore replied, "i dislike the heat, miss gertrude, and why should i expose myself to it unnecessarily?" "oh, i beg your pardon; i thought you spoke of important business." "only some affair of my mother's. nothing i felt any interest in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. if i had known that you were in the cars, as i have since heard, i should certainly have persevered, in order to have had the pleasure of walking down washington street with you." "i did not go down washington street." "but you would have done so with a suitable escort," suggested the young man. "if i had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage," said gertrude, laughing. "how very practical you are, miss gertrude! do you mean to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled plan of operations, and never swerve from your course?" "by no means. i trust i am not difficult to influence when there is a sufficient motive." the young man bit his lip. "then you never act without a motive; pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad-brimmed hat when you are at work in the garden?" "it is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which would certainly be a better protection from the sun. i must plead guilty, i fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that old hat." "why not confess, miss gertrude, that you wear it in order to look fanciful and picturesque, so that the neighbours' slumbers are disturbed by the thoughts of it? my own morning dreams, for instance, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its owner, that i am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the direction of the garden. you will have a heavy account to settle with morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights; and your conscience too will suffer for injuries to my health, sustained by continued exposure to early dews." "it is hard to condemn me for such unintentional mischief; but since i am to experience so much future remorse on account of your morning visits, i shall take upon myself the responsibility of forbidding them." "oh, you wouldn't be so unkind!--especially after all the pains i have taken to impart to you the little i know of horticulture." "very little i think it must have been; or i have but a poor memory," said gertrude, laughing. "have you forgotten the pains i took yesterday to acquaint you with the different varieties of roses? don't you remember how much i had to say of damask roses and damask bloom; and how before i finished, i could not find words enough in praise of blushes, especially such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while i was speaking?" "i know you talked a great deal of nonsense. i hope you don't think i listened to it all." "oh, miss gertrude! it is of no use to say flattering things to you; you always regard my compliments as jokes." "i have told you, several times, that it was most useless to waste so much flattery upon me. i am glad you are beginning to realise it." "well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this morning at half-past seven?" "on my way to boston in the cars." "is it possible?--so early! why, i thought you went at ten. then, all the time i was watching by the garden wall to say good-morning, you were half-a-dozen miles away. i wish i had not wasted that hour so; i might have spent it in sleeping." "very true, it is a great pity." "and then half-an-hour more here this evening! how came you to keep me waiting so long?" "i was not aware of doing so. i certainly did not take your visit to myself." "my visit certainly was not meant for anyone else." "ben," said mr. graham, approaching rather abruptly, and taking part in the conversation, "are you fond of gardening? i thought i heard you just now speaking of roses?" "yes, sir; miss flint and i were having quite a discussion upon flowers--roses especially." gertrude, availing herself of mr. graham's approach, tried to escape and join the ladies at the sofa; but mr. bruce, who had risen on mr. graham's addressing him, saw her intention, and frustrated it by placing himself in the way, so that she could not pass him without positive rudeness. mr. graham continued, "i propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of miss flint's flower garden; won't you walk down with me, and give your opinion of my plan?" "isn't it too dark, sir, to----" "no, no, not at all; there is ample light for our purpose. this way, if you please;" and mr. bruce was compelled to follow where mr. graham led, though, in spite of his acquaintance with paris manners, he made a wry face, and shook his head menacingly. gertrude was now permitted to relate to mrs. bruce the results of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. the gentlemen, soon returning, took seats near the sofa, and the conversation became general. "mr. graham," said mrs. bruce, "i have been asking emily about your visit to the south; and i think it will be a charming trip." "i hope so, madame; it will be an excellent thing for emily, and as gertrude has never travelled, i anticipate a great deal of pleasure for her." "ah! then you are to be of the party, miss flint?" "of course," said mr. graham, without giving gertrude a chance to speak for herself; "we depend upon gertrude; couldn't get along without her." "it will be delightful for you," continued mrs. bruce, her eyes still fixed on gertrude. "i did expect to go with mr. and miss graham," answered gertrude, "and looked forward to the journey with the greatest eagerness; but i have just decided that i must remain in boston this winter." "what are you talking about, gertrude?" asked mr. graham. "what do you mean? this is all news to me." "and to me, too, sir, or i should have informed you of it before. i supposed you expected me to accompany you, and there is nothing i should like so much. i should have told you before of the circumstances that now make it impossible; but they are of quite recent occurrence." "but we can't give you up, gertrude; i won't hear of such a thing; you must go with us in spite of circumstances." "i fear i shall not be able," said gertrude, smiling pleasantly, but still retaining her firmness of expression; "you're very kind, sir, to wish it." "wish it!--i tell you i insist upon it. you are under my care, child, and i have a right to say what you shall do." mr. graham was excited. gertrude and emily looked troubled, but neither spoke. "give me your reasons, if you have any," said mr. graham, vehemently, "and let me know what has put this strange notion into your head." "i will explain it to you to-morrow, sir." "to-morrow! i want to know now. tell me what all this means? here i plan my business, and make all my arrangements, to give up this winter to travelling--not so much on my own account as to please both of you, and, just as all is settled, and we are on the point of starting, gertrude says that she has concluded not to go." emily undertook to explain gertrude's motives, and ended by expressing her approbation of her course. as soon as she had finished, mr. graham, who had listened very impatiently, and interrupted her with many a "pish!" and "pshaw!" burst forth with redoubled indignation. "so gerty prefers the sullivans to us, and you seem to encourage her in it! i should like to know what they have ever done for her, compared with what i have done." "they have been friends of hers for years, and now that they are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them, and i confess i do not wonder at her decision." "i do. she prefers to make a slave of herself in mr. w.'s school, and a greater slave in mrs. sullivan's family, instead of staying with us, where she has been treated like a lady, and like one of our own family." "oh, mr. graham!" said gertrude, earnestly, "it is not a matter of choice, except as i feel it to be a duty." "and what makes it a duty? just because you used to live with them, and that boy out in calcutta has sent you home a camel's-hair scarf and a cage full of miserable little birds, and written you letters, you must forfeit your own interest to take care of his sick relations! can their claim compare with mine? haven't i given you the best of educations, and spared not expense for your improvement and happiness?" "i did not think, sir," said gertrude, humbly, and yet with dignity, "of counting up the favours i had received, and measuring my conduct accordingly. in that case my obligations to you are immense, and you would certainly have the greatest claim upon my services." "services! i don't want your _services_, child. mrs. ellis can do quite as well as you can for emily, or me either; but i like your _company_, and think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us, as you talk of doing." "father," said emily, "i thought the object in giving gertrude a good education was to make her independent of all the world, and not simply dependent upon us." "emily," said mr. graham, "i tell you it is a matter of feeling--you don't seem to look upon the thing in the light i do; but you are both against me, and i won't talk any more about it." so saying, mr. graham went to his study, and was seen no more that night. poor gertrude! mr. graham, who had been so generous, who had seldom or ever spoken harshly to her, and had always treated her with great indulgence, was now deeply offended. he had called her ungrateful; he felt that she had abused his kindness, and believed that he and emily stood in her imagination secondary to other far less warm-hearted friends. deeply wounded, she hastened to say good-night to the no less afflicted emily, and, seeking her own room, gave way to feelings that caused her a sleepless night. chapter xxi. selfishness. left at three years of age dependent upon the charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, gertrude had, during her residence at nan grant's, found little of that charity. but, although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received, she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or come to any conclusions upon the hardness and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such impressions would have been effaced in the home of her kind foster-father. and having, through a similar providence, found in emily additional proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of sympathy and affection, she had hitherto, in her unusually happy experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence upon the bounty of strangers. from mr. graham she had until now experienced only kindness. on her first coming to live with them, he had taken little notice of her, so long as she was quiet, well-mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been indifferent about her. he observed that emily was fond of the girl, and, though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be indulged. but he soon noticed in his daughter's favourite a quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which created an interest in her that soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening and her love of flowers. emily formed no plan as to gertrude's education to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her father; and gertrude, grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation and regard, by treating mr. graham with the greatest respect. but, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, mr. graham had neither the disinterested forbearing spirit of uncle true, nor the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of emily. mr. graham was a liberal and highly respectable man; he had the reputation of being a high-minded and honourable man; and his conduct justified this report of him. but he was a _selfish_ man, and often took one-sided views. he had supported and educated gertrude--he liked her--she was the person whom he preferred for a travelling companion for himself and emily--and he either _could_ not or _would_ not see that her duty lay in any other direction. during a wakeful and restless night, gertrude reviewed and considered her own circumstances. at first her only emotion was one of grief, but that gradually subsided, as other bitter thoughts rose up in her mind. "what right," thought she, "has mr. graham to treat me this way--to tell me i _shall_ go with him on his southern journey, and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own? does he consider my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am i no longer able to say yes or no? emily does not think so; emily, who loves and needs me a thousand times more than mr. graham, thinks i have acted rightly, and she assured me that it was my duty to carry out the plans i had formed. and my solemn promise to willie! is that to be held for nothing? no, it would be tyranny in mr. graham to insist on my remaining with them, and i am glad i have resolved to break away from such thraldom. besides, i was educated to teach, and mr. w. says it is important to commence while my studies are fresh in my mind." so much said pride; and gertrude's heart listened awhile to such suggestions. but not long. she had accustomed herself to view the conduct of others in that spirit of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her own, and milder thoughts took the place of these excited feelings. "perhaps," said she to herself, "it is, after all, pure kindness that prompted mr. graham's interference. he may think as emily does, that i am undertaking too much. it is impossible for him to know how strong my motives are, how deep i consider my obligations to the sullivans, and how much i am needed by them at this time. i had no idea, either, that i was to be one of the party to the south; for though emily talked as if she took it for granted, mr. graham never asked me to go, and i could not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to refuse; but, after planning the journey to please us both, i do not wonder at his being annoyed. he probably feels, too, as if i had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a right to decide upon my conduct. and he _has_ been very indulgent to me--and i a stranger with no claims! shall i then decide to give up my teaching, to go to the south, and leave mrs. sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while i am away? no, that is impossible. i will never be such a traitor to my own heart, and my sense of right; sorry as i shall be to offend mr. graham, i must not allow his anger to turn me from my duty." having thus resolved to brave the tempest, and committed her cause to him who judgeth righteously, gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep. dreams of a painful nature started her back to consciousness. in some of these visions she beheld mr. graham angry, and threatening her with his displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans; and then she seemed to see willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted five years before, beckoning her with a sad countenance to the room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as gertrude had a few weeks before seen her. exhausted by such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain any rest, and rising, seated herself at the window, where, watching the approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly through the next day--a day destined to witness her sad separation from emily, and her farewell to mr. graham, which would probably be more distressing. the tyrannical disposition of mr. graham was well understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed to respect all his wishes and whims; and though he was always indulgent and kind, none ever braved a temper which, when excited, was so violent. it cannot, then, be surprising that gertrude's heart should have failed her when she stood, half-an-hour before breakfast-time, with the handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her energies for another meeting with the opposer of her plans. she paused but a moment, and then went in. mr. graham was sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table lay the morning paper. it had been gertrude's habit to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was for that purpose she had now come. she advanced toward him with her usual "good morning." the salutation was returned in a constrained voice. she seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper. but he placed his hand upon it to prevent her. "i was going to read the news to you, sir." "and i do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for me, until i know whether you have concluded to treat me with the respect i have a right to demand from you." "i certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with respect, mr. graham." "when girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect they are capable of; but i am willing to forgive the past, if you assure me, as i think you will, after a night's reflection, that you have returned to a right sense of your duty." "i cannot say, sir, that i have changed my views with regard to what that duty is." "do you mean to tell me," asked mr. graham, rising from his chair, and speaking in a tone which made gerty's heart quake, "do you mean to tell me that you have an idea of persisting in your folly?" "is it folly, sir, to do right?" "right! there is a great difference of opinion between you and me as to what is right in this case." "but, mr. graham, i think if you knew all the circumstances, you would not blame my conduct. i have told emily the reasons that influence me, and she----" "don't quote emily to me!" interrupted mr. graham; "i don't doubt she'd give her head to anybody that asked for it; but i hope i know a little better what is due to myself; and i tell you plainly, miss gertrude flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave my house, as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure; and _that_, you may find one of these days, it is no light thing to have incurred--unnecessarily too, as you are doing." "i am very sorry to displease you, mr. graham, but----" "no, you're not _sorry_; if you were, you would not walk straight in the face of my wishes," said mr. graham, who began to observe the expression of gertrude's face, which, though troubled, had acquired additional firmness, instead of quailing before his severe and cutting words. "but i have said enough about a matter which is not worthy of so much notice. you can go or stay, as you please. i wish you to understand, if you go, i utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. you must take care of yourself, or trust to strangers. i suppose you expect your calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home and take you under his especial care; but if you think so, you know little of the world. i dare say he is married to an indian by this time, and, if not, has forgotten you." "mr. graham," said gertrude, proudly, "mr. sullivan will not probably return to this country for many years, and i assure you i neither look to him nor anyone else for support; i intend to earn a maintenance for myself." "a heroic resolve!" said mr. graham, contemptuously, "and pronounced with a dignity i hope you will be able to maintain. am i to consider, then, that your mind is made up?" "it is, sir," said gertrude, not a little strengthened for the dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by mr. graham's sarcastic speeches. "and you go?" "i must. i believe it to be my duty, and am, therefore, willing to sacrifice my own comfort, and, what i assure you i value far more, your friendship." mr. graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter part of her remark, and so far forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent ringing of the table-bell. it was answered by katy with the breakfast; and emily and mrs. ellis coming, all seated themselves at the table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and constraint, for emily had heard the loud tones of her father's voice, while mrs. ellis plainly saw that something unpleasant had occurred. when mr. graham had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to mrs. ellis, and invited her to accompany himself and emily on their journey to the south, mentioning the probability that they should pass some weeks in havana. mrs. ellis accepted the invitation with pleasure, and asked a number of questions concerning the proposed route and length of absence; while emily hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup; and gertrude, who had lately been reading _letters from cuba_, and was aware that mr. graham knew the strong interest she felt in the place, pondered in her mind whether it could be possible that he could be guilty of the mean desire to vex and mortify her. breakfast over, emily hastily sought her room, where she was joined by gertrude. in answering emily's inquiries as to the scene which had taken place, gertrude forbore to repeat mr. graham's most bitter and wounding remarks; for she saw from her kind friend's countenance how deeply she participated in her own sense of wrong. she told her, however, that it was now well understood by mr. graham that she was to leave, and, as his sentiments towards her were far from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she could never be more needed by mrs. sullivan than at present. emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and agreed to accompany her to town that afternoon; for, deeply sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards gertrude, she preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter her father's contemptuous neglect. the remainder of the day was spent by gertrude in packing and other preparations, while emily sat by, counselling the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of undiminished affection. "oh, if you could only write to me, dear emily, during your long absence, what a comfort it would be," exclaimed gertrude. "with mrs. ellis's assistance, my dear," replied emily, "i will send you such news as i can of our movements; but, though you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in my thoughts, and i shall never forget to commend my beloved child to the protection and care of one who will be to her a better friend than i can be." in the course of the day gertrude sought mrs. ellis, and astonished that lady by stating that she had come to have a few farewell words with her. surprise, however, was soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate upon the generosity of mr. graham, and the delights of the excursion in prospect. after wishing her a great deal of pleasure, gertrude begged to hear from her by letter during her absence; to which request mrs. ellis only replied by asking if gertrude thought a thibet dress would be uncomfortable on the journey; and, when it was repeated with great earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the suppliant for epistolary favours, begged to know how many pairs of undersleeves she would probably require. having responded to her questions, and at last gained her attention, gertrude obtained from her a promise to write _one_ letter, which would, she declared, be more than she had done for years. before leaving the house, gertrude sought mr. graham's study, in hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her; but on her telling him that she had come to bid him "good-bye," he indistinctly muttered the simple words of that universal formula--so deep in its meaning when coming from the heart; so chilling when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly closed lips--and turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to mend his fire. so she went away, with a tear in her eye and a sadness in her heart. a far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where she went to seek mrs. prime and katy. "bless yer soul, dear miss gertrude!" said the former, stumbling up the staircase which led from the lower room, and wiping her hands on her apron--"how we shall miss yer! why, the house won't be worth livin' in when you're out of it. my gracious! if you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight. why, you're the life and soul of the place! but there, i guess you know what's right; so, if you must go, we must bear it--though katy and i'll cry our eyes out, for aught i know." "sure, miss gairthrue," said irish katy, "and it's right gude in you to be afther comin' to bid us good-bye. i don't see how you gets memory to think of us all, and i'm shure ye'll never be betther off than what i wish yer. i can't but think, miss, it'll go to help yer along, that everybody's gude wishes and blessin' goes with yer." "thank you, katy, thank you," said gertrude, touched by the simple earnestness of these good friends. "you must come and see me some time in boston; and you too, mrs. prime, i shall depend upon it. good-bye;" and the good-bye that _now_ fell upon gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one; it followed her through the hall, and as the carriage drove away she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle. chapter xxii. a friend in affliction. passing over gertrude's parting with emily, her cordial reception by mrs. sullivan, and her commencement of school duties, we will record the events of a day in november, about two months after she left mr. graham's. rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet in a room so cold that her hands were half benumbed; nor did she omit, ere she began the labours of the day, to supplicate heaven's blessing upon them. then, noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment, where mrs. sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, and performed a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the family took their meals. the table was set for breakfast when mrs. sullivan entered, pale, thin, and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl. "gertrude," said she, "why did you let me sleep so late, while you are up and at work?" "for the very best reason in the world, auntie; because i sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at day-break, and with you it is quite the reverse. besides, i like to get the breakfast; i make such beautiful coffee. look!" said she, pouring some into a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot, and pouring it back again; "see how clear it is! don't you long for some of it?" mrs. sullivan smiled, for, uncle true having always preferred tea, gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee. "now," said gertrude, "i want you to sit down here and watch the tea-kettle boil, while i run and see if mr. cooper is ready to let me tie up his cue." she went, leaving mrs. sullivan to think what a good girl she was; and presently returning with the old man, she placed a chair for him, and having waited while he seated himself, and then pinned a napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast on the table. while mrs. sullivan poured out the coffee, gertrude removed the skin from a baked potato, and the shell from a boiled egg, and placing both on the plate destined for mr. cooper, handed him his breakfast in a state of preparation which obviated the difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for himself. poor mrs. sullivan had no appetite, and it was with difficulty gertrude persuaded her to eat anything; but a few fried oysters, unexpectedly placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced to eat several, with a degree of relish she rarely felt for any article of food. as gertrude gazed at her languid face, she realized, more than ever, the change which had come over the active little woman; and confident that nothing but positive disease could have effected such a transformation, she resolved that not another day should pass without her seeing a physician. breakfast over, there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put in order, dinner to be partially prepared; and all this gertrude saw accomplished, chiefly through her own labour, before she went to re-arrange her dress, previous to her departure for the school where she had now been some weeks assistant teacher. a quarter before nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone, to the old man, who was cowering gloomily over the fire--"come, mr. cooper, won't you go over and superintend the new church a little while this morning? mr. miller will be expecting you; he said yesterday that he depended on your company when at work." the old man rose, and taking his great-coat from gertrude, put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical sort of way, which implied great indifference about going. as they walked in silence down the street, gertrude could not but resolve in her mind the singular coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion of another infirm old man; nor could she fail to draw a comparison between the warm-hearted uncle true, and the gloomy paul cooper. unfavorable as the comparison was to the latter, it did not diminish the kindness of gertrude towards her present charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion. they soon reached the new church--a very handsome edifice. it was not yet finished, and a number of workmen were completing the interior. a man with a hod full of mortar preceded gertrude and her companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but stopped inside the porch, on hearing himself addressed by name, and turned to respond to the well-known voice. "good morning, miss flint," said he. "i hope you're very well, this fine day. ah! mr. cooper, you've come to help me a little, i see--that's right. we can't go on very well without you--you're so used to the place. here, sir, if you'll come with me i'll show you what has been done since you were here last; i want to know how you think we are getting along." so saying, he was walking away with the old sexton; but gertrude asked him if he would see mr. cooper safe home when he passed mrs. sullivan's house on his way to dinner. "certainly, miss flint," replied the man, "with all pleasure; he has usually gone with me readily, when you have left him in my care." gertrude then hastened to the school, rejoicing that mr. cooper would be safe during the morning; and that mrs. sullivan would have the quiet she so much needed. this man was a respectable mason, who had often been in mr. graham's employ, and whose good-will gertrude had won by the kindness she had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were sick. in her daily walk past the church, she had oft seen mr. miller at work, and it occurred to her that, if she could awaken in mr. cooper's mind an interest in the new structure, he might find amusement in watching the workmen. she had some difficulty in persuading him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been opposed. once there, he became interested in the work, and as mr. miller tried to make him comfortable, and made him believe that he was useful, he gradually acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning in watching the workmen. sometimes gertrude called for him on her return from school; and sometimes mr. miller took him home. since gertrude had been at mrs. sullivan's there was a great alteration in mr. cooper. he was more manageable, and manifested less irritability, and his favourable change, together with the cheering influence of gertrude's society, had produced a beneficial effect upon mrs. sullivan; but within the last few days, her increased debility, and two sudden attacks of faintness, had awakened gertrude's fears. she determined, as soon as she should be released from her school duties, to seek dr. jeremy and request his attendance. of gertrude's school-duties, she was found by mr. w. competent to the performance of them, and that she met with those trials only which all teachers are subjected, from the idleness or stupidity of their pupils. on this day she was detained to a later hour than usual, and the clock struck two as she was ringing dr. jeremy's door-bell. the girl who opened the door knew gertrude, and telling her that, although the doctor was just going to dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into the office. he advanced to meet gertrude, holding out both his hands. "gertrude flint, i declare!" exclaimed he. "why, i'm glad to see you, my girl. why haven't you been here before, i should like to know?" gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of whom was very old, the other an invalid; and that so much of her time was occupied in school, that she had no opportunity for visiting. "poor excuse," said the doctor; "poor excuse. but, now we've got you here, we shan't let you go very soon!" and going to the foot of the staircase, he called out loudly, "mrs. jeremy! mrs. jeremy! come down to dinner as quick as you can, and put on your best cap--we've got company.--poor soul!" added he, in a lower tone, smiling, "she can't hurry, can she, gerty?--she's so fat." gertrude protested against staying to dinner, declaring she must hasten home, and announcing mrs. sullivan's illness and the object of her visit. "an hour can't make much difference," insisted the doctor. "you must stay and dine with me, and then i'll take you with me in the buggy." gertrude hesitated; the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes of snow were falling; she should have an uncomfortable walk; and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor, as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new houses, not yet numbered, and he might have some difficulty in finding the right tenement. mrs. jeremy now entered. fat she certainly was, uncommonly fat, and flushed with the excitement of dressing. she kissed gertrude, and then, seeing that no one else was present, exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor--"why, dr. jeremy!--an't you ashamed of yourself? i never will believe you again; you made me think there was some great stranger here." "and pray, mrs. jeremy, who's a greater stranger in this house than gerty flint?" "sure enough!" said mrs. jeremy. "gertrude _is_ a stranger, and i've got a scolding in store for her on that very account; but, you know, dr. jeremy, i shouldn't have put on my lilac-and-pink for gertrude to see; she likes me just as well in my old yellow, if she did tell me, when i bought it, the saucy girl, that i'd selected the ugliest cap in boston. do you remember that gerty?" gerty laughed heartily at the recollection of an amusing scene that took place when she went shopping with mrs. jeremy. "but come, gerty, dinner's ready; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into the dining-room; the doctor has much to say, and has been wanting dreadfully to see you." they had been sitting some minutes without a word having been spoken, when the doctor suddenly commenced laughing till tears came into his eyes. gertrude looked at him, inquiringly, and mrs. jeremy said, "there, gertrude!--for a whole week he had just such a laughing fit, two or three times a-day. i was as much astonished at first as you are; and i don't understand now what could have happened between him and mr. graham that was so very funny." "come, wife," said the doctor, "don't you forestall my communication. i want to tell the story myself. i don't suppose, gertrude, you've lived five years at mr. graham's without finding out what a cantankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk he is!" "doctor!" said mrs. jeremy, "be careful." "i don't care, wife; i'll speak my mind with regard to mr. graham; and gertrude, here, has done the same, i haven't a particle of doubt, only she's a good girl, and won't say so." "i never saw anything that looked like it," said mrs. jeremy; "i've seen as much of him as most folks. i meet him in the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket of chips, and makes a beautiful bow." "i dare say," said the doctor; "gertrude and i know what gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very teeth of his opinions--eh, gertrude!--but when one does----" "in talking politics, for instance," suggested mrs. jeremy. "it's your differences with him on politics that have set you against him so." "no, it isn't," replied the doctor. "a man may get angry talking politics, and be a good-natured man too. i get angry _myself_ on _politics_, but that isn't the sort of thing i refer to. it's graham's wanting to lay down the law to everybody that comes within ten miles of him that i can't endure; his dictatorial way of acting as if he were the grand mogul of cochin china. i thought he'd improved of late years; he had a serious lesson enough in that sad affair of poor philip amory's; but i believe he's been trying the old game again. ha! ha! ha!" shouted the good doctor, leaning forward and giving gertrude a light tap on the shoulder--"wasn't i glad when i found he'd met at last with a reasonable opposition! and that, too, where he least expected it!" gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of the misunderstanding between herself and mr. graham. "you wonder where i got my information; i'll tell you. it was partly from graham himself; and what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he'd had his own way, when i saw through him, and knew that he'd found his match in you." "dr. jeremy," said gertrude, "i hope you don't think----" "no, my dear, i _don't_ think you a _professional pugilist_; but i consider you a girl of sense--one who knows what's right--and will do what's right, in spite of mr. graham; and when you hear my story you will know the grounds on which i formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken. one day--about two months ago--i was summoned to go and see one of mr. w.'s children, who had an attack of croup. mr. w. was talking with me, when he was called away to see a visitor, and on his return he mentioned that he had secured your services in his school. i knew emily intended you for a teacher, and i was thankful you had got so good a situation. at mr. w.'s door i encountered mr. graham, and he entertained me as we went down the street with an account of his plan for the winter. 'but gertrude flint is not going with you,' said i.--'gertrude!' said he; 'certainly she is.'--'are you sure of that?' i asked. 'have you invited her?'--'invited her! no,' was his answer; 'but, of course, i know she will go, and be glad of the opportunity; it isn't every girl that is so fortunate.' now, gerty, i felt provoked at his way of speaking, and i answered, in as confident a tone as his own, 'i doubt whether she will accept the invitation.' upon that, mr. dignity straightened up, and such a speech as he made! i never can recall it without being amused, especially when i think of the come-down that followed so soon after. i can't repeat it; but one would have thought to hear him that it was not only impossible you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to suggest such a thing. i knew better than to tell what i had just heard from mr. w., but i never felt a greater curiosity about anything than i did to know how the matter would end. two or three times i planned to drive to see emily, and hear the result; but a doctor never can call a day his own, and i got prevented. on sunday i heard mrs. prime's voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down i went to make my inquiries. she told me the truth, i rather think; though not, perhaps, all the particulars. it was not more than a day or two after that before i saw graham. 'ah,' said i; 'when do you start?'--'to-morrow,' replied he. 'really,' i exclaimed; 'then i shan't see your ladies again. will you take a little package from me to gertrude?'--'i know nothing about gertrude,' said he, stiffly.--'what!' rejoined i, affecting great surprise, 'has gertrude left you?'--'she has,' answered he. 'and dared,' continued i, 'to treat you with such disrespect--to trifle so with your dignity?'--'dr. jeremy!' exclaimed he, 'i don't wish to hear her mentioned; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely.'--'why, about the gratitude, graham,' said i, 'i believe you said it would only be an additional favour on your part if you took her with you, and i think it is wisdom in her to make herself independent at home. but i really am sorry for you and emily; you will miss her so much.'--'we can dispense with your sympathy, sir,' answered he; 'for that which is no loss.'--'ah! really,' i replied; 'now, i was thinking gertrude's society would be quite a loss.'--'_mrs. ellis_ goes with us,' said he, with emphasis, that seemed to say her company compensated for all deficiencies.--'ah!' said i, 'charming woman, mrs. ellis!' graham looked annoyed, for he is aware that mrs. ellis is my antipathy." "well, you ought to have known better, dr. jeremy," said his kind-hearted wife, "than to have attacked a man so on his weak point: it was only exciting his temper for nothing." "i was taking up the cudgels for gertrude, wife." "and i don't believe gertrude wants you to take up the cudgels for her. i have no manner of doubts that she has the kindest of feelings towards mr. graham, this blessed minute." "i have, mrs. jeremy," said gertrude; "he has been a most generous and indulgent friend to me." "except when you wanted to have your own way," suggested the doctor. "which i seldom did when it was in opposition to his wishes. i always considered it my duty to submit to him, until at last a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise." "and then, my dear," said mrs. jeremy, "i dare say it pained you to displease him; and that is a right woman's feeling, and one that dr. jeremy, in his own heart, can't but approve of, though one would think, to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a young girl to take satisfaction in browbeating an old gentleman. but don't let us talk any more about it; he has had his say, and now it's my turn. i want to hear how you are situated, gerty, where you live, and how you like teaching." gertrude answered all these questions: and the doctor, who had heard mrs. sullivan spoken of as a friend of true's and gerty's, made many inquiries as to her health. it was now snowing fast, and gertrude's anxiety to return home in good season being very manifest to her kind host and hostess, they urged no further delay, and, after she had promised to repeat her visit, she drove away with the doctor. chapter xxiii. cares multiplied. "i have been thinking," said gertrude, as she drew near home, "how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm mrs. sullivan." "what's going to alarm her?" asked the doctor. "you, if she knows at once you are a physician. i think i had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm." "oh! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? stage manager, gertrude flint--unknown stranger, dr. jeremy. i'm ready. what shall i say first?" "i leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician." "ah, yes! pretend at first to be only a private individual of an inquiring mind. i can manage it." as they opened the door, mrs. sullivan rose from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to gertrude's friend before she asked if mr. cooper were not with them. "no, indeed," replied gertrude. "hasn't he come home?" upon mrs. sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that mr. miller had undertaken the care of him, and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. she would seek him at once. "oh, i'm so sorry," said mrs. sullivan, "that you should have to go out again in such a storm; but i feel very anxious about grandpa--don't you, gerty?" "not very: i think he's safe in the church. but i'll go for him at once; you know, auntie, i never mind the weather." "then take my great shawl, dear." and mrs. sullivan went to the closet for her shawl, giving gertrude an opportunity to beg of dr. jeremy that he would await her return; for she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often cause an attack of faintness in mrs. sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with alarm upon mr. cooper's prolonged absence. it was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. gertrude hastened along the wet footpath, exposed to the blinding storm, and, after passing through several streets, gained the church. she went into the building, now nearly deserted by workmen, saw that mr. cooper was not there, and began to fear she should gain no information concerning him, when she met mr. miller coming from the gallery. he looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if mr. cooper had not returned home. she answered in the negative, and he informed her that his efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house; he had supposed that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to mrs. sullivan's. as it seemed probable that he was still at mr. miller's, gertrude proceeded thither at once. after an uncomfortable walk, she reached her destination. she knocked at the door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment, she opened it, and went in. through another door there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. a band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners; and mrs. miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very person gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding attitude, sat cowering over the fire. but, before she could advance to speak to him, her attention was arrested by a most unexpected sight. placed against the side of the room, opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which some person seemed to be sleeping. hardly, however, had gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek. the voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread as she beheld the well-known features of nan grant. "go away! go _away_!" cried nan, as gertrude advanced into the room. again gertrude paused, for the wildness of nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. mrs. miller now came forward and said, "why, aunt nancy! what is the matter? this is miss flint, one of the best young ladies in the land." "no, 'tan't!" said nan. "i know better." mrs. miller now drew gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them, maintained a watchful, listening attitude. gertrude was informed that mrs. miller was a niece of ben grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until, a few days previous. nan had come there in a state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now suffering. "i could not refuse her a shelter," said mrs. miller; "but, as you see, i have no accommodation for her; and it's not only bad for me to have her sick here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts, i'm afraid the poor old thing will die." "have you a room that you could spare above-stairs?" asked gertrude. "why, there's our jane," answered mrs. miller; "she's a good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up her room to poor aunt nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. i don't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire agoing, and so i thought we'd put a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. but she's looked pretty bad to-day; and now, i'm thinking from her actions that she's considerable out of her head." "she ought to be kept quiet," said gertrude; "and, if you will have a fire in jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, i'll send a physician here to see her." mrs. miller was beginning to express the warmest gratitude, but gertrude interrupted her with saying, "don't thank me, mrs. miller; nancy is not a stranger to me; i have known her before, and, perhaps, feel more interested in her than you do yourself." mrs. miller looked surprised; but gertrude could not stop to enter into a further explanation. anxious to speak to nan, and assure her of her friendly intentions, she went up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. "nan," said she, "do you know me?" "yes! yes!" replied nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly, and catching her breath; "what have you come for?" "to do you good, i hope." but nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, "have you seen gerty? where is she?" "she is well," answered gertrude, astonished at the question, for she had supposed herself recognised. "what did she say about me?" "she says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well." "did she?" said the sick woman; "then you won't kill me?" "kill you?--no, indeed. we are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you." mrs. miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. gertrude took it and offered it to nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her over the edge of the cup. when she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son stephen. finding the current of her thoughts thus apparently diverted, gertrude now feeling in haste to return and relieve dr. jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with mrs. sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, "good-bye, i will come and see you again." "you won't hurt me?" said nan, starting up. "oh, no. i will bring you something you will like." "don't bring gerty here with you! i don't want to see her." "i will come alone," replied gertrude. nan now laid down, and did not speak again while gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. mr. cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached home in safety. dr. jeremy, seated with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at home. he had been talking with mrs. sullivan about the people of a country town where they had both passed some time in their childhood, and the timid woman had come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that, though he had accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had fancied she should feel at the sight of a doctor. by the time gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on mrs. sullivan's leaving the room, to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to gertrude his opinion. "gertrude," said he, as soon as the door was shut, "that's a very sick woman." "do you think so, dr. jeremy?" said gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair. "i do," replied he. "i wish i had seen her six months ago." "why, doctor? do you date her illness so far back as that?" "yes, and much farther. she has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, i fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment." "dr. jeremy," said gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing willie again, too? oh, i had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!" "do not be alarmed, gertrude," said the doctor. "i did not mean to frighten you;--she may live some time yet. i can judge better of her case in a day or two. but it is absolutely _unsafe_ for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours--to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. has not mrs. sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? she tells me she has no one." "yes, indeed," answered gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. i know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend." "then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist you at once; for, if you do not, i shall." "i intend to do it," said gertrude. "i have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that i hated to propose it." "nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon." mrs. sullivan now returned, and gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with nan grant, begged dr. jeremy to go the next day and see her. "it will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. that never makes any difference with you, however, i know very well." "not a bit, not a bit," answered the doctor. "i'll go and see her to-night, if the case requires it, and to-morrow i shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what mrs. sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. but, gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. i shall have you on my hands next." mrs. sullivan was delighted with dr. jeremy. "so different," said she, "from common doctors" (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an unaccountable aversion); "so social and friendly! why, i felt, gertrude, as if i could talk to him about my sickness as freely as i can to you." gertrude joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued friend, and it was tea-time before mrs. sullivan was weary of the subject. after the evening meal was over, and mr. cooper had been persuaded to retire to rest, while mrs. sullivan, reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, gertrude broached the subject recommended by dr. jeremy. contrary to her expectations, mrs. sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. she was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labour, and was equally opposed to the exertion on gertrude's part which had, during the last week, been requisite. gertrude suggested jane miller as a girl well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the next morning. one more glance at gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. she is alone. it is ten o'clock, and the house is still. mr. cooper is sound asleep. gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. mrs. sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by dr. jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. the little calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, and gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them, that they might not suffer from the cold night air. she has locked the doors, made all things safe and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. her trials and cares are multiplying. a great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. no! on the contrary, she thanks god that she is here; that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. she thanks god that she knows where to look for help. but, though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone she weeps--weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, is counting the days, the months, and years which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. but remembering that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that her hand must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the stern necessity of self-control--a necessity to which gertrude has long since learned to submit--and, rallying all her calmness and fortitude, she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing. chapter xxiv. the vision. it was fortunate for gertrude that the vacation at mr. w.'s school was approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied cares. she considered herself favoured in obtaining the services of jane, who consented to come and help miss gertrude. she did not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady who had been so good to them in times past. gertrude had feared that, with nan grant sick in the house, mrs. miller would not be able to give up her eldest daughter; but mary, a second girl, having returned home unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. under gertrude's tuition, jane was able to relieve mrs. sullivan of her household duties, and to leave gertrude at liberty to visit nan, whose fever rendered her claim for aid the most imperative. in gertrude's still vivid recollection of her former sufferings under nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. if she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor. therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence. nan talked much of little gerty--sometimes in a way that led gertrude to believe herself recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be absent; and it was not until a long time after that gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. it was only the continued assurances of good-will on gertrude's part, and her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured. one night--it was the last of nan's life--gertrude, who had scarcely left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. she listened intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early life. her name was not repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of nan's voice was indistinct. then, suddenly starting up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted aloud, "stephie! stephie! give me back the watch, and tell me what you did with the rings?--they will ask--those folks!--and what shall i tell them?" then, after a pause, she said, in a more feeble, but equally earnest voice, "no, no, stephie, i never'll tell--i _never, never_ will!" the moment the words had left her lips, she started, turned, saw gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a frightful look, shrieked, rather than asked, "did you hear? did you hear?--you did," continued she, "and you'll tell! oh, if you _do_!" she was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow. summoning mr. and mrs. miller, the agitated gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the dying woman to their care, and sought another part of the house. learning, about an hour afterwards, from mrs. miller, that nan had become comparatively calm, but seemed near her end, gertrude thought it best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchen fire, pondered over the strange scene she had witnessed. day was just dawning when mrs. miller came to tell her that nan had breathed her last. gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness, and christian love being thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her strength, and fortify herself for the labour and suffering yet in store for her. in three weeks from nan grant's death, paul cooper was smitten by the destroyer's hand, and he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though the deepest feelings of gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed duties caused by each event, and that, too, at a time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new and more intense grief. emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission. only one letter had been received from the travellers, and that, written by mrs. ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. it was written from havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an american lady, and crowded with visitors from boston, new york, and other northern cities. "it an't so very pleasant, after all, gertrude," wrote mrs. ellis, "and i wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so much as emily's. she feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. the windows have no glass about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold. there's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. the widow is a flaunting kind of a woman, that i begin to think is either setting her cap for mr. graham, or means to make an old fool of him. she is one of your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead; and mr. graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go to all sorts of rides and excursions;--it's so _ridiculous_--and he over sixty-five years old! emily and i have pretty much done going into the parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. emily doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but i know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in boston; and so should i, if it wasn't for that horrid steamboat. i liked to have died with sea-sickness, gertrude, coming out; and i dread going home so, that i don't know what to do." * * * * * gertrude wrote frequently to emily, but, as miss graham was dependent upon mrs. ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and indulgent friend. every indian mail brought news from william sullivan, who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness. one sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after mr. cooper's death, found gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. it had that day been received, and mrs. sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch, had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents. the bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of sadness; while gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which willie dilated upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. dr. jeremy's first fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, mrs. sullivan was rapidly passing away. whether she was herself aware of this gertrude had not yet been able to determine. she had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a conviction of her approaching end; and gertrude was almost inclined to believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery. all doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, mrs. sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct voice--"gertrude, i shall never see willie again." gertrude made no reply. "i wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write for me, i should like to tell you what to say; and i feel that no time is to be lost, for i am failing fast, and may not long have strength enough to do it. it will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. will you commence a letter to-day?" "certainly, auntie, if you think it best." "i do, gerty. what you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my account, was there?" "nothing at all." "then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! i do not need dr. jeremy to tell me that i am dying." "did he tell you so?" asked gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began to arrange her writing materials. "no, gerty! he was too prudent for that; but i told _him_ and he did not contradict me. you have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of gertrude. "some weeks," replied gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer. "why did you not tell me?" "why should i, dear auntie?" said gertrude. "i knew the lord could never call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning." "feebly, it burns feebly!" said she. "whose, then, is bright," said gertrude, "if yours be dim! have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety? unless it be emily, auntie, i know of no one who seems so fit for heaven." "oh, no, gerty! i am a sinful creature, full of weakness; much as i long to meet my saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing i most craved on earth has been denied me." "oh, auntie!" exclaimed gertrude, "we are all human! until the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour! it cannot be a sin--that which is so natural!" "i do not know, gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, i trust before i go hence, i shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect submission, to atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart? read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort; you always seem to open the good book at the passage i most need. it is sinful, indeed, to me, gertrude, to indulge the least repining, blessed as i am in the love and care of one who is dear to me as a daughter!" gertrude took her bible, and opening it at the gospel of st. mark, her eye fell upon the account of our saviour's agony in the garden of gethsemane. she rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate to mrs. sullivan's state of mind than the touching description of the struggle of our lord's humanity; nothing more likely to sooth her spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, then the evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring than the example of that holy son of god, who ever to his thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him, added the pious ejaculation, "thy will, not mine, be done." the words were not without effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that as mrs. sullivan lay still upon her couch, her lips seemed to be repeating the saviour's prayer. not wishing to disturb her meditations, gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to willie, but sat silently, and mrs. sullivan fell asleep. it was a gentle slumber, and gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful happy expression of her features. darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the room that gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. she started on hearing her name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch. "o, gertrude!" said mrs. sullivan, "i have had such a beautiful dream! sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality:--" * * * * * the dream:--"i thought i was sailing rapidly through the air, and for some time i seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright stars. the motion was so gentle that i did not grow weary, though in my journey i travelled over land and sea. at last i saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. as i drew nearer, i could distinguish the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in the crowded street, there was one who looked like willie. i followed him, and soon felt sure it was he. he looked older than when we saw him last, and much as i have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance. i followed him through several streets, and at last he turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of the city. i went in also. we passed through large halls and beautifully furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, and the remains of a rich desert, such as i never saw before. there was a group of young men round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so that at first i was quite charmed with their appearance. i seemed, however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there was there. one had a very bright, intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent--and so he was; but i could see better than people usually can, and i perceived, by a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant as to be ensnared. "another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm of the company; but i could detect marks of intoxication. "a third was vainly attempting to look happy; but his soul was bared to my searching gaze, and i saw that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening win it back. "there were many others present, and all, more or less, sunk in dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. their faces, however, looked gay, and, as willie glanced from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted. "one of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take it. he did so, and the young man at his right filled a glass with bright wine, and handed it to him. he hesitated, then took it and raised it to his lips. just then i touched him on the shoulder. he turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell from his hand, and was broken. i beckoned, and he rose and followed me. the gay circle he had left called loudly upon him to return; one of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him; but he would not listen or stay--he shook off the hand, and we went on. before we had got outside the building, the man whom i had first noticed, and whom i knew to be the most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching willie, whispered in his ear. willie faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back; but i stood in front of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. he hesitated no longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was instantly down the long flight of steps. i seemed to move with great rapidity, and was soon guiding my son through the intricate, crowded streets of the city. many were the snares we found laid for the unwary. more than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without me, he would have fallen. occasionally i lost sight of him, and had to turn back; once he was separated from me by the crowd, and missed his way, and once he lingered to witness or join in some sinful amusements. each time, however, he listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety. "at last, however, in passing through a brilliantly-lighted street--for it was now evening--i suddenly observed that he was absent from my side. i hunted the streets, and called him by name; but there was no answer. i then unfolded my wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the whole, hoping that in that one glance i might, as i had at first done, detect my boy. "i was not disappointed. in a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled with a fashionable crowd, i beheld willie. a brilliant young creature was leaning on his arm, and i saw into her heart, and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his attractions. but, oh! i trembled for him now! she was lovely and rich, and also fashionable and admired. but i saw into her soul, and she was proud, cold-hearted, and worldly; and if she loved willie, it was his beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her--not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. as they promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him, i, descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder. he looked around, but, before he could see his mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. again and again i endeavoured to win him away; but he heard me not. at length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. i seized the moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and, clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared far, far away, bearing with me the prize i had toiled after and won. as we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. back we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until, on a soft, grassy slope, under the shade of green trees, i thought i saw my darling gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when i awoke pronouncing your name." * * * * * "and now, gertrude, the bitterness of the cup i am called upon to drink is passed away. a blessed angel has ministered unto me. i no longer wish to see my son again on earth, for i am persuaded that my departure is in accordance with the schemes of a merciful providence. i now believe that willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while on earth. now, oh, my father, i can say, from the depths of my heart, 'thy will, not mine, be done!'" from this time until her death, which took place about a month afterward, mrs. sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect resignation. the last pang had lost its bitterness. in the letter which she dictated to willie, she expressed her trust in the goodness and wisdom of providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for the all-wise. she reminded him of the early lessons she had taught him, the piety and self-command, which she had inculcated, and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality. after gertrude had folded the letter, and left for her duties in school, mrs. sullivan re-opened the sheet, and, with her feeble hand, recounted the disinterested and loving devotion of gertrude, thus: "so long, my son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray." so slow and gradual was the decline of mrs. sullivan, that her death at last came as an unexpected blow to gertrude, who, though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realise that a termination must come to their work. in the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and encourage her but the frightened jane, did she watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. "are you afraid to see me die, gertrude?" asked mrs. sullivan, an hour before her death. on gertrude's answering that she was not--"then turn me a little towards you," said she, "that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth." it was done, and, with her hand locked fast in gertrude's, and a look that spoke the deepest affection, she expired. chapter xxv. more changes. not until her work of love was ended did gertrude become conscious that her lengthened labours by night and day had worn upon her frame, and exhausted her strength. for a week after mrs. sullivan was in her grave, dr. jeremy feared a severe illness for gertrude. but, after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days, she rallied; and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety, was able to resume her school duties, and make arrangements for another home. several homes had been offered to her, with a warmth and cordiality which made it difficult to decline their acceptance; but gertrude, though deeply touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her loneliness, preferred to seek a permanent boarding-place, and when the grounds on which she based her decision were understood by her friends, they approved her course. mrs. jeremy at first felt hurt at gertrude's refusal to live with them for any length of time that she chose; and the doctor was so peremptory with his "come, gertrude, come right home with us--don't say a word!" that she was afraid lest, in her weak state of health, she should be carried off, without a _chance_ to remonstrate. but, after he had taken upon himself to give jane orders about packing her clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house, he gave gertrude an opportunity to state her reasons for wishing to decline the generous proposal. but all her reasoning upon general principles proved insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. "it was all nonsense about independent position. she would be perfectly independent with them, and her company would be such a pleasure that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and might be sure she would be conferring a favour, instead of being the party obliged." at last she was compelled to make use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind, and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the doctor's own estimation. "dr. jeremy," said she, "i hope you will not condemn in me a motive which has strengthened my firmness in this matter. i should be unwilling to mention it if i did not know that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between mr. graham and myself as to understand and sympathize with my feelings. you know that he was opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter, and must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly good understanding between us. he hinted that i should never be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of dependence; and, since the salary which i receive from mr. w. is sufficient for all my wants, i wish to be so situated on mr. graham's return that he will perceive that my assurance that i could earn my own living was not without foundation." "so graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you would soon come to beggary--did he? with your talents, too? that's just like him!" "oh, no, no!" replied gertrude, "i did not say that; but i seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realise that in giving me an education he had paid my expenses in advance. it was very natural he should distrust my capacity--he had never seen me compelled to exert myself." "i understand--i understand," said the doctor. "he thought you would be glad enough to come back to them; yes, yes, just like him!" "well, now," said mrs. jeremy, "i don't believe he thought any such thing. he was provoked, and didn't mind what he said. ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to me it is only a kind of pride in gertrude to care anything about it." "i don't know that, wife," said the doctor. "if it _is_ pride, it's an honourable pride that i like; and i am not sure but, if i were in gertrude's place, i should feel just as she does; so i shan't urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. she can have a boarding-place, and yet spend much of her time with us." "yes, indeed," said mrs. jeremy; "and, if you feel set about it, gerty, dear, i am sure i shall want you to do whatever pleases you best; but one thing i do insist on, and that is, that you leave this house, which must look very dreary, this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited." gertrude, gladly consenting to a short visit, compromised the matter by accompanying them without delay, and it was chiefly owing to the doctor's persevering skill and care bestowed upon his young guest, and the motherly nursing of mrs. jeremy, that she escaped the illness which had threatened her. mr. and mrs. w., who felt great sympathy for gertrude, pressed her to come to their house, and remain until the return of mr. graham and emily; but, on being assured by her that she was unaware of the period of their absence, and should not probably reside with them for the future, they were satisfied that she acted with wisdom and judgment in at once providing herself with an independent situation. mr. and mrs. arnold, who had been constant in their attentions, both to mrs. sullivan and gertrude, and were the only persons, except the physician, who had been admitted to the sick room of the invalid, felt that they had a peculiar claim to the care of the doubly-orphaned girl, and urged her to become a member of their household. mr. arnold's family being large, and his house and salary small, true benevolence alone prompted this proposal; and on gertrude's acquainting his economical and prudent wife with the ample means she enjoyed from her own exertions, and the decision she had formed of procuring an independent home, she received the warm approbation of both, and found in the latter an excellent adviser and assistant. mrs. arnold had a widowed sister who was in the habit of receiving, as boarders, a few young ladies. gertrude did not know this lady personally, but had heard her warmly praised; and she indulged the hope that through her friend, the minister's wife, she might obtain with her an agreeable and not too expensive residence. in this she was not disappointed. mrs. warren had fortunately vacant a large front chamber; and, mrs. arnold having recommended gertrude in the warmest manner, suitable terms were agreed upon, and the room placed at her disposal. mrs. sullivan had bequeathed to her all her furniture, and mrs. arnold and her daughters insisted that, in consideration of her recent fatigue and bereavement, she should attend only to her school duties, and leave to them the furnishing of her room with such articles as she preferred to have placed there, and superintended the packing away of all other movables; for gertrude was unwilling that anything should be sold. on entering the dining-room the first evening after she took up her residence at mrs. warren's, she expected to meet only strangers at the tea-table, but was agreeably disappointed at the sight of fanny bruce, who, left in boston while her mother and brother were spending the winter in travelling, had now been several weeks an inmate of mrs. warren's house. fanny was a school-girl, twelve or thirteen years of age; a near neighbour to gertrude, had been in the habit of seeing her often at mr. graham's, and had sometimes begged flowers from her, borrowed books, and obtained assistance in her fancy-work. she admired gertrude much; had hailed with delight the prospect of knowing her better, as she hoped to do at mrs. warren's; and when she met the gaze of her large, dark eyes, and saw a smile of pleasure overspread her countenance at the sight of a familiar face, she came forward to shake hands, and beg that miss flint would sit next her at the table. fanny bruce was a girl of good disposition and warm heart, but she had been much neglected by her mother, whose pride was in her son, the same ben of whom we have previously spoken. she had often been left behind in some boarding-house, while her pleasure-loving mother and indolent brother passed their time in journeying; and had not always been so fortunately situated as she was at present. gertrude had not been long at mrs. warren's before she observed that fanny occupied an isolated position in the family. she was a few years younger than her companions, three dressy misses, who could not condescend to admit her into her clique. although the privacy of her own room was pleasing to gertrude's feelings, pity for poor fanny induced her to invite her frequently to come and sit with her, and she often so far forgot her own griefs as to exert herself in providing entertainment for her young visitor, who considered it a privilege to share gertrude's retirement, read her books, and feel confident of her friendship. during the stormy month of march fanny spent almost every evening with gertrude; and she, who at first felt that she was making a sacrifice of her comfort and ease by giving another constant access to her apartment, realised the force of uncle true's prophecy, that, in her efforts for the happiness of others, she would at last find her own; for fanny's lively and amusing conversation drew gertrude from brooding over her sorrows. april arrived, and still no news from emily; gertrude's heart ached with longing to once more pour out her griefs on the bosom of that dear friend, and find her consolation and support. gertrude had written regularly, but of late she had not known where to direct her letters; and since mrs. sullivan's death there had been no communication between her and the travellers. she was sitting at her window one evening, thinking of those friends lost by absence and by death, when she was summoned to see mr. arnold and his daughter anne. after the usual civilities, miss arnold said, "of course you have heard the news, gertrude?" "no," replied gertrude. "i have heard nothing special." "what!" exclaimed mr. arnold, "have you not heard of mr. graham's marriage?" gertrude started up in surprise. "do you really mean so, mr. arnold? mr. graham married! when? to whom?" "to the widow holbrook, a sister-in-law of mr. clinton's; she has been staying at havanna, with a party from the north, and the grahams met her there." "but, gertrude," asked mr. arnold, "how does it happen you have not heard of it? it is in all the newspapers--'married in new orleans, j. h. graham, esq., to mrs. holbrook.'" "i have not seen a newspaper for a day or two," replied gertrude. "and miss graham's blindness, i suppose, prevents her writing," said anne; "but i thought mr. graham would send wedding compliments." gertrude made no reply, and miss arnold said, "i suppose his bride engrosses all his attention." "do you know anything of this mrs. holbrook?" asked gertrude. "not much," answered mr. arnold. "i have seen her occasionally at mr. clinton's. she is a handsome, showy woman, fond of society, i should think." "i have seen her very often," said anne. "she is a coarse, noisy, dashing person, just the one to make miss emily miserable." gertrude looked distressed, and mr. arnold glanced reprovingly at her. "anne," said he, "are you sure you speak advisedly?" "belle clinton is my authority, father. i only judge from what i used to hear her say at school about her aunt _bella_, as she always used to call her." "did isabel represent her aunt so unfavourably?" "not intentionally; she meant the greatest praise, but i never liked anything she told us about her." "we will not condemn her until we can decide upon acquaintance," said mr. arnold; "perhaps she will prove the reverse of what you suppose." "can you tell me anything concerning emily?" asked gertrude, "and whether mr. graham is soon to return?" "nothing," said miss arnold. "when did you hear from them yourself?" gertrude mentioned the date of the letter from mrs. ellis, the account she had given of a gay party from the north, and suggested that probably mrs. graham was the widow she had described. "the same, undoubtedly," said mr. arnold. their knowledge of facts were so slight, however, that little remained to be said concerning the marriage, and other topics of conversation were introduced. but gertrude found it impossible to think of any other subject; the matter was so vitally important to emily, that her mind constantly recurred to it. the conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of dr. and mrs. jeremy. the former held in his hand a sealed letter, directed to gertrude, in the handwriting of mr. graham; and, as he handed it to her, he rubbed his hands, and looking at anne arnold, exclaimed, "now, miss anne, we shall hear all about these famous nuptials!" finding her visitors eager to learn the contents of her letter, gertrude broke the seal, and hastily perused its contents. the envelope contained two or three pages closely written by mrs. ellis, and also a lengthy note from mr. graham. surprised as gertrude was at any communication from one who had parted from her in anger, her desire was to hear from emily, and she preferred the housekeeper's document as most likely to contain the desired information. it ran as follows:-- "new york, _march , _. "dear gertrude,--as there were plenty of boston folks at the wedding, you have heard before this of mr. graham's marriage. he married the widow holbrook, the same i wrote to you about. she was determined to have him, and she's got him. i don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. he likes a quiet life, and he's lost the chance of that--poor man!--for she's the greatest hand for company that ever i saw. she followed mr. graham up pretty well at havanna, but i guess he thought better of it, and didn't mean to have her. but when we got to new orleans, she was there; and she carried her point, and married him. emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the lady as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our emily get along with so many folks about all the time, and so much noise and confusion? for my part, i an't used to it, and it's not agreeable. the new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. i daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and i've been in it so long. but i suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, gertrude, and will be surprised to find we have got so far as new york, on our way home--_my_ way home, for i'm the only one that talks of coming at present. i kept meaning to write while we were in new orleans, but there was so much going on i didn't get the chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from charleston here, i wasn't good for anything for a week. but emily was so anxious that i couldn't put off writing any longer. poor emily isn't very well; i don't mean that she's downright sick--it's low spirits more than anything. she gets tired and worried very quick, and easily disturbed, which didn't used to be the case. it may be the new wife, and all the nieces and other disagreeable things. she never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she hasn't seemed happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how she looks sometimes. she talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. but to come to the principal thing, they are all going to europe--emily and all. i take it, it's the new wife's idea. mr. graham wanted me to go, but i would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and i told him so. so now he has written for you to go with emily; and if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, i hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody on account of her blindness. i do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. "as soon as they sail--the last of april--i shall come back to the house in d----, and see to things there while they are away. i write a postscript to you from emily, and we shall be very impatient to hear your answer; and i hope you will not refuse to go with emily. "yours very truly, "sarah h. ellis." the postscript contained the following:-- "i need not tell my darling gertrude how much i have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how i have thought of her by night and day, and prayed god to strengthen and fit her for many trials and labours. the letter written soon after mr. cooper's death is the last that has reached me, and i do not know whether mrs. sullivan is still living. write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to europe. my heart will be light if i can take my dear gerty with me; i trust to you, my love, to decide aright. you have heard of father's marriage. it is a great change for us all, but will, i trust, result in happiness. mrs. graham has two nieces, who are with us at the hotel. they are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, i understand, very beautiful girls, especially bella clinton, whom you saw in boston some years ago. mrs. ellis is very tired of writing, and i must close with assuring my dearest gertrude of the devoted affection of "emily graham." it was with great curiosity that gertrude unfolded mr. graham's epistle. she thought it would be awkward for him to address her, and wondered much whether he would maintain his authoritative tone, or condescend to apologise. had she known him better, she would have been assured that nothing would ever induce him to do the latter, for he was one of those persons who never believe themselves in the wrong. "miss gertrude flint,--i am married, and intend to go abroad on the th of april. my daughter will accompany us, and as mrs. ellis dreads the sea, i propose that you join us in new york, and attend the party as a companion to emily. i have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that i feel a friendly interest in providing for her. by complying with our wishes, you will remove the recollection of your past behaviour; and, if you choose to return to us, i shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. as we sail the last of the month, it is important you should write and name the day. i will meet you at the boat. mrs. ellis being anxious to return to boston, i hope you will come as soon as possible. i enclose a sum of money to cover expenses. if you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and i will see that all is paid before you leave. trusting you are now come to a sense of your duty, i subscribe myself your friend, "j. h. graham." gertrude was sitting near a lamp, whose light fell directly upon her face, which, as she glanced over mr. graham's note, flushed crimson with wounded pride. dr. jeremy observed her colour change, and during the few minutes that mr. and miss arnold stayed to hear the news, he gave an occasional glance of defiance at the letter, and as soon as they were gone, begged to be made acquainted with its contents. "he writes," said gertrude, "to invite me to accompany them to europe." "indeed!" said dr. jeremy, with a low whistle; "and he thinks you'll be silly enough to pack up and start off at a minute's notice!" "why, gerty," said mrs. jeremy, "you'll like to go, shan't you, dear? it will be delightful." "delightful--nonsense! mrs. jeremy," exclaimed the doctor; "what is there delightful, i want to know, in travelling about with an arrogant old tyrant, his blind daughter, upstart dashy wife, and her two fine-lady nieces? a pretty position gertrude would be in--a slave to the whims of all that company." "why, dr. jeremy," interrupted his wife, "you forget emily." "emily--to be sure, she's an angel, and never would impose upon anybody, least of all her own pet; but she'll have to play second fiddle herself, and i'm mistaken if she doesn't find it very hard to defend her rights and maintain a comfortable position in her father's enlarged family circle." "so much the more need, then," said gertrude, "that someone should be enlisted in her interests, to ward off the approach of every annoyance." "do you mean, then, to put yourself in the breach?" asked the doctor. "i mean to accept mr. graham's invitation," replied gertrude, "and join emily at once; but i trust the harmony that seems to subsist between her and her new connections will continue undisturbed, so that i shall have no cause to take up arms on _her_ account, and on _my own_ i have not a single fear." "then you think you shall go?" said mrs. jeremy. "i do," said gertrude; "nothing but my duty to mrs. sullivan and her father led me to think of leaving emily. that duty is at an end. i see from mrs. ellis's letters that emily is not happy; and nothing which i can do to make her so must be neglected. only think, mrs. jeremy, what a friend she has been to me." "i know it," said mrs. jeremy, "and i dare say you will enjoy the journey, in spite of all the scarecrows the doctor sets up to frighten you; but it does seem a sacrifice for you to leave your comforts for such an uncertain sort of life." "sacrifice!" said the doctor; "it's the greatest sacrifice that ever i heard of! it is not merely giving up a good income of her own earning, and as pleasant a home as there is in boston; it is relinquishing all the independence that she has been striving after, and which she was so anxious to maintain." "no, doctor," said gertrude, warmly; "nothing that i do for _emily's_ sake can be called a sacrifice; it is my greatest pleasure." "gerty always finds her pleasure in doing what is right," remarked mrs. jeremy. "the thought," said gertrude, "that our dear emily was dependent upon a stranger for all those little attentions that are only acceptable from those she loves, would make me miserable; our happiness for years has been in each other; and when one has suffered, the other has suffered also. i _must_ go to her; i cannot think of doing otherwise." "i wish," muttered dr. jeremy, "that your sacrifice would be half appreciated. but graham, i'll venture to say, thinks it will be the greatest favour to take you back again. perhaps he addressed you as a beggar; it wouldn't be the first time he's done such a thing. i wonder what would have induced poor philip amory to go back. has he made any apology in his letter for past unkindness?" "i do not think he considered any to be needed," replied gertrude. "then he didn't make any excuse for his ungentlemanly behaviour? i declare it's a shame you should be exposed to any more such treatment; but i always _did_ hear that women were self-forgetful in their friendship, and i believe it. gertrude makes an excellent friend. mrs. jeremy, we must cultivate her regard; and sometime or other, perhaps, make a loud call upon her services." "and if ever you do, sir, i shall be ready to respond to it; if there is a person in the world who owes a debt to society, it is myself. i hear the world called cold, selfish, and unfeeling; but it has not been so to me. i should be ungrateful if i did not cherish a spirit of universal love; how much more so, if i did not feel bound, heart and hand, to those dear friends who have bestowed upon me such affection as no orphan ever found before!" "gertrude," said mrs. jeremy, "i believe that you were right in leaving emily when you did, and that you are right in returning to her now; and, if your being such a good girl as you are is at all due to her, she certainly has a great claim upon you." "she has a claim, indeed, mrs. jeremy! it was emily who first taught me the difference between right and wrong----" "and she is going to reap the benefit of that knowledge in you," said the doctor, in continuation of her remark. "that's fair! but if you are resolved to take this european tour, you will be busy enough with your preparations. do you think mr. w. will be willing to give you up?" "i hope so," said gertrude. "i am sorry to be obliged to ask it of him, for he has been very indulgent to me, and i have been absent from school two weeks out of the winter already; but as it will shortly be the summer vacation, he will, perhaps, be able to supply my place." mrs. jeremy interested herself in gertrude's arrangements, offered an attic-room for the storage of her furniture, gave up to her a dressmaker she had engaged for herself, and a plan was laid out, by which gertrude could start for new york in less than a week. mr. w., on being applied to, relinquished gertrude, though deeply regretting to lose so valuable an assistant; and after a few days occupied in preparation, she bade farewell to the tearful fanny bruce, the bustling doctor, and his kind-hearted wife, all of whom accompanied her to the railroad station. she promised to write to the jeremys; and they agreed to forward her any letters that might arrive from willie. in less than a fortnight from the time of her departure, mrs. ellis returned to boston, and brought news of the safe conclusion of gertrude's journey. a letter received a week after by mrs. jeremy announced that they should sail in a few days. she was, therefore, surprised when a second epistle was put into her hands, dated the day succeeding that on which she supposed mr. graham's party to have left the country. it was as follows:-- "new york, _april th_. "my dear mrs. jeremy,--as yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for europe, you will be astonished to hear that we are yet in new york, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now postponed. only two days since mr. graham was seized with the gout, and the attack was so violent as to threaten his life. although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable. his great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as he can bear the journey, we shall hasten to the house in d----.i enclose a note for mrs. ellis. it contains various directions which emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, i have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. mrs. graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed. it is particularly trying to miss clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in paris. "it is impossible that either me or emily should regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not for mr. graham's illness being the cause of its postponement, we should find it hard not to realise a degree of satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place in d----, where we hope to be established in the course of the next month. i say _we_, for neither mr. graham nor emily will hear of my leaving them again. "with the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend the doctor, "i am, yours very sincerely, "gertrude flint." chapter xxvi. jealousy. mr. graham's country-house boasted a fine, old fashioned entry, with a door at either end, both of which usually stood open during the warm weather, admitting a current of air, and rendering the neighbourhood of the front entrance a favourite resort of the family, during the early hours of the day, when the sun had no access to the spot. here, on a pleasant june morning, isabel clinton and her cousin, kitty ray, had made themselves comfortable. isabel had drawn a large arm-chair close to the door-sill, ensconced herself in it, and was gazing idly down the road. she was a beautiful girl, tall and well-formed, with a delicate complexion, clear blue eyes, and rich, light, flowing curls. the same lovely child, whom gertrude had gazed upon with rapture, as, leaning against the window of her father's house, she once watched old true while he lit his lamp, had ripened into an equally lovely woman. at an early age deprived of her mother, and left for some years to the care of servants, she soon learned to appreciate, at more than their true value, her outward attractions; and her aunt, under whose tutelage she had been since she left school, did not counteract this undue self-admiration. an appearance of conscious superiority which distinguished her, and her independent air, might be attributed to her conviction that belle clinton, the beauty and the heiress, attired in a blue cashmere morning-dress, richly embroidered, and open in front, for the purpose of displaying an equally rich flounced cambric petticoat. on a low step at her feet sat kitty ray, a complete contrast to her cousin in looks, manners and many points of character. she was a sweet little creature, lively, playful, and affectionate. she was so small that her childish manners became her; so full of spirits that her occasional rudeness claimed pardon on that score; and for all other faults her warm-heartedness and generous enthusiasm must plead an excuse to one who wished to love her as she wished and expected to be loved by everybody. she was a pretty girl, always bright and animated, mirthful and happy; fond of her cousin belle, and sometimes influenced by her, though often enlisting on the opposite side of some contested question. unlike belle, she was seldom well dressed, for she was very careless. on the present occasion her dark silk wrapper was half-concealed by a crimson flannel sack, which she held tightly around her, for she said it was a chilly morning, and she was half-frozen to death--she certainly would go and warm herself at the kitchen fire, if she did not fear encountering that _she-dragon_, mrs. ellis; she was sure she did not see, if they must sit in the doorway, why belle couldn't come to the side-door, where the sun shone beautifully. "o, i forgot, though," added she; "her complexion!" "complexion!" said belle; "i'm no more afraid of hurting my complexion than you are; i never freckle, or tan either." "but you burn all up, and look like a fright." "well, if i didn't, i shouldn't go there to sit; i like to be at the front of the house, where i can see the passing. i wonder who those people are coming up the road." kitty stood up, and looked as belle pointed. after observing the approaching couple for a minute or two she exclaimed, "why, that's gertrude flint! i wonder where she's been! and who can that be with her? i didn't know there was a beau to be had about here." "beau!" said belle, sneeringly. "and why not a beau, cousin belle? i'm sure he looks like one." "i wouldn't give much for any of her beaux!" said belle. "wouldn't you?" said kitty. "wait until you see who they are; you near-sighted people shouldn't decide in such a hurry. i can tell you that he is a gentleman you wouldn't object to walking with yourself; it's mr. bruce, the one we met in new orleans." "i don't believe it!" exclaimed belle, starting up. "you will soon have a chance to see for yourself; for he is coming home with her." "_he is!_ what can he be walking with her for?" "to show his taste, perhaps. i am sure he could not find more agreeable company." "you and i don't agree about that," replied belle. "i don't see anything very agreeable about her." "because you are determined not to, belle. everybody else thinks her charming, and mr. bruce is opening the gate for her as politely as if she were a queen. i like him for that." "do see," said belle; "she's got on that white cape-bonnet of hers! and that checked gingham dress! i wonder what mr. bruce thinks of her, and he such a critic in regard to ladies' dress." gertrude and her companion now drew near to the house. the former looked up, saw the young ladies in the doorway, and smiled pleasantly at kitty, who was making strange grimaces and giving insignificant glances over belle's shoulder; but mr. bruce did not observe either of them; and they heard him say, as he handed gertrude a small parcel he had been carrying for her, "i believe i won't come in; it's such a bore to have to talk to strangers. do you work in the garden, mornings, this summer?" "no," replied gertrude, "there is nothing left of my garden but the memory of it." "why, miss gertrude!" said the young man, "i hope these new-comers haven't interfered with----" here, observing the direction of gertrude's eyes, he raised his own, saw belle and kitty standing opposite to him; and compelled now to speak with them, went forward to shake hands, trusting to his remarks about strangers in general, and these new-comers in particular, not having been overheard. although overheard, the young ladies chose to take no notice of that which they supposed intended for unknown individuals. they were mistaken, however, for mr. bruce knew, perfectly well that the nieces of the present mrs. graham were the same girls whom he met at the south, and was indifferent about renewing his acquaintance. but his vanity was not proof against the evident pleasure they both manifested at seeing him again; and he soon engaged in an animated conversation with them, while gertrude entered the house. she sought emily's room, and was giving an account of her morning's expedition to the village, and how she had accomplished various commissions and errands, when mrs. ellis came, and said, with distressed voice, "hasn't gertrude?--oh, there you are! do tell me what mrs. wilkins said about the strawberries?" "i engaged three quarts; hasn't she sent them?" "no, but i'm thankful to hear they're coming; i have been so plagued about the dinner." she now came in, and seating herself, exclaimed, "i declare, emily, such an ironing as our girls have got to do to-day! you never saw anything like it! there's no end to the fine clothes mrs. graham and her nieces put into our wash. it's a shame! rich as they are, they might put out their washing. i've been helping, _myself_, as much as i could; but, as mrs. prime says, one can't do everything at once; and i've had to see the butcher, make puddings and blancmange, and been worried to death all the time, because i forgot to engage those strawberries. so mrs. wilkins hadn't sent her fruit to market when you got there?" "no, but she was in a great hurry getting ready; it would have been gone in a very short time." "well, that was lucky. i don't know what i should have done without, for i've no time to hunt up anything else for dessert. i've got just as much as i can do till dinner-time. mrs. graham never kept house before, and don't know how to make allowance for anything. she comes home from boston, expects to find everything in apple-pie order, and never asks or cares who does the work." mrs. prime called out, "mrs. ellis, the boy has brought your strawberries, and the stalks an't off; he said they hadn't no time." "that's too bad," exclaimed the tired housekeeper. "who's going to take the stalks off, i should like to know? kate is busy, and i can't do it." "i will, mrs. ellis; let _me_ do it," said gertrude, following mrs. ellis, who was now half-way downstairs. "no, no! don't you, miss gertrude," said mrs. prime; "they'll only stain your fingers all up." "no matter if they do; my hands are not made of white kid. they'll bear washing." mrs. ellis was only too thankful for gertrude's help. belle and kitty were doing their best to entertain mr. bruce, who, sitting on the door-steps, from time to time cast his eyes down the entry, and up the staircase, in hopes of gertrude's reappearance; and despairing of it, he was about to depart, when his sister fanny came running up the yard, and rushed past the assembled trio for the house. her brother, however, stretched out his arm, caught her, and before he let her go whispered something in her ear. "who is that wild indian?" asked kitty ray, as fanny ran across the entry and disappeared. "a sister of mine," answered ben, in a nonchalant manner. "why! is she?" inquired kitty, with interest; "i have seen her here several times, and never took any notice of her. i didn't know she was _your_ sister. what a pretty girl she is." "do you think so?" said ben; "sorry i can't agree with you. i think she's a fright." fanny now reappeared, and stopping a moment on her way upstairs called out, without any ceremony, "she says she can't come, she's busy." "who?" asked kitty, in her turn catching fanny and detaining her. "miss flint." mr. bruce coloured slightly, and belle clinton observed it. "what is she doing?" inquired kitty. "picking strawberries." "where are you going, fanny?" "upstairs." "do they let you go all over the house?" "miss flint said i might go up and bring down the birds." "what birds?" "her birds. i am going to hang them in the sun, and they'll sing beautifully." she went, and soon returned with a cage containing the little monias sent by willie from calcutta. "there kitty," cried belle; "those are the birds that wake us so early every morning." "very likely," said kitty; "bring them here. goodness! what little creatures they are!--do look at them, mr. bruce--they are sweetly pretty." "put them down on the door-step, fanny," said ben, "so that we can see them better." "i'm afraid you'll frighten them," replied fanny; "miss gertrude doesn't like to have them frightened." "no, we won't," said ben; "we're disposed to be very friendly to miss gertrude's birds. where did she get them? do you know, fanny?" "why, they are indian birds; mr. sullivan sent them to her." "who is he?" "oh, he is a very particular friend; she has letters from him every little while." "what mr. sullivan?" asked belle. "do you know his christian name?" "i suppose it's william," said fanny. "miss emily always calls the birds little willies." "belle!" exclaimed kitty, "that's your william sullivan." "what a favourite man he seems to be!" said mr. bruce, in a tone of sarcasm; "the property of one beautiful lady and the particular friend of another." "i don't know what you mean, kitty," said belle, tartly. "mr. sullivan is a junior partner of my father's, but i have not seen him for years." "except in your dreams, belle," suggested kitty. "you forget." "do you dream about mr. sullivan?" asked fanny, fixing her eyes on belle as she spoke. "i mean to go and ask miss gertrude if she does." "do," said kitty; "i'll go with you." they ran across the entry into the dining room, and put the question at the same time. taken by surprise, gertrude neither blushed nor looked confused, but answered, quietly, "yes, sometimes; but what do you know of mr. sullivan?" "oh, nothing," answered kitty; "only _some others do_, and we are inquiring around to see how many there are;" and she ran back in triumph to tell belle she might as well be frank, like gertrude, and plead guilty to the weakness; it looked so much better than blushing and denying it. but it would not do to joke with belle any longer; she was offended, and did not conceal the fact. mr. bruce felt annoyed, and soon left, leaving the two cousins to settle their difficulty as best they could. as soon as he had gone, belle folded up her work, and walked upstairs to her room with great dignity, while kitty stayed behind to laugh over the matter, and improve her opportunity to make friends with fanny bruce; for kitty laboured under the idea that in cultivating the acquaintance of the sister she should advance her cause. she therefore called fanny to sit beside her, put her arm round her waist, and commenced talking about gertrude, and the origin and extent of the intimacy which seemed to exist between her and the bruce family. fanny, who was always communicative, willingly informed her of the circumstances which had attached her so strongly to a friend who was some years her senior. "and your brother," said kitty, "he has known her some time, hasn't he?" "yes, i suppose so," answered fanny, carelessly. "does he like her?" "i don't know; i should think he would; i don't see how he can help it." "what did he whisper to you when you came up the steps?" "oh, he bade me ask miss gertrude if she wasn't coming back to see him again, and tell her he was tired to death waiting for her." kitty pouted and looked vexed. "has miss flint been in the habit of receiving company here, and been treated like an equal?" "of course she has," answered fanny, with spirit; "why shouldn't she? she's the most perfect lady i ever saw, and mother says she has beautiful manners, and i must take pattern by her." "oh, miss gertrude!" called she, as gertrude, who had been to place the strawberries in the refrigerator, crossed the back part of the long entry, "are you ready now?" "yes, fanny, i shall be in a moment," answered gertrude. "ready for what?" inquired kitty. "to read," said fanny. "she is going to read the rest of hamlet to miss emily; she read the first three acts yesterday, and miss emily let me sit in her room and hear it. i can't understand it when i read it myself, but when i listen to miss gertrude it seems quite plain. she's a splendid reader, and i came in to-day on purpose to hear the play finished." kitty's last companion having deserted her, she lay on the entry sofa and fell asleep. she was wakened by her aunt, who returned from the city a short time before dinner--"i say kitty ray, wake up and go dress for dinner! i saw belle at the chamber window looking like a beauty. i wish you'd take half the pains she does to improve your appearance." kitty yawned, and, after delaying a little, followed mrs. graham's directions. it was kitty's policy, after giving offence to her cousin belle, to appear utterly unconscious of the existence of any unkind feelings; and, though belle often manifested some degree of sulkiness, she was too dependent upon kitty's society to retain that disposition long. they were soon chatting together as usual. "belle," said kitty, as she stood arranging her hair at the glass, "do you remember a girl we used to meet every morning on our way to school, walking with a paralytic old man?" "yes." "do you know, i think it was gertrude flint. she has altered very much, to be sure; but the features are still the same, and there certainly never was but one such pair of eyes." "i have no doubt she is the same person," said belle, composedly. "did you think of it before?" "yes, as soon as fanny spoke of her knowing willie sullivan." "why, belle, why didn't you speak of it?" "lor', kitty, i don't feel so much interest in her as you and some others do." "what others?" "why, mr. bruce; don't you see he is half in love with her?" "no, i don't see any such thing; he has known her for a long time (fanny says so), and, of course, he feels a respect for a girl that the grahams make so much account of. but i don't believe he'd think of such a thing as being in love with a poor girl like her, with no family connections to boast of." "perhaps he didn't _think_ of being." "well, he _wouldn't_ be. she isn't the sort of person that would suit him. he has been in society a great deal, not only at home, but in paris; and he would want a wife that was very lively and fond of company, and knew how to make a show with money." "a girl, for instance, like kitty ray." "how ridiculous, belle! just as if people couldn't talk without thinking of themselves all the time! what do i care about ben bruce?" "i don't know that you care anything about him; but i wouldn't pull all the hair out of my head about it, as you are doing. there's the dinner-bell." chapter xxvii. the disappointed wooer. twilight found gertrude and emily seated at a window which commanded a delightful western view. gertrude had been describing to her blind friend the gorgeous picture presented to her vision by the masses of brilliantly-painted cloud; and emily, as she listened to the glowing description, experienced a participation in gertrude's enjoyment. the glory had now faded away, save a long strip of gold which skirted the horizon; and the stars as they came out, one by one, seemed to look in at the chamber window with a smile of recognition. in the parlour below there was company from the city, and the sound of mirth and laughter came up on the evening breeze; so mellowed, however, by distance, that it contrasted with the peace of the quiet room, without disturbing it. "you had better go down, gertrude," said emily; "they appear to be enjoying themselves, and i love to hear your laugh mingling with the rest." "oh, no, dear emily!" said gertrude; "i prefer to stay with you: they are nearly all strangers to me." "as you please, my dear; but don't let me keep you from the young people." "you can never keep me with you, dear emily, longer than i wish to stay; there is no society i love so well." and so she stayed, and they resumed their pleasant conversation. they were interrupted by katy, whom mrs. graham sent to announce a new visitor--mrs. bruce--who had inquired for emily. "i suppose i must go down," said emily; "you'll come too, gertrude?" "no, i believe not, unless she asked for me. did she, katy?" "mrs. graham was only afther mintioning miss emily," said katy. "then i will stay here," said gertrude; and emily, finding it to be her wish, went without her. there was soon another loud ring at the door-bell. it seemed to be a reception evening, and this time gertrude's presence was particularly requested, to see dr. and mrs. jeremy. when she entered the parlour a great number of guests were assembled, and every seat occupied. as she came in alone, and unexpected by most of the company, all eyes were turned upon her. contrary to the expectation of belle and kitty, who were watching her with curiosity, she manifested no embarrassment, but glancing leisurely at the various groups, until she recognised mrs. jeremy, crossed the large saloon with characteristic grace, and as much ease as if she were the only person present. after greeting that lady with her usual cordiality, she turned to speak to the doctor; but he was sitting next fanny bruce, in the window-seat, and was half-concealed by the curtain. before he came mrs. bruce nodded pleasantly from the opposite corner, and gertrude went to shake hands with her; mr. bruce, who formed one in a gay circle of young ladies and gentlemen collected in that part of the room, and who had been observing gertrude's motions so attentively as to make no reply to a question put to him by kitty ray, now offered his chair, saying, "miss gertrude, do take this seat." "thank you," said gertrude, "but i see my friend the doctor on the other side of the room; he expects me to speak to him, so don't let me disturb you." dr. jeremy now came half-way across the room to meet her, and led her into the recess formed by the window, and placed her in his own seat next to fanny bruce. to the astonishment of all who knew him, ben bruce brought his own chair, and placed it for the doctor opposite to gertrude. so much respect for age was not anticipated from the man of fashion. "is that a daughter of mr. graham's?" asked a young lady of belle clinton, who sat next her. "no, indeed," replied belle; "she is a person to whom miss graham gave an education, and now she lives here to read to her and be a sort of companion; her name is flint." "what did you say that young lady's name was?" asked a dashing lieutenant, addressing isabel. "miss flint." "flint, ah! she's a genteel-looking girl. how peculiarly she dresses her hair!" "very becoming, however, to that style of face," remarked the young lady who had first spoken. "don't you think so?" "i don't know," replied the lieutenant; "something becomes her; she makes a fine appearance. bruce," said he, as mr. bruce returned, after his unusual effort of politeness, "who is that miss flint?--i have been here two or three times, and i never saw her before." "very likely," said mr. bruce; "she won't always show herself. isn't she a fine-looking girl?" "i haven't made up my mind yet; she's got a splendid figure; but who is she?" "she's a sort of adopted daughter of mr. graham's, i believe, a _protégée_ of miss emily's." "ah, poor thing! an orphan?" "yes, i suppose so," said ben, biting his lips. "pity!" said the young man; "poor thing! but she's good-looking, particularly when she smiles; there is something very attractive about her face." there certainly was to ben, for, a moment after, kitty ray missed him from the room, and immediately espied him, standing on the piazza, and leaning through the open window to talk with gertrude, dr. jeremy, and fanny. the conversation soon became very lively; there seemed to be a war of wits going on; the doctor, especially, laughed very loud, and gertrude and fanny often joined in the merry peal. kitty endured it as long as she could, and then ran, joined the party, and heard what they were having so much fun about. but it was all an enigma to kitty. dr. jeremy was talking with mr. bruce concerning something which had happened many years ago; there was a great deal about a fool's cap, with a long tassel, and taking afternoon naps in the grass; the doctor was making queer allusions to some old pear-tree, and traps set for thieves, and kept reminding gertrude of circumstances which attended their first acquaintance with each other and with mr. bruce. kitty was beginning to feel that she had placed herself in the position of an intruder, and began to feel embarrassed, when gertrude touched her arm, and making room for her next herself, motioned to her to sit down, saying, as she did so, "dr. jeremy is speaking of the time when he (or he and i, as he chooses to have it) went fruit-stealing in mrs. bruce's orchard, and were unexpectedly caught by mr. bruce." "you mean, my dear," interrupted the doctor, "that mr. bruce was discovered by us. why, it's my opinion he would have slept until this time if i hadn't given him such a thorough waking up." "my first acquaintance with you was certainly the greatest awakening of my life," said ben, speaking as if to the doctor, but looking meaningly at gertrude; "that was not the only nap it cost me. how sorry i am, miss gertrude, that you've given up working in the garden, as you used to! pray, how does it happen?" "mrs. graham has had it remodelled," replied gertrude, "and the new gardener neither needs nor desires my services. he has his own plans, and it is not well to interfere with the professor of an art; i should be sure to do mischief." "i doubt whether his success compares with yours," said ben. "i do not see anything like the same quantity of flowers in the room that _you_ used to have." "i think," said gertrude, "that he is not as fond of cutting them as i was. i did not care so much for the appearance of the garden as for having plenty of flowers in the house; but with him it is the reverse." kitty made remark to mr. bruce on the subject of gardening, and gertrude, turning to dr. jeremy, continued in conversation with him, until mrs. jeremy rose to go, when she said, "dr. jeremy, have you given gertrude her letter?" "goodness me!" exclaimed the doctor. then feeling in his pocket, he drew forth an evidently foreign document, the envelope literally covered with various coloured post-office stamps. "see here, gerty, genuine calcutta; no mistake!" gertrude took the letter, and, as she thanked the doctor, her countenance expressed pleasure at receiving it; a pleasure, however, somewhat tempered by sadness, for she had heard from willie but once since he learned the news of his mother's death, and that letter had been such an outpouring of his vehement grief, that the sight of his handwriting almost pained her, as she anticipated something like a repetition of the outburst. mr. bruce, who kept his eyes upon her, and expected to see her change colour, and look disconcerted, on the letter being handed to her in the presence of so many witnesses, was reassured by the composure with which she took it, and held it openly in her hand, while she bade the doctor and his wife good evening. she followed them to the door, and was retreating to her own apartment, when she was met by mr. bruce, who had noticed the movement, and now entered from the piazza in time to arrest her steps, and ask if her letter was of such importance that she must deny the company the pleasure of her society in order to study its contents. "it is from a friend of whose welfare i am anxious to hear," said gertrude, gravely. "please excuse me to your mother, if she inquires for me; and, as the rest of the guests are strangers, i shall not be missed by them." "oh, miss gertrude," said mr. bruce, "it's no use coming here to see you, you are so frequently invisible. what part of the day is the most likely to find you disengaged?" "hardly any part," said gertrude. "i am always a busy character; but good night, mr. bruce--don't let me detain you from the other young ladies;" and gertrude ran upstairs, leaving mr. bruce uncertain whether to be vexed with himself or her. contrary to gerty's expectations, william sullivan's letter proved very soothing to the grief she had felt on his account. his spirit had been so crushed by the death of his grandfather, and by his second and still greater loss, that his first communication to gertrude had alarmed her, from its despairing tone; she had feared lest his christian fortitude would give way to the force of his double affliction. she was much relieved to find that he wrote in a calmer strain; that he had taken to heart his mother's last entreaty and prayer for a submissive disposition on his part; and that, although deeply afflicted, he was schooling himself to patience and resignation. the three closely-written pages were devoted to fervent expressions of gratitude to gertrude for the kindness and love which had comforted the last days of his much-regretted friends. he prayed that heaven would bless her, and reward her self-denying efforts, and closed with saying, "you are all that is left to me, gertrude. if i loved you before, my heart is now bound to you by ties stronger than those of earth; my hopes, my labours, my prayers, are all for you. god grant that we may some day meet again!" for an hour gertrude sat lost in meditation; her thoughts went back to her home at uncle true's, and the days when she and willie passed so many happy hours in close companionship, little dreaming of the long separation so soon to ensue. she was startled at last from her reverie by the voices of mrs. graham's visitors, who were now taking leave. mrs. bruce and her son lingered a little, until the carriages had left with the guests for the city, and, as they were making their farewells on the door-step, beneath gertrude's window, she heard mrs. graham say, "remember, mr. bruce, we dine at two; and, miss fanny, we shall hope to see you also." mr. bruce's attentions to her had that day been marked; and the professions of admiration he had whispered in her ear had been still more so. both these attentions and this admiration were unsought and undesired; neither were they flattering to the high-minded girl, who was superior to coquetry, and whose self-respect was wounded by the assured manner in which mr. bruce made his advances. as a youth of seventeen, she had marked him as indolent and ill-bred. her sense of justice, however, would have obliterated this recollection, had his character and manner been changed on the renewal of their acquaintance, some years after. but this was not the case, for outward polish could not cloud gertrude's discernment; and she perceived that his old characteristics remained, rendered more glaring by ill-concealed vanity. as a boy, he had stared at gertrude from impudence, and inquired her name out of idle curiosity; as a youthful coxcomb he had resolved to flirt with her, because his time hung heavy on his hands. but, to his surprise, he found the country girl quite insensible to the flattery and notice which many a city belle had coveted; and that when he tried raillery, he usually proved the disconcerted party. it was something new to mr. bruce to find any lady thus indifferent to his merits; and proved such an awakening to his ambition, that he resolved to recommend himself to gertrude, and consequently improved every opportunity of gaining admittance to her society. but while labouring to inspire her with a due appreciation of himself, he fell into his own snare; for though he failed in awakening gertrude's interest, he could not be equally insensible to her attractions. even the dull intellect of ben bruce was capable of measuring her vast superiority to most girls of her age; and her vivacious originality was a contrast to the insipidity of fashionable life, which at length completely charmed him. his earnestness and perseverance began to annoy the object of his admiration before he left mr. graham's in the autumn; and she was glad soon after to hear that he had accompanied his mother to washington, as it insured her against meeting him again for months to come. mr. bruce regretted losing sight of gertrude, but amid the gaiety of southern cities wasted his time with tolerable satisfaction. he was reminded of her again on meeting the graham party at new orleans, and it is some credit to his understanding to say, that in the comparison which he constantly drew between her and the vain daughters of fashion, she stood higher than ever in his estimation. he did not hesitate to tell her so on the morning already mentioned, when, with evident satisfaction, he had recognized and joined her; and, the increased devotion of his words and manner, which now took a tone of truth in which they had before been wanting, alarmed gertrude, and led to a serious resolve to avoid him on all possible occasions. on the day succeeding the one of which we have been speaking, mr. graham returned from the city about noon, and joined the young ladies in the entry, unfolded his newspaper, and, handing it to kitty, asked her to read the news. "what shall i read?" said kitty, taking the paper rather unwillingly. "the leading article, if you please." kitty turned the paper inside and out, looked hastily up and down its pages, and then declared her inability to find it. mr. graham was astonished, and pointed in silence to the paragraph. she began, but had scarcely read a sentence before mr. graham stopped her, saying, "don't read so fast--i can't hear a single word!" she now drawled so intolerably that he interrupted her again, and bade her give the paper to her cousin. belle took it from the pouting kitty, and finished the article--not, however, without being once or twice compelled to go back and read more intelligibly. "do you wish to hear anything more, sir?" asked she. "yes; won't you turn to the ship-news, and read me the list by the steamer?" belle, more fortunate than kitty, found the place, and commenced. "at canton, april th, ship ann maria, ray, _d-i-s-c-g_. what does that mean?" "discharging, of course; go on." "s-l-d--a-b-t th," spelt belle, looking dreadfully puzzled all the while. "stupid!" muttered mr. graham, almost snatching the paper out of her hands; "not know how to read ship-news! where's gertrude? where's gertrude flint? she's the only girl i ever saw that did know anything. won't you call her, kitty?" kitty went, though reluctantly, to call gertrude, and told her for what she was wanted. gertrude was astonished; since the day when she had persisted in leaving his house, mr. graham had never asked her to read to him; but, obedient to the summons, she presented herself, and, taking the seat which belle had vacated near the door, commenced with the ship-news, and, without asking questions, turned to various items of intelligence, taking them in the order which she knew mr. graham preferred. the old gentleman, leaning back in his easy-chair, and resting his gouty foot upon an ottoman opposite to him, looked amazingly satisfied; and when belle and kitty had gone off to their room, he remarked, "this seems like old times, doesn't it, gertrude?" he closed his eyes, and gertrude was soon aware that he had fallen asleep. seeing that, as he sat, it would be impossible for her to pass without waking him, she laid down the paper, and was preparing to draw some work from her pocket, when she observed a shadow in the doorway, and, looking up, saw the person whom she had yesterday resolved to avoid. mr. bruce was staring in her face, with an indolent air of ease and confidence, which she always found very offensive. he had in one hand a bunch of roses, which he held up to her admiring gaze. "very beautiful!" said gertrude, as she glanced at the little branches, covered with a luxurious growth of moss rose-buds, both pink and white. she spoke in a low voice, fearing to awaken mr. graham. mr. bruce, in a whisper, remarked, as he dangled them above her head, "i thought they were pretty when i gathered them, but they suffer from the comparison. miss gertrude," and he gave a meaning look at the roses in her cheeks. gertrude, to whom this was a stale compliment, coming from mr. bruce, took no notice of it, but, rising, advanced to make her exit by the front-door, saying, "i will go across the piazza, mr. bruce, and send the ladies word that you are here." "o, pray, don't!" said he, putting himself in her way. "it would be cruel; i haven't the slightest wish to see them." he so effectually prevented her, that she was unwillingly compelled to retreat from the door and resume her seat. as she did so, she took her work from her pocket, her countenance in the meantime expressing vexation. mr. bruce looked triumphant. "miss gertrude," said he, "will you oblige me by wearing these flowers in your hair to-day?" "i do not wear gay flowers," replied gertrude, without lifting her eyes from the piece of muslin on which she was employed. supposing this to be on account of her mourning (for she wore a plain black dress), he selected the white buds from the rest, and, presenting them to her, begged that, for his sake, she would display them in contrast with her dark silken braids. "i am much obliged to you," said gertrude; "i never saw more beautiful roses, but i am not accustomed to be so much dressed, and, believe me, you must excuse me." "then you won't take my flowers?" "certainly i will, with pleasure," said she, rising, "if you will let me get a glass of water, and place them in the parlour, where we can all enjoy them." "i did not cut my flowers, and bring them here for the benefit of the whole household," said ben, in a half-offended tone. "if you won't wear them, miss gertrude, i will offer them to somebody that will." this, he thought, would alarm her, for his vanity was such that he attributed her behaviour wholly to coquetry. "i will punish her," thought he, as he tied the roses together again, and arranged them for presentation to kitty, who he knew would be flattered to receive them. "where's fanny to-day," asked gertrude, anxious to divert the conversation. "i don't know," answered ben, which implied that he had no idea of talking about fanny. "how attentive you are to your work!" said he, at last: "your eyes seemed nailed to it. i wish i were as attractive as that piece of muslin!" "i wish you were as inoffensive," thought gertrude. "i do not think you take much pains to entertain me," added he, "when i've come here on purpose to see you." "i thought you came by mrs. graham's invitation," said gertrude. "and didn't i have to court kitty for an hour in order to get it?" "if you obtained it by artifice," said gertrude, smiling, "you do not deserve to be entertained." "it is much easier to please kitty than you," remarked ben. "kitty is very amiable and pleasant," said gertrude. "yes; but i'd give more for one smile from you than----" gertrude now interrupted him with, "ah! here is an old friend coming to see us; please let me pass, mr. bruce?" the gate at the end of the yard swung to as she spoke, and ben, looking in that direction, saw the person whom gertrude seemed desirous to go and meet. "don't be in such a hurry to leave me!" said ben; "that little crone, whose coming seems to give you so much satisfaction, can't get here this half hour, at the rate she is travelling." "she is an old friend," replied gertrude, "i must go and welcome her." her countenance expressed so much earnestness that mr. bruce was ashamed to persist in his incivility, and, rising, permitted her to pass. miss patty pace was over-joyed at seeing gertrude, and commenced waving, in a theatrical manner, a huge feather fan, her favourite mode of salutation. as she drew near, miss patty took her by both hands, and stood talking with her some minutes. they entered the house at the side door, and ben, thus disappointed of gertrude's return, sallied into the garden in hopes to attract the notice of kitty. ben bruce had such confidence in the power of wealth and a high station in fashionable life that it never occurred to him to doubt that gertrude would gladly accept his hand and fortune if they were placed at her disposal. many a worldly-wise mother had sought his acquaintance; many a young lady of property and rank had received his attention with favour, and believing, as he did, that he had money enough to purchase. he determined to win gertrude's good opinion and affection; and although more interested in her than he was aware of himself, he at present made that his ultimate object. he felt conscious that as yet she had given no evidence of his success; and having resolved to resort to some new means of winning her, he, with a too common baseness, fixed upon a method which was calculated, if successful, to end in the mortification, if not the unhappiness, of a third party. he intended, by marked devotion to kitty ray, to excite the jealousy of gertrude. chapter xxviii. true politeness. a half-hour before dinner mrs. graham and her nieces, mr. bruce, his sister fanny, and lieutenant osborne, as they sat in the large room, had their curiosity much excited by the merriment which existed in emily's room. gertrude's clear laugh was distinguishable, and even emily joined in the outburst, while another person appeared to be of the party, as a most singular voice mingled with the rest. kitty ran to the entry two or three times to listen, and at last returned with the announcement that gertrude was coming down stairs with the very queen of witches. presently gertrude opened the door, which kitty had slammed behind her, and ushered in miss patty pace, who advanced with measured, mincing steps to mrs. graham, and, stopping in front of her, made a low curtsey. "how do you do, ma'am?" said mrs. graham, half inclined to believe that gertrude was playing off a joke upon her. "this, i presume, is the mistress," said miss patty. mrs. graham acknowledged her claim to that title. "a lady of presence!" said miss patty, to gertrude, in an audible whisper, pronouncing each syllable with a manner and emphasis peculiar to herself. then, turning to belle, who was shrinking into the shadow of a curtain, she approached her, held up both her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, "miss isabella, as i still enjoy existence! and radiant, too, as the morning! bless my heart! how your youthful charms have expanded!" belle had recognised miss pace the moment she entered the room, but was ashamed to acknowledge the acquaintance of so eccentric an individual, and would have still feigned ignorance, but kitty now came forward, exclaiming, "why, miss pace, where did you come from?" "miss catharina," said miss pace, taking her hands in an ecstasy of astonishment, "_then you know me_! blessings on your memory of an old friend!" "certainly, i knew you in a minute; you're not so easily forgotten, i assure you. belle, don't you remember miss pace? it's at your house i've always seen her." "oh, is it she?" said belle, with a poor attempt to conceal the fact that she had any previous knowledge of a person who had been a frequent visitor at her father's house, and was held in esteem by both her parents. "i apprehend," said miss patty to kitty, in the same loud whisper, "that she carries a proud heart." then, without having appeared to notice the gentlemen, who were directly behind her, she added, "sparks, i see miss catharina, young sparks! whose?--yours or hers?" kitty laughed, for she saw that the young men heard her, and were much amused, and replied without hesitation, "o mine, miss patty, mine, both of 'em!" miss patty now looked around the room, and, missing mr. graham, advanced to his wife, saying, "and where, madam, is the bridegroom?" mrs. graham, a little confused, replied that her husband would be in presently, and invited miss pace to be seated. "no, mistress, i am obliged to you; i have an inquiring mind, and, with your leave, will take a survey of the apartment. i love to see everything that is modern." she then examined the pictures upon the walls, but had not proceeded far before she turned to gertrude and asked, loud enough to be heard, "gertrude, my dear, what have they done with the second wife?" gertrude looked surprised, and miss pace corrected her remark, saying, "oh, it is the counterfeit that i have reference to; the original, i am aware, departed long since; but where is the counterfeit of the second mrs. graham? it always hung here, if my memory serves me." gertrude whispered a reply to this question, and miss pace then uttered the following soliloquy: "the garret! well, 'tis the course of nature; what is new obliterates _the recollection, even_, of the old." she now linked her arm in gertrude's, and made her the companion of her survey. when they had completed the circuit of the room, she stopped in front of the group of young people, all of whom were eyeing her with great amusement, and claimed the acquaintance of mr. bruce, and asked to be introduced to that member of the war department, as she styled lieutenant osborne. kitty introduced her with great formality, and at the same time presented the lieutenant to gertrude. a chair was now brought, miss patty joined their circle and entertained them until dinner time. gertrude again sought emily's room. at the table, gertrude sat next to emily, whose wants she always made her care, and with miss patty on the other side, had no time or attention to bestow on anyone else; much to the chagrin of mr. bruce, who was anxious she should observe his assiduous devotion to kitty, whose hair was adorned with the moss-rose buds, and her face with smiles. belle was also made happy by the marked admiration of the young officer. occasionally, some remark made by miss pace irresistibly attracted the attention of every one at the table, and extorted either the laughter it was intended to excite, or a mirth which, though perhaps ill-timed, it was impossible to repress. mr. graham treated miss patty with politeness and attention, and mrs. graham spared no pains to bring out the old lady's conversational powers. she found that miss patty was acquainted with everybody, and made most amusing comments upon almost every person who became the topic of conversation. mr. graham at last led her to speak of herself and her lonely mode of life; and fanny bruce, who sat next, asked her bluntly, why she never got married. "ah, my young miss," said she, "we all wait our time, and i may take a companion yet." "you should," said mr. graham. "now you have property, miss pace, and ought to share it with some nice thrifty man." "i have but an insignificant trifle of worldly wealth," said miss pace, "and am not as youthful as i have been; but i may suit myself with a companion, notwithstanding. i approve of matrimony, and have my eye upon a young man." "_a young man!_" exclaimed fanny bruce, laughing. "o yes, miss frances," said miss patty; "i am an admirer of youth, and of everything that is modern. yes, i cling to life--i cling to life." "certainly," remarked mrs. graham. "miss pace must marry somebody younger than herself; someone to whom she can leave all her property, if he should happen to outlive her." "yes," said mr. graham; "at present you would not know how to make a will, unless you left all your money to gertrude, here; i rather think she would make good use of it." "that would certainly be a consideration to me," said miss pace; "i should dread the thought of having my little savings squandered. now, i know there's more than a sufficiency of pauper population; and plenty that would be glad of legacies; but i have no intention of bestowing on such. why, sir, nine-tenths of them will _always_ be poor. no, no! i shouldn't give to such! no, no! i have other intentions." "miss pace," asked mr. graham, "what has become of general pace's family?" "_all dead!_" replied miss patty, promptly, "_all dead!_ i made a pilgrimage to the grave of that branch of the family. it was a touching scene," said she in a pathetic tone. "there was a piece of grassy ground, belted about with an iron railing, and in the centre a beautiful white marble monument, in which they were all buried; it was pure as alabaster, and on it was inscribed these lines: 'pace.'" "what were the lines?" inquired mrs. graham. "pace, ma'am, pace; nothing else." solemn as was the subject, a universal titter pervaded the circle: and mrs. graham, perceiving that kitty and fanny would soon burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter, made the move for the company to quit the table. the gentlemen did not care to linger, and followed the ladies into the wide entry, the coolness of which invited every one to loiter there during the heat of the day. miss patty and fanny bruce compelled the unwilling gertrude to join the group there assembled; and mrs. graham, who could not forego her afternoon nap, was the only one who absented herself. so universal was the interest miss patty excited, that all private dialogue was suspended, and close attention given to whatever topic the old lady was discussing. belle maintained a slightly scornful expression of countenance, and tried with partial success to divert lieutenant osborne's thoughts into another channel; but kitty was so delighted with miss pace's originality, that she made no attempt at any exclusive conversation, and, with mr. bruce sitting beside her and joining in her amusement, looked more than contented. dress and fashion, two favourite themes with miss patty, were now introduced, and, after discoursing upon her love of the beautiful, as witnessed in the mantua-making and millinery arts, she deliberately left her seat, and going towards belle (who wished to avoid her), began to examine the material of her dress, and requested her to rise and permit her to further inspect the mode in which it was made, declaring the description of so modern a master-piece of art would be a feast to the ears of some of her junior acquaintances. belle indignantly refused to comply, and shook off the hand of the old lady as if there had been contamination in her touch. "do stand up, belle," said kitty, in an undertone; "don't be so cross." "why don't you stand up yourself," said belle, "and show off your own dress, for the benefit of her low associates?" "she didn't ask me," replied kitty, "but i will, with pleasure, if she will condescend to look at it. miss pace," continued she gaily, placing herself in front of the inquisitive miss patty, "do admire my gown at your leisure, and take a pattern of it, if you like, i should be proud of the honour." for a wonder, kitty's dress was pretty and well worthy of observation. miss patty made many comments, and her curiosity being satisfied, commenced retreating towards the place she had left, first glancing behind her to see if it was still vacant, and then moving towards it with a backward motion, consisting of a series of curtseys. fanny bruce, who stood near, observing that she had made an exact calculation how many steps would be required to reach her seat, placed her hand on the back of the chair, as if to draw it away; and encouraged by a look and smile from isabel, moved it, slightly, but still enough to endanger the old lady's safety. on attempting to regain it, miss pace stumbled, and would have fallen, but gertrude--who had been watching fanny's proceedings--sprang forward in time to fling an arm around her, and place her safely in the chair, casting at the same time a reproachful look at fanny, who, much confused, turned to avoid gertrude's gaze, and in doing so accidentally trod on mr. graham's gouty toes, which drew from him an exclamation of pain. "fan," said mr. bruce, who had observed the latter accident only, "i wish you could learn politeness." "whom am i to learn it from?" asked fanny, pertly,--"you?" ben looked provoked, but forbore to reply; while miss pace, who had recovered her composure, said--"politeness! ah, a lovely but rare virtue; perceptibly developed, however, in the manners of my friend gertrude, which i hesitate not to affirm would well become a princess." belle curled her lip, and smiled disdainfully. "lieutenant osborne," said she, "don't you think miss devereux has beautiful manners?" "very fine," replied the lieutenant; "the style in which she receives company, on her reception-day, is elegance itself." "who are you speaking of?" inquired kitty; "mrs. harry noble?" "miss devereux, we were remarking upon," said belle; "but mrs. noble is also very stylish." "i think she is," said mr. bruce; "do you hear, fanny?--we have found a model for you,--you must imitate mrs. noble." "i don't know anything about mrs. noble," retorted fanny; "i'd rather imitate miss flint. miss gertrude," said she, "how _shall_ i learn politeness?" "do you remember," asked gertrude, speaking low, "what your music-master told you about learning to _play_ with expression? i should give you the same rule for improvement in politeness." fanny blushed deeply. "what is that?" said mr. graham; "fanny, what is gertrude's rule for politeness." "she only said," answered fanny, "that it was the same my music-master gave me last winter." "and what did _he_ say?" inquired her brother. "i asked mr. hermann," said fanny, "how i should learn to play with expression, and he said, 'you must cultivate your _heart_, miss bruce, you must cultivate your _heart_.'" this new direction for the attainment of a great accomplishment was received with countenances that indicated as great a variety of sentiments as there was difference of character among fanny's audience. mr. graham bit his lip, and walked away; for _his_ politeness was founded on no such rule, and he knew that gertrude's _was_. belle looked glorious disdain; mr. bruce and kitty, puzzled and half amused; while lieutenant osborne proved himself not quite callous to a noble truth, by turning upon gertrude a glance of admiration. emily's face evidenced how fully she coincided in the opinion thus unintentionally made public, and miss patty expressed her approbation. "miss gertrude's remark is a verity," said she. "the only politeness which is trustworthy is the spontaneous offering of the heart. perhaps this goodly company of masters and misses would condescend to give ear to an old woman's tale of a rare instance of true politeness, and the fitting reward it met." all expressed strong desire to hear miss patty's story, and she began: "on a winter's day, some years ago, an old woman, of many foibles and weaknesses, but with a keen eye and her share of worldly wisdom--miss patty pace by name--started, by special invitation, for the house of one worshipful squire clinton, the honoured parent of miss isabella, the fair damsel yonder. every tall tree in our good city was spangled with frost work, more glittering far than gems that sparkle in golconda's mine, and the side-walk were a snare to the feet of the old and unwary. "i lost my equilibrium, and fell. two gallant gentlemen lifted and carried me to a neighboring apothecary's emporium, restored my scattered wits, and, revived me with a fragrant cordial. i went on my way with many a misgiving, however, and scarcely should i have reached my destination with bones unbroken, had it not been for a knight with a rosy countenance, who overtook me, placed my old arm within his own more strong and youthful one, and protected my steps to the end of my journey. no slight courage either, my young misses, did my noble escort need, to carry him through what he had undertaken. paint to your imagination a youth, fresh and beautiful as a sunbeam, straight as an arrow--a perfect apollo--linked to the little bent body of poor miss patty pace. i will not spare myself, young ladies; for, had you seen me then, you would have considered me now vastly ameliorated in outer presentment. my double row of teeth were stowed away in my pocket, my frisette was pushed back from my head by my recent fall, and my gogs--the same my father wore before me--covered my face, and they alone attracted attention, and created some excitement. but he went on unmoved; and, in spite of many a captivating glance and smile from rows of beautiful young maidens whom we met, and many a sneer from youths of his own age, he sustained my feeble form with as much care as if i had been an empress, and accommodated his buoyant step to the slow movement which my infirmities compelled. ah! what a spirit of conformity he manifested! my knight of the rosy countenance! could you have seen him, miss catharina, or you, miss frances, your palpitating hearts would have taken flight for ever. he was a paragon, indeed. "whither his own way tended i cannot say, for he moved in conformity to mine, and left me not until i was safe at the abode of mistress clinton. i hardly think he coveted my old heart, but i sometimes believe it followed him, for truly he is still a frequent subject of my meditations." "ah! then _that_ was his reward!" exclaimed kitty. "not so, miss kitty; guess again." "i can think of _nothing so desirable_, miss patty." "his _fortune in life_, miss catharina--that was his reward; it may be that he cannot yet estimate the full amount of his recompense." "how so?" exclaimed fanny. "i will briefly narrate the rest. mistress clinton encouraged me always to converse much in her presence. she knew my taste was disposed to humour me, and i was pleased to be indulged. i told my story, and enlarged upon the merits of my noble youth, and his wonderful spirit of conformity. the squire, a gentleman who estimates good breeding, was present, with his ears opened, when i recommended my knight, with all the eloquence i could command; he was amused, interested, pleased. he promised to see the boy, and did so; the noble features spake for themselves, and gained him a situation as clerk; from which he has since advanced in the ranks, until now he occupies the position of partner and confidential agent in a creditable and wealthy house. miss isabella, it would rejoice my heart to hear the latest tidings from mr. william sullivan." "he is well, i believe," said isabella, sulkily. "i know nothing to the contrary." "oh, gertrude knows," said fanny. "gertrude knows all about mr. sullivan; she will tell you." all turned, and looked at gertrude, who, with face flushed, and eyes glistening with the interest she felt in miss patty's narrative, stood leaning upon emily's chair. miss patty now appealed to her, much surprised, however, at her having any knowledge of her much admired young escort. gertrude drew near, and answered all her questions without the least hesitation or embarrassment. gertrude gave miss pace an account of the curiosity which willie and his friends had felt concerning the original author of his good fortune; and the old lady was so delighted at hearing the various conjectures about mr. clinton's unexpected summons, and of the matter being attributed to the agency of santa claus, that she loudly laughed. miss pace was just taxing gertrude with messages of remembrance to be despatched in her next letter to willie, when mrs. graham presented herself, and arrested the attention of the whole company by exclaiming, in her abrupt manner and loud tones--"what! are you all here? i thought you were bound for a walk in the woods. kitty, what has become of your cherished scheme of climbing sunset hill?" "i proposed it, aunt, an hour ago, but belle insisted it was too warm. _i_ think the weather is just right for a walk." "it will soon be growing cool," said mrs. graham, "and i think you had better start; it is some distance, if you go round through the woods." "who knows the way?" asked kitty. no one responded to the question, and all professed ignorance; much to the astonishment of gertrude, who believed that every part of the woody ground and hill beyond were familiar to mr. bruce. she did not stay, however, to hear any further discussion of their plans; for emily was beginning to suffer from headache and weariness, and gertrude insisted that she should seek the quiet of her own room, and she went with her. she was just closing the chamber door, when fanny called from the staircase, "miss gertrude ain't you going for a walk with us?" "no," replied gertrude; "not to-day." "then i won't go," said fanny, "if you don't. why don't you go, miss gertrude?" "i shall walk with miss emily, by-and-bye, if she is well enough; you can accompany us, if you like, but you would enjoy going to sunset hill much more." meantime a whispered consultation took place below, in which someone suggested that gertrude was well acquainted with the path which the party wished to follow through the woods. belle opposed her being invited to join them; kitty hesitated between her liking for gertrude and her fears regarding mr. bruce's allegiance; lieutenant osborne forbore to urge what belle disapproved; and mr. bruce remained silent, trusting to the final necessity of her being invited to act as guide, in which capacity he had purposely concealed his own ability to serve. this necessity was so obvious, that, as he had foreseen, kitty was at last despatched to find gertrude and make known their request. chapter xxix. hauteur. gertrude would have declined, and made her attendance upon emily an excuse for non-compliance; but emily, believing that the exercise would be beneficial to gertrude, interfered, and begged her to agree to kitty's proposal; and, on the latter declaring that the expedition must otherwise be given up, she consented to join it. to change her slippers for thick walking boots occupied a few minutes only; a few more were spent in a vain search for her flat hat, which was missing from the closet where it usually hung. "what are you looking for?" said emily, hearing gertrude twice open the door of the closet. "my hat! but i don't see it. i believe i shall have to borrow your sun-bonnet again," and she took up a white sun-bonnet, the same she had worn in the morning, and which now lay on the bed. "certainly, my dear," said emily. "i shall begin to think it mine before long," said gertrude, gaily, as she ran off, "i wear it so much more than you do." emily now called from the staircase, "gertrude, my child, have you thick shoes? it is always very wet in the meadow beyond thornton place." gertrude assured her that she had; but fearing that the others were less carefully equipped, inquired of mrs. graham whether belle and kitty were insured against the dampness they might encounter. mrs. graham declared they were not. "i have some very light india-rubbers," said gertrude; "i will take them with me, and fanny and i shall be in time to warn them before they come to the place." it was an easy matter to overtake belle and the lieutenant, for they walked very slowly, and seemed not unwilling to be left in the rear. the reverse was the case with mr. bruce and kitty, who appeared purposely to keep in advance; kitty hastening her steps from her reluctance to allow an agreeable _tête-à-tête_ to be interfered with, and ben from a desire to give gertrude a fair opportunity to observe his devotion to kitty, which increased the moment _she_ came in sight. they had now passed the thornton farm, and only one field separated them from the meadow, which was in the centre a complete quagmire, and only passable to the thickly-shod, by keeping close to the wall, and thus skirting the field. gertrude and fanny were some distance behind, and nearly out of breath with a pursuit in which the others had gained so great advantage. as they were passing the farm-house, mrs. thornton came to the door and addressed gertrude, who, foreseeing that she would be detained some minutes, bade fanny run on, acquaint her brother and kitty with the nature of the soil in advance, and begged them to wait at the bars until the rest of the party came up. fanny was too late, notwithstanding the haste she made; they were half across the meadow when she reached the bars, proceeding in perfect safety, for mr. bruce was conducting kitty by the only practicable path, close under the wall, proving to gertrude, who in a few moments joined fanny, that he was no stranger to the place. when they were half-way across, they encountered some obstacle, for kitty stood poised on one foot and clinging to the wall, while mr. bruce placed a few stepping-stones across the path. he then helped her over, and they went on, their figures soon disappearing in the grove beyond. isabel and the lieutenant were so long making their appearance that fanny became very impatient, and urged gertrude to leave them to their fate. they at last turned the corner near the farm-house, and came on, belle maintaining her leisurely pace. "are you lame, miss clinton?" called out fanny, so soon as they were within hearing. "lame!" said belle; "what do you mean?" "why, you walk so slow," said fanny; "i thought something must be the matter with your feet." belle disdained any reply, and, tossing her head, entered the damp meadow, in close conversation with her devoted young officer, not deigning even to look at gertrude, who, without appearing to notice her haughtiness, took fanny's hand, and, turning away from the direct path, to make the circuit of the field, said to belle, with calm courtesy of manner, "this way, if you please, miss clinton; we have been waiting to guide you through this wet meadow." "is it wet?" asked belle, in alarm, glancing down at her delicate slipper. she then added, in a provoked tone, "i should have thought you would have known better than to bring us this way. i shan't go across." "then you can go back," said the pert fanny; "nobody cares." "it was not my proposition," remarked gertrude, mildly, though with a heightened colour; "but i think i can help you through the difficulty. mrs. graham was afraid you had worn thin shoes, and i brought you a pair of india-rubbers." belle took them, and, without the grace to express any thanks, said, as she unfolded the paper in which they were wrapped, "whose are they?" "mine," replied gertrude. "i don't believe i can keep them on," muttered belle; "they'll be immense, i suppose." "allow me," said the lieutenant; and, taking one of the shoes, he stooped to place it on her foot, but found it difficult to do so, as it was too small. belle, perceiving it, bent down to perform, the office for herself, and treated gertrude's property with such angry violence that she snapped the strap which passed across the instep, and even then only succeeded in partially forcing her foot into the shoe. meantime, as she bent forward, fanny's attention was attracted by a very tasteful broad-brimmed hat, which she wore jauntily on one side of her head, and which fanny recognised as gertrude's. it was a somewhat fanciful article of dress, that gertrude would hardly have thought of purchasing for herself, but which mr. graham had brought home to her the previous summer to replace a common garden hat which he had accidentally crushed. as the style of it was simple and in good taste, she had been in the habit of wearing it often in her country walks, and kept it hung in the closet, where it had been found and appropriated by belle. it had been seen by fanny in gertrude's room at mrs. warren's; she had also been permitted to wear it on one occasion, when she took part in a charade. having heard gertrude say it was missing, she was astonished to see it adorning belle; and, as she stood behind her, made signs to gertrude, and performed a series of pantomimic gestures expressive of an intention to snatch it from miss clinton's head, and place it on that of its rightful owner. gertrude's gravity nearly gave way. she shook her head at fanny, held up her finger, made signs to her to forbear, and, with a face whose laughter was only concealed by the deep white bonnet which she wore, took her hand, and hastened with her along the path, leaving belle and her beau to follow. "fanny," said she, "you must not make me laugh so; if miss clinton had seen us she would have been very much hurt." "she has no business to wear your hat," said fanny, "and she shan't." "yes, she shall," replied gertrude; "she looks beautiful in it, i am delighted to have her wear it, and you must not intimate to her that it is mine." the walk through the woods was delightful, and gertrude and her young companion, in the quiet enjoyment of it, had almost forgotten that they were members of a gay party, when they suddenly came in sight of kitty and mr. bruce. they were sitting at the foot of an old oak, kitty earnestly engaged in the manufacture of an oak-wreath, which she was just fitting to her attendant's hat; while he himself, when gertrude first caught sight of him, was leaning against the tree in a careless attitude. but as soon as he perceived their approach, he bent forward, inspected kitty's work, and when they came within hearing, was uttering a profusion of thanks and compliments, which he took care should reach gertrude's ears, and kitty received with manifest pleasure--a pleasure which was still further enhanced by her perceiving that gertrude had apparently no power to withdraw his attention from her. poor, simple kitty! she believed him honest while he bought her heart with counterfeits. "miss gertrude," said fanny, "i wish we could go into some pine woods, so that i could get some cones to make baskets and frames of." "there are plenty of pines in that direction," said gertrude, pointing with her finger. "why can't we go and look for cones?" asked fanny; "we could get back by the time belle clinton reaches this place." gertrude and fanny started off, having first tied their bonnets to the branch of a tree. they were gone some time, for fanny found plenty of cones, but was at a loss how to carry them home. "i have thought," said she, at last; "i will run back and borrow brother ben's handkerchief; or, if he won't let me have it, i'll take my own bonnet and fill it full." gertrude promised to await her return, and she ran off. when she came near the spot where she had left kitty and mr. bruce, she heard several voices and loud laughter. belle and the lieutenant had arrived, and they were having great sport about something. belle was standing with the white cape bonnet in her hand. she had bent it completely out of shape, so as to give it the appearance of an old woman's cap, had adorned the front with white-weed and dandelions, and finally pinned on a handkerchief to serve as a veil. she held it up on the end of the lieutenant's cane, and was endeavouring to obtain a bid for miss flint's bridal bonnet. fanny listened a moment with an indignant countenance, then advanced with a bound, as if just running from the woods. kitty caught her frock as she passed, and exclaimed, "why, fanny, are you here? where's gertrude?" "oh, she's in the pine woods!" replied fanny, "and i'm going back; she only sent me to get her hat, the sun's so warm where we are." "ah, yes!" said belle, "her paris hat. please give it to her, with our compliments." "no, that isn't hers," said fanny; "_that_ is miss emily's. _this_ is hers;" and she laid her hand upon the straw head-dress which the gentlemen had but a moment before been assuring belle was vastly becoming, and, without ceremony, snatched it from her head. belle's eyes flashed angrily. "what do you mean?" said she; "you saucy little creature! give me that hat!" and she stretched out her hand to take it. "i shan't do any such thing!" said fanny; "it's gertrude's hat. she looked for it this afternoon, but concluded it was either lost or stolen, and so borrowed miss emily's cape-bonnet; but she'll be very glad to find it, and i'll carry it to her. i rather think," said she, looking over her shoulder, as she ran off, "i rather think miss emily would be willing you should wear her bonnet home, if you'll be careful, and not bend it." a few moments of anger to belle, laughter from kitty and mr. bruce, and concealed amusement on lieutenant osborne's part, and gertrude came hastily from the woods, with the hat in her hand, fanny following her; and, taking advantage of belle's position, with her back towards her, resumed her pantomimic threats and insinuations. "miss clinton," said gertrude, as she replaced the hat in her lap, "i am afraid fanny has been very rude in my name. i did not send her for either hat or bonnet, and shall be pleased to have you wear this as often as you like." "i don't want it," said belle, scornfully; "i'd no idea it belonged to you." "certainly not; i am aware of it," said gertrude. "but i trust that will not prevent you making use of it for to-day, at least." without urging the matter further, she proposed that they should hasten on to the top of the hill, which they could not otherwise reach before sunset; and set the example by moving forward in that direction, fanny accompanying her, and busying herself as she went by stripping the decorations from emily's despised bonnet; belle tying an embroidered handkerchief under her chin; and mr. bruce swinging on his arm the otherwise neglected hat. belle did not recover her temper during the evening; the rest found their excursion agreeable, and it was nearly dark when they reached the thornton farm on their return. here gertrude left them, telling fanny that she had promised to stop and see jenny thornton, one of her sunday-school class, who was in a fever, and refusing to let her remain, as her mother might not wish her to enter the house, where several of the family were sick. about an hour after, as gertrude was walking home in some haste, she was joined near mr. graham's house by mr. bruce, who, with her hat still hanging on his arm, seemed to have been awaiting her return. she started on his abruptly joining her, for it was so dark that she did not at once recognise him, and supposed it might be a stranger. "miss gertrude," said he, "i hope i don't alarm you." "oh no," said she, reassured by the sound of his voice; "i did not know who it was." he offered his arm, and she took it; for his recent devotion to kitty had served in some degree to relieve her of any fear she had felt lest his attentions carried meaning with them; and concluding that he liked to play beau-general, she had no objection to his escorting her home. "we had a very pleasant walk this evening," said he; "at least, i had. miss kitty is a very entertaining companion." "i think she is," replied gertrude; "i like her frank, lively manners much." "i am afraid you found fanny rather poor company. i should have joined you occasionally, but i could hardly find an opportunity to quit miss kitty, we were so much interested in what we were saying." "fanny and i are accustomed to each other, and very happy together," said gertrude. "do you know we have planned a delightful drive for to-morrow?" "no; i was not aware of it." "i suppose miss kay expects i shall ask her to go with me; but supposing, miss gertrude, i should give you the preference, and ask you, what should you say?" "that i was much obliged to you, but had an engagement to take a drive with miss emily," replied gertrude, promptly. "indeed!" said he, in a suppressed and provoked tone; "i thought you would like it; but miss kitty, i doubt not will accept. i will go in and ask her. here is your hat." "thank you," said gertrude, and would have taken it; but ben still held it by one string, and said---- "then you won't go, miss gertrude?" "my engagement with miss emily cannot be postponed on any account," answered gertrude, thankful that she had so excellent a reason for declining. "nonsense!" said mr. bruce; "you could go with me if you chose; and if you don't, i shall certainly invite miss kitty." the weight he seemed to attach to this threat astonished gertrude. "can it be possible," thought she, "that he expects thus to pique and annoy me?" and she replied by saying, "i shall be happy if my declining prove the means of kitty's enjoying a pleasant drive; she is fond of variety, and has few opportunities here to indulge her taste." they now entered the house. mr. bruce sought kitty in the recess of the window, and gertrude, not finding emily present, stayed but a short time in the room--long enough, however, to observe mr. bruce's exaggerated devotion to kitty, which was marked by others beside himself. kitty promised to accompany him the next day, and did so. mrs. graham, mrs. bruce, belle, and the lieutenant, went also in another vehicle, and emily and gertrude took a different direction, and driving white charlie in the old-fashioned buggy, rejoiced in their quiet independence. chapter xxx. vanity. days and weeks passed on, and no marked event took place in mr. graham's household. the weather became intensely warm, and no more walks and drives were planned. the lieutenant left the city, and isabel, who could neither endure with patience excessive heat nor want of society, grew more irritable than ever. to kitty, however, these summer days were fraught with interest. mr. bruce visited constantly at the house, and had great influence upon her outward demeanour and her inward happiness, which fluctuated as his attentions were freely bestowed or altogether suspended. no wonder the poor girl was puzzled to understand one whose conduct was certainly inexplicable to any but those initiated into his motives. believing, as he did, that gertrude would in time show a disposition to win him back, he was anxious only to carry his addresses to kitty to such a point as would excite a serious alarm in the mind of the poor _protégée_ of the grahams, who dared to slight his proffered advances. acting then as he did almost wholly with reference to gertrude, it was only in her presence, or under such circumstances that he was sure it would reach her ears, that he manifested a marked interest in kitty; and his behaviour was, therefore, in the highest degree, unequal, leading the warm-hearted kitty to believe one moment that he felt for her almost the tenderness of a lover, and the next to suffer under the apprehension of having unconsciously wounded or offended him. unfortunately, too, mrs. graham took every opportunity to congratulate her upon her conquest, thereby increasing the simple girl's confidence in the sincerity of mr. bruce's admiration. gertrude, whose eyes were soon opened to the existing state of things, was filled with apprehension on account of kitty, for whose peace and welfare she felt great concern. the suspicions to which mr. bruce's conduct gave rise were soon strengthened into convictions; for, on several occasions, after he had offered kitty proofs of devotion, he tested their effect upon gertrude by some attention to herself; intimating that she had it in her power to rob kitty of all claim upon his favour. gertrude availed herself of every opportunity to acquaint him with the truth, that he could not render himself more odious in her eyes than by the use of such mean attempts to mortify her; but attributing her warmth to jealousy, which he desired to excite, the selfish young man persevered in his course of wickedness. as he only proffered his attentions, and made no offer of his heart and hand, kitty, having forgotten that she had a few weeks back looked upon gertrude as a rival, now chose her for her bosom friend; and the transparency of her character was such that she betrayed her secret to gertrude. though no one but gertrude appeared to observe it, kitty was wonderfully changed;--the gay, laughing, careless kitty had now her fits of musing--her sunny face was subject to clouds, that flitted across it, and robbed it of all its brightness. if she found gertrude sitting alone in her room she would approach, throw her arm around her, and talk on her favourite topic. she would relate the complimentary speeches and polite attentions of mr. bruce, talk about him for an hour, and question gertrude as to her opinion of his merits. she would ask if gertrude really supposed he meant all he said, and add, that of course she didn't believe he did--it was all nonsense. and if gertrude avowed the same opinion, and declared it was best not to trust his flatteries, poor kitty's face would fail, and she would give her reasons for _sometimes_ thinking he was sincere--he had such a _truthful, earnest_ way of speaking. at last mr. bruce tried gertrude's firmness by offering to her acceptance a rich ring. not a little surprised at his presumption, she declined it without ceremony, and the next day saw it on the finger of kitty, who was eager to give an account of its presentation. "and did you _accept_ it?" asked gertrude, with such a look of astonishment, that kitty observed it, and evaded an acknowledgment of having done so, by saying, with a blushing countenance, that she agreed to wear it a little while. "i wouldn't," said gertrude. "why not?" "because, in the first place, i do not think it is in good taste to receive such rich gifts from gentlemen; and then, again, if strangers notice it, you may be subjected to unpleasant, significant remarks." "what would you do with it?" asked kitty. "i should give it back." kitty looked very undecided; but concluded to offer it to mr. bruce, and tell him what gertrude said. she did so, and that gentleman, little appreciating gertrude's motives, and believing her only desirous of making difficulty between him and kitty, jumped at the conclusion that her heart was won at last. he was disappointed, therefore, when, on his next meeting with her, she treated him as she had invariably done of late, with cool civility; indeed, it seemed to him that she was more insensible than ever to his attractions, and hastily quitted the house, much to the distress of kitty. "shall i," thought he, "marry this poor girl? shall i, who have a handsome fortune, and additional expectations to make a brilliant alliance, condescend to share my wealth with this adopted child of the grahams? if she were one atom less charming, i would disappoint her, after all! i wonder how she'd feel if i should marry kitty! i dare say that she would come to my wedding, bend her slender neck as gracefully as ever, and say, '_good evening, mr. bruce_,' as calmly as she does now, every time i go to the house! but, as _mrs. bruce_, i should be proud of that manner, certainly. i wonder how i ever got in love with her; i'm sure i don't know. she isn't handsome; mother thinks she isn't, and so does belle clinton. but lieutenant osborne noticed her the minute she came into the room; and fan raves about her beauty. i don't know what i think myself; i believe she's bewitched me, so that i'm not capable of judging; but, if it isn't beauty, it's something more than mere good looks." about this time, mrs. graham and mrs. bruce, with their families, received cards for a _levée_ at the house of an acquaintance five miles distant. mrs. bruce, who had a close carriage, invited both the cousins to go; and, as mr. graham's carriage, when closed, would only accommodate himself and lady, the proposal was acceded to. the prospect of a gay assembly revived isabel's drooping spirits. her rich evening dresses were brought out, and she stood before her mirror, and tied on first one wreath, and then another, and looked so beautiful in each that it was difficult to choose. kitty, who stood by, went to consult gertrude. "gertrude," said kitty, "what shall i wear this evening? i've been trying to get belle to tell me, but she never will hear what i ask her, when she's thinking about her own dress! she's dreadfully selfish." "who advises _her_?" asked gertrude. "oh, nobody; she always decides for herself; but then she has so much taste, and i haven't the least in the world! so do tell me, gertrude, what had i better wear to-night?" "i'm the last person you should ask, kitty; i never went to a fashionable party in my life." "that doesn't make any difference. i'm sure if you did go, you'd look better than any of us; and i'm not afraid to trust to your opinion, for i never in my life saw you wear anything that didn't look genteel--even your gingham morning-gown has a sort of stylish air." "stop, stop, kitty; you are going too far; you must keep within bounds if you want me to believe you." "well then," said kitty, "to say nothing of yourself (for you're superior to flattery, gertrude--_somebody_ told me so)--who furnishes miss emily's wardrobe? who selects her dresses?" "i have done so lately, but----" "i thought so!--i thought so!" interrupted kitty. "i knew poor miss emily was indebted to you for always looking so nice and so beautiful." "no, indeed, kitty, you are mistaken; i have never seen emily better dressed than she was the first time i met her; and her beauty is not borrowed from art--it is all her own." "oh, i know she is lovely, and everybody admires her; but no one can suppose she would take pains to wear such pretty things, and put them on so gracefully, just to please herself." "it is not done merely to please herself; it was to please her father that emily first made the exertion to dress with taste as well as neatness. i have heard that, for some time after she lost her eyesight, she was disposed to be very careless; but, having accidentally discovered that it was an additional cause of sorrow to him, she roused herself at once, and, with mrs. ellis's assistance, contrived always afterwards to please him in that particular. but you observe, kitty, she never wears anything showy or conspicuous." "no, indeed, that is what i like; but, gertrude, hasn't she always been blind?" "no; until she was sixteen she had beautiful eyes, and could see as well as you can." "what happened to her? how did she lose them?" "i don't know." "didn't you ever ask?" "no." "why not?--how queer!" "i heard that she didn't like to speak of it." "but she would have told you; she worships you." "if she had wished me to know, she would have told without my asking." kitty stared at gertrude, wondering much at such unusual delicacy and consideration, and instinctively admiring a forbearance of which she was conscious she should herself have been incapable. "but your dress!" said gertrude, smiling at kitty's abstraction. "oh, yes! i had almost forgotten what i came here for," said kitty. "what shall it be, then--thick or thin; pink, blue, or white?" "what has isabel decided upon?" "blue--a rich blue silk; that is her favourite colour, always; but it doesn't become me." "no, i should think not," said gertrude; "but come, kitty, we will go to your room and see the dresses, and i will give my opinion." kitty's wardrobe having been inspected, a delicate white crape was fixed upon. and now her head-dresses did not prove satisfactory. "i cannot wear any of them," said kitty; "they look so mean by the side of isabel's; but oh!" exclaimed she, glancing at a box which lay on the dressing-table, "these are just what i should like! oh, isabel, where did you get these beautiful carnations?" and she took up some flowers which were, indeed, a rare imitation of nature, and, displaying them to gertrude, added that they were just what she wanted. "oh, kitty," said isabel, angrily, "don't touch my flowers! you will spoil them!" and snatching them from her, she replaced them in the box, and deposited them in the bureau, and locked them up--an action which gertrude witnessed with astonishment, mingled with indignation. "kitty," said she, "i will arrange a wreath of natural flowers for you, if you wish." "will you, gertrude?" said the disappointed and provoked kitty. "oh that will be delightful. i should like it of all things! and, isabel, you cross old miser, you can keep all your wreaths to yourself!" gertrude prepared a head-dress for kitty; and tastefully mingled the choicest productions of the garden, that, when isabel saw her cousin look so beautiful with it, she felt a sharp pang of jealousy of kitty and dislike to gertrude. chapter xxxi. the rejected. emily was not well this evening. it was often the case, lately, that headache, weariness, or a nervous shrinking from noise and excitement sent her to her own room or to her couch at an early hour. after mrs. graham and her nieces had gone downstairs to await mr. graham's pleasure, and mrs. bruce's arrival, gertrude returned to emily, and found her suffering more than usual from her head. she was easily induced to seek the only infallible cure--sleep; and gertrude, seating herself on the bedside, as she was frequently in the habit of doing, bathed her temples until she fell into a quiet slumber. the noise of mrs. bruce's carriage disturbed her a little; but she was soon in so sound a sleep that, when mr. and mrs. graham departed, the loud voice of the latter did not startle her in the least. gertrude sat some time longer without changing her position, then, quietly rising, and arranging everything for the night, according to emily's wishes, she closed the door, sought a book in her own room, and, entering the parlour, seated herself at a table to enjoy the rare opportunity for stillness and repose. but she soon left her seat, and going towards the glass doors and leaning her head upon her hands, was absorbed in meditation. she had not long sat thus when she heard a footstep in the room, and, turning, saw mr. bruce beside her. she started, and exclaimed, "mr. bruce! is it possible? i thought you had gone to the wedding." "no, there were greater attractions for me at home. could you believe, miss gertrude, i should find any pleasure in a party which did not include yourself?" "i certainly should not have the vanity to suppose the reverse?" replied gertrude. "i wish you had a little more vanity, miss gertrude. perhaps then you would believe what i say." "i am glad you have the candour to acknowledge, mr. bruce, that, without that requisite, one would find it impossible to put faith in your fair speeches." "i acknowledge no such thing. i only say to you what any other girl but yourself would be willing enough to believe; but how shall i convince you that i am serious, and wish to be so understood?" "by addressing me with simple truthfulness, and sparing me those words and attentions which i wish to convince you are unacceptable to me and unworthy of yourself." "but i have a meaning, gertrude, a _deep_ meaning. i have been trying long to find an opportunity to tell you of my resolve, and you _must_ listen to me now;" for he saw her change colour and look anxious and uneasy. "you must give me an answer at once, and one that will, i trust, be favourable to my wishes. you like plain speaking; and i will be plain enough, now that my mind is made up. my relatives and friends may talk and wonder as much as they please at my choosing a wife who has neither money nor family to boast of; but i will defy them all, and offer without hesitation to share my prospects with you. what is money good for, if it does not make a man independent to do as he pleases? and, as to the world, i don't see but that you can hold your head as high as anybody, gertrude; so, if you've no objection to make, we'll play at cross purposes no longer;" and he endeavoured to take her hand. but gertrude drew back; the colour flushed her cheeks, and her eyes glistened as she fixed them upon his face, with an expression of astonishment and pride. the penetrating look of those dark eyes spoke volumes, and mr. bruce replied to their inquiring gaze in these words: "i hope you are not displeased at my frankness." "with your frankness," said gertrude, calmly; "no, that is a thing that never displeases me. but what i have unconsciously done to inspire you with so much confidence, that, while you defend yourself for defying the wishes of your friends, you hardly give me a voice in the matter?" "nothing," said bruce; "but i thought you had laboured under the impression that i was disposed to trifle with your affections, and had therefore kept aloof and maintained a distance towards me which you would not have done had you known i was in earnest; but, believe me, i only admired you the more for behaving with so much dignity, and if i have presumed upon your favour, you must forgive me." the expression of wounded pride vanished from gertrude's face. "he knows no better," thought she; "i should pity his vanity and ignorance, and sympathize in his disappointment; and, in disclaiming with a positiveness which left no room for self-deception, any interest in mr. bruce beyond that of an old acquaintance and well-wisher, she nevertheless softened her refusal by the choice of the mildest language. she felt gratitude and consideration were due to the man who, however little she might esteem _him_, had paid _her_ the highest honour;" and, though her regret in the matter was tempered by the thought of kitty, and the strangeness of mr. bruce's conduct towards her, now rendered doubly inexplicable, she did not permit that reflection to prevent her from maintaining the demeanour of a perfect lady, who, in giving pain to another, laments the necessity of so doing. but she almost felt as if her thoughtfulness for his feelings had been thrown away, when she perceived the spirit in which he received her refusal. "gertrude," said he, "you are either trifling with me or yourself. if you are still disposed to coquet with me, i shall not humble myself to urge you further; but if, on the other hand, you are so far forgetful of your own interests as deliberately to refuse such a fortune as mine, i think it's a pity you haven't got some friend to advise you. such a chance doesn't occur every day, especially to poor school-mistresses; and if you are so foolish as to overlook it, you'll never have another." gertrude's _old temper_ rose at this insulting language; but her feelings had been too long under strict regulation to yield, and she replied in a tone which, though slightly agitated, was far from being angry, "allowing i could so far forget _myself_, mr. bruce, i would not do _you_ such an injustice as to marry you for your fortune. i do not despise wealth, for i know the blessing it may often be; but my affections cannot be bought with gold;" and as she spoke she moved towards the door. "stay!" said mr. bruce, catching her hand; "listen to me one moment; let me ask you one question. are you jealous of my late attentions to another?" "no," answered gertrude; "but i confess i have not understood your motives." "did you think," asked he, "that i care for silly kitty? did you believe that i had any other desire than to show you that my devotion was acceptable elsewhere? no, i never had the least particle of regard for her; my heart has been yours all the time, and i only danced attendance upon _her_, in hopes to win a glance from _you_--an _anxious_ glance, if might be. oh, i have wished that you would show only one quarter of the pleasure that she did in my society; would blush and smile as she did; would look sad when i was dull, and laugh when i was merry; so that i might flatter myself that your heart was won. but as to _loving_ her,--pooh! mrs. graham's poodle-dog might as well try to rival you as that soft----" "stop! stop!" exclaimed gertrude; "for _my_ sake, if not for your _own_! oh, how----" she could say no more; but, sinking into a seat, burst into tears, and hiding her face in her hands, as had been her habit in childhood, wept without restraint. mr. bruce stood by in utter amazement; at last he approached her, and asked, in a low voice, "what is the matter? what have i done?" it was some minutes before she could reply; then, lifting her head, and tossing the hair from her forehead, she displayed features expressive only of the deepest grief, and said, in broken accents, "what have you done? oh, how can you ask? she is gentle, and amiable, and affectionate. she loves everybody, and trusts everybody. you have _deceived_ her, and _i_ was the cause of it. oh, how, how could you do it!" ben exclaimed, "she will get over it." "get over _what_!" said gertrude; "her love for you? perhaps so; i know not how deep it is. but, think of her happy, trusting nature, and how it has been betrayed! think how she believed your flattering words, and how hollow they were, all the while! think how her confidence has been abused! how that fatherless and motherless girl, who had a claim to the sympathy of all the world, has been taught a lesson of distrust." "i didn't think you would take it so," said ben. "how else could i view it?" asked gertrude; "could you expect that such a course would win my respect?" "you take it very seriously, gertrude; such flirtations are common." "i am sorry to hear it," said gertrude. "to my mind, unversed in the ways of society, it is a dreadful thing to trifle thus with a human heart. whether kitty loves you is not for me to say; but what opinion, alas! will she have of your sincerity?" "i think you're rather hard, miss gertrude, when it was my love for you that prompted my conduct." "perhaps i am," said gertrude. "it is not my place to censure; i speak only from the impulse of my heart. one orphan girl's warm defence of another is but natural. perhaps she views the thing lightly, and does not _need_ an advocate; but, oh, mr. bruce, do not think so meanly of my sex as to believe that one woman's heart can be won to love and reverence by the author of another's betrayal! she were less than woman who could be so false to her sense of right and honour." "betrayal!--nonsense! you are very high-flown." "so much so, mr. bruce, that half-an-hour ago i could have wept that you should have bestowed your affection where it met with no requital; and if now i wept for the sake of her whose ears have listened to false professions, and whose peace has, to say the least, been _threatened_ on my account, you should attribute it to the fact that my sympathies have not been exhausted by contact with the world." a short silence ensued. ben went a step or two towards the door, then stopped, came back, and said, "after all, gertrude flint, i believe the time will come when your notions will grow less romantic, and you will look back to this night and wish you had acted differently." he immediately left the room, and gertrude heard him shut the hall-door with a bang. a moment after the silence that ensued was disturbed by a slight sound which seemed to proceed from the recess in the window. gertrude started, and, as she went towards the spot, heard a smothered sob. she lifted a curtain, and there, upon the window-seat, her head buried in the cushions, and her little slender form distorted into a strange attitude, sat, or rather crouched, poor kitty ray. "kitty?" cried gertrude. at the sound of her voice kitty sprung suddenly from her recumbent posture, threw herself into gertrude's arms, laid her head upon her shoulder, and though she did not, _could_ not weep, shook with an agitation uncontrollable. her hand which grasped gertrude's was cold; her eyes fixed; and at intervals the same hysterical sound which had at first betrayed her in her hiding-place alarmed her young protector, to whom she clung. gertrude supported her to a seat, and then, folding the slight form to her bosom, chafed the cold hands, and again and again kissing the rigid lips, succeeded in restoring her to something like composure. for an hour she lay thus, receiving gertrude's caresses with evident pleasure, and now and then returning them convulsively, but speaking no word and making no noise. gertrude, with the truest delicacy, refrained from asking questions, or recurring to a conversation, the whole of which had been thus overheard and comprehended; but, patiently waiting until kitty grew more calm, prepared for her a soothing draught; and then, finding her completely prostrated, both in mind and body, passed her arm around her waist, guided her upstairs, and took her into her own room, where, if she proved wakeful, she would be spared the scrutiny of isabel. still clinging to gertrude, the poor girl, to whose relief tears came at last, sobbed herself to sleep. gertrude, though nearly the same age as kitty, had seen too much trouble to enjoy in times of disquiet the privilege of sinking easily to repose. she felt under the necessity, too, of remaining awake until isabel's return, that she might inform her what had become of kitty, whom she would be sure to miss from the room which they both occupied. it was past midnight when mrs. graham and her niece returned home, and gertrude went immediately to inform the latter that her cousin was asleep in her room. the noise of the carriage, however, had awakened the sleeper, and when gertrude returned she was rubbing her eyes, and trying to collect her thoughts. suddenly the recollection of the scene of the evening flashed upon her, and with a deep sigh she exclaimed, "oh, gertrude, i have been dreaming of mr. bruce! should you have thought he would have treated me so?" "no, i should not," said gertrude; "but i wouldn't dream about him, kitty, nor think of him any more; we will both go to sleep and forget him." "it is different with you," said kitty, with simplicity. "he loves you, and you do not care for him; but i--i----" here her feelings overpowered her, and she buried her face in her pillow. gertrude approached, laid her hand kindly upon the head of the poor girl, and finished the sentence for her. "you have such a large heart, kitty, that he found some place there, perhaps; but it is too good a heart to be shared by the mean and base. you must think no more of him--he is not worthy of your regard." "i can't help it," said kitty; "i am silly, just as he said." "no, you are not," said gertrude, encouragingly; "and you must prove it to him." "how?" "let him see that, with all her softness, kitty ray is brave; that she believes not his flattery, and values his professions at just what they are worth." "will you help me, gertrude? you are my best friend; you took my part, and told him how wicked he had been to me. may i come to you for comfort when i can't make believe happy any longer to him, and my aunt, and isabel?" gertrude's fervent embrace assured her. "you will be as bright and as happy as ever in a few weeks," said she; "you will soon cease to care for a person whom you no longer respect." kitty disclaimed the possibility of ever being happy again; but gertrude was more hopeful. she saw that kitty's outburst of sobs and tears was like an impetuous grief, but that the deepest recesses of her nature were safe. she felt a deep compassion for her, and many fears lest she would want sufficient strength of mind to behave with dignity and womanly pride in her future intercourse with mr. bruce. fortunately, the trial was spared her by mr. bruce's absenting himself from the house, and in a few days leaving home for the remainder of the summer; and, as this circumstance involved his own and mrs. graham's family in wonder as to the cause of his sudden departure, kitty's trials were in the perpetual questionings from her aunt and cousin as to her share in this occurrence. had she quarrelled with him?--and why? kitty denied that she had; but she was not believed. mrs. graham and isabel were aware that kitty's refusing at the last moment to attend the wedding _levée_ was owing to her having learned, just before the carriage drove to the door, that mr. bruce was not to be one of the party; and, as they got her to confess that he had passed a part of the evening at the house, they came to the conclusion that some misunderstanding had arisen between the lovers. isabel was too well acquainted with kitty's sentiments to believe she had voluntarily relinquished an admirer who had evidently been highly prized; and she also saw that the sensitive girl winced under every allusion to the deserter. where was her affection? for she made mr. bruce and his disappearance her constant topic; and, on the slightest difference between herself and kitty, she distressed the latter by cutting sarcasm relative to her late love-affair. kitty would then seek refuge with gertrude, and claim her sympathy; and she not only found in her a friendly listener to her woes, but invariably acquired in her society greater strength and cheerfulness than she could elsewhere rally to her aid. many a time, when isabel had been tantalising kitty beyond what her patience could endure, a little figure would present itself at the door of miss graham's room, and with the sweetest of voices say, "i hear you, kitty; come in, my dear; we shall be glad of your pleasant company;" and seated by the side of gertrude, learning from her some little art in needlework, listening to an agreeable book, or emily's more agreeable conversation, kitty passed hours which were never forgotten, so peaceful were they, so serene, so totally unlike any she had ever spent before. none could live in familiar intercourse with emily, listen to her words, observe the radiance of her heavenly smile, and breathe in the pure atmosphere that environed her very being, and not carry away with them the _love_ of virtue and holiness, if not something of their _essence_. she was so unselfish, so patient, notwithstanding her privations, that kitty would have been ashamed to repine in her presence; and there was a contagious cheerfulness ever pervading her apartment, which, in spite of kitty's recent cause of unhappiness, often led her to forget herself, and break into her natural tone of buoyancy and glee. chapter xxxii. envy, hatred, and malice. little did gertrude imagine, while she was striving to promote the welfare of kitty, who had thrown herself upon her love and care, the jealousy and ill-will she was exciting in others. isabel, who had never liked one whose tone of action and life reproached her own vanity and selfishness, and who saw in her the additional crime of being the favoured friend of a youth of whose interesting boyhood she herself retained a sentimental recollection, was eager to render her odious to mrs. graham. she was not slow to observe the confidence that existed between kitty and gertrude; that her cousin had forsaken her own room for that of the latter the night after her probable quarrel and parting with bruce; and her resentment, excited still further by the growing friendship which her own unkindness to kitty served only to confirm, she communicated to mrs. graham her suspicion that gertrude had selfishly made a difficulty between bruce and kitty, and fostered and widened the breach, and succeeded in breaking off the match. mrs. graham readily adopted belle's opinion. "kitty," said she, "is weak-minded, and much under miss flint's influence. i shouldn't be surprised if you were right, belle!" thus they tried to entrap kitty into a confession that gertrude had driven away her lover. but kitty, while she indignantly denied gertrude's having injured her, refused to reveal the occurrences of the eventful evening. mrs. graham and belle were angry, and many were their private discussions on the subject, and as they became more and more incensed against gertrude, so they began to manifest it in their demeanour. gertrude soon perceived their incivility. with wonderful patience, however, did she preserve her equanimity. she had never looked for kindness and attention from mrs. graham and isabel. they were irritated by her calmness and patience, now made their attack in another quarter; and emily, the sweet, lovely, and unoffending emily, became the object against which they aimed many of their shafts of ill-will. gertrude could bear injury, injustice, and even cruel language, towards herself only; but her blood boiled when she perceived that her cherished emily was becoming the victim of neglect and ill-usage. to address the gentle emily in other words than those of courtesy was next to impossible; it was equally hard to find fault with the actions of one whose life was so good and beautiful; and the isolated position which she occupied on account of her blindness seemed to render her free from interference. but mrs. graham was coarse and blunt, isabel selfish and unfeeling; and long before the blind girl was aware of any unkind intention on their part, gertrude's spirit had rebelled at the knowledge of many a word and act well calculated to distress a sensitive mind. many a stroke was warded off by gertrude; many a nearly defeated plan, which emily was known to have had at heart, carried through by gertrude's perseverance and energy; and for some weeks emily was kept ignorant of the fact that many a little office formerly performed for her by a servant was now fulfilled by gertrude, who would not let her know that bridget had received from her mistress orders which were quite inconsistent with her usual attendance upon miss graham's wants. mr. graham was absent on business at new york. his presence would have been a great restraint upon his wife, who was well aware of his devoted affection for his daughter. his love for emily, and the devotion manifested towards her by every member of the household, had rendered her an object of jealousy to mrs. graham. shortly before mr. graham's return, mrs. graham and isabel were indulging themselves in an unlimited abuse of the rest of the household, when a letter was brought to mrs. graham, which proved to be from her husband. after glancing over its contents, she remarked, with an air of satisfaction, "here is good news for us, isabel, and a prospect of some pleasure in the world." and she read aloud the following--"the troublesome affair which called me here is nearly settled, and the result is very favourable to my wishes and plans. i now see nothing to prevent our starting for europe the latter part of next month, and the girls must make their arrangements accordingly. tell emily to spare nothing towards a full and complete equipment for herself and gertrude." "he speaks of gertrude," said isabel, sneeringly, "as if she were one of the family. i'm sure i don't see any very great prospect of pleasure in travelling all through europe with a blind woman, and her disagreeable appendages; i can't think what mr. graham wants to take them for." "i wish he would leave them at home," said mrs. graham; "it would be a good punishment for gertrude. but, mercy! he would as soon think of going without his right hand as without emily." "i hope, if ever i'm married," exclaimed isabel, "it won't be to a man that's got a blind daughter! such a dreadful good person, too, whom everybody has got to worship, and admire, and wait upon!" "i don't have to wait upon her," said mrs. graham; "that's gertrude's business--it's what she's going for." "that's the worst of it; a blind girl has to have a waiting-maid, and a waiting-maid is a great lady, who doesn't mind cheating your nieces out of their lovers, and even robbing them of each other's affection." "well, what can i do, belle? i'm sure i don't want gertrude's company any more than you do; but i don't see how i can get rid of her." "i should think you'd tell mr. graham some of the harm she's done already. if you have any influence over him, you might prevent her going." "it would be no more than she deserves," said mrs. graham; "and i may give him a hint of her behaviour; he'll be surprised enough when he hears of bruce's sudden flight. i knew he thought it would be a match between him and kitty." as isabel descended the staircase, to meet with smiles and compliments the guests whom in her heart she wished a thousand miles away on this intensely hot afternoon, gertrude came up from the kitchen, and passed along a passage to her own room. she carried, over one arm, a dress of white muslin, and a number of collars, sleeves, and ruffles, with other articles fresh from the ironing-board. her face was heated; she looked tired, and, as she reached her room, and deposited her burden upon the bed, she drew a long breath, as if fatigued, seated herself by a window, brushed the hair back from her face, and threw open a blind. just then mrs. prime put her head in at the door; and, seeing gertrude alone, entered the room, but stood in astonishment on observing the evidences of her recent laborious employment; then, glancing at the fruits of her diligence, she burst forth indignantly, "my sakes alive! miss gertrude, i believe you've been doin' up them muslins yourself, after all!" gertrude smiled, but did not reply. "now, if that ain't too bad!" said the kind-hearted woman; "to think you should ha' been at work down in that 'ere hot kitchen, and all the rest on us takin' a spell o' rest in the heat of the day. i'll warrant if miss emily knew it, she'd never put on that white gown!" "it hardly looks _fit_ for her to wear," said gertrude. "i'm not much used to ironing, and have had a great deal of trouble with it; one side got dry before i could smooth out the other." "it looks elegant, miss gertrude; but what should you be doin' bridget's work for, i want to know?" "bridget always has enough to do," said gertrude, evading a direct answer; "and it's very well for me to have some practice; knowledge never comes amiss, you know, mrs. prime." "'tant no kind of an afternoon for 'speriment o' that sort; and you wouldn't ha' done it, i'll venture to say, if you hadn't been afeard miss emily would want her things, and find out they wan't done. times is changed in this house, when mr. graham's own daughter, that was once the head of everything, has to have her clothes laid by to make room for other folks. bridget ought to know better than to mind these upstarters, when they tell her, as i heard miss graham yesterday, to let alone that heap o' muslins, and attend to something that was o' more consequence. our katy would ha' known better; but bridget's a new-comer like all the rest. thinks i to myself then, what would miss gertrude say, if she suspected how miss emily was bein' neglected! but i'll _tell_ miss emily, as sure as my name's prime, just how things go--you shan't get so red in the face with ironing agin, miss gertrude. if the kind o' frocks she likes to wear can't be done up at home--and yourn too, what's more--the washin' ought to be put out. there's money enough, and some of it ought to be spent for the use o' the ladies as is ladies! i wish to heart _that_ isabella would have to start round a little lively; 'twould do her good; but, lor', miss gertrude, it goes right to my heart to see all the vexatious things as is happenin' nowadays! i'll go right to miss emily this minute, and tell how things go on." "no, you won't, mrs. prime," said gertrude, persuasively; "when i ask you not. you forget how unhappy it would make her, if she knew that mrs. graham was so wanting in consideration. i would rather iron dresses every day, or do anything else for our dear miss emily, than let her _suspect_ even that anybody could willingly be unkind to her." mrs. prime hesitated. "miss gertrude, i thought i loved our dear young lady as well as anybody, but i believe you love her better still, to be so thoughtful all for her sake; and i wouldn't say nothing about it, only i think a sight o' _you_, too; you've been here ever since you was a little gal, and we all set lots by you, and i can't see them folks ride over your head, as i know they mean to." "i know you love me, mrs. prime, and emily too; so, for the sake of us both, you mustn't say a word to anybody about the change in the family arrangements. we'll all do what we can to keep emily from pain; and, as to the rest, we won't care for ourselves; if they don't pet and indulge me as much as i have been accustomed to, the easiest way is not to notice it." "lord bless yer heart, miss gertrude, them folks is lucky to have you to deal with; it isn't everybody as would put up with 'em. they don't come much in my way, thank fortin! i let miss graham see, right off, that i wouldn't put up with interference; cooks is privileged to set up for their rights, and i scared her out o' my premises pretty quick, i tell yer! it's mighty hard for me to see our own ladies imposed upon; but since you say 'mum,' miss gertrude, i'll try and hold my tongue as long as i can. it's a shame, though, i do declare." an hour after, gertrude was at the glass, braiding her long hair, when mrs. ellis, after a slight knock, entered. "well, gertrude," said she, "i didn't think it would come to this!" "why, what is the matter?" inquired gertrude, anxiously. "it seems we are going to be turned out of our rooms!" "who?" "you, and i next, for ought i know." gertrude coloured, but did not speak, and mrs. ellis related that she had received orders to fit up gertrude's room for some visitors who were expected. she was astonished to hear that gertrude had not been consulted on the subject. mrs. graham had spoken so carelessly of her removal, and seemed to think it so agreeable for emily to share her apartment with her young friend, that mrs. ellis concluded the matter had been pre-arranged. deeply wounded and vexed on her own and emily's account, gertrude stood for a moment silent. she then asked if mrs. ellis had spoken to emily on the subject. she had not. gertrude begged her to say nothing about it. "i cannot bear," said she, "to let her know that the little sanctum she fitted up so carefully has been unceremoniously taken from me. i sleep in her room more than half the time, as you know; but she always likes to have me call this chamber mine, that i may be sure of a place where i can read and study. if you will let me remove my bureau into your room, mrs. ellis, and sleep on a couch there occasionally, we need not say anything about it to emily." mrs. ellis assented. she had grown strangely humble and compliant within a few months, and gertrude had won her good-will, first by forbearance, and latterly by the frequent assistance she had rendered to the overburdened housekeeper. but, though yielding and considerate towards gertrude, whom, with emily and mrs. prime, she now considered members of the injured party to which she herself belonged, no words could express her indignation with regard to the late conduct of mrs. graham and isabel. "it is all of a piece," said she, "with the rest of their conduct! sometimes i almost feel thankful that emily is blind; it would grieve her to see the goings-on. i should have liked to box isabella's ears for taking your seat at the table so impudently as she did yesterday, and then neglecting to help emily to anything at all; and there sat dear emily, angel as she is! all unconscious of her shameful behaviour, and asking her for butter as sweetly as if it were by mere accident that you had been driven from the table, and she left to provide for herself. and all those strangers there, too! i saw it all from the china-closet! and then emily's dresses and muslins!--there they laid in the press-drawer, till i thought they would mildew. i'm glad to see bridget has been allowed to do them at last, for i began to think emily would, one of these warm days, be without a clean gown in the world. but all i wish is, that they'd all go off to europe, and leave us here to ourselves. you don't want to go, do you, gertrude?" "yes, if emily goes." "well, you're better than i am; i couldn't make such a martyr of myself even for her sake." it is needless to detail the many petty annoyances to which gertrude was daily subjected; nor with all the pains taken to prevent it, could emily be long kept in ignorance of the light estimation in which both herself and gertrude were regarded. kitty, incensed at the incivility of her aunt and isabel, and indifferent towards the visitors, hesitated not to express both to emily and gertrude her sense of the injuries they sustained. but kitty was no formidable antagonist to mrs. graham and belle, for her spirits were greatly subdued, and she no longer dared, as she would once have done, to stand between her friends and the indignities to which they were exposed. but mrs. graham became at last entangled in difficulties of her own weaving. her husband returned, and it now became necessary to set bounds to her own insolence, and, what was far more difficult, to that of isabel. mrs. graham knew just how far her husband's forbearance would extend--just the point to which his perceptions might be blinded. but in his absence she permitted belle to fill the house with her lively young acquaintances, and winked at the many flagrant violations of politeness manifested by the young people towards the daughter of their absent host, and their youthful friend and attendant. but now a check must be put to all indecorous proceedings; and, unfortunately for the execution of the wife's precautions, the head of the family returned unexpectedly, and under circumstances which forestalled any preparation. he arrived just at dusk, having come from town in an omnibus. it was a cool evening, the windows and doors were closed, and the drawing-room was so brilliantly lighted that he suspected that a large company was being entertained there. he felt vexed, for it was saturday night, and, in accordance with new england customs, mr. graham loved to see his household quiet on that evening. he was also suffering from a violent headache, and, avoiding the drawing-room, passed on to the library, and then to the dining-room. he then went upstairs, walked through several rooms, glanced indignantly at their slovenly appearance, and finally gained emily's chamber. a bright wood fire burned upon the hearth; a couch was drawn up beside it, on which emily was sitting; and gertrude's little rocking-chair occupied the opposite corner. the peaceful face of emily, and the radiant expression of gertrude's countenance, as she saw the father of her blind friend looking pleasantly in upon them, proved such a charming contrast to the scenes presented in other parts of the house, that the old gentleman, warmed to more than usual satisfaction with both of the inmates, greeted his surprised daughter with a hearty paternal embrace, and gave gertrude an equally affectionate greeting, exclaiming, as he took the arm-chair, "now, girls, this looks pleasant and home-like! what in the world is going on downstairs?" emily explained that there was company staying in the house. "ugh! company!" grunted mr. graham, in a dissatisfied tone. "i think so! been emptying rag-bags about the chambers, i should say, from the looks." gertrude asked if he had been to tea. he had not, and should be thankful for some; he was tired. "don't tell anybody that i've got home, gerty," called he, as she left the room; "i want to be left in peace _to-night_, at least." while gertrude was gone, mr. graham questioned emily as to her preparations for the european tour. to his surprise, he learned that she had never received his message communicated in the letter to mrs. graham, and knew nothing of his plans. astonished and angry, he restrained his temper; he did not like to acknowledge to himself, far less to his daughter, that his commands had been disregarded by his wife. after he had enjoyed a comfortable repast, at which gertrude presided, they both returned to emily's room; and now mr. graham's first inquiry was for the _evening transcript_. "i will go for it," said gertrude, rising. "ring!" said mr. graham, imperatively. he had observed that gertrude's ringing was disregarded, and wished to know the cause of so strange a piece of neglect. gertrude rang several times, but obtained no answer to the bell. at last she heard bridget's step in the entry, and, opening the door, said to her, "bridget, won't you find the _transcript_, and bring it to miss emily's room?" bridget soon returned with the announcement that miss isabella was reading it, and declined to give it up. a storm gathered on mr. graham's brow. "such a message to _my daughter_!" he exclaimed. "gertrude, go yourself and tell the impertinent girl that _i_ want the paper! what sort of behaviour is this?" he muttered. gertrude entered the drawing-room with great composure, and, amid the stares of the company, spoke in a low tone to belle, who immediately yielded up the paper, looking much confused as she did so. belle was afraid of mr. graham; and, on her informing her aunt of his return, that lady was also disconcerted. she had fully calculated upon seeing her husband before he had access to emily. but it was too late now, but she used all her tact to disperse her friends at an early hour, and then found mr. graham smoking in the dining-room. he was in an unpleasant mood; but she contrived to conciliate rather than irritate him, avoided all discordant subjects, and the next morning introduced to her friends an apparently affable host. but this serenity was disturbed long before the sabbath drew to a close. as he walked up the aisle, before morning service, with emily, according to custom, leaning upon his arm, his brow darkened at seeing isabel complacently seated in that corner of the old fashioned pew which had for years been sacred to his blind daughter. mrs. graham winked at her niece, but isabel was mentally rather obtuse, and was subjected to the mortification of having mr. graham remove her from the seat, in which he placed emily, while the displaced occupant, who had been so mean for the last three sundays to deprive miss graham of this old-established right, was compelled to sit in the only vacant place, beside mr. graham, with her back to the pulpit. and very angry was she at observing the smiles visible upon many countenances in the neighboring pews. mr. graham had not been at home a week before he understood the state of feeling in the mind of his wife and isabel, and the manner in which it was likely to act upon the happiness of the household. he saw that emily was superior to complaint; she had never in her life complained; he observed, too, gertrude's devotion to his much-loved child, and it stamped her in his mind as one who had a claim to his regard which should never be disputed. it is not, then, to be wondered at, that when mrs. graham made her intended insinuations against his youthful _protégée_, mr. graham treated them with contempt. he had known gertrude from a child. she was high-spirited--he had sometimes thought her wilful--but _never_ mean or false. it was no use to tell him all that nonsense;--he was glad that it was all off between kitty and bruce; for ben was an idle fellow, and would never make a good husband; and, as to kitty, he thought her much improved of late, and if it were owing to gertrude's influence, the more they saw of each other the better. mrs. graham was in despair. "it is all settled," said she to isabel. "it is no use to contest the point; mr. graham is firm as a rock, and as sure as _we_ go to europe, emily and gertrude will go _too_." she was almost startled; therefore, by an excess of good-luck, when informed, a few days afterwards, that the couple she had so dreaded to have of the party were to be left behind, at miss graham's special request. emily's scruples with regard to mentioning to her father the little prospect of pleasure the tour was likely to afford her all vanished when she found that gertrude would be a still greater sufferer from the society to which she would be subjected. blind as she was, emily understood and perceived almost everything that was passing around her. quick of perception, and with a hearing rendered doubly intense by her want of sight, the events of the summer were, perhaps, more familiar to her than to any other member of the family. she more than suspected the exact state of matters betwixt mr. bruce and gertrude, though the latter had never spoken to her on the subject. she imagined how kitty was involved in the affair (no very difficult thing to conceive by one who enjoyed the confidence which the simple-hearted girl unconsciously made during her intercourse with her). as mrs. graham's and isabel's abuse of power became more open, mrs. ellis and mrs. prime considered the embargo upon free speech in miss graham's presence wholly removed; and any pain which the knowledge of their neglect might have caused her was more than compensated to emily by the proofs it had called forth of devoted attachment and willing service on the part of her adopted child, as she loved to consider gertrude. calmly and promptly did she resolve to adopt a course which should free gertrude from her self-sacrificing service. she encountered much opposition from her father; but he had seen, during the previous winter at the south, how emily's infirmity unfitted her for travelling, especially when deprived of gertrude's attendant eyes; he now realised how contrary to her tastes and habits were those of his new wife and her nieces; and, unwilling to be convinced of the folly of his sudden choice, and probably of unhappiness from it, he appreciated the wisdom of emily's proposal, and felt relief in the adoption of a course which would satisfy all parties. chapter xxxiii. travel and a mystery. mrs. warren's pleasant boarding-house was chosen by emily for her own and gertrude's winter home; and one month from the time of mr. graham's return from new york his country-house was closed; he, his wife, isabel, and kitty went to havre; mrs. ellis went to enjoy a little rest from care with some cousins at the eastward; and mrs. prime was established as cook in mrs. warren's household. although ample arrangements were made by mr. graham, and sufficient means provided for the support of both emily and gertrude, the latter was anxious to be usefully employed, and, therefore, resumed a portion of her school duties at mr. w's. much as emily loved gertrude's constant presence, she gladly resigned her for a few hours every day, rejoiced in the spirit which prompted her exertions, and rewarded her with praise. in the undisturbed enjoyment of each other's society, and in their intercourse with a small, intelligent circle of friends, they passed a season of sweet tranquility. they read, walked, and communed, as in times long past. together they attended lectures, concerts, and galleries of art. it was a blissful and an improving winter which they passed together. they lived not for themselves alone; the poor blessed them, the sorrowful came to them for sympathy, and the affection which they inspired in the family circle was boundless. spring came and passed while there, and they were loth to leave a place where they had been so happy; at last a sudden failure in emily's health occurred, and dr. jeremy's peremptory command caused them to seek the country air. added to her anxiety about emily, gertrude began to feel much troubled at willie sullivan's long silence; no word from him for two or three months. willie could not have forgotten or meant to neglect her. that was impossible. she tried, however, not to feel disturbed about it, and gave all her care to emily, who now began indeed to require it. they went to the sea-side for a few weeks; but the bracing atmosphere brought no strength to the blind girl's feeble frame. she was obliged to give up her daily walks; a continued weariness robbed her step of its elasticity, and her mind became subject to depression, while her nervous temperament became so susceptible that the utmost care was requisite to preserve her from all excitement. the doctor often came to see his favourite patient; but as she got worse instead of better, he ordered her back to the city, declaring that mrs. jeremy's front chamber was as cool and comfortable as the contracted apartments of the crowded boarding-house at nahant, and he insisted upon both her and gertrude to take up their quarters for a week or two; and then, if emily were no better, he hoped to have leisure to start off with them in search of health. emily thought she was doing very well where she was, and was afraid to be troublesome to mrs. jeremy. "don't talk about trouble, emily; you ought to know mrs. jeremy better by this time. come up to-morrow; i'll meet you at the cars! good-bye!" gertrude followed him. "i see, doctor, you think emily is not so well." "no; how should she be? what with the sea roaring on one side, and mrs. fellows's babies on the other, it's enough to wear away her strength. i won't have it so! this isn't the place for her, and do you bring her up to my house to-morrow." "the babies don't usually cry as much as they have to-day," said gertrude, smiling; "and as to the ocean, emily loves dearly to hear the waves rolling in." "knew she did!" said the doctor. "shan't do it; bad for her; it makes her sad, without her knowing why. bring her up to boston, as i tell you." it was three weeks after the arrival of his visitors before the popular physician could steal away from his patients to enjoy a few weeks' recreation in travelling. for his own sake he would hardly have thought of attempting so unusual a thing as a journey; and his wife, too, loved home so much better than any other place that she was loth to start for parts unknown; but both were willing to sacrifice their long-indulged habits for the advantage of their young friends. emily was decidedly better; and viewed with pleasure the prospect of visiting west point, catskill, and saratoga, even on her own account; and when she reflected upon the probable enjoyment the trip would afford gertrude, she felt herself endowed with new strength for the undertaking. gertrude needed change of scene and diversion of mind almost as much as emily. the excessive heat, and her constant attendance in the invalid's room, had paled the roses in her cheeks, while care and anxiety had weighed upon her mind. new york was their first destination; but the heat and dust of the city were almost insufferable, and during the day they passed there only dr. jeremy ventured out of the hotel except once, when mrs. jeremy and gertrude went in search of dress-caps. but the doctor passed the whole day in the revival of old acquaintances, and some of these warm-hearted friends having presented themselves at the hotel in the evening to be introduced to mrs. jeremy and her companions, their room was enlivened until a late hour by the cheerful conversation of a group of elderly men, who, as they recalled the scenes and incidents of their youthful days, seemed to renew their youthful spirits. the conversation, however, was not of a character to exclude the ladies from participating in as well as enjoying it. emily listened with delight to a conversation which had such varied charms, and shared with gertrude the admiration of the doctor's friends, who were all excited to the warmest sympathy for her misfortune. upon hearing that dr. jeremy's party was going up the hudson next morning, dr. gryseworth, of philadelphia, who had been a student of our good doctor's, expressed his pleasure to meet them on the boat, and to introduce to gertrude his two daughters, whom he was to accompany to saratoga to meet their grandmother. gertrude, who slept soundly until wakened by miss graham, started up in astonishment on seeing her dressed and standing by the bedside--a most unusual circumstance, as gertrude's morning kiss was wont to be emily's first intimation of daylight. "six o'clock, gerty, and the boat starts at seven! the doctor has knocked at our door." "how soundly i have slept!" exclaimed gertrude. "i wonder if it's a pleasant day." "beautiful!" replied emily, "but very warm. the sun was shining so brightly that i had to close the blinds on account of the heat." gertrude made haste, but was not quite dressed when they were summoned to breakfast. she had trunks to lock, and therefore insisted upon the others preceding her to the breakfast-hall. the company was small, consisting only of two parties besides dr. jeremy's, and a few gentlemen, most of them business men. of those who still lingered at the table when gerty made her appearance, there was only one whom she particularly observed during the few moments allowed for breakfast. this was a gentleman who sat at some distance from her, idly balancing his tea-spoon on the edge of his cup. he seemed quite at his leisure, and previous to gertrude's entrance had won mrs. jeremy's animadversions by a slight propensity to make a more critical survey of her party than she found agreeable. "do, pray," said she to the doctor, "send the waiter to ask that man to take something himself; i can't bear to have anybody looking at me so when i'm eating!" "he isn't looking at you, wife; it's emily that has taken his fancy. emily, my dear, there's a gentleman, over opposite, who admires you exceedingly." "is there?" said emily, smiling, "i am very much obliged to him. may i venture to return the compliment?" "yes. he's a fine-looking fellow, though wife, here, doesn't seem to like him very well." gertrude now joined them, and, as she made her morning salutions to the doctor and his wife, and gaily apologised to the former for her tardiness, the fine colour which mantled her countenance, and the deep brilliancy of her eyes, drew affectionate admiration from the kind old couple, and were, perhaps, the cause of the stranger's attention being transferred from the lovely face of emily to the more youthful and eloquent features of gertrude. taking her seat, she soon perceived the notice she was attracting. it embarrassed her, and she was glad to see, in a few minutes, the gentleman rise and depart. as he passed out, she had an opportunity of observing him, which she had not done while he sat opposite to her. he was above the middle height, slender, but finely formed, and of a dignified bearing. his features were rather sharp, but expressive, and even handsome; his dark eyes were most penetrating, while his compressed lips indicated strength of resolution and will. his hair was peculiar; it was deeply tinged with grey, and in the vicinity of his temples, white. this was strikingly in contrast with the youthful fire of his eye, and the lightness of his step, that instead of seeming the effect of age, it enhanced the contradictory claims of his otherwise apparent youth and vigour. "what a queer-looking man," exclaimed mrs. jeremy, when he had passed out. "an elegant-looking man, isn't he?" said gertrude. "elegant?" rejoined mrs. jeremy. "what! with that grey head?" "i think it's beautiful," said gertrude; "but i wish he didn't look so melancholy; it makes me quite sad to see him." "how old should you think he was?" asked dr. jeremy. "about fifty," said mrs. jeremy. "about thirty," said gertrude. "a wide difference," remarked emily. "doctor, you must decide the point." "impossible! i wouldn't venture to tell that man's age within ten years, at least. wife has got him old enough, certainly; perhaps i might see him as low as gertrude's mark. age never turned _his_ hair grey!--that is certain." chapter xxxiv. a new acquaintance. to travellers in the united states, a trip from boston into new york state is an everyday affair, scarce worth calling a journey; but to dr. jeremy it was a momentous event, calling the good physician out of a routine of daily professional visits, which, for twenty years, had not been interrupted by a week's absence from home, and plunging him at once into that whirl of hurry, tumult, and excitement, which exists on all our great routes, especially in the summer season. the doctor was by nature and habit a social being; never shrinking from intercourse with his fellow-men, but seeking and enjoying their companionship. he knew how to adapt himself to the taste of young and old, rich and poor, and was well acquainted with city life in all its forms. in the art of travelling, however, he was totally unversed. thankful were the party when they were safe on the steamboat; and were congratulating themselves and each other, when the doctor called from the other end of the saloon--"come, come, wife--gertrude, emily! what are you staying down in this confined place for? you'll lose the best view;" and, coming toward them, he took gertrude's arm, and would have hurried her away, leaving mrs. jeremy and emily to follow; but gertrude would not trust emily to ascend the cabin-stairs under any guardianship but her own, and mrs. jeremy immediately engaged the doctor in an animated discussion as to the advisability of his adopting a straw hat, which the thoughtful wife had brought from home. by the time the question was settled, and emily, at gertrude's persuasion, had been induced to change her thin mantilla for a light travelling-cloak, the boat had proceeded some distance, and when our party gained the head of the stairs, and looked about them for seats on deck, not a single vacant bench was to be seen. there was a large number of passengers, nearly all of whom were collected at the stern of the boat. dr. jeremy went in search of chairs. "don't let us stay here," whispered mrs. jeremy to gertrude and emily. "let's go right back before the doctor comes! there are beautiful great rocking-chairs down in the cabin, without a soul to sit in them, and i'm sure we ain't wanted here to make up a company. i hate to stand with all these people staring at us, and crowing to think they've got such nice places; don't you, emily?" mrs. jeremy just then forgot that emily could not see. but gertrude never forgot it; and, as she stood with her arm lightly pressed around her friend's waist, to prevent the motion of the boat from throwing her off her balance, they attracted attention; the one so bright, erect, and strong with youth and health, that she seemed a fit protector for the other, who, in her sweet and gentle helplessness, leaned upon her so trustingly. here mrs. jeremy was interrupted by the salutation of dr. gryseworth, who insisted upon giving up his seat to mrs. jeremy; and another gentleman, till now unnoticed by our party, rose, and bowing politely, placed his own chair for emily, and walked quickly away. it was the stranger whom they had seen at breakfast. gertrude recognised his keen, dark eye, and his singular hair; and, as she thanked him, and placed emily in the seat, she coloured under his earnest glance. but dr. gryseworth soon claimed her attention for the introduction to his daughters, and all thoughts of the retreating stranger were banished for the present. the misses gryseworth were intelligent-looking girls; the eldest, lately returned from europe, where she had been travelling with her father, was considered a very elegant and superior person, and gertrude was charmed with the lady-like cordiality with which they both made her acquaintance, and still more with the sympathising attentions which they paid to emily. by the time that dr. jeremy returned with a chair he found gertrude and dr. gryseworth comfortably accommodated, and was thus enabled to sink at once into his seat, and into that state of easy unconcern which became his pleasant, genial temperament. long before the boat reached west point, where the jeremys were to land, an excellent understanding subsisted between gertrude and the misses gryseworth. they had been about an hour in each other's society, when netta gryseworth, glancing towards another part of the boat, said in an undertone, "ellen, do invite mr. phillips to come back and be introduced to miss flint!--see how lonesome the poor man looks." gertrude followed the direction of netta's eye, and saw the stranger of the morning at some distance, slowly pacing up and down, with a serious and distracted air. "he has not been near us for an hour," said netta. "i hope we have not frightened your friend away," said gertrude. "oh, no, indeed!" replied ellen. "although mr. phillips is but a recent acquaintance, we have found him so independent, and sometimes so whimsical, that i am never astonished at being suddenly forsaken by him. there are some people, you know, for whom it is always sufficient excuse to say, _it is their way_. i wish he would condescend to join us again, however; i should like to introduce him to you, miss flint." "you wouldn't like him," said netta. "now, that is not fair, netta!" said her sister, "to prejudice miss flint against my friend. you mustn't let her influence you," said she to gertrude. "she hasn't known him half as long as i have; and i do not dislike him. my straightforward sister never likes odd people, and i must confess that mr. phillips is eccentric; but he interests me all the more on that account, and i am sure he and you would have many ideas and sentiments in common." "how can you say so, ellen?" said netta. "i think they are totally different." "you must consider netta's remark complimentary, miss flint," said ellen; "it would not be quite so much so if it had come from me." "but you wished me to become acquainted with your oddity," said gertrude. "i suspect you act on the principle that one's misfortunes should be shared by one's friends." netta laughed. "not exactly," said she; "it was compassion _for him_ that moved me. i can't help pitying him when he looks so home-sick, and i thought your society would brighten him up and do him good." "ah, netta!" said her sister, "he has excited your sympathy, i see. a few days more, and i shouldn't be surprised if you went beyond me in your admiration of him. if so, take care, you transparent creature, not to betray your inconsistency." then she said to gertrude, "netta met mr. phillips only yesterday and has not seemed very favourably impressed. father and i were passengers in the same steamer in which he came from liverpool a few weeks ago. he had an ill turn in the early part of the voyage, and it was in a professional way that father first made his acquaintance. i was surprised at seeing him on board to-day, for he mentioned no such intention yesterday." gertrude suspected that the young lady might herself be the cause of his journey; but she did not say so, and the conversation taking another turn, mr. phillips was not again adverted to, though gertrude observed, just before the boat stopped at west point, that dr. jeremy and dr. gryseworth had joined him, and that the trio were engaged in a colloquy which seemed to interest them all. at west point, gertrude parted from her new friends, who expressed a wish to meet in saratoga. our travellers passed one night only at west point. the weather continued hot, and dr. jeremy, perceiving that emily drooped under the oppressive atmosphere, was desirous to reach the summit of catskill mountain before the coming sabbath. one solitary moonlight evening sufficed to give gertrude some idea of the beauties of the place. she could not observe it in detail, only as a whole; but, thus presented in all the dreamy loveliness of a summer's night, it left on her mind a vague sentiment of wonder and delight at the surpassing sweetness of what seemed rather a glimpse of paradise than an actual show of earth, so harmonious was the scene, so still, so peaceful. "emily, darling," said she, as they stood together in a rustic arbour, commanding the most striking prospect both of the river and the shore, "it looks like you; you ought to live here and be the priestess of such a temple;" and, locking her hand in that of emily, she poured into her ear the holy and elevated sentiments to which the time and the place gave birth. at an early hour in the morning they steamed up the river. but west point was hardly passed before gertrude's watchful eye detected in emily's countenance signs of weariness and debility. sacrificing, without hesitation, the pleasure she was herself deriving from beautiful scenes through which the boat was passing, she proposed that they should seek the cabin, where miss graham might rest in greater stillness. but emily would not listen to the proposal; would not think of depriving gertrude of the pleasure she knew she must be experiencing. "the prospect is all lost upon me now, emily," said gertrude. "i see only your tired face. do go and lie down, if it be only to please me; you hardly slept at all last night." "are you talking of going below?" exclaimed mrs. jeremy. "i, for one, shall be thankful, too; it's as comfortable again, and we can see all we want to from the cabin windows; can't we, emily?" "should you really prefer it?" inquired emily. "indeed, i should!" said mrs. jeremy, with such emphasis that her sincerity could not be doubted. "then, if you will promise to stay here, gertrude," said emily, "i will go with mrs. jeremy." gertrude assented to the plan; but insisted upon first accompanying them, to find a vacant berth for emily, and see her under circumstances which would promise repose. emily was too weak to endure the noise on deck, and after she had laid down in the quiet saloon, gertrude stood smoothing back her hair, and watching her pale countenance, until she was accused of violating the agreement, and was at last sent off by the good-natured doctor's lady, who declared herself perfectly well able to take care of emily. "you'd better make haste back," she said, "before you lose your seat; and, gerty, don't let the doctor come near us; he'll be teasing us to go back again, and we shall not." mrs. jeremy untied her bonnet-strings, put her feet up in the opposite chair, clapped her hands at gertrude, and bade her begone. gertrude ran off laughing, and a smile was on her face when she reached the staircase. as she came up with her quick and light step, a tall figure moved aside to let her pass. it was mr. phillips. he bowed, and gertrude, returning the salutation, passed on to the place she had left, wondering how he came to be again their travelling companion. he could not have been on board previously to her going below with emily. gertrude had sat about five minutes, when a shadow passed before her, and looking up, she betrayed a little confusion at again encountering a pair of eyes, whose magnetic gaze bewildered her. she was turning away, when the stranger spoke. "good morning, young lady! our paths still lie in the same direction, i see. will you honour me by making use of my guide-book?" as he spoke he offered her a little book containing a map of the river, and the shores on either side. gertrude took it, and thanked him. as she unfolded the map he stationed himself a few steps distant, and leaned over the railing, in an apparently absent state of mind; nor did he speak to her again for some minutes. then, suddenly turning towards her, he said, "you like this very much?" "very much," said gertrude. "you have never seen anything so beautiful before in your life." he did not seem to question her; he spoke as if he knew. "it is an old story to you, i suppose," said gertrude. "what makes you think so?" asked he, smiling. gertrude was disconcerted by his look, and still more by his smile; it changed his whole face so--it made him look so handsome, and yet so melancholy. she blushed and could not reply; he saved her the trouble. "that is hardly a fair question, is it? you probably think you have as much reason for your opinion as i had for mine. you are wrong, however; i never was here before; but i am too old a traveller to carry my enthusiasm in my eyes--as you do," added he, after a moment's pause, during which he looked her full in the face. then seeming to perceive the embarrassment which his scrutiny of her features caused, he turned away, and a shadow passed over his fine countenance, lending it for a moment an expression of mingled bitterness and pathos, which served to disarm gertrude's confusion. presently, taking a vacant chair next hers, he directed his attention to a beautiful country residence on their right, spoke of its former owner, whom he had met in a foreign land, and related some interesting anecdotes concerning a journey which they had taken together. this introduced other topics, chiefly connected with wanderings in countries almost unknown; and so rich and varied was the stranger's conversation, so graphic were his descriptions, so exuberant his imagination, and so powerful his command of words and his gift of expressing his thoughts, that his listener sat entranced with delight. when dr. jeremy came in search of his young charge, conversation between her and the stranger had assumed so much ease and freedom that the doctor opened his eyes in astonishment, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed, "this is pretty well, i declare!" gertrude did not see the doctor approach, but looked up at the sound of his voice. conscious of the surprise it must be to find her talking so familiarly with a stranger, she coloured slightly; but observing that her companion only smiled, she felt rather amused than embarrassed; and she began to feel confidence in her fellow-traveller, who rose, shook hands with dr. jeremy, to whom he had, the previous day, been introduced, and said, with perfect composure, "will you have the kindness, sir, to present me to this lady? we have already had some conversation together, but do not yet know by what name we may address each other." dr. jeremy having performed the ceremony of introduction, mr. phillips bowed gracefully, and looked at gertrude in such a benignant, fatherly way, that she hesitated not to take his offered hand. he detained hers a moment while he said, "do not be afraid of me when we meet again;" and then walked away, and paced slowly up and down the deck until passengers for catskill were summoned to dinner, when he, dr. jeremy, and gertrude went below. the doctor tried to rally gertrude about her grey-headed beau, declaring that he was yet young and handsome, and that she could have his hair dyed any colour she pleased. but he could not succeed in annoying her in that way, for her interest in him, which she could not deny, was quite independent of his personal appearance. the bustle, however, of dinner, and going on shore at catskill, banished from the doctor's head all thought of everything except the safety of himself, his ladies, and their baggage. emily, whose nervous system was somewhat disordered, clung tremblingly to gertrude; and gertrude found herself, she knew not how, leaning on the arm of mr. phillips, to whose silent exertions they were both indebted for their safety in disembarking. mrs. jeremy was counting up the trunks, while her husband was loudly denouncing the steamboat, its conductors, and the whole hurrying, skurrying yankee nation. two stage-coaches were waiting at the wharf to take passengers up the mountain, and before dr. jeremy had turned his back upon the river, emily and gertrude were placed in one of them by mr. phillips, who, without speaking, took this office upon himself, and then went to inform the doctor of their whereabouts, and the doctor and his wife soon joined them. chapter xxxv. the rock of ages. before they had gained the road leading to the mountain house, they became conscious of the vast difference between the temperature of the river and that of the inland country, and, in being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed on board the boat, they fully realised the extreme heat of the weather. for the first few miles gertrude's care was required to shield emily and herself from the rays of the burning sun; and it was a great relief when they reached the beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. the atmosphere being clear, the gradually widening prospect was beautiful, and gertrude's delight was such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was almost insupportable. when, therefore, the ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen alighted to relieve the weary horses, gertrude gladly accepted dr. jeremy's proposal that she should accompany him on a walk of a mile or two. gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the active doctor soon left the coaches far behind. at a sudden turn in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the spot, when they were startled by hearing a voice, saying, "a fine landscape, certainly!" it came from mr. phillips, seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which gertrude was leaning. his attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat lay on the ground, and his snow-besprinkled hair was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. he immediately joined dr. jeremy and gertrude. "you have got the start of us, sir," said the former. "yes; i have walked from the village--my practice always when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding." as he spoke, he placed in gertrude's hand, without looking at her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich laurel blossoms. she would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking with the doctor, as if she had not been present. all three resumed their walk. mr. phillips and dr. jeremy conversed in an animated manner, and gertrude, content to be a listener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. dr. jeremy engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he appeared equally well informed; and gertrude smiled to see her old friend rub his hands together--his mode of expressing satisfaction. gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that science. again, she was sure that geology must have been with him an absorbed study, so intimate seemed his acquaintance with mother earth; and both of these impressions were in turn dispelled when he talked of the ocean like a sailor, of the counting-house like a merchant, of paris like a man of fashion and the world. in the meantime she walked beside him, silent but not unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become fatigued. dr. jeremy declared his belief that gerty could outwalk them both; and, thus satisfied, mr. phillips resumed the broken thread of their discourse, into which gertrude was drawn almost unawares. mr. phillips no longer seemed in gertrude's eyes a stranger--he was a mystery, but not a forbidding one. she longed to learn the history of a life which many an incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of strange and mingled experience; especially did her sympathetic nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made his very smile a sorrowful thing. dr. jeremy, who shared her curiosity, asked a few questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's history; but in vain. mr. phillips' lips were sealed on the subject. the doctor now felt very weary, and seating themselves by the roadside, they awaited the arrival of the coach. there had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at gertrude, remarked, "there will be no church for us to-morrow, gerty." "no church," exclaimed gerty, gazing about her with a look of reverence; "how _can_ you say so?" mr. phillips smiled, and said in a peculiar tone, "there is no sunday here, miss flint; it doesn't come up so high." he spoke lightly--too lightly, gertrude thought--and she replied with some seriousness and much sweetness, "i have often rejoiced that the sabbath has been sent _down_ into the _lower_ earth; the higher we go the nearer we come, i trust, to the eternal sabbath." mr. phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying. there was an expression about his mouth which gertrude did not like; but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, implied; for as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy there was in his absent countenance such a look of sorrow that she could only pity and wonder. the coaches now came up, and, as he placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wonted serene and kind expression, and she felt convinced that it was only doing justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing was hid behind it that would not do honour to the man. an hour brought them to the mountain house, and to their joy they were shown to some of the most excellent rooms the hotel afforded. as gertrude stood at the window of the chamber allotted to herself and emily, and heard the loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who were denied any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished at dr. jeremy's unusual good fortune. emily, being greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey, had supper brought to her own room, and gertrude partaking of it with her, neither of them sought other society that night, but at an early hour went to rest. the last thing that gertrude heard before falling asleep was the voice of dr. jeremy saying, as he passed their door, "take care, gerty, and be up in time to see the sun rise." but she was not up in time, nor was the doctor; neither of them had calculated upon the sun being such an early riser; and though gertrude sprang up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which banished regret at having overslept herself, since nothing, she thought, could be more glorious than that which now lay outspread before her. far out to the distant horizon nothing was to be seen but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower earth and hid it from view. vast, solid, and of the most perfect whiteness, they stretched on every side, forming, as they lay in thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, an unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth. the foliage of the oaks, the pines, and the maples, which had found root in this lofty region, was rich in varied hues, and tame and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches. gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and go out upon the platform. she was soon joined by dr. and mrs. jeremy, the former full of life, and dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance proclaimed how unwillingly she had forgone her morning nap. the doctor rubbed his hands as they joined gertrude. "very fine, this, gerty! a touch beyond anything i had calculated upon," gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not speak. the doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which they stood, placed his hands beneath his coat tails, and indulged in a soliloquy, made up of short exclamations and interjectional phrases, expressive of his approbation. "why, this looks queer, doesn't it?" said mrs. jeremy, rubbing her eyes, and gazing about her; "but i daresay it would be just so an hour or two hence. i don't see what the doctor would make me get up so early for." then she darted forward, exclaiming, "dr. jeremy, for mercy's sake, don't stand so near the edge of that precipice! why, are you crazy, man? you frighten me to death! you'll fall over and break your neck!" finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, mrs. jeremy grew so disturbed by his dangerous position that, looking most imploringly at gertrude, she begged her to get the doctor away, for the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed. "suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house," suggested gertrude; "it looks attractive." "so it does," said mrs. jeremy; "beautiful little shady path. come, doctor, gerty and i are going to walk up here--come!" the doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed. "ah!" said he, "that is the path the man at the office spoke about; it leads up to the pine gardens. we'll climb up, by all means, and see what sort of a place it is." gertrude led the way, all walking in single file, for the path was a mere foot-track. the ascent was very steep, and they had not proceeded far before mrs. jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top; she would not have come if she had known what a hard hill she would have to climb. encouraged and assisted by her husband and gertrude, she was induced to make a further attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when gertrude, who was some steps in advance, heard mrs. jeremy give a slight scream. she looked back; the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture of consternation, was trying to pass him and retrace her steps down the hill. "what is the matter?" asked gertrude. "matter!" cried mrs. jeremy; "why, this hill is covered with rattlesnakes; and here we are all going up to be bitten to death!" "no such thing, gerty!" said the doctor, still laughing. "i only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and now she's making it an excuse for turning back." "i don't care!" said the good-natured lady, half laughing herself, in spite of her fears; "if there's been one, there may be another; and i won't stay a minute longer! i thought it was a bad enough place before, and now i am going down faster than i came up." finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, calling to gertrude and assuring her there was no danger, and begging her wait for him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he left his wife in safety at the hotel. gertrude, therefore, went on alone. for the first few yards she looked about her, and thought of rattlesnakes; but the path was so well worn that she felt sure it must be often trod, and was probably safe; and the beauty of the place engrossed all her attention. after active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground, and found herself once more on the elevated platform, from which she could look forth upon the unbroken sea of clouds. she seated herself at the foot of an immense pine-tree, removed her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise; and she inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze. she had sat thus but a moment when a slight rustling noise startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was springing to her feet; but hearing a low sound, as of some one breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw, only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep. she went towards it with a careful step, and before she could see the face, the large straw hat and the long, blanched, wavy hair betrayed the identity of the individual. mr. phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose. gertrude stood still and looked at him. as she did so, his countenance suddenly changed; the peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which had at first excited her sympathy. his lips moved, and in his dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, "no! no! no!" each time that he repeated the word pronouncing it with more emphasis; then wildly throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground, and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply words, "_oh, dear!_" much as a grieved and tired child might do as he leans his head upon his mother's knee. gertrude was deeply touched. she forgot that he was a stranger; she only saw a sufferer. an insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears fell upon his cheek. he awoke, and looked full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away; but, leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand and detained her. he gazed at her a moment without speaking; then said, in a grave voice, "my child, did you shed that tear for me?" she did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with the dew of sympathy. "i believe you _did_," said he, "and from my heart i bless you! but never again weep for a stranger. you will have woes enough of your own if you live to be my age." "if i had not had sorrows," said gertrude, "i should not know how to feel for others; if i had not often wept for myself i should not weep now for you." "but you are happy?" "yes." "some find it easy to forget the past." "_i_ have not forgotten it." "children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a child." "i _never_ was a child," said gertrude. "strange girl!" soliloquised her companion. "will you sit down and talk with me a few minutes?" gertrude hesitated. "do not refuse; i am an old man, and very harmless. take a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the prospect." gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old man, and calling her a child; but, old or young, she had it not in her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. she sat down, and he seated himself beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or of anything, for a moment or two; then turning to her abruptly, he said, "so you never were unhappy in your life?" "never?" exclaimed gertrude. "oh, yes; often." "but never long?" "yes, i can remember whole years when happiness was a thing i had never even dreamed of." "but comfort came at last. what do you think of those to whom it never comes?" "i know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them." "what can you do for them?" "_hope_ for them--_pray_ for them!" said gertrude, with a voice full of feeling. "what if they be past hope--beyond the influence of prayer?" "there are no such," said gertrude, with decision. "do you see," said mr. phillips, "this curtain of thick clouds, now overshadowing the world? even so many a heart is weighed down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness." "but the light shines brightly above the clouds," said gertrude. "above! well, that may be; but what avails it to those who see it not?" "it is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the mountain-top; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which brings him _above the clouds_," replied gertrude, with enthusiasm. "few ever find the road that leads so high," responded her melancholy companion; "and those who do cannot live long in so elevated an atmosphere. they must come down from their height, and again dwell among the common herd; again mingle in the warfare with the mean, the base, and the cruel." "but they have seen the glory; they know that the light is ever burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce the gloom at last. see, see," said she, her eyes glowing with the fervour with which she spoke--"even now the heaviest clouds are parting; the sun will soon light up the valley!" she pointed as she spoke to a wide fissure which was gradually disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed the change; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance, he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance, but that close at his side. he was gazing with intense interest upon the young and ardent worshipper of the beautiful and the true; and, in studying her features and observing the play of her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed that gertrude--believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into one of his absent moods--ceased speaking, rather abruptly, and was turning away, when he said---- "go on, happy child! teach _me_, if you can, to see the world tinged with the rosy colouring it wears for _you_; teach me to love and pity as you do that miserable thing called _man_. i warn you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful." "do you hate the world?" asked gertrude, with straightforward simplicity. "almost," was mr. phillips' answer. "_i_ did _once_," said gertrude, musingly. "and will again, perhaps." "no, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster mother to its orphan child, and now i love it dearly." "have they been kind to you?" asked he, with eagerness. "have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for them?" "heartless strangers!" exclaimed gertrude, the tears rushing to her eyes. "oh, sir, i wish you could have known my uncle true, and emily, dear, blind emily! you would think better of the world for their sakes." "tell me about them," said he, and he looked fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet. "there is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, and the other wholly blind; and yet they made everything rich, and bright, and beautiful to me--a poor, desolate, injured child." "injured! then you acknowledge that you had previously met with wrong and injustice?" "i!" exclaimed gertrude; "my earliest recollections are only of want, suffering, and much unkindness." "and these friends took pity on you?" "yes. one became an earthly father to me, and the other taught me where to find a heavenly one." "and ever since then you have been free and light as air, without a wish or care in the world." "no, indeed, i did not say so--i do not mean so," said gertrude. "i have had to part from uncle true, and to give up other dear friends, some for years and some forever; i have had many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread." "how, then, so cheerful and happy?" asked mr. phillips. gertrude had risen, for she saw dr. jeremy approaching. she smiled at mr. phillips' question; and after looking into the deep valley beneath her, gave him a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent tone, "i see the gulf yawning beneath me, but i lean upon the rock of ages." gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one anxiety and dread oppressed her; for, mingled with a fear lest the time was fast approaching when emily would be taken from her, she had of late been grieved by the thought that willie sullivan, towards whom her heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was forgetting the friend of his childhood, or ceasing to regard her with the love of former years. it was now some months since she had received a letter from india; the last was short, and written in a haste which willie apologised for on the score of business duties; and gertrude was compelled unwillingly to admit the chilling presentiment that, now that his mother and grandfather were no more, the ties which bound the exile to his native home were sensibly weakened. nothing would have induced her to hint, even to emily, a suspicion of neglect on willie's part; nothing would have shocked her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another; and still, in the depths of her heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and his strange diminution of intercourse between herself and him. during several weeks, in which she had received no tidings, she had still continued to write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have reached him by every mail. what, then, but illness or indifference could excuse his never replying to her faithfully-despatched missives? dr. jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations between himself and mr. phillips; the doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright sabbath morning in the mountains; and mr. phillips, compelled to exert himself and conceal the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness, which astonished gertrude, who walked back to the house wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. she did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he sat at some distance from dr. jeremy's party, and merely gave a graceful salutation to gertrude as she left the dining-hall. the jeremys stayed two days longer at the mountain house; the invigorating air benefited emily, who appeared stronger than she had done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little stroll in the neighborhood of the house. gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect; and an excursion which she and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a descriptive reverie, of which emily reaped a part of the enjoyment. they saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had disappeared. dr. jeremy inquired of their host concerning him, and learned that he left at an early hour on monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the mountain. the doctor was disappointed, for he liked mr. phillips much, and had flattered himself, from some particular inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, that he had an idea of attaching himself to their party. "never mind, gertie," said he, "i daresay we shall come across him yet some time when we least expect it." chapter xxxvi. the invisible charm. from catskill dr. jeremy proceeded directly to saratoga. the place was crowded with visitors, for the season was at its height, and the improvident travellers having neglected to secure rooms, they had no right to expect any accommodation. "where do you propose stopping?" inquired an acquaintance of the doctor's, whom they met in the cars. "at congress hall," was the reply. "it will be a quiet place for us old folks, and more agreeable than any other house to miss graham, who is an invalid." "you are expected, i conclude?" "expected?--no; who should be expecting us?" "your landlord. if you have not engaged rooms you will fare badly, for every hotel is crowded." "we must take our chance then," said the doctor, with indifference; but arriving at his destination, he found his friend's words were true. "i don't know what we are going to do," said he, as he joined the ladies; "they say every house is full; and, if so, we'd better take the next train of cars and be off, for we can't sleep in the street." "carriage, sir?" shouted a cabman, a few steps distant, and beckoning to the doctor, while another tapped his shoulder, and made a similar suggestion. "carriage!" repeated the doctor, angrily. "what for? where would you carry us, for mercy's sake? there isn't a garret to be had in your town, for love or money." "well, sir," said the last petitioner, "the houses are pretty full just now, to be sure, but may be you can get colonised out." "_colonised out!_" said the doctor, in a tone of vexation. "that's what i think we are already; what i want is to get _in_ somewhere. where do you usually drive your coach?" "to congress hall." "drive up, then, and let us get in; and, mind, if they don't take us at congress hall, we shall expect you to keep us until we find accommodation." mrs. jeremy, emily, and gertrude were assisted into a small omnibus. the doctor took a seat on the outside, and, the moment the vehicle stopped, hastened to the landlord. there was not a vacant corner in the house. wishing to accommodate him, the office-keeper said that he might be able before night to furnish him with one room in a house in the next street. "one room! in the next street!" cried the doctor. "ah, that's being colonised out, is it? well, sir, it won't do for me; i must have a place to put my ladies in at once. why, in conscience, don't you have hotels enough for your visitors?" "it is the height of the season, sir, and----" "why, dr. jeremy!" exclaimed the youthful voice of netta gryseworth, who was passing through the hall with her grandmother. "how do you do, sir? are miss graham and miss flint with you? have you come to stay?" before the doctor could answer her questions and pay his respects to madam gryseworth, a venerable old lady whom he had known for thirty years, the landlord of the hotel accosted him. "dr. jeremy?" said he. "excuse me, i did not know you. dr. jeremy, of boston?" "the same," said the doctor, bowing. "ah, we are all right, then. your rooms are reserved, and will be made ready in a few minutes; they were vacated two days ago, and have not been occupied since." "what is all this?" exclaimed the honest doctor. "i engaged no rooms." "a friend did it for you, then, sir; a fortunate circumstance, especially as you have ladies with you. saratoga is very crowded at this season; there were seven thousand strangers in the town yesterday." the doctor thanked his unknown friend, and summoned the ladies to enjoy their good fortune. "why, now, ain't we lucky?" said mrs. jeremy, as she glanced around the comfortable room allotted to herself, and then she took a survey of emily's and gertrude's apartment. the doctor, having attended to the baggage, approached the door and heard his wife's last remark, and entering with his finger on his lip, exclaimed, in a low voice, "hush! hush! don't say too much about it! we are profiting by a glorious mistake on the part of our good landlord. these rooms were engaged for somebody, that's certain, but not for us. however, they can't do no more than turn us out when the right folks come, and until then we have a prospect of very good lodgings." but if they were not the right folks, the right folks never came, and, in the course of a week, our party not only ceased to be conscious of their precarious footing in the house, but obtained a favourable exchange for emily to a bed-room upon the first floor, which opened directly into the drawing-room, and saved her from passing up and down the often crowded staircases. it was nearly tea-time on the day of their arrival, and emily and gertrude had just completed their toilet, when there was a light rap upon their door. gertrude opened it, and admitted ellen gryseworth, who, while she saluted her with southern warmth of manner, hesitated, saying, "i am afraid you will think me an intruder, but netta told me you had arrived, and hearing from the chamber-maid that you had the next room to mine, i could not forbear stopping a moment as i passed to tell you how very glad i am to see you again." gertrude and emily expressed their pleasure at the meeting, urged her to come in and remain until the gong sounded for tea. she accepted the invitation, and, taking a seat upon the nearest trunk, inquired concerning their travels and emily's health since they parted at west point. among other adventures, gertrude mentioned their having again encountered mr. phillips. "indeed!" said miss gryseworth; "he seems to be an ubiquitous individual. he was in saratoga a day or two ago, and sat opposite to me at our dinner-table, but i have not seen him since. did you become acquainted with him, miss graham?" "i am sorry to say i did not," replied emily; then, looking smilingly at gertrude, she added, "gerty was so anxious for an opportunity to introduce me that i was quite grieved for her disappointment." "then you liked him?" miss gryseworth asked gertrude, and speaking with great earnestness. "i knew you would." "he interested me much," replied gertrude. "he is very agreeable, very peculiar, and to me rather incomprehensible." "non-committal, i see," said miss gryseworth, archly. "i hope you will have a chance to make up your mind; it is more than i can do, i confess, for every time i am in his company i recognise some new trait of character. he got so angry at one of the waiters the day he dined with us in new york, that i was frightened. but i believe my fears were groundless, for he is too much of a gentleman to bandy words with an inferior, and though his eyes flashed like coals of fire, he kept his temper from blazing forth. i will do him the justice to say that this great indignation did not spring from any neglect he had himself received, but from the man's inattention to two dowdy-looking women from the country, who had never thought of seeing him, and therefore got nothing to eat until everybody else had finished, and looked all the time as disappointed as if they were just out of the state prison." "too bad!" exclaimed gertrude, energetically. "i don't wonder mr. phillips felt provoked with the mercenary fellow. i like him for that." "it _was_ too bad," said miss gryseworth; "i couldn't help pitying them myself. one of them--a young girl, fresh from the churn, who had worn her best white gown on purpose to make a figure in the city--was near weeping." "i hope such instances of neglect are not very common," said gertrude. "i am afraid, if they are, emily and i shall be on the crying list, for dr. jeremy will not fee the waiters beforehand; he says it is a mean thing, and he will not command attention in that way." "oh, you need have no such fear," said miss gryseworth. "persons accustomed to hotel life can always command attention, especially in so well-regulated an establishment as this. grandmamma shares the doctor's views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one ever sees her neglected here." another light tap at the door, and this time it was netta gryseworth who entered, exclaiming, "i hear ellen's voice, so i must come in. i am provoked," added she, as she kissed emily's hand, and shook gertrude's with a freedom which seemed to spring from girlish hoydenism and high-bred independence of manner, "to think that while i have been watching about the drawing-room doors for this last half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in, ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of the news." "not every bit, netta," said ellen; "i have left several choice little morsels for you." "have you told miss flint about the foxes and the coxes that were here yesterday?--has she, miss flint?" "not a word about them," said gertrude. "nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat?" "no." "nor about mr. phillips being here?" "oh, yes, she told us that." "ah, she did!" exclaimed netta, with an arch look which called up her sister's blushes. "and did she tell you how he occupied this room, and how we heard him through the thin partition pacing up and down all night, and how it kept me from sleeping, and gave me a terrible headache all the next day?" "no, she did not tell me that," said gertrude. "you don't either of you walk all night, do you?" asked netta. "not often." "oh, how thankful we ought to be to have you for neighbours!" replied netta. "if that horrible man had stayed here and kept up that measured tread, there would have been a suicide either in this room or ours before many nights." "do you think he was ill?" asked gertrude. "no, indeed," said ellen; "it was nothing very remarkable--not for him, at least--all his habits are peculiar; but it kept netta awake an hour or two, and made her fidgety." "an hour or two, ellen!" cried netta. "it was the whole night." "my dear sister," said ellen, "you don't know what a whole night is." a little sisterly discussion might have ensued about the length of mr. phillips' walk and netta's consequent wakefulness, but, fortunately, the gong sounded for tea. saratoga is a queer place. one sees congregated there, at the height of the season, delegates from every part of the world. fashion's ladder is transplanted thither, and all its rounds are filled. beauty, wealth, pride, and folly are well represented; also wit, genius, and learning. idleness reigns supreme, and no one, not even the most active and industrious citizens of our working land, dares, in this her legitimate province, to dispute her temporary sway. every rank of society, every profession, and almost every trade, meet each other on an easy and friendly footing. the acknowledged belle, the bearer of an aristocratic name, the owner of a well-filled purse, the renowned scholar, artist, or poet, have all a conspicuous sphere to shine in. it was a new experience to gertrude, and although in the congress hall she saw only the reflection of saratoga gaiety, and heard only the echo of its distant hum, there was enough of novelty and excitement to entertain and surprise one who was a novice in fashionable life. in the circle of high-bred, polished, literary, and talented persons whom madam gryseworth drew about her, and into which dr. jeremy's party were admitted, gertrude found much that was congenial to her cultivated taste, and she soon was appreciated as she deserved. madam gryseworth was a lady of the old school--one who had all her life been accustomed to the best society, and who continued, in spite of her advanced years, to enjoy and to adorn it. for the first day or two mrs. jeremy stood much in awe of her, and could not feel quite at ease in her presence; but this feeling wore off, and the stout little doctor's lady soon became confiding and chatty towards the august dame. one evening, when the jeremys had been a week at saratoga, as emily and gertrude were leaving the tea-table, they were joined by netta gryseworth, who, linking her arm in gertrude's, exclaimed, in her usual gay manner, "gertrude, i shall quarrel with you soon!" "indeed!" said gertrude; "on what grounds?" "jealousy." gertrude blushed slightly. "oh, you needn't turn so red; it is not on account of any grey-headed gentleman staring at you all dinner-time from the other end of the table. no; i'm indifferent on that score. ellen and you may disagree about mr. phillips' attentions, but i'm jealous of those of another person." "i hope gertrude isn't interfering with your happiness in any way," said emily, smiling. "she is, though," replied netta. "my happiness, my pride, my comfort; she is undermining them all. she would not dare to so conduct herself, miss graham, if you could see her behaviour." "tell me all about it," said emily, coaxingly, "and i will promise to interest myself for you." "i doubt that," answered netta; "i am not sure but you are a coadjutor with her. however, i will state my grievance. do you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an important personage? are you not aware that peter has ceased to have eyes for anyone else? for my own part, i can get nothing to eat or drink until miss flint is served, and i'm determined to ask papa to change our seats at the table. it isn't that i care about my food; but i feel insulted--my pride is essentially wounded. a few days ago i was a great favourite with peter, and all my pet dishes were sure to be placed in front of me; but now the tune is changed, and this very evening i saw him pass gertrude the blackberries, which the creature knows i delight in, while he pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner, which seemed to imply, 'blueberries are good enough for _you_, miss!'" "i have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us," said emily; "do you suppose gertrude has been secretly bribing them?" "she says not," replied netta. "didn't you tell me so yesterday, gertrude, when i was drawing a similar comparison between their devotion to you and to our party? didn't you tell me that neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave peter anything?" "certainly," answered gertrude; "his attentions are all voluntary; but i attribute them entirely to emily's influence and his desire to serve her." "it is no such thing," said netta; "it's sorcery, i'm sure of it; you've been practising the black art, gertrude, and i'll warn peter this very day." they now went to the corner of the drawing-room where the old ladies of gryseworth and jeremy were sitting upon a sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while ellen, who had just returned from a drive with her father, stood talking with him and a mr. petrancourt, who had just arrived from new york. the ladies on the sofa made room for emily, and netta and gertrude seated themselves. madame gryseworth was annoyed by a group of children on the other side of the room, who by their shouts interrupted her remarks, and prevented her understanding those of her neighbour. gertrude's attention was attracted by them to such a degree that she did not hear half of the sallies of wit and nonsense which netta continued to pour forth. "do go and play with those children, gertrude," said netta at last; "i know you're longing to go." "i'm longing to stop their play!" said gertrude. some half-dozen gaily-dressed children had collected around a strange little new-comer, whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. her clothes, though of rich materials, were mostly untidily arranged, and soiled by travelling. her little black silk frock (for the child was clad in mourning) was quite outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments, and her whole appearance denoted great neglect. gertrude saw the little girl standing in their midst, looking wildly about her, as if to escape; but this the children prevented, and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called forth their derisive shouts, which made her cry. whether the scene reminded gertrude of some of her own experiences, or merely touched the chord of sympathy for the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party; and just as netta was upon one of her favourite topics--namely, mr. phillips and his unaccountable conduct--she sprang from her seat, exclaiming, "they shan't torment that child so!" and hastily crossed the room. netta burst into a hearty laugh at gertrude's excited manner of starting on her benevolent errand; and this, together with her so hastily crossing the large and crowded room, drew the inquiries of all the circle whom she had left, and during her absence she became the subject of discussion and remark. "what is the matter, netta?" asked madame gryseworth. "where has gertrude gone?" "to offer herself as a champion, grandmamma, for that little rowdy-dowdy looking child." "is she the one who has been making all this noise?" "no, indeed; but i believe she is the cause of it." "it isn't every girl," said ellen, "who could cross a room like this so gracefully as gertrude can." "she has a remarkably good figure," said madame gryseworth, "and knows how to walk." "she is a very well-formed girl," remarked dr. gryseworth, "but the true secret of her looking so completely the lady lies in her having uncommon dignity of character, being wholly unconscious of observation and independent of the wish to attract it. she dresses well, too; ellen, i wish you would imitate miss flint's style of dress; nothing could be in better taste." "or a greater saving to your purse, papa," whispered netta. "gertrude dresses very simply." "miss flint's style of dress would not become miss gryseworth," said mrs. petrancourt, who approached in time to hear the doctor's remark. "your daughter, sir, is a noble, showy-looking girl, and can carry off a great deal of dress." "so can a milliner's doll, mrs. petrancourt. however, i suppose, in a certain sense, you are right. the two girls are not sufficiently alike to resemble each other, if their dresses were matched with chinese exactness." "resemble each other! you surely would not wish to see your beautiful daughter the counterpart of one who has not half her attractions." "are you much acquainted with miss flint?" "not at all; but netta pointed her out to me at the tea-table as being a particular friend." "then you must excuse me, ma'am, if i remark that it is impossible you should have any idea of her attractions, as they do not lie on the surface." "you confess, then, that you do not think her handsome, sir?" "to tell you the truth, i never thought anything about it. ask petrancourt; he is an acknowledged judge;" and the doctor bowed in a flattering manner to the lady who had been the belle of the season at the time her husband paid his addresses to her. "i will, when i can get a chance; but he is standing too near the blind lady--miss flint's aunt, is she not?" "particular friend; not her aunt." this conversation had been carried on in a low voice, that emily might not hear it. others, however, were either more careless or more indifferent to her presence; for madam gryseworth began to speak of gertrude without restraint, and she was at this moment saying, "one must see her under peculiar circumstances to be struck with her beauty at once; for instance, as i did yesterday, when she had just returned from riding, and her face was in a glow from exercise and excitement; or as she looks when animated by her intense interest in some glowing and eloquent speaker, or when her feelings are suddenly touched and the tears start into her eyes, and her whole soul shines out through them!" "why, grandmamma," cries netta, "you are really eloquent!" "so is gertrude, at such times as those i speak of. oh, she is a girl after my own heart!" "she must be a very agreeable young lady, from your account," said mr. petrancourt. "we must know her." "you will not find her of the same stamp as most of the agreeable young ladies whom you meet in gay circles. i must tell you what horace willard said of her. he is an accomplished man and a scholar--his opinion is worth something. he had been staying a fortnight at the united states hotel, and used to call occasionally to see us. the day he left he came to me and said--'where is miss flint? i must have one more refreshing conversation with her before i go. it is a perfect rest to be in that young lady's society, for she never seems to be making the least effort to talk with me, or to expect any attempt on my part; she is one of a few girls who never speak unless they have something to say.' how she has contrived to quiet those children!" mr. petrancourt followed the direction of madame gryseworth's eyes. "is that the young lady you were speaking of?" asked he. "the one with great dark eyes, and such a splendid head of hair? i have been noticing her for some time." "yes, that is she, talking to the little girl in black." "madame gryseworth," said dr. jeremy, through the long, open window, and stepping inside as he spoke, "i see you appreciate our gerty; i did not say too much in praise of her good sense, did i?" "not half enough, doctor; she is a very bright girl, and a very good one, i believe." "good!" exclaimed the doctor; "i didn't know that goodness counted in these places; but if goodness is worth speaking of, i should like to tell you a little of what i know of that girl;" and, without going closely into particulars, he commenced dilating enthusiastically upon gertrude's noble and disinterested conduct under trying circumstances, and had recounted, in a touching manner, her devotion to one old paralytic--to another infirm and ill-tempered old man and his slowly-declining daughter--and would have proceeded to speak of her recent self-sacrificing labours in emily's service; but miss graham touched his arm, spoke in a low voice, and interrupted him. he stopped abruptly. "emily, my dear," said he, "i beg your pardon; i didn't know you were here; but what you say is very true. gertrude is a private character, and i have no right to bring her before the public. i am an old fool, certainly; but there, we are all friends." and he looked around the circle a little anxiously, casting a slightly suspicious glance at the petrancourts, and finally rested his gaze upon a figure behind ellen gryseworth. the latter turned, not having been previously aware that any stranger was near, and, to her surprise, found herself face to face with mr. phillips! "good evening, sir," said she, on recognising him; but he did not seem to hear her. madam gryseworth, who had never seen him before, looked up inquiringly. "mr. phillips," said ellen, "shall i make you acquainted with mrs. gryseworth, my----" but before she could complete the introduction he had darted through the window, and was walking across the piazza with hasty strides. chapter xxxvii. a surprise. later in the evening, when gertrude, having resigned her little charge to the nurse who came to seek her, had again joined her party, the attention of every one assembled in the drawing-room was attracted by the entrance of a beautiful and showily-dressed young lady, attended by two or three gentlemen. after glancing round the room for the person whom she came to seek, she advanced towards mrs. petrancourt, who rose to receive her young visitor. unexpected as the meeting was to gertrude, she recognized isabel clinton, who passed both her and emily without observing them, and, there being no vacant chair near at hand, seated herself with mrs. petrancourt on a couch a little farther up the room, and entered into earnest conversation; nor did she change her position or look in the direction of dr. jeremy's party until she was taking leave. she would have passed them then without noticing their presence, but hearing dr. gryseworth address miss flint by name, she half turned, caught gertrude's eye, spoke a careless "how do you do?" with that indifference with which one salutes a very slight acquaintance, cast a look back at emily, surveyed with an impertinent air of curiosity the rest of the circle to which they belonged, and unceremoniously walked off, whispering to her companions some satirical comments upon the place and the company. "oh, what a beauty!" exclaimed netta to mrs. petrancourt. "who is she?" mrs. petrancourt related what she knew of miss clinton, told how she had travelled with her in switzerland, and met her in paris, where she was universally admired; then, turning to gertrude, she remarked, "you are acquainted with her, i see, miss flint." gertrude replied that she knew her before she went abroad, but had seen nothing of her since her return. "she has just arrived," said mrs. petrancourt; "she came with her father in the last steamer, and has been in saratoga but a day or two. she is making a great sensation at the 'united states,' and has troops of beaux." "most of whom are probably aware," remarked mr. petrancourt, "that she will have plenty of money one of these days." emily's attention was by this time attracted. she had been conversing with ellen gryseworth, but now turned to ask gertrude if they were speaking of isabel clinton. "yes," said dr. jeremy, "and if she were not the rudest girl in the world, my dear, you would not have remained so long in ignorance of her having been here." emily forbore to make any comment. gertrude was silent also; but she burned inwardly, as she always did, at any slights being offered to the gentle emily. gertrude and dr. jeremy were always among the earliest morning visitors at the spring. the doctor enjoyed drinking the water at this hour; and, as gertrude was fond of walking before breakfast, he made it a point that she should accompany him, partake of the beverage of which he was so fond, and afterwards join him in brisk pedestrian exercise till near breakfast time. on the morning succeeding the evening of which we have been speaking, they had presented themselves at the spring. gertrude had gratified the doctor, and made a martyr of herself by imbibing a tumblerful of water which she found very unpalatable; and he having quaffed his seventh glass, they had both proceeded some distance on one more walk around the grounds when he suddenly missed his cane, and believing that he had left it at the spring, declared his intention to return and look for it. gertrude would have gone back also, but, as there might be some difficulty in recovering it, he insisted upon her continuing her walk in the direction of the circular railway, promising to come round the other way and meet her. she had proceeded some little distance, and was walking thoughtfully along, when, at an abrupt winding in the path, she observed a couple approaching her--a young lady leaning on the arm of a gentleman. a straw hat partly concealed the face of the latter, but in the former she recognised bella clinton. it was evident that bella saw gertrude, and knew her, but did not mean to acknowledge her acquaintance; for, after the first glance, she kept her eyes obstinately fixed either upon her companion or the ground. this conduct did not disturb gertrude in the least; bella could not feel more indifferent about the acquaintance than she did; but being thus saved the necessity of awaiting and returning any salutation from that quarter, she naturally bestows her passing glance upon the gentleman who accompanied miss clinton. he looked up at the same instant, fixed his full grey eyes upon her, with that careless look with which one stranger regards another, then, turning as carelessly away, made some slight remark to his companion. they pass on. they have gone some steps--but gertrude stands fixed to the spot. she feels a great throbbing at her heart. she knows that look, that voice, as well as if she had seen and heard them yesterday. could gertrude forget willie sullivan? but he has forgotten her. shall she run after him and stop him, and catch both his hands in hers, and compel him to see, and know, and speak to her? she started one step forward in the direction he had taken, then suddenly paused and hesitated. a crowd of emotions choked, blinded, suffocated her, and while she wrestled with them, and they with her, he turned the corner and passed out of sight. she covered her face with her hands and leaned against a tree. it was willie. there was no doubt of that; but not her willie--the _boy_ willie. it was true time had added but little to his height or breadth of figure, for he was a well-grown youth when he went away. but six years of eastern life, including no small amount of travel, care, exposure, and suffering, had done the work that time would ordinarily have accomplished. the winning attractiveness of the boy had but given place to equal, if not superior, qualities in the man, who was still very handsome, and gifted with that natural grace and ease of deportment which win universal commendation. the broad, open forehead, the lines of mild but firm decision about the mouth, the frank, fearless manner, were as marked as ever, and were alone sufficient to betray his identity to one upon whose memory these and all his other characteristics were indelibly stamped; and gertrude needed not the sound of his well-known voice, that too fell upon her ear, to proclaim to her beating heart that willie sullivan had met her face to face, had passed on, and that she was left alone, unrecognised, unknown, unthought of, and uncared for! for a time this bitter thought, "he does not know me," was present to her mind; it engrossed her entire imagination, and sent a thrill of surprise and agony through her whole frame. she did not stop to reflect upon the fact that she was but a child when she parted from him, and that the change in her appearance must be immense. the one painful idea, that she was forgotten and lost to the dear friend of her childhood, obliterated every other recollection. other feelings, too, soon crowded into her mind. why was willie here, and with isabel clinton leaning on his arm? how came he on this side the ocean? and why had he not immediately sought herself, the earliest and, as she had supposed, almost the only friend, to welcome him back to his native land? why had he not written and warned her of his coming? how should she account for his strange silence, and the still stranger circumstance of his hurrying at once to the haunts of fashion, without once visiting the city of his birth and the sister of his adoption? but among all her visions there had been none which approached the reality of this painful experience that had suddenly plunged her into sorrow. her darkest dreams had never pictured a meeting so chilling; her most fearful forebodings had never prefigured anything so heart-rending as this seemingly annihilation of all the sweet and cherished relations that had subsisted between herself and the long-absent wanderer. no wonder, then, that she forgot the place, the time, everything but her own overwhelming grief; and that, as she stood leaning against the old tree, her chest heaved with sobs too deep for utterance, and great tears trickled from her eyes and between the little taper fingers that vainly sought to hide her disturbed countenance. she was startled from her position by the sound of a footstep. hastily starting forward, without looking in the direction from which it came, and throwing her veil so as to hide her face, she wiped away her fast-flowing tears and hastened on, to avoid being observed by any of the numerous strangers who frequented the grounds at this hour. half-blinded, however, by the thick folds of the veil, and her sight rendered dim by the tears which filled her eyes, she was scarcely conscious of the unsteady course she was pursuing, when suddenly a loud, whizzing noise close to her ears frightened and confused her so that she knew not which way to turn; at the same instant an arm was suddenly flung round her waist, she was forcibly lifted from her feet as if she had been a little child, and found herself detained and supported by the same strong arm, while just in front of her a little hand-car, containing two persons, was whirling by at full speed. one step more and she would have reached the track of the miniature railway, and been exposed to fatal injury from the rapidly-moving vehicle. flinging back her veil, she perceived her fortunate escape; and being released from the firm grasp of her rescuer, she turned upon him a half-confused, half-grateful face. mr. phillips--for it was he--looked upon her in the most tender and pitying manner. "poor child!" said he soothingly, at the same time drawing her arm through his, "you were very much frightened. here, sit down upon this bench," and he would have drawn her towards a seat, but she shook her head and signified by a movement her wish to proceed towards the hotel. she could not speak; the kindness of his look and voice only served to increase her trouble and rob her of the power to articulate. so he walked on in silence, supporting her with the greatest care and bestowing upon her many an anxious glance. at last making a great effort to recover her calmness, she partially succeeded--so much so that he ventured to speak again, and asked, "did _i_ frighten you?" "you!" replied she, in a low and somewhat unsteady voice. "oh no! you are very kind." "i am sorry you are so disturbed," said he; "those little cars are troublesome things; i wish they'd put a stop to them." "the car!" said gertrude, in an absent way; "oh, yes, i forgot." "you are a little nervous, i fear; can't you get dr. jeremy to prescribe for you?" "the doctor! he went back for his cane, i believe." mr. phillips saw that she was bewildered. he forbore any conversation, and they continued their walk to the hotel in silence. just before leaving her he said, in a tone of the deepest interest, as he held her hand for a moment at parting, "can i do anything for you? can i help you?" gertrude looked up at him. she saw that he understood that she was unhappy, not nervous. her eyes thanked him as they glistened behind a shower of tears. "no, no," gasped she, "but you are very good;" and she hastened into the house, leaving him gazing at the door, as if she was still in sight and he were watching her. gertrude's first thought was how she might best conceal all her fears, and especially from miss graham any knowledge of her grief. that she would receive sympathy from emily there could be no doubt; but as she loved her benefactress, did she shrink from any disclosure which was calculated to lessen willie sullivan in the estimation of one in whose opinion she was anxious that he should sustain the high place to which her own praises had exalted him. the chief knowledge that emily had of willie was derived from gertrude, and with a mingled feeling of tenderness for him and pride on her own account did the latter dread to disclose the fact that he had returned, and that she had met him at saratoga, and that he had passed her carelessly by. it was very hard for her to appear as usual and elude the vigilance of emily, who was keenly alive to every sensation experienced by gertrude. gertrude's love for willie was undying, and she could not think that he would attach himself to one so worldly, vain, and selfish as isabel clinton. true, she was the daughter of willie's early and generous employer, now the senior partner in the mercantile house to which he belonged, and would be expected to pay her every polite attention; but still gertrude could not but feel a greater sense of estrangement, a chilling presentiment of sorrow, from seeing him thus familiarly associated with one who had treated her with scorn. she had to summon all her self-command, and endeavour to behave with serenity and composure. gertrude compelled herself to enter the room where emily was awaiting her, bid her a cheerful "good morning," and assist in her toilet. her face bore indications of recent tears, but that emily could not see, and by breakfast-time even they were effectually removed. new trials too awaited her, for dr. jeremy, according to his promise, after recovering his cane, went to meet her as agreed upon, and, finding her false to her appointment, was full of inquiries as to the path she had taken. the truth was, that when gertrude heard mr. phillips approaching in the direction she should have taken, she, in her eagerness to avoid meeting any one, took the contrary path to that she had been pursuing, and, after he joined her, retraced her steps to the hotel the same way she had come, consequently eluding the search of the doctor. but before she could plead any excuse netta gryseworth came up, full of pleasantry and fun, and leaning over gertrude's shoulder, said, in a whisper loud enough to be heard by all the little circle, who were being delayed on their way to breakfast by the doctor's demand for an explanation, "gertrude, my dear, such affecting partings ought to be private; i wonder you allow them to take place directly at the door-step." this remark did not lessen gertrude's discomfiture, which became extreme on dr. jeremy's taking netta by the arm and insisting upon knowing her meaning, declaring that he always had suspicions of gertrude, and wanted to know with whom she had been walking. "oh, a certain tall young beau of hers, who stood gazing after her when she left him, until i began to fear the cruel creature had turned him into stone. what did you do to him, gertrude?" "nothing," replied gertrude. "he saved me from being thrown down by the little rail-car, and afterwards walked home with me." gertrude answered seriously; she could have laughed and joked with netta at any other time, but now her heart was too heavy. the doctor did not perceive her agitation, and pushed the matter further. "quite romantic! imminent danger! providential rescue! _tête-à-tête_ walk home, carefully avoiding the old doctor, who might prove an interruption!--i understand!" poor gertrude, blushing and distressed, tried to offer some explanation and stammered out, with a faltering voice, that she did not notice--she didn't remember. at breakfast she could not conceal her want of appetite, and was glad when emily went with her to their own room, where, after relating her escape from accident, and mr. phillips' agency in that escape, she was permitted by her apparently satisfied hearer to sit down and read to her in a book lent them by that gentleman, to whom, however, no opportunity had yet occurred of introducing emily. the whole morning passed away, and nothing was heard from willie. every time a servant passed, gertrude was on the tiptoe of expectation; and when she heard a tap at the door she trembled so that she could hardly lift the latch. but there was no summons to the parlour, and by noon the excitement had brought a deep flush into her face, and she had a severe headache. conscious, however, of the wrong construction put upon her conduct if she absented herself from the dinner-table, she made the effort to dress with as much care as usual; and, as she passed up the hall to her seat, it was not strange that, though suffering herself, the rich glow that mantled her cheeks, and the brilliancy which excitement had given to her dark eyes, attracted the notice of others besides mr. phillips. chapter xxxviii. the stricken deer. when gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did as soon as she had seen emily comfortably established in the drawing-room in conversation with madam gryseworth, she found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers, which the chamber-maid said she had been commissioned to deliver to herself. she rightly imagined the source from whence they came, divined the motives of kindness which had prompted the donor of so acceptable a gift, and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, mr. phillips was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it than from any other. notwithstanding netta's intimations, she did not suspect that any other motives than those of kindness had prompted the offering of the beautiful flowers. nor had she reason to do so; mr. phillips' manner towards her was rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to regard him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which she had ever thought of him or believed that he ever regarded her. she placed the flowers in water, returned to the parlour, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects until the breaking up of the circle--part to ride, part to take a drive, and the rest a nap. among these last was gertrude, who made her headache as an excuse to emily for this unwonted indulgence. in the evening she had an urgent invitation to accompany dr. gryseworth, his daughters, and the petrancourts to a concert at the united states hotel. this she declined. she felt that she could not undergo another such encounter as that of the morning--she should be sure to betray herself; and now that the whole day had passed and willie had made no attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world, put herself in his way and run the risk of being recognised by him in a crowded concert-room. thus the parlour, being half deserted, was very quiet--a great relief to gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. later in the evening an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to emily, and was talking with her; madam gryseworth and dr. jeremy were entertaining each other, mrs. jeremy was nodding, and gertrude, believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of the room to sit in the moonlight when she met mr. phillips in the hall. "what are you here all alone for?" asked he. "why didn't you go to the concert?" "i have a headache." "i saw you had at dinner. is it no better?" "no. i believe not." "come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. it will do you good." she went; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile, and even laugh, and seemed pleased at having done so. he related many amusing things he had seen and heard since he had been staying at saratoga in the character of a spectator, and ended by asking her if she didn't think it was a heartless show. gertrude asked his meaning. "don't you think it is ridiculous in so many thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves?" "i don't know," answered gertrude; "but it has not seemed so to me. i think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy themselves." "and how many do?" "the greater part, i suppose." "pshaw! no they don't. more than half go away miserable, and nearly all the rest dissatisfied." "do you think so? now, i thought the charm of the place was seeing so many happy faces; they have nearly all looked happy to me." "oh, that's all on the surface; and, if you'll notice, those who look happy one day are wretched enough the next. yours was one of the happy faces yesterday, but it isn't to-day, my poor child." then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been raised to his suddenly fell and hid themselves under their long lashes, he said, "however, we will trust soon to see it as bright as ever. but they should not have brought you here. catskill mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination and reflecting mind." "oh!" exclaimed gertrude, imagining that mr. phillips suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling of wounded pride, or, perhaps, serious injury, "you speak harshly; all are not selfish, all are not unkind." "ah! you are young, and full of faith. trust whom you can, and as long as you can. _i_ trust _no one_." "no one! are there none, then, in the whole world whom you love and confide in?" "scarcely; certainly not more than one. whom should i trust?" "the good, the pure, the truly great." "and who are they? how shall we distinguish them? i tell you, my young friend, that in my experience--and it has been rich, ay, very rich"--and he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness--"the so-called good, the honourable, the upright man, has proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly finished and polished sinner. yes," continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner more excited, "i can think of one, a respectable man, a church-member, whose injustice and cruelty made my life what it has been--a desert, a blank, or worse than that; and i can think of another, an old, rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed that he did not take the name of his god in vain, yet had at the bottom of his heart a drop of such pure, unsullied essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten thousand of your polished rogues. which, then, shall i trust--the good religious men, or the low, profane, and abject ones?" "trust in _goodness_, wherever it be found," answered gertrude; "but oh, trust _all_ rather than _none_." "your world, your religion, draws a closer line. you are a good child, and full of hope and charity," said mr. phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. "i will try and have faith in _you_. but see! our friends have returned from the concert." alboni had excelled herself; and they were so sorry gertrude did not go. "but, perhaps," whispered netta, "you have enjoyed yourself more at home." but gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly upon mr. phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment, that her manner refuted netta's suspicions. "miss clinton was there," continued netta, "and looked beautiful. she had a crowd of gentlemen about her; but didn't you notice (and she turned to mrs. petrancourt) that one met with such marked favour that i wonder the rest were not discouraged. i mean that tall, handsome young man who waited upon her into the hall and went out soon after. she devoted herself to him while he stayed." "the same one, was it not," asked ellen, "who towards the close of the concert came in and stood leaning against the wall for some minutes?" "yes," answered netta; "but he only waited for alboni to finish singing, and then approaching miss clinton, whispered in her ear. after that she got up, left her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the other gentlemen." "oh, it is not strange, under the circumstances," said mr. petrancourt, "that miss clinton should prefer a walk with mr. sullivan to the best music in the world." "why?" asked netta. "is he very agreeable? is he supposed to be the favoured one?" "i should think there was no doubt of it," answered mr. petrancourt. "i believe it is generally thought to be an engagement. he was in paris with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer. everybody knows it is the wish of mr. clinton's heart, and miss isabel makes no secret of her preference." "oh, certainly," interposed mrs. pentracourt; "it is an understood thing." what became of gertrude all this time? could she, who for six years had nursed the fond idea that to willie she was, and should still continue to be, all in all--could she stand patiently by and hear him thus disposed of and given to another? she did do it; not consciously, however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of mr. phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. fortunately, too, none but he saw her blanched face; and, as she stood in the shadow, he alone was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the death-like pallor of her countenance. standing there with her heart beating, and almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened, heard, and comprehended every word. she could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident might have betrayed her excited condition. but mr. phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure from which her sensitive spirit would have shrunk. "mr. sullivan!" said he. "ah! a fine fellow; i know him. miss gertrude, i must tell you an anecdote about that young man;" and moving forward in the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party from the concert, he related that he and mr. sullivan were, a few years previous, travelling across an arabian desert, when the latter proved of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe of bedouins. he stopped in his narration and perceived that all danger of observation was passed, and without ceremony placed her in an arm-chair just by. "sit here," said he, "while i bring you a glass of water." he wrapped her mantle tightly about her and walked quickly away. oh, how gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately leaving her and giving her time to recover herself! it was the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest. he saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers. when here returned she was perfectly calm. she tasted the water, but he did not urge her to drink it; he knew she did not require it. "i have kept you out too long," said he; "come, you had better go in now." she rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps to a window which opened into her and emily's room; and then, pausing a moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing eye, "you exhort me, miss gertrude, to have faith in everybody; but i bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest you believe too much. where you have good foundation for confidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly, but trust nothing which you have not fairly tested, and rest assured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy of credit. good night." what an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned gertrude! they came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and struck deep into her heart. during their long and regular correspondence no letter had come from willie that did not breathe a devoted affection for gertrude--an exclusive affection, in which there could be no rivalship. all his thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably associated with her; and although mrs. sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to gertrude, her whole treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. the bold declaration on willie's part, conveyed in the letter received by gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than all their previous intercourse had been. should gertrude, then, distrust him? should she at once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence to his prompt desertion of his early friend? no! she resolved to banish the unworthy thought; to cherish still the firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself which would yet satisfy her aching heart. gertrude continued during the remainder of the evening in an elevated frame of mind, and she was able to go back to the drawing-room for emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. but this calmness of mind, however, was the result of strong excitement, and therefore could not last. the next morning she yielded to depressed spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to breakfast was almost mechanical. she excused herself from her customary walk with the doctor, for to that she felt unequal. her first wish was to leave saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her; and when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, "none for you, gerty; but one for emily, which is the next best thing, i suppose." to gertrude this was the _very_ best thing, for it was a long-expected letter from mr. graham, who had arrived at new york, and desired them to join him there the following day. gertrude could hardly conceal her satisfaction, and emily, delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, was eager to prepare for leaving. they retired to their own room, and gertrude's time until dinner was occupied in packing. during the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously hoping that willie would make his appearance at their hotel; now she dreaded such an event. to meet him in so public a manner, too, as must here be inevitable, would be insupportable; she would prefer to be in boston when he should first recognize her; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day. she was therefore relieved when, after dinner, mr. phillips proposed to drive to the lake. dr. gryseworth and one of his daughters had agreed to take seats in a carriage he had provided, and he hoped she would not refuse to occupy the fourth. at the lake dr. gryseworth and his daughter ellen had been persuaded by a party whom they had met there to engage in bowling. mr. phillips and gertrude declined taking part, and stood looking on. as they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of water, a couple approached and took up a position near them. mr. phillips was screened from their observation by the trunk of a tree, and gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, yet the paleness of her face as they drew near indicated that she saw and recognized william sullivan and isabel clinton. the words which they spoke fell distinctly upon her ear. "shall i then be so much missed?" asked isabel, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who, with a serious air, was gazing out upon the water. "missed!" replied he, turning towards her and speaking in a slightly reproachful voice; "how can it be otherwise? who can supply your place?" "but it will be only two days." "a short time under ordinary circumstances," said willie, "but an eternity----" he here checked himself and made a sudden motion to proceed on their walk. isabel followed him, saying, "but you will wait here until my return?" he turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look of his features was visible to gertrude as he said, with earnestness, "certainly; can you doubt it?" the strange, fixed, unnatural expression of gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness. "gertrude!" exclaimed mr. phillips, after watching her for a moment; "gertrude, for heaven's sake do not look so! speak, gertrude! what is the matter?" but she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony face; she evidently did not hear him. he took her hand. it was cold as marble. his face now wore an appearance of distress almost equal to her own; great tears rolled down his cheeks. once he stretched forth his arms as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a little child, but he repressed the emotion. "gertrude," said he, leaning forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done to you? why do you care for them? if that young man has injured you--the rascal!--he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. the words and the action brought gertrude to herself. "no, no!" said she, "he is not that. i am better now. do not speak of it; don't tell," and she looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "i am a great deal better;" and to his astonishment--for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had frightened him--she rose with composure and proposed going home. he accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill, where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of their party, driving toward saratoga. during the whole drive and the evening which followed gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure. once or twice before they reached the hotel dr. gryseworth asked her if she felt ill. the very tones of her voice were constrained--so much so that emily asked, "what is the matter, my dear child?" but she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with the gryseworths to see them in the morning. emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed sufferings of gertrude. gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. she never could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half unconsciously, to perform her part in them. how she so successfully concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain. that willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen. uncle true and mrs. sullivan were both her benefactors, and emily was still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or less dependent upon gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the assurance of their love, two had, long before they passed away, come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the grave. upon whom, then, should gertrude lean? to whom could she with confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? to whom but willie? and willie had given his heart to another--and gertrude would soon be left alone! no wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself sick, faint, and exhausted. and then she thought she heard voices, as in her childhood, whispering, "gerty!--gerty!--poor little gerty!" she sank upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to god her soul held deep communion with its maker, and once more her spirit was uttering the simple words, "here am i, lord!" oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as this! oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its god! and now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. she turns and sees emily, whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side. "gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it from me? do not turn from me, gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "tell me all, my darling! what is the matter with my poor child?" and gertrude unburdened her heart to emily, disclosing to her the only secret she had ever kept from her; and emily wept as she listened, and when gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, exclaiming with an excitement which gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually placid blind girl, "strange, strange, that you, too, should be thus doomed! oh, gertrude, my darling, we may well weep together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!" and then in the darkness of that midnight hour was gertrude's confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty years before had blighted emily's youth, and which was still vivid to her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her blindness was but a single feature. chapter xxxix. a tale of sorrow. "i was younger than you, gertrude," said she, "when my trial came, and hardly the same person in any respect that i have been since you first knew me. my mother died when i was too young to retain any recollection of her; but my father soon married again, and in that step-parent i found a love and care which fully compensated my loss. i can recall her now as she looked towards the latter part of her life--a tall, delicate, feeble woman, with a very sweet face. she was a widow when my father married her, and had one son, who became my sole companion, the partner of all my youthful pleasures. you told me, many years ago, that i could not imagine how much you loved willie, and i then had nearly confided to you my early history, and to convince you that my own experience taught me how to understand such a love; but i checked myself, for you were too young then to know so sad a story as mine. how dear my young playmate became to me no words can express. the office which each filled, the influence which each of us exerted upon the other, created mutual dependence; for though his was the leading spirit, the strong and determined will, and i was ever submissive to a rule which to my easily influenced nature was never irksome, there was one respect in which my bold young protector and ruler ever looked to me for aid. it was to act as mediator between him and my father; for while the boy was almost an idol to his mother, he was ever treated with coldness and distrust by my father, who never appreciated his noble qualities, but seemed always to regard him with dislike. "that my father's sternness towards her son was distressing to our mother i doubt not; for i remember the anxiety with which she strove to conceal his faults and the frequent occasions on which she instructed me to propitiate the parent, who, for my sake, would often forgive the boy, whose adventurous disposition was continually bringing him into collision with one of whose severity, when displeased, you can judge. my step-mother had been poor in her widowhood, and her child having inherited nothing which he could call his own, was wholly dependent upon my father's bounty. this was a stinging cause of mortification to the pride of which even as a boy he had an unusual share; and often have i seen him irritated at the reception of favours which he well understood were far from being awarded by a paternal hand. "while our mother was spared to us we lived in comparative harmony, but when i was sixteen years old she suddenly died. well do i remember the last night of her life, her calling me to her bedside and saying, 'emily, my dying prayer is that you will be a guardian angel to my boy!' god forgive me," ejaculated the tearful blind girl, "if i have been faithless in the trust! "he of whom i am telling you was then about eighteen. he had lately become a clerk in my father's employ against his will, for he desired a collegiate education; but my father was determined, and at his mother's and my persuasion he was induced to submit. my step-mother's death knit the tie between her son and myself more closely than ever. he continued an inmate of our house, and we passed a deal of time in the enjoyment of each other's society; for my father was much from home, and when there, retired to his library, leaving us to entertain each other. i was then a school-girl, fond of books, and an excellent student. how often, when you have spoken of the help willie was in your studies, have i been reminded of the time when i received similar encouragement and aid from my youthful friend, who was ever ready to exert hand and brain in my behalf! but we were not invariably happy. often did my father's face wear a frown which i dreaded to see; while the disturbed and occasionally angry countenance of his step-son denoted that some storm had occurred, probably at the counting-house, of which i had no knowledge, except from its after effects. my office of mediator, too, was suspended from the fact that the censure arose concerning some supposed mismanagement of business matters by the young and inexperienced clerk. matters went on thus for six months, when it became evident that my father had either been influenced by insinuations from some foreign quarter, or had himself conceived a new idea. he is honest and straightforward in his purposes, whatever they may be, and incapable of carrying out any species of artifice. we saw that he was resolved to put a check upon the freedom of intercourse which had subsisted between the two youthful inmates of the house, to forward which purpose he introduced in the position of housekeeper mrs. ellis, who has continued with us ever since. the almost constant presence of this stranger, and the interference of my father with his step-son's familiar intimacy with me, indicated his intention to destroy the closeness of our friendship. "it is true, i lent myself unhesitatingly to a species of petty deception to elude the vigilance which would have kept us apart. my father, however, saw more of our man[oe]uvring than we were aware of, and imagined far more than ever in reality existed. he watched us carefully, and, contrary to his usual course of proceeding, forbore for a time any interference. i have since been led to think that he designed to wean us from each other in a less unnatural manner than that which he had at first attempted, by taking the earliest opportunity to transfer his step-son to a situation connected with his own mercantile establishment in a foreign country, or a distant part of our own; and forbore, until his plans were ripe, to distress me by giving way to the feelings of displeasure which were burning within him--for he was, and had ever been, as kind and indulgent towards his undeserving child as was consistent with a due maintenance to his authority. "before such a course could be carried out, however, circumstances occurred, and suspicions became aroused, which destroyed one of their victims, and plunged the other----" here emily's voice failed her. she laid her head upon gertrude's shoulder and sobbed bitterly. "do not try to tell me the rest, dear emily," said gertrude. "it is enough for me to know that you are so unhappy. do not distress yourself by dwelling, for my sake, upon past sorrows." "past!" replied emily, recovering her voice and wiping away her tears. "no, they are never past. nor am i unhappy, gertrude. it is but rarely that my peace is shaken; nor would i now allow my weak nerves to be unstrung by imparting to another the secrets of that never-to-be-forgotten time of trial, were it not that, since you know so well how harmoniously and sweetly my life is passing on to its great and eternal awakening, i desire to prove to my darling child the power of that heavenly faith which has turned my darkness into marvellous light, and made afflictions such as mine the blessed harbingers of ever-during joy. "i was suddenly taken ill with a fever. mrs. ellis, whom i had always treated with coldness, and often with disdain, nursed me by night and day with a care and devotion which i did not expect, and under her nursing, and the skilful treatment of dr. jeremy, i began to recover. one day, when i was able to be up and dressed for several hours at a time, i went for change of air and scene into my father's library, and there lay half reclining upon the sofa. mrs. ellis had gone to attend to household duties, but before she left me she placed within my reach a small table, upon which were arranged various phials, glasses, etc., and other things which i might require before her return. it was in an evening in june, and i lay watching the approach of sunset from an opposite window. i was oppressed, with a sad sense of loneliness, for during the past six weeks i had enjoyed no society but that of my nurse and periodical visits from my father; and felt, therefore, no common pleasure when my most congenial but now nearly forbidden associate entered the room. he had not seen me since my illness, and after this protracted and painful separation our meeting was tender and affectionate. he had, with all the fire of a hot and ungoverned temper, a woman's depth of feeling, warmth of heart, and sympathising sweetness of manner. well do i remember the expression of his noble face, the manly tones of his voice, as, seated beside me on the wide couch, he bathed the temples of my aching head with eau-de-cologne, which he took from the table near by, at the same time expressing again and again his joy at once more seeing me. "how long we had sat thus i cannot tell, but the twilight was deepening in the room when we were suddenly interrupted by my father, who entered abruptly, came towards us with hasty steps, but stopping short when within a yard or two, confronted his step-son with such a look of angry contempt as i had never before seen upon his face. the latter rose and stood before him with a glance of proud defiance, and then ensued a scene which i have neither the wish nor power to describe. "it is sufficient to say that in the double accusation which my excited parent now brought against the object of his wrath, he urged the fact of his seeking by mean, base, and contemptible artifice to win the affections, and with them the expected fortune, of his only child as a secondary and pardonable crime compared with his deeper, darker, and just but detected guilt of forgery--forgery of a large amount, and upon his benefactor's name. "to this day, so far as i know," said emily, with feeling, "that charge remains uncontradicted; but i did not then, i do not now, and i never _can_ believe it. whatever were his faults--and his impetuous temper betrayed him into many--of this dark crime--though i have not even his own word of attestation--i dare pronounce him innocent. "you cannot wonder, gertrude, that in my feeble condition i was hardly capable of realising at the time, far less of retaining, any distinct recollection of the circumstances that followed my father's words. a few dim pictures, however, the last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memory and visible to my imagination. my father stood with his back to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room i never saw his face again; but the countenance of the object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. his head was thrown proudly back; conscious innocence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not from the closest scrutiny; his hand was clenched, as if he were vainly striving to repress the passion which proclaimed itself in the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation which overspread his face. he did not speak--apparently he could not command voice to do so; but my father continued to upbraid him in language cutting and severe, though i remember not a word of it. it was fearful to watch the working of the young man's face, while he stood there listening to taunts and enduring reproaches which were believed by him who uttered them to be just and merited, but which wrought the youth to a degree of frenzy which it was terrible to witness. suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifted the clenched hand which had hitherto hung at his side. i know not whether he might then have intended to call heaven to witness his innocence of the crime, or whether he might have designed to strike my father; for i sprang from my seat prepared to rush between them, and implore them for my sake, to desist; but my strength failed me, and, with a shriek, i sunk back in a fainting fit. "oh, the horror of my awakening! how shall i find words to tell it?--and yet i must! listen, gertrude. he--the poor, ruined boy--sprung to help me; and, maddened by injustice, he knew not what he did. heaven is my witness, i never blamed him; and if, in my agony, i uttered words that seemed like a reproach, it was because i was too frantic, and knew not what i said!" "what!" exclaimed gertrude, "he did not----" "no, no! he did not--he did _not put_ out my eyes!" exclaimed emily; "it was an accident. he reached forward for the eau-de-cologne, which he had just had in his hand. there were several bottles, and in his haste he seized one containing a powerful acid which mrs. ellis had found occasion to use in my sick-room. it had a heavy glass stopper--and he--his hand being unsteady, and he spilt it all----" "on your eyes?" shrieked gertrude. emily bowed her head. "oh, poor emily!" cried gertrude, "and wretched, wretched young man!" "wretched indeed!" ejaculated emily. "bestow all your pity on him, gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two." "oh, emily! how intense must have been the pain you endured! how could you suffer so, and live?" "do you mean the pain from my eyes? that was severe indeed, but the mental agony was worse!" "what became of him?" said gertrude. "i cannot give you an exact account of what followed. i was in no state to know anything of my father's treatment of his step-son. he banished him from his sight and knowledge for ever; and it is easy to believe it was with no added gentleness, since he had now, besides the other crimes imputed to him, been the cause of his daughter's blindness." "and did you never hear from him again?" "yes. through the good doctor--who alone knew all the circumstances--i learned that he had sailed for south america; and in the hope of once more communicating with the poor exile, and assuring him of my continued love, i rallied from the sickness, fever, and blindness into which i had fallen; the doctor had even a thought of restoring sight to my eyes. several months passed, and my kind friend, who was persevering in his inquiries, having learned the residence and address of the ill-fated youth, i was commencing, through the aid of mrs. ellis (whom pity had now won to my service), a letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal was put to all my earthly hopes. he died in a foreign land, alone, unnursed, and uncared for; he died of that southern disease which takes the stranger for its victim; and i, on hearing the news of it, sunk back into a more pitiable malady; and--and alas, for the encouragement of the good doctor had held out of my gradual restoration to sight!--i wept all his hopes away!" emily paused. gertrude put her arms around her, and they clung closely to each other; grief and sorrow made their union dearer than ever. "i was then, gertrude," continued emily, "a child of the world, eager for worldly pleasures, and ignorant of any other. for a time, therefore, i dwelt in utter darkness--the darkness of despair. i began, too, again to feel my bodily strength restored, and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. you can form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were passed. "but at last a dawn came to my dark night. it came in the shape of a minister of christ, our own dear mr. arnold, who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even on earth remaineth to the people of god. "in the eyes of the world i am still the unfortunate blind girl; cut off from every enjoyment; but so great is the awakening i have experienced that to me it is far otherwise, and i am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time experienced his saviour's healing power, 'once i was blind, but now i see!'" gertrude half forgot her own troubles while listening to emily's sad story; and when the latter laid her hand upon her head, and prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of trial, and be made stronger and better thereby, she felt her heart penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to us except in the hour of sorrow, and prove that it is through suffering only we are made perfect. chapter xl. the hour of peril. as mr. graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being at the steamboat wharf in new york to meet his daughter and gertrude on their arrival, dr. jeremy thought it unnecessary to accompany his charges further than albany, where he could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to boston with his wife over the western railroad. "good-bye, gerty," said the doctor, as he bade them farewell on the deck of one of the hudson river-boats. "i'm afraid you've lost your heart in saratoga; you don't look quite so bright as you did when we first arrived there. it can't have strayed far, however, i think, in such a place as that; so be sure and find it before i see you in boston." it wanted a few minutes only of the time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables appeared talking and laughing. among them was miss clinton, whose companions were making her the object of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she feigned to be teased, her smiling face gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. at length the significant gesture of some of the party, and a half-smothered hush-h! indicated the approach of some one, and presently william sullivan, with a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, and his grave face, as if he had not recovered from the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared, passed gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined isabel, placing his burden on a chair which stood near. just then the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the passengers to quit the boat, and he was compelled to make haste to depart. as he did so he drew a step nearer gertrude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the former distinguished the words: "then, if you will do your best to return on thursday i will try not to be impatient in the meantime." a moment more and the boat was on its way; just then a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that already divided her from the shore; after which he sought the gentlemen's saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from his pocket, and commenced reading. as soon as the boat was fairly under weigh and quiet prevailed in the neighbourhood, emily spoke softly to gertrude, and said---- "didn't i just now hear isabel clinton's voice?" "she is here," replied gertrude, "on the opposite side of the deck, but sitting with her back towards us." "didn't she see us?" "i believe she did," answered gertrude. "she stood looking this way while her party were arranging their seats." "perhaps she is going to new york to meet mrs. graham." "very possible," replied gertrude. "i didn't think of it before." "who was the gentleman who spoke to her just before the boat started?" "willie," was the tremulous response. emily pressed gertrude's hand and was silent. she, too, had overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. several hours passed, and they had proceeded some distance down the river; for the motion of the boat was rapid--too rapid, as it seemed to gertrude, for safety. she observed several circumstances, which excited so much alarm, that, effectually aroused from her train of reflection, she had leisure only to take into view her own and emily's situation, and its probable consequence. several times, since they left albany, had the boat passed and repassed another of similar size, with living freight, and bound in the same direction. occasionally, during their headlong course, the contiguity of the two boats excited serious alarm. they were racing, and racing desperately. some few, regardless of danger, watched with pleased eagerness the mad career of rival ambition; but by far the majority of the company, who had reason and sense, looked on in indignation and fear. the usual stopping places on the river were either recklessly passed by, or only paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled backwards and forwards at the risk of life and limb, their baggage (or somebody's else) unceremoniously flung after them, the panting, snorting engine in the meantime bellowing with rage at the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom. gertrude sat with her hand locked in emily's, anxiously watching every indication of terror, and endeavouring to judge from the countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travellers the actual degree of their insecurity. emily, rendered through her acute hearing, conscious of the prevailing alarm, was calm, though very pale, and from time to time questioned gertrude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with which was the principal cause of fear. at length their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor; the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted; anxiety began to be relieved, and most of the passengers gained their wonted composure. emily looked pallid, and, as gertrude fancied, a little faint. "let us go below, emily," she said; "it appears now to be very quiet and safe." gertrude opened her travelling-basket, which contained their luncheon. it consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected and put up at their hotel, in albany, by dr. jeremy's direction. gertrude was hesitating which she could recommend to emily, when a waiter appeared, bearing a tray of refreshments, which he placed upon the table. "this is not for us," said gertrude. "you have made a mistake." "no mistake," replied the man. "orders was for de blind lady and hansum young miss. i only 'beys orders. anything furder, miss?" gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they wanted nothing more, and then, turning to emily, asked, with an attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this aladdin-like repast. "eat it, my dear, if you can," said emily; "it is no doubt meant for us." "but to whom are we indebted for it?" "to my blindness and your beauty, i suppose," said emily, smiling. "perhaps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us." the sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really looked sad to see how little they had eaten. gertrude drew out her purse, and after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired whom she should pay for the meal. "pay, miss!" said the man, grinning. "bless my stars! de gentleman pays for all!" "who? what gentleman?" asked gertrude, in surprise. but before he could reply another waiter appeared and beckoned to his fellow-waiter, who snatched up his tray and trotted off, leaving gertrude and emily to wonder who the gentleman might be. * * * * * "what time is it?" asked she, on awaking. "nearly a quarter past three," replied gertrude, glancing at her watch (a beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils). emily started up. "we can't be far from new york," said she; "where are we now?" "i think we must be near the palisades;" said gertrude; "stay here, i will go and see." she passed across the saloon, and was ascending the staircase, when she was alarmed by a rushing sound, mingled with hurried steps. she kept on, however, and had gained the head of the stairway, when a man rushed past gasping for breath, and shrieking, "fire! fire!" a scene of dismay and confusion ensued too terrible for description. shrieks rose upon the air, groans and cries of despair burst from hearts that were breaking with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own destruction. those who had never prayed before poured out their souls in the fervent ejaculation, "oh, my god!" gertrude gazed around upon every side. towards the centre of the boat, where the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the vessel, a huge volume of flame was visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts to shrink and crouch in horror. she gave but one glance; then bounded down the stairs to save emily. but she was arrested at the very onset. one step only had she taken when she was encircled by two powerful arms, and a movement made to rush with her upon deck: while a familiar voice gasped forth, "gertrude, my child! my own darling! be quiet--be quiet!--i will save you!" she was struggling madly. "no, no!" shouted she; "emily! emily! let me die! but i must find emily!" "where is she?" asked mr. phillips; for it was he. "there, there," pointed gertrude--"in the cabin. let me go! let me go!" he cast one look around him; then said, in a firm tone, "be calm, my child! i can save you both; follow me closely!" with a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. in the furthest corner knelt emily, her hands clasped, and her face like that of an angel. gertrude and mr. phillips were by her side in an instant. he stooped to lift her in his arms, gertrude at the same time exclaiming, "come, emily, come! he will save us!" but emily resisted. "leave me, gertrude--leave me, and save yourselves! oh!" said she, imploringly, "leave me, and save my child." but ere the words had left her lips she was borne half way across the saloon; gertrude followed closely. "if we can cross to the bows of the boat we are safe!" said mr. phillips, in a husky voice. to do so, however, proved impossible. the centre of the boat was now one sheet of flame. "good heavens!" exclaimed he, "we are too late! we must go back!" with much difficulty they regained the saloon. the boat, as soon as the fire was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon the rocks, and parted in the middle. her bows were brought near to the land, near enough to almost ensure the safety of such persons as were at the top part of the vessel. but, alas for those near the stern! mr. phillips' first thought was to beat down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag emily and gertrude after him. some ropes hung upon the guards; he seized one and made it fast to the boat; then turned to gertrude, who stood firm by his side. "gertrude," said he, "i shall swim to the shore with emily. if the fire comes too near, cling to the guards; as a last chance hold on to the rope. keep your veil flying; i shall return." "no, no!" cried emily. "gertrude, go first." "hush, emily!" exclaimed gertrude; "we shall both be saved." "cling to my shoulder in the water, emily," said mr. phillips, utterly regardless of her protestations. he took her once more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. at the same instant gertrude was seized from behind. she turned and found herself grasped by isabel clinton, who, kneeling upon the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to her as utterly to disable them both; she shrieked out, "oh, gertrude! gertrude! save me!" but gertrude thus imprisoned, she was powerless to do anything for her own or isabel's salvation. she looked forth in the direction mr. phillips had taken, and, to her joy, she saw him returning. he had deposited emily on board a boat, and was now approaching to claim another burden. a volume of flame swept so near the spot where the two alarmed girls were stationed that gertrude felt the scorching heat, and both were almost suffocated with smoke. an heroic resolution was now displayed by gertrude. one of them could be saved; for mr. phillips was within a few rods of the wreck. it should be isabel! she had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied! moreover, willie loved isabel. willie would weep for her loss, and that must not be. he would not weep for gertrude--at least, not much; and, if one must die, it should be she. "isabel," said she--"isabel, do you hear me? stand up on your feet; do as i tell you, and you shall be saved. do you hear me, isabel?" she heard, shuddered; but did not move. gertrude stooped down, and wrenching apart the hands which were convulsively clenched, said sternly, "isabel, if you do as i tell you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well; but if you stay there we shall both be burned to death. for mercy's sake, get up quickly, and listen to me!" isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon gertrude's calm, steadfast face, and said, "what must i do? i will try." "do you see that person swimming this way?" "yes." "he will come to this spot. hold fast to that piece of rope, and i will let you gradually down to the water. but, stay!"--and, snatching the deep blue veil from her own head she tied it round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of isabel. mr. phillips was within a rod or two. "now, isabel, now!" exclaimed gertrude, "or you will be too late!" isabel took the rope, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight of the water. one more hot burst of fire gave her renewed courage to brave a mere seeming danger; and aided by gertrude, who helped her over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water's edge. mr. phillips was just in time to receive her, for she was so utterly exhausted that she could not have clung long to the rope. gertrude had no opportunity to follow them with her eye; her own situation was now all-engrossing. the flames had reached her. she could hardly breathe. she could hesitate no longer. she seized the piece of rope, and grasping it with all nor might, leaped over the side of the vessel. how long her strength would have enabled her thus to cling--how long the guards, as yet unapproached by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable--there was no opportunity to test; for, just as her feet touched the cold surface of the water, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance from where she hung, gave one sudden revolution, sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foaming and dashing up against the boat, and, as it swept away again, bore with it the light form of gertrude! chapter xli. suspense. let us now revisit the country seat of mr. graham. the old gentleman, wearied with travels and society not congenial to his years, is pacing up and down his garden walks; his countenance denoting plainly enough how glad he is to find himself once more in his cherished homestead. it is supposed that such satisfaction arose from the circumstance that the repose of his household is rendered complete by the absence of its excitable mistress, whom he has left in new york. this was like the good old times. emily and gertrude, too, are closely associated with those good old times; and it adds greatly to the delusion of his fancy to dwell upon the certainty that they are both in the house, and that he shall see them both at dinner. yes, gertrude is there, as well as the rest, saved--she hardly knew how--from a watery grave that almost engulfed her, and established once more in the peaceful and endeared spot, now the dearest to her on earth. when, with some difficulty, restored to consciousness, she was informed that she had been picked up by some humane persons who had pushed a boat from the shore to rescue the sufferers; that she was clinging to the chair, which she had probably grasped when washed away by the sudden rushing of the water, and that her situation was such that, a moment more, and it would have been impossible to save her from the flames, close to which she was drifting. but of all this she had herself no recollection. from the moment when she committed her light weight to the frail tenure of the rope until she opened her eyes in a quiet spot, and saw emily leaning anxiously over the bed upon which she lay, all had been a blank to her senses. a few hours from the time of the terrible catastrophe brought mr. graham to the scene, and the next day restored all three in safety to the old mansion-house in d----. this venerable habitation, and its adjoining grounds, wore nearly the same aspect as when they met the admiring eyes of gerty on the first visit that she made miss graham in her early childhood--that long-expected and keenly-enjoyed visit, which proved a lasting topic for her young mind to dwell upon. the old house had a look of contentment and repose. the hall door stood wide open. mr. graham's arm-chair was in its usual place; gertrude's birds, of which mrs. ellis had taken excellent care, were hopping about on the slender perches of the great indian cage which hung on the wide piazza. the old house-dog lay stretched in the sun. plenty of flowers graced the parlour, and all was very comfortable. mr. graham thought so as he came up the steps, patted the dog, whistled to the birds, sat down in the arm-chair, and took the morning paper from the hand of the neat housemaid. the dear old place was the dear old place still. mr. graham has been having new experiences; and he is, in many respects, a changed man. emily is sitting in her own room. she is paler than ever, and her face has an anxious expression. every time the door opens she starts, trembles, a sudden flush overspreads her face, and twice during the morning she has suddenly burst into tears. every exertion, even that of dressing, seems a labour to her; she cannot listen to gertrude's reading, but will constantly interrupt her to ask questions concerning the burning boat, her own and others' rescue, and every circumstance connected with the late terrible scene of agony and death. her nervous system is shattered, and gertrude looks at her and weeps. gertrude withdrew, but returned in an hour to help her to dress for dinner--a ceremony which miss graham would never omit, her chief desire seeming to be to maintain the appearance of health and happiness in the presence of her father. gertrude retired to her own room, leaving emily to bow her head upon her hands, and utter a few hysterical sobs. gertrude is followed by mrs. ellis, who seats herself, and in her exciting style adds to the poor girl's fear and distress by stating the dreadful effect the recollection of that shocking accident is having upon poor emily. "she's completely upset, and if she don't begin to mend in a day or two there's no knowing what the consequences may be. emily is feeble, and not fit to travel; i wish she had stayed at home." gertrude is again interrupted. the housemaid brought her a letter! with a trembling hand she receives it, fearing to look at the writing or post-mark. her first thought is of willie; but before she could indulge either a hope or a fear on that score the illusion is dispelled, for, though the post-mark is new york, and he might be there, the handwriting is wholly strange. she breaks the seal, and reads:-- "my darling gertrude,--my much-loved child--for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone wrung from me the words that claimed you. it was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart, and call you mine. a dozen times before had i been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. and even now i would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. had i seen you happy, gay, and light-hearted, i would not have asked to share your joy, far less would i have cast a shadow on your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for i am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. "you have a kind and a gentle heart, my child. you have wept once for the stranger's sorrows--will you now refuse to pity, if you cannot love, the solitary parent, who, with a breaking heart and a trembling hand, writes the ill-fated word that dooms him, perhaps, to the hatred and contempt of the only being on earth with whom he can claim the fellowship of a natural tie? twice before have i striven to utter it, and, laying down my pen, have shrunk from the cruel task. but, hard as it is to speak, i find it harder to still the beating of my restless heart; therefore, listen to me, though it may be for the last time. is there one being on earth whom you shudder to think of? is there one associated only in your mind with deeds of darkness and of shame? is there one name which you have from your childhood learned to abhor and hate; and, in proportion as you love your best friend, have you been taught to shrink from and despise her worst enemy? it cannot be otherwise. ah! i tremble to think how my child will recoil from her father when she learns the secret, so long preserved, so sorrowfully revealed, that he is "phillip amory!" as gertrude finished reading this strange and unintelligible letter her countenance expressed complete bewilderment--her eyes glistened with tears, her face was flushed with excitement; but she was evidently at a total loss to account for the meaning of the stranger's words. she sat for an instant wildly gazing into vacancy; then, springing suddenly up, with the letter grasped in one hand, ran to emily's room, to read the wonderful contents, and ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. she stopped, however, when her hand was on the door-lock. emily was already ill--it would not do to distress or even disturb her; and, retreating to her own room, gertrude sat down to re-peruse the singular letter. that mr. phillips and the letter-writer were identical she at once perceived. it was no slight impression that his exclamation and conduct during the time of their imminent danger on board the boat had left upon the mind of gertrude. during the three days that succeeded the accident the words, "my child! my own darling!" had been continually ringing in her ears, and haunting her imagination. now the blissful idea would flash upon her, that the noble, disinterested stranger, who had risked his life in her own and emily's cause, might indeed be her father; and every fibre of her being had thrilled at the thought, while her head grew dizzy and confused with the strong sensation of hope that almost overwhelmed her brain. her first inquiries, on recovering consciousness, had been for the preserver of emily and isabel, but he had disappeared; no trace of him could be obtained, and mr. graham arriving and hurrying them from the neighbourhood, she had been compelled to abandon the hope of seeing him again. the same motives which induced her not to consult emily concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented her from imparting the secret of mr. phillips' inexplicable language and manner; but she had dwelt upon them none the less. the first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm her. but as she sat for an hour gazing upon the page, which she read and re-read until it was blistered with the varying expression of her face denoted the emotions that, one after another, possessed her; and which at last, snatching a sheet of paper, she committed to writing with a feverish rapidity that betrayed how she staggered beneath the weight of contending hopes and gloomy fears. "my dear, dear father,--if i may dare to believe that you are so, and if not that, my best of friends--how shall i write to you, and what shall i say, since all your words are a mystery? father! blessed word. oh, that my noble friend were indeed my father! yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? alas! i feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. i never before remember to have heard the name of phillip amory. my sweet, pure, and gentle emily has taught me to love all the world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, i trust, to my own. moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world, never had, or could have. one might as well war with an angel of heaven as with a creature so holy and lovely as she. "nor bid me think of yourself as a man of sin and crime. it cannot be. it would be wronging a noble nature to believe it, and i say again it cannot be. gladly would i trust myself to repose on the bosom of such a parent; gladly would i hail the sweet duty of consoling the sorrows of one so self-sacrificing, so kind, so generous; whose life has been so freely offered for me, and for others whose existence was dearer to me than my own. when you took me in your arms and called me your child, your darling child, i fancied that the excitement of that dreadful scene had for the moment disturbed your mind and brain so far as to invest me with a false identity--perhaps confound my image with that of some loved and absent one. i now believe that it was no sudden madness, but rather that i have been all along mistaken for another, whose glad office it may perhaps be to cheer a father's saddened life, while i remain unrecognized, unsought--the fatherless, motherless one, i am accustomed to consider myself. if you have lost a daughter, god grant she may be restored to you, to love you as i would do, were i so blessed as to be that daughter! and i--consider me not a stranger; let me be your child in heart; let me love, pray, and weep for you; let me pour out my soul in thankfulness for the kind care and sympathy you have already given me. and yet, though i disclaim it all, and dare not, yes, dare not, dwell for a moment on the thought that you are otherwise than deceived in believing me your child, my heart leaps up in spite of me, and i tremble and almost cease to breathe as there flashes upon me the possibility, the blissful god-given hopes! no, no! i will not think of it, lest i could not bear to have it crushed! oh, what am i writing? i know not. i cannot endure the suspense long; write quickly, or come to me, my father--for i will call you so once, though perhaps never again. "gertrude." mr. phillips--or rather mr. amory, for we shall call him by his true name--had neglected to mention his address. gertrude did not observe this circumstance until she was preparing to direct her letter. she for a moment experienced a severe pang in the thought that her communication would never reach him. but she was reassured on examining the post-mark, which was evidently new york, to which she addressed her missive; and then, unwilling to trust it to other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to conceal her agitated face, deposited the letter herself in the village post-office. gertrude's case was a peculiarly trying one. she had been already, for a week past, struggling in suspense which agitated her almost beyond endurance; and now a new cause of mystery had arisen, involving an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. it seemed almost beyond the power of so sensitive, and so inexperienced a girl to rally such self-command as would enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observation, and compel herself to endure alone and in silence this cruel destiny. but she did do it, and bravely too. chapter xlii. ties--not of earth. in a private room of one of those first-class hotels in which new york city abounds, phillip amory sat alone. it was evening, the curtains were drawn, the gas-lamps burning brightly and giving a cheerful glow to the room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary inmate, who leaned upon a table in the centre of the apartment. he had thus sat for nearly an hour without once moving or looking up. suddenly he started up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly paced the room. a slight knock at the door arrested his steps; a look of annoyance overspread his countenance; he again flung himself into his chair, and, in reply to the servant's announcing, "a gentleman, sir," was preparing to say, "i cannot be interrupted"--but it was too late; the visitor had advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and repeated. the new-comer--a young man--stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host. "excuse me, mr. phillips," said william sullivan, for it was he; "i fear my visit is an intrusion." "do not speak of it," replied mr. amory. "i beg you to be seated;" politely handing a chair. willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. "you have changed, sir," continued he, "since i last saw you." "changed! yes, i am," said the other, absently. "your health, i fear, is not----" "my health is excellent," said mr. amory, interrupting his remark. "it is a long time, sir, since we met. i have not yet forgotten the debt i owe you for your timely interference between me and ali, that arab traitor, with his rascally army of bedouin rogues." "do not name it, sir," said willie. "our meeting was fortunate; but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to which we were alike exposed." "i cannot think so. you seemed to have a most excellent understanding with your own party of guides and attendants, arabs though they were." "true; i have had some experience in eastern travel, and know how to manage those inflammable spirits of the desert. but at the time i joined you, i was myself entering the neighbourhood of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party overawed but for having joined forces with yourself." "you set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers, young man. to you, who are so well acquainted with the facts in the case, i can hardly claim the merit of frankness for the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger which you were fortunately able to avert. no, no! i must once more express my gratitude for your invaluable aid." "you are making my visit, sir," said willie, smiling, "the very reverse of what it was intended to be. i did not come here this evening to receive but to render thanks." "for what, sir?" asked mr. amory, abruptly, almost roughly. "you owe me nothing." "the friends of isabella clinton, sir, owe you a debt of gratitude which it will be impossible for them ever to repay." "you are mistaken, mr. sullivan; i have done nothing which places that young lady's friends under a particle of obligation to me." "did you not save her life?" "yes; but nothing was further from my intention." willie smiled. "it could have been no accident, i think, which led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-passenger." "it was no accident which led to miss clinton's safety from destruction. i am convinced of that. but you must not thank _me_; it is due to another than myself that she does not now sleep in death." "may i ask to whom you refer?" "i refer to a dear and noble girl, to whom i swam in that burning wreck to save. her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between us. that veil, carefully thrown over the head of miss clinton, whom i found clinging to the spot assigned to--to her whom i was seeking, deceived me, and i bore in safety to the shore the burden which i had ignorantly seized from the gaping waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered her life as a sacrifice to----" "oh, not to die!" exclaimed willie. "no; to be saved by a miracle. go thank her for miss clinton's life." "i thank god," said willie, with fervour, "that the horrors of such scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like that." the stern countenance of mr. amory softened as he listened to the young man's enthusiastic outburst of admiration at gertrude's noble self-devotion. "who is she? where is she?" continued willie. "ask me not!" replied mr. amory, with a gesture of impatience; "i cannot tell you if i would. i have not seen her since that ill-fated day." his manner seemed to intimate an unwillingness to enter into further explanation regarding isabel's rescue, and willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent and irresolute. then advancing nearer, he said, "though you so utterly disclaim, mr. phillips, any participation in miss clinton's escape, i feel that my errand would be but imperfectly fulfilled if i should fail to deliver the message which i bring to one who was the final means if not the original cause of her safety. mr. clinton, the young lady's father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself had an early death, you have prolonged his life, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on his part are powerless to express; but that, as long as his feeble life is spared, he shall never cease to bless your name and pray to heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next your heart." there was a slight moisture in the penetrating eye of mr. amory, but a courteous smile upon his lip, as he said, "all this from mr. clinton! very gentlemanly, and equally sincere, i doubt not; but you surely do not mean to thank me wholly in his name, my young friend. have you nothing to say for your own sake?" willie looked surprised, but replied, unhesitatingly, "certainly, sir; as one of a large circle of acquaintances and friends whom miss clinton honours with her regard, my admiration and gratitude for your disinterested exertions are unbounded; and not only on her account, but on that of whom you nobly rescued from a most terrible death." "am i to understand that you speak only as a friend of humanity, and that you felt no personal interest in any of my fellow-passengers?" "i was unacquainted with nearly all of them. miss clinton was the only one i had known for any greater length of time than during two or three days of saratoga intercourse; but i should have mourned her death, since i was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who is now much enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so severe a shock as the loss of an only child, whom he idolises." "you speak very coolly, mr. sullivan. are you aware that the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a mere friendly interest in miss clinton?" the dilating of willie's eyes, as he fixed them inquiringly upon mr. amory--the half-scrutinising expression of his face, as he seated himself in the chair, were sufficient evidence of the effect of the question unexpectedly put to him. "sir," said he, "i either misunderstood you, or the prevailing belief is a most mistaken one." "then you never before heard of your own engagement." "never, i assure you. is it possible that so idle a report has obtained an extensive circulation among miss clinton's friends!" "sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of saratoga life, to hear it whispered from ear to ear, as a fact worthy of credit." "i am surprised and vexed at what you tell me," said willie. "nonsensical and false as such a rumour is, it will, if it should reach miss clinton, be a source of annoyance to her; and on that account, i regret the circumstances which have probably given rise to it." "do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady's part, or have you the modesty to believe that her pride would be wounded by having her name thus coupled with that of her father's junior partner, a young man hitherto unknown to fashionable circles? but, excuse me; perhaps i am stepping on dangerous ground." "by no means, sir; you wrong me if you believe my pride to be of such a nature. but i have not only reference to both the motives you name, but to many others, when i assert my opinion of the resentment miss clinton would probably cherish if your remarks should reach her ears." "mr. sullivan," said mr. amory, "are you sure you are not standing in your own light? are you aware that undue modesty with false notions of refinement has oft prevented many a man's good fortune, and is likely to interfere with your own?" "how so, sir? you speak in riddles, and i am ignorant of your meaning." "handsome young fellows, like you, can often command any amount of property for the asking; but many such chances rarely occur to one individual; and the world will laugh at you if you waste so fair an opportunity as you now have." "opportunity for what? you surely do not mean to advise me----" "i do, though. i am older than you are, and i know something of the world. a fortune is not made in a day, nor is money to be despised. mr. clinton's life is almost worn out in toiling after that wealth which will soon be the inheritance of his daughter. she is young, beautiful, and the pride of that high circle in which she moves. both father and daughter smile upon you; you need not look disconcerted--i speak as between friends, and you know the truth of that which strangers have observed, and which i have frequently heard mentioned as beyond doubt. why do you hesitate!" "mr. phillips," said willie, with embarrassment, "the comments of mere casual acquaintances, such as most of those with whom miss clinton associated in saratoga, are not to be depended upon. the relations in which i stand towards mr. clinton have been such as to draw me into constant intercourse with himself and his daughter. he is almost without relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and therefore appears to the world more favourably disposed towards me than would be found to be the case should i aspire to his daughter's hand. the lady, too, has so many admirers, that it would be vanity in me to believe----" "pooh, pooh!" exclaimed mr. phillips, "tell that, sullivan, to a greater novice, a more unsophisticated individual, than i am! it is very becoming in you to say so; but a few reminders will hardly harm a youth who has such a low opinion of his own merits. pray, who was the gentleman for whose society miss clinton was, a few nights since, so ready to forego the music of alboni, the crowded hall, and the smiles of a train of adorers?" willie said, "i remember!--that, then, was one of the causes of suspicion. i was then a messenger merely, to summon miss isabel to the bedside of her father, by whom i had been watching for hours, and who, on awakening from a lethargic sleep, which alarmed the physician, eagerly inquired for his daughter, that i did not hesitate to interrupt the pleasure of the evening and call her to the post of duty in the cottage occupied by mr. clinton, at the extremity of the grounds, to which i accompanied her by moonlight." mr. amory laughed, cast upon willie that look of benignity which became his fine countenance, and exclaimed, "so much for watering-place gossip! i must forbear speaking of any further evidences of a tender interest manifested by either of you. but believe, dear sullivan, that though the young lady's heart be still, like her fortune, in the united keeping of herself and her father, there is nothing easier than for you to win and claim them both. you possess business talent indispensable to the elder party; if, with your handsome face, figure, and accomplishments, you cannot render yourself equally so to the younger, there is no one to blame but yourself." willie laughed. "if i had that object in view, i know of no one to whom i would so soon come for encouragement as to you, sir; but the flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted upon me." mr. amory said, "i cannot believe you will be so foolish as to neglect the opportunity of taking that stand in life to which your education and qualities entitle you. your father was a respectable clergyman; you profited by every advantage in your youth, and have done yourself such credit in india as would enable you, with plenty of capital at command, to take the lead in a few years among mercantile men. a man just returned from a long residence abroad is thought to be an easy prey to the charms of the first of his fair countrywomen into whose society he may be thrown; and it can scarcely be wondered at, if you are subdued by such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land of beautiful women. nor can it be possible that you have for six years toiled beneath an indian sun without learning to appreciate the looked-for but happy termination of your toils, whose crowning blessing will be the possession of your beautiful bride." "mr. phillips," said willie, speaking with decision and energy, which proved how heart-felt were the words he uttered, "i have not spent many of the best years of my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in exile from all that i held most dear, without being sustained by high hopes, aims, and aspirations. but you misjudge me greatly if you believe that the ambition that has spurred me on can find its gratification in those rewards which you have so vividly presented to my imagination. no, sir! believe me, i aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best efforts wasted if my hopes tended not to a still more glorious good." "and to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such prospects?" asked mr. amory. "not to the gay circles of fashion," replied willie, "nor yet to that moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his position in life. i do not depreciate an honourable standing in the eyes of my fellow-men; i am not blind to the advantages of wealth, or to the claims of grace and beauty; but these were not the things for which i left my home, and it is not to claim them that i have returned. young as i am, i have seen enough of trial to believe that the only blessings worth striving for are something more enduring, more satisfying, than precarious wealth or fleeting smiles." "to what, then, i ask, do you look forward?" "to a _home_, and that not so much for myself as for another, with whom i hope to share it. a year since"--and willie's lip trembled, his voice faltered--"there were others, besides that dear one whose image now fills my heart, whom i had fondly hoped, and should have rejoiced, to see reaping the fruits of my exertions. but we were not permitted to meet again; and now--but pardon me, sir; i would not trouble you with my private affairs." "go on," said mr. amory; "i deserve some confidence in return for the disinterested advice i have been giving you. speak to me as to an old friend; i am much interested in what you say." "it is long since i have spoken freely of myself," said willie, "but frankness is natural to me, and, since you profess a desire to learn something of my aim in life, i know of no motive i have for reserve or concealment. but my position, sir, even as a child, was singular; and excuse me if i briefly refer to it. i could not have been more than twelve or fourteen years of age when i began to realise the necessity which rested upon me. my widowed mother and her aged father were the only relatives i knew. one was feeble, delicate, and unequal to active exertion; the other was old and poor, being wholly dependent upon a small salary for officiating as sexton of a neighbouring church. yet in spite of these circumstances they maintained me for several years in comfort and decency, and gave me an excellent education. "at an age when kites and marbles are so engrossing, i had an earnest desire to relieve my mother and grandfather of a part of their care and labour; and i obtained a situation, in which i was well treated and well paid, and which i retained until the death of my excellent master. then, for a time, i felt bitterly the want of employment, and became despondent; a state of mind which was fostered by constant association with my desponding grandfather, who, having met with great disappointment in life, encouraged me not, but was ever hinting at the probability of my failing in every scheme for advancement. "i have since thought his doubtings answered a good purpose; for nothing so urged me on to efforts as the desire to prove the mistaken nature of his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satisfaction than the assurances i have received during the past few years that he came at last to a full conviction that my prosperity was established, and that one of his ill-fated family was destined to escape the trials of poverty. "my mother was a quiet, gentle woman, small in person, with great simplicity, and some reserve of manner. she loved me like her own soul; she taught me everything i know of goodness; there is no sacrifice i would not have made for her happiness. i would have died to save her life; but we shall never meet again in this world, and i--i--am learning to be resigned. "for these two, and one other, whom i shall speak of presently, i was ready to go away, and strive, and suffer, and be patient. the opportunity came and i embraced it. and soon one great object of my ambition was won; i was able to earn a competency for myself and for them. and i began to look forward to a day when my long looked-for return should render our happiness complete. i little thought then that the sad tidings of my grandfather's death were on their way, and the news of my mother's slow but sure decline so soon to follow. but they are both gone; and i should now be so solitary as almost to long to follow them but for one other, whose love will bind me to earth so long as she is spared." "and she?" exclaimed mr. amory, with an eagerness which willie, engrossed with his own thoughts, did not observe. "is a young girl," continued willie, "without family, wealth, or beauty; but with a spirit so elevated as to make her great--a heart so noble as to make her rich--a soul so pure as to make her beautiful." mr. amory's fixed attention, his evident waiting to hear more, emboldened willie to add: "there lived in the same house which my grandfather occupied an old man, a city lamplighter. he was poorer even than we were, but there never was a better or a kinder-hearted person in the world. one evening, when engaged in his round of duty, he picked up and brought home a little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had thrust into the street to perish with cold, or die a more lingering death in the almshouse; for nothing but such devoted care as she received from my mother and uncle true (so we always called our old friend) could have saved the half-starved creature from the consequences of long exposure and ill-treatment. through their unwearied watching and efforts she was spared, to repay in after years more than all the love bestowed upon her. she was then miserably thin, and plain in her appearance, besides being possessed of a violent temper, which she had never been taught to restrain, and a stubbornness which resulted from her having long lived in opposition to all the world. "all this, however, did not repel uncle true, under whose loving influence new virtues and capacities soon began to manifest themselves. in the atmosphere of love in which she now lived she soon became a changed being; and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught her at home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself sitting in darkness, casts a halo forth from her own spirit to illumine those of all who are blessed with her presence, she became, what she has ever since been, a being to love and to trust for a lifetime. for myself, there were no bounds to the affection i soon came to cherish for the little girl, to whom i was first attracted by compassion merely. "we were constantly together; we had no thoughts, no studies, no pleasures, sorrows, or interests that were not shared. i was her teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amusements; and she was by turns an advising and sympathising friend. in this latter character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful nature, and a buoyancy of spirit which imparted itself to me. i well remember when my kind employer died, and i was plunged in grief and despair, the confidence and energy with which she, then very young, inspired me. the relation between her and uncle true was beautiful. boy as i was i could not but view with admiration the old man's devoted love for the adopted darling of his latter years (his birdie, as he always called her), and the grateful affection which she bore him in return. "during the first few years she was wholly dependent upon him, and seemed only a fond, affectionate child; but a time came at last when the case was reversed, and the old man, stricken with disease, became infirm and helpless. it was then that the beauty of her woman's nature shone forth triumphant; and, oh! how gently, child as she was, she guided his steps as he descended to the grave. often have i gone to his room at midnight, fearing lest he might be in need of care which she in her youth and inexperience would be unable to render; and never shall i forget the little figure seated calmly by his bedside, at an hour when many of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up by the night and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a table before her, and she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly soothing his wakefulness by her loving words, or with her eyes bent upon her little bible, reading to him holy lessons. but all her care could not prolong his life; and just before i went to india he died, blessing god for the peace imparted to him through his gentle nurse. "it was my task to soothe our little gerty's sorrows, and do what i could to comfort her, an office which, before i left the country, i was rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the excellent blind lady who had long befriended both her and uncle true. before i went away, i solemnly committed to gerty, who had in one instance proved herself both willing and able, the care of my mother and grandfather. she promised to be faithful to her trust; and nobly was that promise kept. in spite of the unkindness and deep displeasure of mr. graham (the blind lady's father), upon whose bounty she had for a long time been dependent, she devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfilment of duties which in her eyes were sacred and holy. in spite of suffering, labour, watching, and privation, she voluntarily forsook ease and pleasure, and spent day and night in the patient service of friends whom she loved with a greater love than a daughter's, for it was that of a saint." chapter xliii. the examination. "certainly," said mr. amory, "i can well understand that a man of a generous spirit could hardly fail to cherish a deep and lasting gratitude for one who devoted herself so disinterestedly to a toilsome attendance upon the last hours of beloved friends, to whose wants he himself was prevented from ministering; and the warmth with which you eulogise this girl does you credit, sullivan. she must be a young person of great excellence to have fulfilled so well a promise of such remote date that it would probably have been ignored by a less disinterested friend. "i can hardly believe that a young man who has had the ambition to mark out, and the energy to pursue, such a course on the road to fortune as you have thus far successfully followed, can have made a serious resolve to unite himself and his prospects with an insignificant little playmate, of unacknowledged birth, without beauty or fortune, unless there is already an engagement, by which he is bound, or he allows himself to be drawn on to matrimony by the belief that the highest compliment he can pay (namely, the offer of himself) will alone cancel the immense obligations under which he labours. may i ask if you are already shackled by promises?" "i am not," replied willie. "then listen a moment. my motives are friendly when i beg you not to act rashly in a matter which will affect the happiness of your own life; and to hear, with patience, too, if you can, the few words which i have to say on the subject. you must mistake, my young friend, if you believe that the happiness of gerty, as you call her--a very ugly name--can be insured, any more than your own, by an ill-assorted union, of which you will both find cause to repent. you have not seen her for six years, think then of all that has happened in the meantime, and beware of acting with precipitation. you have all this time been living abroad in active life, growing in knowledge of the world, and its various phases of society. in india you witnessed a mode of life wholly different from that which prevails with us, or in european cities; but the independence, both of character and manner, which you there acquired fitted you admirably for the polished sphere of parisian life, to which you were so suddenly introduced, and in which you met with such marked success. "notwithstanding the privilege you enjoy of being presented in polite circles as the friend of a man so well known and so much respected as mr. clinton, you cannot have been insensible to the marked attentions bestowed upon you by american residents abroad, or unaware of the advantage you enjoyed, on your return home, from having been known as the object of such favour. though i did not meet you in paris, i was there at the same time, and became acquainted with facts which you would have too much modesty to acknowledge. it is also evident that your pride must have been flattered by the favourable reception you have met, both abroad and at home, especially from the young and beautiful women who have honoured you with their smiles, and among whom she whose name the crowd already associates with your own stands preeminent. "when i think of all this, and of those pecuniary hopes you may indulge, and imagine you flinging all these aside to chivalrously throw yourself at the feet of your mother's little nurse, i find it impossible to keep silent and avoid reminding you of the disappointment that must ensue on finding yourself at once and for ever shut out from participation in pleasures which have been within your reach and voluntarily discarded. you must remember that much of the consideration which is paid to a young bachelor of growing prospects ceases to be awarded to him after marriage, and is never extended to his bride, unless she be chosen from the select circles to which he aspires. this unportioned orphan with whom you propose to share your fate--this little patient school-mistress----" "i did not tell you she had ever been a teacher!" exclaimed willie, stopping short in his walk up and down the room--"i did not tell you anything of the sort! how did you know it?" mr. amory, who had thus betrayed more knowledge than he had been supposed to possess, hesitated a moment, but quickly recovering himself answered, with apparent frankness, "to tell the truth, sullivan, i have seen the girl in company with an old doctor." "dr. jeremy?" asked willie, quickly. "the same." "when did you see her? how did it happen?" "i happened to see the old gentleman in the course of my travels, and this gertrude flint was with him. he told me a few facts concerning her; nothing to her disadvantage, however; in warning you against a misalliance, i speak only in general terms." willie looked at mr. amory wondering, and was anxious to learn further particulars. mr. amory went on without giving him a chance to speak. "this gerty, sullivan, will be a dead weight upon your hands--a constant drawback to all your efforts to attain fashionable society, in which she cannot be fitted to shine. you yourself pronounce her to be without wealth or beauty; of her family you know nothing, and have certainly little reason to expect that, if discovered, it would do her any credit. i believe, then, that i only speak from the dictates of common sense when i bid you beware how you make, in the disposal of yourself, such an unequal bargain." "i am willing to believe, sir," said willie, "that the arguments you have adduced upon a question most important to my welfare are based upon calm reasoning and a disinterested desire to promote my prosperity. i confess you are the last man, judging from our short acquaintance, from whom i should have expected such advice, for i had believed you so indifferent to the applause of the world that they would weigh but little with you in forming estimates for the guidance of others. still, though your suggestions have failed to change my sentiments or intentions, i thank you for the sincerity and earnestness with which you have sought to mould my judgment by your own, and will reply to your arguments with such frankness as will, i think, persuade you that, so far from following the impulses of a blind enthusiasm, to plunge with haste into a course of action hereafter to be deplored, i am actuated by feelings which reason approves, and which have already stood the test of experience. "you speak truly when you impute to me a natural taste for good society; a taste which poverty, and the retirement in which my boyhood was passed, gave me little opportunity to manifest, but which had some influence in determining my aims and ambition in life. the fine houses, equipages, and clothes of the rich had less charm for my fancy than the ease, refinement, and elegance of manner which distinguished some few of their owners who came under my observation; and, much as i desired the attainment of wealth for the sake of intrinsic advantages, and the means it would afford of contributing to the happiness of others, it would have seemed to me divested of its value should it fail to secure to its possessor a free admittance to the polite and polished circle upon which i looked with admiring eyes. "i needed not, therefore, the social deprivations i experienced in india to prepare me to enter with eager zest into the excitement and pleasures of parisian life, to which, through the kindness of mr. clinton, i obtained, as it seems you are aware, a free and immediate introduction. "it is true i was summoned thither at a time when my spirits had been for months struggling with depression, caused by sad news from home, and had not, therefore, the least disposition to avail myself of mr. clinton's politeness; but the feebleness of his health, and his inability to enjoy the gaieties of the place, compelled me to offer myself as an escort to his daughter, who, fond of society, accepted my services, thus drawing me into the very whirl and vortex of fashionable life, in which i soon found much to flatter, bewilder, and intoxicate. i could not be insensible to the privileges so unexpectedly accorded to me, nor could my vanity be wholly proof against the assaults made upon it. nor was my manliness of character alone at stake. but the soundness of principle and simplicity of habit implanted in me from childhood, and hitherto preserved intact, soon found themselves at stake. i had withstood every kind of gross temptation, but my new associates now presented it to me in that subtle form which often proves a snare. the wine-cup could never have enticed me to the disgusting scenes of drunken revelry; but held in the hands of the polished gentlemen, who had, but a moment before, been the recipients of popular favour and women's smiles, it sparkled with a richer lustre, and its bitter dregs were forgotten. the professed gamester would vainly have sought me for an accomplice; but i was not equally on my guard against the danger which awaited me from other unexpected quarters; for how could i believe that my friends, mr. clinton's friends, the ornaments of the sphere in which they moved, would unfairly win my money, and lead me to ruin? i wonder as i look back upon my residence in paris that i did not fall a victim to one of the snares that were on every side spread for my destruction, and into which my social disposition and unsophisticated nature rendered me prone to fall. nothing but the recollection of my pure-minded and watchful mother, whose recent death had recalled to my mind her warning counsels--deemed by me, at the time, unnecessary; but now, springing up and arming themselves with a solemn meaning--nothing but the consciousness of her gentle spirit, ever hovering around my path, saddened by my conflicts, rejoicing in my triumphs, could ever have given me courage and perseverance to resist, and finally escape, the pitfalls into which my unwary steps would have plunged me. had i approached the outskirts of fashionable life, and been compelled to linger with longing eyes at the threshold; i might even now be loitering there, a deceived spectator of joys which it was not permitted to me to enter and share; or, having gained a partial entrance, be eagerly employed, in pushing my way onward. "but admitted at once into the arcana of a sphere i was eager to penetrate, my eyes were soon opened to the vain and worthless nature of the bauble fashion. not that i did not meet within its courts the wit, talent, and refinement which i had hoped to find there, or that these were invariably accompanied by less attractive qualities. no; i truly believe there is no class which cannot boast of its heroes and heroines, and that there are, within the walks of fashionable life, men and women who would grace a wilderness. nor do i despise forms and ceremonies which are becoming in themselves, and conducive to elegance and good breeding. as long as one class is distinguished by education and refined manners, and another is marked by ignorance and vulgarity, there must be a dividing line between the two, which neither perhaps would desire to overstep." "you are young," said mr. amory, "to be such a philosopher. many a man has turned away with disgust from an aristocracy into which he could himself gain no admittance; but few renounce it voluntarily." "few, perhaps," replied willie, "few _young_ men have had to penetrate its secrets. i may say without treachery, since i speak in general terms only, that i have seen more ignorance, more ill-breeding, meanness, and immorality in the so-called aristocracy of our country than i should have believed it possible would be tolerated there. i have known instances in which the most accomplished gentleman, or the most beautiful lady, of a gay circle has given evidence of want of information on the most common topics. i have seen elegant evening assemblies disgraced by the greatest rudeness and incivility. i have seen the lavish expenditure of to-day atoned for by a despicable parsimony on the morrow; and i have seen a want of principle exhibited by both sexes, which proves that a high position is no security against such contamination of the soul as unfits it for an exalted place hereafter." "i have witnessed no less myself," said mr. amory; "but my experiences have not been like those of other men, and my sight has been sharpened by circumstances. i am still astonished that you should have been awake to these facts." "i was not at first," answered willie. "it was only gradually that i recovered from the blinding effect which the glitter and show of fashion imposed upon my perceptions. my suspicions of its falsehood and vanities were based upon instances of selfishness, folly, and cold-heartedness which came to my knowledge. i could relate thousands of mean deceits, contemptible rivalries, and neglect of sacred duties which came under my immediate observation. "especially was i astonished at the effect of an uninterrupted pursuit of pleasure upon the sensibilities, the tempers, and the domestic affections of women. though bearing within my heart an image of female goodness and purity, this sweet remembrance might possibly have been driven from its throne and supplanted by one of the lovely faces which at first bewildered me by their beauty, had these last been the index to souls of equal perfection. there may be noble and excellent women moving in the highest walks of life whose beauty and grace are less admirable than their own high natures; but among those with whom i became familiarly acquainted there was not one who could in the least compare with her who was continually present to my memory, who is still, and ever must be, a model to her sex. "gertrude flint was the standard by which each in my mind was measured. how could i help contrasting the folly, the worldliness, and the cold-heartedness around me with the cultivated mind, the self-sacrificing and affectionate disposition of one who possesses every quality that can adorn life? you failed to convince me that gertrude can in any way be a drawback to the man who shall be so fortunate as to call her his. for my own part, i desire no better, no more truly aristocratic position in life than that to which she is so well entitled, and to which she would be one of the brightest ornaments--the aristocracy of true refinement, knowledge, grace, and beauty. you talk to me of wealth. gertrude has no money in her purse, but her soul is the pure gold, tried in the furnace of sorrow and affliction, and thence come forth bright and unalloyed. you speak of family and an honourable birth. she has no family, and her birth is shrouded in mystery; but the blood that courses in her veins would never disgrace the race from which she sprung, and every throb of her unselfish heart allies her to all that is noble. "you are eloquent upon the subject of beauty. when i parted from gertrude, she was, in all but character, a mere child, being only thirteen years of age. though much altered and improved since the time when she first came among us, i scarcely think she could have been said to possess much of what the world calls beauty. it was a matter of which i seldom thought or cared; and had i been less indifferent on the subject, she was so dear to me that i should have been unable to form an impartial judgment of her claims in this respect. "i well remember, however, the indignation i once felt at hearing a fellow-clerk, who had met her in one of our walks, sneeringly contrast her personal appearance with that of our employer's handsome daughter, miss clinton; and the proportionate rapture with which i listened to the excellent teacher, miss brown, when, being present at a school examination, i overheard her commenting to a lady upon gertrude's wonderful promise in person as well as in mind. whether the first part of this promise has been fulfilled i have no means of judging; but as i recall her dignified and graceful little figure, her large, intelligent, sparkling eyes, the glow of feeling that lit up her countenance, and the peaceful, almost majestic expression which purity of soul imparted to her yet childish features, she stands forth to my remembrance the embodiment of all that i hold most dear. "six years may have outwardly changed her much; but they cannot have robbed her of what i prize the most. she has charms over which time can have no power, a grace that is a gift of heaven, a beauty that is eternal. could i ask for more? do not believe, then, that my fidelity to my early playmate is an emotion of gratitude merely. it is true i owe her much--far more than i can ever repay; but the honest warmth of my affection for the noble girl springs from the truest love of a purity of character and singleness of heart which i had never seen equalled. "what is there in the foolish walks of fashion, the glitter of wealth, the homage of an idle crowd, that could so elevate my spirit and inspire my exertions as the thought of a peaceful, happy home, blessed by a presiding spirit so formed for confidence, love, and a communion that time can never dissolve and eternity will but render more secure and unbroken?" "and she whom you love so well--are you sure----" asked mr. phillips, speaking with a visible effort, and faltering ere he had completed his sentence. "no," answered willie, anticipating the question. "i know what you would ask. i am _not_ sure. i have no reason to indulge the hopes i have been dwelling upon so fondly; but i do not regret having spoken with such candour; for, should she grieve my heart by her coldness, i should still be proud to have loved her. until this time, since i gained my native land, i have been shackled with duties which, sacred as they were, have chafed a spirit longing for freedom to follow its own impulses. in this visit to you, sir, i have fulfilled the last obligation imposed upon me by my excellent friend, and to-morrow i shall be at liberty to go where my duty alone prevented me from at once hastening." he offered his hand to mr. amory, who grasped it with a cordiality very different from the feeble greeting he had given him on his entrance, "good-bye," said he, "you carry with you my best wishes for a success which you seem to have so much at heart; but some day or other i feel sure you will be reminded of all i have said to you this evening." "strange man!" thought willie, as he walked towards his hotel. "how warmly he shook my hand at parting! and how affectionately he bade me farewell, notwithstanding the cold reception he gave me, and the pertinacity with which i rejected his opinions and repelled his advice!" chapter xliv. the long looked-for returned. "miss gertrude," said mrs. prime, opening the parlour-door, putting her head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing with a stealthy pace--"my! how busy you are! lor's sakes alive, if you an't rippin' up them great curtains of mrs. graham's for the wash! i wouldn't be botherin' with 'em, miss gertrude; she won't be here this fortnight, and mrs. ellis will have time enough." "oh, i have nothing else to do, mrs. prime; it's no trouble." then, looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, "it seems very cosy for us all to be at home--doesn't it?" "it seems beautiful!" answered mrs. prime; "and i can't help thinking how nice it would be if we could all live on jist as we are now, without no more intrusions." gertrude smiled and said, "everything looks as it used to in old times, when i first came here. i was quite a child then," continued she, with a sigh. "gracious me! what are you now?" said mrs. prime. "for mercy's sake, miss gertrude, don't you begin to think about growin' old. there's nothin' like feelin' young to keep young. there's miss patty pace, now----" "i have been meaning to ask after her," exclaimed gertrude; "is she alive and well yet?" "she!" replied mrs. prime; "lor', she won't never die! old women like her, that feel themselves young gals, allers live for ever; but the baker's boy that fetched the loaves this mornin' brought an arrant from her, and she wants to see you the first chance; but i wouldn't hurry either about goin' there or anywhere, miss gertrude, till i got rested; for you an't well, you look so kind o' tired out." "did she wish to see me?" asked gertrude. "poor old thing! i'll go and see her this very afternoon; and you needn't feel anxious about me, mrs. prime--i am quite well." gertrude went. she found miss patty nearly bent double with rheumatism, dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a miserable fire. she was in tolerable spirits, and hailed gertrude's entrance by a cordial greeting. innumerable were the questions she put to gertrude regarding her own personal experiences during the past year. "so you have not yet chosen a companion," said she, after gertrude had responded to all her queries. "that is a circumstance to be regretted. not," continued she, with a little smirk, "that it is ever too late in life for one to meditate the conjugal tie, which is often assumed with advantage by persons of fifty or more; and certainly you, who are still in the bloom of your days, need not despair of a youthful swain. existence is twofold when it is shared with a congenial partner; and i had hoped that before now, miss gertrude, both you and myself would have formed such an alliance; for the protection of the matrimonial union is one of its greatest advantages." "i hope you have not suffered from the want of it," said gertrude. "i have, miss gertrude, suffered incalculably. but the keenest pangs have been the sensibilities; yes, the sensibilities--the finest part of our nature, and that which will least bear wounding." "i am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved," said gertrude. "i should have supposed that, living alone, you might have been spared this trial." "oh, miss gertrude!" exclaimed the old lady, lifting up both hands, and speaking in a pitiable tone--"oh, that i had the wings of a dove, wherewith to fly away from my kindred! i fondly thought to have distanced them, but during the past year they have discovered my retreat, and i cannot elude their vigilance. hardly can i recover from the shock of one visitation--made for the sole purpose of taking an inventory of my possessions and measuring the length of my days--before the vultures are again seen hovering round my dwelling. but," exclaimed she, raising her voice and chuckling as she spoke, "they shall fall into their own snare; for i will dupe every one of them yet!" "i was not aware that you had any relations," said gertrude; "and it seems they are such only in name." "name!" said miss pace, emphatically. "i am glad at the thought that they are not honoured with a cognomen which not one of them is worthy to bear. no, they pass by a different name--a name as plebeian as their own coarse souls. three of them stand to each other in a fraternal relation, yet they are alike hateful to me. one, a contemptible coxcomb, comes here to overawe me with his presence, which he conceives to be imposing; calls me aunt--aunt; thus testifying by his speech to a consanguinity which he blindly fancies makes him nearer akin to my property!" the old lady almost shrieked the last word. "and the other two are beggars! always were--always will be; let 'em be--i'm glad of it!" "you hear me, miss gertrude; you are a young lady of quick comprehension, and i will avail myself of your contiguity, which, although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by some eager lover, to request at your hands a favour, such as i little thought once i should ever feel compelled to seek. i sent for you to write (miss patty whispered) the last will and testament of miss patty pace." the poor woman's trembling voice evinced a deep compassion for herself, which gertrude could not help sharing; and she expressed a willingness to comply with her wishes as far as was in her power, at the same time declaring her utter ignorance of all the forms of law. to gertrude's astonishment, miss patty announced a perfect acquaintance with all the legal knowledge which the case demanded; and in so complete a manner did she dictate the words of the important instrument that, being afterwards properly witnessed, signed, and sealed, it was found in a few months--at which time miss patty died--free from imperfection and flaw, and proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the inheritance. it may be as well to state here, however, that he who was pronounced sole heir to the valuable property never availed himself of the bequest, otherwise than to make a careful bestowal of it among her relatives. the solo inheritor of her estate was william sullivan, the knight of the rosy countenance, who with chivalrous spirit captivated miss patty's virgin heart, and gained her lasting favour. but that chivalrous spirit accepted not a reward so disproportioned to the slight service he had rendered the old lady. gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing the exact idea which the old woman's rambling dictation was intended to convey; and it was two or three hours before the manuscript was completed. the sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain began to fall, as she walked home; but the distance was not great, and the only damage she sustained was a slight dampness to her garments. emily perceived it, and said, "your dress is quite wet, you must sit by the parlour fire. i shall not go down until tea-time, but father is there, and will be glad of your company; he has been alone all the afternoon." gertrude found mr. graham sitting in front of a pleasant wood fire, half-dozing, half-reading. she took a book and a low chair and joined him. but to avoid the heat she went to the sofa. soon there was a ring at the front door bell. the housemaid, who was passing by the door, opened it, and immediately ushered in a visitor. it was willie! gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she dared not trust herself to take a step forward. willie advanced to the centre of the room, looked at gertrude, bowed, hesitated, and said, "miss flint!--is she here?" the colour rushed into gertrude's face. she attempted to speak, but failed. it was not necessary. the blush was enough. willie recognised her, and starting forward, eagerly seized her hand. "gerty! is it possible?" the perfect naturalness and ease of his manner, the warmth with which he took and retained her hand, reassured the agitated girl. the spell seemed partially removed. for a moment he became in her eyes the willie of old, her dear friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim, "oh, willie, you have come at last! i am so glad to see you!" the sound of their voices disturbed mr. graham, who had fallen into a nap. he turned round in his easy chair, then rose. willie dropped gertrude's hand and stepped towards him. "mr. sullivan," said gertrude, with a feeble attempt at a suitable introduction. they shook hands, and then all three sat down. and now all gertrude's embarrassment returned. it is often the case that when the best of friends meet after a long separation they salute or embrace each other, and then, notwithstanding the weight of matter pressing on the mind of each--sufficient, perhaps, to furnish subjects of conversation for weeks to come--nothing of importance presents itself at once, and a pause ensues, which is finally filled up by some trivial question concerning the journey of the newly-arrived party. she had seen willie before; she was aware of his arrival; knew even the steamer in which he had come; but was anxious to conceal from him this knowledge. she could not tell him, since he seemed so ignorant of the fact himself, that they had met before; and she was at an utter loss what to do or say under the circumstances. her embarrassment soon communicated itself to willie; and mr. graham's presence, which was a restraint to both, made matters worse. willie, however, first broke the momentary silence. "i should hardly have known you, gertrude. i did not know you. how----" "how did you come?" asked mr. graham, abruptly, apparently unconscious that he was interrupting willie's remark. "in the _europa_," replied willie. "she got into new york about a week ago." "out here, i mean," said mr. graham, rather stiffly. "did you come out in the coach?" "oh, excuse me, sir," replied willie; "i misunderstood you. no, i drove out from boston in a chaise." "did anyone take your horse?" "i fastened him in front of the house." willie glanced out of the window (it was now nearly dusk) to see that the animal was still there. mr. graham settled himself in his easy chair and looked into the fire. "you are changed, too," said gertrude, in reply to willie's unfinished comment. then, fearing he might feel hurt at what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the colour which had retreated mounted once more to her cheeks. but he did not seem to feel hurt, but replied, "yes, an eastern climate makes great changes; but i think i can hardly have altered more than you have. why, only think, gerty, you were a child when i went away! i suppose i must have known i should find you a young lady, but i begin to think i never fully realised it." "when did you leave calcutta?" "the latter part of february. i passed the spring months in paris." "you did not write," said gertrude in a faltering voice. "no, i was expecting to come across by every steamer, and wanted to surprise you." gertrude looked confused, but replied, "i was disappointed about the letters; but i am very glad to see you again, willie." "you can't be so glad as i am," said he, lowering his voice and looking at her with great tenderness. "you seem more and more like yourself to me every minute that i see you. i begin to think, however, that i ought to have written and told you i was coming." gertrude smiled. willie's manner was so unchanged, his words so affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friendliness, although to his undivided love she felt she could have no claim. "no," said she, "i like surprises. don't you remember, i always did?" "remember? certainly," replied he; "i have never forgotten anything that you liked." just at this moment gertrude's birds, whose cage hung in the window at which willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise which they always made just at night. he looked up. "your birds," said gertrude; "the birds you sent me." "are they all alive and well?" asked he. "yes, all of them." "you have been a kind mistress to the little things. they are very tender." "i am very fond of them." "you take such care of those you love, dear gerty, that you are sure to preserve their lives as long as may be." his tone still more than his words betrayed the deep meaning with which he spoke. gertrude was silent. "is miss graham well?" asked willie. gertrude related, in reply, that her nerves had been recently much disturbed by the terrible experiences through which she had passed; and this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which gertrude forebore to mention her having been herself present. willie spoke with feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with severity of the reckless carelessness which had been the cause of it; and said that he had valued friends on board the boat, but was unaware that miss graham, whom he loved for gertrude's sake, was among them. conversation between gertrude and willie had by this time assumed something of their former familiarity. he had taken a seat near her on the sofa, that they might talk unrestrainedly; for although mr. graham might have dropped asleep again, yet it was not easy to forget his presence. there were many subjects on which it would have seemed natural for them to speak, had not gertrude avoided them. the causes of willie's sudden return, his probable stay, his future plans in life, and his reasons for having postponed his visit until he had been in the country more than a week--all these were inquiries which curiosity would have suggested; but to gertrude they all lay under embargo. she neither felt prepared to receive nor willing to force the confidence on matters which must be influenced by his engagement with miss clinton, and therefore preserved silence on these topics. and willie, deeply grieved at this strange want of sympathy on her part, forebore to thrust upon her notice these seemingly neglected circumstances. they talked of calcutta life, of parisian novelties, of gertrude's school-keeping, and many other things, but not a word of matters nearest to the hearts of both. at length a servant announced tea. mr. graham rose and stood with his back to the fire. willie rose also and prepared to take leave. mr. graham, with frigid civility, invited him to remain, and gertrude urged him to do so; but he declined with such decision that the latter understood that he felt the neglect with which mr. graham had treated him and his visit. in addition to the fact that the old gentleman disliked young men as a class, and that willie had intruded upon the privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bitter recollection that gertrude had once forsaken himself and emily (for so he in his own mind styled her conscientious choice between conflicting duties) for the very family of which their visitor was the only remaining member--a recollection which did not tend to conciliate the prejudiced man. gertrude accompanied willie to the door. the rain had ceased, but the wind whistled across the piazza. it was growing cold. willie buttoned his coat, and promised to see gertrude on the following day. "you have no overcoat," said she; "the night is chilly, and you are accustomed to a hot climate. you had better take this shawl;" and she took from the hat-tree a heavy scotch plaid. he thanked her and threw it over his arm; then, taking both her hands in his, looked her steadily in the face for a moment, as if he would fain have spoken. but, seeing that she shrank from his affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands and, with a troubled expression, bade her good-night. gertrude stood with the handle of the door in her hand until she heard the sounds of the horse's hoofs as he drove down the road; then retired to her own room. well as she had borne up during the longed-for yet much-dreaded meeting, calmly as she had sustained her part, her courage all forsook her now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the struggle was yet to come. had willie changed to her? no; he had come back as he went--generous, manly, and affectionate. he had manifested the same unaffected warmth of feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness, he had ever shown. in short, he was the willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved. there was a light tap at her door. thinking it a summons to the tea-table, she said, "jane, i do not wish for any supper." "it isn't that," said the girl; "but i have brought you a letter." gertrude sprang up and opened the door. "a little boy handed it to me and then ran off," said the girl, placing a large package in her hand. "he told me to give it to you straight away." "bring me a light," said gertrude. the girl went for a lamp, while gertrude wondered what a package so large could contain. she thought no letter could so soon arrive from mr. amory. while she was wondering, jane brought a lamp, by the light of which she detected his handwriting; and, breaking the seal, she drew from the envelope several closely-written pages, whose contents she perused with the greatest eagerness and excitement. chapter xlv. the father's story. "my daughter,--my loving, kind-hearted girl. now that your own words encourage me with the assurance that my first fear was unfounded--now that i can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, i will disclose the story of my life; and, while i prove to you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world's injustice. "i will conceal nothing. i will plunge at once into those disclosures which i most dread to utter, and trust to after explanation to palliate the darkness of my tale. "mr. graham is my step-father, and my blessed mother, long since dead, was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to emily. thus allied to those whom you love best, i am parted from them by a heavy curse; for, not only was mine the ill-fated hand (oh, hate me not yet, gertrude!) which locked poor emily up in darkness, but i stand accused in the eyes of my fellow-men of another crime, deep, dark, and disgraceful. and yet, though living under a ban, wandering up and down the world a doomed and broken-hearted man, i am innocent as a child of all intentional wrong, as you will learn, if you can trust to the truth of the tale i am about to tell. "nature gave and education fostered in me a rebellious spirit. i was the idol of my invalid mother, who, though she loved me with a love for which i bless her memory, had not the energy to subdue the passionate and wilful nature of her boy. but i was neither cruelly nor viciously disposed; and though my sway at home and among my school-fellows was alike indisputable, i made many friends, and not a single enemy. but a sudden check was at length put to my freedom. my mother married, and i soon came to feel bitterly the check which her husband, mr. graham, was likely to impose upon my boyish independence. had he treated me with kindness, had he won my affections (which he might easily have done, for my sensitive and impassioned nature disposed me to every tender and grateful emotion), great would have been his influence in moulding my yet unformed character. "but his behaviour towards me was that of chilling coldness and reserve. he repelled with scorn the first advance on my part which led me, at my mother's instigation, to address him by the paternal title--an offence of which i never again was guilty. and yet, while he seemed to ignore the relationship, he assumed its authority, thus wounding my pride and exciting opposition to his commands. "two things strengthened my dislike for my overbearing step-father. one was the consciousness of my dependence upon his bounty; the other a hint, which i received through a domestic, that mr. graham's dislike to me had its origin in an old enmity between himself and my own father--an honourable and high-minded man, whom it was ever my greatest pride to be told that i resembled. "great as was the warfare in my heart, power rested with mr. graham; for i was yet but a child, and necessarily subject to government--nor could i be deaf to my mother's entreaties that, for her sake, i would learn submission. it was only, therefore, when i had been most unjustly thwarted that i broke into direct rebellion; and even then there were influences ever at work to preserve outward harmony in our household. thus years passed on, and though i did not love mr. graham more, the force of habit, the interest afforded by my studies, and increasing self-control, rendered my life less obnoxious to me than it had once been. "i had one great compensation for my trials--the love i cherished for emily, who responded to it with equal warmth on her part. it was not because she stood between me and her father, a mediator and a friend; nor because she submitted to my dictation and aided me in all my plans; it was because our natures were made for each other, and, as they grew and expanded, were bound together by ties which a rude hand only could rend asunder. this tenderness and depth of affection became the life of my life. "at length my mother died. i was at that time, sorely against my will, employed in mr. graham's counting-house, and an inmate of his family. and now, without excuse, my step-father began a course of policy as unwise as it was cruel; and so irritating to my pride, and so torturing to my feelings, that it angered me almost to frenzy. he tried to rob me of the only thing that sweetened and blest my existence--the love of emily. i will not here recount the motives i imputed to him, nor the means he employed. but they were such as to change my former dislike into bitter hatred and opposition. "instead of submitting to his tyrannical interference, i sought emily's society on all occasions, and persuaded the gentle girl to lend herself to my schemes for thwarting her father's purposes. i did not speak to her of love; i did not seek to bind her to me by promises; i hinted not at marriage; a sense of honour forbade it. but, with a boyish independence, which i fear was the height of imprudence, i sought every occasion, even in her father's presence, to maintain that constant familiarity of intercourse which had been the growth of circumstances, and could not, without force, be restrained. "at length emily was taken ill, and for six weeks i was debarred her presence. when sufficiently recovered to leave her room, i sought and at last obtained an opportunity to see her. we had been together in the library more than an hour when mr. graham suddenly entered, and came towards us with a face whose severity i shall not soon forget. i did not heed an interruption, for the probable consequences of which i believed myself prepared. but i was little prepared for the attack actually made upon me. "that he would accuse me of disobedience to wishes which he had hinted in every possible way, and even intimate more plainly his resolve to place barriers between emily and myself, i fully expected, and was ready with my replies; but when he burst forth with a torrent of ungentlemanly abuse--when he imputed to me mean and selfish motives, which had never occurred to my mind--i was struck dumb with surprise and anger. "then, in the presence of the pure-minded girl whom i worshipped, he charged me with a horrid crime--the crime of forgery--asserting my guilt as recently discovered, but positive and undoubted. my spirit had raged before--now it was on fire. i lifted my hand and clenched my fist. what i would have done i know not. whether i should have found words to assert my innocence, and refute a charge utterly false--or whether, my voice failing me from passion, i should have swept mr. graham from my path, perhaps felled him to the floor, while i strode away to rally my calmness in the open air--i cannot now conjecture; for a wild shriek from emily recalled me to myself, and, turning, i saw her fall fainting upon the sofa. "forgetting everything but the apparently dying condition into which the horror of the scene had thrown her i sprang forward to her relief. there was a table beside her and some bottles upon it. i hastily snatched what i believed to be a simple restorative, and in my agitation emptied the contents of the phial in her face. i know not what the exact character of the mixture could have been; but its matters not--its effect was too awfully evident. the fatal deed was done--and mine was the hand that did it! "brought suddenly to consciousness by the intolerable torture that succeeded, the poor girl sprang screaming from the sofa, flung her arms wildly above her head, rushed in a frantic manner through the room, and crouched in a corner. i followed in an agony scarce less than her own; but she repelled me with her hands, uttering piercing shrieks. mr. graham, who for an instant had looked like one paralysed by the scene, now rushed forward like a madman. instead of aiding me in my efforts to lift poor emily from the floor, and so far from compassionating my situation, which was only less pitiable than hers, he, with a fierceness redoubled at my being the sole cause of the disaster, attacked me with a storm of cruel reproaches, declaring that i had killed his child. with words like these, which are still ringing in my ears, he drove me from the room and the house; a repulsion which i, overpowered by contrition and remorse, had neither the wish nor the strength to resist. "oh! the terrible night and day that succeeded! i wandered out into the country, spent the whole night walking beneath the open sky, endeavouring to collect my thoughts and compose my mind, and still morning found me with a fevered pulse and excited brain. with the returning light, however, i began to realise the necessity of forming some future plan of action. "emily's sad situation, and my intense anxiety to learn the worst effects of the fatal accident, urged me to hasten with the earliest morning, either openly or by stealth, to mr. graham's house. everything also which i possessed--all my money, the residue of my last quarter's allowance, my clothing, and a few valuable gifts from my mother--were in the chamber which i had occupied. there seemed to be no other course left for me than to return thither, and i retracted my steps to the city, determined, if it were necessary in order to gain the desired particulars concerning emily, to meet her father face to face. but as i drew near the house i hesitated and dared not proceed. mr. graham had exhausted upon me every angry word, had threatened even deeds of violence should i again cross his threshold; and i feared to trust my own fiery spirit to a collision in which i might be led on to an open resistance of the man whom i had already sufficiently injured. in the terrible work i had but yesterday done--a work of whose fatal effect i had even then a gloomy foreshadowing--i had blighted the existence of his worshipped child, and drawn a dark pall over his dearest hopes. it was enough. i would not for worlds be guilty of the sin of lifting my hand against the man who, unjust as he had been towards an innocent youth, had met a retaliation far too severe. "still, i knew his wrath to be unmitigated, was well aware of his power to excite my hot nature to frenzy, and resolved to beware how i crossed his path. meet him i must, to refute the false charges he had brought against me; but not within the walls of his dwelling, the home of his suffering daughter. in the counting-house, where the crime of forgery was said to have been committed, and in the presence of my fellow-clerks, i would publicly deny the deed, and dare him to its proof. but first i must either see or hear from emily before i met the father at all. i must learn the exact nature and extent of the wrong i had done him in the person of his child. for this, however, i must wait until, under cover of the next night's darkness, i could enter the house unperceived. "so i wandered about all day in torment, without having food or rest, the thought of my poor, darling, tortured emily ever present to my wretched thoughts. the hours seemed interminable. i remember that day of suspense as if it had been a whole year of misery. but night came at last, cloudy, and the air thickened with a heavy fog which, as i approached the street where mr. graham lived, concealed the house until i was opposite to it. i shuddered at the sight of the physician's chaise standing before the door; for i knew that dr. jeremy had closed his visits to emily more than a week previously, and must have been summoned to attend her since the accident. thinking it probable that mr. graham was in the house, i forbore to enter, but stood concealed by the mist, and watching my opportunity. "once or twice mrs. ellis, the housekeeper, passed up and down the staircase, as i could distinctly see through the sidelights of the door, and dr. jeremy descended, followed by mr. graham. the doctor would have passed hastily out, but mr. graham detained him, to question him regarding his patient, as i judged from the anxiety depicted on my step-father's countenance. the doctor's back was towards me, and i could only judge of his replies by the effect they produced on the questioner, whose haggard appearance became more distressed at every syllable that fell from the honest and truthful lips of the medical man, whose words were oracles to all who knew his skill. "i needed, therefore, no further testimony to force the conviction that emily's fate was sealed; and as i looked with pity upon the afflicted parent, and shudderingly thought of my agency in the work of destruction, i felt that the unhappy father could not curse me more bitterly than i cursed myself. deeply, however, as i mourned, and have never ceased to repent, my share in the exciting of that storm wherein the poor girl had been so cruelly shipwrecked, i could not forget the part that mr. graham had borne in the transaction, or forgive the wicked injustice and insults which had so unmanned me as to render my hand a fit instrument only of ruin; and as, after the doctor's departure, i watched my step-father walk away, and saw by a street-lamp that the look of pain had passed from his face, giving place to his usual composed and arrogant expression, and, understood by the loud and measured manner in which he struck his cane upon the pavement, that he was far from sharing my humble, penitent mood, i ceased to waste upon him a compassion which he seemed so little to require or deserve; and, pitying myself only, i looked upon his stern face with a soul which cherished for him no other sentiment than that of unmitigated hatred. do not shrink from me, gertrude, as you read this frank confession of my passionate and deeply stirred nature. you know not, perhaps, what it is to hate; but have you ever been tried as i was? "as mr. graham turned the corner of the street, i approached his house, drew forth a pass-key of my own, by means of which i opened the door, and went in. it was perfectly quiet, and no person was to be seen in any of the lower rooms. i passed noiselessly upstairs, and entered a little chamber at the head of the passage which communicated with emily's room. i waited here a long time, hearing no sound and seeing no one. but fearing that mr. graham would shortly return, i determined to ascend to my own room, collect my money and a few articles of value, and then make my way to the kitchen, and gain what news i could of emily from mrs. prime, the cook, a kind-hearted woman, who would, i felt sure, befriend me. "the first part of my object was accomplished; and i had descended the back staircase to gain mrs. prime's premises, when i suddenly met mrs. ellis coming from the kitchen, with a bowl of gruel in her hand. she was acquainted with all the particulars of the accident, and had been a witness to my expulsion from the house. she stopped short on seeing me, gave a slight scream, dropped the bowl of gruel, and prepared to make her escape, as if from a wild beast, which i doubt not that i resembled; since wretchedness, fasting, suffering, and desperation must all have been depicted in my features. i placed myself in her path, and compelled her to stop and listen to me. but before my eager questions could find utterance, an outburst from her confirmed my worst fears. "'let me go!' she exclaimed. 'you villain! you will be putting my eyes out next!' 'where is emily?' i cried. 'let me see her!' "'see her!' replied she. 'you horrid wretch! no! she has suffered enough from you. she is satisfied herself now.' 'what do you mean?' shouted i, shaking the housekeeper violently by the shoulder, for her words seared my very soul, and i was frantic. "'i mean that emily will never see anybody again; and if she had a thousand eyes, you are the last person upon whom she would wish to look!' "'does emily hate me, too?' burst from me then, in the form of a soliloquy rather than a question. the reply was ready, however. 'hate you? yes--more than that; she cannot find words bad enough for you! she mutters, even in her pain, 'cruel!--wicked!' she shudders at the sound of your name; and we are all forbidden to speak it in her presence.' i waited to hear no more, but rushed out of the house. that moment was the crisis of my life. the thunderbolt had fallen upon and crushed me. my hopes, my happiness, my fortune, my good name, had gone before; but one solitary light had, until now, glimmered in the darkness. it was emily's love. i had trusted in that--that only. it had passed away, and with it my youth, my faith, my hope of heaven. "from that moment i ceased to be myself. then fell upon me the cloud in which i have ever since been shrouded, and under which you have seen and known me. in that instant the blight had come, under the gnawing influence of which my happy laugh changed to the bitter smile; my frank and pleasant speech to tones of ill-concealed irony and sarcasm; my hair became prematurely grey, my features sharp and severe; my fellow-men, to whom i hoped to prove some day a benefactor, were henceforth the armed hosts of antagonists, with whom i would wage endless war--and the god whom i had worshipped--whom i had believed in, as a just and faithful friend and avenger--who was he?--where was he?--and why did he not right my cause? what direful and premeditated deed of darkness had i been guilty of that he should thus desert me? alas!--i lost my faith in heaven! "i know not what direction i took on leaving mr. graham's house. i have no recollection of any of the streets through which i passed, though doubtless they were all familiar; but i paused not until, having reached the end of a wharf, i found myself gazing down into the deep water, longing to take one mad leap and lose myself in everlasting oblivion! but for this final blow, beneath which my manhood had fallen, i would have cherished my life, at least until i could vindicate its fair fame; i would never have left a blackened memory for men to dwell upon and for emily to weep over. but now what cared i for my fellow-men! and emily!--she had ceased to love, and would not mourn; and i longed for the grave. there are moments in human life when a word, a look, or a thought, may weigh down the balance in the scales of fate and decide a destiny. "so it was with me. i was incapable of forming any plan for myself; but accident, as it were, decided for me. i was startled from the apathy into which i had fallen by the sudden splashing of oars in the water beneath, and in a moment a little boat was moored to a pier within a rod of the spot where i stood. i also heard footsteps on the wharf, and, turning, saw by the light of the moon, which was just appearing from behind a heavy cloud, a stout seafaring man, with a heavy pea-jacket under one arm and an old-fashioned carpet-bag in his left hand. he had a ruddy, good-humoured face, and as he was about to pass me and leap into the boat, where two sailors, with their oars dipped and ready for motion, were awaiting him, he slapped me on the shoulder, and exclaimed, 'well, my fine fellow, will you ship with us?' i answered as readily in the affirmative; and, with one look in my face, and a glance at my dress, which seemed to assure him of my station in life and probable ability to make compensation for the passage, he said, in a laughing tone, 'in with you, then!' "to his astonishment--for he had scarcely believed me in earnest--i sprang into the boat, and in a few moments was on board of a fine bark, bound i knew not whither. the vessel's destination was rio janeiro--a fact which i did not learn till we had been two or three days at sea, and to which i felt wholly indifferent. there was one other passenger beside myself--the captain's daughter, lucy grey, whom during the first week i scarcely noticed, but who appeared to be as much at home, whether in the cabin or on deck, as if she had passed her whole life at sea. i might have made the entire passage without giving another thought to this young girl--half child, half woman--had not my strange behaviour led her so to conduct herself which surprised and finally interested me. my wild and excited countenance, my constant restlessness, avoidance of food, and indifference to everything about me, excited her wonder and sympathy. she believed me partially deranged, and treated me accordingly. she would take a seat on deck directly opposite mine, look in my face, either ignorant or regardless of my observing her, and then walk away with a heavy sigh. occasionally she would offer me some little delicacy, begging that i would eat; and as, touched by her kindness, i took food more readily from her hand than any other, these little attentions became at last habitual. as my manners grew calmer and i settled into a melancholy which, though equally deep, was less fearful than the feverish torment under which i had laboured, she became reserved, and when i began to appear somewhat like my fellow-men, went regularly to the table, and, instead of pacing the deck all night, spent a part of it quietly in my state-room, lucy absented herself wholly from that part of the vessel where i passed the greater portion of the day, and i seldom exchanged a word with her, unless i purposely sought her society. "the stormy weather drove me to the cabin, where she usually sat on the transom reading or watching the troubled waves; and, as the voyage was long, we were thrown much in each other's way, especially as captain grey, who had invited me to ship with him, and who seemed to take an interest in my welfare, good-naturedly encouraged an intercourse by which he probably hoped i might be won from a state of melancholy that seemed to grieve the jolly ship-master almost as much as it did his kind-hearted, sensitive child. "lucy's shyness, therefore, wore gradually away, and before our tedious passage was completed i ceased to be a restraint upon her. she talked freely with me; for while i maintained a rigid silence concerning my own past experiences, of which i could scarcely endure to think, she exerted herself freely for my entertainment, and related with simple frankness almost every circumstance of her past life. sometimes i listened attentively; sometimes, absorbed in my own painful reflections, i would be deaf to her voice and forgetful of her presence. then i often observed that she had suddenly ceased speaking, and, starting from my reverie and looking quickly up, would find her eyes fixed upon me so reproachfully that, rallying my self-command, i would try to appear, and sometimes became, seriously interested in the artless narratives of my little entertainer. she told me that until she was fourteen years old she lived with her mother in a little cottage on cape cod, their home being only occasionally enlivened by the return of her father from his long absences at sea. they would visit the city where his vessel lay, pass a few weeks in great enjoyment, and then return to mourn the departure of the cheerful sea-captain, and patiently count the weeks and months until his return. she told me how her mother died; how bitterly she mourned her loss, and how her father wept when he came home and heard the news; how she had lived on shipboard ever since; and how sad and lonely she felt in time of storms when she sat alone in the cabin listening to the roar of the winds and waves. "tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of these things, and i would look upon her with pity as one whom sorrow made my sister. trial, however, had not robbed her of an elastic, buoyant spirit; and when, after the completion of some eloquent tale of early grief, the captain would approach unseen and surprise her by a sudden joke or sly piece of mischief, thus provoking her to retaliate, she was always ready for a war of wits, a laughing frolic, or even a game of romps. her tears dried up, her merry voice and playful words would delight her father, and the cabin would ring with peals of laughter; while i, shrinking from a mirth sadly at variance with my own happiness, and the sound so discordant to my sensitive nerves, would retire to brood over miseries for which it was hopeless to expect sympathy which could not be shared, and with which i must dwell alone. "such a misanthrope had my misfortunes made me that the sportive raillery between the captain and his merry daughter, and the musical laugh with which she would respond to the witticisms of two old sailors, grated upon my ears like something scarce less than personal injuries; nor could i have believed it possible that one so little able as lucy to comprehend the depth of my sufferings could feel any sincere compassion for them had i not once or twice been touched to see how her innocent mirth would give place to sudden sadness of countenance if she chanced to encounter my woe-begone face, rendered doubly gloomy when contrasted with the gaiety of herself and of her companions. "but i must not linger too long upon the details of our life on shipboard. i must forbear giving account of a terrific gale that we encountered, during which, for two days and a night, poor lucy was half frantic with fear; while i, careless of outward discomforts and indifferent to personal danger, was afforded an opportunity to requite her kindness by such protection and encouragement as i was able to render. "captain grey died. we were within a week's sail of our destination when he was taken ill, and three days before we were safely anchored in the harbour of rio he breathed his last. i shared with lucy the office of ministering to the suffering man, closed his eyes at last, and carried the fainting girl in my arms to another part of the vessel. with kind words and persuasions i restored her to her senses; and then, as the full consciousness of her desolation rushed upon her, she sunk at once into a state of hopeless despondency painful to witness. captain grey had made no provision for his daughter. well might the poor girl lament her sad fate! for she was without a relative in the world, penniless, and approaching a strange shore, which afforded no refuge to the orphan. we buried her father in the sea; and that sad office fulfilled, i sought lucy and endeavoured to arouse her to a sense of her situation and advise with her concerning the future; for we were now so near our port that in a few hours we might be compelled to leave the vessel and seek quarters in the city. she listened to me without replying. i hinted at the necessity of my leaving her, and begged to know if she had any plans for the future. she answered me only by a burst of tears. i begged her not to weep. "and then, with many sobs, and interrupting herself by frequent exclamations of vehement sorrow, she threw herself upon my compassion, and, with child-like artlessness, entreated me not to leave her or, as she termed it, to desert her. she reminded me that she was alone in the world; that the moment she stepped foot on shore she should be in a land of strangers; and, appealing to my mercy, besought me not to leave her to die alone. "what could i do? i had nothing on earth to live for. we were both alike orphaned and desolate. there was but one point of difference. i could work and protect her; she could do neither for herself. it would be something for me to live for; and for her, though but a refuge of poverty and want, it was better than the exposure and suffering that must otherwise await her. i told her how little i had to offer; that my heart even was crushed and broken; but that i was ready to labour in her behalf, to guard her from danger, to pity, and perhaps in time learn to love her. the unsophisticated girl had never thought of marriage; she had sought the protection of a friend, not a husband; but i explained to her that the latter tie only would obviate the necessity of our parting; and, in the humility of sorrow, she finally accepted my unflattering offer. "the only confidant to our sudden engagement, the only witness of the marriage, which within a few hours ensued, was an old, weather-beaten sailor, who had known and loved lucy from her childhood--ben grant. he accompanied us on shore and to the church. he followed us to the humble lodgings with which we contrived for the present to be contented, and devoted himself to lucy with self-sacrificing, but in one instance, alas! (as you will soon learn), with mistaken and fatal zeal. "after much difficulty, i obtained employment from a man in whom i accidentally recognized an old and valued friend of my father. he had been in rio several years, and was actively engaged in trade, and willingly employed me as a clerk, occasionally despatching me from home to transact business at a distance. my duties being regular and profitable, we were soon raised above want, and i was enabled to place my young wife in a situation of comfort. "the sweetness of her disposition, the cheerfulness with which she endured privation, the earnestness with which she strove to make me happy, were not without effect. i perseveringly rallied from my gloom; i succeeded in banishing the frown from my brow; and the premature wrinkles, which her hand would softly sweep away, finally ceased to return. the few months that i passed with your mother, gertrude, form a sweet episode in the memory of my stormy life. i came to love her much--not as i loved emily;--that could not be expected--but, as the solitary flower that bloomed on the grave of all my early hopes, she cast a fragrance round my path; and her child is not more dear to me, because a part of myself, than as the memento of the cherished blossom snatched hastily from my hand and rudely crushed. "about two months after your birth, my child, and before your eyes had ever learned to brighten at the sight of your father, who was necessarily much from home, the business in which i was engaged called me in the capacity of an agent to a station some distance from rio. i had been absent nearly a month, and had written regularly to lucy, informing her of all my movements (though i suspect the letters never reached her), when the neighbourhood in which i was stationed became infected with a fatal malaria. for the sake of my family i took every measure to ward off contagion, but failed. i was seized with fever, and lay for weeks near death. i was cruelly neglected during my illness; for i had no friends near me, and my slender purse held out little inducement for mercenary service; but my sufferings and forebodings on account of lucy and yourself were far greater than any which i endured from my bodily torments, although the latter were great. i had all sorts of imaginary fears; but nothing, alas! which could compare with the reality that awaited me when, after my dreadful illness, i made my way, destitute, ragged, and emaciated, back to rio. i sought my former home. it was deserted, and i was warned to flee from its vicinity, as the fearful disease of fever had nearly depopulated that and the neighbouring streets. i made every inquiry, but could obtain no intelligence of my wife and child. i hastened to the charnel-house where, during the raging of the pestilence, the unrecognized dead were exposed; but among the disfigured remains it was impossible to distinguish friends from strangers. i lingered about the city for weeks in hopes to gain some information concerning lucy; but could find no one who had ever heard of her. all day i wandered about the streets and on the wharves--the latter being places which ben grant (in whose faithful charge i had left your mother and yourself) was in the habit of frequenting--but not a syllable could i learn of any persons that answered my description. "my first thought had been that they would naturally seek my employer, to learn, if possible, the cause of my prolonged absence; and on finding my home empty i had hastened in search of him. but he too had, within a recent period, fallen a victim to the prevailing distemper. his place of business was closed and the establishment broken up. i continued my inquiries until hope died within me. i was told that scarce an inmate of the fatal neighbourhood where i had left my family had escaped; and convinced, finally, that my fate was still pursuing me with an unmitigated wrath, of which this last blow was but a single expression, that i might have foreseen and expected, i madly agreed to work my passage in the first vessel which promised me an escape from scenes so fraught with harrowing recollections. "and now commenced a course of wretched wandering. with varied ends in view, following strongly contrasted employments, and with fluctuating fortune, i have travelled over the world. my feet have trodden almost every land. i have sailed on every sea and breathed the air of every clime. i am familiar with the city and the wilderness, the civilized man and the savage. i have learned the sad lesson that peace is nowhere, and friendship, for the most part, but a name. "once during my wanderings i visited the home of my boyhood. unseen and unknown i trod a familiar ground and gazed on familiar, though time-worn faces. i stood at the window of mr. graham's library; saw the contented, happy countenance of emily--happy in her blindness and her forgetfulness of the past. a young girl sat near the fire endeavouring to read by its flickering light. i knew not then what gave such a charm to her thoughtful features, nor why my eyes dwelt upon them with a rare pleasure; for there was no voice to proclaim to the father's heart that he looked on the face of his child. i am not sure that the strong impulse which prompted me then to enter, acknowledge my identity, and beg emily to speak to me a word of forgiveness, might not have prevailed over the dread of her displeasure; but mr. graham at the moment appeared, cold and implacable as ever; i gazed an instant, then fled from the house. "although in the various labours which i was compelled to undertake to earn a decent maintenance, i had more than once met with such success as to give me temporary independence, and to enable me to indulge in expensive travelling, i had never amassed a fortune; indeed, i had not cared to do so, since i had no use for money, except to employ it in the gratification of my immediate wants. accident, however, at last thrust upon me a wealth which i could scarcely be said to have sought. "after a year spent in the wilderness of the west, amid adventures the relation of which now would seem to you almost incredible, i gradually continued my retreat across the country, and after encountering innumerable hardships, which had no other object than the indulgence of my vagrant habits, i found myself in that land which has recently been termed the land of promise, but which has proved to many a greedy emigrant a land of deceit. for me, however, who sought it not, it showered gold. i was among the earliest discoverers of its treasure-vaults--one of the most successful, though the least laborious, of the seekers after gain. nor was it merely, or indeed chiefly, at the mines that fortune favoured me. with the first results of my labours i purchased an immense tract of land, little dreaming at the time that those desert acres were destined to become the streets and squares of a great and prosperous city. so that without effort, almost without my own knowledge, i achieved the greatness which springs from untold wealth. but this was not all. the blessed accident which led me to this golden land was the means of disclosing a pearl of price--a treasure in comparison with which california and all its mines shrink, to my mind, into insignificance. you know how the war-cry went forth to all lands, and men of every name and nation brought their arms to the field of fortune. famine came next, with disease and death in its train; and many a man, hurrying on to reap the golden harvest, fell by the wayside, without once seeing the waving of the yellow grain. "half scorning the greedy rabble, i could not refuse in this, my time of prosperity, to minister to the wants of such as fell in the way; and now for once my humanity found its own reward. a miserable, ragged, half-starved, and apparently dying man crept to the door of my tent and asked in a feeble voice for charity. i did not refuse to admit him into my narrow domicile and to relieve his sufferings. he was the victim of want rather than disease, and, his hunger appeased, the savage brutality of his coarse nature soon manifested itself in the dogged indifference with which he received a stranger's bounty and the gross ingratitude with which he abused my hospitality. a few days served to restore him to his strength; and then, anxious to dismiss my visitor, whose conduct had already excited suspicions of his good faith, i gave him warning that he must depart; at the same time placing in his hand a sufficient amount of gold to insure his support until he could reach the mines which were his professed destination. "he appeared dissatisfied, and begged permission to remain until the next morning, as the night was near, and he had no shelter provided. to this i made no objection, little imagining how base a serpent i was harbouring. at midnight i was awakened from my light and easily-disturbed sleep to find my lodger busily engaged in rifling my property and preparing to take an unceremonious leave of my dwelling. nor did his villainy end here. upon my seizing and charging him with the theft, he snatched a weapon and attempted the life of his benefactor. but i was prepared to ward off the stroke, and succeeded in a few moments in subduing my desperate antagonist. he now crouched at my feet in such abject submission as might be expected from so vile a knave. well might he tremble with fear; for the lynch-law was then in full force for criminals like him. i should probably have handed the traitor over to his fate; but, ere i had time to do so, he held out to my cupidity a bribe so tempting that i forgot the deservings of my knavish guest in the eagerness with which i bartered his freedom as the price of its possession. "he freely emptied his pockets at my bidding, and restored to me the gold, for the loss of which i never should have repined. as the base metal rolled at my feet, there glittered among the coins a jewel as truly _mine_ as any of the rest, but which, as it met my sight, filled me with greater surprise than if it had been a new-fallen star. "it was a ring of peculiar design and workmanship, which had once been the property of my father, and after his death had been worn by my mother until the time of her marriage with mr. graham, when it was transferred to myself. i had ever prized it as a precious heirloom, and it was one of the few valuables which i took with me when i fled from my step-father's house. this ring, with a watch and some other trinkets, had been left in the possession of lucy when i parted with her at rio, and the sight of it once more seemed to me like a voice from the grave. i eagerly sought to learn from my prisoner the source whence it had been obtained, but he maintained an obstinate silence. it was now my turn to plead; and at length the promise of instant permission to depart, 'unwhipped by justice,' at the conclusion of his tale, wrung from him a secret fraught to me with vital interest. "this man was stephen grant, the son of my old friend ben. he had heard from his father's lips the story of your mother's misfortunes; and the circumstance of a violent quarrel which arose between ben and his vixen wife at the young stranger's introduction to their household impressed the tale upon his recollection. from his account it appeared that my long-continued absence from lucy, during the time of my illness, was construed by her honest but distrustful counsellor and friend into cruel desertion. the poor girl, to whom my early life was all a mystery which she had never shared, and to whom much of my character and conduct was inexplicable, began soon to feel convinced of the correctness of the old sailor's suspicions and fears. she had already applied to my employer for information concerning me; but he, who had heard of the pestilence to which i was exposed, and fully believed me to be among the dead, forbore to distress her by a communication of his belief, and replied to her questionings with an obscurity which served to give new force to her hitherto uncertain surmises. she positively refused, however, to leave our home; and, clinging to the hope of my final return thither, remained where i had left her until the terrible fever began its ravages. her small stock of money was by this time consumed; her strength both of mind and body gave way; and ben, becoming every day more confident that the simple-hearted lucy had been betrayed and forsaken, persuaded her at last to sell her furniture, and with the sum thus raised flee the infected country before it should be too late. she sailed for boston in the same vessel in which ben shipped before the mast; and on reaching that port her humble protector took her to the only home he had to offer. "there your mother's sad fate found a mournful termination; and you, her infant child, were left to the mercy of the cruel woman who, but for consciousness of guilt and her fear of its betrayal, would doubtless have thrust you at once from the miserable shelter her dwelling afforded. this guilt consisted in a foul robbery committed by nan and her infamous son upon your innocent mother, now rendered, through her feebleness, an easy prey to their rapacity. the fruits of this vile theft, however, were not participated in by nan, whose promising son so far exceeded her in duplicity and craft that, having obtained possession of the jewels for the alleged purpose of bartering them away, he reserved such as he thought proper, and appropriated to his own use the proceeds of the remainder. "the antique ring which i now hold in my possession, the priceless relic of a mournful tragedy, would have shared the fate of the rest but for its apparent worthlessness. to the luckless stephen, however, it proved at last a temporary salvation from the felon's doom which must finally await that hardened sinner; and to me--ah! to _me_--it remains to be proved whether the knowledge of the secrets to which it has been the key will bless my future life or darken it with a heavier curse! notwithstanding the information thus gained, and the exciting idea to which it gave rise, that my child might be still living and finally restored to me, i could not yet feel any security that these daring hopes were not destined to be crushed in their infancy, and that my newly-found treasure might not again elude my eager search. to my inquiries concerning you, gertrude, stephen, who had no longer any motives for concealing the truth, declared his inability to acquaint me with any particulars of a later period than the time of your residence with trueman flint. he knew that the lamplighter had taken you to his home, and was accidentally made aware, a few months later, of your continuance in that place of refuge from the old man's being such a fool as to call upon his mother and voluntarily make compensation for the injury done to her windows in your outburst of childish revenge. "i could learn nothing more; but it was enough to inspire all my energies to recover my child. i hastened to boston, had no difficulty in tracing your benefactor, and, though he had been long dead, found many a truthful witness to his well-known virtues. nor, when i asked for his adopted child, did i find her forgotten in the quarter of the city where she had passed her childhood. more than one grateful voice was ready to respond to my questioning, and to proclaim the cause they had to remember the girl who, having experienced the trials of poverty, made it both her duty and her pleasure of prosperity to administer to the wants of a neighbourhood whose sufferings she had aforetime both witnessed and shared. but, alas! to complete the sum of sad vicissitudes with which my unhappy destiny was already crowded, at the moment when i was assured of my daughter's safety, and my ears were greeted with the sweet praises that accompanied the mention of her name, there fell upon me like a thunderbolt the startling words, 'she is now the adopted child of sweet emily graham, the blind girl.' "oh, strange coincidence! oh, righteous retribution! which, at the very moment when i was picturing to myself the consummation of my cherished hopes, crushed me once more beneath the iron hand of a destiny that would not be cheated of its victim! my child, my only child, bound by the gratitude and love of years to one in whose face i scarcely dared to look, lest my soul should be withered by the expression of condemnation which the consciousness of my presence would inspire! "the seas and lands which had hitherto divided us seemed not, to my tortured fancy, so insurmountable a barrier between myself and my long-lost daughter as the dreadful reflection that the only earthly being whose love i had hoped in time to win had been reared from her infancy in a household where my name was a thing abhorred. "stung to the quick by the harrowing thought that all my prayers, entreaties, and explanations could never undo her early impressions, and that all my labours and all my love could never call forth other than a cold and formal recognition of my claims, i half resolved to leave my child in ignorance of her birth and never seek to look upon her face, rather than subject her to the terrible necessity of choosing between the friend whom she loved and the father from whose crimes she had learned to shrink with horror and dread. after struggling long with contending emotions, i resolved to make one effort to see and recognize you, gertrude, and at the same time guard myself from discovery. i trusted to the change which time had wrought in my appearance to conceal me effectually from all eyes but those which had known me intimately, and therefore approached mr. graham's house without the slightest fear of betrayal. i found it empty and apparently deserted. "i now directed my steps to the well-remembered counting-house, and here learned from the clerk that the whole household, including yourself, had been passing the winter in paris, and were at present at a german watering-place. without further inquiry i took the steamer to liverpool, thence hastened to baden-baden--a trifling excursion in the eyes of a traveller of my experience. without risking myself in the presence of my step-father, i took an early opportunity to obtain an introduction to mrs. graham, and, thanks to her unreserved conversation, learned that emily and yourself were left in boston, and were under the care of dr. jeremy. "on my return voyage, immediately undertaken, i made the acquaintance of dr. gryseworth and his daughter--an acquaintance which proved of great value in facilitating my intercourse with yourself. once more arrived in boston, dr. jeremy's house looked as if closed for the season. a man making some repairs about the door-step informed me that the family were absent from town. he was not aware of the direction they had taken, but the servants were at home and might acquaint me with their route. upon this i boldly rung the door-bell. it was answered by mrs. ellis, who nearly twenty years ago had cruelly sounded in my ears the death-knell of all my hopes in life. i saw that my incognito was secure, as she met my piercing glance without shrinking or taking flight, as i fully expected she would do at sight of the ghost of my former self. "she replied to my queries as coolly as she had done during the day to some dozen of the doctor's disappointed patients--telling me that he had left that morning for new york, and would not be back for two or three weeks. nothing could have been more favourable to my wishes than the chance thus afforded of overtaking your party and, as a travelling companion, introducing myself gradually to your notice. "you know how this purpose was effected; how, now in the rear, and now in advance, i nevertheless maintained a constant proximity to your footsteps. to add to the comfort of yourself and emily, to learn your plans, forestall your wishes, secure to your use the best of rooms, and bribe to your service the most devoted of attendants--i spared neither pains, trouble, nor expense. for much of the freedom with which i approached you and made myself an occasional member of your circle, i was indebted to emily's blindness; for i could not doubt that otherwise time and its changes would fail to conceal from her my identity, and i should meet with a premature recognition. nor until the final act of the drama, when death stared us all in the face, and concealment became impossible, did i once trust my voice to her hearing. "how closely, during those few weeks, i watched and weighed your every word and action, seeking even to read your thoughts in your face, none can tell whose acuteness is not sharpened and vivified by motives so all-engrossing as mine; and who can measure the anguish of the fond father who day by day learned to worship his child with a more absorbing idolatry, and yet dared not clasp her to his heart? "especially when i saw you the victim of grief and trouble did i long to assert a claim to your confidence; and more than once my self-control would have given way but for the dread inspired by the gentle emily--gentle to all but me. i could not brook the thought that with my confession i should cease to be the trusted friend and become the abhorred parent. i preferred to maintain my distant and unacknowledged guardianship of my child rather than that she should behold in me the dreaded tyrant who might tear her from the home from which he himself had been driven. "and so i kept silent; and sometimes present to your sight, but still oftener hid from view, i hovered around your path until that dreadful day, which you will long remember, when, everything forgotten but the safety of yourself and emily, my heart spoke out and betrayed my secret. and now you know all--my follies, misfortunes, sufferings, and sins! "can you love me, gertrude? it is all i ask. i seek not to steal you from your present home--to rob poor emily of a child whom she values perhaps as much as i. the only balm my wounded spirit seeks is the simple, guileless confession that you will at least try to love your father. "i have no hope in this world, and none, alas! beyond, but in yourself. could you feel my heart now beating against its prison bars, you would realize, as i do, that unless soothed it will burst ere long. will you soothe it by your pity, my sweet, my darling child? will you bless it by your love? if so, come, clasp your arms around me, and whisper to me words of peace. within sight of your window, in the old summer-house at the end of the garden, with straining ear, i wait listening for your footsteps." chapter xlvi. the reunion. as gertrude's eyes, after greedily devouring the manuscript, fell upon its closing words she sprang to her feet, and the next instant she has run down the staircase, run out of the hall door, and approached the summer-house from the opposite entrance to that at which mr. amory, with folded arms and a fixed countenance, is watching for her coming. so noiseless is her light step, that before he is conscious of her presence, she has thrown herself upon his bosom and, her whole frame trembling with the vehemence of long-suppressed agitation, burst into a torrent of passionate tears, interrupted only by frequent sobs, so deep and so exhausting that her father, with his arms folded around her, and clasping her so closely to his heart that she feels its irregular beating, endeavours to still the tempest of her grief, whispering softly, as to an infant, "hush! hush, my child! you frighten me!" and, gradually soothed by his gentle caresses, her excitement subsides, and she is able to lift her face to his and smile upon him through her tears. they stand thus for many minutes in a silence that speaks far more than words. wrapped in the folds of his heavy cloak to preserve her from the evening air, and still encircled in his strong embrace, gertrude feels that their union of spirit is not less complete; while the long-banished man, who for years has never felt the sweet influence of a kindly smile, glows with a melting tenderness which hardening solitude has not the power to subdue. at length mr. amory, lifting his daughter's face and gazing into her glistening eyes, while he gently strokes the disordered hair from her forehead, asks, in an accent of touching appeal, "you will love me, then?" "oh, i do! i do!" exclaimed gertrude, sealing his lips with kisses. his hitherto unmoved countenance relaxes at this fervent assurance. he bows his head upon her shoulder, and the strong man weeps. her self-possession all restored, at seeing him thus overcome, gertrude places her hand in his, and startles him from his position by the firm and decided tone with which she whispers, "come!" "whither?" exclaims he, looking up in surprise. "to emily." with a half shudder and a mournful shake of the head, he retreats instead of advancing in the direction in which she would lead him--"i cannot." "but she waits for you; she, too, weeps and longs and prays for your coming." "emily!--you know not what you are saying!" "indeed, my father; it is you who are deceived. emily does not hate you; she never did. she believed you dead long ago; but your voice, though heard but once, has half robbed her of her reason so entirely does she love you still. come, and she will tell you, better than i can, what a wretched mistake has made martyrs of you both." emily, who had heard the voice of willie sullivan, as he bade gertrude farewell on the door-step, and rightly conjectured that it was he, forbore making any inquiries for the absent girl at the tea-table, and thinking it probable that she preferred to remain undisturbed, retired to the sitting-room at the conclusion of the meal, where (as mr. graham sought the library) she remained alone for more than an hour. the refined taste which always made emily's dress an index to the soft purity of her character was never more strikingly developed than when she wore, as on the present occasion, a flowing robe of white cashmere, fastened at the waist with a silken girdle, and with full drapery sleeves, whose lining and border of snowy silk could only have been rivalled by the delicate hand and wrist which had escaped from beneath their folds, and somewhat nervously played with the crimson fringe of a shawl, worn in the chilly dining-room, and thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa. supporting herself upon her elbow, she sat with her head bent forward, and apparently deep in thought. once mrs. prime opened the door, looked around the room in search of the housekeeper, and, not finding her, retreated, saying to herself, "law! dear sakes alive! i wish she only had eyes now, to see how like a picter she looks!" a low, quick bark from the house-dog attracted her attention, and steps were heard crossing the piazza. before they had gained the door, emily was standing upright, straining her ear to catch the sound of every footfall; and, when gertrude and mr. amory entered, she looked more like a statue than a living figure, as with clasped hands, parted lips, and one foot slightly advanced, she silently awaited their approach. one glance at emily's face, another at that of her agitated father, and gertrude was gone. she saw the completeness of their mutual recognition, and with instinctive delicacy, forbore to mar by her presence the sacredness of so holy an interview. as the door closed upon her retreating figure, emily parted her clasped hands, stretched them forth into the dim vacancy, and murmured, "philip!" he seized them between both of his, and with one step forward, fell upon his knees. as he did so, the half-fainting emily dropped upon the seat. mr. amory bowed his head upon the hands which, still held tightly between his own, now rested on her lap, and, hiding his face upon her slender fingers, tremblingly uttered her name. "the grave has given up its dead!" exclaimed emily. "my god, i thank thee!" and she flung her arms around his neck, rested her head upon his bosom, and whispered, in a voice half choked with emotion, "philip!--dear, dear philip! am i dreaming, or have you come back again?" she and philip had loved each other in their childhood; before that childhood was passed they had parted; and as children they met again. during the lapse of many years she had lived among the cherished memories of the past, she had been safe from worldly contagion, and had retained all the guileless simplicity of girlhood--all the freshness of her spring-time; and philip, who had never willingly bound himself by any ties save those imposed upon him by necessity, felt his boyhood come rushing upon him, as, with emily's soft hand resting on his head, she blessed heaven for his safe return. she could not see how time had silvered his hair and sobered and shaded the face that she loved. and to him, as he beheld the face he had half dreaded to encounter beaming with the holy light of sympathy and love, the blind girl's countenance seemed encircled with a halo not of earth. and, therefore, this union had in it less of earth than heaven. not until, seated beside each other, with their hands still fondly clasped, philip had heard from emily's lips the history of her hopes, her fears, her prayers, and her despair; and she, while listening to the sad incidents of his life, had dropped upon the hand she held many a kiss and tear of sympathy, did either fully realise the mercy so long delayed, so fully accorded now, which promised even on earth to crown their days. emily wept at the tale of lucy's trials and her early death, and when she learned that it was hers and philip's child whom she had taken to her heart, and fostered with the truest affection, she sent up her silent praise that it had been allotted to her apparently bereaved and darkened destiny to fulfil so blessed a mission. "if i could love her more, dear philip," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks, "i would do so, for your sake, and that of her sweet, innocent, suffering mother." "and you forgive me, then, emily?" said philip, as both having finished their sad recitals of the past, they gave themselves up to the sweet reflection of their present joy. "forgive? oh, philip! what have i to forgive?" "the deed that locked you in prison darkness," he mournfully replied. "philip!" exclaimed emily, "could you for one moment believe that i attributed that to you?--that i blamed you, for an instant?" "not willingly, i am sure, dear emily. but, oh, you have forgotten that in your time of anguish, not only the obtruding thought but the lip that gave utterance to it, proclaimed how you refused to forgive the cruel hand that wrought you so much woe!" "you cruel, philip! never did i so abuse and wrong you. if my unfilial heart sinfully railed against the cruel injustice of my father, it was never guilty of such treachery towards you." "that fiendish woman lied, then, when she told me that you shuddered at my very name?" "if i shuddered, philip, it was because i recoiled at the thought of the wrong you had sustained; and oh, believe me, if she gave you any other assurance than of my continued love, it was because she laboured under a sad error." "good heavens!" ejaculated philip; "how wickedly have i been deceived!" "not wickedly," replied emily. "mrs. ellis was in that instance the victim of circumstances. she was a stranger among us, and believed you other than you were; but, had you seen her a few weeks later, sobbing over her share in the unhappy transaction which drove you to desperation, and as we then supposed to death, you would have felt that we had misjudged her, and that she carried a heart of flesh beneath a stony disguise. the bitterness of her grief was united with remorse at the recollection of her own harshness. let us forget the sad events of the past, and trust that the loving hand which has thus far shaped our course has but afflicted us in mercy." "in mercy!" exclaimed philip. "what mercy does my past experience give evidence of, or your life of everlasting darkness? can you believe it a loving hand which made me the ill-fated instrument, and you the life-long sufferer, from one of the dreariest misfortunes that can afflict humanity?" "speak not of my blindness as a misfortune," answered emily; "i have long ceased to think it such. it is only through the darkness of the night that we discern the lights of heaven, and only when shut out from earth that we enter the gates of paradise. with eyes to see the wonderful working of nature and nature's god, i nevertheless closed them to the evidences of almighty love that were around me on every side. while enjoying the beautiful gifts that were showered on my pathway, i forgot to praise the giver; but, with an ungrateful heart, walked sinfully on, little dreaming of the deceitful snares which entangle the footsteps of youth. and therefore did he, who is ever over us for good, arrest with fatherly hand the child who was wandering from the road that leads to peace; and, though the discipline of his chastening rod was sudden and severe, mercy tempered justice. from the tomb of my buried joys sprang hopes that will bloom in immortality. from the clouds and the darkness broke forth a glorious light. then grieve not, dear philip, over the fate that is far from sad; but rejoice with me in the thought of that blessed and not far distant awakening, when, with restored and beautiful vision, i shall stand before god's throne, in full view of that glorious presence, from which, but for the guiding light which has burst upon my spirit through the veil of earthly darkness, i might have been eternally shut out." as emily finished speaking, and philip, gazing with awe upon the rapt expression of her soul-illumined face, beheld the triumph of an immortal mind, and pondered on the might, the majesty, and power of the influence wrought by simple piety, the door of the room opened abruptly and mr. graham entered. the sound of the well-known footstep disturbed the soaring thoughts of both, and the flush of excitement which had mounted into emily's cheeks subsided into more than her wonted paleness as philip, rising slowly from her side, stood face to face with her father. mr. graham approached with the scrutinizing air of one called upon to greet a visitor who, though an apparent stranger, may possibly have claims to recognition, and glanced at his daughter as if hoping she would relieve the awkwardness by an introduction. but the agitated emily maintained perfect silence, and every feature of philip's countenance remained immovable as mr. graham slowly came forward. he had advanced within one step of the spot where philip stood waiting to receive him, when, struck by the stern look and attitude of the latter, he stopped short, gazed one moment into the eagle eyes of his step-son, then staggered, grasped at the mantel-piece, and would have fallen, but philip, starting forward, helped him to his arm-chair. and yet no word was spoken. at length mr. graham, who, having fallen into the seat, sat still gazing into the face of mr. amory, ejaculated in a tone of wondering excitement, "philip amory! oh, my god!" "yes, father," exclaimed emily, suddenly rising and grasping her father's arm; "it is philip; he whom we have so long believed among the dead, restored to us in health and safety!" mr. graham rose from his chair and, leaning heavily on emily's shoulder, again approached mr. amory, who, with folded arms, stood fixed as marble. his step tottered with a feebleness never before observable in the sturdy frame of the old man, and the hand which he extended to philip was marked by an unusual tremulousness. but philip did not offer to receive the proffered hand, or reply by word to the rejected salutation. mr. graham turned towards emily and, forgetting that this neglect was shut from her sight, exclaimed half-bitterly, half-sadly, "i cannot blame him! god knows i wronged the boy!" "wronged him!" cried philip, in a voice almost fearful. "yes, wronged him, indeed! blighted his life, crushed his youth, half broke his heart, and wholly blighted his reputation!" "no," exclaimed mr. graham, who had quailed beneath these accusations, until he reached the final one; "not that, philip!--not that! i never harmed you there; i discovered my error before i had doomed you to infamy in the eyes of one of your fellow-men." "you acknowledge, then, the error?" "i do, i do! i imputed to you the deed which proved to have been accomplished through the agency of my most confidential clerk. i learned the truth almost immediately; but too late, alas! to recall you. then came the news of your death, and i felt that the injury had been irreparable. but it was not strange, philip; you must allow that. archer had been in my employment more than twenty years. i believed him trustworthy." "no! oh, no!" replied philip. "it was nothing strange that, a crime committed, you should have readily ascribed it to me. you thought me capable only of evil." "i was unjust, philip," answered mr. graham, with an attempt to rally his dignity; "but i had some cause." "perhaps so," responded philip; "i am willing to grant that." "let us shake hands upon it, then," said mr. graham, "and endeavour to forget the past." philip acceded to this request, though there was but little warmth in the manner of his compliance. mr. graham looked relieved from a burden which had been oppressing his conscience for years, and, subsiding into his arm-chair, begged the particulars of philip's experience during the last twenty years. the outline of the story was soon told, mr. graham listening to it with attention, and inquiring into its particulars with an interest which proved that, during a lengthened period of regret and remorse, his feelings had sensibly softened towards the step-son, with every memory of whom there had come to his heart a pang of self-reproach. mr. amory was unable to afford any satisfactory explanation of the report of his own death which had been confidently affirmed by dr. jeremy's correspondent at rio. upon a comparison of dates, however, it seemed probable that the doctor's agent had obtained this information from philip's employer, who had every reason to believe that the young man had perished of the prevailing infection. to philip himself it was almost an equal matter of wonder that his friends should ever have obtained knowledge of his flight and destination. but this was easily accounted for, since the vessel in which he had embarked returned directly to boston, and there were among her crew and officers those who could reply to the inquiries which the benevolent doctor had set on foot some months before, accompanied by the offer of a liberal reward. notwithstanding the many romantic incidents which were unfolding themselves, none seemed to produce so great an impression upon mr. graham's mind as the singular circumstance that the child who had been reared under his roof, and endeared herself to him, in spite of some clashing of interests and opinions, should prove to be philip's daughter. as he left the room at the conclusion of the tale, and sought the solitude of his library, he muttered to himself, "singular coincidence! very singular! very!" hardly had he departed before another door was timidly opened, and gertrude looked cautiously in. her father went quickly towards her, and, passing his arm around her waist, drew her towards emily, and clasped them both in a long and silent embrace. "philip," exclaimed emily, "can you doubt the mercy which has spared us for such a meeting?" "oh, emily!" replied he, "i am deeply grateful. teach me how and where to bestow my tribute of praise." on the hour of sweet communion which succeeded we forbear to dwell--the silent rapture of emily, the passionately-expressed joy of philip, or the trusting, loving glances which gertrude cast upon both. it was nearly midnight when mr. amory rose to depart. emily, who had not thought of his leaving the spot which she hoped he would now consider his home, entreated him to remain; and gertrude, with her eyes, joined in the eager petition. but he persisted in his resolution with firmness and seriousness. "philip," said emily, laying her hand upon his arm, "you have not yet forgiven my father." she had divined his thoughts. he shrank under her reproachful tones, and made no answer. "but you _will_, dear philip--you _will_," continued she, in a pleading voice. he hesitated, then glanced at her once more, and replied, "i will, dearest emily, i will--in time." when he had gone, gertrude lingered a moment at the door, to watch his retreating figure, just visible in the light of the waning moon, then returned to the parlour, and saying, "oh, what a day this has been!" but checked herself, at the sight of emily, who, kneeling by the sofa with clasped hands, and with her white garments sweeping the floor, looked the very impersonation of purity and prayer. throwing one arm around her neck, gertrude knelt on the floor beside her, and together they sent up to the throne of god the incense of thanksgiving and praise! chapter xlvii. the recompense. when uncle true died, mr. cooper buried his old friend in the ancient graveyard which adjoined the church where he had long officiated as sexton. but long before the time-worn building gave place to a modern structure the hallowed remains of uncle true had found a quieter resting-place--even a beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the neighbourhood of mr. graham's country residence, which had been consecrated as a rural cemetery; and in the loveliest nook of this beautiful spot the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final repose. this lot of land, which had been purchased by willie's liberality, selected by gertrude, and by her made fragrant with summer rose and winter ivy, now enclosed also the forms of mr. cooper and mrs. sullivan; and over these three graves gertrude had planted many a flower and watered it with her tears. especially did she view it as a sacred duty and privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute of fresh garlands; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left mr. graham's house one beautiful afternoon about a week after the events narrated in the previous chapter. she carried on her arm a basket, containing her offering of flowers; and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a rapid pace. let us follow her, and briefly pursue the train of thought which accompanied her on her way. she had left her father with emily. she would not ask him to join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit the grave of uncle true, for he and emily were talking together so contentedly, it would have been a pity to disturb them; and gertrude's reflections were engrossed by the thought of their tranquil happiness. she thought of herself, too, as associated with them both; of the deep and long-tried love of emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt that she could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime. she tried to banish the remembrance of willie's faithlessness and desertion. but the painful recollection presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to repress it; and at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up for the time to a deep and saddening reverie. she had received two visits from willie since the first; but the second meeting had been in its character very similar, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had increased instead of diminishing. several times willie had made an effort to speak and act with the freedom of former days; but a sudden blush, or sign of confusion and distress, on gertrude's part, deterred him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve which subsisted in their intercourse. again, gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him with frankness, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered her hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to take and retain in his grasp, and was on the point of unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and while she seemed absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant question--a course of conduct which disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay. as gertrude pondered the distressing results of every visit, she half hoped he would discontinue them, believing that their feelings would be less wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement. strange, she had not yet acquainted him with the event so interesting to herself--the discovery of her dearly-loved father. once she tried to speak of it, but was so overcome at the idea of imparting to the confidant of her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet think without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that, should she on any topic give way to her sensibilities, she should lose all restraint over her feelings and lay open her whole heart to willie. but one thing distressed her more than all others. in his first attempt to throw off all disguise, willie had more than intimated to her his own unhappiness; and ere she could find an opportunity to change the subject and repel a confidence for which she still felt herself unprepared, he had spoken mournfully over his future prospects in life. the only construction which gertrude could give to this confession was that it had reference to his engagement with isabel, and it gave rise to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, he had impulsively bound himself to one who could never make him happy. the little scenes to which she herself had been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, some cause of vexation seemed to exist on willie's part. "he loves her," thought gertrude, "and is also bound to her in honour; but he sees already the want of harmony in their natures. poor willie! it is impossible he should ever be happy with isabel." and gertrude's sympathising heart mourned not more deeply over her own griefs than over the disappointment that willie must be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union with so overbearing, ill-humoured, and unreasonable a girl. wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on with a quickness she was scarcely herself aware of, and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered the entrance to the cemetery. here she paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches; and, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the right, and proceeded slowly up the ascent. the place, always quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and save the occasional carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the perfect silence and repose. as gertrude gazed upon the familiar beauties of those sacred grounds which had been her frequent resort during several years--as she walked between beds of flowers, inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy place--every motion that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight, and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead. after a while she left the broad road and turned into a little bypath, and then again to a narrower foot-track, and gained the shady and retired spot which had recommended itself to her choice. it was situated on the slope of a little hill; a huge rock protected it on one side from the observation of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the other. the iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by gertrude's hand, and the moss-grown rock was festooned by its tendrils. upon a jutting stone beside the grave of uncle true gertrude seated herself, and after a few moments of contemplation sighed heavily, emptied her flowers upon the grass, and commenced weaving a graceful chaplet, which, when completed, she placed upon the grave at her feet. with the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other mounds; and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening gloves and a little trowel, she employed herself for nearly an hour among the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot. her work finished, she again placed herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her forehead the braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting from her labours. it was seven years that day since uncle true died, but gertrude had not forgotten the kind old man. as she gazed upon the grassy mound that covered him, and scene after scene rose up before her in which that earliest friend and herself had whiled away the happy hours, there came, to embitter the cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third and seldom absent one who completed the memory of their fireside joys; and gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, "oh, uncle true! you and i are not parted yet; but willie is not of us!" "oh, gertrude," said a reproachful voice close at her side, "is willie to blame for that?" she started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his mild sad eye fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying to his question, buried her face in her hands. he threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the occasion of their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the face, saying at the same time in the most imploring accents, "tell me, gerty, in pity tell me, why i am excluded from your sympathy?" but still she made no answer, except by the tears that coursed down her cheeks. "you make me miserable," continued he. "what have i done that you have so shut me out of your affection? why do you look so coldly upon me--and even shrink from my sight?" added he, as gertrude, unable to endure his searching look, turned her eyes in another direction and strove to free her hands from his grasp. "i am not cold--i do not mean to be," said she, her voice half-choked with emotion. "oh, gertrude," replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, "i see you have ceased to love me. i trembled when i first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. but even then i did not deem that you would refuse me, at least, a _brother's_ claim to your affection." "i will not," exclaimed gertrude eagerly. "oh, willie, you must not be angry with me! let me be your sister!" he smiled a most mournful smile, and said, "i was right, then; you feared lest i should claim too much, and discouraged my presumption by awarding me nothing. be it so. perhaps your prudence was for the best; but, oh gertrude, it has made me heartbroken." "willie!" exclaimed gertrude, with excitement, "do you know how strangely you are speaking?" "strangely?" responded willie, in a half-offended tone. "is it so strange that i should love you? have i not for years cherished the remembrance of our past affection, and looked forward to our reunion as my only hope of happiness? has not this fond expectation inspired my labours, and cheered my toils, and endeared to me my life, in spite of its bereavements? and can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath which lie buried all else that i held dear on earth, crush and destroy without compassion this solitary but all-engrossing----" "willie," interrupted gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored, and speaking in a kind but serious tone, "is it honourable for you to address me thus? have you forgotten----" "no, i have _not_ forgotten," exclaimed he vehemently. "i have not forgotten that i have no right to distress or annoy you, and i will do so no more. but oh, gerty! my sister gerty (since all hope of a nearer tie is at an end), blame me not, and wonder not, if i fail at present to perform a brother's part. i cannot stay in this neighbourhood. i cannot be the patient witness of another's happiness. my services, my time, my life, you may command, and in my far-distant home i will never cease to pray that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove himself worthy of my noble gertrude, and love her one-half as well as i do!" "willie!" said gertrude, "what madness is this? i am bound by no such tie as you describe; but what shall i think of your treachery to isabel?" "to isabel!" cried willie, starting up, as if seized with a new idea; "and has that silly rumour reached _you_ too? and did you put faith in the falsehood?" "falsehood!" exclaimed gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping eyelids and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look of earnest scrutiny. calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor quailed under, willie responded unhesitatingly, and with a tone of astonishment not unmingled with reproach, "falsehood! yes. with the knowledge you have both of her and myself, could you doubt its being such for a moment?" "oh, willie!" cried gertrude, "could i doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears? had i trusted to less faithful witnesses, i might have been deceived. do not attempt to conceal from me the truth, to which my own observation can testify. treat me with frankness, willie! indeed, indeed, i deserve it at your hands!" "frankness, gertrude! it is you only who are mysterious. could i lay my whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be convinced of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. and as to isabel clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your eyes and your ears have both played you false, if----" "oh, willie! willie!" exclaimed gertrude, interrupting him; "have you so soon forgotten your devotion to the belle of saratoga, your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your sight, the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those few days an eternity?" "stop! stop!" cried willie, a new light breaking in upon him, "and tell me where you learned all this?" "in the very spot where you spoke and acted. mr. graham's parlour did not witness our first meeting. in the public promenade-ground, on the shore of saratoga lake, and on board the steamboat at albany, did i both see and recognize you--myself unknown. there, too, did your own words serve to convince me of the truth of that which from other lips i had refused to believe." "listen to me, gertrude," said he, in a fervent and almost solemn tone, "and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and in the presence of that pure spirit (and he looked reverently upward) who taught me the love of truth, i speak with such sincerity and candour as are fitting for the ears of angels. i do not question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations and entreaties on the subject of miss clinton's proposed journey, or the impatience i expressed at parting for her speedy return. i will not pause either to inquire where the object of all my thoughts could have been at the time that, notwithstanding the changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. let me first clear myself of the imputation, and then there will be room for all further explanations. "i did feel pain at miss clinton's sudden departure for new york, under a pretext which ought not to have weighed with her for a moment. i did employ every argument to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my eloquence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, i availed myself of every suggestion and motive which possibly might influence her to shorten her absence. not because the society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive, to my happiness--far from it--but because her excellent father, who so worshipped and idolized his only child that he would have thought no sacrifice too great to promote her enjoyment, was at the very time, amid all the discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering between life and death, and i was disgusted at the heartlessness which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all female tending, to the charge of a hired nurse and an unskillful though willing youth like myself. that eternity might, in miss clinton's absence, set a seal to the life of her father was a thought which in my indignation i was on the point of uttering, but i checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite unnecessary alarm in isabel. if selfishness mingled at all in my views, dear gerty, and made me over-impatient for the return of the daughter to her post of duty, it was that i might be released from almost constant attendance upon my invalid friend, and hasten to her from whom i hoped such warmth of greeting as i was only eager to bestow. can you wonder, then, that your reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart?" "but you understand the cause of that coldness now," said gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which like a summer sun-shower reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her happy countenance. "you know now why i dared not let my heart speak out." "and this was all, then?" cried willie; "and you are free, and i may love you still?" "free from all bonds, dear willie, but those which you yourself clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my childhood." and now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other's ear the tale of mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of their after life. "but, gerty," exclaimed willie as, confidence restored, they sat side by side conversing freely of the past, "how could you think for an instant that isabel clinton would have power to displace you in my regard? i was not guilty of so great an injustice towards you; for even when i believed myself supplanted by another, i fancied that other hero of such shining qualities as could scarcely be surpassed." "and who could surpass isabel?" inquired gerty. "can you wonder that i trembled for your allegiance when i thought of her beauty, her fashion, her family, and her wealth, and remembered the forcible manner in which all these were presented to your sight and knowledge?" "but what are all these, gerty, to one who knows her as we do? do not a proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of beauty? can fashion excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover natural deficiencies? and as to money, what did i ever want of that, except to employ it for the happiness of yourself--and them?" and he glanced at the graves of his mother and grandfather. "oh, willie! you are so disinterested." "not in this case. had isabel possessed the beauty of a venus and the wisdom of a minerva, i could not have forgotten how little happiness there could be with one who, while devoting herself to the pursuit of pleasure, had become dead to natural affections and indifferent to the holiest of duties. could i see her flee from the bedside of her father to engage in the frivolities and drink in the flatteries of an idle crowd--or, when unwillingly summoned thither, shrink from the toils and watchings imposed by his feebleness--and still imagine that such a woman could bless and adorn a fireside? could i fail to contrast her unfeeling neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity, and irreverence of spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, and the deep and fervent piety of my own gertrude? i should have been false to myself, as well as to you, dearest, if such traits of character as miss clinton constantly evinced could have ever weakened my love and admiration for yourself. and now, to see the little playmate whose image i cherished so fondly matured into the lovely and graceful woman, her sweet attractions crowned by so much beauty as to place her beyond recognition, and still her heart as much my own as ever! oh, gerty, it is too much happiness! would that i could impart a share of it to those who loved us both so well!" and who can say that they did not share it?--that the spirit of uncle true was not there to witness the completion of his many hopeful prophecies? that the old grandfather was not there to see all his doubts and fears giving place to joyful certainties? and that the soul of the gentle mother whose rapt slumbers had even in life foreshadowed such a meeting, and who, by the lessons she had given her child in his boyhood, the warnings spoken to his later years, and the ministering guidance of her disembodied spirit, had fitted him for the struggle with temptation, sustained him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the sweet friend of his infancy--who shall say that even now she hovered not over them with parted wings, realising the joy prefigured in that dreamy vision which pictured to her sight the union between the son and the daughter of her love, when the one, shielded by her fond care from every danger and snatched, from the power of temptation, should be restored to the arms of the other who, by a long and patient continuance in well-doing, had earned so full a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward? chapter xlviii. anchors for world-tried souls. the sunset hour was near when gertrude and willie rose to depart. they left the cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to that by which gertrude had entered. here willie found the chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to loosen the bridle by which he was fastened, had strayed to the side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the road, and, despairing of his master's return, seemed on the point of taking his departure. he was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half-an-hour to mr. graham's door. as soon as they came in sight of the house, gertrude, familiar with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something unusual was going forward. lamps were moving about in every direction; the front door stood wide open; there was, what she had never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through the windows of the best chamber; and as they drew still nearer she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks. all these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the arrival of mrs. graham, and possibly of other company. she might perhaps have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling lady at the moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity to present willie to emily and her father, and communicate to them her own happiness; but if such a thought presented itself it vanished in a moment. her joy was too complete to be marred by so trifling a disappointment. "let us drive up the avenue, willie," said she, "to the side-door, so that george may see us and take your horse to the stable." "no," said willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate; "i can't come in now--there seems to be a house full of company, and besides i have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and promised to be punctual;"--he glanced at his watch and added, "it is near that already. i did not think of its being so late; but i shall see you to-morrow morning, may i not?" she looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand as he helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and love, they separated. he drove rapidly towards boston, and she, opening the gate, found herself in the arms of fanny bruce, who had been impatiently waiting the departure of willie to seize her dear miss gertrude and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratulations and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat--for this was the first time they had met since the accident. "has mrs. graham come, fanny?" asked gertrude, as they walked up to the house together. "yes, indeed; mrs. graham, and kitty, and isabel, and a little girl, and a sick gentleman--mr. clinton, i believe; and another gentleman--but _he's_ gone." "who has gone?" "oh, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beautiful face, and hair as white as if he were old--and he isn't old either." "and do you say he has gone?" "yes; he didn't come with the rest. he was here when i came, and he went away about an hour ago. i heard him tell miss emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in boston, but perhaps he'd come back this evening. i hope he will, miss gertrude; you ought to see him." they had now reached the house, and through the open door gertrude could plainly distinguish the loud tones of mrs. graham's voice proceeding from the parlour on the right. she was talking to her husband and emily, and was just saying as gertrude entered, "oh, it was the most awful thing i ever heard of in my life! and to think, emily, of your being on board, and our isabel! poor child! she hasn't got her colour back yet after the fright. and gertrude flint, too! by the way, they say gertrude behaved very well. where is the child?" turning round, she now saw gertrude, who was just entering the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable heartiness and sincerity; for mrs. graham, though somewhat coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion was such as to awaken them. gertrude's entrance having served to interrupt the stream of exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulging for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging after her about the floor. "well!" exclaimed she, "i suppose i had better follow the girls' example and get some of the dust off from me! i'm half buried, i believe! but there, that's better than coming on in the horrid steamboat last night, as my brother clinton was so crazy as to propose. where's bridget? i want her to take up some of my things." "i will assist you," said gertrude, taking up a little carpet-bag, throwing a scarf, which had been stretching across the room, over her arm, and then following mrs. graham closely, in order to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half off that lady's shoulders. at the first landing-place, however, she found herself suddenly encircled in kitty's warm embrace, and, laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the hugging and kissing that succeeded. at the head of the staircase she met isabel, wrapped in a dressing gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented expression of countenance. she set the pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted gertrude with a good grace. "i'm glad to see you alive," said she, "though i cannot look at you without shuddering; it reminds me so of that dreadful day when we were in such frightful danger. how lucky we were to be saved, when there were so many drowned! i've wondered ever since, gertrude, how you could be so calm; i'm sure i shouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't been there to suggest. but, oh dear! don't let us speak of it; it's a thing i cant' bear to think of!" and with a shudder and shrug of the shoulders, isabel dismissed the subject and called somewhat pettishly to kitty--"kitty, i thought you went to get our pitcher filled!" kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag which gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back quite out of breath, saying, "i did ring the bell twice. hasn't anybody come?" "no!" replied belle! "and i should like to wash my face and curl my hair before tea, if i could." "let me take the pitcher," said gertrude; "i am going downstairs, and will send jane up with the water." "thank you," said belle, rather feebly; while kitty exclaimed, "no, no, gertrude; i'll go myself." but it was too late; gertrude had gone. gertrude found mrs. ellis full of troubles and perplexities. "only think," said the astonished housekeeper, "of their coming, five of them, without the least warning in the world; and here i've nothing in the house fit for tea; not a bit of rich cake, not a scrap of cold ham. and of course they're hungry after their long journey, and will want something nice." "oh, if they are very hungry, mrs. ellis, they can eat dried beef and fresh biscuit and plain cake; and if you will give me the keys i will get out the preserves and the best silver, and see that the table is set properly." nothing was a trouble to gertrude that night. everything that she touched went right. jane caught her spirit and became astonishingly active; and when the really bountiful table was spread, and mrs. ellis, after glancing around and seeing that all was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes and observed the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she exclaimed, in her ignorance, "good gracious, gertrude, anybody would think you were over-joyed to see all these folks back again!" it wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and gertrude was selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when kitty ray peeped in at the door and finally entered, leading by the hand a little girl neatly dressed in black. her face was at first full of smiles; but the moment she attempted to speak she burst into tears, and throwing her arms round gertrude's neck, whispered in her ear, "oh, gertrude, i'm so happy! i came to tell you!" "happy?" replied gertrude; "then you mustn't cry." upon this kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then laughed once more, and in the interval explained to gertrude that she was engaged--had been engaged a week to the best man in the world--and that the child she held by the hand was his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. "and only think," continued she, "it's all owing to you." "to me?" said the astonished gertrude. "yes; because i was so vain and silly, you know, and liked folks that were not worth liking, and didn't care much for anybody's comfort but my own; and, if you hadn't taught me to be something better than that, and set me a good example, which i've tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking at me, much less loving me, and believing i should be a fit mother for little gracie here," and she looked down affectionately at the child, who was clinging fondly to her. "he is a minister, gertrude, and very good. only think of such a childish creature as i am being a minister's wife!" the sympathy which kitty came to claim was not denied her, and gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured her of her participation in her joy. in the meantime little gracie, who still clung to kitty with one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of gertrude, who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room at saratoga. kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and gertrude, as she remarked the happy transformation which had already been effected in the countenance and dress of the little girl, who had been so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added conviction of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice. mr. graham's cheerful parlour had never looked so cheerful as on that evening. the weather was mild, but a light fire, which had been kindled on mr. clinton's account, did not render the room too warm. it had, however, driven the young people into a remote corner, leaving the neighbourhood of the fire-place to mrs. graham and emily, who occupied the sofa, and mr. clinton and mr. graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side. this arrangement enabled mr. graham to converse freely and uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, while his talkative wife entertained herself and emily by a recapitulation of her travels and adventures. on a table, at the further extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful engravings, recently purchased and brought home by mr. graham, and representing a series of european views. gertrude and kitty were turning them carefully over; and little gracie, who was sitting in kitty's lap, and fanny, who was leaning over gertrude's shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies' explanations and comments. occasionally isabel, the only restless or unoccupied person present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of some familiar spot, and exclaim, "kitty, there's the shop where i bought my blue silk!" or, "kitty, there's the waterfall that we visited in company with the russian officers." and now the door opened, and, without any announcement, mr. amory and william sullivan entered. had either made his appearance singly, he would have been looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company; but coming together, and with an apparently good understanding existing between them, there was no countenance present which expressed any emotion but that of surprise. mr. and mrs. graham, however, were too much accustomed to society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was contained in a momentary glance, and, rising, received their visitors with due politeness and propriety. the former nodded carelessly to mr. amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him to mr. clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connection with himself), and was preparing to go through the same ceremony to mrs. graham, but was saved the trouble as she had not forgotten the acquaintance formed at baden-baden. willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of introduction to all but emily; and that being accidentally omitted, he gave an arch glance at gertrude, and, taking an offered seat near isabel, entered into conversation with her, mr. amory being in like manner engrossed by mrs. graham. "miss gertrude," whispered fanny, as soon as the interrupted composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at willie as she spoke, "that's the gentleman you were out driving with this afternoon. i know it is," continued she, as she observed gertrude change colour and endeavour to hush her, while she looked anxiously round as if the remark had been overheard; "is it willie, gertrude? is it mr. sullivan?" gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous fanny continued to ply her with such questions; and isabel, who had jealously noticed that willie's eyes wandered more than once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered her confusion distressing. accident came to her relief, however. the housemaid, with the evening paper, endeavoured to open the door, against which her chair was placed, thus giving her an opportunity to rise, receive the paper, and at the same time an unimportant message. while she was thus engaged, mr. clinton left his chair with the feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question in a low voice to willie, and receiving an affirmatory reply, took isabel by the hand, and approaching mr. amory, exclaimed, with deep emotion, "sir, mr. sullivan tells me you are the person who saved the life of my daughter; and here she is to thank you." mr. amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around the waist of gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the newspaper to mr. graham, and who, not having heard the remark of mr. clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned face. "here," said he, "mr. clinton, is the person who saved the life of your daughter. it is true that i swam with her to the shore; but it was under the mistaken impression that i was bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom i little suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her only apparent chance of rescue." "just like you, gertrude! just like you!" shouted kitty and fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place in the little circle that had gathered round her. "my own noble gertrude!" whispered emily, as, leaning on mr. amory's arm, she pressed gertrude's hand to her lips. "oh, gertrude!" exclaimed isabel, with tears in her eyes, "i didn't know. i never thought----" "your child?" cried mrs. graham's loud voice, interrupting isabel's unfinished exclamation. "yes, my child, thank god!" said mr. amory, reverently; "restored at last to her unworthy father, and--you have no secrets here, my darling?"--gertrude shook her head, and glanced at willie, who now stood at her side "and gladly bestowed by him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover." and he placed her hand in willie's. there was a moment's pause. all were impressed with the solemnity of the action. then mr. graham came forward, shook each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the library. "gertrude," said fanny, pulling gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, "are you engaged?--are you engaged to him?" "yes," whispered gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify fanny's curiosity and silence her questioning. "oh, i'm so glad! i'm so glad!" shouted fanny, dancing round the room and flinging up her arms. "and i'm glad, too!" said gracie, catching the tone of congratulation, and putting her mouth up to gertrude for a kiss. "and _i_ am glad," said mr. clinton, placing his hands upon those of willie and gertrude, which were still clasped together, "that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom i have no words to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child." exhausted by so much excitement, mr. clinton now complained of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by willie, who, after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the blessing of emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of gertrude's parentage. for although it was an appointment to meet mr. amory which had summoned him back to boston, and he had in the course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termination of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took place in mr. graham's parlour, received in return the slightest hint of the great surprise which awaited him. he had felt a little astonishment at his friend's express desire to join him at once in a visit to mr. graham's; but on being informed that he had made the acquaintance of mrs. graham in germany, he concluded that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the only motives that had influenced him. and now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening passed rapidly away. * * * * * "come here, gerty!" said willie, "come to the window, and see what a beautiful night it is." it was indeed a glorious night. snow lay on the ground. the air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick movements of the pedestrians and the brilliant icicles with which everything that had an edge was fringed. the stars were glittering too as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter nights. the moon was just peeping above an old brown building--the same old corner building which had been visible from the door-step where willie and gerty were wont to sit in their childhood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming of the same round moon. leaning on willie's shoulder, gertrude stood gazing until the full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether. neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same emotion as they thought of the days that were past. just then the gasman came quickly up the street, lit, as by an electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight. gertrude sighed. "it was no such easy task for poor old uncle true," said she; "there have been great improvements since his time." "there have, indeed!" said willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm, and pleasantly-furnished rooms of his own and gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness--"such improvements, gerty, as we only dreamt of once! i wish the dear old man could be here and share them!" a tear started to gertrude's eye; but, pressing willie's arm, she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it; the star through which gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man. "dear uncle true!" said she; "his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!" * * * * * in a beautiful town about thirty miles from boston, and on the shore of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of solid though ancient architecture. it had been the property of philip amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued estate. to reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a favourite scheme with philip. his ample means now rendered it practicable; he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed. in the meantime gertrude's marriage had taken place; the grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment to isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat. and emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change until philip came to her one day and, taking her by the hand, said gently-- "this is no home for you, emily. you are as much alone as i in my solitary farm-house. we loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one youth, and have continued so until now. why should we be longer parted? your father will not now oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover?" but emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile of ineffable sweetness-- "oh no, philip! do not speak of it! think of my frail health and my helplessness." "your health, dear emily, is improving. the roses are already coming back to your cheeks; and for your helplessness, what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my devotion, to forget it! oh, do not send me away disappointed, emily! a cruel fate divided us for years; do not by your own act prolong that separation! believe me, a union with my early love is my brightest, my only hope of happiness!" and she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded the other also to his fervent clasp. "my only thought had been, dear philip," said she, "that ere this i should have been called to my father's home; and even now i feel many a warning that i cannot be very long for earth; but while i stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. no word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, your home shall be mine." and when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, emily came to live on the hillside with philip; and mrs. ellis came too to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which became henceforth her pride. she had long since tearfully implored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged philip; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession, that she was not without a woman's heart. mrs. prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm, but emily kindly expostulated with her, saying-- "we cannot all leave my father, mrs. prime. who would see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library?" and the good old woman saw the matter in the right light and submitted. and is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrowing exile happy now? he is; but his peace springs not from his beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honourable repute among his fellow-men, or even the love of the gentle emily. all these are blessings that he well knows how to prize; but his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet--a surer refuge from the tempest and the storm; for, through the power of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. the blind girl's prayers are answered; her last, best work is done; she has cast a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul; and should her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth until such time when he shall be summoned to join her again in heaven. as they go forth in the summer evening to breathe the balmy air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak of a holy peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man of sorrow. as the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul; and the voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within whisper in gentlest, holiest accents-- "the sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy god thy glory." "thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended." the end. burt's home library comprising three hundred and sixty-five titles of standard works, embracing fiction, essays, poetry, history, travel, etc., selected from the world's best literature, written by authors of world-wide reputation. printed from large type on good paper, and bound in handsome uniform cloth binding. abbe constantin. by ludovic halevy. abbot, the. by sir walter scott. adam bede. by george eliot. �sop's fables. alhambra, the. by washington irving. alice in wonderland and through the looking glass. by lewis carroll. alice lorraine. by r. d. blackmore. all sorts and conditions of men. by besant and rice. amiel's journal. translated by mrs. humphrey ward. andersen's fairy tales. anne of geierstein. by sir walter scott. antiquary, the. by sir walter scott. arabian nights entertainments. ardath. by marie corelli. armadale. by wilkie collins. armorel of lyonesse. by walter besant. around the world in the yacht sunbeam. by mrs. brassey. arundel motto. by mary cecil hay. at the back of the north wind. by george macdonald. attic philosopher. by emile souvestre. auld licht idylls. by james m. barrie. aunt diana. by rosa n. carey. aurelian. by william ware. autobiography of benjamin franklin. averil. by rosa n. carey. bacon's essays. by francis bacon. barbara heathcote's trial. by rosa n. carey. barnaby rudge. by charles dickens. barrack-room ballads. by rudyard kipling. betrothed, the. by sir walter scott. black beauty. by anna sewell. black dwarf, the. by sir walter scott. bleak house. by charles dickens. bondman, the. by hall caine. bride of lammermoor. by sir walter scott. bride of the nile, the. by george ebers. browning's poems. (selections.) by robert browning. bryant's poems. (early.) by william cullen bryant. burgomaster's wife, the. by george ebers. burns' poems. by robert burns. by order of the king. by victor hugo. california and oregon trail. by francis parkman, jr. cast up by the sea. by sir samuel baker. caxtons, the. by bulwer-lytton. chandos. by "ouida." charles auchester. by e. berger. character. by samuel smiles. charles o'malley. by charles lever. children of the abbey. by regina maria roche. children of gibeon. by walter besant. child's history of england. by charles dickens. christmas stories. by charles dickens. clara vaughan. by r. d. blackmore. cloister and the hearth. by charles reade. complete angler. by walton and cotton. confessions of an opium eater. by thomas de quincey. consuelo. by george sand. corinne. by madame de stael. countess gisela, the. by e. marlitt. countess of rudolstadt. by george sand. count robert of paris. by sir walter scott. cousin pons. by honore de balzac. cradock nowell. by r. d. blackmore. cranford. by mrs. gaskell. cripps the carrier. by r. d. blackmore. crown of wild olive, the. by john ruskin. daniel deronda. by george eliot. data of ethics. by herbert spencer. daughter of an empress, the. by louisa muhlbach. daughter of heth, a. by william black. david copperfield. by charles dickens. days of bruce. by grace aguilar. deemster, the. by hall caine. deerslayer, the. by james fenimore cooper. descent of man. by charles darwin. dick sand; or, a captain at fifteen. by jules verne. discourses of epictetus. translated by george long. divine comedy, the. (dante.) translated by rev. h. f. carey. dombey & son. by charles dickens. donal grant. by george macdonald. donovan. by edna lyall. dove in the eagle's nest. by charlotte m. yonge. dream life. by ik marvel. duty. by samuel smiles. early days of christianity. by f. w. farrar. east lynne. by mrs. henry wood. education. by herbert spencer. egoist, the. by george meredith. egyptian princess, an. by george ebers. eight hundred leagues on the amazon. by jules verne. emerson's essays. (complete.) by ralph waldo emerson. emperor, the. by george ebers. essays of elia. by charles lamb. esther. by rosa n. carey. executor, the. by mrs. alexander. fair maid of perth. by sir walter scott. fairy land of science. by arabella b. buckley. far from the madding crowd. by thomas hardy. faust. (goethe.) translated by anna swanwick. felix holt. by george eliot. fifteen decisive battles of the world. by e. s. creasy. file no. . by emile gaboriau. firm of girdlestone. by a. conan doyle. first principles. by herbert spencer. first violin. by jessie fothergill. for faith and freedom. by walter besant. fortunes of nigel. by sir walter scott. fragments of science. by john tyndall. frederick the great and his court. by louisa muhlbach. french revolution. by thos. carlyle. from the earth to the moon. by jules verne. goethe and schiller. by louisa muhlbach. gold bug, the, and other tales, by edgar a. poe. gold elsie. by e. marlitt. good luck. by e. werner. grandfather's chair. by nathaniel hawthorne. great expectations. by chas. dickens. great taboo, the. by grant allen. great treason, a. by mary hoppus. greek heroes. fairy tales for my children. by charles kingsley. green mountain boys, the. by d. p. thompson. grimm's household tales. by the brothers grimm. grimm's popular tales. by the brothers grimm. gulliver's travels by dean swift. guy mannering. by sir walter scott. handy andy. by samuel lover. hardy norseman. a. by edna lyall. harold. by bulwer-lytton. harry lorrequer. by charles lever. heart of midlothian. by sir walter scott. heir of redclyffe. by charlotte m. yonge. henry esmond. by wm. m. thackeray. her dearest foe. by mrs. alexander. heriot's choice. by rosa n. carey. heroes and hero worship. by thomas carlyle. history of a crime. by victor hugo. history of civilization in europe. by guizot. holy roman empire. by james bryce. homo sum. by george ebers. house of the seven gables. by nathaniel hawthorne. hunchback of notre dame. by victor hugo. hypatia. by charles kingsley. idle thoughts of an idle fellow. by jerome k. jerome. iliad, the. pope's translation. initials, the. by the baroness tautphoeus. in the counselor's house. by e. marlitt. in the golden days. by edna lyall. in the schillingscourt. by e. marlitt. it is never too late to mend. by charles reade. ivanhoe. by sir walter scott. jack's courtship. by w. clark russell. jack hinton. by charles lever. jane eyre. by charlotte bronte. john halifax, gentleman. by miss mulock. joshua. by george ebers. kenilworth. by sir walter scott. kidnapped. by r. l. stevenson. kit and kitty. by r. d. blackmore. kith and kin. by jessie fothergill. knickerbocker's history of new york. by washington irving. knight errant. by edna lyall. koran, the. translated by george sale. lamplighter, the. by maria s. cummins. lady with the rubies. by e. marlitt. last days of pompeii. by bulwer-lytton. last of the barons. by bulwer-lytton. last of the mohicans. by james fenimore cooper. lena rivers. by mary j. holmes. life of christ. by frederic w. farrar. light of asia, the. by sir edwin arnold. light that failed, the. by rudyard kipling. little dorrit. by charles dickens. longfellow's poems. (early.) lorna doone. by r. d. blackmore. louise de la valliere. by alexandre dumas. love me little, love me long, by charles reade. lover or friend? by rosa n. carey. lucile. by owen meredith. maid of sker. by r. d. blackmore. makers of florence. by mrs. oliphant. makers of venice. by mrs. oliphant. man and wife. by wilkie collins. man in the iron mask. by alexandre dumas. marquis of lossie. by george macdonald. martin chuzzlewit. by charles dickens. mary anerley. by r. d. blackmore. mary st. john. by rosa n. carey. master of ballantrae, the. by r. l. stevenson. masterman ready. by captain marryat. meditations of marcus aurelius. translated by george long. merle's crusade. by rosa n. carey micah clarke. by a. conan doyle. michael strogoff. by jules verne. middlemarch. by george eliot. midshipman easy. by captain marryat. mill on the floss. by george eliot. milton's poems. by john milton. mine own people. by rudyard kipling. molly bawn. by "the duchess." monastery, the. by sir walter scott. moonstone, the. by wilkie collins. mosses from an old manse. by nathaniel hawthorne. mysterious island, the. by jules verne. natural law in the spiritual world. by henry drummond. nellie's memories. by rosa n. carey. newcomes, the. by william m. thackeray. nicholas nickleby. by charles dickens. ninety-three. by victor hugo. no name. by wilkie collins. not like other girls. by rosa n. carey. odyssey, the. pope's translation. old curiosity shop. by charles dickens. old mam'selle's secret. by e. marlitt. old mortality. by sir walter scott. old myddleton's money. by mary cecil hay. oliver twist. by charles dickens. only a word. by george ebers. only the governess. by rosa n. carey. on the heights. by berthold auerbach. origin of species. by charles darwin. other worlds than ours. by richard proctor. our bessie by rosa n. carey. our mutual friend. by charles dickens. pair of blue eyes, a. by thos. hardy. past and present. by thomas carlyle. pathfinder, the. by james fenimore cooper. pendennis. by william m. thackeray. pere goriot. by honore de balzac. peveril of the peak. by sir walter scott. phantom rickshaw, the. by rudyard kipling. phra, the phoenician. by edwin l. arnold. picciola. by x. b. saintine. pickwick papers. by charles dickens. pilgrim's progress. by john bunyan. pilot, the. by james fenimore cooper. pioneers, the. by james fenimore cooper. pirate, the. by sir walter scott. plain tales from the hills. by rudyard kipling. prairie, the. by james fenimore cooper. pride and prejudice. by jane austen. prime minister, the. by anthony trollope. prince of the house of david. by rev. j. h. ingraham. princess of the moor. by e. marlitt. princess of thule, a. by william black. professor, the. by charlotte bronte. prue and i. by george william curtis. queen hortense. by louisa muhlbach. queenie's whim. by rosa n. carey. quentin durward. by sir walter scott. redgauntlet. by sir walter scott. red rover. by james fenimore cooper. reign of law. by duke of argyle. reveries of a bachelor. by ik marvel. rhoda fleming. by george meredith. rienzi. by bulwer-lytton. robert ord's atonement. by rosa n. carey. robinson crusoe. by daniel defoe. rob roy. by sir walter scott. romance of two worlds. by marie corelli. romola. by george eliot. rory o'more. by samuel lover. saint michael. by e. werner. schonberg-cotta family. by mrs. andrew charles. sartor resartus. by thomas carlyle. scarlet letter, the. by nathaniel hawthorne. schopenhauer's essays. translated by t. b. saunders. scottish chiefs. by jane porter. scott's poems. by sir walter scott. search for basil lyndhurst. by rosa n. carey. second wife, the. by e. marlitt. seekers after god. by f. w. farrar. self-help. by samuel smiles. sense and sensibility. by jane austen. sesame and lilies. by john ruskin. seven lamps of architecture. by john ruskin. shadow of a crime. by hall caine. shadow of the sword. by robert buchanan. shirley. by charlotte bronte. silas marner. by george eliot. silence of dean maitland. by maxwell grey. sin of joost avelingh. by maaren maartens. sir gibbie. by george macdonald. sketch book, the. by washington irving. social departure, a. by sarah jeannette duncan. soldiers, three, etc. by rudyard kipling. son of hagar, a. by hall caine. springhaven. by r. d. blackmore. spy, the. by james fenimore cooper. story of an african farm. by olive schreiner. story of john g. paton. told for young folks. by rev. james paton. strathmore. by "ouida." st. ronan's well. by sir walter scott. study in scarlet, a. by a. conan doyle. surgeon's daughter, the. by sir walter scott. swiss family robinson. by jean rudolph wyss. tale of two cities. by charles dickens. tales from shakespeare. by charles and mary lamb. talisman, the. by sir walter scott. tanglewood tales. by nathaniel hawthorne. tempest and sunshine. by mary j. holmes. tempest tossed. by theodore tilton. ten nights in a barroom. by t. s. arthur. tennyson's poems. by alfred tennyson. ten years later. by alexandre dumas. terrible temptation, a. by charles reade. thaddeus of warsaw. by jane porter. thelma. by marie corelli. thirty years' war. by frederick schiller. thousand miles up the nile. by amelia b. edwards. three guardsmen. by alexandre dumas. three men in a boat. by jerome k. jerome. thrift. by samuel smiles. toilers of the sea. by victor hugo. tom brown at oxford. by thomas hughes. tom brown's school days. by thomas hughes. tom burke of "ours." by charles lever. tom cringle's log. by michael scott. tour of the world in eighty days, a. by jules verne treasure island. by robert louis stevenson. twenty thousand leagues under the sea. by jules verne. twenty years after. by alexandre dumas. twice told tales. by nathaniel hawthorne. two admirals. by james fenimore cooper. two years before the mast. by r. h. dana, jr. uarda. by george ebers. uncle max. by rosa n. carey. uncle tom's cabin. by harriet beecher stowe. undine and other tales. by de la motte fouque. unity of nature. by duke of argyle. vanity fair. by wm. m. thackeray. vendetta. by marie corelli. vicar of wakefield. by oliver goldsmith. vicomte de bragelonne. by alexander dumas. vilette. by charlotte bronte. virginians, the. by wm. m. thackeray. water babies, the. by charles kingsley. water witch, the. by james fenimore cooper. waverley. by sir walter scott. wee wifie. by rosa n. carey. westward ho! by charles kingsley. we two. by edna lyall. what's mine's mine. by george macdonald. when a man's single. by j. m. barrie. white company, the. by a. conan doyle. whittier's poems. (early). wide, wide world. by susan warner. widow lerouge, the. by emile gaboriau. window in thrums. by j. m. barrie. wing and wing. by james fenimore cooper. woman in white, the. by wilkie collins. won by waiting. by edna lyall. wonder book, a, for boys and girls. by nathaniel hawthorne. woodstock. by sir walter scott. wooed and married. by rosa n. carey. wooing o't. by mrs. alexander. world went very well then, the. by walter besant. wormwood. by marie corelli. wreck of the grosvenor, the by w. clark russell. zenobia. by william ware. [illustration: "mr. polk," said randy, "it was not my fault, and i shall not stand for the damage done."--p. .] randy of the river or _the adventures of a young deckhand_ by horatio alger, jr. author of "nelson the newsboy," "out for business," "the young book agent," "lost at sea," "ragged dick series," etc. grosset & dunlap publishers :: :: new york the rise in life series by horatio alger, jr. out for business; or, robert frost's strange career. falling in with fortune; or, the experiences of a young secretary nelson the newsboy, or, afloat in new york. jerry the backwoods boy, or, the parkhurst treasure. from farm to fortune, or, nat nason's strange experience. young captain jack, or, the son of a soldier. the young book agent, or, frank hardy's road to success. lost at sea, or, robert roscoe's strange cruise. randy of the river, or, the adventures of a young deckhand. _cloth. mo. illustrated price, cents per volume._ copyright, by stitt publishing company _randy of the river._ preface the majority of stories for boys have their background laid either in the city or the country, or possibly on the ocean, and we have read much about the doings of lads both rich and poor in such locations. in the present tale we have a youth of sturdy qualities who elects to follow the calling of a deckhand on a hudson river steamboat, doing his duty faithfully day by day, and trying to help others as well as himself. like all other boys he is at times tempted to do wrong, but he has a heart of gold even though it is hidden by a somewhat ragged outer garment, and in the end proves the truth of that old saying that it pays to be honest,--not only in regard to others but also regarding one's self. life on a river steamboat is not so romantic as some young people may imagine. there is hard work and plenty of it, and the remuneration is not of the best. but randy thompson wanted work and took what was offered. his success in the end was well deserved, and perhaps the lesson his doings teach will not be lost upon those who peruse these pages. it is better to do what one finds to do than to fold your hands and remain idle, and the idle boy is sure, sooner or later, to get into serious mischief. contents chapter page i. something about randy ii. at the fishing hole iii. exposing bob bangs iv. randy at home v. the result of a quarrel vi. the iron works affair vii. more troubles for randy viii. randy and his uncle peter ix. the new home x. sammy's fourth of july xi. randy to the rescue xii. a steamboat man xiii. mr. shalley makes an offer xiv. bob bangs and his horse xv. randy as a deckhand xvi. in new york city xvii. the purser has his say xviii. a meeting on the river xix. an unlooked-for encounter xx. what came of a demand xxi. randy visits his home xxii. mr. bartlett makes a move xxiii. the papers in the safe xxiv. another hiding place xxv. a victory for randy xxvi. new troubles xxvii. randy makes a discovery xxviii.out of a tight corner xxix. george gaffney's statement xxx. a swim for life xxxi. news of importance xxxii. brought to terms--conclusion randy of the river chapter i something about randy "i am going fishing, randy. do you want to go along?" "with pleasure, jack," answered randy thompson, a bright, manly youth of fourteen. "are you going on foot or in your boat?" "i think we might as well take the boat," returned jack bartlett, a boy who was but a few months older than randy. "have you your lines handy?" "no, but i can get them in less than ten minutes." "all right. meet me at the dock in quarter of an hour. i was thinking of going up the river to landy's hole. that's a good spot, isn't it?" "i think so. last season i was up there and caught fourteen good-sized fish." "they tell me you are one of the best fishermen in riverport, randy," went on jack bartlett, admiringly. "what is the secret of your success?" "i don't know unless it is patience," answered randy, with a broad smile. "to catch fish you must be patient. now when i caught my mess of fourteen two other boys were up to the hole. but just because the fish did not bite right away they moved away, further up the river. but by doing that they got only about half as many as myself." "well, i am willing to be patient if i know i am going to catch something." at this randy laughed outright. "you can't be sure of anything--in fishing. but i always reckon it's a good thing to hold on and give a thing a fair trial." "i reckon you're right, randy, and i'll give the fishing a fair trial to-day," answered jack bartlett. "remember, the dock in quarter of an hour," he added, as he moved away. "i'll be on hand--unless mother wants me to do something for her before i go away," returned randy. randy, or rather randolph, thompson, to use his right name, was the only son of louis thompson, a carpenter of riverport, a thriving town in one of our eastern states. randy had no brothers or sisters, and lived with his father and mother in a modest cottage on one of the side roads leading to the hills back of the town. randy was a scholar in the local school, standing close to the head of his class. it was now summer time and the institution of learning was closed, so the boy had most of his time to himself. he had wanted to go to work, to help his father, who had some heavy doctors' bills to pay, but his parents had told him to take at least two weeks' vacation before looking for employment. "he needs it," mrs. thompson had said to her husband. "he has applied himself very closely to his studies ever since last fall." "well, let him take the vacation and welcome," answered louis thompson. "i know when i was a boy i loved a vacation." he was a kind-hearted man and thought a good deal of his offspring and also of his wife, who was devoted to him. the cottage stood back in the center of a well-kept garden, where mrs. thompson had spent much time over her flowers, of which she was passionately fond. it was a two-story affair, containing but five rooms, yet it was large enough for the family, and randy, who had never known anything better, considered it a very good home. there was a small white fence in front, with a gate, and the path to the front stoop was lined with geraniums. over the porch was trained a honeysuckle which filled the air with its delicate fragrance. "mother, i'm going fishing with jack bartlett!" cried randy, running around to the kitchen, where his mother was busy finishing up the week's ironing. "very well, randy," she answered, setting down her flatiron and giving him a smile. "i suppose you won't be back until supper time." "it's not likely. can i do anything for you before i go?" "you might get a bucket of water and another armful of wood." "i'll do that," answered randy, and caught up the water bucket. "anything else?" "no. take care of yourself while you are on the river." "don't worry about me, mother. remember, i can swim like a fish." "yes, i know. but you must be careful anyway," answered mrs. thompson, fondly. the water and wood were quickly brought into the cottage, randy whistling merrily while he performed these chores. then the youth ran for his fishing outfit, after which he took the spade, went down to the end of the garden, and turned up some worms, which he placed in a pasteboard box. "now i am off, mother!" he called out. "good-by, randy," she said, and waved him a pleasant adieu from the open kitchen window. "she's the best mother a boy ever had," thought randy, as he walked away to join jack at the dock. "what a good boy!" murmured mrs. thompson. "oh, i hope he grows up to be a good man!" when randy arrived at the dock he found himself alone. he brought out the boat and cleaned it up and got the oars. he was all ready for the start when a boy somewhat older than himself slouched up. the newcomer was loudly dressed in a checked suit and wore a heavy watchchain, a big seal ring, and a diamond shirt stud. he might have been good-looking had it not been for the supercilious scowl of independence upon his face. "hullo there, randy thompson!" he called out. "what are you doing in jack bartlett's boat?" his manner was decidedly offensive and did not suit randy at all. "i don't know as that is any of your business, bob bangs," he answered coldly. "humph! jack won't thank you for getting out his boat," went on bob bangs. "if you want a boat why don't you hire one?" "i don't have to hire one," answered randy. "you wouldn't dare to touch my boat," continued bob, who was known as the town bully. his father was rich and for that reason he thought he could ride over all the other boys. "i shouldn't care to touch it," said randy. "don't you know you haven't any right to touch jack's boat without his permission?" went on the big youth. "bob bangs, this is none of your business." "humph! i'll make it my business." "if you do, you may get into trouble." "i'll risk that. if you don't get out of that boat i'll tell jack." "i am not going to get out of the boat." "maybe i'll make you get out," and bob bangs came a step closer, and put his hand on the gunwale of the rowboat. "you leave me and the boat alone," said randy, sharply. "you get out of that boat." "not for you." bob bangs looked ugly. he was on the point of catching randy by the collar when an interruption came from behind. "so you got here ahead of me, eh?" came in jack's voice, as he approached on a swift walk. "i had to do an errand for father and that kept me." as jack came up bob bangs fell back in disgust. "humph! why didn't you say you were waiting for jack?" he said to randy, with a sour look on his face. "you didn't ask me, that's why," returned randy. "what's the trouble?" questioned jack, quickly. "bob wanted me to leave the boat alone." "i thought he was trying to sneak it on the sly," explained the big boy. "i didn't know you cared to go out with him," he added, to jack, with a toss of his head. "why shouldn't i go out with randy?" asked jack, quickly. "oh, i shouldn't care to go out with the son of a poor carpenter." "see here, bob bangs, i consider myself as good as you," said randy, quickly. "humph!" "randy is all right, even if his father is a carpenter," said jack. "it's mean of you, bob, to talk that way." "choose your own company and i'll choose mine," answered bob bangs, loftily, and stalked away, his nose tilted high in the air. angry words arose to randy's lips but he repressed them and said nothing. in a moment more some goods on the dock hid the big boy from view. "don't you care for what he says," said jack, quickly. "he thinks a few dollars are everything in this world." "i didn't mind him--much, jack." "wanted you to get out of my boat, didn't he?" "yes. he didn't know i was waiting for you." "that was a good joke on him." "i can't understand why he is so disagreeable." "it was born in him," said jack, as he leaped into the rowboat and stowed away his fishing outfit. "his father is the same way and so is his mother. they think that just because they have money everybody else, especially a poor person, is dirt under their feet." "why, jack, i guess your father is as rich as mr. bangs." "maybe he is." "and you don't put on such airs." "and i don't intend to. money is a good thing to have, but it isn't everything--that is what my father and mother say." "bob wouldn't want me out in his boat with him." "maybe you wouldn't like to go out with him either." "you are right there. i am getting so i hate to speak to him." "well, i am getting that way, too. every time we meet he tries to impress it upon me that he is a superior person,--and i don't see it." "your father and his father have some business dealings, haven't they?" "yes, they are interested in the same iron company,--and from what father says, i think they are going to have trouble before long." "i hope your father comes out ahead." "it is this way: father has a controlling interest and mr. bangs is doing his best to get it away from him. if mr. bangs can get control he will, so father says, join the company of a larger concern, and then father will be about wiped out and he won't get more than half of what is really coming to him." "but wouldn't that be fraud?" "yes, morally, but not legally--so father says," answered jack, and heaved a sigh. "i hope it all comes out right." "and so do i--for your sake as well as for your folks," added randy, heartily. chapter ii at the fishing hole the fishing hole for which the two boys were bound was on the river about a mile and a half above the town. at this point the stream was thirty to forty feet wide and ten to fifteen feet deep. it was lined on one side with sharp rocks and on the other by thick trees and bushes. at the foot of some of the rocks, where the river made a bend, there was a deep hole, and this some of the lads, including randy and jack, considered an ideal place for fishing. the boys did not row directly for the hole, being afraid they might scare the fish away. instead they landed below the spot, tied fast to a tree root between the stones, and then crawled over the big rocks until they reached a point from which they could cast into the hole with ease. they soon baited up. randy was ready first, but he gave his companion the chance to make the initial cast. scarcely had jack's hook touched the water when there came a jerk and the line was almost pulled from the boy's hands. "you've got him!" cried randy, excitedly. "good for you!" "if i don't lose him before i get him on the rocks!" answered jack. but his fears were groundless, for a few seconds later the catch lay at his feet--a fish weighing at least a pound and a half. "that's the way to do it," said randy. "you might have had him--if you had cast in first," answered his companion, modestly. "i'll try my luck now," and randy cast in without delay. then jack also tried it again, and both boys began to fish in earnest. soon randy got a bite and brought in a fish weighing as much as the first catch. "now we are even," said jack. in an hour randy had four good-sized fish to his credit and jack had an equal number. then jack's luck fell away and randy got three more while his companion got nothing. "there is no use of talking, you are a better fisherman than i," said jack. "i think you drop down too deep," answered randy. "try it this way," and he showed his friend what he meant. after that jack's success was a trifle better, but still randy kept ahead of him. when the boys had caught twenty fish between them they decided to give up the sport. randy knew where they could find some blackberries, and leaving their fish in a hole among the rocks, where there was a small pool of water, they tramped away from the river to where the blackberry bushes were located. "these are fine," said jack, eating a handful with a relish. "randy, we ought to come berrying here some day." "i am willing." "these berries would make the nicest kind of pies." "yes, indeed! and if there is anything i love it is a good, juicy blackberry pie." "if we had a kettle we might take some home with us now." "i am afraid it is too late. what time is it?" jack carried a neat silver watch which he consulted. "why, it's half-past five already! i thought it might be four. yes, we'll have to get back." "let us go down to the boat first and then row up and get the fish." this suited the two boys, and soon they were making their way back over the rocks to where jack's craft had been left. as they came out from among the trees and bushes they saw another boat on the river, headed for riverport. "there is bob bangs again!" exclaimed randy. "hullo!" yelled jack. "have you been fishing, too?" "yes," answered the big boy, and continued to row down the river. "have any luck?" went on jack. "fine," was the short answer, and then bob bangs' craft drew out of hearing. "he was in a tremendous hurry," mused jack. "perhaps he didn't want us to see what he had caught," answered randy. "that's likely it, randy. i don't believe he knows as much about fishing as i do--and that is little enough." having secured the rowboat, randy and jack rowed up to the fishing hole, and randy scrambled up the rocks to secure their two strings of fish. he soon reached the shallow pool among the rocks in which they had been placed and drew up the two strings. "well, i declare!" he ejaculated, as he looked the fish over. then he counted them carefully. "what can this mean?" his string had held twelve fish and jack's eight fish. now three of the largest fish from each string were gone. he looked around with care, but could see nothing of the missing fish. "hullo! what's keeping you?" shouted jack, from the boat. "come up here!" called back randy. "anything wrong?" "yes." "landy! i hope the fish aren't gone!" burst out jack, as he scrambled up the rocks and ran to where randy was continuing the search. the situation was soon explained and both boys hunted around in the neighborhood of the pool, thinking the fish might have gotten away in some manner. then of a sudden jack uttered a cry: "look at this, randy!" "what is it?" "a key ring, with two keys on it." "where did you find it?" "here, right beside the pool." "then somebody has been here and taken our fish!" "exactly what i believe." jack began to examine the key ring and then he uttered another exclamation: "here are some initials on the ring." "what are they?" "i can't make out very well--they are so worn. i think the first is r." "let me see." jack passed the find over and randy examined it. "i can make it out," said randy. "r. a. b." "robert a. bangs!" shouted jack. "bob bangs!" murmured randy. "could he have been mean enough to come here and take some of our fish?" "it certainly looks that way." "let us go after him and find out." "all right. anyway, we can make him explain how his key ring got here." taking what was left of the fish, the two boys hurried back to the rowboat and soon each was seated at an oar and pulling a good stroke in the direction of the town. "he must have been watching us fish," observed jack. "and he must have seen us place our catch in the pool." "and took our best fish because he couldn't catch any of his own," concluded randy. "well, if he has my fish he has got to give them up," he added, with determination. rowing at a good rate of speed, it did not take the boys long to reach the town. as they moved past one dock after another they looked for bob bangs, but the big youth was nowhere in sight. "i reckon he was afraid of being followed," said jack. "there is his boat," answered randy, and pointed to the craft, which was tied up near an old boathouse and not at the regular bangs dock. while the two boys rested on their oars an old man who was lame, and who rented out boats for a living, came from the old boathouse. "hullo, isaac!" called out jack. "have you seen bob bangs around here?" "why, yes; he just went ashore," answered isaac martin. "did he have any fish?" "yes, a nice string--some pretty big ones, too." "how many?" "seven or eight." "which way did he go?" "up samson street." "that's the back way to his house," cried randy. "come on!" "what shall we do with our fish and the boat?" "let isaac take care of them." "want me to take care of things, eh?" said the lame boatman. "very well, i'll do it." the two boys were soon on the way, on a run. they knew about the route bob bangs would take to get home and came in sight of the big boy just as he was entering his father's garden by a rear gate. "stop, bob!" called out randy. the big boy looked around hastily and was much chagrined to see the others so close at hand. he held his string of fish behind him. "what do you want?" he demanded, as they came closer. "you know well enough what we want," returned jack. "we want our fish." "your fish? who has got your fish?" blustered bob. "you've got them," retorted randy, and made a snatch at the string. the big boy held fast and a regular tug of war ensued. "let go!" "i won't!" "you shall!" "see here, bob," interposed jack. "it won't do you any good to hang on. those are our fish and we want them." "bah! how do you know they are your fish?" "because you took them from the pool in which we placed them." "i did not." "you did." "you can't prove it." "yes, we can." "how?" "by this," said jack, triumphantly, and exhibited the key ring and keys. chapter iii exposing bob bangs when bob bangs saw the key ring his face changed color. "where did you get that?" he demanded. "got it where you dropped it--at the pool where we left our fish." "how do you know it is mine?" "by the initials on it." "humph!" "if you don't want the key ring we'll keep it," put in randy, quickly. "no, you won't keep it. give it to me." "then give us our fish," said randy, quietly but firmly. "they are not all your fish. i caught two of them." "the two smallest, i suppose." "no, the two largest." "we lost six big fish and these belong to us," said randy, and took the best fish from the string. "bob bangs, it was a contemptible thing to do," he added, with spirit. "i wouldn't do such a dirty thing for a thousand dollars." "bah! don't talk to me, unless you want to get hurt," growled the large youth, savagely. "i am not afraid of you, even if you are bigger than i am," said randy, undaunted by the fighting attitude the bully had assumed. "it certainly was a mean piece of business," came from jack. "if you wanted some fish why didn't you ask us for them?" "humph! i can buy my fish if i want to." "then why did you take ours?" demanded randy. "i--er--i didn't know they belonged to you. i just saw the strings in the pool and took a few," answered the boy, lamely. "give me my key ring." the ring with the keys was passed over, and randy and jack restrung their fish. in the meantime bob bangs entered his father's garden, slamming the gate after him. "you just wait--i'll get square with you!" he shouted back, and shook his fist at randy. "you be careful, or you'll get into trouble!" shouted back randy, and then he and jack walked away with their fish. "what's the matter, master robert?" asked the man-of-all-work around the bangs place, as he approached bob from the barn. "oh, some fellows are getting fresh," grumbled the big youth. "but i'll fix them for it!" "i see they took some of your fish." "we had a dispute about the fish. rather than take them from such a poor chap as randy thompson i let him keep them," said bob, glibly. "but i am going to get square with him for his impudence," he added. after a long hard row and fishing for over an hour, bob bangs had caught only two small fish and he was thoroughly disgusted with everything and everybody. he walked into the kitchen and threw the fish on the sink board. "there, mamie, you can clean those and fry them for my supper," he said to the servant girl. "oh, land sakes, master bob, they are very small," cried the girl. "they won't go around nohow!" "i said you could fry them for _my_ supper," answered bob, coldly. "they are hardly worth bothering with," murmured the servant girl, but the boy did not hear her, for he had passed to the next room. he went upstairs and washed up and then walked into the sitting room, where his mother reclined on a sofa, reading the latest novel of society life. "where is father?" he asked, abruptly. "i do not know, robert," answered mrs. bangs, without looking up from her book. "will he be home to supper?" to this there was no reply. "i say, will he be home to supper?" and the boy shoved the book aside. "robert, don't be rude!" cried mrs. bangs, in irritation. "i presume he will be home," and she resumed her novel reading. "i want some money." to this there was no reply. mrs. bangs was on the last chapter of the novel and wanted to finish it before supper was served. she did little in life but read novels, dress, and attend parties, and she took but small interest in bob and his doings. "i say, i want some money," repeated the boy, in a louder key. "robert, will you be still? every time i try to read you come and interrupt me." "and you never want to listen to me. you read all the time." "no, i do not--i really read very little, i have so many things to attend to. what did you say you wanted?" "i want some money. i haven't had a cent this week." "then you must ask your father. i haven't anything to give you," and again mrs. bangs turned to her book. "can't you give me a dollar?" again there was no answer. "i say, can't you give me a dollar?" "i cannot. now go away and be quiet until supper time." "then give me fifty cents." "i haven't a penny. ask your father." "oh, you're a mean thing!" growled the wayward son, and stalked out of the sitting room, slamming the door after him. "what a boy!" sighed the lady of the house. "he never considers my comfort--and after all i have done for him!" and then she turned once more to her precious novel. it wanted half an hour to supper time and bob, not caring to do anything else, took himself back to his room. like his mother, he, too, loved to read. stowed away in a trunk, he had a score or more of cheap paper-covered novels, of daring adventures among the indians, and of alluring detective tales, books on which he had squandered many a dime. one was called "bowery bob, the boy detective of the docks; or, winning a cool million," and he wanted to finish this, to see how bob got the million dollars. the absurdity of the stories was never noticed by him, and he thought them the finest tales ever penned. he was deep in a chapter where the hero in rags was holding three men with pistols at bay when he heard a noise below and saw his father leaping from the family carriage. mr. bangs' face wore a look of great satisfaction, showing plainly that his day's business had agreed with him. "how do you do, dad?" he said, running down to greet his parent. "first-rate, bob," said mr. bangs, with a smile. "how have things gone with you to-day?" "not very well." "what's the matter?" "you forgot to give me my spending money this week." "i thought i gave it to you saturday." "that was for last week." "i think you are mistaken, bob. however, it doesn't matter much," went on mr. bangs, as he entered the house. "phew! he's in a fine humor to-night," thought bob. "i'll have to strike him for more than a dollar." "where's your mother?" went on the gentleman. "in the sitting room, reading. but i say, dad, what about that money?" "oh, do you want it right away?" "i'd like to have it after supper." "very well." "can i have three dollars? i want to buy something extra this week--some things i really need." "ahem! three dollars is quite a sum. i don't know of any other boy in riverport who gets as much as three dollars in one week to spend." "well, but they haven't as rich a father as i have." "ah, quite true," nodded mr. bangs, with satisfaction. "i think i can safely lay claim to being the richest man in this district." "then i can have the three dollars?" went on bob, anxiously. "yes. here you are," and his parent brought forth a well-filled wallet and handed over three new one-dollar bills. bob was stowing the money away in his pocket and congratulating himself on his luck when a door opened and mrs. bangs appeared. "so you are back, amos," she said, sweetly. "it has been such a long, lonesome day without you." "and a busy day for me," answered amos bangs, as he passed into the sitting room and dropped into an easy chair. "did you go to springfield?" "i did, and met tuller and the rest. we've got that thing in our grip now." "yes," she said, vaguely. in reality she took no interest whatever in her husband's affairs so long as she got what money she desired. "yes, sir--we've got the thing just where we want it," continued amos bangs. "you mean----?" his wife hesitated. "i mean that iron works affair of course, viola. can't you understand at all?" "oh--er--yes, of course. let me see, you were trying to get control so you said." "exactly, and i've got it." "was not that the works in which mr. bartlett is interested?" "the same." "did not he have the control?" "yes, but i have it now, and i am going to keep it," answered amos bangs, with evident satisfaction. "do you mean jack bartlett's father, dad?" questioned bob, eagerly. "i do." "have you got the best of him?" "well, i have--ahem--carried my point and the iron works will be absorbed by the concern in springfield." "and jack bartlett's father won't like that?" "no. in fact, i am afraid he will fight it. but he can do nothing, absolutely nothing," went on amos bangs. "i hold the whip hand--and i shall continue to hold it." "i hate the bartletts and i hope you do get the best of them." "this will make mrs. bartlett take a back seat," said mrs. bangs, maliciously. "maybe you mean that seat in church," said bob, slyly. "not that particularly, although it is time they went to the rear--they have had a front seat so long. amos, we must take a front seat now." "as you please, viola." "and i must have some new dresses." "you shall have them, my dear." "you dear, good man!" cried the fashionable wife; and then the whole family went in to supper. bob felt particularly elated. he had gotten three dollars for spending money and he felt sure that the bartletts, including jack, would have to suffer. "i wish dad could do something to injure the thompsons," he said to himself. "but mr. thompson is only a carpenter. i must watch my chance and get square with randy on my own account." chapter iv randy at home all unmindful of the trouble that had already come to the bartletts, and of the trouble bob bangs was hatching out for him, randy divided the mess of fish with jack and hurried home. "see what a fine mess i've got, mother!" he cried, as he entered the kitchen, where his mother had just started to prepare the evening meal. "aren't they real beauties?" "they are, randy," answered mrs. thompson, and smiled brightly. "did jack do as well?" "almost as well as i did, and we divided evenly, because, you see, he furnished the boat. and, mother, i've found out where we can get a fine lot of blackberries. if you want me to, i'll go for them to-morrow." "i wish you would, randy. your father loves blackberry pie and blackberry pudding." "and so do i." "i've got time to fry some of these fish for supper," went on mrs. thompson. "and we can have some more to-morrow, too. but i don't think we can use them all." "i was thinking we might give mrs. gilligan a couple." "that will be very nice. if you will, take them over at once." mrs. gilligan was a poor irishwoman who took in washing and ironing for a living. she was alone in the world and often had a struggle to make both ends meet. "just to look at that now!" she cried, as randy held up the fish. "sure an' ye air a great fisher b'y, randy, so ye air!" "i got so many i thought i'd bring you a couple," said our hero. "now that's rale kind of ye," answered mrs. gilligan, as she dried her hands and took the fish. "just loike my pat used to catch afore he was kilt on the railroad." "i caught them this afternoon, so you can be sure they are fresh." "i'm much obliged to ye, i am indade," said mrs. gilligan. she drew a long breath. "sure an' the lord is good to us after all. i was just afther thinkin' i had nothin' but throuble, whin in comes these iligant fish." "is something wrong?" asked randy, curiously. "it's not a great dale, yet it's enough fer a poor woman loike me. it's mrs. bangs' wash, so it is. nothin' suits that lady, an' she always wants to pay less than she agreed." "you mean bob bangs' mother?" "th' same, randy. oh, they are a hard-hearted family, so they are!" "i believe you. and yet mr. bangs is rich." "it's little enough i see of his money," sighed mrs. gilligan. "although i do me besht wid the washin' an' ironin', so i do!" "it's a wonder mrs. bangs don't make the servant do the washing and ironing." "she did make the other wan do that same. but the new one can't iron an' won't try, so i have the work, an' the girrul gits less wages," answered the irishwoman. when randy returned home he found supper almost ready. the appetizing odor of frying fish filled the air. a few minutes later mr. thompson came in. louis thompson was a man a little past middle age, tall and thin and not unlike randy in the general appearance of his face. he was not a strong man, and the winter before had been laid up with a severe attack of rheumatism. "that smells good," he said, with a smile, as he kissed his wife. "i like fish." "randy just caught them." "good enough." "you look tired, louis," went on mrs. thompson. "was the work extra hard?" "not much harder than usual, lucy, but i was working on a cellar partition and it was very damp. it brought back a bit of the rheumatism." "that is too bad." "can't the boss give you something else to do--something where it isn't damp?" questioned randy. "i have asked him about it," answered his father. "but just at present there is nothing else in sight." "you must take care, louis," said mrs. thompson. "it will not do to risk having the rheumatism come back." "i wish i could get something to do," said randy, while the evening meal was in progress. "i might earn some money and it would help. but there doesn't seem to be any kind of an opening in riverport." "times are rather dull," answered mr. thompson. "and i am afraid they will be worse before they are better." on the following day randy went out after blackberries. jack went with him and the boys went up the stream in the latter's boat. "if i can get a good mess mother is going to preserve some," said randy. "i like blackberry jam," answered his friend. the two boys had brought their lunch with them, intending to remain out all day. by noon they had picked twelve quarts of berries and then sat down by the river side to eat their lunch. "what do you say to a swim?" remarked jack, after the meal was over. "just the thing!" cried our hero. "but we mustn't remain in longer than half an hour. i want to pick more berries." they were soon in the water, which was deliciously cool and refreshing. they dove and splashed around to their hearts' content and raced from one bank to the other and back. randy won the race by several seconds. "i declare, randy, you are a regular water rat!" declared jack. "i never saw a better swimmer." "well, i do love the water, that is certain," answered randy. "and you row such a good stroke, too." "that's because i love boats." the half-hour at an end, our hero leaped ashore and began to don his garments, and jack did the same. they were just finishing their toilet when a rowboat came into view, containing bob bangs and several other of the loud boys of riverport. "there is bob bangs again," whispered randy. "we'll have to watch out that he doesn't try to rob us of our berries," whispered jack, significantly. "humph! up here again, eh?" remarked the big youth, resting on his oars. "we are," answered randy. "i think we can come, if we please." "certainly--for all i care," growled bob. "we are picking berries, and we intend to watch them, too," put in randy, loudly. at this pointed remark bob bangs colored slightly. "i should think you'd pick your company, jack bartlett," he said, coarsely. "i do. that is why i am not with you." "humph!" "i consider myself just as good as you, bob bangs," said randy, warmly. "i may not be as rich, but i never tried to steal a mess of fish from anybody." "you shut up!" roared the big boy. and then he started to row away. "you'll not get a chance to rob us of these berries," called out jack after him. "what do they mean about robbing somebody of fish?" asked one of bob's companions. "oh, that was only a joke," answered the rich youth. "just wait--i'll fix them for it!" as soon as bangs and his cronies had disappeared randy and jack went back to their berry picking. they worked steadily until five o'clock in the afternoon, and by that time had a great number of quarts to their credit. "the folks at home will be pleased," said jack. "my mother loves fresh berries. she says they are much better than those which are several days in the market." "and she is right." the boys had brought along several large and small kettles, and had left three of these down near the boat, filled with the fruit. each walked to the shore with a kettle full of berries in his hand. "well, i never!" cried jack, in dismay. "bob bangs again!" murmured randy. "oh, don't i just wish i had him here. i'd pummel him good!" there was good cause for our hero's anger. on the rocks lay the overturned berry kettles, the berries scattered in all directions and many of them crushed under foot. "and look at the boat!" gasped jack, turning to inspect the craft. the rowboat was partly filled with water and on the seats and in the bottom a quantity of mud had been thrown. the oars were sticking in a mud bank close by. "does she leak?" asked our hero, with concern. "i'll have to find out." it was soon discovered that the craft was intact, and then they set to work to clean up the muss. this was no easy job, and the boys perspired freely, for the day was a warm one. then randy looked over the scattered berries. "about one-third of them are fit to take along," he said. "the others are crushed and dirty." "i'll tell you what i am going to do," said jack, stoutly. "i am going to make bob bangs pay for dirtying my boat, and he can pay for the lost berries, too." "but how can we prove he is guilty?" "we'll make him own up to it. nobody else would play such a mean trick." the two boys were in no happy frame of mind as they rowed back to riverport. they suspected that bob bangs would keep out of their sight, but just as they were landing they caught sight of him peering at them from behind a dock building. "there he is!" cried jack. "after him, randy!" "right you are!" answered our hero, and ran after bob bangs with might and main. randy was a good sprinter and although the rich youth tried to get away he was soon brought to a halt. "let go of me!" he roared, as randy caught him by the collar. "not just yet, bob bangs!" returned randy. "a fine trick you played this afternoon." "i didn't play any trick!" "yes, you did." "i didn't! let me go!" and now bob bangs did his best to get away. he saw that randy and jack were thoroughly angry and was afraid he was in for a drubbing--or worse. he gave a jerk and then started to run. randy put out his foot and the big youth went sprawling full length, his face violently striking the ground. chapter v the result of a quarrel if any boy was ever humiliated it was bob bangs. his face and hands were covered with dust and so was his elegant suit of clothing, while the skin was cut on the side of his nose. "now, see what you have done!" he spluttered, gazing ruefully at himself. "my suit is just about ruined!" "and it serves you right, bob bangs," came warmly from jack. "that is what you get for trying to run away," added our hero. "i'll have the law on you, randy thompson!" "maybe i'll have the law on you, bob bangs!" "you had no right to throw me down in that fashion." "then why did you start to run away?" "because i didn't want to stay here--and you had no right to stop me." "we wanted to know about this berry affair," said jack. "and about the dirty boat." "i don't know what you are talking about," answered the big boy, but his face showed his concern. "you put mud in my boat and spilled our berries." "who says i did that?" "we know you did." "did you see us?" "no, but we know you did it and nobody else." "you can't prove it," answered bob, and now his face showed a sign of relief. he had been afraid that there had been a witness of his evil-doing. "perhaps we can," said randy. "bob bangs, i think you are the meanest boy in riverport!" he continued, with spirit. "i don't care what you think, randy thompson. who are you, anyway? the son of a poor carpenter. why, you haven't got a decent suit of clothing to your back!" "for shame, bob!" broke in jack. "randy is a good fellow, even if he is poor." "well, if you think he is so good you can go with him. but i don't want to associate with such a low fellow," went on the big youth, as he started to brush himself off with a silk handkerchief. "so i am a low fellow, am i?" said randy, in a steady voice, and coming up close to bob, who promptly began to back away. "ye--as, you--you are," stammered the rich youth. "i've a good mind to knock you down for saying it, bob bangs. i am not as low as you." "humph!" "i would never do the low things you have done. it was a mean, contemptible trick that you played on jack and me. by right you ought to be made to scrub out the boat and pay for the berries you spoiled." "bah! i won't touch the boat, and i won't pay a cent." "then you admit that you are guilty?" "i admit that i had some fun, at your expense, yes," answered bob bangs. "you can't do anything to me, though, for you can't prove it against me." "that means, if you were brought up into court, you would lie about it," said randy. "humph! you needn't get so personal, randy thompson." "for two pins, do you know what i would do, bob bangs?" "what?" "i'd give you a good thrashing," and randy pulled up his sleeves, as if he meant to begin operations at once. "no! no! don't you--you dare to touch me!" gasped the rich boy, in alarm. "if you do, i'll--i'll have the law on you!" "and we'll have the law on you." bob bangs was more alarmed than ever. he saw that randy was ready to pitch into him on the instant. he looked around, saw an opening, and darted away at his best speed. "let him go--the big coward," called out jack, for randy had started after the rich boy. "we can settle with him another time." "what a mean chap!" cried randy. "i never saw his equal, never!" bob bangs ran a distance of several rods. then, seeing a clod of dirt lying in the road, he picked it up and hurled it at the boys. he was not a good thrower, but as luck would have it the clod struck randy on the shoulder, some of the dirt spattering up into his ear. "ha! ha! that's the time you got it!" sang out the rich boy, gleefully. "and this is the time you are going to get it," returned randy, and made a dash after him. seeing this, jack followed after the pair. [illustration: randy caught bob bangs by the arm and threw him over.] bob bangs could run and fear lent speed to his flying feet. but he was no match for randy, who had on more than one occasion won a running match amongst his schoolfellows. bob started for home, several blocks away, but just before he reached his gate randy came near to him, caught him by the arm and flung him over on his side. then, to hold him down, our hero seated himself on top of the rich boy, who began to bellow lustily. "get off of me!" "i will not!" "you are squeezing the wind out of me!" "what right had you to throw that chunk of dirt at me?" "i--er--i was only fooling." "maybe i am only fooling, too." "you are breaking my ribs! oh, let up, i say!" "are you sorry for what you did?" demanded randy. to this bob bangs made no reply. "i see you've got him," said jack, running up at that instant. "yes, and i am going to give it to him good," answered randy. "let up! help, somebody! help!" roared bob, badly frightened. he began to kick and struggle, but randy held him down and as a consequence he was covered with dust and dirt from head to foot. in the midst of the mêlée a carriage came along the roadway. it contained mrs. bangs and the man-of-all-work, who was driving. "mercy on us! what does this mean?" burst from the fashionable lady's lips. "can that be robert?" "help! help!" roared the rich youth, more lustily than ever. "it certainly is robert," went on mrs. bangs. "john, stop the carriage. you rude boy, let my son alone!" she went on, in her shrill, hard voice. "hullo, here is mrs. bangs," remarked jack, looking around and discovering the new arrival. for the instant randy did not see the rich woman and continued to hold down bob, who struggled violently, sending up a cloud of dust in the road. then he noticed the carriage and looked up, and his face fell. "you scamp! leave my boy alone!" screamed mrs. bangs. "oh, john, perhaps you had better run for a policeman!" she added, as randy let go his hold and arose. "you had better not, mrs. bangs," said jack. "bob deserves what he is getting." "i do not believe it! it is disgraceful to throw him down in the road like this," stormed the fashionable lady. "he hit randy with a chunk of dirt." "i--i didn't do nothing!" howled bob, as he got up. he was too ruffled to think of his bad grammar. "and that elegant suit is about ruined," went on mrs. bangs. "i never heard of such doings before. boy," she went on, looking at randy, "you ought to be locked up!" "it is bob ought to be locked up," retorted randy. "he started this trouble; i didn't." "i do not believe it. my son is a gentleman." "i didn't do a thing," put in the rich boy, feeling safe, now that his mother and the hired man were on the scene. "they pitched into me for nothing at all." "bob knows better than that," said jack. "yesterday he tried to steal some fish we caught, and to-day he mussed up jack's boat and ruined some berries that both of us had picked," explained randy. "i took him to task about it and then he threw the mud at me. then i chased him and caught him, as you saw." "preposterous! my boy would not steal!" said mrs. bangs, tartly. she looked meaningly at jack. "i presume you and your family are very bitter against us now," she added, significantly. "bitter against you?" said jack, puzzled. "yes--because of that iron works affair." "i don't know anything about that, mrs. bangs." "oh, then you haven't heard yet." the fashionable woman was nonplussed. "never mind. you must leave robert alone." "ain't you going to get that policeman and lock them up?" asked the son, anxiously. "if i am locked up, you'll be locked up, too," said randy. "and the charge against you will be stealing as well as malicious mischief." "yes, and we'll prove our case," added jack. "bob doesn't know what witnesses we have." at this announcement bob bangs' face grew pale. "yo--you can't prove anything," he faltered. "you don't know about that," said randy, taking his cue from jack. "i will look into this affair later--just now i have no time," said mrs. bangs, after an awkward pause. "robert, you had better go into the house and clean yourself up. john, you can drive on." and then, while the fashionable woman was driven into her grounds, her son lost no time in sneaking off into the house. as he entered the door he turned and shook his fist at our hero and jack. "jack, i don't think we have heard the last of this," remarked randy, as he and his companion started away. "perhaps not, but i think we have the best of it," answered jack. "i don't know about that. mrs. bangs is a very high-strung woman and thinks a good deal of bob." "i'd like to know what she meant about the iron works matter," went on jack, with a troubled look on his face. "i hope mr. bangs hasn't got the best of father in that deal." "you had better ask your father when you get home." "i will." the two lads hurried back to the boat and placed the craft where it belonged. then the berries were divided, and each started for his home little dreaming of the trouble that was in store for both of them. chapter vi the iron works affair when jack arrived at home he took the berries around to the kitchen and then hurried upstairs to the bathroom, to wash and fix up for supper. he was in the midst of his ablutions when he heard his father come in and go to the library. an animated talk between his two parents followed. "something unusual is up," thought jack, and went below as soon as he was fixed up. he found his father sitting near the library table, his head resting on his hand. his face looked careworn. mrs. bartlett sat by an open window clasping her hands tightly. their earnest talk came to a sudden end as jack entered. "good-evening, father and mother," said the boy and then halted. "maybe i was interrupting you," he added. "jack may as well know," said mrs. bartlett, looking meaningly at her husband. "i suppose so," answered mr. bartlett, and gave a long sigh. "know what?" asked jack. "your father has had trouble at the iron works," answered his mother. "what kind of trouble?" "it is the bangs affair," answered mr. bartlett. "you know a little about that already. well, amos bangs has forced me into a corner." "what do you mean by that, father?" "he has gained control of the company and is going to consolidate with the springfield concern." "will that harm you much?" "a great deal, i am afraid, jack. in the past i have known all that was going on. now i will have to rely on amos bangs--and i do not care to do that." "don't you think he is honest?" "privately, i do not, although i should not care to say so in public. he and his friends at springfield are sharpers. they will squeeze what they can out of the new concern, and i am afraid i shall be left out in the cold." "well, i shouldn't trust mr. bangs myself. he and his son are of a stripe, and i know only too well now what bob is." "have you had trouble with bob?" questioned mrs. bartlett, quickly. "yes," answered jack, and gave the particulars. "how bob will crow over me now!" he went on, ruefully. "this will make bangs harder on me than ever," remarked mr. bartlett. "oh, i trust not, father!" cried jack. "i am sure you have trouble enough already!" "the bangses are a hard family to get along with," said mrs. bartlett. "i have heard that from several who work for them." "the men at the office are sorry to see amos bangs in control," said mr. bartlett. "they know he will drive them more than i have ever driven them, and he will never raise their wages." "are you going to leave the company's office, father?" "yes. i am no longer an officer, only a stockholder." "the company ought to give you a position." "bangs said i could be a timekeeper, at fifteen dollars per week." "how mean! and what will his salary be?" "i don't know yet--probably a hundred and fifty per week--seven or eight thousand per year." "and you've been getting sixty dollars per week, haven't you?" "yes." "then i'd go elsewhere." "that is what i shall do--if i can find any opening. what i am worried about mostly is the capital i have in the iron works, fifteen thousand dollars. i am afraid bangs will, sooner or later, wipe me out, and do it in such a way that i cannot sue him to advantage." "it's an outrage!" "the trouble is, i trusted him too much from the start. he has proved to be a snake in the grass." "and bob is exactly like him," said jack. the family talked the matter over all during the supper hour and for some time later. the prospect ahead was a dark one and mrs. bartlett sighed deeply. "if you cannot get an opening elsewhere i do not know what we are to do," said she to her husband. "i'll get something," he replied, bravely. "and remember, i have a thousand dollars in cash in the bank." "a thousand dollars won't last long, philip, after once you begin to use it up." "that is true." "have you anything definite in view?" "not exactly. i am going to write to my friend mason, in albany. he may be able to get me something to do at the iron works there. he is in charge." "well, i hope it is better than the place amos bangs offered you." "there is only one trouble," went on mr. bartlett. "if i get work at albany we will have to move to that city." "well, we can do that." "yes, but i hate to go away from riverport. i wanted to watch bangs." "you might go to albany every monday and come home saturday night, at least for a time." "yes, i might do that," answered philip bartlett. on the following morning he went down to the iron works as usual. as early as it was he found amos bangs ahead of him, and sorting out some papers at one of the desks. "morning," said amos bangs, curtly. "good-morning," answered mr. bartlett. "mr. bangs, what are you doing at this desk?" "sorting out things." "do you not know that this is my private desk?" "is it? i thought it belonged to the iron company," answered amos bangs with a sneer. "the desk does belong to the company, but at present it contains my private papers as well as some papers of the company." "well, it is going to be my desk after this, i'll thank you to take your personal things away." "you seem to be in a hurry to get me out." "i want to get to work here. things have dragged long enough. i am going to make them hum." "i am glad to hear it," answered philip bartlett, pointedly. "i presume we can look for big dividends on our stock next year." "well--er--i don't know about that. we have got to make improvements and they will cost money." "you didn't want any improvements when i was in charge." "that was a different thing. the old concern was a small-fry affair. we are going to make the new concern something worth while," answered amos bangs, loftily. "i hope you do--for my sake as well as for the sake of the other stockholders. but what salaries are the new officers to have?" "that is to be decided later." "i trust all the profits are not eaten up by the salaries." "you cannot expect talented men--like myself, for instance--to work for low salaries." "you used to be willing to work for fifty dollars a week." "those days are past. but i cannot waste time talking now. clean out the desk and turn it over to me," concluded amos bangs, and walked away. with a heavy heart philip bartlett set about the task before him. he was much attached to the iron works and hated to leave it. presently his brow grew troubled. "mr. bangs!" he called. "what do you want now?" "did you see anything of some papers with a broad rubber band around them?" "didn't see anything but what is there." "i had some private papers. they seem to be gone." "i didn't take them," answered amos bangs, coldly. "it is queer where they can be," went on philip bartlett. "well, i haven't got them." philip bartlett hunted high and low for the missing documents, but without success. then he cleaned out the desk, put his personal things in a package, said good-by to his former employees, and quit the office. "i am well rid of him," said amos bangs, to himself. "and i am glad i got hold of those private contracts. now i can make a deal with shaster and turn the work over to the springfield concern--and make some money!" chapter vii more troubles for randy two days passed quietly, and randy did not see or hear anything more of bob bangs. then he learned through jack that mrs. bangs had gone off on a summer trip, taking her son with her. "i hear there are great changes at the iron works," said randy, to his friend. "mr. bangs, they say, is in charge." "he is, and father is out of it," answered jack, bitterly. "that is what mrs. bangs meant when she said i must be bitter against the family." "is your father out of it entirely, jack?" "yes, so far as holding a position is concerned. he still has his stock. but he is afraid that won't be worth much, if amos bangs runs the concern." "what is your father going to do?" "he doesn't know yet. he is trying to connect with some other iron works." "i hope he strikes something good." "so do i, randy." "i wish i could get something to do, too," went on randy. "you mean during the summer?" "yes, and maybe later, too." "why, isn't your father working?" "not to-day. he has been working in a damp cellar and that brought on his old complaint, rheumatism. he suffers something awful with it. he ought to have a long rest." "he certainly ought not to work in a cellar." "he has already told his boss he couldn't go at it again," answered randy. "have you had a doctor?" "yes, doctor case came this morning." "what does he say?" "he says rheumatism is hard to cure and that my father will have to take care of himself," answered randy. "but i must go on now," he added. "i must get some things for mother at the store." what randy said about his father was true. louis thompson was suffering very much. he rested on a couch in the sitting room of the cottage, and his wife did what she could to relieve his pain. several days passed and the rheumatism, instead of growing better, became worse, so that neither mrs. thompson nor randy knew what to do for the sufferer. then mr. thompson's side began to draw up, and in haste a specialist from the city was called in. he gave some relief, but said it would be a long time before the sufferer would be able to go to work again. "you must keep off your left leg," said the specialist. a few days after that louis thompson tried to walk. but the pain was so great he could not stand on the rheumatic limb. he sank on his couch with a groan. "i cannot do it," he gasped. "then do not try," answered his wife. "but i must get to work, lucy. i cannot afford to be idle." "never mind, louis; we will get along somehow." "how much did that specialist charge?" "fifty dollars?" "and what was doctor case's bill?" "ten dollars." "sixty dollars! and we had only ninety dollars in the bank! that leaves us only thirty dollars." to this mrs. thompson did not answer. she had used up nearly ten dollars for medicines, but did not wish to worry her suffering husband by mentioning it. "if i don't go to work we'll all starve to death!" continued louis thompson. "we'll manage somehow," answered the wife, bravely. nevertheless, she was much discouraged, and that evening, when her husband was asleep, she and randy talked the matter over as they sat on the porch in the darkness. "mother," said randy, earnestly, "i don't want you to feel troubled. you have labored so long for me that it is now my turn. i only want something to do." "my dear child," said the mother, "i do not need to be assured of your willingness. but i am sorry that you should be compelled to give up your vacation and maybe your schooling." "giving up schooling will not be necessary. i can study in the evenings. i am wondering what i can find to do." "i know so little about such things, randy, that we must consult someone who is better qualified to give advice in the matter--your uncle peter, for instance." at this randy gave a sigh. "i don't know uncle peter. he never comes here." "that is true," answered mrs. thompson, with some hesitation. "but you know he is a business man and has a great deal to attend to. besides, he has married a lady who is exceedingly fashionable, and i suppose he does not care to bring her to visit such unfashionable folks as we are." "then," said randy, indignantly, "i don't want to trouble him with any of my applications. if he doesn't think us good enough to visit we won't force ourselves upon him." "my dear boy, you are too excitable. it may be that it is only his business engagements that have kept him away from us. besides, you can go to him only for advice; it is quite different from asking assistance." mother and son discussed the situation for fully an hour and at last, in the absence of other plans, it was decided that randy should go to his uncle the next day and make known his wants. mr. thompson was told, early in the morning, and said randy could do as he thought best. "but don't expect too much from your uncle peter," said the sick man. peter thompson was an elder brother to randy's father. early in life he had entered a counting room and ever since had been engaged in mercantile pursuits. at the age of twenty-eight he had married a dashing lady, who was more noted for her fashionable pretensions than for any attractive qualities of the heart. she was now at the head of a very showy establishment, far more pretentious than that over which mrs. bangs presided. she knew little about her husband's relations and cared still less. the town of riverport was twenty miles distant from deep haven, where peter thompson resided with his family. a boat ran daily between these places and several others, but randy did not wish to spend the necessary fare, and so borrowed a bicycle from jack and made the trip by way of the river road, a safe if not very comfortable highway. randy had been to deep haven several times in years gone by, but, strange as it may seem, had never gone near his uncle's residence. but he knew where the house was located--a fine brick affair, with a swell front--and leaning his bicycle against a tree, he mounted the stone steps and rang the bell. "what's wanted?" demanded the servant who answered the summons, and she looked randy over in a supercilious manner, not at all impressed by the modest manner in which he was attired. "is uncle peter at home?" asked randy, politely. "who's uncle peter?" "mr. peter thompson?" "no, he isn't." "where is he?" "at his store, i expect." "is mrs. thompson at home?" "i don't know. i'll see. who shall i say wants to see her?" "randy thompson." randy was left standing in the elegantly furnished hallway while the servant departed. he could not help but contrast such elegance with his own modest home. "come into the drawing room," said the servant, briefly, on returning, and ushered him into the finest apartment he had ever entered. here he was kept waiting for fully quarter of an hour. then a showily dressed woman swept into the room with a majestic air and fixed a cold stare upon our hero. "are you my aunt?" he asked, somewhat disconcerted by his chilling reception. "really, i couldn't say--not having seen you before," she answered. "my name is randy thompson. i am the son of louis thompson, of riverport." "ah, i see." the woman said no more, but seemed to await developments. randy was greatly embarrassed. his aunt's coldness repelled him, and he easily saw that he was not a welcome visitor. a touch of pride came to him and he resolved that he would be as unsociable as his relative. "what can he want of me?" thought the woman. as randy said nothing more she grew tired of the stillness and drew herself up once more. "you must excuse me this morning," she said. "i am particularly engaged. i suppose you know where your uncle's store is. you will probably find him there." and then she rang for the servant to show our hero to the door. he was glad to get out into the open air once more. "so that is aunt grace," he mused. "well, i don't know as i shall ever wish to call upon her again. she is as bad as an iceberg for freezing a fellow. no wonder she and mother have never become friends." chapter viii randy and his uncle peter from his uncle's home randy rode on his bicycle to peter thompson's store--a fairly large concern, the largest, in fact, in deep haven. he found his uncle behind a desk in the rear, busy over some accounts. for several minutes he paid no attention to his visitor. then he stuck his pen behind his ear and gave randy a sharp look. "how do you do, uncle peter?" said the youth. "why--er--who is this?" stammered peter thompson. "i don't seem to quite know you." "i am randy thompson, your nephew." "oh, yes, my younger brother louis' son, i believe." "yes, sir." "i remember you now." peter thompson held out a flabby and cold hand. "come to town on business, i suppose." "in a way, yes, sir. father is down with rheumatism." "hum! didn't take proper care of himself, i suppose." "he had to work in a cellar and that put him in bed." "and you have come to ask help, i suppose." peter thompson's face dropped quickly. "i am sorry, but my family expenses are very large, and trade is dull. if i were able----" "you are mistaken," said randy, a flush mounting to his brow. "i do not come for assistance. i am old enough to work, if i only knew what to do. mother told me to come to you for advice." peter thompson looked relieved when he understood that randy's visit meant no demand upon his purse, and he regarded the youth more favorably than he had done. "ah, that's well," he said, rubbing his flabby hands together. "i like your independence. _now_, let me see." he scratched his head. "do you know anything about horses?" "no, sir; but perhaps i could learn." "the livery-stable keeper wants a boy, but he must know all about horses." "how much would he pay a week?" "two dollars at the start." "that would not be enough for me." "i might get you in some store in the city," continued peter thompson. "would you like that?" "if it paid, yes." "it would pay but little the first year. but you would gain a valuable experience." "i cannot afford that, uncle peter. i must earn something at once, to support our family." "then i don't know what can be done," said the storekeeper, with a shrug of his shoulders. "there are very few things that boys of your age can do, and it is so easy to obtain boys that people are not willing to pay much in wages." randy looked crestfallen and his uncle embarrassed. the merchant feared that he might be compelled by the world's opinion to aid his brother and his family. but suddenly an idea struck him. "do you know anything about farming?" he inquired. "yes, sir," said randy; "a little." "i ask for this reason," pursued mr. thompson. "when your grandfather died he left to me a small farm in riverport. it is not very good and has been used mostly as a pasture. i have been so occupied with other things that i could not look after it. perhaps you may know something of it." "yes, sir, i do. it is about half a mile from our house, and is called the twelve-acre lot. but i didn't know it belonged to you." "it does. what i was going to say is that, although i am unable to give you such assistance as i should like, i will, if you wish it, give you the use of that lot, and the little cottage on it, rent-free so long as you care to use it. perhaps you can put it to some use. anyway, you can use the cottage." randy's face lighted up, much to his uncle's satisfaction. the land was not extra good and the cottage all but tumbled down, yet it was better than nothing. they could move out of the cottage in which they were now located, and thus save the monthly rent, which was eight dollars. besides that, randy felt that he could do something with the garden, even though it was rather late in the season. where they now lived there was little room to grow vegetables. "you are sure you don't want to use the place, uncle peter?" he asked. "not at all. you can use it as long as you please." "maybe you would like to sell it." "ahem! if you wish to buy it you can make an offer after you are on the place. i once offered it to a man for two hundred dollars, but he would not take me up." "then you will sell it for two hundred dollars?" "i will sell it to you, or rather your father, for a hundred and fifty dollars." "i'll remember that, sir. it may be that we will like the place so much we shall want to buy--if we can raise the money." "you can pay off the amount at the rate of fifty dollars per year if you wish." "thank you. you are kind and i appreciate it," and randy meant what he said. peter thompson looked at the clock. "i must go to dinner now. will you dine with me?" had his uncle been alone randy might have accepted the offer, but he remembered the reception his aunt had given him and so declined. "i think i had better get back to riverport," he said. "i will tell mother and father about the twelve-acre lot and see what they have to say about it." "very well." "would you mind giving me a slip of paper so that we can prove we have a right to occupy the place?" pursued randy. "some folks may try to dispute our right. i know one man who pastures cows there." "he has no right to do so. here, i will give you a paper in due form." whatever his other shortcomings, peter thompson was not a slipshod business man. he drew up a paper in due form, stating that his brother could occupy the little farm for five years, rent-free, and if he wished to do so could at any time in said five years buy the little farm for one hundred and fifty dollars, payable at the rate of fifty dollars per year, without interest. "and now good-by and good luck to you," said he as he handed the paper to randy. "some day, if i can get the time, i may call upon you. but i rarely go away from home." randy shook hands and left, and in a minute more was riding home on the bicycle. "well, i think i've gained something," he thought, as he sped along. "anyway, we will have a roof over our heads and that is something. to be sure, the cottage is a poor one, but poor folks can't have everything as they want it." when the boy arrived home he found his father had had another bad turn but was now resting easier. without delay he told of what had happened at deep haven. "your aunt is a tartar," said louis thompson. "i never liked her, and that is why i and your uncle peter have drifted apart. i thought he had sold the twelve-acre lot to jerry borden, who pastures his cows there." "jerry borden will have to get out--that is, if we take possession," said randy. "mother, what do you think of it?" "is the cottage usable? i have not seen it for a year or more." "it will have to be fixed up some. but i am sure i can do the work, with father's tools." "it will save the rent money." "and i can plant a garden, even if it is late. and we can keep some chickens, and then, after everything is in shape, i can again look for outside work." "randy's idea is a good one," answered the boy's father. "our month will be up here next week. i'll notify the owner at once about leaving." the next morning randy went over to the twelve-acre farm, a corner of which sloped down to the river. he had passed it a hundred times before, but it was with an entirely different feeling that he surveyed it now. it was pasture land, naturally good, but much neglected. a great many stones needed to be removed and the fences wanted propping up and here and there a new rail. the house, which faced a little side road, was a story and a half in height, with two rooms below and two chambers above. there was a well that needed fixing and also a cistern. around the cottage the weeds grew high, and one of the windows was out and a door was missing. "i can fix this place up, i am sure of it," said the boy to himself. he was making a mental note of what was to be done when he heard a noise on the road and saw a farmer approaching, driving a dozen cows before him. it was jerry borden, the man who had been using the pasture lot without paying for it. "hullo! what air you a-doin' here?" asked jerry borden, looking at randy in some surprise. "we are going to move over here, mr. borden," answered randy, calmly. "move over here!" ejaculated the farmer. "yes." "in this air tumble-down cottage?" "i am going to fix it up some." "well, i vow! it ain't fit to live in!" "it will be." "an' the land ain't wuth shucks." "it seems to be good enough for the cows." at this jerry borden's face fell a little. "if you air a-goin' to move in, i guess thet means i'm to move out," he ventured. "it does, unless----" randy paused, struck by a sudden idea. "unless what?" asked the farmer, eagerly. he wanted to use the lot very much, for he was short of pasturing on his own farm. "unless we can come to some sort of an agreement for milk and butter. of course i can't let you use the whole lot, but you might use part of it." "did the owner say you could use the place?" "yes, we have it down in writing. we are to use it for five years and then we can buy it if we wish." "i see." the farmer scratched his head. "well, i dunno. maybe we could let ye have butter an' milk. one thing is certain, i've got to have pasturin'." "we could fence off part of the lot in some way and you could use that." "thet's so." "besides that, i'll want some plowing done. i may have to hire you for that," pursued randy. "i must say i like your spunk, randy. i shan't charge ye a cent fer plowin'." after that the farmer and our hero talked matters over for half an hour, and the farmer told the youth what might be planted to advantage even so late in the season. then randy went home, feeling that the family was going to make a good move. chapter ix the new home the next few days were busy ones for mrs. thompson and for randy. the landlord of the cottage in which they lived was notified that they were going to move, and then the woman set to work to get ready to vacate, while randy went over to the other place to put the house in condition for occupancy. while randy was at work jack came to see him, and insisted upon lending a helping hand. randy had brought over some of his father's tools and also some nails, and he purchased at the lumber yard a few boards and other pieces he thought he needed. when he once got at it, it was astonishing how well our hero used the tools, making several repairs that would have done credit to a regular carpenter. the broken window was replaced, and the missing door found and rehung, and several clapboards nailed fast. then randy mended the porch, and put a score of shingles on the roof. this done, the chimney was cleaned out and also the cistern, and the well was also overhauled. in the meantime jack pulled out a lot of weeds and trained a wild honeysuckle over the porch. at the end of four days the place looked quite well. "it's a hundred per cent. better than it was," declared jack. "it didn't look like anything before." "i'll get a can of paint to-morrow and paint the door and the window frames," said randy, and this was done. he also whitewashed the kitchen, and kalsomined the other rooms, so that the interior of the cottage was sweet and clean. when mrs. thompson saw the change which had been wrought she was delighted. "i declare, it looks as well, if not better, than the cottage we are in," she cried. "and the outlook toward the river is ever so much nicer." "just wait until i have the garden in shape," said randy. "you won't know the spot." "what a pity we did not know of this place before." "mother, i think we ought to buy it if we can." "perhaps we shall, randy, before the five years are up." at length came the day to move. a local truckman who knew mr. thompson well moved them for nothing. "you can do some odd jobs for me some time," said the truckman to louis thompson. "thank you, i will--when i am able," answered the sufferer. a good deal of the pain had left mr. thompson, but he was weak, and to start to regular work was out of the question. another friend took him to his new cottage in a carriage. he gazed at the old place in wonder. "well, it certainly is improved!" he ejaculated. "we shall get along here very well." the moving was done early in the morning and by nightfall randy and his mother had the cottage in tolerable order. the stove was set up and found to draw good, and the water from the well tasted fine. "now there is one thing certain," said randy, "mother, come what may, we shall have a roof over our heads." "yes, my son, and i am grateful for it," answered mrs. thompson. "uncle peter may be a hard man to get along with, but he has certainly helped us." the next two weeks were busy ones for randy. jerry borden was true to his promise and not only did some plowing for the thompsons but also helped randy to put up a new fence, partly of stone and partly of rails. it was agreed that borden should have the use of part of the little farm for pasturing, and in return was to give the thompsons two quarts of milk a day and two pounds of butter per week, and also a dozen fresh eggs a week while the hens were laying. "that will certainly help us out wonderfully," said mrs. thompson. "butter, eggs, and milk are quite an item of expense." "and that is not all," said randy. "i am going to help mr. borden with his haying soon and he is going to pay us in early vegetables." the haying time was already at hand, and randy soon pitched in with a will, much to his neighbor's satisfaction. one day jack came to bring good news. his father had secured a position with an iron works at albany, on the hudson river. "it will pay him a fair salary," said jack. "i am glad to hear it," answered randy. "what will your family do, remain here or move to albany?" "we are going to remain here for the present, but, if the place suits father after he has been there a while, then we'll move." "have you learned anything more about the bangses?" "mrs. bangs and bob are on a summer vacation." "yes, i know that. i meant mr. bangs." "he is in full charge at the iron works here and drawing a salary of eight thousand dollars a year. father says he will run the works into the ground so that the stock won't be worth a cent." "can't your father do anything?" "not yet. but he is going to watch things. there was some trouble over a contract and he is trying to get to the bottom of that," continued jack. when randy went to work for farmer borden he came into contact with the farmer's son sammy, a tall, overgrown lad of fourteen, with a freckled face and a shock of red hair. sammy hated to work, and his father and mother had to fairly drive him to get anything out of him. "city folks don't work like farmers," remarked sammy to randy. "they jest lay off an' take it easy." "how do you know that?" asked our hero, in quiet amusement. "'cos i once read a paper of the sports in the city." "some rich folks don't work, sammy. but all the others work as hard as we do." "i don't believe it," said sammy, stoutly. "wish i was a city lad. oh, wouldn't i jest have the bang-up time, though!" "sammy borden!" cried his mother, shrilly. "you get to work, an' be quick about it." "i'm tired," answered the freckled-faced lad. "tired? lazy, you mean! git to work, or i'll have your paw give you a dressin' down!" "drat the luck!" muttered sammy, as he took up his pitchfork. "i wish i was born in the city!" "come on, sammy," said randy. "the work has got to be done, so don't think about it, but do it." "huh! work is easy to you, randy thompson! but it comes hard on me!" and sammy heaved a ponderous sigh. the haying was in full blast early in july and randy worked early and late. he wanted to get through, so that he might go at his own garden. sammy dragged worse than ever, and finally confided to our hero that he wanted to go to the city over the fourth. "have you asked your folks yet?" asked randy. "no, but i'm a-goin' to," answered sammy. "well, if you go, i hope you have a good time," said our hero. "i'd like to see a fourth of july in the city myself. i've heard they make a good deal of noise, but i shouldn't mind that." "gosh! i love shootin'," said sammy. "aren't you afraid you might get lost?" pursued randy. "lost!" snorted sammy. "not much! why, you can't lose me in the woods, much less in the city." "the city and the woods are two different places." "i don't care. i'd know what i was doin'." "it costs money to go to the city." "i want to go to springfield." "have you any money saved up?" to this sammy did not answer. then mr. borden came along. "sammy, get to work!" he called out. "don't let randy do everything." "i was workin'," grumbled the son, as he started in again. "you can't expect a feller like me to pitch hay all day long." "i have to work all day," retorted his father. "it ain't fair nohow." "if you want to eat you'll have to work." sammy pitched in, but grumbled a good deal to himself. soon his mother called him and he went off to the house. "that lad is gettin' lazier every day," said jerry borden. "i declare, i don't know what to do with him." "maybe he needs a vacation," suggested our hero. "well, he can't have one until the hayin' is done," declared the farmer. chapter x sammy's fourth of july the next day sammy sat on a bench on the cottage stoop, apparently very intent on a perusal of the farmer's almanac, but it was evident his thoughts were somewhere else. "what in nater is the boy a-doin'?" asked his mother, looking up from a pile of stockings she was mending. "if he ain't twisting up thet almanac as if 'twasn't any more than a piece of brown paper. what are you thinking about, sammy?" "thursday is fourth o' july," answered her son. "well, what if it is? i'm sure i'm willing." "they are going to have great doings down to springfield," added sammy. "is that so? i hope they enjoy themselves. but it ain't anything to me as i know on." "i want to go down an' see the celebration," said sammy, mustering up his courage to give utterance to so daring a proposition. "want to see the fourth o' july in springfield?" ejaculated his mother. "is the boy crazy? ain't it the fourth o' july here as well as there, i'd like to know?" "well, i suppose it is, but i never was in springfield, an' i want to go. they've got a lot o' shows there, an' i'm bound to see some of 'em." "sammy," said his mother, solemnly, "it would be the ruination of you; you'd git shot, or something wuss. you ain't nuthin' but a boy, an' couldn't be trusted nohow." "ain't i fourteen, an' ain't i 'most six feet high?" answered back sammy, defiantly. "an' didn't dick slade, who is only thirteen, go down last fourth an' have a smashin' good time an' not git hurt?" "but you ain't got no experience, sammy." "i've got enough to go to springfield." "no, you had better give up the notion." "now, mother, don't say that!" pleaded the son. "but i do say it." "well, then i'm going to--to run away! i'll go to sea an' be a sailor, or sumthin'!" burst out sammy, recklessly. "i'm sick o' workin' every single day!" "stop talking in that dreadful way, sammy!" said mrs. borden, anxiously. "then you ask paw to let me go." "'twon't do no good." "yes, it will. you ask him, won't you?" pleaded the son. at last mrs. borden consented and spoke to her husband about it during the dinner hour. jerry borden shook his head. "he can't go--it's sheer foolishness," he said. "if you don't let him go i'm afraid he will run away," said the wife. "he has his heart set on going." sammy was out of the room at the time, so he could not hear the talk. at first mr. borden would not listen, but at last he gave in, although he added grimly that he thought running away would do sammy a world of good. "he'd be mighty glad to sneak back afore a week was up," he said. when sammy realized that he was really to go to the city he was wild with delight, and rushed down into the hayfield to tell randy of his plans. "i'm a-goin' to have a highfalutin' time," he said. "just you wait until i come back an' tell about it." "i hope you do have a good time," answered our hero, "and don't get hurt." "there won't nothin' happen to me," answered sammy, confidently. early on the morning of independence day sammy stood at the door of the farmhouse arrayed in his sunday best. his folks were there to see him off. "my son," said mr. borden, "don't ye be wasteful o' your money, an' don't git in no scrapes." "an' remember, sammy, to keep all the commandments," added his mother, as she kissed him tenderly. soon he was off, down the side road towards the highway, where the stage passed that ran to the railroad station. his walk took him by the thompson cottage. randy was at home and fixing up the garden. "i'm off!" yelled sammy, waving his hand. "good luck!" cried randy, pleasantly. "don't get your head shot off." "he may lose his head without having it shot off," remarked mr. thompson, who sat on the porch, with his rheumatic side in the sunshine. "i do not think it very wise to let him go to the city alone," put in mrs. thompson from the kitchen. sammy tramped on until he came to the main highway and there waited impatiently for the stage to appear. he got a seat by the driver, and in less than an hour reached the railroad station. he had been on the cars before, yet the ride was much of a novelty. at last the country boy found himself on the streets of springfield. there was an extra celebration of some sort going on and great crowds flocked on every side. poor sammy was completely bewildered, as he was jostled first one way and then another. "well, by gosh! if this don't beat anything i ever see!" he ejaculated. "where in thunder did all the folks come from, anyway?" sammy looked so truly rural that he attracted the attention of two street urchins who were standing close by. "there's a greeny, i'll bet a hat!" said one of them, nudging his companion. "a regular one and no mistake," answered the second urchin. "let's have a little fun out of him." "how?" "just look and you'll see how i fix him." so speaking, he took a bunch of firecrackers from his pocket and, with a pin, attached it to the tail of sammy's coat. then he set the bunch on fire and slipped back into the crowd. crack! crack! bang! the plot took effect. sammy was aroused from his reverie by explosion after explosion in his immediate rear. he started and leaped into the air in wild amazement. "by thunder!" he gasped. "is thet a cannon bustin'?" the crackers continued to go off, and poor sammy leaped around worse than ever. "say, mister, what's up?" he asked of a man who was laughing loudly. "look behind you," answered the man. sammy did so. one look was enough. he began to bellow like a bull and started off on a run, knocking down several people who happened to be in his way. at last a police officer stopped him. "what do you mean by making such a disturbance?" demanded the officer. "i'm burning up! i'm exploding! don't you hear me?" gasped poor sammy. "pooh! it's only fire-crackers," and the policeman smiled faintly. "take 'em off, mister, please do!" pleaded sammy. "i'll give you ten cents for the job!" "they are about burned out," answered the officer, as the last firecracker went off with an extra loud bang. "you are safe. go along with you." and he waved his stick. sammy lost no time in sneaking off. the boy who had played the trick had a good laugh and so did his companion. soon sammy heard a band and saw some "milingtary," as he called them, approaching. the sight of the soldiers with their guns awed him, yet he followed the procession to a grove, where there was more music and also speechmaking. he listened to the orations with wide-open mouth, until he suddenly lost interest when a bit of banana skin was thrown at him, landing directly in the opening. "wah!" he spluttered. "who threw thet skin at me?" he could not find the offender and so roamed around the grove, presently halting before a temporary stand filled with things to eat. he now discovered that he was tremendously hungry. "snathers take the expense," he muttered to himself. "i'm a-goin' to have something to eat if it breaks me." he had brought along a lunch from home, but had forgotten it on the train. he approached the stand and looked the stock of eatables over. "what's the price o' them bananas, mister?" he asked. "two cents each." "well, i suppose if i take two you'll let me have 'em fer three cents." "couldn't do it." "well, who cares, anyway? it's only four cents. let me have two." the bananas were handed over and sammy looked for his change. but he only had two cents and a one-dollar bill. "can you change that?" he asked, holding out the bill. "certainly," answered the standkeeper, and promptly gave the youth a fifty-cent piece and a lot of small change. with his bananas in one hand and his money in another sammy retired to a distance, to count his change and make sure it was right. while he was buying the fruit a boy in tatters watched him eagerly. now the boy came up to the country lad. "please, mister, won't you give me some money to buy bread with?" he asked, in a quivering voice. "to buy bread with?" asked sammy, in astonishment. "yes, please--i'm awful hungry." "ain't you had nuthin' to eat to-day?" "not a mouthful." sammy's compassion was aroused and he began to look over his change. "look out for that!" cried the tattered boy, looking upward suddenly. sammy's gaze traveled in the same direction. as his eyes went up the boy in rags grabbed the money in his hand and in an instant was making off through the crowd. the movement was so quick, and the surprise so great, that for the moment sammy was bereft of speech. at length he recovered sufficiently to shout the single word at the top of his lungs: "constable!" "what's the matter?" asked a policeman, running up. "thief! robbery!" "where is the thief?" "he ran off." "where? in what direction?" "i--er--i don't know," stammered sammy. "what did he take?" "took all my money." "how much?" "ninety-six cents. it ain't all--i've got two cents left." "well, if you can point out the thief i'll arrest him," said the policeman. "come, we'll take a look around." this was done, but the boy in rags could not be found. "drat the luck! i suppose the money is gone fer good!" groaned sammy, and he was right. for he never saw either the boy or his cash again. sammy had expected to remain in the evening and see the fire-works, but now his interest in the celebration was gone. "hain't got but two cents left!" he groaned. "thet won't buy no supper nor nuthin! it's lucky i've got a train ticket back. but i'll have to walk to hum from the station, unless they'll tick me fer the stage ride." he walked around, still hoping to meet the lad who had robbed him. his perambulations presently brought him to a spot where there was a pond of water, in which some gold-fish were swimming. the gold-fish caught his eye and he paused to watch them as they darted about. he was leaning over, looking into the pond, when some boys came along on a run. one boy shoved another and he fell up against sammy. as a consequence the country lad lost his balance and went into the pond with a loud splash. "save me!" he spluttered. "i can't swim!" "wade out; it's only up to your middle!" sang out a man, and arising, sammy did as directed. he was covered with mud and slime and presented anything but a nice appearance. "this is the wust yet!" he muttered, and felt half like crying. "i ain't going to stay here no more--i'm goin' straight fer hum!" chapter xi randy to the rescue the next day randy went over to the borden farm to finish up his work there. to his astonishment sammy was on hand and apparently eager to go to work. "well, how was the celebration, sammy?" asked our hero. "no good." "that's too bad." "after this i'm a-goin' to stay to hum on the fourth," went on sammy, as he began to fork over the hay vigorously. "i ain't goin' to no city to be skinned." "did they skin you?" "jest about. a feller robbed me an' i was pushed into a duck pond." "that's too bad." "if i hadn't a-had my train ticket i'd had to walk home," went on sammy. "as it was, i had to borrow fifteen cents on the stage, to pay fer thet ride. no more city celebrations fer me. i kin have all i want right here at riverport." and then sammy related his adventures in detail, to which our hero listened with much secret amusement. over at the thompson place the ground had been plowed up in part, and as soon as he left jerry borden randy set to work in earnest to plant late vegetables. for what our hero had done for the bordens he was paid in vegetables, and also received a rooster and four hens. this gave the thompsons their own eggs, for which the lady of the cottage was thankful. randy was at work early one morning, when jack appeared. "hullo, at it already?" sang out jack. "i thought i'd find you still in bed." "i prefer to work when the sun is not so hot," answered randy. "but what brings you out at such an hour as this?" "i've got news." "what is it?" "we are going to move to albany." "when?" "the first of next week." "i'll be sorry to miss you, jack." "and i'll be sorry to leave you, randy. but i came over for something more than to tell the news. i want you to go fishing with me. they say the sport is extra fine just now." "i don't know if i can go," answered our hero, doubtfully. "there is still enough to do here." "it will be a change for you. you have worked very hard lately." "i admit that." "go by all means, if you care to, randy," called out mrs. thompson. "you have earned a holiday, and the fish will be acceptable." "all right, mother; if you say so, i'll go." it did not take randy long to prepare for the outing. jack had with him a basket of lunch for two, so all he had to get was his line and hooks and some extra bait. "i hope we catch a good mess to-day," said randy, as they started off. "then i can give mr. borden some and he can let us have some bacon that we need." "i suppose it is rather hard scratching for you just now," said jack. "it is, and i am going to look for outside work before long." "well, i hope you find something to do. ben bash was looking for work all over this district but he couldn't find a thing." "oh, i know there is small chance in riverport. i think i may try elsewhere," answered our hero. it did not take the two boys long to reach the river, at a point where jack had left his boat. both rowed to their favorite fishing spot. "oh, isn't that too bad!" cried jack, in disappointment. strangers were fishing at the spot and they soon saw that there was no room for them to throw in. "how is fishing?" called out randy. "very good," answered one of those present. "we'll have to go elsewhere," said jack. "the question is, where?" "i know another spot about quarter of a mile from here," answered randy. "it may be just as good." they rowed on and reached the new place, to find nobody there. soon they had their boat tied fast to an overhanging tree and then they got out on some flat rocks and baited up. it did not take long to prove that the new fishing place was as good as the old. randy drew in a small fish almost immediately and jack did the same. then both got hauls of good size. "maybe we'll do better than if we went to the old fishing hole," observed jack. at noon time they knocked off for lunch and a rest and then took a good swim. "i can tell you, i enjoy this!" cried randy. "i haven't had a chance to go in for so long." the swim at an end, the boys donned their garments and resumed their fishing. they kept at it until about four o'clock. then all their luck seemed to suddenly desert them. "never mind," said randy. "we certainly have a prime haul, even as it is," and he looked the fish over with much pride. they wound up their lines and were soon on the way down the river. it was rather a hot day, so they took their time in getting back. "what are you going to do with your boat?" asked randy. "sell it to mr. stanwood for ten dollars." "you are lucky to get a customer, jack." "i know it. i'd turn the boat over to you only--well--we need the money now, you know," and jack's eyes dropped. "thank you, jack, but i wouldn't have much time to use it. i must put in the most of my time at work." "i suppose that is true. at the same time i'd rather you had the boat than anybody i know of." the boys were coming around a bend of the river when they heard a peculiar noise in the distance. "what do you make that out to be?" asked jack, as the noise continued. "i think i know," answered our hero. "it is the new tugboat from the bay. i saw it once, several weeks ago. it makes a very odd sound, for the engine is not like the ordinary ones." the noise kept coming closer and presently the tugboat came into view. it was stuck in the mud and those on board were doing what they could to get the craft afloat again. "they seem to be having a hard time of it," remarked jack, as he stopped rowing to watch the proceedings. "the mud is very sticky here, if you'll remember," answered randy. "don't you remember how we were stuck here last year?" "yes, and how i lost an oar overboard and nearly went overboard myself," continued jack, with a short laugh. "heigh-ho! randy, i'll be sorry in a way to lose it all." "we must write to each other." "of course." the tug was puffing and snorting viciously to get out of the mud. on board were four people who were evidently passengers, including a lady with a little girl. suddenly there came something which sounded like an explosion. this was followed by a cloud of steam that seemed to completely envelop the tugboat. "something is wrong!" shouted randy. "oh, mamma, i don't like this!" screamed the little girl, as she ran to the stern of the tug. "we'll be burned up!" she had scarcely spoken when there came another explosion and the cloud of steam increased. the four passengers crowded to the stern in a body, and a moment later the two men leaped overboard and called on the lady and her child to do likewise. "i cannot swim!" shrieked the lady. "you must jump!" answered somebody. "the tug may blow up!" the little girl heard this and with a scream she ran from her mother straight for the bow of the tug. the next moment she lost her balance and went overboard. "she's over!" cried randy, and his heart leaped into his throat. "save my child! save helen!" shrieked the lady and rushed after her offspring. soon she was in the water also. the situation was certainly a thrilling one. the two men in the water were fifty feet away and those left on the tug were in no position to render assistance. the child had disappeared completely, while the mother was thrashing around wildly, in water just up to her neck. "quick, jack, turn the boat around!" ejaculated randy. "we must get them on board." the craft was turned around and headed for the lady. then randy threw off his cap--he was already in his shirt sleeves--and stood up in the bow. he gazed anxiously into the muddy water and caught a dim view of the little girl's white dress. "my child! my child!" the mother continued to scream. [illustration] "i'll bring her up," said randy, and made a leap overboard, just as the gunwale of the rowboat came within reaching distance of the lady's hands. the little girl had been caught by the current and was being carried down the stream. randy made a quick grab but missed her, and then she disappeared from view. but in a few seconds more he saw her again, and this time secured hold of her arm. the next moment he raised her to the surface of the river. she was too far gone to do anything but splutter. she clutched him with a deathlike grip--a thing every person in danger of drowning will do--and he had his hands full to keep both himself and his burden afloat. shallow water was not far off and he struck out for this and waded ashore. in the meantime jack was having no easy time of it getting the lady into the rowboat. there was serious danger of the craft overturning, and he had to caution her to be careful. "my child! my helen!" she moaned, when she was at last safe. "my friend will save her," answered jack. "you are sure?" "yes." chapter xii a steamboat man having saved the lady from her uncomfortable if not dangerous position, jack lost no time in rowing for the shore. soon he was at the river bank and the lady leaped out of the rowboat and ran to where randy had placed his dripping burden on the grass. "my helen! is she safe?" asked the lady, anxiously. "i think so," answered our hero. "but i guess she swallowed some river water." "oh, how thankful i am that you went after her." "it was the only thing to do. i saw she couldn't swim." the little girl was still gasping for breath. the mother threw herself on the grass and did what she could for her. soon the little girl gave a cry: "mamma!" "yes, darling, i am here!" "oh, dear! i am all wet!" "be thankful that your life has been spared." "that boy brought me out of the water." "yes, dear--and he was brave to do it," answered the mother and beamed on randy to such an extent that he had to blush. by this time the two men had also come ashore. the steam was still blowing off on the tug but the danger appeared to be over. later the engineer announced that a valve and a connection had broken, and the craft would have to remain where she was until towed off. "i am glad to see you are all safe," said the man who ran the tug. "there wasn't very much danger on board." "it looked bad enough," said one of the men who had leaped overboard. "i didn't want to get scalded." "and neither did i," added the other. it appeared that neither of the men knew the lady excepting by name. she was, however, fairly well known to the tug captain, and had gone up the river on the craft to please her little girl. "i am sorry for this, mrs. shalley," said the tug owner. "i must say, i don't know what to do." "i must get dry clothing on helen pretty soon." "the tug is wet from end to end from the escaped steam." "if i was down at riverport i could go to the hotel," went on mrs. shalley. "we can take you down in our rowboat," said jack. "it won't take very long." "can i trust myself in the boat?" "certainly, if you'll only sit still." the matter was talked over, and it was decided that the lady and her little girl should be taken down to riverport by randy and jack. the party was soon on the way. "my name is mrs. andrew shalley," said the lady. "my husband is a steamboat owner. may i ask your names?" "mine is jack bartlett. i live in riverport, but i am going to move to albany." "and my name is randy thompson," added our hero. "i live over there--in the little cottage by that clump of trees." "i am pleased to know you," said the lady. "it was more than kind of both of you to come to the assistance of myself and my daughter." "it wasn't so much to do," answered randy. "we were close by." "you are soaking wet." "it's an old working suit and i don't mind the water," laughed our hero. "what a nice lot of fish," said little helen, who had now completely recovered. "i feel i should reward you both," went on mrs. shalley. "i don't want anything," said jack, promptly. "and neither do i," added our hero. the hotel at which the lady was stopping was built close to the river bank. mother and child landed at the dock and randy and jack bade them good-by. "i shall try to see you again," said mrs. shalley, as she started for the hotel. "evidently a very nice lady," remarked jack, as he and randy rowed away. "yes." "i think she wanted to reward us, randy." "i think so myself, but i don't want any reward." "neither do i, although i shouldn't mind, say ten thousand dollars," went on jack, by way of a joke. "or the presidency of the united states," added randy, in an equally light tone. the boys had caught so many fish randy decided to sell some from his share. he found a purchaser on the dock where they landed and started home richer by fifty cents. "if i can't get anything else to do, i can do some fishing later on," he mused. "i can get at least two or three dollars' worth of fish a week, and that would be better than nothing--and i could keep right on with the farm, too." when randy returned home he had quite a story to tell, to which both his father and his mother listened with interest. "randy, you must be careful in the water," said mrs. thompson, with an anxious look in her eyes. "supposing that girl had dragged you down?" "i was on my guard, mother." "randy is a good swimmer," said his father. "i was a good swimmer myself, in my younger days." the fish proved acceptable, and randy readily got jerry borden to trade him some bacon for a mess, and also give him some fresh vegetables. "gosh! wish i'd gone fishing," said sammy. "i like to catch big fish." "well, i am not going to stop you," said our hero. "sammy never has no luck," put in mrs. borden. "once he went fishing all day and all he got was three little fish." "didn't nuther!" cried sammy. "i got twelve big bites, but they got away." "it's the big fish that always get away," said randy, with a smile. "never mind, sammy, maybe we can go together some day." "i'd like that," answered the overgrown country boy. "did that bartlett boy get any fish?" asked mrs. borden. "just as many as i did." "i understand they are going to move away." "yes, to albany." "they say down to the iron works that mr. bangs is glad to have mr. bartlett out of the place." "i guess that is true." "it's too bad! all of the men liked mr. bartlett." "don't they like mr. bangs?" "not a bit--so mr. reilly was telling my husband. they say mr. bangs is mean to everybody." two days slipped by, and randy was at work in the garden one afternoon when he saw a buggy stop at the front of the cottage and a portly man alighted. knowing his mother was busy, our hero went to meet the newcomer. "is this where randy thompson lives?" asked the portly gentleman. "yes, sir, i am randy thompson." "oh!" the gentleman held out his hand. "i am glad to know you. my name is andrew shalley. you did my wife and little girl a great service the other day." "i only did what seemed necessary," answered randy, modestly. "will you come into the house, mr. shalley?" "thanks, i'll sit down on your porch." the gentleman did so. "what are you doing, farming?" "a little. we got this place so late this season i cannot do a great deal. next year i hope to have the farm in much better shape." "do you like it?" "i try to like it." "then you are not naturally a farmer?" "no, sir." "is your father living?" "yes, sir; but he is laid up with rheumatism, so he cannot work at present. he is a carpenter." "indeed! i was a carpenter when i was a young man." "i thought mrs. shalley said you were a steamboat owner." "i am, now. i gave up carpentering to go into the freight business. i made money, and then bought a small freight boat. then i branched out, and now own a steamboat running up and down the hudson river, and i also own several steam tugs." "do you own the one that got into trouble the other day?" "no, a friend of mine owns that--that is how my wife and little girl happened to be on board. i am----" mr. shalley stopped short as a form appeared in the doorway behind him. "this is my mother. mother, this is mr. shalley, the steamboat owner." "i am glad to meet you," said mrs. thompson, politely. "will you come in?" "thank you, but it is very pleasant on the porch. madam, you have a good son," went on the steamboat owner. "i know that." "he did my wife and little girl a great service the other day." "yes, he told me what he did." "i think--er--that is, i'd like to reward you," stammered andrew shalley. he saw that randy was no common boy with whom to deal. "thank you, but i don't wish any reward, sir." "i felt you would say that," answered andrew shalley. "the other lad said the same." "then you have seen jack bartlett?" "yes, i just came from there. i wanted to reward him, but he would not have it. but i fixed him," and the steamboat owner smiled broadly. "yes?" said mrs. thompson, curiously. "i found out he was going to move to albany, so i gave him a free pass on my steamboat, the _helen shalley_--named after my wife. now he can go up and down the river as much as he pleases and it won't cost him a cent. i told him i'd depend upon him to haul folks out of the water if they fell overboard," and the steamboat owner laughed broadly. "that ought to suit jack--he loves the water so," said randy. "do you like the water, too?" "yes, sir." "then maybe you'd like a pass also." "i couldn't use it, mr. shalley." "i was only joking. but really, randy, i'd like to do something for you, to show i appreciate what you did for my wife and for helen." "i do not want anything, mr. shalley, excepting work." "work? i should imagine you had enough of that right here." "i mean work that would pay me regular wages. we must have money. my father needs the doctor, and medicine, and we have to buy groceries, and such, and we can't make the farm pay the bills." "i understand, my lad. where is your father?" "i am here, sir," came from the couch in the sitting room. "may i come in, mr. thompson?" "certainly," answered the sick man, and a moment later andrew shalley entered the cottage and was shaking hands with randy's father. chapter xiii mr. shalley makes an offer the two men conversed together for fully half an hour, and during that time andrew shalley learned much concerning the thompson family and their struggle to make both ends meet. "i live at nyack," said andrew shalley. "and my headquarters for boats is there also. but the passenger steamer runs from new york city to albany. the tugs run anywhere on the river, and on new york bay." "it must be a nice business," said randy. "i like boats of any kind." "if i had a boat on the river here i might give you a job," went on the gentleman. "but all of my craft are on the hudson." "they tell me that the hudson is a grand stream." "nothing finer in this country, my boy, nothing finer. i have traveled all over the united states and i know. i think it is fully equal to the german rhine and the st. lawrence." "maybe you could give me a situation on one of your hudson river boats," went on randy, struck by a sudden idea. "would you care to leave home?" "oh, randy, you wouldn't want to go away!" cried mrs. thompson. "i would if it paid to do so," answered randy, quickly. "there isn't much chance for work in riverport." "and i can keep an eye on the garden," said mr. thompson. "i know i am going to feel some better now this spell is passing." "if you cared to leave home i might give you some sort of a job on one of my boats," went on andrew shalley, thoughtfully. "what kind of a job?" "i'd have to see about it first. i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll send you a letter next week." "thank you." "that will be best. but now i am going to do something else." the steamboat man drew out his wallet. "i want you to accept this." and he held out five crisp ten-dollar bills. randy did not wish to take the money, but the steamboat man urged it and finally laid the bills on the table. "i am sure you are more than kind, mr. shalley," said mrs. thompson. "i shall remember you." "let us call it a loan," said mr. thompson, "to be paid back when i am at work once more." "yes, call it a loan," said randy, "otherwise i, for one, don't want it." "have your way," laughed mr. shalley. "but don't worry about the payment." before he left he walked around the little farm and praised what randy had done. "evidently not a lazy boy," he told himself, "and one who is willing to aid his parents. that is the sort i like." "he is a very nice man," said mrs. thompson, when the visitor had departed. "randy, you were fortunate to make such a friend." "yes. but, mother, i think we ought to pay back that money some day." "i can do that--when i am able to go at carpentering again," put in mr. thompson. after that a week passed quietly enough. randy worked early and late and got the little farm in good shape and also visited jack and bade his friend good-by. "maybe i'll get a position on one of the hudson river boats," said our hero. "if you do, and you stop at albany, you must come and see me," answered jack, and gave his new address. on the following monday came a letter from andrew shalley. it was short and to the point and read in part as follows: "all i can offer you at present is the position of a deckhand on my steamboat, the _helen shalley_. if you wish to accept that i will pay you twenty dollars per month and your board at the start, and more when you are experienced. if you wish to accept, write to me and come on to nyack, to my office." "here's an offer at last!" cried randy, as he read the communication. he had been fearful that andrew shalley might forget him. "twenty dollars per month is not so very much," said his mother. "yes, but i am to get my board, so the money will all be clear profit, outside of the cost of my clothing." "i suppose you will live on the boat," put in mr. thompson. "most of the crew do." "i can send the most of the money home each month," continued randy. "the boat won't run during the winter," said his mother, who did not much relish having her son leave home. "well, it will run until cold weather, anyway, and perhaps after that mr. shalley will give me something else to do." the matter was discussed that evening, and before he retired, randy penned a letter to the steamboat owner, stating he would come to nyack two days later. the prospects ahead filled our hero with pleasure. the new position would enable him to see a little of the world and meet other people, and he was sure steamboat life would suit him thoroughly. he knew there would be plenty of hard work, handling freight and baggage, but this did not daunt him. "i'll try to do my best," he reasoned. "then maybe mr. shalley will give me something better later on." randy did not have many clothes, so there was not a great deal to pack. what he possessed was gone over by his mother, and then packed in a valise. out of the money on hand he was given the price of his stage and railroad ticket and five dollars for other expenses. "i shan't spend only what is necessary," said he to his parents. randy was glad to see that his father was improving. a good deal of the rheumatic pains had left mr. thompson and he could get around the house and the garden. it would be some time before he could go at carpentering again, but he could aid a good deal on the farm, which was something. all too soon for his mother came the time for randy to depart. mrs. thompson kissed him affectionately and his father shook him by the hand. "come back home if it doesn't suit you, randy," said the mother. "yes, come back, and we'll get along somehow," added his father. "i am sure it will suit me," said the boy. "i know the kind of a man mr. shalley is. we'll be sure to get along." randy left home early in the morning and half an hour later was on the stage, bound for leeville, where he was to take the train for tarrytown, which is directly across the hudson river from nyack. his going away was done so quietly that not a dozen persons knew of his departure. the stage was but half filled, so he had plenty of room both for himself and his valise. arriving at leeville he had an hour to wait for the train and spent the time in walking around the little town. he had just passed one of the largest stores when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, to find himself confronted by bob bangs. "what are you doing here?" demanded the big boy, rather impudently. "what business is that of yours?" retorted randy, not liking the manner in which he had been addressed. "oh, you needn't answer if you don't want to," sniffed bob bangs. "i am going to nyack." "to nyack? what for?" "i am going to work for a steamboat owner." "humph! going to work on the river?" "yes." "cabin boy, i suppose," sneered the rich boy. "no, as a deckhand." "i thought so. it's a dirty enough job, and you are welcome to it." "it's honest work, and the money is clean," answered randy, warmly. "ha! what do you mean by clean money," demanded the big boy, suspiciously. "just what i said." "maybe you are trying to help spread that report that the bartletts started about us," said the rich youth. "what report do you mean, bob?" "you know well enough--the one about my father." "i don't know." "ain't the bartletts telling everybody that my father shoved 'em out of the iron works and that our money wasn't clean?" "i haven't heard it." "bah! you needn't play the innocent. i know you, and i know jack bartlett, too." "i don't think your folks treated the bartletts just right," went on our hero, resolved to stand up for his friends. "we treated 'em better than they deserved. if i had been my father i should have kicked old man bartlett out." "your father wouldn't have dared, bob bangs. but i am not going to quarrel with you. what brings you to this place?" "that's my business." "you needn't tell me if you don't wish to." "i am here to get a new horse. i am going to ride horseback after this," went on the rich boy, boastfully. "it's a horse that costs four hundred dollars, too." "then you are in luck," was all randy answered, and walked away, leaving the rich youth gazing after him doubtfully. chapter xiv bob bangs and his horse randy continued to wander around the country town, taking in such sights as came to view. in the meantime bob bangs went after the horse he had mentioned. the rich youth had bothered his father for a horse for a long time and at last mr. bangs had consented to give him a steed. the horse was to be taken in exchange for a debt, and bob had agreed to go to leeville after him and take the animal to the summer resort at which he and his mother were stopping. it may be mentioned that the horse was worth only a hundred and fifty dollars, but the falsehood he had told in regard to the horse's value did not bother bob bangs in the least. he loved to boast upon every possible occasion. "is he gentle?" asked the rich boy, as he approached the horse, that was standing in the yard of the former owner. "as gentle as a lamb," was the answer. "he--he won't run away, will he?" went on bob, timidly. to tell the truth he knew very little about horses, although he pretended to know a great deal. "he never ran away in his life," declared the man who was disposing of the horse. "then i guess it is all right," said the rich boy, and started to mount into the saddle, for the steed was ready for use. "wait a minute." "what's wanted now." "i want you to sign a receipt first," said the man. "oh, all right." the receipt was produced, stating that the horse was received in good condition and that the debt was canceled thereby, and the rich youth signed his father's name and his own under it. then the man held the horse while the boy mounted. "all safe and sound?" asked the man. "yes," answered bob bangs. "good-day," and off he rode. "good-day, and good luck to you," answered the man, and he smiled rather grimly to himself as he entered his house. "the horse seems to be a nice one," thought bob bangs, as he rode away. "i wish i could meet randy thompson, it would make him feel sick to see me on such a fine animal." the rich youth's wish was gratified, for turning a corner he caught sight of our hero just as the latter was crossing the street. "out of the way there, randy thompson!" he cried, and urged his horse forward. randy had to jump back, or he might have been knocked down. "ain't this a fine horse?" bob bangs cried. "don't you wish you had him?" and he cut the steed with the whip he carried, to make him increase his speed. the horse did not like the treatment received and up came his hind hoofs viciously. "stop! none of that!" roared bob bangs, in fright. "whoa there!" he began to saw on the reins, and as a consequence the horse turned first in one direction and then another. then he started to back and came up on the sidewalk, scaring several women and children. "whoa! get up!" screamed bob bangs, more frightened than ever. "whoa, i say! what in the old harry is in the beast, anyway!" "look out there!" shouted a man in the crowd. "you'll go through a window next." "bob, let me lead him into the street," cried randy, rushing up and catching the horse by the bridle. "you let my horse alone!" shouted the rich boy, unreasonably. "i can manage him well enough." "very well," answered randy, quietly, and dropped his hold. as he did so the steed made a plunge along the sidewalk for several yards, knocking over a barber's pole and a newsstand. "stop dot! vot you mean py dot?" yelled the german barber, rushing from his establishment in alarm. "get along there, you brute!" cried bob bangs, savagely, and struck the horse once more. again the steed swerved, and made a half turn and began to back. "stop him!" "he is going into the window!" crash! and then followed a jingle of glass, and into the window of a grocery next to the barber shop backed the horse, until his hind hoofs rested on a row of canned tomatoes and sardines. bob bangs gave a yell of fear and terror and dropped to the sidewalk and then caught the horse by the head. the groceryman came forth from his store in a hurry, and a bitter argument ensued, while a big crowd began to collect. in the end bob bangs had to promise to pay for all damage done, and led his horse away by hand, too fearful of further trouble to mount once more. randy did not wait to see the end of the dispute, for the train was now due and he had just time enough to hurry to the depot and get aboard the cars. he dropped into the first seat that came to hand and laughed heartily. "you seem to be enjoying yourself," said a man sitting near. "i just saw something very funny," answered our hero, and told what it was. the man laughed, too. "it puts me in mind of the time i tried to ride the mule in the circus. it was a trick animal and got me into seven kinds of trouble." randy had not had many opportunities to ride on the cars and he enjoyed the trip to tarrytown very much. noon found him in the city named and he crossed the river on the ferryboat. then he hunted up a cheap but neat restaurant, where he got dinner. "no use of bothering mr. shalley just at noon hour," he thought, and so did not go around to the steamboat man's office until one o'clock. a clerk was present who said his employer would come in at two o'clock, so our hero had another hour to wait. "is your name randy thompson?" questioned the clerk. when told that it was, he continued: "mr. shalley is expecting you. i believe you are to be one of the new deckhands." "yes." "i hope you find the work agreeable." "so do i." "the other new hand didn't last long." "how long?" "just one week." "what was the matter?" "i believe he said he couldn't get along with polk, the purser." "i hope i don't have any trouble with anybody," said randy, anxiously. "i am willing to work hard." "you'll find captain hadley a fine man to deal with. i think he is one of the nicest captains on the river." "what do you do here?" "oh, i am general office clerk. my name is bart sandwood." "i am glad to know you, mr. sandwood," answered our hero, and smiled. "i hope business is good with the steamer." "travel has been very good and we are getting our share of freight. the other lines bother us some, but not a great deal." "is the _helen shalley_ one of the big boats of the river?" "not one of the largest, but she is by no means a small boat. then you haven't seen her?" "not yet, but i hope to soon." "she will be on her way down the river this afternoon. she runs from new york to albany one day and back the next. she doesn't run on sundays." "i am glad of that. i don't care to work on sunday." "well, you'll have to do a little. when there are no passengers on board, that is the time to put things in order." "true enough. i am afraid i will be green." "were you never a deckhand before?" "never." at this the clerk gave a low whistle. "i don't know if captain hadley will like that or not. he is a very strict man, even though kind." "i shall do my best to please him." "early in the spring we had two green hands, but they couldn't learn at all, and the captain said they were more bother than they were worth." "i am sure i can learn--anyway, i mean to try." "you certainly look bright enough to learn. the other fellows were illiterate foreigners and always tumbling over their own feet. one dropped a trunk on a passenger's foot and the other broke open a box with some fine dishes. that capped the climax, and the captain got rid of them just as soon as he could find some other hands to take their places," concluded bart sandwood. chapter xv randy as a deckhand when mr. andrew shalley came in he was full of business. he nodded pleasantly to randy. "i will see you in a little while," he said, and turned to his clerk. then bart sandwood was sent off on an errand and the steamboat owner turned to look over some letters that had come in. "now i am at liberty," he said, pleasantly, shaking hands. "are you ready for work?" "yes, sir," answered randy, promptly. "good! have you ever been on a large river steamer?" "no, mr. shalley, but i am willing to do all i possibly can to make myself truly useful." "well, if i am any judge of character, you'll get along. all you've got to do is to keep your eyes open and obey orders. we have one old deckhand, pat malloy. he will teach you what to do." "when can i go to work?" "the boat will be along down the river soon. i'll take you on board, as i want to see the captain. as soon as you are settled i'll have you fitted out with a uniform." "how much will that cost me?" "in your case it won't cost anything." "you are very kind." "remember, i take a personal interest in you, randy, and i want to see you get along. do your duty and rest assured i shall not forget you." "i don't think i'll disappoint you, mr. shalley." randy waited around the office until it was almost time for the steamboat to make a landing. then he went down to the dock with his newly-found friend. here were a number of passengers, and also a quantity of baggage and freight. presently the _helen shalley_ hove into sight, with flags flying bravely in the breeze. as randy had been told, she was not a particularly large steamboat, but she was well proportioned and graceful, and well liked by those who patronized her. we will get better acquainted with the craft as our story proceeds. as soon as a landing was made, mr. shalley went on board, taking randy with him. captain hadley was at hand. "so this is the new deckhand, eh?" said the captain, in bluff tones. "pretty strong, are you?" "i think so," answered randy, respectfully. "well, you'll have to be, to stand this work. know anything about handling trunks and such stuff?" "not a great deal, but i think i can learn." "we are shorthanded, so you can jump right in," went on the captain of the steamboat. "yes, sir. who will tell me what to do?" "pat malloy. he is the head man of the gang. here, malloy," he called out. "aye, aye, sur," answered a brawny and jolly-looking irishman, coming forward and touching his cap. "here's your new hand." pat malloy looked at randy in some astonishment. our hero was neatly dressed and did not look as if he was used to hard labor. "sure an' it's only a boy," murmured the head deckhand. "he says he can work. give him a chance," put in andrew shalley. there was plenty to do, and randy threw off his coat, took off his collar and tie, and pitched in. the labor was by no means easy, and he had not the trick of throwing up a trunk to the best advantage, yet he did very well, and pat malloy nodded approvingly. "sure, an' ye do better nor some o' thim foreigners already," he declared. "kape it up an' we'll git along foine together." captain hadley and andrew shalley watched the work for several minutes, and then walked to the cabin of the steamboat. here the owner of the boat told something about randy. "i want you to give him a chance even if he is a bit green," said he. "i want the lad to get along." "he shall have all the chance possible," answered captain hadley. "i am glad to get a hand who is intelligent." then the two conversed upon private matters until the boat was ready to leave nyack. "good-by, my boy!" cried mr. shalley, on leaving. "take good care of yourself, and let me know how you get along." "thank you, i will," answered our hero. "it may be hard work at first, but you'll get used to it." "i am not afraid of hard work." "the captain will give you a uniform in a few days." the gangplanks were hauled in, the lines cast off, and with a hoarse whistle the _helen shalley_ continued on her course down the hudson. there was a small italian band on board, consisting of two violins, a harp and a clarionet, and they struck up a popular air. the work at the dock had somewhat exhausted randy, who was not used to handling such heavy stuff so quickly, but he took pains to conceal his feelings. "i am not going to back down, no matter how hard the work is," he told himself. "others can do it and so can i." among the deckhands was a tall, limber american man named jones. he came up to randy after the work was done. "malloy told me to show you around the boat and give you some pointers," said jones. "come ahead." they passed from one end of the steamboat to the other, through all of the three decks, and jones named over the various parts and told what the deckhands were expected to do. then they went below and he told of some work there. lastly he took randy to the sleeping quarters. "this is my bunk," said jack jones. "that will be yours over there. when you get the chance, i'll advise you to air your bedding. you can do it after we tie up in new york and the passengers go ashore." the quarters were small, but not any smaller than randy's garret apartment in the cottage. everything was kept as clean as wax, for both malloy and jones were enemies to dirt. randy was glad to learn this and resolved to give the others no cause for complaint regarding his own personal habits. "some boats are very dirty and the bunks not fit for a dog to sleep in," said jack jones. "but malloy won't allow it on this boat, and i won't have it either." "and i am with you," answered our hero. "came from a farm, didn't you?" "yes, but our family wasn't on the farm long." "i came from a farm myself." "how long have you been on this boat?" "came the middle of last season." "do you like it?" "if i didn't i shouldn't be here." "i suppose that is so." "captain hadley is a fine man to work for. he is strict but fair, and that is what i like." "what about the others?" "the mate, tom blossom, is nice, too. the man we all hate is peter polk, the purser." "what's the matter with him?" "well, between you and me, i think he is a sneak." "in what way?" "he is always making trouble for somebody. nobody seems to like him much, although he attends strictly to business." "i hope i don't have trouble with mr. polk." "well, you will have to watch yourself." several other landings were made, and promptly at the appointed time the _helen shalley_ swung into her dock at new york city and the remaining passengers went ashore. then began the labor of unloading the baggage and freight, after which the deck was swabbed up, the brass-work polished, and such baggage as was at hand taken on board for transportation up the river the next day. when he had finished his day's labors randy was tired and perfectly willing to rest for a while. he had had a good supper and might have gone directly to bed, but instead he sat up to write a letter to the folks at home, telling his father and mother of his day's experience. our hero had to go ashore to post the communication, and once out in the street he resolved to take a little walk around before returning to the steamboat. he was soon walking along west street, and then took to a side street running up to the avenues. now, although our hero did not know it, he had chosen one of the worst streets in this part of the great city. it was filled with tenements and groggeries of the lowest description, and the sidewalks swarmed with all sorts of low characters. he had scarcely walked two squares before a rough-looking fellow jostled him. the next instant randy felt a hand in his pocket. "stop that!" cried randy. but the fellow was already running up the street. our hero clapped his hand in the pocket and discovered that eighty cents in change was missing. "i am not going to lose that money!" he told himself, with vigor. "i may be a greeny, but i'll give that thief some trouble." at first he thought to cry out, but then reconsidered the matter and remained silent. he set off after the thief, and away went man and boy along the crowded thoroughfare. the man evidently thought he could lose himself in the crowd, but by the aid of the street lights, randy kept him in sight. he passed along for two blocks and then turned into a side street and then into a blind alley. our hero managed to keep him in view and saw him spring up the steps of a dilapidated tenement house. the man ran through the lower hallway and into the back yard, piled high with rubbish of all kinds. here he hid behind some empty boxes. randy was soon in the yard and gazing around eagerly. as he did so he saw a thin and pale girl of about ten standing near. soon she came up to him timidly. "did you see a man run in here?" said randy. "yes," she answered, but in a hesitating voice. "where did he go?" "i don't dare tell you," whispered the girl. "why not?" "that is bill hosker." "and who is bill hosker?" "don't you know him?" and the little girl's eyes opened in astonishment. "no, i don't." "bill hosker is the boss around here. he does just as he pleases. if anybody crosses him bill 'most kills them." "oh, he's a bully, is that it?" "yes." "well, where did he go?" "you won't tell him i told you?" "no." "he crawled in behind those boxes," answered the little girl and then ran away. randy waited to hear no more, but made a dash for the boxes. as he did so, the fellow who had robbed him leaped up, club in hand. "go out of here!" he cried, in a hoarse voice. "i don't want anything to do with a kid like you." "you give me my money," answered randy, vigorously. "i am not going to let the like of you rob me." "ho! ho! hear the kid talk! go away, before i maul ye!" and bill hosker brandished his club. but our hero was not to be daunted thus readily, and looking around he espied a stick and picked it up. then he advanced upon bill hosker, who promptly leaped to the top of a big packing case. the next instant he came down upon randy, bearing him to the ground. our hero tried to defend himself, but it was useless. he was crushed beneath that heavy weight, and then the rascal gave him a crack on the head that stretched him senseless. chapter xvi in new york city "will he live, mamma?" "i think so, rose. but he has been badly misused." "bill hosker ought to be locked up for it." "nobody will lock bill up. he has too much influence with the politicians," answered the woman. she was bending over randy, who was still unconscious. mother and daughter had carried our hero from the yard to their room in the rear of the tenement. nobody else had been around. the girl had witnessed bill hosker's nefarious deed and had at once summoned her parent. mrs. clare was a poor widow lady who supported herself by sewing. rose was her only child and did what she could to help her mother. sewing did not pay well, and the clares had all they could do to make both ends meet. but mrs. clare had a warm heart and so had rose, and it pained them greatly to see randy so mistreated. they carried him into their one room and placed him on their bed and did what they could for him. at last he opened his eyes and stared around him. then he sat up slowly. "where am i?" he asked, faintly. "we brought you into the house--mother and i," answered rose. "don't you remember, bill hosker struck you down?" "oh, yes; i remember that now." randy took a deep breath and put his hand to his head. "he hit me pretty hard, didn't he?" "i am afraid he did," answered mrs. clare. "it was a shame, too." "where is he now?" "he ran away." "he stole eighty cents from me." "perhaps he took more," said rose. "he went through your pockets after he knocked you down. i saw him do it." with his head still aching, our hero felt in first one pocket and then another. he gave something like a groan. "every cent is gone!" "how much did you have?" "between four and five dollars." "i am sorry for you," said mrs. clare. "but i am afraid you will never see your money again." "does that rascal live around here?" "sometimes. he comes and goes to suit himself. i suppose he will stay away now for a while." "is there any use of my reporting this to the police, do you think?" "i don't think so. he once took my pocket-book from the table here--i am sure of it--but when i reported it to the police nothing was done. they said his word was as good as mine." "how long have i been here?" "about half an hour." "then he has had a good chance to get away. did you bring me here?" "yes." "you are very kind, mrs. ----" "i am mrs. clare and this is my daughter rose." "and i am randy thompson, a deckhand on the hudson river steamboat _helen shalley_." "oh!" mrs. clare paused for a moment. "do you know mr. polk, the purser?" "yes, but not very well. i just got the job as a deckhand to-day." "mr. polk is a relative of mine by marriage." "i see." "we--that is--well, we are not very good friends," went on mrs. clare. "mamma thinks mr. polk hasn't been honest with us," put in rose, quickly. "i don't think so either." "rose, you must not talk so!" "but it is true, isn't it?" returned the daughter. "i may be misjudging cousin peter," said mrs. clare. "you see," she added, by way of an explanation, "my cousin peter polk had the settlement of my husband's affairs when he died, and i have always imagined that--well, that rose and i did not get exactly what was coming to us." "mamma thought the account was three hundred dollars short," said rose, who was inclined to be blunt. "couldn't you get a clear statement?" questioned randy, with interest. "we got a statement, but it was not clear to me," answered mrs. clare. as soon as he felt able to do so, randy got on his feet. he felt rather dizzy and he had a large lump over his left ear, where he had been struck by the club. "see here," he said, when he was ready to depart, "i am much obliged to you for what you have done. but i'd like you to do more, if you will. as soon as this bill hosker comes back to this neighborhood let me know. you'll always find me on board of the _helen shalley_." "i'll let you know," answered rose. "but don't let bill hosker know who told you, or he'll want to kill me." when randy got back to the steamboat he felt so weak he could scarcely walk on board. jones came forward to meet him. "say, you ain't been drinking, have you?" he demanded, as he saw our hero stagger. "no, i don't drink," answered randy. "i've been knocked down and robbed." and sitting down on a bench he told his story to the other deckhand, and let jones feel of the lump on his head. "i was going to warn you when you went ashore, but i thought you'd be wise enough to keep out of trouble. it's a shame." "they told me it wouldn't do any good to tell the police." "i am afraid not. such things happen pretty often in that kind of a neighborhood." randy was glad enough to turn in. he bathed the lump with cold water and put on some witch-hazel, which made it feel better. despite the adventure he slept soundly until it was time to turn out in the morning. "i suppose you'll want some money," said jones. "i can lend you a dollar till pay day, if you wish." "thank you," returned randy. "you are kind, and i'll accept the loan. i'll pay you back just as soon as i get my pay. i hate to be without a cent in my pocket." "i have been there myself and know just how it feels," answered jones. he had, in his rough way, taken a fancy to our hero, which feeling was reciprocated. there was plenty to do before the steamboat left the dock at new york city, and randy's arms ached when the command came to cast off the lines. he had done his full share of the labor, and pat malloy nodded approvingly. "kape it up an' you'll be all roight," said the head deckhand. the trip to albany that day had much of novelty in it for randy. there was a good deal of work, of which he had not dreamed before, yet there were also times when he could look at the scenery as the big craft glided along. at the newsstand on board there was a big folding map of the river, showing the different towns and points of interest, and this the standkeeper loaned him for a couple of hours. he studied the map closely and was soon able to recognize certain points as they appeared. several days slipped by and randy felt quite at home on board. he had been supplied with the regulation deckhand's outfit; dark blue shirt and trousers, and a cap to match, and looked very well when thus attired. he was getting acquainted with the work and could handle a trunk, or a box or barrel almost as well as jones or malloy. "how does the boy do?" asked captain hadley of malloy. "it's the new broom as swapes clane," answered the head deckhand. "i ain't braggin' yit, captain." "but he is doing all right so far?" "aye, aye, sur--very well indade." "i am glad to hear it. mr. shalley told me the boy needed the job. his father is on the sick list, and he has got to do what he can to help support his parents." "i reckon he'll be all right," answered pat malloy. "he's better than thim foreigners, anyway." to him, the only foreigners were italians and germans. he did not think himself one, although he had come from the "ould sod" less than six years before. chapter xvii the purser has his say one night, when the steamboat was tied up at albany, randy donned his street clothes and hunted up the place where jack bartlett lived. he found his former friend at home and glad to see him. "come in," said jack, shaking hands. "how have you been since we met last?" "pretty fair, jack. and how have you been?" "i'm all right. i've got a job. that is why i haven't used my boat pass." "a job?" "yes, i am working in the same place where father has a position." "then you are not going to school again?" "not for the present." jack lowered his voice. "you see, father isn't earning any too much, so i--well, i thought i'd help the family along." the two friends sat down in the parlor and our hero told his tale, and then jack related some of his own experiences. "my father is in hopes that he can get at mr. bangs before long," said jack. "the trouble is, some papers are missing. he had them in a desk at the works, but when he came away he couldn't find them." "perhaps mr. bangs got them." "it is possible, but father can't prove it." "have you seen or heard anything of bob bangs lately?" "he is along the hudson somewhere--on a vacation with his mother." "i met him when he was getting a horse," answered our hero and told of what had happened. "i wish i had been there!" cried jack, laughing heartily. "i'll wager bob was as mad as seventeen hornets." "yes, indeed. he must have had a good bill to pay for damages." randy spent a pleasant two hours with jack and then went back to the boat, jack promising to visit the craft some night when the _helen shalley_ should tie up at albany again. so far matters had gone well on board. randy was much amused by the passengers, especially those who were peculiar in their manners. there was one fussy old gentleman who went up and down the river twice a week. he always wanted to sit in a corner in the shade and asked a dozen times a day if they weren't behindhand. "we are exactly on time," said randy, to him, one day. "hum!" cried the old gentleman, consulting a watch he carried. "i think we are twenty minutes behindhand." "we haven't been twenty minutes behindhand since i've been on the boat," said randy, as he moved off. the old gentleman grumbled to himself and restored his timepiece to his pocket. a minute later randy saw an englishman saunter along the deck and stop close to the old gentleman. randy had noticed the englishman before, because he spoke with a strong cockney accent--that is, he dropped h's where they were wanted and put them in when not needed. at this time the steamboat was just approaching the highlands. the englishman pointed to the highlands with his cane and addressed the old gentleman. "hexcuse me," he said, "but are those the 'ighlands you brag about in this country?" "the islands?" was the astonished reply. "why, no, sir, those are not islands at all. have you never studied geography? an island is entirely surrounded by water," continued the fussy old gentleman. "oh, you mean hilands. i don't mean them at all, don't you know. i repeat, are those the 'ighlands you talk about so much?" went on the cockney, blandly. "they are not islands, sir--they are the highlands," shouted the old gentleman. "just exactly what i said, sir--the 'ighlands." "no, not islands--highlands." "hexactly." "but you said islands." "no, i did not say hilands, i said the 'ighlands," went on the cockney. "hevidently you don't understand good, plain henglish," and he walked off in disgust. "the imp, the blithering imp," growled the old gentleman. "may he never come near me again!" at one of the landings a barrel for use on the boat broke, spilling some fancy flour on the deck. randy was clearing up the muss when the purser, peter polk, came along. our hero did not witness his approach, and consequently the purser received some dust on his shoes, which had just been polished. "hi! hi! have a care there!" he cried. "what do you mean by covering me with dust?" "excuse me, sir," said randy, hastily. "i didn't see you coming." "i just had those shoes shined!" "i am sorry, sir." "you're the new man, eh?" "yes, sir." "you're a blockhead, it seems to me," went on the purser, who was in particularly bad humor that day. an angry remark rose to randy's lips, but he repressed it. "you be more careful in the future, or you'll get into trouble," grumbled the purser, and walked away. the moment the purser was gone jones came up to our hero. "brute, ain't he?" he said, in a low voice. "he called me a blockhead." randy's eyes were flashing. "don't you mind him, lad. he is sour all the way through--he don't seem to be able to help it." "i didn't see him coming." "he should have looked where he was walking." "i don't wonder the hands don't like him," went on randy. "i don't think captain hadley would have spoken so." "not a bit of it--the captain's a gentleman, every inch of him." "how do he and the purser get along together?" "none too good, so i've been told. i wish we had a man in place of polk." "so do i." "more than likely, when he comes to pay you your wages, he'll take out the price of a shoe shine." "would he really be mean enough to do that?" "polk is about mean enough to do anything." there the talk ended and randy finished up his work. the day passed, and when the steamboat tied up that night randy was more than usually sleepy. it was very warm, and he went on the upper deck to get a breath of fresh air. "see here," said the purser, coming up to him rather suddenly. "are you talking about me?" "talking about you?" repeated our hero, somewhat puzzled. "that is what i said." "not particularly, mr. polk." "somebody on this boat is telling tales about me, and i don't like it." to this randy made no answer. "have you heard any stories?" went on peter polk. "what kind of stories?" "that i was going to leave the steamboat?" "no, sir." "no stories at all?" "no, sir." "humph!" and with this the purser walked away. "what did he want now?" asked jones, coming up a little later. "wanted to know if i had been circulating stories about him." "did you tell him no?" "i did." "i've heard a story--in a roundabout way--that mr. shalley is getting tired of the way polk runs the money matters on this boat." "does he run all the money matters?" "sure--that is a purser's business. he does the buying--or most of it--too." "i see." "i don't believe he buys to advantage," went on jones, closing one eye suggestively. "i don't understand." "maybe he buys at two prices--some of 'em do, you know." randy did not know, but he did not say so. "i knew a purser once--on the _sea shell_--who used to pay one price for a thing and then charge the owners of the vessel another price. at last they caught him at it and sent him to prison." this opened randy's eyes to what his fellow-deckhand was driving at. "do you imagine polk is that sort?" "he is certainly close." "so you said before. well, he ought to be watched." "oh, it's not my affair," said jones. "say, i am going to bed," he added. "so am i," said randy, and retired, thinking of what jones had said and also of what the clares had told him regarding peter polk. chapter xviii a meeting on the river two weeks passed and randy felt quite at home on board of the steamboat. he had learned his duties fully and was giving satisfaction to captain hadley and pat malloy. his only enemy seemed to be polk the purser, who was as disagreeable as possible. our hero did his best to steer clear of the fellow, and in a measure succeeded. one evening, while the boat was tied up at the dock in new york randy chanced to look ashore when he saw rose clare motioning to him. he at once joined the girl. "i came down to tell you that bill hosker was around yesterday," said the girl to our hero. "is he around now?" questioned randy, quickly. "no, he went away yesterday evening. he was only around about two hours." "i wish i had seen him." "i thought you'd like to know about it. i came down last night, but a man here told me you were at albany." "yes, we come to new york every other night, not counting sundays." "i think bill hosker will come again soon. i suppose he thinks you have given up trying to find him." "well, i haven't given it up, rose. how are things going with yourself and your mother?" "not very good." "can't she get much sewing to do?" "she and i made only five dollars and a quarter last week." "and what rent do you pay?" "six dollars a month for just the one room." "that is certainly hard. i wish i could help you, but i can't--at least, not now." "we wouldn't want help, if only we could get more sewing." "i'll ask captain hadley about it. he has a wife and a family of girls." randy was as good as his word. he met the captain the next day, when the officer appeared to have little to do. "captain, may i speak to you a moment?" he asked, respectfully, and at the same time tipping his cap. "what is it, randy?" "i know a poor lady in new york who does sewing for a living. she is anxious to get more work and i am anxious to help her, if i possibly can. do you know of anybody who would like some sewing done--your wife or anybody else?" "hm! i don't know," answered the steamboat captain. "i'll remember what you say and see. is that all?" "yes, sir." "where does the poor woman live?" "not far from our landing place in new york." he gave the street and number. "it isn't a nice neighborhood, but it is the best the woman can afford," he added. "yes, i know many folks in new york who live in bad neighborhoods simply because they cannot afford something better. i will speak to my wife about this." the captain did as he had promised. mrs. hadley was going to new york the next day and said she would call upon mrs. clare. the family lived in albany, so that the captain was home every other night. mrs. hadley was as good as her word. she was a christian woman, a worker in the church, and she became at once interested in mrs. clare and her daughter rose. "this is no place for rose," said she. "this foul air is bad for her." "i know it--but i do not see how i can turn myself," said mrs. clare, with a sigh. poverty had completely broken her spirit. the captain's wife looked over some of the sewing that mrs. clare had done and soon learned that the woman was a clever seamstress. then she made an offer. "if you wish, you can come to my home with me," she said. "you can sew for me, and rose can go to school and also help around the house. i will give you five dollars a week and your board." "i will accept gladly!" cried the poor woman, and burst into tears of gratitude. it was arranged that mrs. clare should leave new york on the following saturday. she was to sell off the most of her things--alas! there were not many articles to dispose of! and the others were to be transferred to albany on the boat. "my cousin, mr. polk, will be surprised to learn of this move," said mrs. clare to the captain's wife. "what, is he your cousin?" queried mrs. hadley. "yes, by marriage," and then mrs. clare told her tale of suffering, to which the captain's wife gave a willing ear. "i must speak of this to my husband," said mrs. hadley. "i do not think he likes mr. polk very much." on saturday randy was moving some baggage from one side of the lower deck to the other when peter polk came along. as luck would have it, some trunks were in the way, so that the purser could not pass. "look here, you blockhead, why don't you keep this gangway clear?" he roared to randy. "i am trying to clear it now," answered our hero, as calmly as he could. "it ought to be kept clear always. who ordered this stuff here, anyway?" "mr. malloy." "he had no business to do it." "why didn't i, i'd like to be after knowin'?" came in a voice from behind the purser, and the head deckhand appeared on the scene. "oh, so you're here, are you?" sneered peter polk. "i am that, mr. polk. i ordered thim trunks there. have ye anything against it?" demanded malloy, boldly. "if ye have, report to the captain." "you're blocking the whole gangway." "thim trunks had to be shifted, an' thompson is shiftin' 'em." "humph!" "i know me juty on this boat, mr. polk." "well--er--hurry up then and clear this gangway," grumbled the purser, and walked away. malloy closed one eye and looked at randy suggestively with the other. "he knew he had no right to interfere--it's not his line o' juty," said the head deckhand. randy completed his work and then went to one of the upper decks, to fix some of the awnings. to his surprise he found mrs. clare and rose there, in conversation with peter polk. "going to albany?" the purser was saying. "what for?" "i have a situation there, and rose is going also," answered the poor woman. "what kind of a situation?" "i am to sew for mrs. hadley." "not the captain's wife?" "yes." at this announcement the face of the purser dropped. evidently the news did not please him. "you won't find that very pleasant," he said. "it will be better than starving in the city, peter." "how much is she going to pay you?" mrs. clare told him. "that is not a fortune. you ought to be able to earn more in new york." "i couldn't get the work." "i might have gotten something for you, if you had let me know," went on peter polk. "thank you--i prefer to look out for myself," answered mrs. clare, coolly. "this looks as if i was letting one of my relatives live on charity," pursued the purser. "i do not consider it a charity." "how did the captain's wife hear of you?" "why, she--there is a boy on this boat--there he is--he spoke to the captain about it." "you mean randy thompson?" "yes, that is his name." "he got the place for you?" "yes." "how did you happen to know him?" "it's a long story. he was knocked down and robbed and rose and i went to his assistance. but we must go now. mrs. hadley wanted us to do some sewing for the captain while on this trip," and mrs. clare walked away, followed by rose. peter polk gazed after them thoughtfully. "i hope she doesn't get the captain's wife too much interested in her affairs," he muttered to himself. "i shouldn't care to have the old accounts raked up in court." chapter xix an unlooked-for encounter it was now early in september and the travel down the river was particularly heavy, for many folks who had been away for a vacation were returning to the metropolis. baggage kept pouring in until the lower deck was practically filled. "this is a banner season, so malloy tells me," said jones to randy. "i know there is lots of work," answered our hero, whose arms ached not a little. "never mind, i've got good news." "what is that?" "mr. shalley is going to allow us an extra five dollars this month." "good enough." randy had received several letters from home. matters were going smoothly and mr. thompson was feeling better every day. the garden was doing finely. in one letter mrs. thompson wrote that there had been two strikes at the iron works, each due to mr. bangs' overbearing manner towards his workmen. "i thought he'd have trouble sooner or later," said randy to himself, as he perused the communication. "what a pity that mr. bartlett isn't in charge." one fine afternoon the _helen shalley_ was steaming down the river as usual and randy was near the bow, coiling up a hawser, when he noticed a sloop some distance ahead. it was tacking in an uncertain manner, as if the party on board did not know much about sailing such a craft. the sloop was directly in the path of the big steamboat, and the latter gave a warning whistle and then turned to one side. as she did this the sloop turned in the same direction. "hullo! what does that fellow in the sloop mean?" cried randy to jones, who was near. "what's the matter?" "he'll be run down if he doesn't look out." "some fool that doesn't know how to sail a boat, i guess," said the other deckhand. swiftly the steamboat and the sloop drew close to one another. the big boat let out another warning blast, and again the pilot turned her out of her course. but the sloop also turned. "there is only one young fellow on board," said jones. "look, he acts as if he was scared out of his wits." "i know him!" fairly shouted our hero. "you do?" "yes, it is bob bangs, the rich young fellow i told you about." "the fellow who couldn't manage his hoss?" "the same." "well, he doesn't seem to know no more about his boat than he did about that hoss," was the deckhand's comment. "we are going to run into him!" gasped randy. "no, he is going to run into us." "it will amount to the same thing--so far as he is concerned." "maybe--but it will be his fault if he gets drowned." another warning whistle now rang out, but was of no avail. the sloop swerved again and then came squarely up to the big steamboat, which was now backing water furiously. "stop! don't run me down!" screamed bob bangs. he was fairly white with terror. his cries were cut short by the crash as the sloop struck. the bow was splintered, and the shock threw bob bangs overboard. luckily he was far enough away to escape the paddle-wheel, as the _helen shalley_ continued to go ahead despite the fact that her engines had been reversed. the first surprise over, randy was quick to act. not far away was a life preserver having a line attached to it and this he took from its hooks. he waited for the rich boy to appear. soon he came up, spluttering. "catch the preserver!" called out our hero and cast the article in such a skillful manner that it fell within easy reach. "save me! save me!" gasped the rich youth, throwing his arms wildly about him. "take hold of the life preserver!" called out half a hundred people at once. then several other cries rang out. at last the motion of the water washed the life preserver up against bob bangs' arm. he clutched at it desperately. by this time the steamboat had come to a standstill, and it was an easy matter for randy and jones to pull the rich youth towards the vessel. then a rope ladder was lowered and bob bangs came up to the deck, dripping with water. [illustration] "well, young man, you had a narrow escape," said captain hadley, as he pushed his way through the crowd to the spot. "i know it, and it's all your fault!" whined bob bangs. "my fault? nonsense!" "you ran me down! i'll have the law on you for it." "don't talk like a fool, young man. i was in the wheelhouse myself with the pilot and saw just how you acted. evidently you don't know much about handling boats." "i know all about them," insisted the rich youth. but this was a falsehood, as randy well knew. bob could row and that was about all. "you'll have to pay for smashing my boat," went on the rich boy, after a pause. "and you'll have to pay for wetting my new suit," he added, gazing ruefully at the natty outing suit he had donned but an hour before. "you'll not get a cent out of me," said captain hadley, firmly. "this accident was clearly of your own making. we gave you plenty of room, but you turned directly into our course twice. be thankful that you weren't ground up under the paddle-wheel." "yes, and be thankful that randy thompson threw you a life preserver," put in jones. at the mention of our hero's name bob bangs looked around in surprise. he had not noticed randy before. "what, you here!" he exclaimed and did not seem particularly happy over the meeting. "i am," answered randy. "did you throw out that line with the preserver?" asked the captain. "i did, sir," and randy touched his cap. "i am glad to know it," and the captain's face showed his appreciation of randy's prompt action. "what are you doing here--in that outfit?" asked bob bangs, curiously. "i am a deckhand on this steamboat." "pooh! a deckhand!" and the rich boy's nose went up into the air in disdain. he would give randy no credit for helping to save his life. "clear the deck, please!" called out captain hadley, to the crowd that was pressing in on all sides. "the excitement is over. the boy is safe." "i want you to put me ashore," said bob bangs. "we'll make a landing a mile below here," said the captain. "i don't want to go to the next landing." "sorry, but we can't turn back," answered captain hadley. "what about my boat?" "we'll take it in tow." this was done, and in a few minutes the _helen shalley_ had resumed her journey. bob bangs was led to one of the staterooms and offered a dry suit of clothes, which he put on. "i'll take your name and address," said captain hadley. "what for?" "as a matter of record. and remember, i want the clothing returned." "humph! maybe my father will sue you for damages!" "if he does he will lose the case." inside of five minutes the next landing place was made, and bob bangs went ashore, taking his wet suit with him. the damaged sloop was tied up at the dock, and having discharged and taken on passengers and baggage the steamboat sped on her way once more. "he's as mad as a wet hen," said jones to randy. "and he ought to be thankful for having his life spared." "he always was a mean sort of fellow," answered our hero. "and his folks are just as mean as he is." "then maybe they will try to make trouble for the steamboat owner." amos bangs did try to make trouble. two days after the accident on the river andrew shalley received a letter which ran in part as follows: "as you perhaps know, my son, robert bangs, was out on the hudson on the th inst., in his sloop, when, without any cause whatsoever, your steamboat, the _helen shalley_, ran into his boat, smashed it completely and put him in peril of his life. "i am a man of few words, sir, and i demand damages for this outrage. if you wish to settle, you may send me your check for one thousand dollars; if not, i will sue you for that amount." chapter xx what came of a demand the letter from amos bangs worried andrew shalley a little and he at once called on captain hadley, as soon as the steamboat made a landing at nyack. "it seems you ran down a boy a few days ago," said the steamboat owner. "he tried to run us down," answered the captain, quietly. "was he hurt?" "not in the least." "his father wants a thousand dollars' damages." "i wouldn't pay him a cent." "did you run him down?" "no, he tried to run us down." "this is no joke, captain hadley." "i know it, mr. shalley. but to threaten us with a suit at law is absurd. i can bring a dozen witnesses to prove that the accident was entirely of the boy's making." "i am glad to hear that," and andrew shalley breathed a sigh of relief. he did not care so much for the money, but he wanted to know that captain hadley was not to blame. "that boy acted like a little fool from beginning to end," went on the captain of the steamboat and then told his story. later randy was called up, to relate what he had done, and also jones. "if there is any trouble some of the passengers will testify for us," said captain hadley, and mentioned half a dozen who had said they would stick to the captain, in case of trouble. the passengers were well-known citizens, whose testimony would be sure to carry weight in any court of law. having satisfied himself that amos bangs had no case against him, the steamboat owner wrote to the rich manufacturer to that effect. by return mail he received this reply: "your bluff will not work with me. you are to blame and must pay. if i do not receive your check for one thousand dollars by the middle of next week i shall bring suit. my son is now in bed and under the doctor's care because of the accident." "humph! under the doctor's care, eh?" mused the steamboat owner. "this certainly seems to be serious after all. he will certainly make trouble for me even if he doesn't win his case." again the steamboat owner interviewed captain hadley, and then the pair called in randy, to learn what he could tell about the bangs family in general. our hero told all he knew, including the trouble mr. bartlett was having with the iron manufacturer. "evidently he is a man to get money in any manner possible," mused andrew shalley. "he will certainly bring suit." "i don't believe bob is sick," said randy. "he must be shamming." "i wish i knew for sure." "perhaps i can find out for you--if you'll give me a day or two off," said our hero, struck by a sudden idea. "a good plan!" cried captain hadley. "let the lad see what he can do, by all means." the matter was talked over, and the upshot was that on the next trip of the steamboat randy went ashore at catskill, near which town bob bangs and his mother were spending their vacation. from some men at the dock our hero was enabled to find out all about the damaged sloop, which had been returned to catskill. it was to cost twenty dollars to put the craft in good condition again. "those folks are stopping at a small hotel on the burnham road," said one of the dock men. "it's called the sharon house." "thank you," returned our hero. he was soon on the way to the sharon house--since demolished by fire. it did not take him long to cover the distance. as he approached he looked around for some signs of the bangs family and presently espied mrs. bangs lounging in a hammock on a side veranda, reading a novel. "i wonder if it is possible that bob is really in bed sick?" he mused. "if he is it's a wonder mrs. bangs isn't with him. but then i guess she is a selfish woman, anyway." randy walked around the hotel and down to the stable. here he met a colored boy who helped around the horses. "say, can you tell me where i can find bob bangs?" he asked, boldly. "bob bangs jest went down to the ball grounds," was the answer, which surprised randy not a little. "where are the grounds?" "that way," and the colored boy pointed with his hand. "i thought maybe bob was sick." "he ain't sick--he's only pertendin'," answered the colored boy. randy said no more but hurried off in the direction of the baseball grounds. just as he came in sight of the place, he saw a figure ahead that looked familiar to him. "unless i am mistaken, that is bob," he told himself, and hurried closer. it was indeed bob bangs, walking along as if nothing had ever happened to him. he was smoking a cigarette. he passed into the grounds and randy did the same, and took a seat on a bench directly behind the rich youth. it was easy to see that bob bangs was not suffering physically. he smoked half a dozen cigarettes, and applauded as loudly as anybody when a good play was made. "fine game," said a man sitting next to randy. "it is," said our hero. he looked at the man and saw that he was evidently a merchant. "excuse me, are you from catskill?" "i am." "do you want to do me a favor if i pay you for it?" "well, it won't be a favor if you pay me." "i may want your assistance and i may not. do you see that boy there?" "yes." "he doesn't look as if he was sick abed, does he?" "sick abed? what sort of a game is this?" and the merchant looked randy over with much curiosity. "that boy's father says he is sick in bed. i want to prove that it isn't so." "what is the game, anyway?" "he had an accident on the river and he wants damages from a man i work for. it is a put-up job." "oh! i've heard of such things before. i know a rascal who cut his foot with an ax and then went down to the railroad and laid the blame on a train. he got five hundred dollars, but, later on, was found out and sent to prison for the deception." "well, this isn't exactly like that. didn't you hear about a sloop running into the _helen shalley_ a few days ago?" "oh, yes, a friend of mine, a passenger on the boat, told me about it. he said the boy didn't know how to handle the craft." "well, that is the boy." "indeed!" "does he act as if he was hurt or suffering?" "not in the least." "would you be willing to testify to that fact, if it came to law?" "certainly." "will you give me your name and address?" "here is my card," and the merchant handed it over. he did not add that he occasionally sold captain hadley some goods and was glad to do the master of the steamboat a service. the game was almost at an end when the ball was sent among the spectators. seeing it coming towards him, bob bangs leaped up and tried to catch the sphere. it hit the tips of his fingers, stinging them greatly. then the ball came towards randy and he caught it and threw it back into the field. "what are you doing here?" demanded bob bangs, as he caught sight of our hero. "watching the game," answered randy, quietly. "humph!" "pretty nice game, bob." "humph!" muttered the rich boy again. "i see you are feeling fine again." "i am not--i am real sick," answered the rich boy, quickly. "sick in bed, eh?" went on our hero, with a grin. "i was in bed." "last night, i suppose. so was i." "i'm sick yet." "you showed it--by the way you were cheering and yelling." "when did you come in?" "right after you." "humph! have you been watching me?" "yes." "you might be in a better business," sneered the rich boy. "i don't think so. you need watching. you and your father want to cheat the steamboat company by pretending that you were hurt in that collision, and here you are as well and hearty as ever," added randy in a loud voice, so that those nearby might hear. "i ain't well--i'm sick." "you said that before--but nobody will believe it." "you're well enough to go to a ball game and yell and smoke cigarettes, anyway," put in the merchant sitting next to randy. a good play brought forth a cheer from the crowd which drowned out further talk. in the midst of the temporary excitement bob bangs sneaked from the stand and from the ball grounds. "he feels sick over this," laughed the merchant. "well, he can't sue the steamboat company for that sickness," laughed our hero in return. chapter xxi randy visits his home as soon as he returned to the steamboat, randy acquainted captain hadley with all he had seen and heard and gave the captain the card of the merchant. "you have done well, randy," said the master of the steamboat. "i fancy this will cook mr. amos bangs's goose." at nyack, mr. shalley came on board and heard what our hero had to say. "i am glad you have a witness," said he. "i have heard of mr. budmister before." "a good business man," said captain hadley. "he will make a good witness--if the case comes to a trial." but it never did come to a trial. andrew shalley received one letter from a lawyer, threatening the suit, and in return wrote back the particulars of what randy had learned, and added that if he heard any more of the matter he would bring suit against amos bangs for conspiracy to defraud. there the matter ended. the captain was so pleased that when randy asked for a three-days' leave of absence, that he might visit his home, it was readily granted. the boy was also given some extra pay for his work at catskill. randy's homecoming brought a warm smile to the faces of his father and his mother. his mother kissed him tenderly and his father shook hands. "how are you feeling, father?" "i am almost well, randy. i expect to go to work next week." "but not in a cellar," said the son, quickly. "no, mr. jackson is going to build a wing on his house and has given me the whole contract." "that is good." "i will be able to make more money than if i was working for a boss," went on mr. thompson. "well, you won't be sorry for that," said randy, with a smile. he found matters on the farm moving along nicely. the late vegetables were coming in well and their neighbor, jerry borden, had given them a helping hand. "say, you're a-gittin' to be a regular sailor, ain't you?" said sammy to randy. "hardly a sailor," answered randy, with a laugh. "i am a steamboat deckhand." "it's about the same thing. wish i was a sailor." "maybe if you sailed on the ocean you'd get seasick, sammy." "i wouldn't, nuther. i was readin' about robinson crusoe onct. i wish i was cast away on a barren island. it would be lots of fun." "especially if you had nothing to eat and to drink." "oh, i'd get something from the ship, as crusoe did." "if the ship didn't go down in the middle of the ocean." "when i was on the island i'd sleep every morning as long as i wanted to." "what would you do if the savages came after you?" "i'd fight and kill them all--that is, all but one. i'd want that one for my man friday." "he ain't going to be no sailor," broke in mrs. borden, who overheard the conversation. "he is going out to hunt eggs an' he is a-goin' to do it right now, or i'll get the whip." "i'll get the eggs," answered sammy, and hurried off without further delay. "that boy is crazy to go somewhere all the time," said mrs. borden. "he doesn't seem to like the farm a bit." "better let him look for work somewhere," said randy. "maybe it will cure him of some of his notions." "maybe," sighed the mother. all too soon randy's visit had come to an end. he remained at the little farm over sunday, going to church with his father and his mother, and left for the hudson river early monday morning. several days passed quietly and once more our hero fell into his routine work. jones was sick, so the deckhands had a little more to do than usual. randy pitched in with vigor, much to the satisfaction of malloy and captain hadley. one day, while handling baggage at the dock in new york, randy was surprised to see amos bangs and a stranger come aboard. he soon lost sight of the pair and did not see them again until the middle of the afternoon, when he discovered them in a corner of the cabin, talking earnestly. "it is queer mr. bangs should use this boat--after his quarrel with captain hadley and mr. shalley," said our hero to himself. he had occasion to pass the pair a little later and was surprised to hear the name of mr. bartlett mentioned. "don't worry; we'll down bartlett easily enough," said the strange man, a fellow with bushy black whiskers. "i hope so," answered amos bangs. curious to know what they could be saying about jack's father, and remembering what he had heard in the past, randy walked outside of the cabin and close to a window which was wide open. from this point he could hear what was said without being seen very readily. "i don't like the way matters are standing," he heard amos bangs say. "we must make our position more secure, tuller." "i don't see how we are to do it," answered the man with the heavy whiskers. "i wish i could get bartlett to sell his stock and sign over all his interest." "can you do that without making him suspicious of what is going on?" "humph! he is suspicious already, that's the trouble." "does he know about the deal with kastner?" "i think not." "it will be a blow, when he hears of it." "i don't intend he shall hear of it just yet. if i had robinson where i wanted him, i'd go ahead." "can't you get him?" "get him? i don't dare breathe a word to him." amos bangs laughed. "and the funny part of it is, bartlett thinks robinson is in with us." "you are sure of that?" "dead certain." "then you must keep bartlett and robinson apart." "if i can." "what did you do with the papers you took from bartlett's desk?" "they are in my safe at home." "why don't you destroy them?" "i will, some time." "it is dangerous to leave them around." "i am the only person who knows the combination of the house safe. the papers can't get out without me." so the talk ran on for a good hour, during which time randy heard many things which appeared to be of value to mr. philip bartlett. then the two men arose and went to the smoking room, and that was the last our hero saw of them until they left the boat, half an hour later. the talk he had heard set randy to thinking. plainly amos bangs and his companion were a pair of rascals and were trying to defraud mr. bartlett out of some if not all of his belongings. "i'll have to call on mr. bartlett and tell him what i have heard," randy told himself. "see here!" called out peter polk, striding up as randy was going to the lower deck. "what are you loafing around here for?" "i am going below now," answered our hero. "you can't shirk your work that way, thompson." the purser came closer. "listen," he whispered. "after this you keep your nose out of my business." "i didn't know i had my nose in your business, mr. polk." "oh, you can't fool me, thompson. i know it was you went to captain hadley with the story of how i was treating my relatives." "you mean the clares?" "of course i do. after this you keep your mouth shut," pursued the purser. "if you don't--well, you'll wish you had, that's all." and peter polk went away in extremely bad humor. chapter xxii mr. bartlett makes a move as soon as the boat had tied up at albany, and his work was at an end, randy attired himself in his best and took a street car for the residence of the bartletts. it was a humble place on a side street, quite in contrast to the fine residence the family had occupied in riverport. "hullo, randy!" cried jack, as he came to the door to answer our hero's ring. "this is a surprise. walk right in. did you send word that you were coming?" "i did not, jack. is your father home?" "yes, he is just finishing his supper." "i want to see him." "had your supper?" "yes, i got a bite before i left the boat." "all right--otherwise i know mother will welcome you at our table." jack went off to tell his father, and presently mr. bartlett walked in. he looked rather care-worn and tired. evidently his new situation was a hard one to fill and did not agree with him. "how do you do, randy?" said mr. bartlett. "glad to see you. jack says you want to see me." "i do, mr. bartlett. can i talk to you in private?" "certainly. come into the parlor." mr. bartlett led the way and closed the door. then both sat down. "i want to tell you something about mr. bangs and a man named tuller," began randy. "they were on the boat to-day and i overheard some of their talk." "tuller, eh?" said mr. bartlett, and his brow darkened. as well as he could randy repeated the talk he had heard. jack's father listened with keen interest. he was astonished when randy mentioned the papers which had been abstracted from his desk. "so bangs has them in his safe at home, eh?" he cried. "well, i am going to get them, be the cost what it may. they belong to me, and i am going to take them no matter where i find them." he was equally astonished to hear that a certain mr. robinson was not acting with amos bangs and certain other men, tuller included. "they gave me to understand that robinson was with them," said philip bartlett. "if robinson will only act with me, perhaps i can do a great deal." "then why don't you write to mr. robinson and find out?" "i will go and see him." "oh, then he lives here." "no, in springfield. but our works are going to shut down for a few days, so i will have ample time. randy, i am very thankful to you for bringing me this news." "i hope it does you some good, mr. bartlett." "i think it will. perhaps i'll only be able to scare bangs, but that may make him careful, so i can get something out of my stock in the iron works company." "if you ever want me as a witness i will do what i can for you." "thank you, my lad; you are kind and i will remember what you say." after that mrs. bartlett and jack came in and learned something of what had brought our hero to the house. "good for you, randy!" cried jack. "father, if i were you, i'd break into old bangs's safe." "pray do nothing rash," pleaded mrs. bartlett. "remember he is rich and has many friends." "he is certainly rich," said randy, "but i doubt if the family have many friends. all of them are too overbearing." "bangs broke into father's private desk and took the papers," went on jack. "it would be only tit for tat to break open the safe and get the papers back." "i shall see robinson first and then make up my mind what to do," answered his father. randy spent a pleasant evening with jack, and when it came time to go to the boat jack walked half the distance with our hero. "i wish father could get what is due him," said jack on the way. "he can't stand the hard work he is now doing." the next morning randy sailed down the river on the steamboat. twenty-four hours later mr. bartlett crossed the hudson and took a train for springfield. he hoped to find mr. robinson at one of the banks and he was not disappointed. the bank official--for such mr. robinson was--listened with interest to all philip bartlett had to tell. he shook his head when amos bangs and tuller were mentioned. "i suspected as much," said he. "i was given to understand that bangs had bought you out. i couldn't understand it either, for you once told me that you did not wish to leave the works. i have just gotten back from a trip to europe and have a good deal to attend to here, but i will take this matter up as soon as i possibly can." "and you will stand in with me?" asked mr. bartlett, anxiously. "if you wish it." "i do." "then we must act together." "and what would be your advice regarding those papers in bangs's private safe at his house?" "get out a search warrant and take a professional safe man along, to open the strong box," answered the bank official, promptly. "and do not delay either. he may take it into his head to burn the papers up." "i will do as you say," answered mr. bartlett with decision. some of his old-time will power had come back to him and he lost not a moment in carrying out his plans. he visited a firm dealing in safes and from them got the address of a man who claimed to be able to open any ordinary safe made. then he called on this individual. "you open safes?" he asked. "i do--if i have the proper authority," answered the man. "can you open a first-class house safe?" "yes." "how long will it take?" "from five minutes to three hours." "what are your charges?" "ten to fifty dollars. i'll have to see the safe before i can set a definite figure." "will you be at liberty to-morrow?" "i'll be at your service if you engage me now." "very well, you may consider yourself engaged. i wish you to meet me in riverport at about noon." "your own safe?" "no." "you'll have authority to open it?" "i think so. i've got to go to court to get it, though." "ah! a legal case, eh?" "yes. you don't object, do you?" "oh, no, i have many legal cases. had to force a safe for some lawyers in bridgeport only last week." "you will not disappoint me?" "not at all, mr. bartlett." with this understanding philip bartlett left the safe opener and took a train back to his home. but, as it happened, a certain man saw him leaving the safe opener's office. this man was none other than tuller, the friend to amos bangs. "bartlett, eh?" murmured tuller to himself. "what is he doing in springfield?" he chanced to know the safe opener, whose name was westinghouse, and presently dropped into the other's office as if by accident. "how is business, westinghouse?" he said, indifferently. "fair," was the answer. "had two jobs last week." "good enough." "how is business with you?" "booming. i suppose you get jobs ahead, is that it, or do you go out on the run, so to speak?" "sometimes i get orders ahead, but most of the jobs come in on the run--safe out of order, or something like that. i've got to go to riverport to-morrow." "is that so? bank?" "no, a private party, i reckon. going to have a safe opened by an order from the court, i think." "is that so! well, i wish you luck on the job. good-day." "good-day!" answered the safe opener. once on the street tuller's face changed. "bartlett must have given that order, and if so he means to either open up the safe at the iron works or else the safe at bangs's house. i must see bangs and warn him, so that nothing is found which will do us harm!" at first he thought to telegraph, but then came to the conclusion that it would be too risky. a letter might not be received in time. "i'll go myself," he said, and an hour later was on his way to riverport. chapter xxiii the papers in the safe at riverport the next day mr. bartlett called upon a lawyer with whom he was well acquainted and told to the legal gentleman all that he had learned and proposed to do. "i wish your assistance, mr. soper," he said. "you shall have it," was the lawyer's prompt answer. "can you get an order from the court to open that safe?" "i believe i can. come, we will go and see the judge at once." fortunately for mr. bartlett the judge was easily found, and when the matter was explained he issued the necessary papers and placed them in the hands of one of the constables. "but how are you going to open the safe if it is locked?" asked the judge. "constable carley is not equal to it." "i have engaged a professional safe opener," answered mr. bartlett. "he can do the trick for the constable." "very well." mr. bartlett, the lawyer, and the constable waited until the stage came in. the safe opener was one of the passengers and at once joined the crowd and was introduced. in the meantime jasper tuller had also arrived in riverport. in the morning he lost no time in calling at the iron works. "i want to see mr. bangs," he said, to the clerk who came to wait on him. "sorry, sir, but mr. bangs went out of town late last night." "when will he be back?" "not until some time this afternoon--possibly not until evening." "where did he go? i must communicate with him at once." "he went to rochester, but i can't give you the exact address," answered the clerk. jasper tuller groaned in spirit. could he have telegraphed to amos bangs he would have done so, but the telegram would have remained at the office awaiting a call. "i must make a move on my own account, if i can," he muttered. he called a carriage and was driven to the bangs mansion. a servant answered his rather impatient ring at the front door. "is anybody at home?" he asked, abruptly. "mr. bangs has gone away, sir." "i know that," he snapped. "is mrs. bangs at home?" now it happened mrs. bangs had come home the night before, intending to go away again two days later. but she had given orders that she wished to see no one. "i--i don't know," said the servant girl. "i can see. what is the name?" "jasper tuller. it is highly important that i see somebody of the family at once," went on the visitor. mrs. bangs was in an upper hallway and overheard the talk. she knew her husband had had some trouble with a book agent over the payment of a bill and took tuller to be that person. "a gentleman to see you, mrs. bangs," said the maid. "he is very anxious about it." "i cannot see anybody," returned the fashionable woman, coldly. "tell him i am not at home." the girl went down into the hallway, where she had left jasper tuller standing. "mrs. bangs is not at home, sir. you will have to call some other time." "is mr. bangs's son at home?" "no, sir; he is away for the summer." "when will mrs. bangs be back?" "i can't say, sir." "it is too bad. the matter is very important. i came all the way from springfield to see mr. bangs. they told me at the works he had gone to rochester. i wanted to see him or his wife on business. have you any idea where i can find mrs. bangs?" the girl hesitated. "n--no, sir," she faltered. mrs. bangs was listening as before and now realized that something unusual was in the air. she slipped down a back stairs and out of a rear door. then she came around to the front piazza just as the door opened to let tuller out. "mamie, who is this?" she asked, looking at the servant girl meaningly. "are you mrs. bangs?" asked jasper tuller, quickly, and, as she nodded, he continued: "i am glad you have come. i am jasper tuller, one of the stockholders in the iron works. perhaps you have heard your husband mention my name." "i have, mr. tuller. what can i do for you?" "i would like to see you in private"--this with a side glance at the servant girl. "very well, step into the library, mr. tuller," and the fashionable woman led the way to that apartment. then the door was carefully closed. "something is wrong," said the servant girl to herself. "i wonder what it can be?" she was of a decidedly inquisitive nature and not above playing the eavesdropper. she tiptoed her way to the library door and listened intently, while at the same time applying her eye to the keyhole. "now, what is it, mr. tuller?" asked mrs. bangs, after the door to the library was shut. "briefly, it is this," said the visitor. "your husband has certain papers in his safe--papers which belong to another man,--philip bartlett." "proceed." "i warned him to destroy the papers but he has not done so. now mr. bartlett is going to come here, force open your safe, and take the papers away." "come here--force our safe!" gasped the fashionable woman. "he dare not do it." "he is going to do it legally, i presume." "you mean he will bring an officer of the law here?" "yes. if those papers are found it will look black for your husband, for he has no right to have them in his possession." "oh, mr. tuller, what shall i do?" "it is easy enough. open the safe, take out the papers, and put them where they cannot be found." "yes, but i do not know how to open the safe!" "don't you know the combination? your husband said something about that, but i felt there must be some mistake." "i did know the combination once, but i believe i have forgotten it," went on the fashionable woman. she knitted her brows. "let me see. it was three 's, i remember-- , , and ." "yes! yes! and what else. see if you cannot think. it is so very important--not alone for your husband, but also for myself and others." "i am trying to think. let me see--yes, there was a and a and then another ,--i mean so many times around." "i believe i understand, mrs. bangs. you mean twice around to , three times around to , twice to , and then off at ." "yes, yes, that is it!" burst out the lady of the mansion. "how clever some men are!" and she beamed on her visitor, who chanced to be well dressed and not bad-looking. "if that is correct, i'll soon have the safe open," said jasper tuller, and walked over to where the strong box stood, in a corner of the apartment. the lady of the mansion hovered near while jasper tuller got down on his knees and began to try the combination. he had to work the knob all of a dozen times before the door of the safe came open. "at last!" he murmured, as the contents of the safe stood revealed. "do you see the papers, or rather, do you know them?" asked mrs. bangs. "i will know them--if i can lay eyes on them," was the reply, as tuller began to rummage around in the safe. the papers were sorted out in different piles and he went through each pile as rapidly as possible. presently he found what he wanted. "here they are!" he cried in triumph, as he held them up. chapter xxiv another hiding place mrs. bangs breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the papers. "you are certain you are right, mr. tuller?" she asked, anxiously. "yes." "where did those papers come from?" "mr. bartlett's desk at the iron works." "as they were in my husband's safe i think you ought to give them to me." "i will do so, mrs. bangs. but you must put them where they cannot be found." "trust me for that." "the officers of the law may search the whole house." "dare they do such a thing?" "yes, but if everything is found square your husband can sue bartlett for damages," and jasper tuller chuckled loudly. "it will be a good joke on him." "there are no more of the papers?" "i will take another look and make sure." this was done, but no more papers belonging to philip bartlett could be found. then the safe was locked once more. "i will put these papers away at once," said mrs. bangs and left the library with the documents in her hand. she was gone all of five minutes and came back smiling quietly to herself. "now they are safe," she said. "nobody can possibly find them." "i am glad to hear it," answered tuller. "now i had better be going--before bartlett appears. don't say anything about my having been here." "i will not." "and another thing, mrs. bangs. pretend not to know how to open the safe. that will compel them to break it open, and your husband's case against bartlett will be so much stronger." "i shall follow your advice, mr. tuller. but look, somebody is coming already!" went on the fashionable woman, as a carriage turned in from the road and came toward the horse block. "i must get out of this! can i go by a back door?" "to be sure," said mrs. bangs, and showed the way. as tuller slipped out and passed toward the back road where randy had had an encounter with bob bangs, there came a ring at the front door. "good-morning, mrs. bangs," said mr. bartlett. "is your husband at home?" "he is not," answered the fashionable woman, coldly. "i've got a search warrant for this place," said the constable, pushing his way in, and he proceeded to read the document aloud. "this is an outrage!" cried mrs. bangs, with assumed dignity. "an outrage, and you shall pay dearly for it, mr. bartlett. my husband is no thief, to steal your papers." "perhaps not," answered philip bartlett. "nevertheless, i am going to have his safe searched and also this house." "well, since you have the law on your side, go ahead. but you shall answer to my husband for this indignity." the constable began his work, and the safe opener approached the strong box and inspected it. "can you open it?" asked mr. bartlett, anxiously. "with ease," was the answer. "this is one of the old-style safes." "how much will it cost?" "ten dollars." "then go ahead." the safe opener was soon at work. he turned the knob around slowly, listening intently in the meanwhile. he worked thus for perhaps ten minutes, when the door to the safe came open without an effort. mrs. bangs was disappointed. she had expected that the safe would have to be blown open in the most approved burglar fashion, and was wondering what bill for damages she could render. "you must have known the combination," she said, tartly, to the safe opener. "this is my business," was the quiet answer. the constable, with mr. bartlett's aid, went through all the papers in the safe. of course the all-important documents were not found. "well?" asked the lawyer, after a long wait. "they are not here," replied mr. bartlett. he felt sick at heart over his failure to bring the papers to light. "not here!" "no, they must have been removed." the library was searched, and then a look was taken through the whole house. mrs. bangs followed the men everywhere. "you shall suffer for this outrage," she said to mr. bartlett several times. "i presume i shall have to stand for what i have done," he answered, meekly. "of one thing i am certain, mrs. bangs. your husband has those papers, or else he has destroyed them." "you can say what you please, mr. bangs is an honest man and a gentleman," retorted the fashionable woman. at last there was nothing left to do but to leave the mansion, which mr. bartlett did with reluctance. "i am afraid i have made a mess of it," he said to his lawyer. "i was certain we would find those papers." "i am afraid you have hurt your case, mr. bartlett," answered the legal light, bluntly. "bangs will now be on his guard and will take good care to keep those papers away from you." "perhaps he has destroyed them." "that is not unlikely, since it would do him small good to keep them." "what do you advise me to do next?" "you had better wait and see what develops," said the lawyer. the safe opener and the constable were paid off and philip bartlett returned to albany in anything but a happy frame of mind. a day or two later he called upon randy, when the steamboat tied up at the dock for the night. "my fat is in the fire," he said to our hero, and told of his failure to locate the missing documents. "mr. bartlett, i am sure mr. bangs said the papers were in his safe!" cried randy. "he must have taken them out when he returned home." "you can be a witness if the matter is brought into court?" "of course. i remember very well all i heard." "well, that is something," answered philip bartlett, hopefully. he went home and the next day received a strong letter from amos bangs denouncing him for the action he had taken. part of the letter ran as follows: "i should sue you for damages, only i do not wish to drag you into court on account of your wife and family. in the future you need expect no favors from me. i am done with you. if you want to sell your stock in the iron company i will give you the market price, not a cent more. remember, i shall be on my guard against you in the future, and if you dare to molest me again you shall take the consequences." "he will do what he can to ruin us," said mrs. bartlett when her husband read the letter to her. "i suppose so." "what is the market price of the stock?" "it has no regular market value now. bangs will buy it for about ten cents on the dollar." "oh, philip, that is so little!" "i'll not sell the stock," said mr. bartlett. "i'd rather lose every cent than play into amos bangs's hands!" chapter xxv a victory for randy one day randy was out in albany buying a new pair of shoes when he met rose clare, who was also doing some shopping for her mother. "oh, randy, how do you do!" cried the girl, running up and shaking hands. "very well, rose," he answered. "you look well." "oh, i am feeling splendid." "it did you good to get out of new york." "indeed it did, and mamma is ever so much better too." "i am glad to hear that. do you like it at captain hadley's home?" "yes, mamma and mrs. hadley have become great friends." "do you go to school?" "yes. and, oh, i 'most forgot to tell you. i got a letter from new york to-day. it was from another girl, one who lived in the house with us. she says bill hosker has come back to that neighborhood." "to stay?" "she says he is around every night." "then i am going to hunt him up." "oh, randy, please don't get into any more trouble," pleaded rose. "he has got to give back my money, or take the consequences." "you know what a ruffian he is!" "i will be on my guard this time, rose, and maybe i'll take a friend along," added our hero. when he returned to the steamboat he told jones about what he had heard. jones was now feeling very well once again, and he readily volunteered to go with randy and hunt up hosker as soon as the boat got to the metropolis. then pat malloy got wind of what was up and said he would go too. "it's no use of going to the police wid such a mather," said the head deckhand. "we'll bring the rascal to terms ourselves." it was a clear, cool night when the landing was made at new york. the deckhands hurried through their labors and then made off for the neighborhood where randy had been attacked. "here is the spot where i was first robbed," said our hero, and pointed it out. they walked around the neighborhood for nearly an hour, and were growing somewhat disheartened when randy gave a cry: "there he is!" "you are sure?" asked jones. "yes." "let me speak to him first. then we'll know there ain't no mistake," went on jones. randy was willing and he and malloy dropped behind. bill hosker had just come out of a saloon and was wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. he turned down a side street. "hullo there, bill hosker!" cried jones, pleasantly. the bully and thief swung around on his heel and looked at the deckhand in perplexity. "who are you?" he asked, roughly. "am i right? is this bill hosker?" "dat's my handle." "then you are the man i want to see," said jones and beckoned for the others to come up. when the street ruffian saw randy his face changed color and he wanted to run away, but jones grabbed him and so did malloy. as both were powerful men, hosker was as a kitten in their grasp. "youse fellers let me go!" "i want you to give up the money you took from me," said randy. "i don't know you, young feller!" "yes, you do. will you give up the money or not?" "i ain't got no cash." "then you'll come to the station house with me." "i bet yer i won't!" cried bill hosker. he started to struggle when jones hauled off and slapped him hard on the right ear. "now be good, or i'll shove a few of your teeth down your throat," said the deckhand. "this ain't no foolin' affair. give up the boy's money and be quick about it. if you don't give up i'll maul you so your own mother won't know you!" bill hosker was thoroughly alarmed. he did not mind going to the station house but he did mind a good drubbing, and he saw that those who held him were in no mood to be trifled with. "say, let us straighten dis t'ing out," said he at length. "i want my money," answered randy. "will yer drop de matter if i cough up de cash?" "yes." "all right den. how much was it?" "four dollars and eighty cents." the street ruffian pulled a small roll of bills from his pocket. "dare you are," he said, as he passed over five dollars. "youse kin keep de change." randy took the bills and stowed them away in his pocket. "i'll give the change to some poor person," he said. "i want only what is coming to me." "are ye done wid de rascal?" asked malloy. "yes." "well, i'm not," answered the head deckhand. "and neither am i," added jones. and then both hauled off and let bill hosker have it, right and left. the street ruffian had one eye blackened and a tooth knocked out, and went down in a heap more than dazed. "let that teach you a lesson," said jones. "it's better nor a month in jug," was pat malloy's comment. "the state won't have to feed the blackguard." randy had already walked on and his friends joined him, and all hurried back to the steamboat. it was several minutes before bill hosker got up. "i'd like ter kill dem fellers!" he muttered. he hurried for the nearest saloon, where he tried to drown his troubles in drink. in the saloon were several who knew him, and one man jeered him because of the black eye. this brought on another quarrel, and as a consequence both men were pushed out of the drinking resort. they continued to fight on the sidewalk, until a policeman came along and tried to stop them. then hosker attacked the officer, and as a consequence was placed under arrest. the next day he was brought up in court and sentenced to a year in prison for his misdeeds. "i don't think he'll forget us," said jones, as the steamboat was reached. "maybe he will lay for us," said randy. "well, we can kape our eyes open," put in pat malloy. "i shall not visit that neighborhood again," said our hero. "now i have my money back i am satisfied." "new york has altogether too many such toughs," put in jones. "the police ought to clean them all out. when i first came here i was attacked in my boarding place on the bowery." "were you robbed?" "the fellow tried to rob me, but he didn't succeed. i played a neat trick on him." "what did you do?" "i had a roll of bills and these i placed in an inside pocket. i also had an imitation bank-bill--one of these advertisements you often see. well, i took a small roll of paper and put the imitation bill around it, and put the roll in my vest pocket. the would-be thief got the roll and ran off with it." "he must have been angry when he saw how he had been duped," laughed randy. "i didn't see that fellow again for nearly six months. then i met him on the steamboat where i was working. when he saw me he sneaked out of sight in a hurry, i can tell you." "did you follow him up?" "i tried to, but i didn't see him again until we were making a landing. then i tried to grab him, but he slipped me in a crowd and went ashore as fast as his legs could carry him," concluded the deckhand. chapter xxvi new troubles on the following day randy noticed that peter polk seemed unusually sour and thoughtful. "something has gone wrong with him, that is certain," thought our hero. "i wonder what it can be?" he did his best to keep out of the way of the purser and succeeded until nightfall. but then, when he was carrying an extra heavy trunk, peter polk got in his way and made him stumble and drop the piece of baggage. the trunk was split open at one end and some of the contents fell on the deck. it was a lady's trunk, filled with feminine wearing apparel, and a good many passengers laughed. "what do you mean by running into me, you blockhead!" cried the purser, in a loud voice. "why don't you look where you are going!" "it was not my fault," answered randy, warmly, not liking the man's manner of address. "you made me drop that trunk." "i did not. it was your own clumsiness." "no, sir," said our hero, firmly; and a crowd began to collect. "don't dare to contradict me!" fumed the purser. "it was your fault, and the damage shall come out of your wages." "mr. polk, it was not my fault and i shall not stand for the damage done." "ha! you defy me, eh, you cub! go on about your work and i'll settle with you later." "what is the trouble here?" asked captain hadley, coming up through the crowd. "the blockhead of a boy dropped that trunk and broke it open." "he ran into me and made me drop it," retorted our hero. he felt just reckless enough to stand up for his rights, be the consequences what they might. "put the trunk to one side, along with the other baggage," said the captain. "we have no time to waste on this just now. get that other baggage ashore." "my trunk!" shrieked the maiden lady, rushing forward. "oh, who broke my trunk?" "it was an accident, madam." "and all my dresses spilt out, too! i shall sue the steamboat company for damages." "we will settle with you, madam. i am sorry it happened," went on the captain, soothingly. "it was a mean thing to do," said the maiden lady and began to weep. "two of those dresses are brand-new." "i guess they are not injured much." randy and the others had gone to work again. our hero's thoughts were busy. "i believe polk ran into me on purpose," he whispered to jones. "maybe he wants to get you discharged," answered the other deckhand. "i don't see why." "he's down on you because of that clare affair." "do you think so?" "sure. he hated it worse than poison, for the captain now knows just how meanly he acted towards the widow." the damaged trunk was passed over to a man on the dock and after some excited talk the maiden lady accepted ten dollars, with which to have the box repaired and her things put in proper order. it was more than was actually coming to her and she went off secretly pleased. in the meantime one of the passengers, an elderly man who traveled on the line a great deal, went to captain hadley. "what is it, mr. delong?" asked the master of the vessel, kindly. "i wish to speak to you about that trunk that was broken open." "what of it?" "i saw the accident. i was standing quite near at the time." "well?" "i take an interest in that young deckhand of yours--he has done me several small favors from time to time. it was not his fault that the trunk was smashed, and i wanted you to know it." "how did it happen?" "your purser got in the way and made the boy stumble. to me it looked as if the purser did it on purpose." "this is interesting, mr. delong. but i don't see why the purser should do such a thing." "neither do i, excepting he may have a grudge against the boy." "humph!" the captain grew thoughtful. "i will investigate this." "do so, and believe me, the boy is not to blame," said the elderly passenger, and withdrew. as soon as the end of the trip came, and the work on deck was finished, randy was called to the captain's office. "now what have you to say about that smashed trunk, thompson?" "i am not to blame, captain hadley," answered our hero, and told exactly how the incident had occurred. "do you mean to say mr. polk tripped you up?" "he ran into me and made me drop the trunk. if i hadn't dropped the trunk i would have fallen down with the box on the top of me, and gotten hurt." "this is a strange statement, thompson. why should mr. polk run into you?" "he hates me, because through me your family learned how he had treated mrs. clare when he helped to settle her husband's affairs." this threw a new light on the matter and the captain nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "i did not think this of mr. polk." "i think he hopes i'll lose my job," went on our hero. "he continually calls me a blockhead, just to get me mad. i think he'd like to see me lose my temper and pitch into him, and then he could get me my walking papers." "i think i will have to put the damage to the trunk down to the regular expense account," said the captain at last. "in the future be more careful, and keep out of mr. polk's way." "i will certainly be careful, and i'll watch him, too," answered randy. evidently peter polk was surprised to see our hero go to his work whistling after his interview with the captain. he went to the master of the vessel himself a little later. "is that boy going to pay for the trunk?" he asked, sourly. "no, you can put it down to the regular expense account," answered captain hadley. "humph! it was his fault." "he says not." "did he blame it on me?" "he did." "it was his own fault." "we won't argue the matter, mr. polk. put it down to the regular expenses and let it go at that," and captain hadley turned again to the magazine he had been reading. "sticking up for the boy," muttered the purser, as he walked away. "well, i'll get that cub yet, see if i don't!" a day passed and randy stuck closely to his duties. he saw but little of peter polk and gave the purser a wide berth. the purser watched the youth narrowly, but said nothing. "he has got it in for you," said jones to randy. "take my advice and keep your eyes open." "i am watching him." "he is a man i shouldn't trust nohow. he has got a bad pair of eyes. i don't see how mr. shalley trusts him with all the boat's money matters." "neither do i," answered our hero. "he could walk off with thousands of dollars if he wanted to," said jones, and there the talk was dropped. chapter xxvii randy makes a discovery the next day randy wanted to change some of his underwear and went into his locker for his things. to his surprise he found in the locker a lot of wearing apparel that did not belong to him. "hullo, what does this mean?" he asked himself but could not answer the question. he looked the articles over and made sure they did not belong to any of the other deckhands. then as he was folding up an extra-fine outing shirt, he saw a letter drop to the floor. he picked it up and saw that it was addressed to peter polk. "can these things belong to polk?" he asked himself. "if so, how did they get here?" curiosity prompted him to look into the envelope in his hand. inside was a single sheet of paper on which was scrawled in a bold, heavy hand this brief communication: "peter polk: if you don't pay me that commission of twenty dollars at once, i will go to old man shalley and let him know how you are boosting up the expense account. g. a. g." randy read the letter with great interest. it was postmarked new york and the date was four days back. "there is some mystery here," he reasoned. "what can it mean? can mr. polk be cheating mr. shalley in some way?" then he remembered how the purser purchased all the supplies for the steamboat and paid the bills, and gave a low whistle. "i must see captain hadley about this, and at once," he thought. "but no, maybe it would be better to go and see mr. shalley direct." he placed the letter in a safe place and then went out on deck. he had just started to look for captain hadley,--to tell him about the strange wearing apparel--when peter polk rushed up to him. "look here, thompson, i want you!" shouted the purser, wrathfully. "what is it, mr. polk?" "i've got you, you young thief!" "i am no thief," answered our hero, warmly. "you are!" "who says randy is a thafe?" demanded pat malloy. "i do." "and i say it is false." "he has stolen some of my underwear," went on the purser. "tell me what you have done with the stuff at once!" "your stuff is in my locker, mr. polk, but i did not take it." "ha! what a yarn to tell. hand the stuff over at once!" "you can get it if you wish," answered randy, with a shrug of his shoulders. "i will. malloy, come along as a witness," answered the purser. he walked to the compartment where the deckhands slept and from our hero's locker hauled the articles that belonged to him. "what do you say to that?" he cried, turning to our hero. "i did not put the things there, mr. polk." "if you didn't, who did?" sneered the purser. "perhaps you did yourself." "me!" "yes." "you are crazy, boy! why should i do such a thing?" "to get me into trouble. you hate me and want to injure me, that's why." "nonsense. you stole these things, it is useless for you to deny it." "but i do deny it. i am no more a thief than you are--maybe not as much of a one," added randy, significantly. at these words the purser turned pale for a moment. but he quickly recovered. "i shall report this to the captain." "i'll report too." "i'll have you discharged." "we'll see about that." taking his things, peter polk went to the captain's office and told his story. captain hadley at once sent for randy. "this is a queer happening, thompson," he said. "captain hadley, i am not guilty," answered randy. "it is only another plot of mr. polk to get me into trouble." "and you think he put the things there himself?" "i certainly do. i wish you would give me a day off," went on our hero, after an awkward pause. "what for?" "i wish to see mr. shalley." "he is in new york, on business." "so much the better. i can call on him there, after we tie up." "do you want to take this matter to him?" "not this alone. i have something else of importance. i know he will want to see me." "well, you can go. i hope you are not going to run away," and the captain smiled faintly. "i have nothing to run away for, sir. mr. polk is down on me and i am going to do what i can to show him up, that is all. but please don't let him know that i am going to see mr. shalley." "you have learned something important?" "yes, sir." "about the purser?" "yes, sir. but i can't speak of it just yet to you." "well, what about this clothing affair?" "won't you let it rest for a few days?" "if you wish," answered captain hadley, and then he was called away to attend to some important duties. although randy did not know it, peter polk was nearby and caught a good bit of the talk between our hero and the captain. his face grew deathly pale when he learned that randy was going to see mr. shalley and about his own personal doings. "what has that cub discovered now?" he asked himself. "what can he tell about my doings?" he was so worried he could not attend to his work. he turned the matter over in his mind and suddenly remembered the threatening letter he had received. he had paid the claim, but what had he done with the communication? he searched everywhere for it, but without avail. "fool that i was, that i did not tear it up and throw it overboard," he muttered to himself. "if that boy has the letter it may lead to an investigation, and then----" he did not finish but clenched his hands in rage and fear. he watched randy narrowly, and after new york was reached saw our hero make preparations to go ashore. he did not know that mr. shalley was in the metropolis and could not comprehend randy's move. "are you going ashore?" he asked of our hero, when he got the chance. "i am." "where are you going?" "excuse me, mr. polk, but that is my private business." "did captain hadley say you could go?" "he did." "well, come to my office a minute, i want to talk to you," went on the purser, in a lower tone. "very well," answered randy, and followed the man to the office, which at this time was deserted. "thompson, i want to know what you found in your locker besides my clothing," said the purser, after he had made certain that no outsiders were around. "i found a cigar holder and a match safe." "and what else?" "i must decline to answer that question." at this blunt refusal the brow of the purser darkened. "you won't tell me?" "no." "did you find a--er--a letter?" "perhaps i did." "i want you to give it up." "i didn't say i found it." "but you did find it. it is my property and you must give it to me." to this randy was silent. "do you hear me?" "i am not deaf, mr. polk." "i know what you want to do!" hissed the purser. "you want to get me into trouble. but i'll not let you do it." "maybe you'll get yourself into trouble." "bah! i am not afraid of a boy, but----" he paused and his manner changed. "see here, thompson, you are a poor boy, aren't you?" "i admit it." "well, some extra money will come in handy, won't it?" "what do you mean, mr. polk?" "i'll give you--er--five dollars for that letter." "i haven't said that i had it yet." "but i know you have it. come, what do you say?" "i say, i am going about my business," answered randy, and started for the doorway. "not yet!" cried the purser, wrathfully, and flung him back into a corner. "you'll settle with me first, even if i have to call a police officer!" chapter xxviii out of a tight corner randy was surprised and dazed by the treatment he received at the hands of the enraged purser and for the moment knew not what to do. he rose slowly to his feet. "don't you do that again!" he cried, a dangerous glitter coming into his eyes. "i will do it--unless you give up that letter." "you shall never have the letter, peter polk." "ha! so you admit at last that you have it!" "i do." "then hand it over or i will call an officer and have you locked up." "call the officer, if you dare," and our hero shrugged his shoulders. "you stole more than the clothing and the letter," went on the purser, craftily. "you took fifty dollars in money." "i took absolutely nothing, and you know it." "then you want me to call in the officer?" "do as you please," said randy, recklessly. peter polk was nonplused. he did not want to call an officer. yet he wanted to get the precious letter. "you will save yourself a lot of trouble by giving up that letter, thompson," he said, in a more subdued tone. "well, i don't intend to give it up." "if i have you arrested i can send you to state's prison for five or ten years." "i will risk it." "what do you intend to do with that letter?" said the purser. "that is my affair." "going to mr. shalley, eh?" "perhaps." "it won't do you any good." again randy was silent. he had stepped close to the door. on the instant peter polk did the same. "you are not going just yet," cried the purser, meaningly. randy looked through the little window of the office. he heard footsteps approaching. "hullo there, jones!" he called out. "what's wanted?" came from the other deckhand. "come to the office, please." in a moment jones appeared. he was carrying a bucket of water and a deck swab. "now open that door," said randy to peter polk. "no more nonsense, please." "you are not wanted here, jones!" cried the purser, angrily. "you are wanted," said randy. "open the door. i want to get out." jones set down his pail and pulled on the door. seeing resistance would be useless, peter polk allowed the door to come open. at once randy stepped out into the gangway. "i'll explain this to you some other time!" he called to the other deckhand, and then ran off before peter polk could stop him. "where are ye goin'?" called out malloy, as he crossed the gang-plank. "i'm off on business," answered our hero, and then paused for a moment. "tell jones to keep an eye on mr. polk, will you, please? it is very important." "i will," was the reply. in a minute more randy was hurrying up the street. he knew where andrew shalley was stopping and took a car to the location. the place was a well-known hotel and in the corridor he met the steamboat owner, just ready to go out. "oh, mr. shalley, i want to see you!" he cried. "what is it, randy?" "it's quite a story and very important." "then come to my room," and the steamboat owner led the way to the elevator. as soon as they were in the room our hero told his story in all of its details and then produced the letter he had found. andrew shalley listened closely to the story and pondered over the letter for some time. "randy, have you any idea who this person who signs himself g. a. g. can be?" "i've been thinking that over, mr. shalley, and i have found out that there is a head clerk who works for bann & shadow, the wholesale grocers, whose name is george a. gaffney. gaffney used to come and see polk once in a while." "and we buy a great many things from bann & shadow," put in the steamboat owner. "so we do." "i will look this man gaffney up at once." with the steamboat owner to think was to act, and going below with our hero he consulted a directory and found that george a. gaffney lived on west twenty-sixth street. "i will call upon this fellow," said he. "you can go along." they took a car on one of the avenues and got out at the corner of twenty-sixth street. they had to walk half a block. the neighborhood was not of the best, and gaffney's residence proved to be a four-story apartment house. the man lived on the top floor with his wife and four small children. george gaffney was at home, sitting in his shirt sleeves by a front window, smoking a pipe. he was surprised to receive visitors at that hour. "is this mr. george a. gaffney?" questioned andrew shalley. "that's my name." "are you a clerk for bann & shadow, the wholesale grocers?" "i am." "i would like to see you privately, mr. gaffney." "who are you?" "i am andrew shalley, the owner of the steamboat _helen shalley_." "oh!" george gaffney was taken aback and showed it plainly. his wife had come to a back doorway and was looking at the visitors curiously. "step in, sir," said the clerk, in a husky voice. "mary, i will see this gentleman alone," he went on to his wife, who at once retired, closing the door after her. andrew shalley was a good judge of character and he saw that george gaffney was a family man of fairly good qualities. he was extremely nervous. "i think i can get him to confess easily enough--if he has anything to tell," thought the steamboat owner. "please be seated," said the clerk, and mr. shalley and randy sat down. then there was a slight pause. "mr. gaffney, i am afraid i have an unpleasant duty to perform," began andrew shalley, in a cold, hard voice. "why--er--what do you mean?" stammered the clerk. "i refer to your dealings with my purser, peter polk." "i--er--i haven't had anything to do with him--that is--we had some little business, but----" the clerk was unable to go on. "you sent him a threatening letter the other day." "me? who says so?" "i have the letter in my possession." the clerk winced and the steamboat owner saw that the shot struck home. "this affair is a very serious one--you know that as well as i do," continued andrew shalley. "the fact of the matter is, it is a state's prison offense." the mention of prison had the desired effect. george gaffney broke down completely. "oh, sir,--i--i didn't mean to do any wrong--polk said it would be all right. he got me to go into it--it was all his doings. all i ever got out of it was thirty-five dollars and that i will pay back. mr. shalley, i--er--i hope you won't prosecute me, for the sake of my wife and children!" and the clerk wrung his hands in despair. "didn't you get any more than thirty-five dollars?" "no, sir, not a cent more, i swear it. and polk said that was due to me legally." "if that is true, i will not prosecute you,--but on one condition." "name it." "that you tell me everything you know about peter polk's doings." "i will do it, mr. shalley." chapter xxix george gaffney's statement "i cannot tell you all peter polk has done," said george gaffney, on beginning his story, "but i can tell you all so far as it concerns his purchase of goods from bann & shadow." "that will be enough," answered andrew shalley, and brought out a book and a pencil, to take notes. "he came to our firm three years ago and began to purchase various goods for the _helen shalley_. at first he met all bills promptly and never asked for any rebate or commission. that lasted for about three months." "he must have been feeling his way." "he was. at the end of six months he made a claim of a rebate on a bill for a hundred and fifty dollars and we allowed him ten dollars. then he got ten dollars more on another bill, and after that he claimed a rebate of ten per cent. on everything he bought of us." "you have all those bills on your books?" "we have." "good. go on." "he gradually got bolder and wanted me to aid him in getting a commission elsewhere on regular steamboat supplies. i was willing to make a little extra money and introduced him to the firm of leeson & bronette. leeson is an easy-going man and he promised polk a big commission on all goods purchased. polk bought hundreds of dollars' worth of goods from them, and got, i am pretty sure, from fifteen to twenty per cent. on every bill paid." "oh, what a rascal!" murmured randy. "then i introduced him to another man, aaron denman, and he got goods from that man too and got his commission--how much i do not know. for introducing him to denman i was promised that commission of twenty dollars. i saw polk was making money hand over fist, and when he did not pay me i got mad and wrote the letter." "and you are sure you never got a cent more out of him than thirty-five dollars?" "not a cent. once in a while he treated me to a dinner and twice he sent me a box of cigars, and that is all. to tell the honest truth, i did not press him very hard, for i did not believe in what he was doing. i want to be an honest man, and i was led into this thing almost before i knew it," continued george gaffney. after that he went into a great many more details, to which andrew shalley and randy listened with interest. "i can get the actual figures for you from our books," said the clerk. "what does your firm say to this?" asked the steamboat owner. "oh, they wanted the business, so they simply shut their eyes and didn't say anything." "but that was dishonest." "true--but such things are done every day," and the clerk shrugged his shoulders. "if peter polk has been getting ten to fifteen per cent. on all goods he has been buying for me he has robbed me of thousands of dollars," said andrew shalley. "it will be a hard matter to prove some of the transactions, mr. shalley. i guess he knew how to cover up his footprints pretty well." "well, if i can only prove some of them it will be enough for my purpose," answered the steamboat owner. before he left that night he drew up a long document containing the main facts of the case, and had george gaffney sign it and had randy put his name down as a witness. "what do you want me to do, mr. shalley?" asked our hero, after they had left the clerk's house. "you can go back to the steamboat. i am going to hire a first-class private detective to investigate this matter thoroughly. when i expose polk i want all the evidence on hand with which to convict him." "he will want to know what i did." "that is true." andrew shalley mused for a moment. "randy, you mind your own business," he said suddenly and sharply. then he began to chuckle. "now you can go back and tell polk that i told you to mind your own business." "i will, sir," and our hero grinned broadly. "i will also give you a line to captain hadley," pursued the steamboat owner. "that will help to keep you out of further trouble." the letter was penned, and a few minutes later our hero was on his way back to the boat. andrew shalley went in another direction, to hunt up a detective to work on the case. it must be confessed that randy felt much lighter in heart. he now knew exactly what kind of a rascal peter polk was, and felt that the purser could no longer drag him into trouble. "he will soon come to the end of his rope, and that will be the last of him," said our hero to himself. when he arrived at the boat it was very late and everybody but the watchman had gone to bed. he turned in without awakening any of the others and slept soundly until morning. much to his surprise peter polk did not come near him that morning, and our hero was kept so busy at one thing and another that he had little time to think about the purser and his nefarious doings. as soon as he got the chance he delivered the letter mr. shalley had given him to captain hadley. the captain read the communication in silence. then he uttered a low whistle and looked at randy thoughtfully. "i've been suspecting this," he said. "randy, i believe you are to keep mum for the present." "yes, sir." "i doubt if he troubles you any more." "i'll be glad of it." "well, get to work, and some time we'll see what we will see," answered the captain; and there the talk was dropped. it was a windy and cloudy day, and a majority of the passengers were glad enough to remain in the cabin during the trip up the river. about noon it began to thunder and the sky grew very black. "we are up against a storm now," said jones to randy. "we'll have to take in some of the bunting." the order was issued, and randy set to work, with the other deckhands, to strip the decks. soon it was raining furiously and all of the deckhands got pretty wet. all of the passengers had gone inside, so the decks were practically deserted. randy was folding up some bunting when he heard a quick step behind him. turning, he saw himself confronted by peter polk. the purser's face was dark and full of hatred. "now, thompson, i want to know what you did last night," snarled the man. "i went ashore," answered our hero, as coolly as he could. "to see mr. shalley?" "yes, if you must know." "and you gave him that letter?" "i did." "what did he say?" "he told me to mind my own business." "what!" for the instant peter polk's face took on a pleased look. "so he really told you that?" "yes." "humph! i reckon you didn't expect such a reception." to this remark our hero made no reply. "is the old man going to investigate?" went on peter polk. "you had better go and ask him." "you answer my question, thompson!" "i have nothing more to say." at this the purser grew furious. there were many occasions when his temper got the better of him and this was one of them. he suddenly grabbed randy by the throat, bending him backward over the rail. "you little cur!" he hissed. "you are trying to get the best of me! but you shan't do it!" "le--let go!" gasped randy. he could hardly speak. "i'll let go--when i am through with you. but first i----" what further peter polk had to say was drowned out by a violent crash of thunder. then came a perfect deluge of rain, driven over the decks by a wind that blew almost with hurricane force. randy struggled harder than ever, but the purser continued to hold him. then the steamboat, caught by the blast, careened to one side, and in a twinkling the youth was over the rail. peter polk released his hold, and down went poor randy, until, with a splash, he sank beneath the waters of the hudson river. chapter xxx a swim for life the shock came so suddenly that for the moment poor randy scarcely realized what was happening. he went down and down and swallowed not a little of the river water. when he came up, blowing and spluttering, he could see but little around him. fortunately, he had gone off to the rear of the steamboat, thus escaping the danger of being struck by a paddle-wheel. all was so dark and the rain was so thick he could not make out the shore line. "i've got to swim for it," he reasoned and struck out bravely. it was no easy matter to keep afloat with so much clothing on. he listened, thinking he might hear the steamboat, but the roaring of the wind and rain drowned out every other sound. presently came another flash of lightning and then he saw the boat far ahead of him. no one but peter polk had witnessed his fall from the deck and nobody appeared to be coming to his assistance. he kept his head well above water and at the next flash of lightning caught a glimpse of one of the river banks. without further hesitation he struck out in that direction. it was a long and exhausting swim and poor randy thought he would never reach the shore. the current carried him far down the river, to where there was a small cove, lined with rocks on one side and bushes and trees on the other. he caught at some of the bushes desperately and at last pulled himself to a place of temporary safety. for the time being our hero did nothing but try to get back his breath and his strength. in a general way he had an idea that he was some distance below the town of catskill. what to do next he hardly knew. "the first thing to do is to get out of this storm, i suppose," he told himself. "but that won't do a great deal of good, since i can't get any wetter than i already am." feeling a little bit rested, he presently got up and walked around the edge of the cove. then he began to climb the river bank proper. it was hard work, but soon he came out on a river roadway and saw at a distance a hotel and half a dozen fashionable cottages. "this looks familiar," he told himself. "well, i declare, that place yonder must be the house at which bob bangs and his mother are stopping!" back of the house was a big barn and further to the rear was another building, used as a summerhouse and a place where oars and other things for small boats might be stored. the summer storm was now letting up a bit. it was still raining, but the thunder and lightning had ceased and the wind had gone down. to get out of the rain and rest, randy took himself to the summerhouse. he was busy emptying the water from his shoes, when he heard somebody utter an exclamation and turning saw bob bangs standing near, umbrella in hand. the rich youth was staring at him in astonishment. "where did you come from?" he demanded, as he entered the summerhouse. "from the river." "you look pretty wet." "i have been in the water quite some time." "oh! did you fall overboard from the steamboat?" "i did." "you must be pretty careless," went on bob, with a sneer. "i certainly didn't fall overboard because i wanted to," answered randy as lightly as he could. "say, i understand you are trying to get my father into trouble," pursued the rich boy, throwing himself on a bench. "who told you that?" "never mind. you are hand-in-glove with the bartlett crowd." "well, why shouldn't i be, bob bangs? jack is my dearest friend." "humph! i shouldn't care for him for a friend." "and he wouldn't pick you for a chum," added jack, quickly. "i consider myself better than jack bartlett." to this our hero did not answer. "my dad is going to make it hot for old bartlett," went on bob. "he is going to sue him for defamation of character." "when?" "oh, before a great while. bartlett had no right to search our house and break open the safe." "he had the law on his side." "no, he didn't. just you wait till my dad brings suit. it will ruin the bartletts." "i hope not." "how do you like being a steamboat deckhand?" went on the rich youth, to change the subject. "very well." "it must be a dirty job," and bob bangs tilted his nose in the air. "it might be worse." "when i leave school i am going to be a lawyer." "i hope you make a success of it." "i shall--i am going to be one of the greatest lawyers in this country," added the rich boy, boastfully. "are your folks here?" "my mother is. dad is at the iron works." "they tell me he isn't doing very well there," said randy. "he is doing fine. he discharged some of the good-for-nothing hands, that's all. bartlett used to hire a lot of sticks." "i don't believe it. mr. bartlett knows his business." "humph!" the rain was letting up and randy prepared to walk to catskill. as wet as he was, he resolved not to ask any favor at the hands of bob banks. "going, eh?" said the rich youth. "yes." "humph!" murmured bob bangs, and that was all he said. despite the steady rain, randy walked rapidly to the town--doing this that he might not take cold. once at the town he hurried to the steamboat landing. "hullo, where did you come from?" exclaimed the dock master, who knew him well. "from a bath," answered randy with a laugh, and then said he had fallen overboard from the _helen shalley_ just before the landing at catskill was made. "nobody said anything about it," said the dock master. "i guess they didn't know it," answered our hero. "what are you going to do now?" "telegraph to captain hadley and then stay in town until the boat comes back to-morrow." "better get dried off first. you can come to my house if you wish. it is not far off." "thank you, mr. ball." randy's telegram was a short one. it ran as follows: "fell overboard. am safe at catskill. join boat to-morrow." the telegram sent, our hero went with mr. ball to the latter's house. here he was loaned some dry clothing and mrs. ball treated him to a late but satisfying supper. after the meal was over, and as it was now clear, he decided to take a walk around the town before retiring. had he known of what that walk was to reveal he would have been very much surprised. chapter xxxi news of importance as was natural, our hero drifted down to the long steamboat landing. while he was standing around, he saw a ferryboat coming across the river, filled with passengers from the railroad station on the opposite shore. as the passengers alighted he recognized amos bangs in the crowd. the rich manufacturer looked around anxiously, and presently caught sight of mrs. bangs, who had come to meet him in a carriage. randy slipped out of sight. "well?" demanded amos bangs, as soon as he and his wife were together. "oh, amos!" the woman cried, and could not go on. "is that all you can say, viola?" demanded the husband, harshly. "i can do nothing with the girl." "and she knows where the papers are?" "she does." "how did it happen?" "when mr. tuller called upon me she played the eavesdropper. she saw us open the safe and take out the papers, and when i went and hid the papers she followed me." "but you said you were sure nobody knew where the papers were." "i thought so at the time, but i was mistaken." "how did it come out?" "the girl did not sweep and dust the parlor to suit me, and i took her to task about it. she threw down her broom and said she would take no words from me. then i told her to pack her trunk and leave the house. she grew more impertinent than ever, and said she would go, but i would have to pay her her wages regularly anyway. i asked what she meant. then she told me to go and look for the papers i had hidden." "and they were gone?" "yes. i was so overcome i nearly fainted," and mrs. bangs's face showed her deep concern. "what next?" "i went back to the girl and told her she must give the papers up or i would have her arrested. she laughed in my face. oh, amos, think of that horrid creature doing that!" "she knew she had you," growled the rich manufacturer. "what did you do then?" "why--i--broke down, i couldn't help it. i asked her what she wanted for the papers. she wouldn't tell, and i said i would give her five dollars. then she laughed in my face again. i wanted to drive her from the house, but i didn't dare." "did she say what she was going to do?" "at last she said she would make a bargain--think of it--a bargain with a servant girl! she wants me to pay her wages regularly and also twelve dollars a month for her board." "will she work for you?" "no, indeed, she says she will go and live with her married sister." "humph! let me see, her name is jackson, isn't it?" "yes, mamie jackson. her sister lives over in oakdale." "did she go to oakdale?" "i suppose she did." "she must have the papers with her." "no, i think she hid them, for she said we wouldn't find the papers even if we searched her and her trunk." "i will have to go to oakdale and see her," said amos bangs, after a pause in which he rubbed his chin reflectively. the rich manufacturer and his wife had withdrawn to a corner of the dock while talking. randy had kept nearby, behind some boxes and barrels, and had heard every word that was spoken. that he was immensely interested goes without saying. "on the track of mr. bartlett's papers at last," he told himself. "now, what had i best do about it?" his one thought was to outwit amos bangs, and with this in mind he left the dock and walked rapidly toward the telegraph office. "i wish to send another telegram," said he as he drew the pad of forms toward him. "must be your night for sending messages," answered the clerk, by way of a joke. "i want this rushed through--it is highly important." "all right, hand it over." randy hardly knew what to say, but soon wrote down the following, addressed to mr. bartlett: "papers taken from mrs. bangs by mamie jackson, a servant, now at sister's in oakdale. hurry if you want to get them. address me at catskill." having sent the message, there seemed nothing for randy to do but to retire. this he did, and was awakened two hours later by a message from mr. bartlett, which was in these words: "coming down first morning train. meet me at catskill station, hudson river railroad." having received this message randy consulted a time table and found that the first albany train would arrive at the station across the river at about seven o'clock. he arranged to be on hand, and then tried to go to sleep again. but the most he could do was to take a few fitful naps. as soon as the train rolled in philip bartlett alighted. randy rushed towards him. "are you going to oakdale?" he asked, quickly. "do you think it worth while, randy?" "i do." "then i will go. you must come along." "i will," answered our hero, and then mr. bartlett got back on the train and randy followed him. "i left word with mr. ball, so captain hadley won't worry about me," randy explained when seated. "now tell me what this means?" asked philip bartlett, impatiently. "i have been on the anxious seat ever since i received your telegram." "i want you to get in ahead of mr. bangs," said our hero, and then told all he had overheard. "i will make that servant girl give me those papers," said mr. bartlett, with decision. "perhaps you can scare her just as mr. shalley scared a fellow who was aiding another man to rob him," answered our hero. "i will tell you about that another time. i am pledged not to say anything just at present." chapter xxxii brought to terms--conclusion they had to make one change of cars and then take a stage running to oakdale, which was but a small village four miles from riverport. when they arrived it was close on to midday. fortunately for them, one of the storekeepers of the village knew mamie jackson's married sister and also knew mamie, and he told them where to go. it was a dilapidated cottage on the outskirts, surrounded by a garden filled mostly with weeds. "not very thrifty people, that is certain," was mr. bartlett's comment. "i think i shall know the servant if i see her," said randy. they paused at the gate and saw the two sisters near the side porch. one was on a bench shelling peas and the other was lolling in a hammock. each looked very untidy and both wore wrappers that were full of holes. "that is the servant," said randy, pointing to the person in the hammock. "and see, she has some papers in her hands!" "step behind the wellhouse," said mr. bartlett, and this both of them quickly did. "well, go ahead and read the papers, mamie," said the woman on the bench. "ain't no use, sarah, i can't make head nor tail of 'em," answered mamie jackson. "what do you suppose makes 'em so valuable?" "i don't know. but i do know the bangses don't want that mr. bartlett to get hold of 'em." "i think you made a good bargain with the bangses--that is, if they pay up." "i'll make 'em pay. oh, mrs. bangs was scart, i could see it." mamie jackson laughed shrilly. "and to think she was going to discharge me!" "well, i guess you gave her a piece of your mind." "so i did. she is too stuck-up to live," went on the former servant girl. "when i get my money i'm going to have a fine dress too--and i'll buy you one, sarah." "oh, mamie, will you? i want a blue silk so!" "i'm going to have a green silk, and a parasol to match, and then--oh, dear! look at them bees!" and with a shriek mamie jackson threw up her arms and sprang out of the hammock. for the moment the papers were forgotten, and quick to take advantage of the situation, randy darted forward and secured them. then he turned the documents over to philip bartlett. "who are you?" demanded the woman of the cottage, rising in alarm. "it's that mr. bartlett himself!" shrieked mamie jackson, forgetting all about the two bees that had disturbed her, and which had now flown away. "oh, how did you get here?" she faltered. "i came after my papers--and i got them sooner than i anticipated," answered mr. bartlett, and there was a tone of triumph in his voice. "are those your papers?" asked the girl, trying to appear innocent. "you know they are." "i do not. i--i found them." "i know better. you took them from where mrs. bangs hid them." "well, she didn't have any right to them." "i know that well enough." "i--i was going to send them to you," faltered the girl. she scarcely knew what to say. "really," returned philip bartlett, dryly. "well, i will save you the trouble." "it's a shame to suspect an innocent girl like me," said mamie jackson, bursting into tears. "my sister never did anything wrong," put in the other woman. "as i have my papers i won't argue with you," returned mr. bartlett. "but when the proper time comes you may have to explain how you happened to get the papers." "are you going to haul mr. bangs into court?" "perhaps." "well, i will tell what i know about them, if it will do any good. mrs. bangs and a man named tuller plotted to keep the papers out of your reach. they opened the safe and took the papers out just before you came with that constable." after that mamie jackson seemed anxious enough to confess and told her whole story, omitting to state how she had asked mrs. bangs to pay so much a month to her for keeping silent. "we may as well go back to the town, and take the stage for riverport," said mr. bartlett to randy. "i will then telegraph to mr. robinson to come on, and we will settle with bangs, tuller & company in short order." "will you make him give up the control of the iron company?" "either that or have him arrested for fraud." the journey to riverport was quickly made, and the telegram sent to mr. robinson. the bank official sent word back that he would be on in the morning. then mr. bartlett went to a hotel and randy hurried home. "why, randy, is it really you!" cried his mother as she kissed him. "this is certainly a surprise." "i didn't expect to come home," said he. "how are you and how is father?" "i am real well as you see, and your father is doing splendidly. he says he feels better now than for three years back." "that is good news." "but what brings you?" "i will tell you," said randy, and sitting down he told his story, just as i have related it here. in the midst of the recital mr. thompson came in, and he listened also to what our hero had to say. "i hope mr. bartlett gets what is coming to him," said mr. thompson. "and i hope mr. shalley brings that peter polk to terms also." the next morning randy received word to come to the iron works. he went and there witnessed a stormy meeting between amos bangs on one side and mr. bartlett and mr. robinson on the other. randy was called in as a witness, and what he had to say made amos bangs gasp for breath and sink into a chair. "you are going to expose me--to ruin me!" gasped amos bangs, at last, addressing the two men who had accused him. "we shall expose you unless you give up the control here and do as we think is fair," said philip bartlett. "as for ruining you, i think you have about ruined yourself." "but my wife, and my son----" "mrs. bangs does not deserve my sympathy after what she has done. as for your son, he can go to work, as my son has done." "bob! what can he do?" "work may make a man of him. he will never amount to anything if you bring him up in idleness." "it is hard!" groaned amos bangs. "i--i shall have to go to work myself!" "that is what i was forced to do," answered philip bartlett, dryly. "but you will not be so badly off, mr. bangs. your stock is worth at least four or five thousand dollars." "humph! that is not much. well, i suppose i am cornered and must do as you say," and he gave a deep sigh. secretly, however, he was glad to escape arrest. a lawyer was called in, and the best part of the day was spent in drawing up and signing various legal documents. the iron works were thereby placed in the control of mr. bartlett, mr. robinson, and a stockholder named wells, and philip bartlett was made the general manager of the company. all of the books and accounts were placed in charge of an expert accountant, and in the end amos bangs had to make good a deficiency of cash. the former rich man had to give up his elegant mansion, and soon after he and his family moved to the west without leaving their new address behind them. when randy went back to the steamboat, two days later, a surprise awaited him. an accountant, assisted by a detective, had gone over peter polk's affairs and discovered that the purser had robbed andrew shalley of between eight and ten thousand dollars. polk had taken time by the forelock and fled. he tried to get to canada, but telegrams were sent out, and he was caught just as he was trying to cross the suspension bridge at niagara falls. later on he was brought back and tried, and received three years in prison for his crimes. he had nearly six thousand dollars of the stolen money in the bank, and this was turned over to andrew shalley. two hundred and fifty dollars went to mrs. clare as part of her husband's estate. "bringing peter polk to justice is due to you, randy," said the steamboat owner, after the affair was a thing of the past. "i feel i must reward you for what you did." "i don't ask any reward, mr. shalley. i am glad that i cleared my own name." "here is something for you, nevertheless," said andrew shalley, and handed a big document to our hero. "what is it?" "it is the deed to the farm on which your folks are living. it is made out in your name. i bought the place from peter thompson, your uncle. now you have something that you can really call your own," and mr. shalley laughed pleasantly. "mr. shalley, you are more than kind," cried randy, warmly. "do my parents know of this?" "no. you can go home over sunday and surprise them." "i will, and i thank you very much, sir." randy went home, and there was a general rejoicing over the good news. but more was to follow. "i met mr. bartlett to-day," said mr. thompson. "he says they want a first-class carpenter at the iron works to take charge of the repairs he offered me the place at a dollar a day more than i am getting." "good enough, father!" cried randy. "that is just like mr. bartlett." "he said he wanted to do something for us on your account. and he sent you this," added mr. thompson, and brought out a neat silver watch and chain. it was a nice present and pleased randy greatly. not long after that the season on the river closed and randy came home for the winter. as his father now had a steady place at good wages, the youth went to school, in company with jack bartlett, who had moved back to riverport with the rest of his family. randy was a good scholar and made rapid progress. "i want you to get a good education," wrote andrew shalley to our hero. "then, later on, you can enter my office if you wish, or take a better place on the steamboat." six years have passed since that time and randy has finished his education. he is now the general manager for the steamboat company, and rumor has it that he is soon to marry rose clare, who still lives with the shalleys. he is prosperous, but come what may, will never forget the time when he was only a deckhand. the end the famous rover boys series by arthur m. winfield no stories for boys' reading ever published have attained the immense popularity of this new and extremely favorite series. they are full of fun, fancy, enterprise, and adventure; and each volume is hailed with delight by boys and girls everywhere. mo. cloth. handsomely printed and illustrated. price, cents per volume. postpaid. the rover boys on the farm or, the last days at putnam hall the latest and best of all the rover boy books. the rover boys in southern waters or, the deserted steam yacht a trip to the coast of florida. the rover boys on the plains or, the mystery of red rock ranch relates adventures on the mighty mississippi river. the rover boys on the river or, the search for the missing houseboat the ohio river is the theme of this spirited story. the rover boys in camp or, the rivals of pine island at the annual school encampment. the rover boys on land and sea or, the crusoes of seven islands full of strange and surprising adventures. the rover boys in the mountains or, a hunt for fame and fortune the boys in the adirondacks at a winter camp. the rover boys on the great lakes or, the secret of the island cave a story of a remarkable summer outing; full of fun. the rover boys out west or, the search for a lost mine a graphic description of the mines of the great rockies. the rover boys in the jungle or, stirring adventures in africa the boys journey to the dark continent in search of their father. the rover boys on the ocean or, a chase for a fortune from school to the atlantic ocean. the rover boys at school or, the cadets of putnam hall the doings of dick, tom, and sam rover. always ask for the grosset & dunlap editions grosset & dunlap, -- new york the putnam hall series companion stories to the famous rover boys series by arthur m. winfield open-air pastimes have always been popular with boys, and should always be encouraged, as they provide healthy recreation both for the body and the mind. these books mingle adventure and fact, and will appeal to every healthy and manly boy. mo. handsomely printed and illustrated. bound in cloth, with stampings in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. the putnam hall champions or, bound to win out in this new tale the putnam hall cadets show what they can do in various keen rivalries on the athletic field and elsewhere. there is one victory which leads to a most unlooked-for discovery. the volume is full of fun and good fellowship, calculated to make the putnam hall series more popular than ever. the putnam hall cadets or, good times in school and out the cadets are lively, flesh-and-blood fellows, bound to make friends from the start. there are some keen rivalries, in school and out, and something is told of a remarkable midnight feast and a hazing that had an unlooked-for ending. the putnam hall rivals or, fun and sport afloat and ashore it is a lively, rattling, breezy story of school life in this country, written by one who knows all about its ways, its snowball fights, its baseball matches, its pleasures and its perplexities, its glorious excitements, its rivalries, and its chilling disappointments. it is a capitally written story which will interest boys vastly. other volumes in preparation. grosset & dunlap,--new york the rise in life series by horatio alger, jr. these are copyrighted stories which cannot be obtained elsewhere. they are the stories last written by this famous author. mo. handsomely printed and illustrated. bound in cloth, stamped in colored inks. price, cents per volume. postpaid. the young book agent or, frank hardy's road to success a plain but uncommonly interesting tale of everyday life, describing the ups and downs of a boy book-agent. from farm to fortune: or, nat nason's strange experience nat was a poor country lad. work on the farm was hard, and after a quarrel with his uncle, with whom he resided, he struck out for himself. out for business: or, robert frost's strange career relates the adventures of a country boy who is compelled to leave home and seek his fortune in the great world at large. how he wins success we must leave to the reader to discover. falling in with fortune or, the experiences of a young secretary this is a companion tale to "out for business," but complete in itself, and tells of the further doings of robert frost as private secretary. young captain jack: or, the son of a soldier the scene is laid in the south during the civil war, and the hero is a waif who was cast up by the sea and adopted by a rich southern planter. nelson the newsboy: or, afloat in new york mr. alger is always at his best in the portrayal of life in new york city, and this story is among the best he has given our young readers. lost at sea: or, robert roscoe's strange cruise a sea story of uncommon interest. the hero falls in with a strange derelict--a ship given over to the wild animals of a menagerie. jerry, the backwoods boy or, the parkhurst treasure depicts life on a farm of new york state. the mystery of the treasure will fascinate every boy. jerry is a character well worth knowing. randy of the river or, the adventures of a young deckhand life on a river steamboat is not so romantic as some young people may imagine. there is hard work, and plenty of it, and the remuneration is not of the best. but randy thompson wanted work and took what was offered. his success in the end was well deserved, and perhaps the lesson his doings teach will not be lost upon those who peruse these pages. grosset & dunlap,--new york the flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill. a favorite line of american stories for american boys. every volume complete in itself, and handsomely illustrated. mo. bound in cloth. stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. with custer in the black hills or, a young scout among the indians. tells of the remarkable experiences of a youth who, with his parents, goes to the black hills in search of gold. custer's last battle is well described. a volume every lad fond of indian stories should possess. boys of the fort or, a young captain's pluck. this story of stirring doings at one of our well-known forts in the wild west is of more than ordinary interest. the young captain had a difficult task to accomplish, but he had been drilled to do his duty, and does it thoroughly. gives a good insight into army life of to-day. the young bandmaster or, concert, stage, and battlefield. the hero is a youth with a passion for music, who becomes a cornetist in an orchestra, and works his way up to the leadership of a brass band. he is carried off to sea and falls in with a secret service cutter bound for cuba, and while there joins a military band which accompanies our soldiers in the never-to-be-forgotten attack on santiago. off for hawaii or, the mystery of a great volcano. here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. several boys start on a tour of the hawaiian islands. they have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest. a sailor boy with dewey or, afloat in the philippines. the story of dewey's victory in manila bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form--as it appeared to a real, live american youth who was in the navy at the time. many adventures in manila and in the interior follow, give true-to-life scenes from this portion of the globe. when santiago fell or, the war adventures of two chums. two boys, an american and his cuban chum, leave new york to join their parents in the interior of cuba. the war between spain and the cubans is on, and the boys are detained at santiago, but escape by crossing the bay at night. many adventures between the lines follow, and a good pen-picture of general garcia is given. grosset & dunlap,--new york the frontier series stories of early american exploration and adventure for boys. by captain ralph bonehill the historical background is absolutely correct. mo. well printed and well illustrated. handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. pioneer boys of the gold fields or, the nugget hunters of ' a tale complete in itself, giving the particulars of the great rush of the gold seekers to california in . in the party making its way across the continent are three boys, one from the country, another from the city, and a third just home from a long voyage on a whaling ship. they become chums, and share in no end of adventures. pioneer boys of the great northwest or, with lewis and clark across the rockies a splendid story describing in detail the great expedition formed under the leadership of lewis and clark, and telling what was done by the pioneer boys who were first to penetrate the wilderness of the northwest and push over the rocky mountains. the book possesses a permanent historical value and the story should be known by every bright american boy. with boone on the frontier or, the pioneer boys of old kentucky relates the true-to-life adventures of two boys who, in company with their folks, move westward with daniel boone. contains many thrilling scenes among the indians and encounters with wild animals. it is excellently told. grosset & dunlap,--new york the great newspaper series by howard r. garis the author is a practised journalist, and these stories convey a true picture of the workings of a great newspaper. mo. well printed and finely illustrated. handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. from office boy to reporter or, the first step in journalism larry dexter, reporter or, strange adventures in a great city * * * * * * the deep sea series by roy rockwood no manly boy ever grew tired of sea stories--there is a fascination about them, and they are a recreation to the mind. every bright boy is interested in our pacific coast, which the "great squadron" will soon occupy. mo. handsomely printed and illustrated. bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. adrift on the pacific or, the secret of the island cave the cruise of the treasure ship or, the castaways of floating island the rival ocean divers or, the search for a sunken treasure * * * * * * the railroad series by allen chapman railroad stories are dear to the heart of the american boy, and these are certain to become deservedly popular. ralph is determined to be a "railroad man." he starts in at the foot of the ladder; makes both friends and enemies; but is full of manly pluck and "wins out." boys will be interested in his career. mo. handsomely printed and illustrated. bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. ralph of the roundhouse or, bound to become a railroad man ralph in the switch tower or, clearing the track grosset & dunlap,--new york the enterprise books captivating stories for boys by justly popular writers the episodes are graphic, exciting, realistic--the tendency of the tales is to the formation of an honorable and manly character. they are unusually interesting, and convey lessons of pluck, perseverance and manly independence. mo. handsomely illustrated. printed on excellent paper, and attractively bound in colored cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. moffat, william d. the crimson banner. a story of college baseball books have been written about college baseball, but it remained for mr. moffat, a princeton man, to come forward with a tale that grips one from start to finish. the students are almost flesh and blood, and the contests become real as we read about them. the best all-around college and baseball tale yet presented. graydon, william murray canoe boys and camp fires. or, adventures in winding waters where is there a youth who does not love a gun, a fishing rod, a canoe, or a roaring camp-fire? in this book we have the doings of several bright and lively boys, who go on a canoeing trip on a winding stream, and meet with many exciting happenings. the breath of the forest blows through this tale, and every boy who reads it will be sorry that he was not a member of the canoe club that took that never-to-be-forgotten outing. harkness, peter t. andy, the acrobat. or, with the greatest show on earth andy is as a bright as a silver dollar. in the book we can smell the sawdust, hear the flapping of the big white canvas and the roaring of the lions, and listen to the merry "hoop la!" of the clown. foster, w. bert the quest of the silver swan. a tale of ocean adventure a youth's story of the deep blue sea--of the search for a derelict carrying a fortune. brandon tarr is a manly lad, and all lads will be eager to learn whether he failed or succeeded in his mission. white, matthew, jr. two boys and a fortune. or, the tyler will if you had been poor and were suddenly left a half-million dollars, what would you do with it? do you think the money would bring you happiness, or would it bring only increased cares? that was the problem that confronted the pell family, and especially the twin brothers, rex and roy. a strong, helpful story, that should be read by every boy and every young man in our land. winfield, arthur m. bob, the photographer. or, a hero in spite of himself relates the experiences of a poor boy who falls in with a "camera fiend," and develops a liking for photography. after a number of stirring adventures bob becomes photographer for a railroad, and while taking pictures along the line thwarts the plan of those who would injure the railroad corporation and incidentally clears a mystery surrounding his parentage. rockwood, roy jack north's treasure hunt. a story of south american adventure jack is sent to south america on a business trip, and while there he hears of the wonderful treasure of the incas located in the andes. he learns also of a lake that appears and disappears. he resolves to investigate, and organizes an expedition for that purpose. the book is a thriller. bonehill, captain ralph lost in the land of ice. or, daring adventures round the south pole an expedition is fitted out by a rich young man who loves the ocean, and with him goes the hero of the tale, a lad who has some knowledge of a treasure ship said to be cast away in the land of ice. on the way the expedition is stopped by enemies, and the heroes land among the wild indians of patagonia. when the ship approaches the south pole it is caught in a huge iceberg, and several of those on board become truly lost in the land of ice. grosset & dunlap,--new york the dorothy chester series by evelyn raymond a series of stories for american girls, by one of the most popular writers of fiction for girls' reading. the books are full of interest, winsome and thoroughly wholesome. mo. handsomely printed on excellent paper, and finely illustrated. handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. dorothy chester the haps and mishaps of a foundling the first volume tells how dorothy was found on the doorstep, taken in, and how she grew to be a lovable girl of twelve; and was then carried off by a person who held her for ransom. she made a warm friend of jim, the nobody; and the adventures of the pair are as interesting as they are surprising. dorothy chester at skyrie shows dorothy at her country home near the highlands of the hudson. here astonishing adventures befell her, and once again jim, the nobody, comes to her assistance. other volumes in preparation. * * * * * * the bobbsey twins books for little men and women by laura lee hope copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. books that will charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never will tire. small mo. handsomely printed and illustrated. bound in cloth, stamped in colors. price, cents per volume. postpaid. the bobbsey twinsc or, merry days indoors and out the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore grosset & dunlap,--new york _get the best out-door stories_ stewart edward white's great novels of western life. grosset & dunlap editions the blazed trail mingles the romance of the forest with the romance of man's heart, making a story that is big and elemental, while not lacking in sweetness and tenderness. it is an epic of the life of the lumberman of the great forest of the northwest, permeated by out of door freshness, and the glory of the struggle with nature. the silent places a powerful story of strenuous endeavor and fateful privation in the frozen north, embodying also a detective story of much strength and skill. the author brings out with sure touch and deep understanding the mystery and poetry of the still, frost-bound forest. the claim jumpers a tale of a western mining camp and the making of a man, with which a charming young lady has much to do. the tenderfoot has a hard time of it, but meets the situation, shows the stuff he is made of, and "wins out." the westerners a tale of the mining camp and the indian country, full of color and thrilling incident. the magic forest: a modern fairy story. "no better book could be put in a young boy's hands," says the new york _sun_. it is a happy blend of knowledge of wood life with an understanding of indian character, as well as that of small boys. each volume handsomely bound in cloth. price, seventy-five cents per volume, postpaid. grosset & dunlap, new york _the grosset & dunlap editions of standard works_ a full and complete edition of tennyson's poems. containing all the poems issued under the protection of copyright. cloth bound, small vo. pages, with index to first lines. price, postpaid, seventy-five cents. the same, bound in three-quarter morocco, gilt top, $ . , postpaid. * * * * * * the mother of washington and her times, by mrs. roger a. pryor. the brilliant social life of the time passes before the reader, packed full of curious and delightful information. more kinds of interest enter into it than into any other volume on colonial virginia. sixty illustrations. price, seventy-five cents, postpaid. * * * * * * shakespeare's england, by william winter a record of rambles in england, relating largely to warwickshire and depicting not so much the england of fact, as the england created and hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which shakespeare is the soul. profusely illustrated. price, seventy-five cents, postpaid. * * * * * * theodore roosevelt the citizen, by jacob a. riis. should be read by every man and boy in america. because it sets forth an ideal of american citizenship. an inspired biography by one who knows him best. a large, handsomely illustrated cloth bound book. price, postpaid, seventy-five cents. grosset & dunlap, publishers duane street :: new york books on gardening and farming three acres and liberty. by bolton hall. shows the value gained by intensive culture. should be in the hands of every landholder. profusely illustrated. mo. cloth, cents. every chapter in the book has been revised by a specialist. the author clearly brings out the full value that is to be derived from intensive culture and intelligent methods given to small land holdings. given untrammelled opportunity, agriculture will not only care well for itself and for those intelligently engaged in it, but it will give stability to all other industries and pursuits. (_from the preface._) "the author piles fact upon authenticated instance and successful experiment upon proved example, until there is no doubt what can be done with land intensively treated. he shows where the land may be found, what kind we must have, what it will cost, and what to do with it. it is seldom we find so much enthusiasm tempered by so much experience and common sense. the book points out in a practical way the possibilities of a very small farm intensively cultivated. it embodies the results of actual experience and it is intended to be workable in every detail."--_providence journal._ new creations in plant life. by w. s. harwood and luther burbank. an authoritative account of the work of luther burbank. with full-page half-tone plates. mo. cloth, cents. mr. burbank has produced more new forms of plant life than any other man who has ever lived. these have been either for the adornment of the world, such as new and improved flowers, or for the enrichment of the world, such as new and improved fruits, nuts, vegetables, grasses, trees and the like. this volume describes his life and work in detail, presenting a clear statement of his methods, showing how others may follow the same lines, and introducing much never before made public. "luther burbank is unquestionably the greatest student of human life and philosophy of living things in america, if not in the world."--_s. h. comings, cor. sec. american league of industrial education._ a woman's hardy garden. by helena rutherfurd ely. superbly illustrated with full-page halftone engravings from photographs by prof. c. f. chandler. mo. cloth. "mrs. ely is the wisest and most winsome teacher of the fascinating art of gardening that we have met in modern print. * * * a book to be welcomed with enthusiasm."--_new york tribune._ "let us sigh with gratitude and read the volume with delight. for here it all is: what we should plant, and when we should plant it; how to care for it after it is planted and growing; what to do if it does not grow and blossom; what will blossom, and when it will blossom, and what the blossom will be. it is full of garden lore; of the spirit of happy out-door life. a good and wholesome book."--_the dial._ grosset & dunlap, new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) christie's old organ or "home, sweet home" by o. f. walton philadelphia henry altemus company [illustration: the clergyman and christie.] christie's old organ; or, "home, sweet home." chapter i. the old organ. "home, sweet home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home," played the unmusical notes of a barrel-organ in the top room of a lodging-house in a dreary back street. the words certainly did not seem to apply to that dismal abode; there were not many there who knew much of the sweets of home. it was a very dark, uncomfortable place, and as the lodgers in the lower room turned over on their wretched beds, many of which were merely bare wooden benches, it may be that one and another gave a sigh as he thought how far he was from "home, sweet home." but the organ played on, though the hour was late, and the dip candle was put out, and the fire was dying away. if you had climbed the crooked staircase, you would have seen an old man sitting alone in his attic, and smiling at his organ as he turned it with a trembling hand. old treffy loved his barrel-organ; it was the one comfort of his life. he was a poor, forlorn old man, without a friend in the world. every one that he had loved was dead; he had no one to whom he could talk, or to whom he could tell his troubles, and thus he gathered up all the remaining bits and fragments of love in his old heart, faded and withered though they were, and he gave them all to his old organ, which had well-nigh seen as many summers as he had. it was getting very antiquated and old-fashioned now; the red silk in front of it was very soiled and worn, and it could not play any of the new tunes of which the children were so fond. it sometimes struck old treffy that he and his organ were very much alike,--they were getting altogether behind the age; and people looked down upon them and pushed past them, as they hurried along the street. and though old treffy was very patient, yet he could not help feeling this. he had felt it very much on the day of which i am writing. it was cold, dismal weather; a cutting east wind had swept round the corners of the streets, and had chilled the old man through and through. his threadbare coat could not keep it out; how could he expect it to do so, when he had worn it so many years he could scarcely count them? his thin, trembling old hands were so benumbed with cold that he could scarcely feel the handle of the organ, and, as he turned it, he made sundry little shakes and quavers in the tune, which were certainly not intended by the maker of the old barrel-organ. there was not much variety in the tunes old treffy could play. there was the "old hundredth," and "poor mary ann," and "rule britannia;" the only other one was "home, sweet home," but that was old treffy's favorite. he always played it very slowly, to make it last longer, and on this cold day the shakes and the quavers in it sounded most pathetic. but no one took much notice of old treffy or his organ. a little crowd of children gathered round him, and asked him for all sorts of new tunes of which he had never even heard the names. they did not seem to care for "home, sweet home," or the "old hundredth," and soon moved away. then an old gentleman put his head out of a window, and in a cross voice told him to go on and not disturb a quiet neighborhood with his noise. old treffy meekly obeyed, and, battling with the rough east wind, he tried another and a more bustling street; but here a policeman warned him to depart, lest he should crowd up the way. poor old treffy was almost fainting, but he must not give up, for he had not a half-penny in his pocket, and he had come out without breakfast. at length a kind-hearted farmer's wife, who was passing with a basket on her arm, took pity on the trembling old man, and gave him a penny from her capacious pocket. thus all day long treffy played on; over and over again his four tunes were sounded forth, but that was the only penny he received that cold day. at last, as the daylight was fading, he turned homeward. on his way he parted with his solitary penny for a cake of bread, and slowly and wearily he dragged himself up the steep stairs to his lonely attic. poor old treffy was in bad spirits this evening. he felt that he and his organ were getting out of date--things of the past. they were growing old together. he could remember the day when it was new. how proud he had been of it! oh, how he had admired it! the red silk was quite bright, and the tunes were all in fashion. there were not so many organs about then, and people stopped to listen,--not children only, but grown men and women,--and treffy had been a proud man in those days. but a generation had grown up since then, and now treffy felt that he was a poor, lone old man, very far behind the age, and that his organ was getting too old-fashioned for the present day. thus he felt very cast down and dismal, as he raked together the cinders, and tried to make a little blaze in the small fire he had lighted. but when he had eaten his cake, and had taken some tea which he had warmed over again, old treffy felt rather better, and he turned as usual to his old organ to cheer his fainting spirits. for old treffy knew nothing of a better comforter. the landlady of the house had objected at first to old treffy's organ; she said it disturbed the lodgers; but on treffy's offering to pay a penny a week extra for his little attic, on condition of his being able to play whenever he liked, she made no further opposition. and thus, till late in the night, he turned away, and his face grew brighter, and his heart lighter, as he listened to his four tunes. it was such good company, he said, and the attic was so lonely at night. and there was no one to find fault with the organ there, or to call it old-fashioned. treffy admired it with all his heart, and felt that at night at least it had justice done to it. but there was one who was listening to the old organ, and admiring it as much as treffy, of whom the old man knew nothing. outside his door, crouching down with his ear against a large crack, lay a little ragged boy; he had come into the great lodging-room downstairs to sleep, and had laid down on one of the hard benches, when old treffy's barrel-organ began to play. he had not listened to it much at first, but when the first notes of "home, sweet home," had been sounded forth, little christie had raised his head on his elbow, and listened with all his might. it was almost too much for him; it was a memory of the past. a few months ago, little christie had a mother, and this was the last tune she sang. it brought it all back to him; the bare, desolate room, the wasted form on the bed, the dear, loving hand which had stroked his face so gently, and the sweet voice had sung that very tune to him. he could hear her, even now: "home, sweet home, there's no place like home; there's no place like home." how sweetly she had sung it!--he remembered it so well. and he remembered what she had said to him just afterwards,-- "i'm going home, christie--going home--home, sweet home; i'm going home, christie." and those were the last words she had said to him. since then, life had been very dreary to little christopher. life without a mother, it hardly _was_ life to him. he had never been happy since she had died. he had worked very hard, poor little fellow, to earn his bread, for she had told him to do that. but he had often wished he could go to his mother in "home, sweet home." and he wished it more than ever this night, as he heard his mother's tune. he waited for it very patiently, whilst old treffy was playing the other three which came first, but at length some one closed the door, and the noise inside the lodging-room was so great that he could not distinguish the notes of the longed-for tune. so christie crept out quietly in the darkness, and closing the door softly, that no one might notice it, he stole gently upstairs. he knelt down by the door and listened. it was very cold, and the wind swept up the staircase, and made little christie shiver. yet still he knelt by the door. at length the organ stopped; he heard the old man putting it down by the wall, and in a few minutes all was still. then christie crept downstairs again, and lay down once more on his hard bench, and he fell asleep, and dreamt of the mother in the far-off land. and he thought he heard her singing, "'home, sweet home,' i'm home now, christie; i'm home now, and there's no place like home." chapter ii. christie's important charge. the dismal lodging-house had a charm for little christie now. night after night he returned there, that he might hear his mother's tune. the landlady began to look upon him as one of her regular household. she sometimes gave him a crust of bread, for she noticed his hungry face each night, as he came to the large lodging-room to sleep. and every night old treffy played, and christie crept upstairs to listen. but one night, as he was kneeling at the attic door, the music suddenly ceased, and christie heard a dull, heavy sound, as if something had fallen on the floor. he waited a minute, but all was quite still; so he cautiously lifted the latch, and peeped into the room. there was only a dim light in the attic, for the fire was nearly out, and old treffy had no candle. but the moonlight, streaming in at the window, showed christie the form of the old man stretched on the ground, and his poor old barrel-organ laid beside him. christie crept to his side, and took hold of his hand. it was deadly cold, and christie thought he was dead. he was just going to call the landlady, when the old man moved, and in a trembling voice asked, "what's the matter, and who's there?" "it's only me, master treffy," said christie, "it's only me. i was listening to your organ, i was, and i heard you tumble, so i came in. are you better, master treffy?" the old man raised his head, and looked round. christie helped him to get up, and took him to his attic straw bed in the corner of the attic. "are you better, master treffy?" he asked again. "yes, yes," said the old man; "it's only the cold, boy; it's very chilly o' nights now, and i'm a poor lone old man. good night." and so the old man fell asleep, and christie lay down by his side and slept also. that was the beginning of a friendship between old treffy and christie. they were both alone in the world, both friendless and desolate, and it drew them to each other. christie was a great comfort to treffy. he went errands for him, he cleaned the old attic, and he carried the barrel-organ downstairs each morning when treffy went on his rounds. and, in return, treffy gave christie a corner of the attic to sleep in and let him sit over his tiny fire whilst he played his dear old organ. and whenever he came to "home, sweet home," christie thought of his mother, and of what she had said to him before she died. "where is 'home, sweet home,' master treffy?" he asked one night. treffy looked round the wretched little attic, with its damp, weather-stained roof, and its rickety rotten floor, and felt that he could not call _it_ "home, sweet home." "it's not here, christie," he said. "no," said christie, thoughtfully; "i expect it's a long way from here, master treffy." "yes," said the old man; "there must be something better somewhere." "my mother used to talk about heaven," said christie, doubtfully. "i wonder if that was the home she meant?" but old treffy knew very little of heaven; no one had ever told him of the home above. yet he thought of christie's words many times that day, as he dragged himself about wearily, with his old organ. he was failing very fast, poor old man; his legs were becoming feeble, and he was almost fainting when he reached the attic. the cold wind had chilled him through and through. christie was at home before him, and had lit the fire, and boiled the kettle, and put all ready for old treffy's comfort. he wondered what was the matter with treffy that night; he was so quiet and silent, and he never even asked for his old organ after tea, but went to bed as soon as possible. and the next day he was too weak and feeble to go out; and christie watched beside him, and got him all he wanted, as tenderly as a woman could have done. and the next day it was the same, and the day after that, till the attic cupboard grew empty, and all poor old treffy's pence were gone. "what are we to do, now, christie?" he said, pitifully; "i can't go out to-day, my lad, can i?" "no," said christie, "you mustn't think of it, master treffy. let me see, what can we do? shall _i_ take the organ out?" old treffy did not answer; a great struggle was going on in his mind. could he let any one but himself touch his dear old organ? it would be very hard to see it go out, and have to stay behind,--very hard indeed. but christie was a careful lad; he would rather trust it with him than with any one else; and he had come to his last piece of money. he must not sit still and starve. yes, the organ must go; but it would be a great trial to him. he would be so lonely in the dark attic when christie and the organ were both gone. what a long, tedious day it would be to him! "yes, christie, you may take her to-morrow," he said at length; "but you must be _very_ careful of her, my lad,--very careful." "all right, master treffy," said christie, cheerily; "i'll bring her safe home, you see if i don't." what a day that was in christie's life! he was up with the lark, as people say, but there was no lark within many a mile of that dismal street. he was certainly up before the sparrows, and long before the men on the benches in the great lodging-room. he crept out cautiously into the court in the gray morning light, and kneeling by the common pump, he splashed the water upon his face and neck till they lost all feeling with the cold. then he rubbed his hands till they were as red as cherries, and he was obliged to wrap them up in his ragged coat that he might feel they still belonged to him. and then he stole upstairs again, and lifting the latch of the attic door very gently, lest old treffy should awake, he combed his rough hair with a broken comb, and arranged his ragged garments to the best possible advantage. then christie was ready; and he longed for the time when old treffy would awake, and give him leave to go. the sparrows were chirping on the eaves now, and the sun was beginning to shine. there were noises in the house, too, and one by one the men in the great lodging-room shook themselves, and went out to their work and to their labor until the evening. christie watched them crossing the court, and his impatience to be off grew stronger. at length he touched old treffy's hand very gently, and the old man said, in a bewildered voice,-- "what is it, christie, boy? what is it?" "it's morning, master treffy," said christie; "shall you soon be awake?" the old man turned over in bed, and finally sat up. "why, christie, boy, how nice you look!" said treffy, admiringly. christie drew himself up with considerable importance, and walked up and down the attic, that treffy might further admire him. "may i go now, master treffy?" he asked. "yes, christie, boy, go if you like," said the old man; "but you'll be very careful of her, won't you, christie?" "yes, master treffy," said the boy, "i'll be as careful as you are." "and you'll not turn her round too fast, christie," he went on. "no, master treffy," said christie, "i'll turn her no faster than you do." "and you mustn't stop and talk to boys in the street, christie; they're very rude sometimes, are boys, and they always want the new tunes, christie; but never you heed them. her tunes are getting old-fashioned, poor old thing; she's something like me. but you mustn't take no notice of the boys, christie." "no, master treffy," said christie; "no more than you do." "there's one tune they're very fond of," said old treffy, meditatively; "i don't rightly know what it is; they call it 'marshal lazy' [marseillaise], or something of that sort. i reckon it's called after some man in the wars, maybe." "you don't know who he was?" asked christie. "no," said old treffy, "i don't bother my head about it. i expect he was some lazy scoundrel who wouldn't do his duty, and so they made up a song to mock at him. but that's as it may be, christie; i don't know, i'm sure. i expect he wasn't born when my organ was made; i expect not, christie." "well, master treffy, i'm ready," said christy, putting the organ-strap over his neck; "good-bye." and, with an air of great importance, christie carefully descended the rickety stairs, and marched triumphantly across the court. a few children who were there gathered round him with admiring eyes, and escorted him down the street. "give us a tune, christie; play away, christie," they all cried out. but christie shook his head resolutely, and marched on. he was not sorry when they grew tired of following him and turned back. now he felt himself a man; and he went on in a most independent manner. and then he began to play. what a moment that was for him! he had often turned the handle of the barrel-organ in the lonely old attic, but that was a very different thing to playing it in the street. there had been no one to hear him there except old treffy, who used to stand by most anxiously, saying, "turn her gently, christie; turn her gently." but here there were crowds of people passing by, and sometimes some one stopped for a minute, and then how proud christie felt! there was no barrel-organ like his, he felt sure. he did not care what the folks said about marshal lazy; he was not so good as poor mary ann, christie felt sure; and as for "home, sweet home," christie almost broke down every time he played it. he did _so_ love his mother, and he could not help thinking she was singing it still somewhere. he wondered very much where she was, and where "home, sweet home," was. he must try to find out somehow. and thus the day wore away, and christie's patience was rewarded by quite a little store of pence. how proud he was to spend it on his way home in comforts for old treffy, and how much he enjoyed giving the old man an account of his day's adventures! treffy gave christie a warm welcome when he opened the attic door; but it would be hard to say whether he was more pleased to see christie, or to see his dear old barrel-organ. he examined it most carefully and tenderly, but he could not discover that christie had done any harm to it, and he praised him accordingly. then, while christie was getting tea ready, treffy played through all his four tunes, dwelling most affectionately and admiringly on "home, sweet home." chapter iii. only another month. old treffy did not regain his strength. he continued weak and feeble. he was not actually ill, and could sit up day after day by the tiny fire which christie lighted for him in the morning. but he was not able to descend the steep staircase, much less to walk about with the heavy organ, which even made christie's shoulders ache. so christie took the old man's place. it was not always such pleasant work as on that first morning. there were cold days and rainy days; there was drizzling sleet, which lashed christie's face; and biting frost, which chilled him through and through. there were damp fogs, which wrapped him round like a wet blanket, and rough winds, which nearly took him off his feet. then he grew a little weary of the sound of the poor old organ. he never had the heart to confess this to old treffy; indeed he scarcely liked to own it to himself; but he could not help wishing that poor mary ann would come to the end of her troubles, and that the "old hundredth" would change into something new. he never grew tired of "home, sweet home;" it was ever fresh to him, for he heard in it his mother's voice. thus the winter wore away, and the spring came on, and the days became longer and lighter. then christie would go much farther out of the town, to the quiet suburbs where the sound of a barrel-organ was not so often heard. the people had time to listen in these parts; they were far away from the busy stir of the town, and there were but few passers-by on the pavement. it was rather dull in these outlying suburbs. the rows of villas, with their stiff gardens in front, grew a little monotonous. it was just the kind of place in which a busy, active mind would long for a little variety. and so it came to pass that even a barrel-organ was a welcome visitor; and one and another would throw christie a penny, and encourage him to come again. one hot spring day, when the sun was shining in all his vigor, as if he had been tired of being hidden in the winter, christie was toiling up one of these roads on the outskirts of the town. the organ was very heavy for him, and he had to stop every now and then to rest for a minute. at length he reached a nice-looking house, standing in a very pretty garden. the flower-beds in front of the house were filled with the early spring flowers; snowdrops, crocuses, violets, and hepaticas were in full bloom. before this house christie began to play. he could hardly have told you why he chose it; perhaps he had no reason for doing so, except that it had such a pretty garden in front, and christie always loved flowers. his mother had once bought him a penny bunch of spring flowers, which, after living for many days in a broken bottle, christie had pressed in an old spelling-book, and through all his troubles he had never parted with them. and thus, before the house with the pretty garden, christie began to play. he had not turned the handle of the organ three times, before two merry little faces appeared at a window at the top of the house, and watched him with lively interest. they put their heads out of the window as far as the protecting bars would allow them, and christie could hear all they said. "look at him," said a little girl, who seemed to be about five years old; "doesn't he turn it nicely, charlie?" "yes, he does," said charlie, "and what a pretty tune he's playing!" "yes," said the little girl, "it's so cheerful. isn't it, nurse?" she added, turning round to the girl who was holding her by the waist, to prevent her falling out of the window. mabel had heard her papa make a similar remark to her mamma the night before, when she had been playing a piece of music to him for the first time, and she therefore thought it was the correct way to express her admiration of christie's tune. but the tune happened to be "poor mary ann," the words of which the nurse knows very well indeed. and as mary ann was nurse's own name, she had grown quite sentimental whilst christie was playing it, and had been wondering whether john brown, the grocer's young man, who had promised to be faithful to her for ever and ever more, would ever behave to her as poor mary ann's lover did, and leave her to die forlorn. thus she could not quite agree with miss mabel's remark, that "poor mary ann" was so cheerful, and she seemed rather relieved when the tune changed to "rule britannia." but when "rule britannia" was finished, and the organ began "home, sweet home," the children fairly screamed with delight; for their mother had often sung it to them, and they recognized it as an old favorite; and with their pretty, childish voices, they joined in the chorus: "home, sweet home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home." and as poor christie looked up at them, it seemed to him that they, at least, _did_ know something of what they sang. "why have not i a nice home?" he wondered. but the children had run away from the window, and scampered downstairs to ask their mamma for some money for the poor organ-boy. a minute afterwards two pennies were thrown to christie from the nursery window. they fell down into the middle of a bed of pure white snowdrops, and christie had to open the garden gate, and walk cautiously over the grass to pick them up. but for some time he could not find them, for they were hidden by the flowers; so the children ran downstairs again to help him. at last the pennies were discovered, and christie took off his hat and made a low bow, as they presented them to him. he put the money in his pocket, and looked down lovingly on the snowdrops. "they _are_ pretty flowers, missie," he said. "would you like one, organ-boy?" asked mabel, standing on tip-toe, and looking into christie's face. "could you spare one?" said christie, eagerly. "i'll ask mamma," said mabel, and she ran into the house. "i'm to gather four," she said, when she came back; "organ-boy, you shall choose." it was a weighty matter selecting the flowers; and then the four snowdrops were tied together and given to christie. "my mother once gave me some like these, missie," he said. "does she never give you any now?" said mabel. "no, missie, she's dead," said christie, mournfully. "oh!" said little mabel, in a sorrowful, pitying voice, "poor organ-boy, poor organ-boy!" christie now put his organ on his back and prepared to depart. "ask him what his name is," whispered mabel to charlie. "no, no; you ask him." "_please_, charlie, ask him," said mabel again. "what is your name, organ-boy?" said charlie, shyly. christie told them his name, and as he went down the road he heard their voices calling after him:-- "come again, christie; come again another day, christie; come again soon, christie." the snowdrops were very faded and withered when christie reached the attic that night. he tried to revive them in water, but they would not look fresh again; so he laid them to rest beside his mother's faded flowers in the old spelling-book. christie was not long in repeating his visit to the suburban road, but this time, though he played his four tunes twice through and lingered regretfully over "home, sweet home," he saw nothing of the children, and received neither smiles nor snowdrops. for mabel and charlie had gone for a long country walk with their nurse, and were far away from the sound of poor christie's organ. treffy was still unable to get out, and he grew rather fretful sometimes, even with christie. it was very dull for him sitting alone all day; and he had nothing to comfort him, not even his old friend the organ. and when christie came home at night, if the store of pence was not so large as usual, poor old treffy would sigh and moan, and wish he could get about again, and take his old organ out as before. but christie bore it very patiently, for he loved his old master more than he had loved any one since his mother died; and love can bear many things. still, he did wish he could find some one or something to comfort treffy, and to make him better. "master treffy," he said one night, "shall i fetch the doctor to you?" "no, no, christie, boy," said treffy; "let me be, let me be." but christie was not to be so easily put off. what if treffy should die, and leave him alone in the world again? the little attic, dismal though it was, had been a home to christie, and it had been good to have some one to love him once again. he would be very, very lonely if treffy died; and the old man was growing very thin and pale, and his hands were very trembling and feeble; he could scarcely turn the old organ now. and christie had heard of old people "breaking up," as it is called, and then going off suddenly; and he began to be very much afraid old treffy would do the same. he _must_ get some one to come and see his old master. the landlady of the house had fallen downstairs and broken her arm. a doctor came to see _her_, christie knew; oh, if he would only step upstairs and look at old treffy! it was such a little way from the landlady's room to the attic, and it would only take him a few minutes. and then christie could ask him what was the matter with the old man, and whether old treffy would get better. these thoughts kept christie awake a long time that night; he turned restlessly on his pillow, and felt very troubled and anxious. the moonlight streamed into the room, and fell on old treffy's face as he lay on his bed in the corner. christie raised himself on his elbow, and looked at him. yes, he _did_ look very wasted and ill. oh, how he hoped treffy would not go away, as his mother had done, and leave him behind! and christie cried himself to sleep that night. the next day he watched about on the stairs till the landlady's doctor came. old treffy thought him very idle because he would not go out with the organ; but christie put him off with first one excuse and then another, and kept looking out of the window and down the court, that he might see the doctor's carriage stop at the entrance. when at last the doctor came, christie watched him go into the landlady's room and sat at the door till he came out. he shut the door quickly after him, and was running down the steps, when he heard an eager voice calling after him. "please, sir, please, sir," said christie. "well, my boy, what do you want?" said the doctor. "please, sir--don't be cross, sir, but if you _would_ walk upstairs a minute into the attic, sir; it's old treffy, and he's ever so poorly." "who _is_ old treffy?" asked the doctor. "he's my old master; that's to say, he takes care of me,--at least it's me that takes care of him, please, sir." the doctor did not quite know what to make of this lucid explanation. however, he turned round and began slowly to ascend the attic stairs. "what's the matter with him?" he asked kindly. "that's what i want to know, sir," said christie; "he's a very old man, sir, and i'm afraid he won't live long, and i want to know, please. but i'd better go in first, please, sir; master treffy doesn't know you're coming." "master treffy," said christie, walking bravely into the room, "here's the landlady's doctor come to see you." and to christie's great joy, old treffy made no objection, but submitted very patiently and gently to the doctor's investigation, without even asking who had sent him. and then the doctor took leave, promising to send some medicine in the morning, and walked out into the close court. he was just getting into his carriage, when he felt a little cold hand on his arm. "please, sir, how much is it?" said christie's voice. "how much is what?" asked the doctor. "how much is it for coming to see poor old treffy, sir? i've got a few coppers here, sir," said christie, bringing them out of his pocket; "will these be enough, sir? or, if not, sir, i'll bring some more to your house to-morrow." "oh," said the doctor, smiling, "you may keep your money, boy; i won't take your last penny, and when i come to see mrs. white i'll give a look at the old man again." christie looked, but did not speak his thanks. "please, sir, what do you think of master treffy?" he asked. "he won't be here very long, boy,--perhaps another month or so," said the doctor as he drove away. "a month or so! only a month!" said christie to himself, as he walked slowly back, with a dead weight on his soul. a month more with his dear old master,--only another month, only another month. and in the minute which passed before christie reached the attic, he saw, as in a sorrowful picture, what life would be to him without old treffy. he would have no home, not even the old attic; he would have no friend. _no home, no friend; no home, no friend!_ that would be his sorrow. and only another month before it came! only another month! it was with a dull, heavy heart that christie opened the attic door. "christie, boy," said old treffy's voice; "what did the doctor say?" "he said you had only another month, master treffy," sobbed christie, "only another month; and whatever shall i do without you?" treffy did not speak; it was a solemn thing to be told he had only another month to live; that in another month he must leave christie, and the attic, and the old organ, and go--he knew not whither. it was a solemn, searching thought for old treffy. he spoke very little all day. christie stayed at home, for he had not heart enough to take the organ out that sorrowful day; and he watched old treffy very gently and mournfully. _only another month! only another month!_ was ringing in the ears of both. but when the evening came on, and there was no light in the room but what came from the handful of fire in the grate, old treffy began to talk. "christie," he said, uneasily, "where am i going? where shall i be in a month, christie?" christie gazed into the fire thoughtfully. "my mother talked about heaven, master treffy; and she said she was going home. 'home, sweet home,' that was the last thing she sang. i expect that 'home, sweet home,' is somewhere in heaven, master treffy; i expect so. it's a good place, so my mother said." "yes," said old treffy, "i suppose it is; but i can't help thinking i shall be very strange there, christie, very strange indeed. i know so little about it, so very little, christie, boy." "yes," said christie, "and i don't know much." "and i don't know any one there, christie; you won't be there, nor any one that i know; and i shall have to leave my poor old organ; you don't suppose they'll have any barrel-organs there, will they, christie?" "no," said christie, "i never heard my mother speak of any; i think she said they played on harps in heaven." "i shan't like that _half_ so well," said old treffy, sorrowfully; "i don't know how i shall pass my time." christie did not know what to say to this, so he made no answer. "christie, boy," said old treffy, suddenly, "i want you to make out about heaven, i want you to find out all about it for me; maybe, i shouldn't feel so strange there if i knew what i was going to; and your mother called it 'home, sweet home,' didn't she, christie?" "yes," said christie, "i'm almost sure it was heaven she meant." "now, christie, boy, mind you make out," said treffy, earnestly; "and remember there's only another month! only another month!" "i'll do my best, master treffy," said christie, "i'll do my very best." and christie kept his word. chapter iv. mabel's first lesson in organ-grinding. the next day christie had to go out as usual. old treffy seemed no worse than before,--he was able to sit up, and christie opened the small window before he went out to let a breath of fresh air into the close attic. but there was very little fresh air anywhere that day. the atmosphere was heavy and stifling, and poor christie's heart felt depressed and weary. he turned, he hardly knew why, to the suburban road, and stopped before the house with the pretty garden. he wanted to see those merry little faces again,--perhaps they would cheer him; he felt so very dull to-day. christie was not disappointed this time. he had hardly turned the handle of the organ twice before mabel and charlie appeared at the nursery window; and, after satisfying themselves that it really _was_ christie, their own organ-boy, they ran into the garden, and stood beside him as he played. "doesn't he turn it nicely?" whispered charlie to his sister. "yes," said little mabel; "i wish i had an organ, don't you, charlie?" "shall i ask papa to buy us one?" asked her brother. "i don't know, charlie, if mamma would like it always," said mabel. "she has such bad headaches, you know." "well; but up in the nursery she would hardly hear it, i'm sure," said charlie, regretfully. "i _should_ so like to turn it," said mabel, shyly looking up into christie's face. "all right, missie; come here," said christie. and standing on tip-toe at his side, little mabel took hold of the handle of the organ with her tiny white hand. very slowly and carefully she turned it, so slowly that her mamma came to the window to see if the organ-boy had been taken ill. it was a pretty sight which that young mother looked upon. the little fair, delicate child, in her light summer dress, turning the handle of the old, faded barrel-organ, and the organ-boy standing by, watching her with admiring eyes. then little mabel looked up, and saw her mother's face at the window, and smiled and nodded to her, delighted to find that she was watching. and then mabel went on playing with a happy consciousness that mother was listening. for there was no one in the world that little mabel loved so much as her mother. but mabel turned so slowly that she grew tired of the melancholy wails of "poor mary ann." "change it, please, organ-boy," she said; "make it play 'home, sweet home;' mother _does_ like that so." but christie knew that "rule britannia" lay between them and "home, sweet home;" he took the handle from mabel, and saying, brightly, "all right, missie, i'll make it come as quick as i can," he turned it round so fast, that if old treffy had been within hearing, he would certainly have died from fright about his dear old organ long before the month was over. several people in the opposite houses came to their windows to look out; they thought the organ must be possessed with some evil spirit, so slowly did it go one minute, so quickly the next. but they understood how it was a minute afterwards when little mabel again began to turn, and very slowly and deliberately the first notes of "home, sweet home," was sounded forth. she turned the handle of the organ until "home, sweet home," was quite finished, and then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she gave it up to christie. "i like 'home, sweet home,'" she said; "it's such a pretty tune." "yes," said christie, "it's my favorite, missie. where is 'home, sweet home'?" he asked suddenly, as he remembered his promise to old treffy. "that's _my_ home," said little mabel, nodding her head in the direction of the pretty house. "i don't know where yours is, christie." "i haven't much of a place to call home, missie," said christie; "me and old treffy, we live together in an old attic, and that won't be for long,--only another month, miss mabel, and i shall have no home then." "poor organ-boy,--poor christie!" said little mabel, in a pitying voice. charlie had taken the handle of the organ now, and was rejoicing in "poor mary ann;" but mabel hardly listened to him; she was thinking of the poor boy who had no home but an attic, and who soon would have no home at all. "there's another home somewhere," said christie, "isn't there, missie? isn't heaven some sort of a home?" "oh, yes, there's heaven," said little mabel, brightly; "you'll have a home _there_, won't you, organ-boy?" "where is heaven?" said christie. "it's up there," said little mabel, pointing up to the sky; "up so high, christie. the little stars live in heaven; i used to think they were the angels' eyes, but nurse says it's silly to think that." "i like the stars," said christie. "yes," said mabel, "so do i; and you'll see them all when you go to heaven, christie, i'm sure you will." "what is heaven like, miss mabel?" asked christie. "oh, it's so nice," said little mabel; "they have white dresses on, and the streets are all gold, christie, all gold and shining. and jesus is there, christie; wouldn't you like to see jesus?" she added, in a whisper. "i don't know," said christie, in a bewildered tone; "i don't know much about him." "don't you love jesus, christie?" said mabel, with a very grave, sorrowful face, and with tears in her large brown eyes, "oh, organ-boy, don't you love jesus?" "no," said christie; "i know so little about him, miss mabel." "but you can't go to heaven if you don't love jesus, christie. oh! i'm so sorry,--you won't have a home at all; what _will_ you do?" and the tears ran down little mabel's cheeks. but just then the bell rang for dinner, and nurse's voice called the children in. christie walked on very thoughtfully. he was thinking of little mabel's words, and of little mabel's tears. "you can't go to heaven if you don't love jesus," she had said; "and then you won't have a home at all." it was a new thought for christie, and a very sad thought. what if he should never, never know anything of "home, sweet home"? and then came the remembrance of poor old treffy, his dear old master, who had only another month to live. did he love jesus? he had never heard old treffy mention his name; and what if treffy should die, and never go to heaven at all, but go to the other place! christie had heard of hell; he did not know much about it, and he had always fancied it was for very bad people. he must tell treffy about mabel's words. perhaps, after all, his old master did love jesus. christie hoped very much that he did. he longed for evening to come, that he might go home and ask him. the afternoon was still more close and sultry than the morning had been, and little christie was very weary. the organ was heavy for him at all times, and it seemed heavier than usual to-day. he was obliged to sit down to rest for a few minutes on a doorstep in one of the back streets about half a mile from the court where old treffy lived. as he was sitting there, with his organ resting against the wall, two women met each other just in front of the doorstep, and after asking most affectionately after each other's health they began to talk, and christie could not help hearing every word they said. "what's that place?" said one of them, looking across the road at a long, low building with a board in front of it. "oh; that's our new mission-room, mrs. west," said the other; "it belongs to the church at the corner of melville street. a young man comes and preaches there every sunday night; i like to hear him, i do," she went on, "he puts it so plain." "puts what plain, mrs. smith?" said her friend. "oh, all about heaven, and how we're to get there, and about jesus and what he's done for us. he's a kind man, is mr. wilton; he came to see our tommy when he was badly. do you know him, mrs. west?" "no," said mrs. west; "maybe i'll come to-morrow; what time is it?" "it begins at seven o'clock every sunday," said mrs. smith; "and you needn't bother about your clothes, there's no one there but poor folks like ourselves." "well, i'll come, mrs. smith. good day." and the two parted. and little christie had heard all they said, and had firmly made up his mind to be at the mission-room the next evening at seven o'clock. he must lose no time in making out what treffy wanted to know. one day of the month was gone already. "master treffy," said christie, that night "do you love jesus?" "jesus!" said the old man; "no, christie, i can't say i do. i suppose i ought to; good folks do, don't they?" "master treffy," said christie, solemnly, "if you don't love jesus, you can't go to heaven, and you'll never have a home any more,--never any more." "ay, ay, christie, that's true, i'm afraid. when i was a little chap no bigger than you, i used to hear tell about these things, but i gave no heed to them then, and i've forgotten all i ever heard. i've been thinking a deal lately since i was took so bad, and some of it seems to come back to me. but i can't rightly mind what i was told. it's a bad job, christie, a bad job." chapter v. no sin in the city bright. it had been a close, sultry day, and it was a still more oppressive night. it was long before christie could get to sleep, and when at last he had sunk into a troubled slumber, he was waked suddenly by a loud peal of thunder, which made the old attic shake from end to end. old treffy raised himself in bed, and christie crept to his side. it was an awful storm; the lightning flashed into the attic, lighting up for a moment every corner of it, and showing christie old treffy's white and trembling face. then all was dark again, and there came the heavy roll of the thunder, which sounded like the noise of falling houses, and which made old treffy shake from head to foot. christie never remembered such a storm before, and he was very much afraid. he knelt very close to his old master, and took hold of his trembling hand. "are you frightened, master treffy?" he asked at last, as a vivid flash again darted into the room. "yes, christie, boy," said old treffy; "i don't know how it is; i used not to be afraid of a storm, but i am to-night." poor christie did not speak, so treffy went on:-- "the lightning seems like god looking at me, christie, and the thunder seems like god's voice, and i am afraid of him. i don't love him, christie; i don't love him." and again the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, and again old treffy shook from head to foot. "i shouldn't like to die to-night, christie," he said; "and the lightning comes so very near me. christie, boy, do you know what sin is?" he whispered. "yes," said christie; "it's doing wrong things, isn't it?" "yes," said treffy, "and i've done a many of them, christie; and it's thinking bad thoughts, and i've thought a many of them, christie; and it's saying bad words, and i've said a many of them, christie. but i never cared about it before to-night." "how did you come to care about it to-night?" asked christie. "i've had a dream, christie, boy, and it has made me tremble." "tell me it, master treffy," pleaded christie. "i was thinking of what you said about loving jesus, and i fell asleep, and i thought i was standing before a beautiful gate; it was made of gold, christie, and over the gate there was some shining letters. i spelt them out, and they were, 'home, sweet home,' christie, and i said to myself, 'i've found it at last; i wish christie was here.' but just then someone opened the gate, and said, 'what do you want, old man?' 'i want to come in,' i said. 'i'm very tired, and i want to be at home.' but he shut the gate, and said to me very gravely and sorrowfully, 'no sin can come in here.' and christie, i felt as if i was nothing but sin, so i turned round and walked away, and it grew very dark. and just then came the thunder, and i awoke; i can't forget it, christie; i can't forget it," said old treffy. and still the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, and still old treffy trembled. christie could not comfort him, for he was very much afraid himself; but he pressed very close up to his side, and did not leave him till the storm was over, and there was no sound but the heavy downpour of the rain on the roof of the attic. then he crept back to bed and fell asleep. the next morning it all seemed like a bad dream. the sun was shining brightly, and christie rose and opened the attic window. every thing looked fresh and clean after the rain. the dull heavy feeling was gone out of the air, and the little sparrows were chirping in the eaves. it was sunday morning, and on sunday evening christie was to hear the clergyman preach in the mission-room. oh! how he wished it was seven o'clock, that he might go and find out what old treffy wanted to know! the poor old man seemed very restless and unhappy all that long spring day. christie never left him, for it was only on sunday that he could watch beside his dear old master. he could see that old treffy had not forgotten his dream, though he did not speak of it again. and at last the long, weary day wore away, and at six o'clock christie washed himself and prepared to depart. "be sure you mind every word he says, christie, boy," said old treffy, earnestly. the mission-room was only just open when little christie arrived. a woman was inside lighting the gas and preparing the place for the congregation. christie peeped shyly in at the door, and she caught sight of him and ordered him off. "isn't there going to be any preaching to-night?" said christie, in a disappointed voice. "oh! you've come to the service, have you?" said the woman. "all right you can come in, only you must sit still, and you mustn't talk or make a noise." now, as poor christie had no one to talk to, this was rather an unnecessary speech. however, he went in very meekly, and sat down on one of the front benches. then the congregation began to arrive; old men and little children; mothers with babies in their arms; old women with shawls over their heads; husbands and wives; a few young men; people with all kinds of faces, and all kinds of characters, from the quiet and respectable artisan's wife to the poor little beggar girl who sat on the form beside christie. and, as seven o'clock struck, the door opened and the minister came in. christie never took his eyes off him during the whole service. and, oh! how he enjoyed the singing, the last hymn especially! a young woman behind him was singing it very distinctly, and he could hear every word. oh, if he could only have remembered it to repeat to old treffy! the words of the hymn were as follows:-- "there is a city bright, closed are its gates to sin, nought that defileth, nought that defileth, can ever enter in. saviour, i come to thee, o lamb of god, i pray, cleanse me and save me, cleanse me and save me, wash all my sins away. lord, make me from this hour thy loving child to be, kept by thy power, kept by thy power, from all that grieveth thee. till in the snowy dress of thy redeemed i stand, faultless and stainless, faultless and stainless, safe in that happy land!" and after the hymn came the sermon. the clergyman's text was revelation : : "there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth." he spoke of the heavenly city of which they had just been singing, the bright, beautiful city, with its streets of gold and gates of pearl. he spoke of the river of the water of life, and the trees on either side of the river. he spoke of those who live in that happy place, of their white robes and crowns of gold, of the sweet songs they ever sing, and the joy in all their faces. the clergyman also told them that in that bright city sorrow was never found. no weeping there, no tears, no sighs, no trouble. no tired feet on that golden pavement, no hungry ones there, no hot burning sun, no cold frost or snow. no sickness there, and no death, no funerals in heaven, no graves in the golden city. perfect love there, no more quarreling or strife, no angry tones or discordant murmurs, no rude, rough voices to disturb the peace. and all this for ever and ever, no dread of it coming to an end, no gloomy fears for the future, no partings there, no good-byes. once there, safe for ever. at home, at rest, with god. "would you like to go there?" asked the clergyman's voice. and a quiet murmur passed through the room, a sigh of longing, an expression of assent. and little christie whispered softly to himself, "like to go there! ay, that i would, me and old treffy and all." "'there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth,'" said the clergyman's voice. "'closed are its gates to sin.' my friends, if there is _one_ sin on your soul, heaven's gates will be closed against you. 'nought that defileth, nought that defileth, can ever enter in.' if all my life i had never sinned; if all my life i had never done a wicked deed, or spoken a wicked word, or thought a wicked thought; if all my life i had done every thing i ought to have done, and had been perfectly sinless and holy, and yet to-night i was to commit _one_ sin, that sin, however small a sin in man's eyes,--_that_ sin would be quite enough to shut me out of heaven. the gates would be shut against me for that one sin. no soul on which there is a speck of sin can go into that bright city. "is there one in this room," asked the clergyman, "who can say that he has only sinned once? is there one here who can say that there is only _one_ sin on his soul?" and again there was a faint murmur round the room, and again a deep-drawn sigh; but this time it was the suppressed sigh of accusing consciences. "no," said the clergyman, "there is not one of us who can say that. every one of us has sinned again and again and again. and each sin is like a dark blot, a deep ink-stain on the soul." "oh!" said little christie, in his heart, as he listened to these words, "whatever will me and master treffy do?" and christie's thoughts wandered to the lonely attic and to old treffy's sad, worn-out face. "so it was all true," he said to himself. "miss mabel's words, and master treffy's dream; all too true, all too true." if christie had been listening, he would have heard the clergyman tell of the way in which sin could be taken away; but his little mind was full of the one idea of the sermon, and when he next heard the clergyman's words he was telling his congregation that he hoped they would all be present on the following sunday evening, as he intended then to preach on the second verse of the hymn, and to tell them, more fully than he had time to do to-night, what was the only way to enter within the gates into the city. christie walked home very sadly and sorrowly; he was in no haste to meet old treffy's anxious, inquiring eyes. and when he reached the dark attic he sat down by treffy, and looked away from him into the fire, as he said, mournfully:-- "your dream was quite right, master treffy. i've heard it all over again to-night. he preached about it, and we sang about it, so there's no mistake now." "tell me all, christie, boy," said treffy, pitifully. "it's a beautiful place, master treffy," said christie; "you'd be ever so happy and comfortable if you could only get there. but there's no sin allowed inside the gates; that's what the clergyman, said, and what the hymn said too:-- "'there is a city bright, closed are its gates to sin.'" "then there's no chance for me, christie," said the old man, "no chance for me." and hours after that, when christie thought treffy was fast asleep on his bed in the corner, he heard his poor old trembling voice murmuring again and again: "closed are its gates to sin, closed are its gates to sin." and there was another ear listening to old treffy's voice. the man at the gate, of whom bunyan writes, had heard the old man's sorrowful wail, and it went to his very heart. he knew all about old treffy, and he was soon to say to him, with tones of love, as he opened the gate of rest: "i am willing with all my heart to let thee in." chapter vi. the only way into "home, sweet home." that week was a very long and sorrowful one to treffy and to christie. the old man seldom spoke, except to murmur the sad words of the hymn, or to say to christie in a despairing voice,-- "it's all up with me, christie, boy; no home for me." the barrel-organ was quite neglected by treffy. christie took it out in the daytime, but at night it stood against the wall untouched. treffy could not bear to hear it now. christie had begun to turn it one evening, but the first tune it had played was "home, sweet home," and treffy had said bitterly,-- "don't play that, christie, boy; there's no 'home, sweet home,' for me; i shall never have a home again, never again." so treffy had nothing to comfort him. even his old organ seemed to have taken part against him; even his dear old organ, which he had loved so much, had helped to make him more miserable. the doctor had looked into the attic again according to his promise, but he said there was nothing to be done for treffy; it was only a question of time, no medicine could save his life. it was a very terrible thing for old treffy thus to be slipping away, each day the chain of his life becoming looser and looser, and he drawing nearer each day to--he knew not what. treffy and christie were counting anxiously the days to sunday, when they would hear about the second verse of the hymn. perhaps after all there might be some hope, some way into the bright city, some entrance into "home, sweet home," through which even old treffy's sin-stained soul might pass. and at last sunday came. it was a wet, rainy night, the wind was high and stormy, and the little congregation in the mission-room was smaller than usual. but there was an earnest purpose in the faces of many who came, and the clergyman, as he looked round at the little company when he gave out his text, felt that many of them had not come from mere curiosity, but from an honest desire to hear the word of god. and he lifted up his heart in very earnest prayer, that to many in that room the word which he was about to speak might be a lasting blessing. the mission-room was very still when the minister gave out his text. little christie's eyes were fixed intently on him, and he listened eagerly for every word. the text was this: "the blood of jesus christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin." the clergyman first reminded them of his last sunday's sermon, of the bright golden city where they all longed to be. he reminded them of the first verse of the hymn:-- "there is a city bright, closed are its gates to sin." and then he asked very gently and tenderly, "is there any one in this room who has come here to-night longing to know of some way in which he, a sinner, can enter the city? is there such an one here?" "ay," said little christie under his breath; "there's me." "i will try, by god's help, to show you the way," said the clergyman. "you and i have sinned. one sin is enough to shut us out of heaven, but we have sinned not only once, but hundreds of thousands of times; our souls are covered with sin stains. but there is one thing, and only one, by which the soul can be made white and clear and pure. my text tells us what it is,--'the blood of jesus christ.'" then the clergyman went on to explain how it is that the blood of jesus can wash out sin. he spoke of the death of jesus on calvary, of the fountain he opened there for sin and for uncleanness. he explained to them that jesus was god's son, and that therefore his blood which he shed on the cross is of infinite value. he told them that, since that day on calvary, thousands had come to the fountain, and each one had come out of it whiter than snow, every spot of sin gone. the clergyman told them, that when these washed ones reached the gates of pearl, they were thrown wide open to them, for there was no sin-mark on their souls, they were free from sin. and then he looked very earnestly indeed, and leaning forward he pleaded with his little congregation to come to the blood that they might be washed and cleansed. he begged them to use the second verse of the hymn, and to say from the bottom of their hearts:-- "saviour, i come to thee, o lamb of god, i pray, cleanse me and save me, cleanse me and save me, wash all my sins away." "there is one little word in my text," said the minister, "which is a great comfort to me. i mean the word _all_. all sin. that takes in every bad word, every bad thought, every bad action. that takes in the blackest blot, the darkest stain, the deepest spot. all sin, each sin, every sin. no sin too bad for the blood to reach, no sin too great for the blood to cover. and now," said the minister, "every soul in this room is either saved or unsaved, either washed or not washed. "let me ask you, my dear friends, a very solemn question: is the sin or the blood on your soul? one or the other must be there. which is it?" the clergyman paused a moment when he had asked this question, and the room was so still that a falling pin might have been heard. there were deep searchings of heart in that little company. and christie was saying deep down in his heart:-- "cleanse me and save me, cleanse me and save me, wash all my sins away." the minister finished his sermon by entreating them all that very night to come to the fountain. oh, how earnestly he pleaded with them to delay no longer, but to say at once, "saviour, i come to thee." he begged them to go home, and in their own rooms to kneel down, feeling that jesus was standing close beside them. "that is _coming_ to jesus," the minister said. he told them to tell jesus all, to turn all the sin over to him, to ask him to cover it all with his blood, so that that very night they might lie down to sleep whiter than snow. "will you do this?" asked the clergyman, anxiously; "will you?" and little christie said in his heart, "yes, that i will." as the congregation left, the clergyman stood at the door, and gave a friendly word to each one as they passed by. he looked very tired and anxious after his sermon. it had been preached with much prayer and with much feeling, and he was longing, oh, so earnestly, to know that it had been blessed to one soul. there were some amongst the little congregation who passed by him with serious, thoughtful faces, and as each one went by he breathed an earnest prayer that the seed in that soul might spring up and bring forth fruit. but there were others again who had already begun to talk to their neighbors, and who seemed to have forgotten all they had heard. and these filled the young minister's heart with sorrow. "is the seed lost, dear lord?" he said, faithlessly. for he was very tired and weary; and when the body is weak, our faith is apt to grow weak also. but there was something in christie's face as he passed out of the room which made the clergyman call him back and speak to him. he had noticed the boy's attention during the sermon, and he longed to hear whether he had understood what he had heard. "my boy," said the minister kindly, laying his hand on christie's shoulder, "can you tell me what my text was to-night?" christie repeated it very correctly, and the clergyman seemed pleased. he asked christie several more questions about the sermon, and then he encouraged the boy to talk to him. christie told him of old treffy, who had only another month to live, and who was longing to know how he might go to "home, sweet home." the clergyman promised to come and see him, and wrote down the name of the court and the number of the house in his little brown pocket-book. and before christie went home the clergyman knelt down with him in the empty mission-room, and prayed that that very night the dear lord would wash christie's soul in his most precious blood. christie walked away very thoughtfully, but still very gladly, for he had good news for old treffy to-night. he quickened his steps as he drew near the court, and he ran up the stairs to the attic, eager to tell all to the poor old man. "oh, master treffy!" said christie; "i've had such a time! it was beautiful, master treffy, and the clergyman's been talking to me, and he's coming to see you; he's coming here," said christie triumphantly. but treffy was longing for better news than this. "what about 'home, sweet home,' christie?" he asked. "there _is_ a way, master treffy," said christie. "you and me can't get in with our sins, but 'the blood of jesus christ, god's son, cleanseth us from all sin.' that's in the bible, master treffy, and it was the clergyman's text." "tell me all about it, christie," treffy said, in a tremulous voice. "there's nothing but the blood of jesus can wash away the sin, master treffy," said christie, "and you and me have just got to go to him and ask him, and he'll do it for us to-night; the clergyman said so. i've learnt another verse of the hymn, master treffy," said christie, kneeling down beside him and repeating it reverently:-- "saviour, i come to thee, o lamb of god, i pray, cleanse me and save me, cleanse me and save me, wash all my sins away." treffy repeated the words after him in a trembling voice. "i wish he'd wash me, christie, boy," he said. "so he will, master treffy," said christie; "he never sends anybody away." "ay, but i'm an old man, christie, and i've been a sinner all my life, and i've done some such bad things, christie. i never knew it till this last week, but i know it now. it's not likely he'll ever wash my sins; they're ever such big ones, christie." "oh! but he will," said christie, eagerly; "that's just what the clergyman said; there's a word in the text for you, master treffy: 'the blood of jesus christ, his son, cleanseth us from _all_ sin.' all sin, all sin, master treffy; won't that do?" "all sin," murmured old treffy; "all sin! yes, christie, i think that _will_ do." there was a pause after this. christie sat still, looking into the fire. then he said suddenly,-- "master treffy, let's go right away now and ask him." "ask who?" said old treffy, "the clergyman?" "no," said christie, "the lord jesus. he's in the room,--the minister said he was. let's ask him to wash you and me, just now, master treffy." "ay!" said old treffy, "let's ask him, christie." so the old man and the boy knelt down, and, with a strong realization of the lord's near presence, little christie prayed:-- "o lord jesus, we come to thee, me and master treffy: we've got lots of sins to be washed, but the minister said you wouldn't send us away, and the text says _all_ sin. we think it means us, lord jesus, me and master treffy. please wash us white; we want to go to 'home, sweet home:' please wash us in the blood to-night. amen." then old treffy took up the words, and in a trembling voice added,-- "amen, lord; wash us both, me and christie, wash us white. please do. amen." and then they got up from their knees, and christie said,-- "we may go to bed now, master treffy, for i'm sure he's done it for us." thus the man at the gate had received both the trembling old man and the little child, and as they had entered in they had heard a gracious voice very deep down in their hearts, saying to each of them again and again, "be of good cheer, thy sins are forgiven thee." chapter vii. little mabel's snowdrops. the next morning christie woke with a happy heart, for he remembered his last night's prayer, and in his simple faith he had taken the lord at his word, and had believed that the blood of jesus christ had cleansed him from all sin. but old treffy's doubts and fears came back again. he began to look within, and the remembrance of his sin returned upon him. what if, after all, there was sin on his soul? what if the gates were still closed against him? "christie, boy, i don't feel it's all right with me yet," he said anxiously. "why not, master treffy?" asked christie. "why, i've been so bad, christie; it doesn't seem likely he'd do it for me so soon as that; there's such a deal of sin on my soul." "but you asked him to wash you, master treffy; didn't you?" "ay, i asked him, christie," said treffy, in a despairing tone. "and he said he would if you asked him, master treffy; didn't he?" "ay, christie, i believe he did," said treffy. "then of course he _has_ done it," said christie. "i don't know, christie, boy; i can't feel it," said old treffy pitifully. "i don't seem to see it as i ought." so, whilst christie was walking in the sunshine, old treffy was still groping on in the shadow, sometimes hoping, sometimes fearing, but never trusting. christie paid another visit to the suburban road that week. little mabel and her mother were coming out of the house when christie reached the gate. the little girl ran eagerly forward when she caught sight of the organ and begged her mamma to stay whilst she turned the handle just six times! the lady spoke very kindly to christie; she asked him several questions, and he told her about old treffy, how ill he was, and how he had not another month to live. the tears were in the lady's eyes, and she asked christie where he lived, and wrote it down on a white tablet which she carried in her pocket. "mamma," said little mabel, "i want to whisper something to you." the lady bent down her head to listen, and then said kindly,-- "yes, if you like." mabel darted into the house, and returned with a large bunch of single white snowdrops, prettily arranged with sprigs of dark myrtle leaves. very white, and pure, and lovely they looked. "here, organ-boy," said mabel, as she put them into his hands, "these are my own dear snowdrops; aunt helen gave me them, and you must take them to master treffy, he'll like them, won't he?" she said. "ay! that he will, missie," said christie, warmly. "mabel," said her mother, "you must teach christie the little prayer i told you always to say when you looked at the snowdrops." "yes," said mabel, "i will. this is it, christie: 'wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow.'" christie looked up brightly. "will you say that prayer, christie?" asked the lady, kindly. "yes, ma'am," said christie; "it's just like what me and master treffy said last night:-- 'cleanse me and save me, cleanse me and save me, wash all my sins away.'" the lady smiled when christie said this, and seemed very pleased. "i am so glad you know of the only way to be washed white," said the lady. "these snowdrops always make me think of the souls washed white in the blood of jesus." then the lady and little mabel passed on, and christie looked down very tenderly on the flowers. how he _would_ love them now! he turned his steps homewards at once, for he did not want the snowdrops to fade before they reached old treffy. how fair, and clean, and pure they looked! so different to the smoke and dirt of the noisy court. christie was almost afraid lest the thick air might soil them as he carried them through it. some of the children ran after him and begged for a flower, but he guarded his treasures very carefully till he reached the attic. and when christie opened the door, who should be there but the clergyman, sitting beside old treffy, and talking to him very earnestly! he stopped to give christie a kind word, and then he went on with what he was saying. he was telling treffy about the death of jesus, and how it is that the blood of jesus can wash away all sin. "i can't see that it's all right with me," said treffy, in a trembling voice; "it seems dark and dim to me yet. i don't feel that i've got it; i can't feel happy." "treffy," said the clergyman, suddenly, "do you think i would tell you a lie?" "no, sir," said old treffy; "i'm sure you wouldn't; i could see it in your face, sir, if nowhere else. no, sir, i'd trust you anywhere." "now, treffy," said the clergyman, taking a half-crown from his pocket, "i've brought this for you. you cannot work now, and you need many things you cannot get; i will give you this money to buy them with." "thank you, sir," said old treffy, the tears running down his cheeks; "i can never thank you enough. we are very badly off just now, christie and me." "stop, treffy," said the clergyman, "it isn't yours yet, you must take it." treffy put out his trembling old hand, and took the half-crown, with another murmur of thanks. "do you feel that you've got it, treffy?" said the clergyman. "yes, sir, it's here," said old treffy. "are you sure you've got it, treffy?" said the clergyman again. "yes, sir," said treffy, in a bewildered voice, "i know i have; i don't know what you mean, sir." "i will tell you what i mean," said the clergyman. "the dear lord jesus has come into this room just as i have, treffy. he has brought a gift for you, just as i did. his gift has cost him far more than mine cost me; it has cost him his life. he has come close to you, as i came, and he says to you, as i said: 'old treffy, can you trust me? do you think i would tell you a lie?' and then he holds out his gift, as i did, treffy, and he says, 'take it; it is for you.' now, treffy, what have you to do with this gift? just exactly what you did with mine. you have not to work for it, or wait for it. you have just to put out your hand and take it. do you know what the gift is?" treffy did not answer, so the clergyman went on:-- "it is the forgiveness of your sin, treffy; it is the clean heart, for which you are longing; it is the right to enter into 'home, sweet home,' for which you have been praying, treffy; will you take the gift?" "i want to take it," said old treffy, "but i don't know how." "did you stop to think _how_ you were to take _my_ gift, treffy?" "no," said the old man, "i just took it." "yes," said the clergyman, "exactly; and that is what you must do with the lord's gift; you must just take it." [illustration: christie and master treffy.] "would it have pleased me, treffy," said the clergyman, "if you had pulled your hand back and said, 'oh, no, sir! i don't deserve it; i don't believe you would ever give it to me; i can't take it yet?'" "no," said treffy, "i don't suppose it would." "yet this is just what you are doing to the lord jesus, treffy. he is holding out his gift to you, and he wants you to take it at once, yet you hold back and say, 'no, lord, i can't believe what you say, i can't trust thy word, i can't believe the gift is for me, i can't take it yet.' "treffy," said the clergyman, earnestly, "if you can trust me, oh, why can't you trust the lord jesus?" the tears were running down the old man's face, and he could not speak. "i am going to ask you another question, treffy," said the clergyman. "will you trust the lord jesus now?" "yes, sir," said treffy, through his tears; "i don't think i can help trusting him now." "now, treffy, remember jesus is in this attic, close to you, close to me, very, very near, treffy. when we speak to him, he will hear every word we say; he will listen to every sigh; he will read every wish. "but, before you speak to him, treffy, listen to what he says to you," said the clergyman, taking his bible from his pocket. "these are his own words, 'come, now, and let us reason together, saith the lord, though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,' for 'the blood of jesus christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin.' treffy, will you trust the lord jesus? do you think he would tell you a lie?" "no," said old treffy; "i'm sure he wouldn't." "very well, treffy, then we will tell him so." the clergyman knelt down by treffy's side, and christie knelt down too, and old treffy clasped his trembling hands whilst the clergyman prayed. it was a very simple prayer; it was just taking the lord at his word. old treffy repeated the words after the clergyman with the deepest earnestness, and when he had finished the old man still clasped his hands and said, "lord jesus, i do trust thee, i do take the gift, i do believe thy word." then the clergyman rose from his knees and said, "treffy, when you had taken my gift, what did you do next?" "i thanked you for it, sir," said treffy. "yes," said the clergyman, "and would you not like to thank the lord jesus for his gift of forgiveness?" "oh!" said old treffy, with tears in his eyes, "i should indeed, sir." so they all knelt down again, and in a few words the clergyman thanked the dear lord for his great love and goodness to old treffy, in giving him pardon for his sin. and again old treffy took up the words and added:-- "thank you, lord jesus, very much for the gift; it cost thee thy life; oh! i do thank thee with all my heart." "now, treffy," said the clergyman, as he rose to go, "if satan comes to you to-morrow and says, 'old treffy, do you feel you've got forgiveness? perhaps after all it's a mistake,' what shall you say to him?" "i think i shall tell him my text," said old treffy, "'the blood of jesus christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin.'" "that will do, treffy," said the clergyman; "he can't answer that. and remember, the lord wishes you to _know_ you are forgiven, not to _feel_ you are forgiven. there is a difference between feeling and knowing. you _knew_ you had taken my gift, and you did not know what i meant when i asked you if you _felt_ i had given it to you. it is the same with the lord's gift, treffy. your _feelings_ have nothing to do with your safety, but your _faith_ has a great deal to do with it. have you taken the lord at his word? have you trusted him? that is the question." "yes, sir," said treffy, "i have." "then you _know_ you are forgiven," said the clergyman, with a smile. "yes, sir," said treffy, brightly, "i can trust him now." then christie walked up to treffy, and put the bunch of white snowdrops in his hand. "miss mabel gave me them," he said, "and she said i was to say a little prayer whenever i looked at them: 'wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow.'" "whiter than snow," repeated the clergyman; "whiter than snow; treffy! that is a sweet word, is it not?" "yes," said old treffy, earnestly, as he looked at the flowers, "whiter than snow, washed white in the blood of jesus." then the clergyman took his leave, but, as he was crossing the court, he heard christie running after him. he had a few of the lovely snowdrops and a sprig of the dark myrtle in his hand. "please, sir," said christie, "would you like a few of them?" "thank you, my boy," said the clergyman, "i should indeed." he carried the snowdrops carefully home, and they taught him a lesson of faith. the seed he had sown in the mission-room had not been lost. already two poor sin-stained souls had come to the fountain, and had been washed whiter than snow. the old man and the little boy had taken the lord at his word, and had found the only way into the bright city, into "home, sweet home." god had been very good to him in letting him know this. surely, he would trust in the future. chapter viii. made meet for home. how different everything seemed to treffy after his doubts and fears had been removed! the very attic seemed full of sunshine, and old treffy's heart was full of brightness. he was forgiven, and he knew it. and, as a forgiven child, he could look up into his father's face with a smile. a great load was taken off little christie's heart, his old master was so happy and contented now; never impatient at his long absence when he was out with the organ, or fretful and anxious about their daily support. old treffy had laid upon jesus his load of sin, and it was not hard to lay upon him also his load of care. the lord who had borne the greater burden would surely bear the less. treffy could not have put this feeling of trust into words, but he acted upon it. there were no murmurings from old treffy now, no forebodings. he had always a bright smile and a cheerful word for christie when the boy returned tired at night. and whilst christie was out he would lie very still and peaceful, talking softly to himself or thanking the dear lord for his great gift to him. and old treffy's trust was not disappointed. "none that trust in him shall be desolate." the clergyman's gift was not the only one they received that week. christie had come home in the middle of the day, to see how his old master was, and was just preparing to start again on his rounds when they heard a gentle rustling of silk on the stairs, and a low knock at the door. christie opened it quickly, and in walked little mabel, and little mabel's mamma. they had brought with them many little comforts for old treffy, which mabel had great pleasure in opening out. but they brought with them also what money cannot buy,--sweet, gentle words, and bright smiles, which cheered old treffy's heart. the lady sat down beside treffy, and they talked together of jesus. the old man loved to talk of jesus now, for he was able to say, "he loved me, and gave himself for me." and the lady took a little blue testament from her pocket, and read a chapter to treffy. she had a sweet, clear voice, and she read so distinctly that he could understand every word. little mabel sat quite still whilst her mamma was reading, then she got up, and ran across the attic. "here are my snowdrops," she said, with a cry of joy, as she caught sight of them in the window-sill. "do you like them, master treffy?" "ay! little missie," said the old man, "i do indeed, and me and christie always think of the little prayer when we look at them." "wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow," repeated mabel reverently. "has he washed you, master treffy?" "yes, missie," said treffy, "i believe he has." "i'm so glad," said little mabel, "then you _will_ go to 'home, sweet home;' won't he, mamma?" "yes," said her mother, "treffy and christie have found the only road which leads home. and, oh!" she said, the color coming into her sweet face, "what a happy day it will be when we all meet at home! wouldn't you like to see jesus, treffy?" asked the lady. "ay," said old treffy, "it would be a good sight to see his blessed face. i could almost sing for joy when i think of it, and i haven't so very long to wait." "no," said the lady, with a wistful expression in her eyes, "i could almost change places with you, treffy, i could almost wish i were as near to 'home, sweet home.' but that would be selfish," she said brightly, as she rose to go. but little mabel had discovered the old organ, and was in no haste to depart. she must turn it "just a little bit." in former days, old treffy would have been seriously agitated and distressed at the idea of the handle of his dear old organ being turned by a little girl of six years old. even now he felt a small amount of anxiety when she proposed it. but his fears vanished when he saw the careful, deliberate way in which mabel went to work. the old organ was perfectly safe in her hands. and, to mabel's joy, the first tune which came was "home, sweet home." very sweetly it sounded in old treffy's ears. he was thinking of no earthly home, but of "the city bright," where he hoped soon to be. and the lady was thinking of it too. when the tune was finished, they took their leave, and christie looked out of the window, and watched them crossing the dirty court, and entering the carriage which was waiting for them in the street. it had been a very bright week for christie and for old treffy. and then sunday came, and another service in the little mission room. christie was there in good time, and the clergyman gave him a pleasant smile as he came into the room. it was the third verse of the hymn on which the clergyman was to preach to-night. they sang the whole hymn through before the sermon, and then they sang the third verse again, that all of them might remember it whilst he was preaching. "lord, make me from this hour thy loving child to be, kept by thy power, kept by thy power, from all that grieveth thee." and the clergyman's text was in colossians : , "meet to be partakers of the inheritance." he repeated it very slowly, and christie whispered softly to himself, that he might be able to teach it to old treffy. "'meet to be partakers of the inheritance.' what is the inheritance?" asked the clergyman. "my dear friends, our inheritance is that city bright of which we have been speaking so much, 'home, sweet home,' our father's home. we are not there yet, but for all christ's washed ones there is a bright home above. jesus is preparing it for us; it is our inheritance. oh," said the clergyman, very earnestly, "i wonder how many in this room have a home up there. you may have a wretched, uncomfortable home on earth; is it your _only_ home? is there no home for you in the bright city; no home in heaven? "you might all have a home there," said the clergyman, "if you would only come to the fountain, if you would only say from the bottom of your heart, 'lord, wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow.'" and christie smiled when the clergyman said his little prayer, for he thought of the snowdrops. and the clergyman thought of them, too. then mr. wilton went on to say that he wished to-night to speak to those who _had_ come to jesus; who _had_ taken their sin to him, and who _had_ been washed in his blood. "that's me and old treffy," said christie to himself. "my dear friends," said the clergyman, "all of you have an inheritance; you are the sons of a king; there is a place in the kingdom waiting for you. jesus is getting that place ready for you, and i want to show you to-night that you must be made ready for it, meet or fit for the inheritance. one day, the prince of wales will be the king of england. this kingdom is his inheritance. as soon as he was born, he had a right to it. but he has been educated and trained with great care, that he may be meet for the inheritance, that he may be fit to enjoy it, and able to use it. if he had had no education, if he had been brought up in one of these dismal black courts, though he might have a perfect right to be king, still he would not be able to enjoy it; he would feel strange, uncomfortable, out of place. "just so," said the clergyman, "is it with our inheritance. as soon as we are born again we have a right to it, we become sons and daughters of the king of kings. but we need to be prepared and made meet for the inheritance. we must be made holy within; we must be trained and taught to hate sin and to love all that is pure and holy. and this is the work of god's holy spirit. "oh! my friends, will you not ask for the gift of the holy spirit to renew your heart? it will not be all done in a day. you came to jesus to be washed from the stain of sin. he did that at once; he gave you at once the right to the inheritance. but you will not be made holy at once. little by little, hour by hour, day by day, the holy spirit will make you more and more ready for the inheritance. you will become more and more like jesus. you will hate sin more; you will love jesus more; you will become more holy. but, oh! let no one think," said the clergyman, "that being good will ever give you a _right_ to the inheritance. if i were to be ever so well educated, if i were to be taught a hundred times better than the prince of wales has been, it would never give me a right to be king of england. no, my friends, the only way into 'home, sweet home,' the only way to obtain a right to the inheritance, is by the blood of jesus. there is no other way, no other right. "but, after the dear lord has given us the right to the kingdom, he always prepares us for it. a forgiven soul will always lead a holy life. a soul that has been washed white will always long to keep clear of sin. is it not so with you? just think of what jesus has done for you! he has washed you in his blood; he has taken your sins away at the cost of his life. will you do the very things that grieve him? will you be so ungrateful as to do that? will you? "oh! surely not; surely you will say, in the words of the third verse of our hymn,-- 'lord, make me from this hour thy loving child to be, kept by thy power, kept by thy power, from all that grieveth thee.' and surely you will ask him very, very earnestly, to give you that holy spirit who alone can make you holy. and when the work is done," said the clergyman, "when you are made meet, made fit for the inheritance, the lord will take you there. he will not keep you waiting. some are made ready very quickly. others have to wait long, weary years of discipline. but all the king's sons shall be ready at last, all shall be taken home, and shall enter upon the inheritance. will _you_ be there?" and with that question the clergyman ended his sermon, and the little congregation broke up very quietly, and went home with thoughtful faces. christie lingered near the door till the clergyman came out. he asked very kindly of old treffy, and then he put a few questions to christie about the sermon; for he had been afraid whilst he had been preaching that he had not made it so clear that a child might understand. but he was cheered to find that the leading truth of the sermon was impressed on little christie's mind, and that he would be able to carry to old treffy something, at least, of what he had heard. for christie was taught of god, and into hearts prepared by the holy spirit the seed is sure to sink. the lord has prepared them for the word, and prepared the word for them, and the sower has only to put his hand into his basket and scatter the seed prayerfully over the softened soil. it will sink in, spring up, and bring forth fruit. the clergyman felt the truth of this as he walked home. and he remembered where it was written, "the preparation of the heart is from the lord." "that is a word for me, as well as for my hearers," he said to himself. "lord, ever let thy preparation go before my preaching." chapter ix. treffy enters the city. "christie, boy," said treffy, that night, when christie had told him all he could remember of the sermon, and had repeated to him the third verse of the hymn, "christie, boy, the lord will have to get _me_ ready very fast, very fast indeed." "oh, maybe not, master treffy," said christie, uneasily, "maybe not so fast as you think." "the month's nearly up, christie," said old treffy; "and i think i'm getting very near the city, very near to 'home, sweet home.' i can almost see the letters over the gate sometimes, christie." but christie could not answer. his face was buried in his hands, and his head sank lower and lower as he sat beside the fire. and, at length, though he tried to keep it in, there came a great sob, which reached old treffy's heart. he put his hand lovingly on christie's head, and for some time neither of them spoke. but when the heart is very sore, silence often does more to comfort than words can do, only it must be silence which comes from a full heart, not from an empty one. treffy's old heart was very full of loving, yearning pity for poor little christie. "christie, boy," he said, at length, "you wouldn't keep me outside the gate; would you?" "no, no, master treffy," said christie, "not for the world i wouldn't; but i do wish i was going in too." "it seems to me, christie, boy, the lord has got some work for thee to do for him first. i'm a poor, useless old man, christie, very tottering and feeble, so he's going to take me home; but you have all your life before you, christie, boy, haven't you?" "yes," said christie, with a sigh, for he was thinking what a long, long time it would be before he was as old as master treffy, and before the golden gates would be opened to him. "wouldn't you _like_ to do something for him, christie, boy," said old treffy, "just to show you love him?" "ay, master treffy, i should," said christie, in a whisper. "christie, boy," said old treffy, suddenly raising himself in bed, "i would give all i have; yes, _all_, christie, even my old organ, and you know how i've loved her, christie, but i'd give her up, her and everything else, to have one year of my life back again--one year--to show him that i love him. just to think," he said regretfully, "that he gave his life for me, and died ever such a dreadful death for me, and i've only got a poor little miserable week left to show that i love him. oh, christie, boy! oh, christie, boy! it seems so ungrateful; i can't bear to think of it." it was christie's turn now to be the comforter. "master treffy," he said, "just you tell the lord that; i'm sure he'll understand." treffy clasped his hands at once, and said earnestly,-- "lord jesus, i do love thee; i wish i could do something for thee, but i've only another week to live,--only another week; but, oh! i do thank thee, i would give anything to have some of my life back again, to show my love to thee; please understand what i mean. amen." then old treffy turned over and fell asleep. christie sat for some time longer by the fire. he had tried to forget the last day or two how short a time he had with his old master, but it had all come back to him now. and his heart felt very sad and desolate. it is a very dreadful thing to lose the only friend you have in the world. and it is a very dreadful thing to see before you a thick, dark cloud, and to feel that it hangs over your pathway, and that you must pass through it. poor christie was very full of sorrow, for he "feared as he entered into the cloud." but treffy's words came back to his mind, and he said, with a full heart,-- "lord jesus, do help me to give my life to thee. oh! please help me to spare old treffy. amen." then, rather comforted, he went to bed. the next morning he looked anxiously at old treffy. he seemed weaker than usual, and christie did not like to leave him. but they had very little money left, and treffy seemed to wish him to go; so christie went on his rounds with a heavy heart. he determined to go to the suburban road, that he might tell little mabel and her mother how much worse his dear old master was. it is such a comfort to speak of our sorrow to those who will care to hear. thus christie stopped before the house with the pretty garden in front of it. the snowdrops were over now, but the primroses had taken their place, and the garden looked very gay and cheerful. but christie had no heart to look at it; he was gazing up anxiously at the nursery window for little mabel's face. but she was not to be seen, so he turned the handle of his organ and played "home, sweet home," her favorite tune, to attract her attention. a minute after he began to play he saw little mabel coming quickly out of the house and running towards him. she did not smile at him as usual, and she looked as if she had been crying, christie thought. "oh, organ-boy," she said, "don't play to-day. mamma is ill in bed, and it makes her head ache." christie stopped at once; he was just in the midst of the chorus of "home, sweet home," and the organ gave a melancholy wail as he suddenly brought it to a conclusion. "i am so sorry, missie," he said. mabel stood before him in silence for a minute or two, and christie looked down upon her very pitifully and tenderly. "is she very bad, missie?" he said. "yes," said little mabel, "i think she must be, papa looks so grave, and nurse won't let us play; and i heard her tell cook mother would never be any better," she added, with a little sob, which came from the bottom of her tiny heart. "poor little missie!" said christie, sorrowfully; "poor little missie, don't fret so; oh, don't fret so!" and as christie stood looking down on the little girl a great tear rolled down his cheek and fell on her little white arm. mabel looked up suddenly. "christie," she said, "i think mother must be going to 'home, sweet home,' and i want to go too." "so do i," said christie, with a sigh, "but the gates won't open to me for a long, long time." then the nurse called mabel in, and christie walked sorrowfully away. the world seemed very full of trouble to him. even the sky was overcast, and a cutting east wind chilled christie through and through. the spring flowers were nipped by it, and the budding branches were sent backwards and forwards by each fresh gust of the wind, and christie felt almost glad that it was so cheerless. he was very sad and unhappy, very restless and miserable. he had begun to wonder if god had forgotten him; the world seemed to him so wide and desolate. his old master was dying, his little friend mabel was in trouble, there seemed to be sorrow everywhere. there seemed to be no comfort for poor christie. wearily and drearily he went homewards, and dragged himself up the steep staircase to the attic. he heard a voice within, a low, gentle voice, the sound of which soothed christie's ruffled soul. it was the clergyman, and he was reading to old treffy. treffy was sitting up in bed, with a sweet smile on his face, eagerly listening to every word. and, as christie came in, the clergyman was reading this verse: "peace i leave with you, my peace i give unto you; not as the world giveth, give i unto you. let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." "that's a sweet verse for you, treffy," said the clergyman. "ay," said treffy, brightening, "and for poor christie too; he's very cast down, is christie, sir." "christie," said the minister, laying his hand on his shoulder, "why is _your_ heart troubled?" but christie could not answer. he turned suddenly away from the minister, and, throwing himself on old treffy's bed, he sobbed bitterly. the clergyman's heart was very full of sympathy for poor christie. he knelt down beside him, and putting his arm round him, with almost a mother's tenderness, he said gently,-- "christie, shall we go together to the lord jesus, and tell him of your sorrow?" and then, in very plain, simple words, which christie's heart could understand, the clergyman asked the dear lord to look on the poor lonely child, to comfort him and to bless him, and to make him feel that he had one friend who would never go away. and long after the clergyman had gone, when the attic was quite still and treffy was asleep, christie heard, as it were, a voice in his heart, saying to him, "let not your heart be troubled." then he fell asleep in peace. he was wakened by his old master's voice: "christie," said treffy; "christie, boy!" "yes, master treffy," said christie, jumping up hastily. "where's the old organ, christie?" asked treffy. "she's here, master treffy," said christie, "all right and safe." "turn her, christie," said treffy, "play 'home, sweet home.'" "it's the middle of the night, master treffy," said christie; "folks will wonder what's the matter." but treffy made no answer, and christie crept to his side with a light, and looked at his face. it was very altered and strange. treffy's eyes were shut, and there was that in his face which christie had never seen there before. he did not know what to do. he walked to the window and looked out. the sky was quite dark, but one bright star was shining through it and looking in at the attic window. "let not your heart be troubled," it seemed to say to him. and christie answered aloud, "lord, dear lord, help me." as he turned from the window, treffy spoke again, and christie caught the words, "play, christie, boy, play." he hesitated no longer. taking the organ from its place, he turned the handle, and slowly and sadly the notes of "home, sweet home," were sounded forth in the dark attic. the old man opened his eyes as christie played, and, when the tune was over, he called the boy to him; and, drawing him down very close to him, he whispered,-- "christie, boy, the gates are opening now. i'm going in. play again, christie, boy." it was hard work playing the three other tunes, they seemed so out of place in the room of death. but treffy did not seem to hear them. he was murmuring softly to himself the words of the prayer, "wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow; whiter than snow, whiter than snow." and, as christie was playing "home, sweet home," for the second time, old treffy's weary feet passed within the gates. he was at home at last, in "home, sweet home." and little christie was left outside. chapter x. "no place like home." the next morning, some of the lodgers in the great room below remembered having heard sounds in the stillness of the night, which had awakened them from their dreams and disturbed their slumbers. some maintained it was only the wind howling in the chimney, but others felt sure it was music, and said that the old man in the attic must have been amusing himself with the organ at midnight. "not he," said the landlady, when she heard of it; "he'll never play it again, he's a dying man, by what the doctor says." "just you go and ask him if he wasn't turning his old organ in the middle of last night," said a man from the far corner of the room. "i'll bet you a shilling he was." the landlady went upstairs to satisfy his curiosity, and rapped at the attic door. no one answered, so she opened it and went in. christie was fast asleep, stretched upon the bed where his old master's body lay. the tears had dried on his cheeks, and he was resting his head on one of old treffy's cold, withered hands. the landlady's face grew grave, and she instinctively shuddered in the presence of death. christie woke with a start, and looked up in her face with a bewildered expression. he could not remember at first what had happened. but in a moment it all came back to him, and he turned over and moaned. the landlady was touched by the boy's sorrow, but she was a rough woman, and knew little of the way of showing sympathy; and christie was not sorry when she went downstairs and left him to himself. as soon as the house was quiet, he brought a neighbor to attend to old treffy's body, and then crept out to tell the clergyman. mr. wilton felt very deeply for the desolate child. once again he committed him to his loving father, to the friend who would never leave him nor forsake him. and when christie was gone he again knelt down, and thanked god with a very full heart for having allowed him to be the poor weak instrument in bringing this soul to himself. there would be one at least at the beautiful gates of "home, sweet home," watching for his homegoing steps. old treffy would be waiting for him there. oh, how good god had been to him! it was with a thankful heart that he sat down to prepare his sermon for the next day, on the last verse of the hymn. and what he had just heard of old treffy helped him much in the realization of the bright city of which he was to speak. mr. wilton looked anxiously for christie, when he entered the crowded mission-room on sunday evening. yes, christie was there, sitting as usual on the front bench, with a very pale and sorrowful face, and with heavy downcast eyes. and when the hymn was being sung, the clergyman noticed that the tears were running down the boy's cheeks, though he rubbed them away with his sleeve as fast as they came. but christie looked up almost with a smile when the clergyman gave out his text. it was from revelation : , : "these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the lamb. therefore are they before the throne of god." "to-night," said the clergyman, "i am to speak of 'home, sweet home,' and of those that dwell there, the great multitude of the redeemed. it is a very holy place, there is no speck on the golden pavement, no evil to be found within the city. the tempter can never enter there, sin is unknown; all is very, very holy. and on the white robes of those who dwell there is no stain; pure and clean and spotless, bright and fair as light, are those robes of theirs. nothing to soil them, nothing to spoil their beauty, they are made white for ever in the blood of the lamb; therefore are they before the throne of god. "oh!" said the clergyman, "never forget that this is the only way to stand before that throne. being good will never take you there, not being as bad as others will avail you nothing; if you are ever to enter heaven, you must be washed white in the blood of the lamb. "st. john was allowed to look into heaven, and he saw a great company of these redeemed ones, and they were singing a new song, to the praise of him who had redeemed them. and since st. john's time," said the clergyman, "oh! how many have joined their number. every day, every hour, almost every moment, some soul stands before the city gates. and to every soul washed in the blood of jesus those gates of pearl are thrown open; they are all dressed one by one in a robe of white, and as they walk through the golden streets, and stand before the throne of glory, they join in that song which never grows old:--'amen. blessing and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honor, and power, and might, be unto our god for ever and ever, amen.' "and, my friends," said the clergyman, "as the holy god looks on these souls he sees in them no trace of sin, the blood has taken it all away; even in his sight they are all fair, there is no spot in them. they are faultless and stainless, perfectly pure and holy. "oh! my friends, will you ever join their number? this is a dark, dismal, dying world; will you be content to have your _all_ here? will you be content never to enter 'home, sweet home'? oh! will you delay coming to the fountain, and then wake up, and find you are shut out of the city bright, and that for ever? "one old man," said the clergyman, "to whom i was talking last week is now spending his first sunday in that city bright." a stillness passed over the room when the clergyman said this, and christie whispered to himself, "he means master treffy, i know he does." "he was a poor sin-stained old man," the clergyman went on, "but he took jesus at his word, he came to the blood of christ to be washed, and even here he was made whiter than snow. and two nights ago the dear lord sent for the old man, and took him home. there was no sin-mark found on his soul, so the gates were opened to him; and now in the snowy dress of christ's redeemed he stands, 'faultless and stainless, faultless and stainless, safe in that happy home.' "if i were to hear next sunday," said the clergyman, "that any one of you was dead, could i say the same of you? whilst we are meeting here, would you be in 'home, sweet home'? are you indeed washed in the precious blood of christ? have you indeed been forgiven? have you indeed come to jesus? "oh! do answer this question in your own heart," said mr. wilton, in a very earnest voice. "i do want to meet every one of you in 'home, sweet home.' i think that when god takes me there i shall be looking out for all of you, and oh! how i trust we shall all meet there,--all meet at home! "i cannot say more to-night," said the minister, "but my heart is very full. god grant that each of you may now be washed in the blood of jesus, and even in this life be made whiter than snow, and then say with a grateful heart, 'lord, i will work for thee, love thee, serve thee, all i can:'-- 'till in the snowy dress of thy redeemed i stand, faultless and stainless, faultless and stainless, safe in the happy land." and then the service was over, and the congregation went away. but christie never moved from the bench on which he was sitting. his face was buried in his hands, and he never looked up, even when the clergyman laid his hand kindly on his shoulder. "oh!" he sobbed at last, "i want to go home; my mother's gone, and old treffy's gone, and i want to go too." the clergyman took christie's little brown hand in both of his, and said, "christie, poor little christie, the lord does not like to keep you outside the gate; but he has work for you to do a little longer, and then the gates will be opened, and home will be all the sweeter after the dark time down here." and with other gentle and loving words he comforted the child, and then once more he prayed with him, and christie went away with a lighter heart. but he could not help thinking of the last sunday evening, when he had hastened home to tell treffy about the third verse of the hymn. there was no one to-night to whom christie could tell what he had heard. he waited a minute outside the attic door, as if he was almost afraid to go in, but it was only for a minute, and when he walked in all fear passed away. the sun was setting, and some rays of glory were falling on old treffy's face as he lay on the bed. they seemed to christie as if they came straight from the golden city, there was something so bright and so unearthly about them. and christie fancied that treffy smiled as he lay on the bed. it might be fancy, but he liked to think it was so. and then he went to the attic window and looked out. he almost saw the golden city, far away amongst those wondrous, bright clouds. it was a strange, glad thought, to think that treffy was there. what a change for him from the dark attic! oh, how bright heaven would seem to his old master! christie would have given any thing just to see for one minute what treffy was doing. "i wonder if he will tell jesus about me, and how i want to come home," said christie to himself. and as the sunset faded away and the light grew less and less, christie knelt down in the twilight, and said from the bottom of his heart,-- "o lord, please make me patient, and please some day take me to live with thee and old treffy, in 'home, sweet home.'" chapter xi. alone in the world. little christie was the only mourner who followed old treffy to the grave. it was a poor parish funeral. treffy's body was put into a parish coffin, and carried to the grave in a parish hearse. but, oh! it did not matter, for treffy was at home in "home, sweet home;" all his sorrows and troubles were over, his poverty was at an end, and in "the father's house" he was being well cared for. but the man who drove the hearse was not inclined to lose time upon the road, and christie had to walk very quickly, and sometimes almost to run, to keep up with him; and on their way they passed another and a very different funeral. it was going very slowly indeed. there was a large hearse in front, and six funeral carriages filled with people followed. and as christie passed close by them in the middle of the road he could see that the mourners within looked very sorrowful, and as if they had been crying very much. but in one carriage he saw something which he never forgot. with her head resting on her papa's shoulder, and her little white sorrowful face pressed close to the window, was his little friend mabel. "so her mother is dead!" said christie to himself, "and this is her funeral! oh, dear! what a very sad world this is!" he was not sure whether mabel had seen him, but the little girl's sorrow had sunk very deep into christie's soul, and it was with a heavier heart than before that he hastened forward to overtake the hearse which was carrying his old master's body to the grave. so the two funeral processions--that of the poor old man, and that of the fair young mother--passed on to the cemetery, and over both bodies were pronounced the words, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." but all this time their happy souls were in "home, sweet home," far, far away from the scene of sorrow. for a few days before, just at the same hour, two souls had left this world of woe, and had met together before the gates of pearl. and as they were both clean and white, both washed in the blood of the lamb, the gates had been opened wide, and old treffy and little mabel's mother had entered the city together. and now they had both seen jesus, the dear lord whom they loved well, and in his presence they were even now enjoying fulness of joy. christie was obliged to give up the little attic after treffy's death, for the landlady wished to let it for a higher rent. however, she gave the boy leave to sleep in the great lodging-room below, whilst she took possession of all old treffy's small stock of furniture, in payment for the rent which he owed her. but the organ was christie's property; his old master had given it to him most solemnly about a week before he died. he had called christie to his side, and told him to bring the organ with him. then he had committed it to christie's care. "you'll take care of her, christie," he had said, "and you'll never part with her, for my sake. and when you play 'home, sweet home,' christie, boy, you must think of me and your mother, and how we've both got there." it was hard work for christie, the first day that he took out his organ after old treffy's funeral; he did not so much mind playing "rule britannia," or the "old hundredth," or "poor mary ann," but when he came for the first time to "home, sweet home," such a rush of feeling came over him that he stopped short in the middle and moved on without finishing it. the passers-by were surprised at the sudden pause in the tune, and still more so at the tears which were running down christie's cheeks. they little thought that the last time he had played that tune had been in the room of death, and that whilst he was playing it his dearest friend on earth had passed away into the true "home, sweet home." but christie knew, and the notes of the tune brought back the recollection of that midnight hour. and he could not make up his mind to go on playing till he had looked up into the blue sky and asked for help to rejoice in old treffy's joy. and then the chorus came very sweetly to him, "home, sweet home; there's no place like home; there's no place like home." "and old treffy's there at last," said christie to himself as he finished playing. one day, about a week after treffy's funeral, christie went up the suburban road, in the hopes of seeing poor little miss mabel once more. he had never forgotten her sorrowful little face at the window of the funeral coach. and when we are in sorrow ourselves, it does us good to see and sympathize with those who are in sorrow also. christie felt it would be a great comfort to him to see the little girl. he wanted to hear all about her mother, and when it was that she had gone to "home, sweet home." but when christie reached the house he stood still in astonishment. the pretty garden was there just as usual, a bed of heartseases was blooming in the sunshine, and the stocks and forget-me-nots were in full flower. but the house looked very deserted and strange; the shutters of the lower rooms were up, and the bed-rooms had no blinds in the windows and looked empty and forlorn. and in the nursery window, instead of little mabel and charlie's merry faces, there was a cross-looking old woman with her head bent down over her knitting. what could be the matter? where were the children gone? surely no one else was lying dead in the house. christie felt that he could not go home without finding out; he must ask the old woman. so he stood at the garden-gate, and turned the handle of the organ, hoping that she would look out and speak to him. but, beyond a passing glance, she gave no sign that she even heard it, but went on diligently with her work. at length christie could wait no longer; so stopping suddenly in the middle of "poor mary ann," he walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. then the old woman put her head out of the window and asked what he wanted. christie did not quite know what to say, so he came out at once with the great fear which was haunting him. "please, ma'am, is any one dead?" he asked. "dead? no!" said the old woman, quickly. "what do you want to know for?" "please, could i speak to little miss mabel?" asked christie, timidly. "no, bless you," said the old woman, "not unless you'd like a walk across the sea; she's in france by now." "in france!" repeated christie, with a bewildered air. "yes," said the old woman, "they've all gone abroad for the summer;" and then she shut the window in a decided manner, as much as to say, "and that's all i shall tell you about it." christie stood for a few minutes in the pretty garden before he moved away. he was very disappointed; he had so hoped to have seen his little friends, and now they were gone. they were far away in france. that was a long way off, christie felt sure, and perhaps he would never see them again. he walked slowly down the dusty road. he felt very lonely this afternoon, very lonely and forsaken. his mother was gone; old treffy was gone! the lady was gone! and now the children were gone also! he had no one to cheer him or to comfort him; so he dragged the old organ wearily down the hot streets. he had not heart enough to play, he was very tired and worn out; yet he knew not where to go to rest. he had not even the old attic to call his home. but the pavement was so hot to his feet, and the sun was so scorching, that christie determined to return to the dismal court, and to try to find a quiet corner in the great lodging-room. but when he opened the door he was greeted by a cloud of dust; and the landlady called out to him to take himself off, she could not do with him loitering about at that time of day. so christie turned out again, very heart-sore and disconsolate; and, going into a quiet street, he sheltered for some time from the hot sun under a high wall which made a little shadow across the pavement. christie was almost too hot and tired even to be unhappy, and yet every now and then he shivered, and crept into the sunshine to be warmed again. he had a strange, sharp pain in his head, which made him feel very bewildered and uncomfortable. he did not know what was the matter with him, and sometimes he got up and tried to play for a little time, but he was so sick and dizzy that he was obliged to give it up, and to lie quite still under the wall, with the organ beside him, till the sun began to set. then he dragged himself and his organ back to the large lodging-room. the landlady had finished her cleaning, and was preparing the supper for her lodgers. she threw christie a crust of bread as he came in, but he was not able to eat it. he crawled to a bench in the far corner of the room, and putting his old organ against the wall beside him, he fell asleep. when he awoke, the room was full of men; they were eating their supper, and talking and laughing noisily. they took little notice of christie, as he lay very still in the corner of the room. he could not sleep again, for the noise in the place was so great, and now and again he shuddered at the wicked words and coarse jests which fell on his ear almost every minute. christie's head was aching terribly, and he felt very, very ill; he had never been so ill in his life before. what would he not have given for a quiet little corner, in which he might have lain, out of the reach of the oaths and wickedness of the men in the great lodging-room! and then his thoughts wandered to old treffy in "home, sweet home." what a different place his dear old master was in! "there's no place like home, no place like home," said christie to himself. "oh, what a long way i am from 'home, sweet home!'" chapter xii. christie well cared for. "what's the matter with that little lad?" said one of the men to the landlady, as she was preparing their breakfast the next morning. "he's got a fever, or something of the sort. he's been talking about one thing or another all night. i've had toothache, and scarcely closed my eyes, and he's never ceased chatting the night through." "what did he talk about?" asked another man. "oh! all sorts of rubbish," said the man with the toothache, "bright cities, and funerals, and snowdrops; and once he got up, and began to sing; i wonder you didn't hear him." "it would have taken a great deal to make _me_ hear him," said the other, "tired out as i was last night; what did he sing, though?" "oh! one of the tunes on his old organ. i expect he gets them in his head so that he can't get them out. i think it was 'home, sweet home,' he was trying at last night;" and the man went to his work. "well, mrs. white," said another man, "if the boy's in a fever, the sooner you get him out of this the better; we don't want all of us to take it." when the men were gone, the landlady went up to christie to see if he were really ill. she tried to wake him, but he looked wildly in her face, and did not seem to know her. so she lifted him by main force into a little dark room under the stairs, which was filled with boxes and rubbish. she was not an unkind woman; she would not turn the poor child into the street in his present condition; so she made him up a little bed on the floor, and giving him a drink of water, she left him, to continue her work. that evening she fetched the parish doctor to see him, and he told her that christie was in a fever. for many days little christie hung between life and death. he was quite unconscious of all that went on; he never heard the landlady come into the room; he never saw her go out. she was the only person who came near him, and she could give him very little attention, for she had so much to do. but she used to wonder why christie talked so often of "home, sweet home;" through all his wanderings of mind this one idea seemed to run. even in his delirium, little christie was longing for "the city bright." but, after a time, christie began to recover; he regained his consciousness, and slowly, very slowly, the fever left him. but he was so weak that he could not even turn in bed; and he could scarcely speak above a whisper. oh, how long and dreary the days were to him! mrs. white had begun to grow tired of waiting on him, and so christie was for many a long hour without seeing any one to whom he could speak. it was a very dark little chamber, only lighted from the passage, and christie could not even see a bit of blue sky. he felt very much alone in the world. all day long there was no sound but the distant shouts of the children in the court, and in the evening he could hear the noise of the men in the great lodging-room. often he was awake the greater part of the night, and lay listening to the ticking of the clock on the stairs, and counting the strokes hour after hour. and then he would watch the faint gray light creeping into the dark room, and listen to the footsteps of the men going out to their daily work. no one came to see christie. he wondered that mr. wilton did not ask after him, when he missed him from the mission-room. oh, how glad christie would have been to see him! but the days passed slowly by, and he never came, and christie wondered more and more. once he asked mrs. white to fetch him to see him, but she said she could not trouble to go so far. if little christie had not had a friend in jesus, his little heart would almost have broken, in the loneliness and desolation of those days of weakness. but though his faith was sometimes feeble, and he was then very downcast in spirit, yet at other times little christie would talk with jesus, as with a dear friend, and in this way he was comforted. and the words which the clergyman had read to his old master were ever ringing in his ears, "let not your heart be troubled." still, those weeks did seem very long and tedious. at last, he was able to sit up in bed, but he felt faint and dizzy whenever he moved. for he had had a very severe attack of fever, and he needed all manner of nourishing things to bring back his strength. but there was no one to attend to the wants of the poor motherless boy. no one, except the dear lord; he had not forgotten him. it was a close, tiring afternoon. christie was lying upon his bed, panting with the heat, and longing for a breath of air. he was faint and weary, and felt very cast down and dispirited. "please, dear lord," he said aloud, "send some one to see me." and even as he spoke the door opened, and the clergyman came in. it was too much for little christie! he held out his arms to him in joy, and then burst into tears. "why, christie," said the clergyman, "are you not glad to see me?" "oh," said little christie, "i thought you were never coming, and i felt such a long way from home! oh, i am so glad to see you." then mr. wilton told christie that he had been away from home, and that another clergyman had been taking his duty. but the night before he had preached for the first time since his return in the little mission-room, and he had missed christie from the front bench. he had asked the woman who cleaned the room about him, and she had told him that christie had never been there since he went away. the clergyman had wondered what was the matter, and had come as soon as he could to hear. "and now, christie," he said, "tell me all about these long, weary weeks." but christie was so glad and so happy now, that the past seemed like a long, troubled dream. he had waked up now, and had forgotten his sorrow and his loneliness. the clergyman and christie had much pleasant talk together, and then mr. wilton said,-- "christie, i have had a letter about you, which i will read to you." the letter was from little mabel's papa, who was a friend of the clergyman. "my dear mr. wilton,--there is a poor boy of the name of christie (what his surname is i do not know) living in a lodging-house in ivy court, percy street. he lived formerly with an old organ-grinder, but i believe the old man was thought to be dying some weeks ago. my dear wife took a great fancy to the boy, and my little mabel frequently talks of him. i imagine he must be left in a very destitute condition; and i should be much obliged if you could find him out and provide for him some comfortable home with any respectable person who will act as a mother to him. "i enclose a check which will pay his expenses for the present. i should like him to go to school for a year or two and then i intend, if the boy desires to serve christ, to bring him up to work as a scripture-reader amongst the lowest class of the people in your neighborhood. "i think i could not perpetuate my dear wife's memory in any better way than by carrying out what i know were her wishes with regard to little christie. no money or pains will i spare to do for him what she herself would have done, had her life been spared. "kindly excuse me for troubling you with this matter; but i do not wish to defer it until our return, lest i lose sight of the boy. the dismal attic where christie and his old master lived was the last place my dear wife visited before her illness; and i feel that the charge of this boy is a sacred duty which i must perform for her dear sake, and also for the sake of him who has said, 'inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' "believe me, dear mr. wilton, "yours very sincerely, "gerald lindesay." "christie," said the clergyman, "the dear lord has been very good to you." "yes," said little christie, "old treffy was right; wasn't he, sir?" "what did old treffy say?" asked the clergyman. "he said the lord had some work for me to do for him," said christie, "and i didn't think there was any thing i could do; but he's going to let me, after all." "yes," said the clergyman, smiling; "shall we thank him, christie?" so he knelt down by christie's bed, and little christie clasped his thin hands and added his words of praise:-- "o jesus, i thank thee so much for letting me have some work to do for thee; and, please, i will stay outside the gates a little longer, to do something to show thee how i love thee. amen." "yes, christie," said the clergyman, as he rose to go, "you must work with a very loving heart. and when the work is over will come the _rest_. after the long waiting will come 'home, sweet home.'" "yes," said christie, brightly, "'there's no place like home, no place like home.'" chapter xiii. christie's work for the master. it was a hot summer's afternoon, some years after, and the air in ivy court was as close and stifling as it had been in the days when christie and old treffy lived there. crowds of children might still be seen playing there, screaming and quarrelling, just as they had done then. the air was as full of smoke and dust, and the court looked as desolate as it had done in those years gone by. it was still a very dismal and a very forlorn place. so christie thought, as he entered it that sultry day; it seemed to him as far as ever from "home, sweet home." yet, of all the places which he visited as a scripture-reader, there was no place in which christie took such an interest as ivy court. for he could not forget those dreary days when he had been a little homeless wanderer, and had gone there for a night's lodging. and he could not forget the old attic which had been the first place, since his mother's death, that he had been able to call home. it was to this very attic he was going this afternoon. he climbed the rickety stairs, and as he did so he thought of the night when he had crept up them for the first time, and had knelt down outside old treffy's door, listening to the organ. christie had never parted with that organ, his old master's last gift to him. and scarcely a week passed that he did not turn the handle, and listen to the dear old tunes. and he always finished with "home, sweet home," for he still loved that tune the best. and when miss mabel came to see him, she always wanted to turn the old organ in remembrance of her childish days. she was not miss mabel any longer now, though christie still sometimes called her so when they were talking together of the old days, and of treffy and his organ. but mabel was married now to the clergyman under whom christie was working, and she took great interest in the young scripture-reader, and was always ready to help him with her advice and sympathy. and she would ask christie about the poor people he visited, and he would tell her which of them most needed her aid. and where she was most needed young mrs. villiers was always ready to go. and so it came to pass that when christie knocked at the old attic door, it was opened for him by mrs. villiers herself, who had just come there to see a poor sick woman. she had not met christie in that attic since the days when they were both children, and mabel smiled as he came in, and said to him, "do you remember the occasion when we met here before?" "yes," said christie, "i remember it well; there were four of us here then, mrs. villiers, and two out of the four have gone to the bright city which we talked of then." "yes," said mabel, with tears in her eyes; "they are waiting for us in 'home, sweet home.'" the attic did not look any more cheerful that day than it had done when old treffy lived there. the window-panes were nearly all broken and filled with pieces of brown paper or rag. the floor was more rotten than ever, and the boards seemed as if they must give way when christie crossed the room to speak to a forlorn-looking woman who was sitting on a chair by the smouldering fire. she was evidently very ill and very unhappy. four little children were playing about, and making so much noise that christie could hardly hear their mother speak when she told him she was "no better, no better at all, and she did not think she ever should be." "have you done what i asked you, mrs. wilson?" said christie. "yes, sir, i've said it again and again, and the more i say it the more miserable it makes me." "what is it, christie?" said mrs. villiers. "it's a little prayer, ma'am, i asked her to say: 'o god, give me thy holy spirit, to show me what i am.'" "and i think he has shown me," said the poor woman, sadly; "anyhow, i never knew i was such a sinner; and every day as i sit here by my fire i think it all over, and every night as i lie awake on my bed i think of it again." "i've brought another prayer for you to say now, mrs. wilson," said christie, "and i've written it out on a card, that you may be able to learn it quickly: 'o god, give me thy holy spirit, to show me what jesus is.' god has heard and answered your first prayer, so you may be sure he will hear this one also. and if he only shows you what jesus is, i am sure you will be happy, for jesus will forgive you your sin, and take away all its heavy burden." the poor woman read the prayer aloud several times, and then mrs. villiers took a book from her pocket and began to read. it was a little, much-worn testament. it had once been blue, but from constant use the color had faded, and the gilt edges were no longer bright. it was not the first time that same testament had been in that old attic. for it was the same book from which mabel's mother had read to old treffy fifteen years before. how mabel loved that book! here and there was a pencil-mark, which her mother had made against some favorite text, and these texts mabel read again and again, till they became her favorites also. it was one of these which she read to the poor woman to-day: "the blood of jesus christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin." and then mrs. villiers explained how ready jesus is to save any soul that comes to him, and how his blood is quite sufficient to take away sin. the sick woman listened eagerly, and a tear came into christie's eye as he said: "there is no text that i love like that, mrs. villiers. mr. wilton preached on it in the mission-room the second time i went there, and i felt as if i could sing for joy when i heard it; i well remember how i ran up the stairs to this attic, to tell it to my old master." "and you've found it true, christie?" "yes, ma'am, indeed i have; and treffy found it true too." then mrs. villiers and christie took their leave; but, as they were going down the steep staircase, christie said, "have you time to call on mrs. white for a few minutes, ma'am? she would be so pleased to see you, and i don't think she will live very long." mrs. villiers gladly agreed to go; so christie knocked at the door at the bottom of the stairs. a young woman opened it, and they went in. mrs. white was lying on a bed in the corner of the room, and seemed to be asleep; but presently she opened her eyes, and when she saw christie her face brightened, and she held out her hands in welcome. she was an old woman now, and had given up taking lodgers several years before. "oh, christie," she said, "i _am_ glad to see you; i have been counting the hours till you came." "mrs. villiers has come to see you to-day, mrs. white." "oh! how good of you," said the poor woman; "christie said you would come some day." "you have known christie a long time, have you not?" said mrs. villiers. "yes," said the old woman, "he came to me first as a little ragged boy, shivering with cold; and i liked the look of him, ma'am, he was so much quieter than some that came here; and i used to give him a crust sometimes, when he looked more starved than usual." "yes, mrs. white," said christie, "you were often very good to me." "oh! not as i should have been, christie; they were only crusts i gave you, bits that were left from the men's meals, and not so much of them either; but you've come to me and you've brought me the bread of life,--not just bits and leavings, but enough and to spare, as much as i like, and more than enough for all i want." "oh, christie," said mrs. villiers, "i am glad to hear this; the dear lord has been very good to you; your work has not been in vain." "in vain!" said the old woman; "i should think not! there's many a one, mrs. villiers, that will bless god in the home above for what you and your father have done for this lad; and there's no one that will bless him more than i shall. i was as dark as a heathen till christie came to me, and read to me out of his bible, and talked to me of jesus, and put it all so clear to me. and now i know that my sins are forgiven, and very soon the lord will take me home; and oh! dear, how nice that will be-- 'when in the snowy dress of thy redeemed i stand, faultless and stainless, faultless and stainless, safe in that happy land!'" "i see that mrs. white knows your hymn, christie," said mrs. villiers. "yes," said christie, "i taught her it a long time ago, and she is as fond of it as my old master was." after a little more conversation, mrs. villiers took her leave, and christie continued his round of visits. all that long, sultry afternoon he toiled on, climbing dark staircases, going down into damp cellars, visiting crowded lodging-houses; and everywhere, as he went, dropping seeds of the word of life, sweet words from the book of books, suited to the hearts of those with whom he met. for in that book christie found there was a word for every need, and a message for every soul. there was peace for the sin-burdened, comfort for the sorrowful, rest for the weary, counsel for the perplexed, and hope for the dying. and christie always prayed before he went out that god's holy spirit would give him the right word for each one whom he went to see. and, as he knocked at the door of a house, he always lifted up his heart in a silent prayer, something like this:-- "thou, lord, which knowest the hearts of all men, give me the opportunity of saying something for thee, and please help me use it, and show me how to say the right word." and so it was no wonder that god blessed him. it was no wonder that wherever he went christie not only found opportunities of doing good, but was able to use those opportunities to the best advantage. it was no wonder that when the people were ill they always sent for the young scripture-reader to read and pray with them. it was no wonder that the little children loved him, or that the poor, tired mothers were glad to sit down for a few minutes to hear him read words of comfort from the book of life. it was no wonder that all day long christie found work to do for the master, and souls waiting to receive the master's message. he was generally very tired when he went home at night, but he did not mind this. for he never forgot old treffy's sorrow, a few days before he died, because he had only a week left in which to show his love to his saviour. and christie thanked god every day that he had given to him the honor and privilege of working for him. christie lodged in a quiet street not far from ivy court. he used to live some way out of the town, for he liked to have a walk after his day's work was done; but he found that the poor people often wanted him for different things in the evening and at other times, and so he removed nearer to them and nearer to his work. and very often they would come to him with their troubles, and sit in his little room pouring out their grief. the young men especially were very glad to come to christie's lodging to have a talk with him; and once a week christie had a little prayer-meeting there, to which many of them came. and they found it a great help on their way to heaven. when christie opened the door of his lodging on the day of which i am writing, he heard a sound which very much surprised him. it was the sound of his old barrel-organ, and it was playing a few notes of "home, sweet home." he wondered much who could be turning it, for he had forbidden the landlady's children to touch it, except when he was present to see that no harm came to it. he sometimes smiled to himself at his care over the old organ. it reminded him of the days when he had first played it, with old treffy standing by him and looking over his shoulder, saying in an anxious voice, "turn her gently, christie, boy; turn her gently." and now he was almost as careful of it as treffy himself, and he would not on any account have it injured. and so he hastened upstairs to see who it could be that was turning it this morning. on his way he met his landlady, who said that a gentleman was waiting for him in his parlor, who seemed very anxious to see him, and had been sitting there for some time. and, when christie opened the door, who should be turning the barrel-organ but his old friend, mr. wilton! they had not met for many years, for mr. wilton had settled in another part of england, where he was preaching the same truths as he had once preached in the little mission-room. but he had come to spend a sunday in the scene of his former labors, and he was very anxious to know how his friend christie was getting on, and whether he was still working for the saviour, and still looking forward to "home, sweet home." it was a very affectionate meeting between mr. wilton and his young friend. they had much to talk about, not having seen each other for so long. "so you still have the old organ, christie," said mr. wilton, looking down at the faded silk, which was even more colorless than it had been in treffy's days. "yes, sir," said christie, "i could never part with it; i promised my old master that i never would, and it was his dying gift to me. and often now when i hear the notes of 'home, sweet home,' it takes my thoughts to old treffy, and i think what a happy time he must have had in 'the city bright,' all these fifteen years." "do you remember how you used to want to go there too, christie?" "yes, mr. wilton, and i don't want it any the less now; but still i should like to live some years longer, if it is his will. there is so much to do in the world, isn't there, sir? and what i do only seems to me like a drop in the ocean when i look at the hundreds of people there are in these crowded courts; i could almost cry sometimes when i feel how little i can reach them." "yes, christie," said mr. wilton, "there is a great deal to do, and we cannot do a tenth part, nor yet a thousandth part, of what there is to do; what we must strive after is, that the dear master may be able to say of each of us, 'he hath done what he _could_.'" then mr. wilton and christie knelt down and prayed that god would give christie a blessing on his work, and would enable him to lead many of the people, in the courts and lanes of that wretched neighborhood, to come to jesus, that they might find a home in that city where treffy was gone before. chapter xiv. "home, sweet home, at last." it was sunday evening, and christie was once more in the little mission-room; but not now as a poor ragged boy, sitting on the front bench, and in danger of being turned out by the woman who lighted the gas-lamps. she would not dream of turning christie out now, for the young scripture-reader was a well-known man in the district. he was always there early, before any of the people arrived, and he used to stand at the door and welcome each one as they came in, helping the old men and women to their seats, and looking out anxiously for those whom he had invited for the first time during the week. and if any little ragged boys stole in, and seemed inclined to listen, christie took special care of them, for he had not forgotten the day when he had first come to that very room, longing to hear a word of comfort to tell to his old master. mr. wilton was to take the service to-night, and christie had been busy all the afternoon giving special invitations to the people to be present, for he wanted them very much to hear his dear friend. the mission-room was quite full when mr. wilton entered it. how it rejoiced him to see christie going about amongst the people, with a kind word for each, and handing them the small hymn-books from which they were to sing! "come, for all things are now ready." that was mr. wilton's text. how still the mission-room was, and how earnestly all the people listened to the sermon! the clergyman first spoke of the marriage feast in the parable, so carefully spread, so kindly prepared, all ready there,--and yet no one would come! there were excuses on all sides, every one was too busy or too idle to attend to the invitation; no one was ready to obey that gracious "come." and then mr. wilton spoke of jesus, and how he had made all things ready for us; and how pardon is ready and peace is ready; the father's arms ready to receive us; the father's love ready to welcome us; a home in heaven ready prepared for us. that, he said, was god's part of the matter. "and what, my dear friends," he went on, "is _our_ part? _come_; 'come, for all things are now ready.' come, you have only to come and take; you have only to receive this love. come, sin-stained soul; come, weary one; 'come, for all things are now ready.' _now_ ready. there is a great deal in that word '_now_.' it means to-night,--this very sunday; not next year, or next week; not to-morrow, but now,--all things are _now_ ready. god has done all he can, he can do no more, and he says to you, 'come!' will you not come? are god's good things not worth having? would you not like to lie down to sleep, feeling that you were forgiven? would you not like one day to sit down to the marriage supper of the lamb? "oh, what a day that will be!" said mr. wilton, as he ended his sermon. "st. john caught a glimpse of its glory amidst the wonderful sights he was permitted to see. and so important was it, so good, so specially beautiful, that the angel seems to have stopped him, that st. john might write it down at once: wait a minute, don't go any farther, take out your book and make a note of that,--'write, blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the lamb.' "are _you_ one of those blessed ones?" asked the clergyman. "are you washed in the blood of the lamb? will you sit down to that supper? have you a right to enter into 'home, sweet home?' i know not what is your answer to these questions. but if you cannot answer me now, how will you in that day answer the great searcher of hearts?" and with this question the sermon ended, and the congregation left; those of them who had known mr. wilton still lingering behind, to shake hands with him, and to get a parting word of counsel or comfort. christie walked home by the clergyman's side. "and now, christie," said mr. wilton, "do you think you can be ready to start with me to-morrow morning at eight o'clock?" "to start with you, sir?" repeated christie. "yes, christie; you have had hard work lately, and i have asked leave from mr. villiers to take you home with me, that you may have a little country air and quiet rest. i am sure it will not be lost time, christie; you will have time for quiet reading and prayer, and you will be able to gain strength and freshness for future work. well, do you think you can be ready in time?" christie thought there was no fear of his being late. he thanked mr. wilton with a voice full of feeling, for he had sometimes longed very much for a little pause in his busy life. and the next day found christie and mr. wilton rapidly traveling towards the quiet country village in which mr. wilton's church was to be found. what was the result of that visit may be gathered from the following extract, taken from a letter written by christie to mr. wilton some months later:-- "i promised you that i would let you know about our little home. it is, i think, one of the happiest to be found in this world. i shall always bless god that i came to your village, and met my dear little wife. "at last i have a 'home, sweet home,' of my own. we are so happy together! when i come home from my work, i always see her watching for me, and she has every thing ready for me, and the evenings we spend together are very quiet and peaceful. nellie likes to hear about all my visits during the day, and the poor people are already so fond of her they come to her in all their troubles. and we find it such a comfort to be able to pray together for those in whom we are interested, and together to take them to the saviour. "our little home is so bright and cheerful! i wish you could have seen it on the evening on which we arrived. mrs. villiers had made all ready for us, and with her own hand had put on the tea-table a lovely bunch of snowdrops and dark myrtle leaves. and i need not tell you that they reminded me of those which she had given me when she was little miss mabel, and when she taught me that prayer which i have never forgotten, 'wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow.' "and now, dear mr. wilton, you may think of nellie and me as living together in love and happiness in the dear little earthly home, yet still looking forward to the eternal home above, our true, our best, our brightest 'home, sweet home.'" [illustration: home, sweet home] [illustration: "i've spilt the soup, and broke the jug."] littlebourne lock. by f. bayford harrison, author of "brothers in arms;" "battlefield treasure;" "missy;" &c. _illustrated._ london: blackie & son, limited, old bailey, e.c. glasgow, edinburgh, and dublin. * * * * * contents. chap. page i. the lock-house, ii. no. , iii. juliet mitchell, iv. the "pretty churchyard," v. on the river, vi. missing! vii. found! viii. bettering herself, ix. back in london, x. the adventure of the "turkeys pin," xi. a thorough change, xii. a wonderful discovery. * * * * * littlebourne lock. chapter i. the lock-house. the mist of a july morning shrouded the river and its banks. it was a soft thin mist, not at all like a winter fog, and through it, and high above it, the sun was shining, and the larks singing; and edward rowles, the lock-keeper, knew well that within an hour or two the brightest sunshine would gladden england's river thames. he came out from his house, which was overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis, and he looked up the stream and down the stream, and then at the weir over which the water tumbled and roared; he saw that everything was all right after its night's rest. so he put his hands in his pockets, and went round to the back of the house to see how his peas and beans were conducting themselves. they were flourishing. next he looked at some poultry in a wired-off space; they seemed very glad to see him, even the little chickens having good appetites, and being ready for their breakfasts. after this inspection edward rowles went indoors again, and looked at his son philip, who was still asleep in his little camp-bed in the corner of the sitting-room. "get up, lad, get up," said the father; "don't be the last." philip opened his eyes and rubbed them, and within a few minutes was washing and dressing. in the meantime mrs. rowles was lighting the fire in the kitchen, filling the kettle with water from the well, getting down bread and butter from a shelf, and preparing everything for the morning meal. presently there appeared a little girl, emily by name, who slept in a tiny attic all by herself, and who was very slow in dressing, and generally late in coming down. "come, bustle about, emily," said her mother. "here, this slice of bread is very dry, so toast it, and then it will be extra nice." emily obeyed. philip got a broom and swept out the kitchen; mr. rowles brought in a handful of mustard-and-cress as a relish for bread-and-butter. and soon they were all seated at the table. "not a boat in sight," said mr. rowles; "nor yet a punt." "it is early yet," replied his wife; "wait until the first train from london comes in." "like enough there will be folks come by it," rejoined rowles; "they must be precious glad to get out of london this hot day." "why must they be glad, father?" asked philip. "because london is awful hot in hot weather; it seems as if it had not got enough air for all the folks to breathe that live in it. millions of people, philip. write down a million on your slate, boy." philip brought his slate and pencil and wrote , , . "write it over again, and twice more. now that seems a good many, eh? well, there are more people in london than all those millions on your slate. what do you think of that?" the boy had no idea at all of what a million of people would look like, nor a million of lemon drops, nor a million of anything. he did not even try to gain an idea on the subject. "mother," said emily, "does aunt mary live in london? and albert and juliet and florry and neddy--and--and all the others." "yes, poor things! they live in london." "and they don't like hot days in london?" "hot days must be better than cold ones. i say, rowles," and his wife turned to him and spoke in a gentler tone, "do you know i have been thinking so much lately about mary and all of them. it is a long time since we had a letter. i wonder if it is all right with them." "as right as usual, i'll be bound," said rowles gruffly. "i've a sort of feeling on me," mrs. rowles pursued, "that they are not doing well. the saying is, that no news is good news; but i'm not so sure of that--not always." "mary went her own way," said the lock-keeper, "and if it turns out the wrong way it is no business of mine. when a woman marries a fine, stuck-up london printer, who works all night on a morning paper and sleeps half the day, what can you expect? can you expect good health, or good temper, or good looks from a man who turns night into day and day into night?" "children, run and give these crumbs and some barley to the chickens. now, rowles, you know very well that i never did join you in your dislike to thomas mitchell. printing was his trade, and there must be morning papers i suppose, and i daresay he'd like to work by day and sleep by night if he could. i think your sister mary made a mistake when she married a londoner, after being used to the country where you _can_ draw a breath of fresh air. and i'm afraid that tom's money can't be any too much for eight children living, and two put away in the cemetery, pretty dears! and i was just thinking to myself that it would seem friendly-like if i was to journey up to london and see how they are getting on. it is less trouble than writing a letter." "it costs more," said rowles. a long, distant whistle was heard. "there they come!" and rowles rose from his chair, and took his burly figure out into the garden-plot which lay between the cottage and the lock. mrs. rowles followed him, saying, "there is a train at . ; and if i leave the dinner all ready you can boil the potatoes for yourself." "what do you want to go for, at all? women are always gadding about, just to show off their bonnets, or to look at other people's. here they come--two of them!" he added. for two steam launches, whistling horribly, were coming up, and required that the lock should be opened for them. nothing gave philip and emily more pleasure than to help their father open the lock-gates. they liked going to school, and they liked playing with their friends, but opening the lock-gates, and then watching them as they closed, was more delightful than any other kind of work or play. philip knew that a river on which large boats and barges went to and fro must be kept up by locks, or it would run away so fast that it would become too shallow for any but small boats. littlebourne lock is built from one bank of the river to an island in it. there are great wooden gates, opened by great wooden handles; but to explain how a lock is made and worked would be difficult, though it is easily understood when examined. philip and emily had lived nearly all their lives in littlebourne lock-house, and they knew more about boating and such matters than old men and women who live all their lives in london. the two little steamers came into the lock as soon as rowles, assisted by his children, opened the lower gate. the men on them talked to rowles while the lock was being filled by the water, which came through the sluices in the upper gate. philip listened to this talk; but emily went up to the other gate. her father and brother did not notice what she was doing. they came presently and opened the upper gates, talking all the time to the men on the launches. then they heard cries. "look out! take care! keep in!" emily's voice sounded shrill and terrified. "this side! this side!" she was crying wildly; and she jumped about on the bank of the island as if frightened at something in the water. rowles ran to the place. the first launch was just coming out of the lock, closely followed by the other. across the narrow piece of water just outside the lock was a rowing boat. in it was one man. he looked scared, for the nose of his boat was stuck in the bank of the island, and the stern had swung round almost to the opposite bank. the man was standing up with a scull in his hands, poking at the bank near the bows; and at every poke his boat went further across the narrow stream, and was in imminent danger of being cut in two or swamped, or in some way destroyed by the foremost launch. "ah, they are at it again!" cried rowles; "these cockney boatmen, how they do try to drown themselves! hold hard!" he shouted to the engineer of the launch. and the engineer of that steamer did try to hold hard, but the man behind him did not see what was the matter, or that anything was the matter, and therefore he kept his engines going, and pressed close behind on the foremost launch. fortunately rowles had in his hand a long pole with which to push small boats in and out of the lock. with this he caught the side of the endangered craft, and would have drawn it into safety, but the occupant of it flourished his scull about in so foolish a manner that he hindered what rowles was trying to do, and all the time--which was but a couple of minutes--the launches were slowly bearing down upon him. philip had seized an oar which was lying by, emily had caught up a clothes-line; philip pushed his oar at the man in the boat, emily threw him the end of her rope. rowles had at length caught the side of the boat with the hook at the end of his pole, and brought it close to the bank. the man gave a spring to get out on dry land. of course his boat went away from him, nearly jerking rowles into the water. as for the awkward creature himself, he fell on his knees on the plank edging of the bank, and his feet dangled in the stream. the launch went on again, crushing the rudder of the small boat. it required the help of rowles and philip to pull the man up on his feet, and get him to believe that he was safe. he staggered up the bank to the pathway on the top of it, and gasped for breath. "that--that--was a narrow shave!" said he. "ay, for them that goes out fooling in a white shirt," said mr. rowles. "it is only my feet that are wet," remarked the stranger, beginning to recover his colour; "and i did not know there was any harm in a white shirt." "no harm in the shirt if the man who wore it knew what he was about. why, i've seen them go out in frock-coats and tall hats and kid gloves. i've seen them that did not know bow from stern; and then, when they are drowned, they are quite surprised." "i don't know much about boating," returned the man; "but my gentleman said he thought i had better practise a bit, because he will want me to row him about of an evening. well, another time i will keep out of the way of the steam-launches." "you had better, sir. and put off your coat, and your waistcoat, and your watch and chain, and rig yourself out in a flannel shirt and a straw hat. and, pray, how are you going to get home?" at this moment mrs. rowles came to the door, shading her eyes with her hand, for the sun was now bright and hot, and calling out "phil--lip! em--ily! time to be off." the girl threw down her rope and obeyed her mother's call, but philip lingered. he could not make out who and what the stranger might be. that person said, "perhaps, mr. rowles, you would let your boy come with me just to put me in the right way." "no, no; he is going to school. you be off, phil, before i look at you again." so, rather unwillingly, philip also retreated into the house, from whence he and emily presently emerged with their books, and disappeared across the fields in the direction of the village, where their company was requested by the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress until four o'clock, with a long interval for dinner and play. "i would let him go with you if it was not for his schooling," remarked mr. rowles; "but he must waste no time if he wants to get the prize. you won't get a prize for rowing. why, some of them that comes here don't know what you mean by feathering!" the stranger looked very humble. he was a middle-aged man of ordinary appearance, but extremely neat in his dress. his cloth clothes were all of spotless black, his necktie was black with a small white spot; he showed a good deal of fine shirt-front, and a pair of clean cuffs. then his hair was carefully cut, and he had trimmed whiskers, but no beard or moustache. his hands were not those of a working-man, nor had they the look of those of a gentleman. edward rowles could not make him out. "i'm sure you are not a boating man," said he. "oh, no! oh, dear no! i never rowed a boat before. though i have been at sea: i have crossed the channel with mr. burnet. but not rowing myself, of course." "who's mr. burnet?" asked rowles. "we are staying at the hotel," replied the stranger; "and what's more, i must be getting back, for he likes his breakfast at a quarter-past ten sharp. can i get back another way? can't i go down that river?" he pointed up the stream which came swirling from the weir. "no," said rowles, "you can't go up the weir-stream, any more than you could leap a donkey over a turnpike-gate. get into your boat, and pull yourself quietly up under the left-hand bank." "i have no rope to pull it by," said the stranger meekly. "they come down here," remarked rowles with infinite contempt, and speaking to the river, "and don't know what you mean by pulling. they think it is the same as towing. if you'd rather tow your boat i will lend you a line, provided that you promise faithfully to return it. it is the missus's clothes-line. and you will keep her close under the bank of the towing-path, and you will pass under all the other lines which you meet. do you see?" "oh, yes, thank you," said the stranger, anxious to be off. "my name is roberts, with mr. burnet at the hotel; and you shall have the rope back again." "tie it round the bow thwart, as you have no mast," said rowles. mr. roberts stared. "there, stand aside, i'll do it for you. they sit on a thwart and don't know what it is, half of them." grumbling and fumbling, rowles at length got roberts across the lock-gates and put the line into his hands, telling him to look out for barges and rapids; and then the stranger set off on his return journey, and rowles went into his house to tell his wife that he thought they were a stupider lot this summer than ever they had been before. chapter ii. no. . when mrs. rowles had put on her best gown and her sunday bonnet she was as pleasant-looking a woman as one was likely to meet between littlebourne and london. "going to town" was rather an event in her life, and one that called for the best gown and bonnet as well as for three-and-fourpence to pay the fare. "ned never will go to see his sister," said mrs. rowles to herself. "i might as well try to move the lock as try to move him. and now that i have made up my mind to go i had better go, and get it over. ned thinks that londoners are too grand to care for their country relations. but i don't think mary is too grand to give me a welcome. i don't want a fuss made over me, i am sure; and if i run up unexpected she won't be able to make a fuss with the dinner. and when it is six months since you heard from them it is about time for you to go and see them. i am not comfortable in my mind; six months is a long time. suppose they had gone off to australia! i really should not wonder!" it was nearly time to start on her walk to the station. rowles looked into the cottage, and his wife explained to him how he was to manage his dinner. "ah, peas now!" he said, looking at the green pearls lying in water in a pudding basin. "they don't see such peas as those in london, i can tell you; and you'd be a deal welcomer, emma, if you were to take them a basketful of green stuff. i suppose thomas mitchell has his supper for breakfast when he gets up at night, and begins his day's work at bed-time. he might like peas for breakfast at ten o'clock p.m.; likewise broad beans. just you wait three minutes. i bear them no ill-will, though i never could approve of a man being an owl." within five minutes rowles came back from his garden with a basket of fresh-smelling vegetables. he gave it to his wife, saying, "you be off, or you'll miss your train. give them my love when they get up this evening. there's a call for the 'lock a-hoy!' and here they come, girls in flannels and sailor hats, rowing for their lives, and men lolling on the cushions with fans and parasols." the husband went to open the gates for one of those water-parties which are to be seen nowhere but on the thames, and mrs. rowles set off to walk to littlebourne station. she met with no adventures on her journey; reached paddington safely, took an omnibus into the city, and then walked to one of the smaller streets on the eastern side of london. this street was one which began with good, well-kept houses, and dwindled away into small ones out of repair. about the middle of the street mrs. rowles stopped, and went up on the door-step of a neat-looking house, every window of which had white curtains and flower-pots. she pulled the bell-handle which was second from the top in a row of handles at the side of the door, and put her basket down to rest herself, summoning up a kindly smile with which to greet her sister-in-law, mary mitchell. the air of london was heavy and the sunshine pale to mrs. rowles's thinking, and the sky overhead was a very pale blue. there were odd smells about; stale fish and brick-fields seemed to combine, and that strange fusty odour which infects very old clothes. mrs. rowles preferred the scent of broad beans and pinks. it was some time before the door was opened, and then a young woman appeared, holding it just ajar. "well, mary, my dear--oh, i declare, it is not mary!" "would you please to say who you want?" the young woman was not over polite. "i have come up from the country to see my sister-in-law, mary mitchell. i beg your pardon, my dear, if i rang the wrong bell." "mrs. mitchell don't live here," was the short reply. "not live here! whatever do you mean?" "i mean what i say; are you deaf? mrs. mitchell left here near upon six months ago." "oh!" said mrs. rowles, much astonished; "i never thought of such a thing. whatever shall i do? and all this green stuff to carry back again." "can't you take it to her?" asked the young woman more gently. "i don't know where she has gone to. australia most likely." "australia, indeed! she has only gone to the other end of the street, no. . and when you can't pay your rent, and three weeks running on to four, what can you expect from your landlord?" the door was closed, and mrs. rowles left standing on the step, greatly shocked and agitated. had the mitchells been turned out by their landlord for not paying their rent? had they grown dishonest? had mitchell taken to drink? what could it mean? "no. . and this is only ; the odd numbers are on the other side. i must cross. what a lot of rubbish on the road; and do you think i would let my girl stand out bareheaded like that, gossiping with a lot of idle young chaps?" thus thinking and moralizing mrs. rowles went down the street towards the eastern end of it. she noticed the change in the houses. their fronts grew narrower; there was a storey less; the door-steps were not hearth-stoned; the area railings were broken. no white curtains, or but few and soiled ones; hardly a flower; windowpanes filled with brown paper instead of glass; doors standing half open; heaps of cinders and refuse lying at the edge of the pavement; girls almost without frocks nursing dirty, white-faced babies. it seemed a long way to no. . no. stood out from its fellows, and marked the point at which the street became narrower, dirtier, noisier than before. was it possible that edward rowles's sister could be living here? the comely, well-clad woman from littlebourne looked into the entry of no. . she saw a narrow passage, without floorcloth or carpet; a narrow, dirty staircase led up to the rooms above. from the front room on the ground floor came the whirring sound of a sewing-machine; it might perhaps be mary mitchell at work. mrs. rowles knocked on the door of the room. "who's there?" "please, does mrs. mitchell live here?" "top floor, back," replied the voice, and the whirr was resumed. picking her way, for the stairs were thick with mud from dirty boots and with droppings from pails, beer-cans, and milk-jugs, mrs. rowles went up the first flight. in the front room a woman's voice was scolding in strong language; in the back room a baby was wailing piteously. on the next floor one door stood open, revealing a bare room, with filthy and torn wall-paper, with paint brown from finger-marks, with cupboard-doors off their hinges, and the grate thick with rust. the visitor shuddered. through the next half-open door she saw linen, more brown than white, hanging from lines stretched across, and steaming as it dried in the room, which was that of five persons, eating, living, and sleeping in it. mrs. rowles felt a little faint; she thought that so many stairs were very trying. from this point there was nothing in the way of hand-rail; so she kept close to the wall as she carried her basket up still higher. at the door of the back room she knocked. there was a sort of scuffling noise inside, and a few moments passed before it was opened. the sisters-in-law looked at each other in amazement. rosy emma rowles, in her blue gown and straw bonnet with red roses, with her stout alpaca umbrella and her strong basket packed tight with vegetables, was an unaccustomed vision at no. ; while the pale, thin, ragged, miserable mary mitchell was an appalling representative of her former self. "mary!" "is it you, emma rowles? however did you get here?" "i came by the train from littlebourne," said mrs. rowles simply. "may i come in?" "oh, you may come in if you care to," was the bitter reply. mrs. rowles looked round her as she entered, and was so much shocked at what she saw that for a few moments she could not speak. in the middle of the room was a square table, on which lay a mass of thick black silk and rich trimmings, which even emma rowles's country eyes could see were being put together to form a very handsome mantle suitable for some rich lady. a steel thimble, a pair of large scissors, a reel of cotton and another of silk lay beside the materials. in strong contrast to this beautiful and expensive stuff was the sight which saddened the further corner of the small room. close under the sloping, blackened ceiling was a mattress laid on the floor, and on it a wan, haggard man, whom mrs. rowles supposed to be thomas mitchell, though she hardly recognized him. there was also another mattress on the floor. the blankets were few, but well-worn counterpanes covered the beds. a little washstand with broken crockery, a kettle, some jam-pots, and some medicine bottles were about all the rest of the furniture. all that she saw told mrs. rowles very plainly that her relations had fallen into deep poverty. "why, tom," she began, "i'm afraid you are ill." "been ill these two months," he replied in a weak voice. "sit down," said mrs. mitchell, pushing the best chair to her sister-in-law, and standing by the table to resume her work. "we did not know tom was ill," said mrs. rowles. "i daresay not," answered mrs. mitchell. "i would have come sooner to see him if i had known." "oh, it is no use to bother one's relations when one falls into misfortunes. it is the rich folks who are welcome, not the poor ones." "i hope you will make _me_ welcome," said mrs. rowles, "though i am not rich." "well, you are richer than we are," remarked mrs. mitchell, softening a little, "and you are welcome; i can't say more. but i daresay if you had known what a place you were coming to you would have thought twice about it. six months we have had of it. first there were the changes made at the printing-office, and then the men struck work, and there was soon very little to live on; for it's when the strike allowance doesn't come in so fast that the pinch comes." mrs. rowles looked round to see where the children could be hiding. not a child's garment was to be seen, nor a toy. "where are the children?" she asked, half fearing to hear that they were all dead. "albert has got a little place in the printing-office. he was took on when tom was laid up with rheumatic fever. juliet is gone to the kitchen to try if she can get a drop of soup or something. they only make it for sick people now the hot weather has set in. florry and tommy and willie and neddy are all at school, because the school-board officer came round about them the other day. but it is the church school as they go to, where they ain't kept up to it quite so sharp. they will be in presently." "and the baby?" "oh, the baby is out with amy. he's that fractious with his teeth that thomas can hardly put up with him in the house." mrs. rowles was now taking out the good things from her basket. she produced a piece of bacon, some beans, about a peck of peas, a home-made dripping cake, and some new-laid eggs. "edward packed it with his own hands," she explained. "he hoped you would not be too proud to accept a few bits of things from the country." "proud? me proud?" and mrs. mitchell burst into tears. "we are too hungry to be proud," said the sick man, with more interest in his tone. "they do smell good. they remind me of the country." after rubbing her eyes mrs. rowles looked about for a saucepan, and, having found an old one in the cupboard, began to fill it with the bacon and the broad beans. "we killed a pig in the spring," she said; "and rowles is a rare one to keep his garden stuff going." little was said while mrs. rowles cooked, and mrs. mitchell sewed, and thomas sniffed the reviving green odour of the fresh vegetables. this quiet was presently interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs. mrs. mitchell listened. "that is juliet. there! i expected it!" and a crash was heard, and a cry, and they knew that something unpleasant had happened. "there never was such a child!" said the mother; while the father moaned out, "oh, dear!" mrs. rowles went out on the landing at the top of the stairs, and saw a girl of about thirteen sitting crouched on the lower half of the double flight, beside her the broken remains of a jug, and some soup lying in a pool, which she was trying to scrape up with her fingers, sucking them after each attempt. "is that you, juliet?" said her aunt. "yes. i've spilt the soup and broke the jug." "oh, juliet, how could you?" "the jug had got no handle; that's why i came to drop it. and the soup was only a teeny drop, so it's no great loss. and the bannisters was all broke away for lighting the fires, and that's how i came to fall over; and i might have broke my leg and been took to the hospital, and i should have had plenty of grub there." the child said this in a surly tone, as if all that had happened had been an injury to her--even her escape from breaking her leg--and to no one else. "well, come up," said mrs. rowles, who would hardly have been so calm had the soup and the jug been her own; "come up and see what there is for dinner here." "_i_ don't care," said juliet, as she left the remains of the spoilt articles where they lay, and came up to the room. she was a strange-looking child, with brows knitted above her deep-set eyes, with a dark, pale skin, and dark untidy hair. "ah, you've been at it again!" cried mrs. mitchell. "well, it was my own fault to send you for it. you are the stupidest and awkwardest girl i ever come across." "then, why _did_ you send me?" retorted juliet. "i didn't want to go, i'm sure." "hush, juliet," interposed her father; "you must not speak so to your mother. here is your aunt come from littlebourne, and brought in the most splendid dinner." "i don't want no dinner," said juliet. "oh," said mrs. rowles very gently, "i thought you would help me dish it up." "i'm that stupid and awkward," said the girl, "that i should spill it and spoil it for you. if they'd let me go to a place i might learn to do better." "who would take her?" mrs. mitchell appealed to her sister; "and she ought to help her own people before wanting to go out among strangers." "yes, of course," replied mrs. rowles. "everything is like charity, and begins at home." by this time the unwonted prospect of a really hearty dinner began to soften the stern juliet, and her brows unknitted themselves, showing that her eyes would be pretty if they wore a pleasant expression. it seemed to mrs. rowles that life had latterly been too hard and sad for this girl, just beginning to grow out of the easy ignorance of childhood which takes everything as it comes; and a little plan began to form itself in the good woman's mind for improving juliet's disposition and habits. before the dinner was ready there was a loud noise of feet tramping upstairs. they were the feet of five more young mitchells; and amy's footsteps were very heavy, for she carried the baby. albert, who was in the printing-office, did not come home to dinner. though the plates and knives and forks were all out of order, and though an old newspaper acted as tablecloth, yet the meal was thoroughly enjoyed; even mitchell ate some of the beans, with a boiled egg, and said that they put new life into him. mrs. rowles's own appetite was satisfied with a slice of cake and the brightening faces around her. mrs. mitchell gave a contemptuous glance at the mantle hanging on a nail in the wall, and took the baby on her knee and danced him about; and the little fellow burst into a chuckling laugh, and thomas echoed it with a fainter and feebler one. at that precise moment there was a knock on the door. a voice said "may i come in?" and a little elderly lady put her head into the room. chapter iii. juliet mitchell. "it is miss sutton. come in, miss," said mary mitchell. the lady who came in was, in mrs. rowles's eyes, exactly like a mouse. her eyes were bright, her nose was sharp, and her clothing was all of a soft grayish-brown. and she was as quick and brisk as one of those pretty little animals, at which silly people often think they are frightened. "nearly two o'clock, mrs. mitchell. now, if you can get the children off to school, i have something important to say to you, and only ten minutes to say it in. bustle away, my dears," she said to the children. after a little clamouring they all went off except juliet and the baby. "don't you go, juliet," said mrs. rowles; "i want to speak to you presently, before i go home." "then, juliet," said her mother, "do you think you could carry baby safely downstairs, and sit on the door-step with him until miss sutton goes away?" "i shall be sure to bump his head against the wall; i always do," was juliet's sulky reply. "oh, you must try not to do so," put in miss sutton. "and you might put his head on the side away from the wall," said mrs. rowles cheerfully. "i might," returned juliet in a doubtful voice; "but that would be on the wrong arm." "the wrong arm will be the right arm this time;" and mrs. rowles laid the baby on juliet's bony right arm, and both children arrived safely on the door-step within three minutes. "now," said miss sutton, "who may this good woman be?" "my brother's wife from littlebourne, miss; and she brought us a real good dinner, and we are all truly thankful. amen." "you come to a poor part of london," said miss sutton; "and i am not going to say but that the poverty is deserved, part of it, at all events. there was thomas mitchell, aged twenty-three, getting good wages as a journeyman printer. there was mary rowles, parlour-maid at the west-end, costing her mistress at the rate of fifty pounds a year, aged twenty-one. because they could keep themselves comfortably they thought they could keep ten children on thomas's wages. so they got married, and found they could not do it, not even when the ten was reduced to eight. because a gentleman can keep himself comfortably on a hundred and fifty pounds a year, does he try to keep a wife and ten children on it?" "oh, yes, ma'am," said mrs. rowles, thinking that she ought to say something, and yet not knowing what to say. "oh, no, no," murmured mary mitchell. "of course not," pursued miss sutton. "he says, 'what i have is only enough to keep myself, so i had better not marry.' do you know why i have not married?" "no, miss," replied mrs. mitchell, getting to work again on the mantle. "because the man i liked had not enough to keep a wife and family; he looked before he leaped. he never leaped at all; he never even proposed to me point-blank, but it came round to me through a friend. but you working-people, you never look, and you always leap, and when you have got your ten children and nothing to feed them on, then you think that the gentlefolks who would not marry because they had not enough to keep families on, are to stint and starve themselves to keep _your_ families. does that seem fair?" mrs. mitchell stitched away; the others did not reply. miss sutton went on: "if i had ten children, or even two children, i could not afford to give you what i do." here she put down a half-crown on the table. "now, listen to a plan i have in my head. you know, mrs. mitchell, what we west-end ladies have to pay for our mantles, even the plainest and simplest we can get; two guineas and a half, and upwards to any price you like to name. you also know what you receive for making them." "yes, miss, i do;" and mrs. mitchell shook her head. "how much is it?" "i get ninepence; some of the women only get sevenpence halfpenny." mrs. rowles could not believe her ears. "well, say ninepence. now, i and some of my friends are going to buy the materials, and pay you for the work just the difference between the cost of materials and the price we should pay in a shop. do you see?" "yes, miss, i see; but it won't do," and mrs. mitchell shook her head again. "why not?" "because ladies like to go to a shop and see hundreds of different mantles, and choose the one they like best." "we shall have dozens of paper patterns to choose from, and the cutting-out will be done by a friend of mine who is very clever at it. i shall begin by ordering my winter mantle at once. i shall give about eight shillings a yard for the stuff; three yards makes twenty-four shillings; then some braid or something of the sort, say six yards at two shillings; that is twelve; twenty-four and twelve are thirty-six; a few buttons and sundries, say five shillings; thirty-six and five are forty-one. i shall give you seven shillings for the work, and i shall have a handsome mantle for two pounds eight shillings. better than ninepence, and finding your own cotton and sewing-silk. eh?" "yes, miss sutton; it is very kind of you. but it won't do. there are too many of us women; and you ladies, you all like to go shopping." "you see," said miss sutton, turning to mrs. rowles, "what we want to do is to get rid of the _middleman_. we are going to try if we can persuade the great shop-keepers to come face to face with the people who actually do the work. i don't know how we shall succeed, but we will make an effort, and we will keep 'pegging away' until we get something done. and, one word more, mrs. mitchell; do not bring juliet up to the slop-work trade. get her a situation. when your husband is strong again and goes to work, then set the girl up with some decent clothes, and we will find her a little place." "she wants a little place," said mrs. mitchell; "but there's no place hereabouts. our clergyman says he has nine thousand people in his parish, all so poor that his own house is the only one where there is a servant kept." "you don't say so!" cried mrs. rowles, unable to keep longer silence. "why, with us there are laundresses that keep servants! and many little places for girls--minding babies and such like." "ah, in the country," said miss sutton; "i daresay. oh, this dreadful, ravenous london; it eats up men, women, and children! well, i must go on to another house. good-bye, good-bye." as the lady went away mrs. rowles asked, "where does she come from?" "she lives in a street near hyde park. she and many other ladies, and gentlemen too, have districts in the east-end, because there are no ladies and gentlemen here who could be district visitors; there are only poor people here." emma rowles thought deeply for a few minutes, while mary mitchell stitched away. thomas mitchell had raised himself up, and was saying, "i shall soon be much better. i feel i am going to be strong again. emma rowles has given me quite a turn." "don't say that, tom; it is rude," whispered his wife. "i mean a turn for the better, a turn for the better." "i wish, oh, i wish," mrs. rowles burst out, "how i wish i could turn you all out into the country! fresh air, fresh water, room to move about! where the rain makes the trees clean, instead of making the streets dirty, like it does here. though we have mud up to your eyes in the country too; but then it is sweet, wholesome mud. ah! what is that?" a noise of confused voices rose from the street, and mrs. mitchell ran to the window. but these attics were not the whole size of the house, and the window was set so far back that she could not see the pavement on her own side of the street. "it is that juliet again, i'll be bound! there never was such a girl for getting into scrapes! she seems to have no heart, no spirit, for doing better." with a hopeless sigh mrs. mitchell went back to the mantle. her sister could not take things so easily. she was not used to the incessant cries and outcries, quarrels, accidents, and miseries of a great city. mrs. rowles ran swiftly down the sloppy stairs to the open door, there she found juliet leaning against the railings, while the baby lay sprawling on the step. "whatever is the matter?" asked mrs. rowles, breathless with fear. "nothing," was juliet's reply. "but i heard loud voices." "that was only when miss sutton walked on baby." "poor little fellow! how did that happen?" "oh, i don't know; he just slipped off my lap at the very moment that she was coming out. he's not hurt." mrs. rowles picked up the baby to make sure that he was not injured, and found no mark or bruise. "but his spine might be hurt, or his brain, without there being any outside mark. i am afraid you are very careless." "yes, i am. i don't care about nothing." "now, that's not at all pretty of you, juliet." "don't want it to be pretty." "and it's not kind and nice." "don't want to be kind and nice." "and i am afraid people will not love you if you go on like this." "don't want people to love me." mrs. rowles knew not how to soften this hard heart. "juliet, don't you want to help your sick father and your hard-working mother, and all your hungry little brothers and sisters?" "no, i don't. i want to go away from them. i want to have mutton-chops and rice puddings like we used to have when there was not so many of us; and merino frocks, and new boots with elastic sides; and the crystal palace." "oh, you would like to leave home?" "yes, i would. they worrit me, and i worrit them." "oh, poor child, poor child!" the kind-hearted emma rowles made curious little noises with her tongue and her teeth, and toiled again up the staircase with baby in her arms, and juliet silently following as she went. mrs. rowles framed short, unworded prayers for guidance at this present crisis; and when she stood again in her sister-in-law's room her resolve was taken. she put the baby into his father's arms. "there, thomas, i do hope you will get about soon. do you think your trade is a healthy one? my ned, he always says that it is bad to work by night, and bad to sleep by day, says he." "emma rowles," was mitchell's sharp rejoinder, "does your ned ever read a newspaper?" "yes, most every day. them passing through the lock often give him a _standard_ or a _telegraph_." "then he'd better not find fault with the printers. if the public would be content with evening papers, we printers might keep better hours." "there now!" said mrs. rowles, venturing on a short laugh "do you know, i never thought of when the morning papers get printed." "there's a many as thoughtless as you, and more so." mitchell laughed scornfully. his wife also laughed a very little, and baby chuckled as if he too thought his aunt's ignorance of the world very amusing; but none of these laughs moved juliet even to smile. then emma rowles began to tie her bonnet-strings, and to pull her mantle on her shoulders. "i will take back the empty basket, please," she said. "and, thomas,--mary,--i want you to let me take something else." "there's not much you can take," said thomas. "will you lend me one of your children?" "oh, not my precious, precious baby-boy!" cried mary, throwing aside the mantle. "he's the only baby we've got now!" "no, not baby; i should be rather afraid of him. but one of the others." "well--" and mrs. mitchell hesitated. "take me," said juliet, in a low, hard voice. "i'm that stupid and awkward and careless that i'm no good to anybody. and i don't want to learn, and i don't want to be good. all i want is mutton-chops and puddings, and new boots." her sullen little face stared at her aunt with a look of stolid indifference on it. was it possible that poverty had pinched her child's heart so hard as to have pinched all softness and sweetness out of it? mrs. rowles's heart was full of softness and sweetness. "may i take juliet home with me? i can't promise mutton-chops, but there will be beans and bacon. and boots perhaps we can manage." "i don't like parting with any of them. though, to be sure, florry can mind baby; or even little amy can. juliet, my child, shall i let you go?" and mrs. mitchell clasped the girl in her arms, and tears streamed down the mother's face, while juliet stood as stony and unmoved as ever. "she's got no clothes for going on a visit," said mitchell. "she can have some of my girl's; they are just of a size." "all right, then, emma. you're a good sister, you are. not one of my people has come forward like this. they are all so high and mighty and so well-to-do in the world, they can't turn their eyes down so low as me and mine. but you've give me a turn for the better, emma rowles. you'll see i'll be at work on monday night, if not sooner." juliet being lent to her, mrs. rowles felt that she might now proceed on her homeward journey, which would occupy some three hours. so, after affectionate farewells she set off, her basket hanging on one arm and her niece hanging on the other; and they clambered into omnibuses, rushed over crossings and under horses' heads, ran full tilt against old gentlemen, and caught themselves on the hooks and buttons of old ladies, in a way which juliet alone would never have done. but mrs. rowles, being unused to london, was more fussy and hurried than any londoner could ever find time to be. chapter iv. the "pretty churchyard." it was late in the day when the aunt and niece seated themselves in the train for littlebourne. mrs. rowles counted up her money, and then counted up the time. "it will be eight o'clock before we get home," she remarked; "it will be getting dark and near your bed-time." "i don't care," said juliet; "i don't want to go to bed." "oh, no; but i shall be tired and sleepy. juliet, have you ever been in the country?" "no." "but you said you liked the crystal palace." "no, i didn't," was juliet's polite reply. "i beg your pardon, my dear, i thought you did." "i said," explained juliet, slightly abashed by her aunt's courteous manner--"i said i wanted to go to the crystal palace. father said once that he would take us on a bank holiday, but then we got poor, and so he never kept his word. we always have been poor, we never had mutton-chops but only three times; and now we are poorer than we used to be, and we don't even get rice puddings." "well, i'll try and give you rice puddings, and suet ones too." "oh, i don't care," said the child relapsing into her usual manner; "i don't want your puddings." the carriage soon filled with other passengers, and there came over mrs. rowles a slight sensation of shame when she saw how they glanced at juliet in her patched frock and untidy hat. and the neat country-woman felt that to walk with this london child through the village of littlebourne, where every creature, down to the cows and cats and dogs, all knew the lock-keeper's wife, would be a great trial of courage. it was only now that mrs. rowles realized the condition of many of the working-class (_so called_, for harder work is done by heads than by hands) in the great city, who yet are not what is known as "poor." the mitchell family had drifted away from the rowles family. a letter now and then passed between them, but rowles had held such a prejudice against mitchell's employment that really no intercourse had taken place between the two families. mrs. rowles had been drawn, she knew not how, but by some sort of instinct, to visit her brother-in-law this day; and she had further been impelled to offer juliet a trip to the country. but now she almost regretted it. juliet sat opposite her aunt, looking out blankly at the houses as the train passed through the western suburbs. after a while she stood up at the window. fields and trees were beginning to be more frequent than at first. soon the houses became rare, and the fields continuous. juliet's lips were muttering something which mrs. rowles could not hear in the noise made by the train. she leaned forward to the child. "what do you say?" "pretty churchyard!" said juliet. "_what_ do you say?" "pretty churchyard' pretty churchyard!" "whatever do you mean, my child!" "i mean, this churchyard is bigger and prettier than the churchyards in london, where i used to play when i was little." mrs. rowles's eyes filled with tears. she understood now that juliet had only known trees and flowers by seeing them in the churchyards of london, disused for the dead, and turned into gardens--grim enough--for the living. and so to the child's mind green grass and waving boughs seemed to be always disused churchyards. such sad ignorance would seem impossible, if we did not know it to be a _fact_. "but, juliet, these are fields. grass grows in them for the cows and sheep to eat, and corn to make us bread, and flowers to make us happy and to make us good." juliet did not reply. she gazed out at the landscape through which they were passing, and which was growing every moment more soft and lovely as the sky grew mellower and the shadows longer. she almost doubted her aunt's words. and yet this would be a very big churchyard; and certainly there were cows and sheep in sight, and there were red and white and yellow flowers growing beside the line. so she said nothing, but thought that she would wait and find out things for herself. at littlebourne station mrs. rowles and juliet alighted. the ticket-collector looked hard at juliet, and the cabman outside the gate said, "got a little un boarded out, mrs. rowles?" mrs. rowles shook her head and walked on. she bethought herself of a means by which to avoid most of her neighbours' eyes. she would go round the field way, and not through the village. it was a much prettier walk, but rather longer. "are you tired, juliet?" she asked kindly. "of course i am." "well, we shall soon be home now." "it don't matter," said the child; "i'm 'most always tired." they went through some pasture-fields where cows lay about quiet and happy, and through corn-fields where green wheat and barley rustled in the evening breeze. "you're right," muttered juliet; "it ain't all churchyard, 'cause they don't have cows and green flowers in churchyards." "do you like the country, my dear?" "i don't know yet. i ain't seen any shops, nor any mutton-chops." "well, you shall see them all by and by. now we are going through a farmyard, where you will see cocks and hens, and perhaps some little pigs." but before they had time to look for either pigs or poultry they heard a succession of alternate fierce growls and short shrieks, and both mrs. rowles and juliet stopped short. the growls seemed to be those of a big dog, and the shrieks those of a little girl. both sounds came from an inner yard of the farm, through which there was a public right of way. something in the shrieks made mrs. rowles's cheek turn pale, and something in the growls made juliet's face flush red. "oh, dear!" cried mrs. rowles, "it is some child in danger!" [illustration: juliet seized the dog by his collar.] "it is some horrid cruel dog!" said juliet. the aunt went cautiously through the gate into the inner yard, and the niece rushed through it boldly. what they saw was indeed alarming. little emily rowles was in a corner of the wall, shut in there on one side by a great high kennel, and on the other side by the huge mastiff who belonged to the kennel. he lay on the ground, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on the child; and whenever she made the slightest movement he growled in the fiercest manner. no wonder she uttered cries of dread and despair. before mrs. rowles could think what was best to do, juliet had done it. fearless, because she did not understand the danger, juliet rushed at the dog, seized him by his collar, and with all her strength pulled him away from the corner. he was so astonished at finding himself thus handled that all his fierceness, half of which was pretended, died out of him, and he looked up wildly at the new-comer, and forgot the other girl whom he had been bullying with such pleasure. emily had leaped into her mother's arms, and was sobbing with excitement and relief. "my child! my darling! how did it happen? how came you to get caught by that brute? how came you to be here at all?" emily was still unable to reply. her mother carried her to a bench at the other side of the yard, and soothed her until she was calm again. but juliet stood beside the dog; he was ashamed of himself, and he bowed to a will stronger than his own. he felt that she was not afraid of him, and he was afraid of her. not that he had had any intention of really hurting emily; but it had seemed to him great fun, after doing nothing all day but doze in the shade, to keep a child in custody, and hear her cries for help. "what made you come here, emily?" said mrs. rowles again. "oh, father said philip and i might come and meet you. and we did not know which way you would come, so philip went by the road and i came by the fields." "but how did you get over by the dog's kennel?" "oh, he was inside it, and i thought he was asleep. so i just went up to look in at him, and he bounced out and shut me into the corner; and he growled horribly, and would not let me come out." "poor child! and all the folks in the hay-field, i suppose, and not a creature within call. i've often told you, emily, not to go near strange dogs." "yes, mother, i know. it was my own fault." "and if i had not happened to come this way--" "i must have stayed there till the folks came from the hay-field. i should have pretty near died of fright. mother, who is that little girl?" then mrs. rowles remembered her niece. juliet had remained within a few paces of the dog, and stood like a statue, looking straight before her, as if she did not wish to see mrs. rowles and emily. her face was pale now, her mouth set, and her brows knitted with their most sullen expression. her aspect was anything but attractive. "come here, juliet, my dear," her aunt called out. "let me thank you and kiss you." juliet did not stir. "i want to thank you and--" emily, clasped in her mother's arms, could not bring herself to add "kiss you." "i don't want no thanks and no kisses," said the london child. "oh, but you have been so brave and good." "i'm not a screaming coward like _her_," said juliet; "that's all. are we going to stay here all night?" emily whispered to her mother, "who is she?" "your poor cousin from london. you must be _very_ kind to her, poor girl; she is _so_ disagreeable." emily looked with a sort of awe at her sullen cousin. then mrs. rowles set her own child on the ground, and went and put her hand on juliet's shoulder, saying, "emily wants to thank you for being so brave. you _have_ a spirit of your own!" juliet coloured as if angry at being praised, and said, "it ain't no use to have a spirit when you are stupid and awkward. i tore my sleeve with pulling at that dog." "oh, that is nothing; that can be mended. now we must be getting home, or father will wonder where we are." they went through the gate at the further side of the farm, and came out into fields. in one of these, but at a little distance, they saw the farmer and all his men and maids busily turning over the hay that it might be well dried by the early sun next morning. juliet asked no questions, though she was surprised at every step by strange country customs; and it did not cross the minds of mrs. rowles and emily to explain what they themselves knew so well. indeed, emily was still trembling from the fright she had undergone, and mrs. rowles's thoughts were fully occupied. they came to a stile over which they climbed, juliet so awkwardly that she slipped into a ditch among sting-nettles. "oh, the horrid things!" she exclaimed; "they've bitten me!" "it is only nettles," said her aunt; "you've got stung." "i see the marks of their teeth," persisted juliet, rubbing the little spots made by the nettles. emily would have laughed at her cousin, but that she felt too much depressed by her own adventure. and then they were on the towing-path, and the great river, all glowing with the reflected gold and red of the sunset sky, was gliding past them on its peaceful way. "there!" said mrs. rowles, "do you know what that is, juliet?" "a river." "yes, it is the thames," "no, it ain't; not my thames." "yes, my dear; though you do contradict me, it is the thames for all that." "i know the thames well enough," said juliet; "it is twice as broad as this. and it is all inky-like; and it has wharves and smoky chimneys and steamboats and masts all over it. this ain't no thames; i know bettor than that." "oh, but, cousin juliet," emily put in, "the thames is young here, and it is old at london. some day you will get old, and once on a time mother was a little girl like you." still unconvinced the london child made no rejoinder. mrs. rowles began to cross to the lock-house by the planks of the lock. "come carefully, juliet, you are not used to this." juliet marched across the narrow bridge with firm foot and steady eye. emily followed nervously. on the island they found mr. rowles; and philip, who, not meeting his mother on the road from the station, had hurried home again. he and his father stared at juliet. "well, i never!" cried mr. rowles. "whom have we here?" "oh, ned," said his wife soothingly, "it is your own little niece, juliet mitchell. i thought you'd like to have her here a bit, seeing as they are none too well off, and she's never been in the real country at all till now." rowles whistled doubtfully. he stood there in his shirt sleeves, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and his black straw hat pushed back on his head. his eyes were fixed on his niece's face with a gaze of inquiry, and a sort of dislike seemed to grow up in his heart and in hers. "oh, very well," he said, at length. "where's your box?" juliet did not know what he meant. "where's your box--your luggage?" "haven't got any," said juliet. "then where's your sunday frock?" "haven't got one," said juliet; "it's at the pawn-shop." rowles whistled more fiercely. "i say, emma, i'll be bound you found that fellow mitchell in bed--now, didn't you?" "yes, ned, i did; because--" "i knew it. and i never knew any good come of lying in bed by day and sitting up at night to do your work, or pretend to do it." "but that is his business, ned." "then it is a bad business, say i." "and people must have morning papers. besides, thomas is ill." "and likely to be ill, i should say, sleeping by day and working by night." mrs. rowles drew her husband aside to tell him quietly the condition in which she had found his sister. he was softened by the sad story, but persisted in thinking that all mitchell's misfortunes arose from the fact that he worked by night and slept by day. "it is going against nature," he said. "why, the sun shows you what you ought to do. you don't catch the sun staying up after daylight or going down in the morning." "but the moon and stars are up by night," said mrs. rowles laughing. "the moon's a she; and as for the stars, they are little uns, and children are always contrary." mr. rowles grew good-tempered over his own wit, and at length allowed that thomas mitchell's mode of life was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. then he said that he had not had any idea that the mitchells were badly off; he had only been to see them twice since their marriage, when they had appeared to be comfortable. and he had always supposed that money was to be had in london almost for the asking. in fact, he was one of the old-fashioned sort, and never troubled himself about london ways; and he did not think his sister's affairs any concern of his. but if mary was so badly off, and it was a help to her to get juliet out of the way, why juliet might stay as long as she liked. one mouth more would not make much difference. he could not say fairer than that, could he? mrs. rowles was quite content with the fairness of his speech; and she went into the house, brought out from her cupboard some odds and ends for supper, and then lighted the lamp and called in her husband and the children. "suppose you say grace, juliet," said mr. rowles. he quite expected to find that she did not know what he meant. but she spoke the right words clearly and reverently. when they had nearly finished their supper, rowles suddenly turned to juliet, saying, "your father has his supper along of your breakfast, don't he?" "yes," replied juliet, "when we have a breakfast." "don't you always have a breakfast?" "most days, when mother has got on with her work." rowles turned away. a cry of "lock-man! hie! lock-man!" sounded on the calm evening air. rowles went out, and his voice was heard in conversation with that of another man; then the lifting up of the sluices broke the stillness, and the creaking of the lock-gate as it opened. after that rowles came in again, laughing scornfully. "it was the chap that slipped into the water this morning. he is a persevering chap, to be sure. he says he is determined to learn to row, and to swim, and to punt, and to fish. and he went down this afternoon, and now he's gone up, and he is dead-beat already; and how he'll get home he can't tell for the life of him. why, he knows just as much about boating as juliet there. i'd like to see him and her double sculling. they'd just be a pair, they would." juliet listened to everything but said little, and when she was ordered off to bed she silently followed emily up to the attic, where mrs. rowles had already contrived to make a second little bed on the floor. after she was in bed juliet listened for a long while to the roar of the weir, wondering at what she thought must be distant thunder. then the occasional twitter of a bird, or the soft lowing of a cow, or the splash of a fish leaping in the river, disturbed her from her thoughts and startled her. and once, when all was very dark and very silent, she heard the regular pulse of oars, and the clanking of chains, and the creaking of wood, and subdued voices; and she imagined robbers. but all became quiet again; and at last, at last, her ideas grew confused, and she fell asleep. chapter v. on the river how wonderful the country seemed to the london child! everything was strange and beautiful. and though juliet would not confess how surprised she felt, yet by little looks and words her aunt and cousins knew that she was taking in fresh ideas every minute. they asked her how she slept. she replied that she could not sleep well because it was so dreadfully quiet; if it had not been for the noise of the "buses" a long way off, and those folks that came home late and creaked their door, she would not have been able to go to sleep at all. "my ears was all stretched like," said juliet, "and wanted something to work on." when they told how the distant _buses_ was the roar of the weir, and the late-comers a party of gentlemen managing the lock for themselves, she tried to appear as if she quite understood, but she did not succeed. "some of them stay out late and let themselves through at a.m., and some of them get up early and let themselves through at a.m., but it is none of my business to get out of bed for pleasure-boats." thus said mr. rowles. "who are _they_?" asked juliet. "oh, the folks on the river. you'll see plenty of them if you stay here long enough." juliet was not much the wiser; she had heard of mermaids, and thought at first that the folks on the river must be of that race of beings. but she waited to see. then mrs. rowles said that juliet must make herself useful, and might begin by fetching some water from the well. juliet did not know what a well might be; but she took up a jug and went out to the riverside. there was a boat pulled up to the bank on the side of the island away from the towing-path, and as all she thought about was the fact that she was to bring water, she climbed into the boat, over the thwarts, and up to the stern. as she crept along she saw in the shadowed water at the side of the boat a vast number of little fish playing together, and, like any other child, she wanted to catch some of them. she dipped the jug down among them, as she supposed, but alas! instead of winning the minnows she lost the jug! the handle grew slippery when wet, and away it went out of her hand, falling with a crash on a big stone, and lying in fragments on the gravel beneath the water. juliet was in consternation. "i say, what a scolding i shall get! even mother used to scold a little sometimes when i smashed so much crockery. and aunt emma--and that dreadful cross uncle rowles--!" the child gasped for breath, but returned indoors where her aunt was putting away the remains of the breakfast. "why, juliet, child, you look scared. have you fetched the water?" "no, aunt; 'cause i've broke the jug." "broke the jug! what jug?" "the jug i took to get the water in. as soon as ever i put it in the river it just slipped away and went into pieces." "dear, dear! which jug was it?" "it was a yellow one with blue flowers on it." "oh, that one!" and mrs. rowles's face cleared. "if it was only that old one with the broken spout and the cracked handle i really don't care a bit." "i am always so unlucky with crockery," said juliet. "i've broke enough in my time to pave cheapside--jugs and cups and basins." "oh, child!" said her aunt, shocked at the exaggeration. "that's what the people in our house used to say every time i broke anything. i'm always unlucky." "well, never mind; this time you've been very clever. that yellow jug was horrid ugly, and being shabby at the spout and the handle, i often wished it would get itself broken instead of the pretty new ones. i'm quite glad you've broken it; i think you were very clever to break that one." so said the kind aunt, hoping to soothe juliet's sorrow for her awkwardness and carelessness. this sort of praise was quite new to the child. to be praised instead of reproved for her stupidity, to be met with smiles rather than sighs, was something so uncommon that juliet almost believed that she really had done a clever and useful deed. after a few minutes she quite believed it, and held up her head, taking credit for her breakage which was so clever and so amusing. then mrs. rowles called emily and bade her take juliet to the well and show her how to draw a bucket of water. a loud scream was heard, and mrs. rowles's heart almost ceased beating, so fearful was she that one of the children had fallen into the well. she ran out to the back of the house, and saw the two girls standing together with consternation on their faces. it appeared that juliet had insisted on lowering the bucket by the windlass, and that, by some awkward mischance, she had let it fall off the hook, and there it lay at the bottom of the well, and there seemed to be no means of getting it back again. this time mrs. rowles could not find any consolation for juliet on the subject of her stupidity. "i always do let things drop," said the child, keeping back tears of vexation. "once i let baby drop, and once i let a loaf drop in the mud that the scavengers had swept to the side of the road. i'm too stupid and awkward for the country. i'd better go back to london where it does not show so much among such a many more awkward people." mrs. rowles put aside all juliet's remarks, and emily was anxious to know what kind of things "scavengers" might be, and when mr. rowles could be spared from the lock he brought a punting pole, and after a good deal of trouble fished up the bucket. he called juliet a little idiot; and philip remarked that girls never could do anything, especially london ones, who are always so conceited and stuck-up. poor juliet felt very unhappy. there was no use in trying to do better; all her relations were joined together against her. her father and mother had sent her away because she was so stupid, and now her uncle and aunt did not want her. well, she did not care. she did not ask them to have her on a visit; they must put up with her ways if they chose to have her. "juliet," said mrs. rowles, "do you know what radishes are?" "yes." "then will you pull some from the lot that are growing near the pig-sty? i like the white ones best." juliet made no answer, but marched out into the garden and presently returned with a bunch of turnips. "oh, my dear child, but those are not radishes! you did not find those near the pig-sty." "no." "i am afraid you did not attend to what i said. i am sorry you have pulled these. your uncle will be vexed." "i don't care," said juliet; "you should not send me on your errands." these unkind words made mrs. rowles feel very sad. grown people often make children unhappy, and children make grown people unhappy very, very often. it was quite certain that this sullen girl who would not take the trouble to do better, caused a great deal of annoyance to her relations. but they did not intend to get tired of her until they had given her every chance of correcting some of her faults. on the sunday they dressed her in some of emily's good clothes, and they were glad to see that she looked nice in them. she went to church in the morning with her aunt; philip and emily were with the sunday-schools. in the evening mr. rowles was able to go to church, having engaged a young man to look after the lock for a couple of hours. philip thought himself capable of managing locks and boats and punts and everything else. when they came back from church that evening he, with the two girls, got into the old boat from which juliet had dropped the poor yellow jug. "give us a row, phil," said emily. "all right, here goes'" he replied, and he untied the boat from the post to which she was fastened, and took up the sculls and off they went. it was a lovely summer evening. mr. and mrs. rowles stood on the bank of their island and watched the young voyagers. philip was quite used to boating and they had no fears. he hardly needed to pull at all, the stream took them down so quickly. juliet's ill-humour gave way when all around was so delightful. she saw the clear, rippling water, and the deep green shade under the trees, and the withies waving their tops, and forget-me-nots lying in blue patches under the bank; and larks were trilling overhead, and wagtails dabbling on the shelving gravel tow-path. "oh!" she said sighing, "it is beautiful!" they were now coming up the stream again, and keeping out of the current under the bank of an island. there were some swans lying among the withies and rushes. "what are those great white birds?" asked juliet. "don't you know swans when you see them?" was philip's retort. "no; i don't know almost nothing." "well, then, i can tell you that a blow from a swan's wing will break a man's leg, and a peck from a swan's bill would knock out both your eyes. hie! swish!" and philip pulled the boat as close as he could to the swans, who instantly grew very angry, and stretched out their long necks, hissing loudly, and flapped their great wings on the water. emily gave a shriek, and threw herself to the further side of the boat, in terror lest the swans should strike her or peck at her. her sudden movement sent the boat deep into the water on her side, and juliet thought they would be upset. but she was not so frightened as to lose her wits. she did not like the swans, but the danger of being drowned was greater than that of being pecked; and to keep the boat steady she leaned over on the side of the birds, while philip, also alarmed, gave a few strong strokes, and placed them beyond further peril. "emily," he said, "how could you be so stupid? don't you know that you must always sit still in a boat?" "yes," she answered, half crying; "but you frightened me so about the swans." "girls never can take a bit of fun. and if juliet had not leaned the other way so as to balance you, we might all have been in the water, and the swans would have got you, and you might never have seen littlebourne eyot again." at this emily cried outright. juliet asked philip what he meant by an eyot. he told her that an island in the thames is called an _eyot_ or _ait_; and he also said that she had more sense than most girls, and if she liked he would teach her how to row, which some women can do almost as well as men. "i should think i could do it without being taught," said juliet. "no, you could not. you would catch crabs, and you would feather in the air, and you would run into the banks, and go aground on the shallows, and be carried over the weirs." "i should not care," said juliet. "i could eat the crabs, and make a pillow of the feathers; i am not afraid." "you have a good deal of pluck for a girl," said philip; "but don't you get playing with boats, or you will come to grief." "i sha'n't ask _your_ leave," said juliet. "i sha'n't give it," replied philip with a rough laugh. and juliet spoke no more, but knitted her brows fiercely. when the children landed at the lock, and told of the adventure with the swans, mrs. rowles was profuse with praise of juliet's presence of mind. in fact she was almost too profuse, and wishing to encourage her niece ran the risk of making her conceited. juliet's brows grew smooth, her eyes brightened, her head rose higher. "oh, well," she said aside to emily, "it is not so difficult to manage a boat if you have your wits about you. when people give way and lose their wits, then it is dangerous, if you like." which remarks seemed to emily extremely sensible, but to philip, who overheard them, extremely foolish. during the next week mrs. rowles felt that juliet was improving in temper and conduct; praise was doing the child good she thought. she did not know that it was also doing her harm. one day a letter and a parcel came for juliet. the letter was from her mother, full of good news. mr. mitchell had gone to work again; she had herself made a summer mantle for one of miss sutton's friends, and had been paid four and sixpence for it. albert had got a rise of a shilling a-week; and baby's cheeks were getting to have quite a colour. mrs. mitchell was sure that juliet was very good and very happy, and making herself useful to her aunt and uncle. and when they could spare her to come back to london she must get a little place, and earn her own living like a woman. if mrs. mitchell had any fresh troubles since juliet left home, she did not mention them in her letter. then the parcel--ah! that came from miss sutton and some of her friends at the west-end. it contained nice articles of clothing. a pair of strong boots, two pink cotton pinafores, some few other things, and a clean, large-print prayerbook. juliet's face grew so happy over her letter and her presents that, to mrs. rowles surprise, it became quite pretty. this was the first time that she had perceived how the girl's ill-tempered countenance spoilt her really good features. "is she like her father or her mother?" mr. rowles inquired of his wife. "but there! she can't be like her father--a pasty-faced, drowsy fellow, always sleeping in the daytime, and never getting a bit of sunshine to freshen him up. not like some of them, camping out and doing their cooking in the open air, and getting burnt as black as gipsies. there they are--at it again!" and he went out to the lock. there were two boats waiting to go down. the people in one of them were quite unknown to rowles, but in the second was that middle-aged man who was so determined to learn to row. "how are you getting on, sir?" asked rowles. "easier work now, ain't it?" the man seemed unwilling to reply. he had an oar, and with him was a youth in a suit of flannels pulling the other oar, while on the seat sat an elderly gentleman steering. "did you find it very hard at first?" said the lad to his colleague. "yes, i did, mr. leonard; and i don't find it any too easy now." the old gentleman laughed. "well, roberts, take it coolly going down stream, and reserve your energies for coming up. i say, lock-keeper, i am told that you let lodgings; have you any rooms vacant?" "my missus has two rooms, sir," replied rowles, as he leaned on the great white wooden handle while the lock was emptying through the sluices of the lower gates. "there is a gentleman who generally comes in august, being an upper-class lawyer and can't leave his work till the best of the summer is over, just like printers who lie in bed all day and work all night." "don't say a word against printers," said the old gentleman laughing. "that won't do, will it leonard?" "no, father," the youth replied. "so, as i was saying," rowles went on, "he comes here every august and september, and letters come by the bushel with q.c. on them; and young walker--the postman, you know--would just as soon he staid in london. but before august and after september mrs. rowles has a tidy little sitting-room and bed-room, if so be as you know anyone would be likely to take them." "i was only thinking," said the gentleman, "that the hotel is rather too expensive--" by this time the boat had floated near to the lower gates. "hold her up! hold her up!" cried rowles, "or i can't open the gates. not you, sir," he added to the stranger who was sculling the other boat; "but you, i mean, mr. robert." for rowles had caught the name of the servant who was so persevering on the river. "all right," returned roberts; "give mr. burnet the ticket, please." rowles stooped down and gave the old gentleman the ticket for the lock, and then the two boats passed out into the open stream. the lock-keeper went indoors to ask if dinner was ready. "quite ready," was mrs. rowles's cheerful reply. "call the children in, will you, ned?" he went out by the backdoor into the garden, and saw how the sky was clouding up from the south-west. "rain coming; bring on the scarlet-runners and the marrows. phil-lip! emil-ly! jule-liet! come in to dinner." then philip appeared, hot and tired from digging; and emily came with some needlework at which she had been stitching in the intervals of watching her brother. the holidays had begun, and they were thoroughly enjoyed by these children. "and where is juliet?" "i don't know," answered emily. "well, you must bring her in. mother says dinner is quite ready." "i think she must be in our bed-room," and emily went upstairs to seek her cousin, and to wash her own dusty little hands. but juliet was not in the attic. "then she must have gone into the lodgers' rooms," said mrs. rowles. but there was no sign of her in those shut-up rooms; no sign of her anywhere in the house, nor in the garden, nor on the eyot at all, nor on the towing-path as far as could be seen. "what can have become of her?" chapter vi. missing! "well, well," said mr. rowles, "never mind; we must eat our dinners without her. she would not miss her share of this cabbage if she knew how tasty and juicy it is." mrs. rowles sat down very unwillingly. if the child was not on the island where could she be? it was very strange. "she has no idea of time," mr. rowles went on, between mouthfuls of the cabbage. "i'm not going to blame her for that; she only takes after her father, who does not know day from night." they had a dull meal, being more anxious about juliet than they cared to confess to each other. they thought she might have gone up the towing-path, or down the towing-path, or by the road towards the village, or by the fields towards the station. and at every sound from outside someone went to the door peering out with the hope of seeing the child. but an hour passed, and no juliet appeared. then her aunt became seriously anxious, dreading lest some terrible thing should have happened. "if she had fallen into the lock--" said mrs. rowles. "we should have heard her scream," said mr. rowles. "if she had been kidnapped by gipsies," said emily; "but then--" "there are no gipsies about," said philip. mrs. rowles now began to think that juliet must have set off to go home. "we have not been kind enough to her, poor child, and she can't bear it any longer." "don't talk nonsense," was rowles's reply, as he obeyed a call to the lock. "we've been too kind; and if thomas mitchell had taken to any sensible business that did not keep him up all night, thereby breaking down his health, he would be able to support his family, and there would be no need for us to bother ourselves with such a cross-grained girl as that. now, phil, off to your digging again. yes, gents, i know; how they do keep calling out for one, to be sure!" philip went out to the kitchen-garden. within a few minutes his voice was heard, loudly raised. "here! father! mother! emily! come quick! just look here!" all three responded to his call "whatever is the matter?" "why, look there! the boat is gone!" "so she is! well, i never!" and mr. rowles stared blankly at the post to which his boat was usually moored. "someone has made off with the _fairy_. that beats everything!" mrs. rowles was wringing her hands. "oh, dear, dear, dear! this is worse than i expected. she never will come home again safe!" "no," said the lock-keeper, "them that has took her are not likely to send her back; and if so be as she has drifted down by accident she will be drawn over banksome weir and be smashed. i'm glad she is only an old, worn-out thing." "an old, worn-out thing!" cried mrs. rowles, quite wildly. "a poor, dear child of twelve! what are you thinking of?" "i was thinking of the _fairy_. you don't mean, wife--" and he grew more serious--"you don't mean that you think the child was in her?" "that is what i do think, ned." "well, that is bad." "and see," cried phil, "she must have taken the sculls, for they are gone too. i know juliet thought she could manage a boat; she said so the other day." emily was crying. mr and mrs. rowles looked at each other in an agony. they knew pretty well what must happen to juliet alone in a boat. she would be carried rapidly down stream, and the current would draw the little bark to the weir, and over the weir, and it would be dashed about by the swirling rush of water, capsized, and its occupant thrown out. and nothing more would be seen of poor juliet but a white, lifeless body carried home. oh, it was too sad to think of! "what can we do? what can we do? what would her own mother do?" "hope for the best, emma," said mr. rowles. "if i had another boat i would send phil down to look for her. perhaps the next boat that goes through would let him jump into the bows." "i might run down the towing-path," said phil. "i can run pretty quick." "and if you did see her in the _fairy_ out in mid-stream, how could you get near enough to help her? no; the only chance will be to ask some of them to take you down in their boat. here they come; both ways." the lower gate of the lock was open, so that the boat coming up passed through first. rowles worked the handles as quickly as he could; standing on the bank while the lock filled he asked the two gentlemen in the boat if they had seen anything of a little girl out by herself on the river. "no," replied one of the young men; "we only started from just below littlebourne ferry. i have noticed no little girl in a boat." "nor i," added the other gentleman. "and i think i should have noticed such a person, for little girls don't often go out boating alone." "and an ignorant london child, too," groaned mr. rowles. "and many a time i told her never to think of boating by herself; but she is so obstinate and so stupid, there is no knowing what she has done. and if you gentlemen have not met her, she must have got below littlebourne ferry, and then she would be very near banksome weir, and there is no saying what has become of her." the two gentlemen looked very grave, but did not offer to turn and go down stream to look for juliet. as their boat came out of the lock another was waiting to come in. it contained mr. webster, the vicar of littlebourne, and his wife. "beg your pardon, sir," said rowles as soon as he had closed the gate above them, "would you mind if philip was to jump into your bows and go down a bit with you? because there's a girl, my niece in fact, who must have gone off in my little _fairy_, and she don't know bow oar from stroke, and if she gets alongside banksome weir she'll go over and be drowned." "oh, dear me!" said mr. webster. "how did the child come to be all alone in a boat?" "through being brought up without a grain of sense. what can you expect when the father sleeps all day so that he never can give a word of advice to his children? now, in with you, phil; and i shall be glad to see you come back--" he broke off with a cough. "i will pull as hard as i can," said mr. webster. "we must hope that by god's mercy the child will be saved." phil dropped from the bank into the boat, and the moment they were out of the lock the boat went flying down the river as fast as the current and the vicar's strong arms could send her. "she will be very wet when she comes in," said mrs. rowles; "it is beginning to rain." "she'll be pretty wet if she's been in the river," said mr. rowles. his wife heaped up the kitchen fire and put coffee on to boil, and laid some clean garments to get warm, and waited with anxious heart for some news of the missing child. emily went up to the attic and looked at the belongings of juliet, which lay on the table and hung on pegs. her cousin's real character was better known to emily than to anyone else at littlebourne lock. juliet was proud and conceited, and thought she could do whatever other people did; then, when her carelessness brought her into accidents and difficulties, she would grow very cross and angry with herself, and when reproved for her faults would say, "i don't care; i'm that stupid and awkward that i can't do anything right." emily had seen her stamping on the ground at the end of the garden after some unfortunate occurrence, and had heard her sobbing and choking in her bed after some stern words from mr. rowles. emily knew that it was not humility but wounded pride which made juliet so sullen and dull; and emily wondered if a girl who did not wish to learn, and would not condescend to be taught, could ever possibly improve. "and if she is drowned," cried emily with a burst of tears, "she can never learn anything more on earth! oh, i do pray to god to let juliet be saved, and learn, and grow better!" the sky became dark, distant thunder growled over the hill; would juliet mitchell escape the consequences of her disobedience and self-conceit? chapter vii. found! fast as mr. webster rowed, it was not fast enough for philip's anxiety. they both knew that if the _fairy_ had drifted down to banksome weir they would probably be too late to save juliet from a terrible death. on a single minute might depend the fate of the girl. mr. webster set his teeth and pulled with all his strength; mrs. webster was steering, and she kept the boat in mid-stream that it might get the full force of the current. phil knelt in the bows, keeping the sharpest look-out for any sign of his missing cousin. the damp wind blew down the river and drove them on. they passed many other boats and two or three barges, but not a sign of the _fairy_. they flew along between green banks, between hedges, trees, houses. sometimes they could see nothing more distant than a hedge, at other times the flat fields stretched back and back, and were lost at the feet of misty gray hills. but not on the river, nor on the banks, nor in the fields, could philip see juliet's figure. "how little even some grown men know about rowing!" was mr. webster's remark when he saw a heavy-looking boat with a smaller one tied to its stern coming up the middle of the stream. "it is that old gentleman who, they say, is staying at the hotel with his son, and their man-servant is sculling them up the very stiffest bit of the current." "hoorah!" shouted philip. "all right, juliet!" for on the seat beside mr. burnet, sheltered by his umbrella, sat the truant girl, while young leonard was giving roberts instructions in the art of rowing. the two boats met and came alongside. philip was so greatly relieved in mind that he almost felt inclined to cry, while juliet was silent and ashamed if not sulky. "this child has given her friends at littlebourne lock a terrible fright," said mr. webster to mr. burnet. "when they discovered that the boat was missing as well as the girl, they quite thought that both must have gone over the weir together." the vicar had brought his boat close beside mr. burnet's, and held the rowlocks of the latter while he asked questions. "is she hurt in any way?" "no, not at all. i think we came upon her just in time." "had she got down as far as the weir?" "just to the first pier which is marked with the word danger." "oh, juliet!" cried philip with a gasp. "if the _fairy_ had been drawn to the wrong side of that post--" mr. webster looked so grave, and they were all so impressed with a sense of the great peril she had incurred, that juliet's pride and coldness were broken down for once, and she sat beside mr. burnet weeping silently. "well, well," said mrs. webster, "she is tired, and i daresay hungry, and you had better get her home as quickly as you can. there is heavy rain coming up, and we must be down at egham by four o'clock if possible. i am afraid we shall be caught by the storm. philip rowles, get into this gentleman's boat, and help to take your cousin home." "and i will look in one day, little girl, and have a talk with you," said the vicar of littlebourne as he bent to his work and flew down the river, distancing the storm. leonard burnet now took an oar and roberts took the other, and they rowed hard against wind and current. mr. burnet sheltered juliet and himself as best he could against the rain, which came in heavy, uncertain dashes. philip had to sit on the planks at their feet, for the stern seat only held two. "do tell me, juliet, all that has happened to you. did the _fairy_ go adrift by accident?" "no," replied juliet through her muffled sobs. "then how did she get unmoored? i do believe she has lost a scull!" philip added, trying to examine the poor old boat which was being towed behind them. "i can't make out very well, but i think she has lost a scull and her rudder." "yes," said juliet in a husky voice. "i don't know what my father will say--" philip began. "i know what he will say," interrupted mr. burnet. "he will be so overjoyed to see his little niece again safe and sound that he will say not a word about the scull and the rudder." "he will want to know how it all happened," said philip; then he added, addressing juliet, "you will have to tell him every bit about it from beginning to end." "i can't, i won't," said juliet faintly. philip was all in a fidget to hear a full account of juliet's adventure, so he said, shaking his head, "ah, then, i should advise you to tell _me_ the story, and then i can tell it to father, and save you the trouble." "yes, juliet," added mr. burnet; "tell us the whole story." thus persuaded, the girl poured out the tale of her adventures, which had been pent up in her stubborn heart, as the waters were sometimes pent up in the lock; and then, just as the waters when they escape from the lock pour out and away in a mad foaming rush, so juliet's thoughts and words poured themselves out in a torrent when once she began to talk. "i thought--i thought--it was quite easy to manage a boat; and i thought i would just take the _fairy_ a little way, over to the opposite bank, and get some forget-me-nots and come back again." "were you not forbidden to take out the boat?" asked mr. burnet. juliet hung her head, and then lifting it said, "yes; but i did not care. i would not be ordered about by them, nor by nobody. so i got into the boat when they were all busy and untied the bit of rope from the post, and then the water made it move away quite quick. and i wanted to sit on the little seat that goes across, and i slipt and caught my shin such a crack against the edge of it, and i went down on my face on the floor; and i should have liked to call out, but i did not want anybody to know that i was gone. and when i did get on the seat and rubbed my shin-bone, which it has got the skin scratched off and sticking to my stocking, there was two great pieces of wood to be put out on each side to push the boat on with." "the sculls," philip put in. "they ain't skulls; they are more like arms, or legs perhaps. they were so heavy, and when i pulled one up from the floor and put the end of it over into the water, i found it was the wrong end, and the spoon part had come into the boat. so i got that one to go right after a fight with it, and the other one went right much sooner; and so when they were right in their sockets the boat was gone out into the middle of the water. and i _was_ frightened, i can tell you." "i should think so!" said mr. burnet. "go on," said young leonard. "and so i tried to put both the sticks in the water at the same time, but when one went down the other went up, and the one that went down made a great splash, and then got itself so much under the water that it would not come up again for a long time; and so the one that went up seemed to get stuck, and when it came down it made a worse splash than the other one, and the water jumped up and hit me in the face and made my hat all wet. and there was a great black boat as big as noah's ark going by, and three horses drawing it, and a little chimney in it, and two men, and they called out 'see-saw! see-saw!' and it was awful rude of them." "and what happened next?" "why, i thought i could get along better if i had one oar at a time; and so i took up one and put both hands to it, and dipped it down deep and pulled it hard in the water, and so the other one got loose somehow and slipped away and fell into the water. and there was a boat and people sitting in it on chairs with fishing-rods, and they did so laugh at me; and some men on the bank they laughed too, and called out something, but i don't know what they said. and then the boat went on and on, and i saw some broad white posts like you have at littlebourne weir, and the boat went up sideways tight against the posts, and i sat still and waited until somebody come by to help me." "and were you not frightened?" "i was that frightened i could not have spoke if it was ever so." "well, well, well," said mr. burnet, "here you are safe, and very thankful you must be that we came down just in time to save you. had the boat been carried over the weir you would have been drowned. but when roberts saw you he knew you were one of the littlebourne children, and my son felt sure that you were in distress." as soon as juliet had told her story she relapsed into silence; the excitement of her rescue was passing off, and the terror of her danger remained. she sat beside mr. burnet and heard the rain pattering on his umbrella, and wished she was at the lock and wished she was in london, and wished she was grown-up and doing for herself, and not so stupid and always putting other people out and making things go wrong. juliet was quite sure that though she had got into trouble with the boat, there were heaps of other things that she would be very clever about. the rain was pouring down when mr. burnet's boat arrived at littlebourne lock. cries of joy greeted juliet as soon as her relations saw her. mr. rowles was full of gruff thanks to the gentlemen, and begged the whole party to go inside the house until the rain should cease. for there was bright sky beyond the black clouds, and the shower would soon be over. so they all went into the "lodgers' rooms," as mrs. rowles called those which she was in the habit of letting, and there they sat together talking. "i am afraid," said mrs. rowles, "that juliet will never do better until she learns to be guided by the orders and the advice of other people. i used to think that she wanted encouraging and helping on, but i find that she really thinks a great deal of herself, and does not like to be told anything." "but she must and shall be told!" cried her uncle. "a bit of a girl setting herself up against her elders indeed! if she is to stay in my house she shall obey my orders. do you hear me, juliet?" "yes," answered juliet. "and your aunt's orders." "yes, as long as i am in your house." with these words juliet burst into a flood of angry tears, and kicked her heels upon the floor in a violent manner. "you had better go up to your room," said mrs. rowles gently. the girl flung herself away, slamming the door after her. "a troublesome child," said mr. burnet. "yes, sir. poor thing! there are excuses to be made for her. of late years her father has been a good deal out of work and in bad health; and then living in a close-packed part of london is trying to the temper. and she's a baby beginning to feel her feet, and beginning to feel herself getting on towards a woman. i am very sorry for her, poor child, but i don't know about keeping her with us. you don't want your whole comfort upset." "and your boat too," said rowles; "and your scull broken and lost. it's a-clearing up, i do believe," he added, going out to the front of the house, for he never stayed indoors when he could be out. roberts followed him. "where does the child come from?" mr. burnet asked of mrs. rowles. she named the street, and added, "her father is a printer, and that is one thing that makes my husband so set against her." "why so?" inquired the gentleman. "because he thinks it unhealthy and wicked-like to work by night and sleep by day, as you must when you are on a morning paper like poor thomas. you see, sir, rowles has been lock-keeper these seventeen years with eighteen shillings a-week and a house, and his hours from six in the morning to ten at night; so he always gets his money regular and his sleep regular, and he can't see why other men can't do the same." "we cannot be all of one trade," remarked mr. burnet. "and i hope he does not hold that bad opinion of all in the printing business, because i am a printer myself." "you, sir!" cried mrs. rowles, while emily opened her eyes. "i don't mean exactly in the same way as that child's father, but i am in the same line. when i was a younger man i used to sit in the office of a newspaper every alternate night to receive the foreign telegrams as they came in. it was rather trying. ah, mrs. rowles, while half the world is asleep in bed the other half is hard at work getting things ready for the sleepers when they waken. do you know that, my dear?" he finished, as he turned to emily. "yes, sir," replied emily. "the people in australia are asleep while the people in england are awake." the gentleman laughed. "i did not mean that exactly, but you are quite right, my child. yes, day and night come turn about to most of us. i am taking life easier now as i grow old. most of my work is over. it is my boy's turn to go on with the task. one wants rest after the heat and burden of the day; and it is a blessed thing when at evening time there is light, and we can think over the mistakes and the mercies of the past, and look forward to the repose and joy of the future." these words were so serious that mrs. rowles did not attempt to reply to them. and presently mr. burnet roused himself from his solemn thoughts and said brightly, "there! clear shining after rain. now, we must say good-bye and go home." while mr. burnet and mrs. rowles had been talking, roberts and the lock-keeper had also been conversing. "it is my own fault," rowles said, "and my wife's. one might know that a london girl like that would be sure to get into trouble in the country. her father's a printer; sits up all night, and naturally never has his head clear for anything." "oh, come now," replied roberts; "you are too hard on printers, you are. if they were not clear-headed i don't see how they could set up their type without more mistakes than they make. why, i've had relations myself in the printing line, and mr. burnet is a master-printer himself." "is he now?" said rowles. "that's what we're down here for. he's bought up half the _thames valley times and post_, and he wants to live near the works, and while we are looking out for a house we have to stay at the hotel. mr. leonard is going into the business too, as soon as he is old enough." roberts had just reached this point when mr. burnet came out from the house. rowles looked with more interest at the old gentleman who was in the same line with thomas mitchell, and from that moment began to think better of printers in general. the sky was rapidly clearing, so the three visitors turned the cushions of the boat, and stepping into it went through the lock, and were soon going up between the green banks and hedges, all deliciously freshened by the heavy summer rain. "he's a nice old fellow," rowles muttered to himself; "but then all printers are not like him. here, phil, see what you can do to put the _fairy_ in order again. but as for that juliet, if my wife was not so soft-hearted i would turn the girl out to run home or to get her own living." chapter viii bettering herself. juliet mitchell had gone up to the little room which she shared with emily rowles. it did not contain much furniture, and what there was had seen its best days long before. the chest of drawers had lost most of its handles; the looking-glass which stood on the drawers swung round the wrong way unless it was propped up by a book or by a box. it had swung round in this manner, but had stuck half-way. when juliet entered the room she came face to face with the glass, and consequently face to face with herself. what she saw was enough to frighten her, and did frighten her. the scowling brows, the flushed cheeks, the pushed-out lips, were more like those of some fierce and raging animal than the features of a young girl in a christian land. she stopped short and glared at her own reflection. it glared back as angrily at her. "what a horrid, ugly, cross thing, you are!" said juliet. the face in the glass said the very same words with its lips, though it made no sound. then juliet stood still and talked with herself. "you are the ugliest, the crossest, most stupid, awkward creature i ever did come near; and so i tell you plainly, juliet mitchell. since you came into this house not a thing but what is tiresome have you done. why, if your aunt was to jaw you from morning to night you would do no better; and you can't stand being jawed, you know. and your aunt just looks at you in a way that is more piercing than if she was to talk for weeks! and your uncle, he's your own mother's own brother; but there! he'd be glad enough if you was to take yourself off. and that's about the best thing you can do. take yourself off and get your own living like other girls of your age. nobody wants you, here or in london. there's a many little places going; and when you've shown that you can take care of yourself and don't want none of their advice, nor none of their money either, then won't they be pleased to get a letter from you!" like many another young girl--ay, and boy too--juliet had a great notion of independence--of getting away from advice and restraint, and of earning money for herself. in london more than in the country, girls go off and engage themselves as servants or in some other capacity, and so start alone in the world like little boats putting out on a stormy sea without sail or oar, rudder or compass. and many, many are wrecked on the first rock; and many go through wild tempests and suffer terrible hardships. a few battle through the winds and waves and reach a happy shore. had juliet asked advice of anyone, or had she knelt and implored guidance from her heavenly father, she would not have made the mad resolve which now shaped itself in her mind. it was the resolve to go away from littlebourne lock, on that side of the river which she knew least--away from her relations, from the village, from the church, from the railway, to find a situation with some stranger in a place where no one knew her; in a word, to provide for herself. as her resolve grew more fixed she felt calmer, and even pleased. smiles began to flicker over her features; and when she next looked in the glass she murmured to her reflection, "i say, you ain't so bad-looking after all!" a knock on the door roused her. mrs. rowles came in. the good aunt sat down on the foot of the bed and drew the girl towards her, putting her motherly arm round the little figure, and smoothing the ruffled hair. mrs. rowles went on to explain to juliet the great danger which she had run, and the extreme naughtiness of flat disobedience; and all the while juliet stood with a calm face and silent manner, so that her aunt thought she was penitent. but this quietness was caused by her having so fully made up her mind as to what she would do next. she let mrs. rowles speak on, and appeared meek and humble; but in reality her thoughts were not on anything that she heard. "and so," said mrs. rowles, rising at length and unclasping the sheltering arms, "when you have been with us a little longer, and have learnt a little more, we will get you a nice situation--and mrs. webster knows all the good situations that are going,--and you shall have a start in life; and i've written to your mother to tell her what i think of doing for you. we shall have her answer the day after to-morrow." juliet said coldly, "all right." "i thought you might like another frock," said mrs. rowles, "so i have been making one for you out of a gown of my own; and here are two new print aprons, and i've put a fresh ribbon on your hat. you are quite set up now, my dear." "i suppose," said juliet without thanking her aunt, "that them things are good enough for going to service." "oh yes, quite good enough--if you should happen to hear of a little place to suit you. don't you like them?" "they are right enough," said juliet. then mrs. rowles turned and went away, wondering that so young a girl should be so hard, and totally unsuspicious of the resolve which was in that young hard heart. it was a resolve which could not be put in execution at once; juliet must needs wait for a favourable opportunity. two days went by and she did not find one; then came a letter from her mother saying that if juliet could find a situation in the country it would be better than coming back to overcrowded london, where young girls in swarms were looking out for means of earning their livings. mrs. mitchell said little more; all were pretty well except baby, who was always poorly. juliet now considered that she had got a sort of permission from her mother to do what she wished to do. she thought she could defy her uncle and aunt if they found any fault with her actions. the eventful moment arrived. mrs. rowles and emily had gone to the village to buy a few things for the lodgers who were expected shortly. mr. rowles was busy at the lock; philip was going to take out the _fairy_ for her first trip after her repairs. juliet came down from the attic. she wore her new-made frock, her re-trimmed hat, and carried a parcel containing the print aprons. phil did not notice what she wore or what she carried. "take me in the boat, phil," she said coaxingly. "i thought you had had enough of the boat," he replied. "but you will be in it, this time." "oh, i don't want you," said the boy. "well, then, just set me down on the opposite bank." "i don't mind doing that; but you may have to wait a long time before i come back for you." "all right," said juliet; "i don't care how long you are." she stepped into the _fairy_, and sat quite still while philip rowed her to the far-off bank. then she got out very gravely, and sat down on the grass until he was out of sight. fields came down to the water's edge. where juliet sat there was a muddy bit of gravel shelving to the river. she did not know what made this break in the bank. it had been formed by cows and horses coming down to drink. in the field there were now no animals; had there been she would have hesitated about remaining in it. but as soon as phil had disappeared she stood and looked about her, and perceived that there was no living creature in sight, except the larks singing on high and the grasshoppers chirping among the grass. juliet walked swiftly across the field to a gate which stood open, and through which she passed. hardly had she entered the second field when she saw at the further side of it about a dozen cows. her heart fell. like most london girls she was horribly afraid of cows. yet to go back would be to undo her plan; besides the animals had already seen her, and all their heads were turned in her direction. "i must not irritate them," she thought, "and yet i must get on out of this field. if i creep along under the hedge they will not notice me." her frock was a dark green, and her hat a black one. she sidled along close to the hedge, keeping her eyes on the cows, which presently resumed their feeding. but as she did not look where she was treading she went down, splash! into a ditch. mud and duckweed covered her boots, several dirty marks were made on her frock, the parcel fell out of her hand, and probably the black stains on the paper had penetrated to the contents. this was her first misfortune. she got herself out of the ditch and went on more carefully, keeping still in the shade of the hedge. then a great spray of bramble caught a bow of ribbon on her hat and lifted the whole thing off her head. it flew up in the air, and only after repeated jumps could she get hold of it and bring it down again. this was her second misfortune. her tumblings and jumpings had attracted the attention of the cows once more, and a calf being young and inquisitive thought he would like to have a nearer view of the intruder, and began to follow juliet. this was her third misfortune. her first impulse was to run, but a second thought told her that the cows would be sure to run after her. so she did not run, but walked as fast as she could, the calf walking faster and gaining on her. she stumbled and tripped and panted, and fixed her eyes on a gate, hoping that she might reach it before the calf came up with her. on she went with terrified steps, arrived at the gate, and found it fastened. she threw the parcel over, climbed up the five wooden bars, and was going to climb down on the other side when she felt the great, warm, wet lips of the calf playing with her left ankle. she gave one screech of horror and threw herself head-foremost to the ground. it was soft and mossy, and she rose, shaken and bruised, and with a hole in the knee of each stocking. but she had escaped from the calf. the copse or wood into which she had entered was dark and cool. a pathway went curving in and out among the trees. at a sharp turn she came suddenly upon a big man with a beard, who pointed a gun full at her, and said, "stand, or i'll fire!" this was her fourth misfortune. here was a dreadful, cruel robber such as she had read about in badly-printed penny books, and he would shoot her dead in half a minute. she gave a scream and turned to run back, but the man strode after her and laid a huge hand on her shoulder. at this she screamed and danced with terror. "now, now," roared the man, "stop that row! what are you doing here?" "i want to go away!" cried juliet. "so you shall. but answer my questions first." glancing up at him juliet perceived that he was laughing. all her fears vanished and she began to laugh too. "what are you doing here?" asked the man again. "i'm only walking through the wood," said juliet, recovering her courage. "there ain't no law against that, i suppose." "yes, but there is. 'trespassers will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.' where do you come from?" "from over there," and juliet pointed behind her. "oh! and where are you going?" "over there," and she pointed before her. the man whistled. "if you're not a londoner, i'm a dutchman. you're pretty sharp, you are." "no, i ain't," said juliet, stolidly; "i'm that stupid and awkward that i can't do nothing right. so i want a general place, i do." "oh!" said the big man, laughing; "awkward and stupid wants a place. hope you'll get it, miss. well, now, look here. go right on and get out of the wood as quick as ten thousand lightnings, or else you'll be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law." juliet wriggled away from under his heavy hand and ran right ahead, thankful to escape from the gun. she came soon to the edge of the wood and found a fence easy to climb. on the other side of this she came into a lane which led out on a highroad. it was now late in the day; the sun was getting low, and the shadows grew longer and the air sweeter. she walked on quietly, thinking herself safe from pursuit. how surprised every one would be when they discovered that she had started in life by herself! perhaps they would see that she was not so stupid and awkward as they thought. "but i've got no place yet," said the girl to herself. "i must find one pretty sharp or i shall have nowhere to sleep to-night. here's two houses; either on 'em would do for me." two small brick houses stood by the roadside. they had green doors, and shutters outside the windows, and little gardens in front. "there ain't not a bit of use in being shy," said juliet to herself, her courage all the while sinking lower and lower. "i'm as bold as brass, i always was. here goes!" she walked up to the door of the first cottage and rapped on it with her knuckles. it was opened by a tall, thin, elderly woman in a high black bonnet. "what do you want?" she said. "please, missus, i want a place; general servant, like." the woman looked at her from the crown of her hat to the heels of her boots. "oh, do you? where have you been living?" "over there," said juliet. "over where?" "littlebourne way." the woman seemed to be thinking deeply. "got a first-rate character, i suppose?" "oh, well," said juliet hastily, "i've not been in a regular situation, as the saying is, but helping a friend, you know." "it's a pity you've left her," said the woman. "what wages were you getting?" juliet said, lamely enough, "i didn't have no regular wages. they kep' me, and gave me these," showing the aprons. "ah! did they send you away?" "no, missus; i just took french leave and come away when it suited me. i want to better myself." "i see. well, come in. i'll try you. my name is _bosher_. do you hear--_mrs. bosher_?" while juliet stood in the narrow passage mrs. bosher locked and bolted the door, and at every sound the poor, foolish girl grew more and more unhappy, and more cut off from all hope and all happiness. mrs. bosher's bonnet and mrs. bosher's name were enough to terrify any young person with a bad conscience. "yes," said juliet's new mistress, "my name is bosher"--here the bonnet nodded,--"and now you are my servant, and while you are in my service you will do precisely everything that i tell you. i have a brother who has a gun; sometimes he shoots rooks, sometimes he shoots--other things. he lives next door. if you do a single thing that displeases me, you shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law." juliet longed to scream, or kick, or run away; but she did not dare to move. "the utmost rigour of the law" might mean something awful: it might mean being hanged, or being shot by mrs. bosher's brother. the passage was almost dark, and juliet stood trembling beside her dreadful mistress. oh, if only it were possible to be back once more at the lock! oh, if only she could escape from this new situation! locked doors, and windows shuttered on the outside, made this cottage a very prison. the man with the gun living-next door, the unknown rigour of the law hanging over her head, mrs. bosher glaring through the twilight--how endure them even for a night? and how get away from them in the morning? she was pushed into a kitchen and bidden to wash up some cups and saucers. "and woe betide you if you break one of them!" said mrs. bosher, her bonnet nodding so strangely that it seemed to be the speaker rather than its wearer. juliet was so fearful lest she might let slip a cup or saucer that she spent about half an hour in washing the crockery. while she did this at a side table, mrs. bosher was ironing linen at the table in the middle of the room. from time to time the sharp, sensible eyes of the woman rested upon the face of the girl, and at such moments the top of the black bonnet nodded as if it were alive. when juliet had finished her task mrs. bosher said, "now, you shall have bread-and-milk for supper, and then go to bed." "i don't like bread-and-milk," returned juliet, "and it is too early to go to bed." "indeed. what do you like for supper? and at what hour do you prefer to go to bed?" "i like bread and cheese; and we went to bed at ten o'clock when uncle's work was done." the bonnet nodded faster than before. "you will eat bread-and-milk or nothing, and if your aunt let you sit up till ten o'clock i am not so foolish." a basin of the food which juliet declined to eat was set before her. she was very hungry, but having refused it already she let it lie untasted. meanwhile mrs. bosher lighted a lamp. "it is nearly nine o'clock. now you go to bed. come along." there was a door which mrs. bosher opened, revealing a flight of stairs. she pushed juliet up them, and though the girl would have liked to rebel, she did not dare to do so. in fact, she thought the wisest plan would be to go quietly up to the bed-room, and, as soon as mrs. bosher herself was in bed, to get out by the window and make her way back to littlebourne lock. there was a full moon, and the night was almost as light as the day. so she let herself be pushed upstairs into an almost empty little room in the roof, and when she heard the door locked upon her she laughed silently, thinking that the cruel woman had done the very thing her prisoner wished her to do. mrs. bosher's heavy steps went down the wooden stairs; the door of the house was opened, shut, and locked, and juliet's spirits rose when she knew that she was alone. she might as well run away at once. she looked at the window. it was in the roof--a skylight. there was no means of getting up to it, and no means of opening it that juliet could perceive. oh, she was caught in a trap! one or two large stars stared down through the small panes, and the diffused light of the moon was enough to show the girl how hopeless was her condition. she was in prison, caught, with no chance of escape. what a terrible position she had brought herself into! if her aunt could see her! if her own dear mother could see her! juliet threw herself on the little hard bed and wept bitterly. not a sound could she hear! alone, hungry, miserable! after a while her sobs ceased and she felt sleepy. she pulled up a blanket and quilt which she had been lying on and thought that she might as well sleep a little, and waken with fresh courage and fresh plans. like many other people juliet made her most earnest prayers when she was in trouble. she turned and knelt upon the bed, saying all her petitions with earnestness; then she lay down again, and her dreams took her far away from all her many misfortunes. chapter ix. back in london. when juliet awoke in the early morning she could not at first remember where she was. it was not the old home in london, crowded with father, mother, and children. it was not the new home at littlebourne, where emily's bed lay beside that of her cousin. oh, but it was the prison in which the dreadful mrs. bosher and her bonnet had shut up an unhappy girl and kept her all night! looking round the room, juliet saw on the boards close to the door the same basin of bread-and-milk which she had refused to eat on the previous evening. mrs. bosher must have put it in noiselessly while her prisoner was asleep. the prisoner could not resist her fare this morning, but ate it all up, though the milk was just what she called "on the turn." she did not know what the time was; the sun rose so early that he shone as brightly at five o'clock as at seven o'clock. what did it matter? juliet could not get out until her jailer chose to release her. as soon as mrs. bosher opened the house-door, or sent her out for water, or for a cabbage, or to hang up wet linen, she would make off and run away somewhere. not through the wood, lest the awful brother might be there again, and the utmost rigour of the law prosecute the trespasser; but somewhere, anywhere. juliet lay down and slept again. she was disturbed by the door of the room being opened, and the bonnet nodding in. "oh, you are not up. come down and wash in the scullery." the bonnet went down the stairs, and juliet followed. it stood over her while she washed and brushed her hair, and made herself tidy. then it gave her a toasting-fork and some slices of bread, and set her in front of the kitchen fire. while thus obeying mrs. bosher the mind of juliet was trying to strike out some plan of escape; but when she saw the brother outside in the road she put off running away. the clock told her that the hour was eight. the littlebourne family was now at breakfast too. how they must be fretting for want of juliet! as it happened, they were not fretting at all, but talking together cheerfully. juliet did not want much more in the way of breakfast. she sat, cross and ugly, scowling at mrs. bosher. when breakfast was ended and the dinner put to cook in the oven, juliet began once more to look about for a chance of escape. the brother was not to be seen from the window. there must come the right moment presently. mrs. bosher left the kitchen. now the right moment had come. juliet put on her hat, and went into the passage. "that is a good girl," said the deep voice, "i'm ready too." a strong hand took juliet by the arm, and the hat and the bonnet went out together. speechless with terror, the girl could not resist. she was hurried along the road in the direction furthest from littlebourne, past the brother's house, and past several other houses. what could it all mean? whither were they going? at the corner of a cross-road there stood the brother himself, but without the gun. mrs. bosher led juliet to him, and his hand took the place of his sister's. "here's the runaway," said mrs. bosher. "she'll be safe with you." "rather," said the big man; "or she shall know the rigour of the law." it was odd how his eyes laughed while his mouth was so awful. "so you'll dispose of her, jim; and i'll run back, for i've left the door open." the bonnet went nodding away, and the burly jim dragged juliet along faster than she could walk, and almost as fast as she could run. she was soon tired and out of breath. neither spoke. they went along one road and turned down another, and crossed the thames by a bridge, and passed through a street of shops, and then, by a dirty lane among gas-works, arrived at a place which juliet had seen before. "why, it is littlebourne station!" she exclaimed. and there, on the platform where the sun was beating down with fierce heat, stood mr. and mrs. webster. the big man took juliet up to them and placed her in front of them, saying, "here she is; i've done my part of the business, and i place her safely in your charge." mrs. webster was looking at juliet with pitying eyes; the vicar of littlebourne appeared sterner than his wife. "very good," he said to mrs. bosher's brother; "we will take her in charge. it happens very fortunately that we are going to london to-day, and so can dispose of her. how much anxiety and trouble her bad conduct has caused! it was very clever of mrs. bosher to guess who the girl was." "yes, sir, so it was. when my sister came in last night to tell me how a young thing from littlebourne had come to her house, having run away from home seemingly, i should never have seen my way to finding out the truth. but then women are quicker-witted than men, though they are not so steady-headed. and my sister says, 'she must have come across the fields somehow.' and i says, 'i met a slip of a girl in the wood, and made believe that i was going to shoot her.' and says mrs. bosher, 'it's the same girl, take my word for it,' says she. 'and, you, jim,' she says, 'step over to the lock the first thing in the morning, and ask mrs. rowles if they have seen a girl coming through the fields in this direction.' which i did." to all this juliet was listening eagerly. "and two words settled it," said mrs. bosher's brother; "two words with mrs. rowles. 'why,' says she, 'it must be our niece juliet who ran away last night, and we _have_ been in a state ever since.' and then she described her niece, and i saw plain enough that it was this identical girl. there came an old gentleman in a boat just then, and so i said good-morning and went to tell my sister what i had heard." "they did not wish to have the girl brought back to them?" "oh, no, sir; they'd had enough of her. they said she must go to her home in london. and mrs. rowles knew that you would be going to town to-day, and she promised to send word to you that i would bring this runaway here to meet you; and mrs. rowles said she knew you would see her safe home, because you are always ready to help everybody." mrs. webster smiled. "and what did mr. rowles say about his niece?" "oh, he said she was a regular bad un; went off alone in the boat and got shipwrecked. he said she had a father who never thought of getting up to work until other folks were going to bed, and what else could you expect from the daughter of such a man as that? but the old gentleman who had got out of the boat said, 'tut, nonsense!' and seemed to want to have an argument with rowles after i had left. and now, sir, i see your train coming, and i have talked myself out; so good-morning to you and to your good lady." lifting his hat, mrs. bosher's brother went away, and juliet saw no more of him. she was pushed into a carriage with the vicar and mrs. webster. indignant she was, and unhappy; all her folly and all her wickedness were coming back upon her now. during the long, hot journey up to london mr. webster several times spoke very severely to juliet. he knew enough of her story to be aware that she was selfish and conceited, unwilling to be taught, and resolved to have her own way. he told her how she might have lived most happily at the lock until a nice little situation had been found for her; but she had spoilt everything, and made her uncle and aunt glad to get rid of her. he told her that unless she could become more humble and teachable she would never learn anything good; that it is the childlike, humble souls which grow in wisdom and in favour with god and man. mrs. webster did not say much, but looked so gently at juliet that her looks had almost as much effect as her husband's words. the experience of the last few days, her frights, her misfortunes, the gun of mrs. bosher's brother, the locking up in mrs. bosher's house, this sudden journey home, all showed juliet that she had tried the patience of grown-up people more than they could bear. she looked with hazy eyes on the country that they were passing through; she hardly saw the fields and trees. but at length she noticed that the houses were more numerous, and then that the fields were gone, and then that she was in london--hot, smoky, noisy london once more. "it is very annoying for you," said mr. webster to his wife in a low tone, which yet was distinct enough to juliet's young ears--"very annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city, when your mother expects you at eleven o'clock. but there is no help for it. i have to go down to westminster. i don't suppose i shall see you till we meet at paddington to come back by the : train. i will put you and the child into an omnibus in praed street, and when you get out juliet mitchell must guide you to her home." even the west-end was hot and steamy on that broiling august day. never before had juliet thought london so unpleasant; the reason being that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the country. it seemed to her that the further she went through the streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier the houses. and so indeed it was. and when she brought mrs. webster into the street which contained no. , she wondered how that lady would like to exchange littlebourne vicarage for an east-end vicarage. an almost similar thought was passing through mrs. webster's mind, or rather, the same thought reversed. "juliet," she said, "i wonder how your father and mother would like to leave london and come and live at littlebourne?" "i don't know, ma'am," answered juliet. "i have heard a good deal about them from mrs. rowles. your father would have better health if he lived in the country." by this time they had reached no. . juliet's heart was beating at the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. she forgot all about mrs. webster, and ran on. there were lots of boys and girls playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at mrs. webster. but juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the back attic, followed closely by her companion. the girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. a strange woman was there but no one else. "where is mother?" cried juliet. "whose mother?" responded the strange woman. "my mother." "ain't she got e'er a name?" "yes; she's mrs. mitchell." "oh, the mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please. going up again in the world, i can tell you." juliet turned and dashed into the front room. there she found another surprise. her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and bits of crape. the other children, all but albert, stood round about the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused every now and then in her work to wipe away tears which quickly returned. but there was one whom juliet missed. "mother," she said, as mrs. mitchell's arms clasped closely round her, "where is baby?" tears poured down from the mother's eyes. "oh, baby, baby, our darling baby is gone! he was took with the croup yesterday morning, and he just went off in the evening. there was too many of you, and now he's gone!" a sad silence fell upon the room. thomas mitchell moaned in his sleep, as if his dreams were painful. outside in the street there was a sound of angry voices--two women quarrelling. mrs. webster had once had a baby of her own; it had died. she felt, she knew, all that mrs. mitchell was feeling now. the bits of black on which the mother was at work were poor and skimpy, but they betokened a real sorrow. and though mrs. mitchell knew that the "home for little children" was far, far better for them than the busy, hard world, yet she could not bring her heart to be thankful that baby was taken; all that she could say was, "thy will be done!" in the mortuary belonging to the church lay the little, thin, pale body of baby thomas mitchell. life, though short, had been very hard for him, and he had gone out of it at the first call from his father in heaven--at the first sound of that voice which is sweeter and more drawing than the voice of a mother. other children had gone before him; but because he was the baby his loss was more acutely felt than that of the others had been. juliet sat and thought of the many times she had bumped his tender head against the wall, and how often she had let him slip off her lap, or left him lying in the rain or in the fierce sunshine. and now the darling baby had died, and she away from home! she had not watched his last sigh, she had not given him one farewell kiss! already he was in his tiny coffin, and she would never in this life see him again, save in those blessed dreams which now and then restore to us for a time our loved and lost ones. juliet could not have explained--perhaps it could not be explained--how it was that the death of baby during her absence seemed to be connected with her bad conduct. it is certain that this sudden shock affected her greatly. it was, as it were, a break in her life; her old ill-tempered, unteachable childhood went into the past, and a gentle womanhood sprang up in the future. for the present there was a sad, humble, penitent girl. when she began once more to know what was going on in that room, she found that mrs. webster was telling mrs. mitchell, in very mild terms, of the reasons why juliet was sent home. "i am quite a stranger," said the lady, "and i feel myself an intruder in your time of sorrow. you have my deepest sympathy. and i trust that juliet will henceforth do better. she has had some severe lessons. do you think your husband would be stronger if he lived in the country?" "yes, ma'am; the doctor at the dispensary says that country air would do wonders for him. but then he can't leave his work; it is no use to live in the country and have a good appetite if you have no means of getting victuals for your appetite." "no, of course not," said mrs. webster. "we are doing better now," continued mrs. mitchell. "he's at work again, and miss sutton--that's a kind lady--is trying to bring us women face to face with our employers and no middleman between. but i don't know how it will act. i've done work for miss sutton and her friends, but the same people don't keep on wanting mantles. i could have borne anything if i hadn't to make up crape for ourselves!" mrs. webster pressed mrs. mitchell's hand kindly, and took her leave. chapter x. the adventure of the "turkeys pin." the disappearance of juliet mitchell from littlebourne lock the second time did not surprise or frighten her relations nearly so much as her flight had done on the first occasion. "oh, she'll come home," said mrs. rowles; "never fear. when she is hungry she'll turn up, or someone will bring her." but as the evening closed in, and neither meal-time nor bed-time brought the wanderer home, some alarm began to spread through the house. philip had taken his boat to the place where he had left juliet, but she was not there. he went again and shouted for her, but there was no reply. then mr. rowles shouted from the lock in a voice that must have been heard at half a mile's distance. still no sign of juliet. "you should not have left her there, phil," said mrs. rowles. "i've often set emily down at the same place," was phil's defence, "to gather king-cups or forget-me-nots." "yes, i know; but juliet is not emily." this could not be denied. it accounted for juliet's absence, but it did not bring her home. dozens of boats went up the river, and dozens went down. rowles said to the occupants of each of them, "if you should see a girl of thirteen what has got lost, be so good as to tell her to come home double-quick, or it will be worse for her." some of the people laughed, and some said "very well;" but evening deepened into night without bringing juliet. the last boat was that of the old gentleman's butler, or valet, or whatever he liked to call himself. when rowles made his speech about the missing girl, the man replied, "i know; that is the child whose father is a printer. mr. burnet takes an interest in that child, being himself a master-printer, and the son of a journeyman printer." "the son of a journeyman printer!" rowles repeated. "you don't say so, mr. robert?" "yes, i do say it. my mr. burnet's father began life at the bottom of the ladder, and ended it near the top; and my mr. burnet began life near the top, and is ending it quite at the top. hard work, mr. rowles, hard work, perseverance, honesty, and temperance; that's what does it. your little girl's father may get to the top of the tree yet." "not with his bad health," replied rowles, shaking his head; "and not without his proper night's sleep." "they make up their sleep in the daytime," said the other, beginning to push his boat out of the lock which was now full. "i've got relations of my own in the same line, so i know they can make up their sleep in the daytime. well, good-night; if i see the girl i'll hurry her home." "good--night, mr. robert. i'm glad you've learnt to manage your boat." as roberts went off his voice was heard saying, "it is hard work, and perseverance, and honesty, and temperance that does it." and he was not wrong. ten o'clock came. the lock-house was closed, and all its inmates went to bed. mrs. rowles had little sleep, watching all night for juliet's knock. but it did not come. at six o'clock next morning mr. rowles went out to look up and down the river, and to prophesy the weather. it was still and cloudless and warm. while he was standing idly beside the running water, listening to the twitter of birds and the lowing of cows, he heard yet another cry, that of a man; and presently he saw on the far-off bank the figure of a big, burly man with a bushy beard. "i do believe it's mrs. bosher's brother!" "over! over!" bawled the man, as if hailing a ferry-boat. "well, if that ain't a joke! i ain't the ferry. here you, phil, jump into the _fairy_ and go and see what that man wants." so phil played the part of the ferry and brought mrs. bosher's brother to the lock-eyot. he told his story. the previous evening he had met a young girl in the wood, and as it was private property, he had warned her out of it. afterwards he found that she had gone to his sister's house, evidently a runaway, and had engaged herself as a general servant. but mrs. bosher, who was one that never took no rest, never even took off her bonnet, saw through that girl, and knew right well that she had come from the littlebourne side of the river; and perhaps mrs. rowles could state what family had lost a little maid-servant. yes, mrs. rowles could tell him all about juliet; and after giving him some breakfast sent him back in the _fairy_ to his own side of the river, with a request that mrs. bosher would take juliet to the station, where someone would meet the tiresome girl and convey her to her home in london. the big man promised to do all this, and went out with rowles intending to have a pipe and a gossip with him, when down came a boat rowed by leonard burnet, and steered by the old master-printer; and so the gossip was cut short, though not the pipe. "i am not going through," said mr. burnet from the boat. "help me to land, rowles; i want to have a talk with you. who is that man?" looking at the big person who had just gone off in the little _fairy_. "oh, that is mrs. bosher's brother. i hope you are well, sir, and the young gentleman; likewise mr. robert." "yes, thanks, leonard and i are very well; but roberts has a smart touch of rheumatism, and will not come on the river to-day. may i sit here, rowles?" added mr. burnet, pointing to a seat under some small trees. "if you please, sir. why, emma, where are _you_ a-going?" mrs. rowles curtsied to mr. burnet. "i am going, ned, to the vicarage. i heard say that mr. and mrs. webster are going to london to-day, and if they would take charge of juliet it would save my time and money." mrs. rowles hurried off, and caught mrs. webster, who most kindly undertook the charge of juliet if mrs. bosher should bring her to the station, and to see her safe to her own home in london. while mrs. rowles was absent on this errand, her husband was having a very important conversation with mr. burnet under the small trees. neither leonard nor phil heard what passed, as they were not within earshot; but when they presently came near their fathers they caught these words from mr. burnet: "i hope that he will consent to do as we suggest. it was really my boy who first thought that it would be a good move. these young people sometimes get hold of ideas which are worth carrying out. and then roberts took it up, knowing as he does from his relations the difficulties of that kind of life in london." "i'm sure, sir," said rowles doubtfully, "it is very kind of you to think of doing such kindness to a stranger. but i'm much afeard that thomas mitchell is so used to his topsy-turvy way of living, that he will not fit in with the morning for getting up and the night for going to bed." "i will endeavour to get him to try it, at all events. i have taken a lease of the bourne house; very likely you know it." "i should think i did! a good old gentleman used to live there when i was a boy, as like to you, sir, as one pea is to another; and, what is more, mrs. bosher's brother farms all the arable land belonging to it." "does he? of course i know all about my future tenant, but i did not know he was mrs. bosher's brother. well, rowles, there is a nice little cottage on the property which your brother-in-law can rent cheap from me; and i will put him on the _thames valley times and post_, which only comes out once a week, and does not keep the men up at night. we also do a good deal of handbill printing, and catalogues for sales, and that kind of work, which is easy enough. and i hope to see your friends settled down here by the beginning of the week after next." rowles shook his head, feeling certain that the arrangement would not answer. but mr. burnet was determined to try it, and leonard was delighted with the project. "your cousins," said leonard to philip, "will have to learn all about country things. i don't suppose they know a garden when they see one." "no, they don't," was phil's answer. "when juliet saw the first of the country from the train window, she says to mother, 'it's a pretty churchyard!' says she." mr. burnet looked very sad for a few moments, then he stood up and said that he must be going back, as he had to meet mrs. bosher's brother and talk over the barns and the stables and the farm-buildings. "and on monday," he added, "i think i shall go to town and see your brother-in-law, and offer him a place at my printing-office. i have already inquired his character of his present employers." rowles's head was shaking again; but he only held the boat for mr. burnet and leonard to step into it, and his forebodings of failure on mitchell's part were for the moment kept to himself. there were also forebodings of failure in the mind of roberts, when his master talked so hopefully of what was going to happen to juliet's father. "don't make too sure, mr. leonard, of anything. i daresay that juliet's father will have better health living in the country, but as for his getting to be foreman of your printing-office, i have my doubts." perhaps roberts's doubts were due to his attack of rheumatism. he was at this time suffering so much from it that he was almost cross. he was laid up the very day that mr. burnet took possession of the bourne house, and sat wrapped in flannel, though the weather was very warm. "don't talk to me any more," he said savagely when a tremendous twinge seemed to be piercing between his bones, "about your juliet's father and your mrs. bosher's brother. if people have not got names of their own i don't want to hear about such people." the housekeeper who was waiting on him began to say, "the name of mrs. bosher's brother--" "hold your tongue, do! how this arm does ache, to be sure!" leonard was in the room. he got as far as, "the name of juliet's father--" "i won't hear it!" cried poor roberts, kicking out his right foot, in which the pain was steely cold. "we want you to go and see him on monday," said leonard. "then you may want!" and he flung out the left foot in which the pain was red-hot. the housekeeper signed to leonard to leave the invalid to himself. when this attack was over roberts would be himself again--kind and gentle and polite. but there was no chance of his being able to go to london to make arrangements for the move of the mitchell family. mr. burnet was in the habit of leaving a great deal to roberts, being himself old and ailing, and easily upset. on the sunday, a lovely, sweet, clear day, it was plain that roberts would not be of any use for another week or more. mr. burnet and his son were walking back from evening service, and enjoying the calm of sunday evening. everything had been beautiful; the hymns, the sermon in church; the hymns of the birds and the sermons of the harvest, in the fields. "delicious!" said mr. burnet, pausing as he entered his own large grounds. "how i wish poor roberts was well enough to enjoy it all. i am afraid his exertions at the oar, and his exposure to the evening damps, have brought on this painful attack. the only thing i can do is to go to town myself to see this thomas mitchell, and i really do not feel up to it." the father and son walked on side by side. presently leonard said, "do you think i could go and make the arrangements with mitchell?" mr. burnet stopped in his walk, and leaning on his stick said, "upon my word, leonard, i do not see why you could not." "then let me do it, father; and if you give me a note to the head of the press where mitchell works, perhaps he would let me look round, and take a practical lesson in the business." "a good idea!" exclaimed mr. burnet. it was settled in that way; and on the monday, mr. burnet being very gouty, and roberts very rheumatic, there was no one who could possibly go to town except leonard. he went off, armed with directions and papers from his father. arrived in london he presented himself at the great printing-office where mitchell worked; was courteously received by one of the heads of it, and was shown some of the type, the presses, the paper, and other things used for printing that morning journal which deprived thomas mitchell and many others of almost every night's rest. having seen as much as he could remember, he said to the gentleman who was explaining matters, "i think i must now speak to mitchell, who is to leave you on saturday, and to begin work with us on monday next." "i will send for him," replied the gentleman. "he is a good, steady fellow, and if his health becomes stronger will deserve your confidence and regard." then, speaking down a telephone, "send thomas mitchell to me." the answer came back: "mitchell has this moment knocked off work and gone." "provoking!" said the gentleman. "it does not matter," said leonard. "i know his address, and i can go there and speak to him." he set off, having a vague notion of the neighbourhood in which the mitchells lived. leonard was not much used to london, especially that part of it, and as he went he saw many things to interest him. the day was hot and close, and the narrower streets were far from pleasant. he was struck by the number of small grocers' shops, and the smell of paraffin which pervaded this part of london. he also noticed how dry the vegetables appeared, and how moist the fruits which were exposed for sale; further, how shabby and threadbare were the carpets floating at the pawnbrokers' doors, and how fusty the odour from them. in a word, leonard could not help seeing that this was a very poor region. it did _not_ strike him that poverty and crime are near neighbours; that the circumstances which make the honest man poor, make the lazy man a thief. leonard was too young to be suspicious. he scarcely saw a shambling poorly-dressed rather wasted man whom he passed, and who afterwards stumbled along a very little way behind him. nor did he specially notice two rather well-dressed but coarse-looking men who kept just ahead of him. but when these two began to talk loud he did notice them. when they stood in the middle of the narrow pavement, quarrelling, leonard paused and looked on. "you did!" said the one. "i did not!" said the other. "i'll make you confess it on your marrow-bones!" "you shall have every bone in your body broke first!" by this time a crowd had begun to collect. the two men seemed preparing for a fight. "part them, someone!" cried leonard. "let them fight it out!" cried a costermonger, seating himself on his barrow. "i'll see fair play!" roared a great unwashed man. a voice behind leonard said in his ear, "you come out of this, young fellow!" and looking round the lad saw the shabby, sickly man who had been following him. the crowd hemmed them all four in the midst of it. "hallo! the bobbies!" was whispered. the crowd opened a way through which one of the disputants rushed, all eyes fixed upon him. an arm came over leonard's shoulder, and a dirty hand clutched his turquoise breast-pin; another arm came over the other shoulder and another hand clutched the first one. at the same moment two policemen's helmets peered over the crowd, and a stern voice said, "what's up? what's your game?" then in some mysterious way the first hand and arm vanished, and only the second remained, and leonard found himself thus hugged by a stranger, and confronted by two stalwart policemen. when an english man or boy finds himself in the hands (or, as in this case, in the arms) of a stranger, his first impulse is to show fight. naturally leonard began to plunge and to double his fists. but he could not keep this up, for the man whose arm was round him quickly retired and stood a few paces off, looking wan and haggard, and very unlike a thief or ruffian. the crowd had melted away. the two policemen stood with faces fixed in something between a grin and a scowl. "what are you all up to?" said leonard, in astonishment at the suddenness of the whole affair. "just this, young man," replied one of the policemen, "that if you want to walk about in this part of london you had better not wear such an enticing pin in your scarf." leonard put up his hand, and found that his turquoise pin was pulled half-way out of his scarf. he said angrily, "then why don't you take the thief in charge?" and he pointed at the sickly-looking man who stood close by. "because he was too quick for us. he's on the other side of the river long before this." "why, there he stands!" cried leonard, pointing again at the shabby figure. "begging your pardon, young sir, this is him that has saved your pin from them two thieves. you owe him many thanks, and something more substantial, in my humble opinion." then leonard understood the affair, and how the poor delicate man had prevented the smart colleagues from making off with the valuable pin given him by his late mother, and therefore very greatly precious to him. he turned to his defender with warm thanks. the two policemen sauntered away. "i am awfully obliged to you, i'm sure," said leonard. "you don't look well." "no," replied the poor man; "i have had sickness and sorrow lately, and a little thing upsets me. i shall be better in a few minutes. you put your pin in your pocket, sir; and do not show any jewellery when you come through these shady slums." "i think i must have come wrong." "what street do you want?" leonard named it. "well, you have not come wrong exactly; but you had better have stuck to the main thoroughfares, and not have taken these short cuts, which are all very well for some of us, but not for young gents with 'turkeys' breast-pins. if you are not ashamed of my company i can take you straight to the street you've named." after his late escape leonard felt suspicious of every stranger in london; but as he really had reason to feel obliged to this man, he put aside that feeling and walked on for some time with his new acquaintance. chapter xi. a thorough change. "i am afraid," leonard said presently, "that i am taking you out of your way." "not at all, sir; i live in that same street. there's a good many of us live there. it is like a rabbit-warren." "really!" said leonard. "it swarms with old and young--young ones mostly. too many of 'em. we ought not to grieve too much when they are taken from this hard world to rest and safety. but the mothers do grieve, poor things!--and the fathers too." "perhaps you have lost a child lately," said leonard, very gently. "he was buried yesterday." they went on in silence until they turned into a street which appeared to begin much better than it ended. leonard's guide said, "here we are; this is your street." "oh, thank you; but don't come any further." and leonard began to fumble in his pocket for a half-crown. "it is my street too," said the poor man. "all right then. i want no. ." "i live at myself." "that is curious. do you know a mr. mitchell in that house?" "i know him pretty well; i am thomas mitchell." then leonard shook hands heartily with his guide, and as they walked slowly along the cooler side of the street he unfolded all the plans which mr. burnet had made for the mitchell family. they were already known in part to the father and mother, but the children had not been informed of what was in store for them. mrs. mitchell had thought that such a prospect would excite them greatly, and that their disappointment would be great if anything occurred at the last moment to upset the plan. but now it must be declared. all the children were at home, it being holiday-time. juliet sat at needlework, albert was carpentering an old wooden box and turning it into a cupboard; the younger ones were playing with some firewood, and building castles with it. mrs. mitchell was stitching at one more mantle, and thinking over every little incident of her baby's life and death. into the midst of this quiet scene came leonard burnet, full of life and vigour, and overflowing with the happy message he had brought. he told them of the pretty cottage with honeysuckle on the porch, of the garden full of cauliflowers and scarlet-runners, of the clear bright river, of the open fields, of the shady woods, the winding lanes, and of all the pleasant things of rural life. then he spoke of mr. and mrs. rowles, and the lock, and the boats; of philip and emily; of the good vicar and mrs. webster; of mrs. bosher's brother, and the horses, cows, pigs, and poultry which he possessed. how strange it all seemed to juliet! how far away, and yet how well known! she was the only one of her family who had seen these places and persons, and the thought of them filled her with both sorrow and pleasure. several times as leonard talked he turned to her, saying, "you know the lock, juliet?" or "you have seen mrs. bosher's brother, i think, juliet?" or else "the fields and the river are very nice, are they not?" and to each of his appeals she had gravely bowed her head in assent. in the end it was arranged that the following monday should be spent by the mitchell family in packing up the few goods which they possessed, and that on tuesday they should send off those goods by the littlebourne carrier, who would be directed by mr. burnet to call for them; and then they should all go by omnibus to paddington station, and be met at littlebourne station by mr. burnet, or leonard, or mr. burnet's butler, or mrs. bosher's brother. "or perhaps by all of us!" said leonard laughing. these plans and hours being clearly understood, and leonard having advanced mitchell a sovereign to help pay for the move, he took his leave, his scarf-pin safe in his waistcoat-pocket. he left the whole family in a state of wonder and delight, which would have been even greater had they guessed what further surprises were in store for them. no week ever seemed so short and so long to people as that week appeared to the mitchells. there was not time enough to finish up everything that ought to be finished, and to say good-bye to every one who had been kind and friendly to them in london. then there were notices to be given the school, and to the society and the dispensary which had helped thomas mitchell in his trouble. the clergyman and the schoolmaster and schoolmistress came to say farewell; and as for the neighbours, poor as they all were, and rude as some were, they crowded with wishes and gifts. "two gallipots," said one old woman, "for you to put your black currant jam in." "a few cuttings of geraniums," said a young gardener who worked in victoria park; "try if you can get them to take." "my school-prize," said a big girl, putting a red-and-gold-covered book into the hands of little amy; "i've grown too old for it, so you may have it." and miss sutton came with the good news that one great west-end draper had promised to meet his workwomen face to face, and no longer to employ any middlemen. "for which you will be thankful," said miss sutton to mrs. mitchell, "though you will not yourself reap the benefit." yes, mrs. mitchell was very thankful for many things; but there was one which brought ever-fresh tears to her eyes as she left the swarming city. "i leave three little graves!" and juliet! she hardly knew how she ought to feel or how she did. certainly there was a great deal of shame in her heart; and equally certainly there was a great deal of pride--not the old pride of self-conceit, but a reasonable pride in knowing so much about the things of the country. she had enough to do to explain to her brothers and sisters the many new things which they saw from the train, and to answer their hundreds of questions. at littlebourne there was quite a sensation on their arrival. mr. burnet was there in his pony-carriage, and leonard, and mrs. bosher's brother with a donkey-cart. mrs. rowles and emily laughed and cried over their relations; and poor mitchell became so faint from fatigue and emotion that mrs. webster, who now arrived on the scene, hurried him and his wife and little ones into a "fly" to get them out of the hubbub. the station-master and the porters were quite glad when this party moved off. they went slowly along the roads, in the soft air sweetened by recent showers, talking all together, all at the same time. what did it matter? nobody wanted to hear anybody's words except his own. at the cottage they ceased talking, and all ran about through the small garden, up and down the flight of stairs, in and out the rooms. then mrs. webster laid down on the dresser a parcel containing home-made bread and fresh butter. next mrs. bosher's brother brought from the donkey-cart some bacon, eggs, and milk. the pony-carriage had concealed under the seat some soap, candles, and cheese. mrs. rowles had a bundle of blankets as a loan, for the present moment; and mrs. bosher came in with sheets and towels for mrs. mitchell to use until her own arrived. all these kindnesses overpowered the london people, and they knew not how to thank their new friends. to avoid being thanked mrs. bosher nodded her bonnet at juliet and went away. mrs. webster also departed. mr. burnet asked mitchell to meet him at the works next morning, and then he and leonard drove off. mrs. bosher's brother hauled in a half-sack of coals and two great faggots from the donkey-cart, and then he, too, said good-bye. the rowles party stayed longer. "ned will come to see you, i hope," said mrs. rowles to her brother-in-law. "but he says he is afraid he can't come in the middle of the night; but would half-past ten be late enough?" "dear, dear!" said mrs. mitchell, somewhat puzzled. "well, we must sit up for him if necessary; but i did hope that thomas would have his proper nights' rests here in the country. we ought all to be in bed by ten o'clock." "you see, rowles cannot leave the lock unless he gets a deputy. philip is hardly strong enough by himself. and ned says that of course tom can't come to the lock, being at work all night and asleep all day." "that will not be the case here," said mitchell smiling. "besides, there's one or two things that i may as well explain to rowles. seems to me he's got some ideas upside down in his head." "oh, i don't know!" cried mrs. rowles; "but my idea is that you had better have your suppers now and go to bed as quick as you can. there'll be lots of new things to see to-morrow. and if ned can't come you'll be sure to have mr. robert the butler at bourne house, and the housekeeper. you see, they all know juliet--" here mrs. rowles broke off, and juliet shrank away, feeling bitterly that they knew little that was good of her. she was, however, able to eat her supper with the rest of her family, and to sleep on the shake-down of blankets, and to rise in the morning refreshed and happy and ready for the new life before her. the carrier arrived about eleven o'clock that morning, and the few bits of furniture and so forth which had come from london were put, one by one, in new places. mrs. mitchell said that a pound of paint would touch them up quite smart-like. thomas mitchell and albert had not stayed at honeysuckle cottage to see the arrival of these goods, but had gone to the works to meet mr. burnet there at nine o'clock. they were told by the foreman to go into the office, and there they awaited the arrival of the master. mr. burnet soon appeared, and after a few words of greeting took a key from his pocket and opened the letter-box. from it he took a large number of business letters. he laid them into several separate heaps. then he pressed the button of an electric-bell, and a lad came in from some other part of the buildings. "here, willie, take these letters, if you please. one for mr. toop, one for mr. richard macnunn, two for mr. plasket, and here is a very fat one for 'arthur george rayner, esq., foreman at the works of the _thames valley times and post_, littlebourne, berkshire, england.' it really looks like something important." when the boy had gone off to deliver the letters, mr. burnet took mitchell outside the office and pointed out to him the different parts of the building and the advantages of the position. one of these was that the little bourne, a small but rapid stream, flowed close by, supplying water. there were gas-works on the premises, and there was a small tramway for sending paper, &c., from one end to the other. there was handsome stabling, and there were lofty, airy work-rooms. "every appliance for making a good thing of it," said mr. burnet. he held up his hand for silence as a strange, low sound rolled out from the works. was it the roar of fire or an explosion of steam? but no sign of fire followed, and nothing shook or broke. only there came a second roar, louder than the first, and then the great gates of the great yard burst open, and out poured a crowd of men, jumping, dancing, shouting, and apparently in great joy. "a strike," said mitchell, "or what?" "i don't know," answered mr. burnet calmly but gravely; "i have no notion what can be the matter." the men came nearer, some twenty in all, and in the midst of them was one man seated in a chair and carried by four others. "what can they be doing with rayner?" exclaimed mr. burnet. "why are they chairing him?" "hurrah for rayner! hurrah for new zealand! hurrah for everybody! half-time to-day and a sovereign apiece! hurrah for rayner and new zealand!" all this was most extraordinary; and yet even more extraordinary was the conduct and manner of rayner. he laughed loudly, and then he plunged his face into his handkerchief and sobbed wildly. he shook hands with every one near, and then waved them away with a majestic air. in fact he seemed to have taken leave of his senses; the truth was, that his senses had taken leave of him for a season. and yet the sight of mr. burnet's perplexed face sobered him in a measure. he swaggered up to his master, saying, "shake hands, burnet; i'm not too proud for that." mr. burnet obeyed. "listen to me, i'll tell you something. wonders will never cease. if you had a brother, burnet, whom you had not seen for thirty-five years, would not your heart yearn towards him? yes, even a letter from his lawyer would fill your heart with joy." "no doubt," said mr. burnet. "here's a letter, come this minute; why, joy is nothing to it. i'm a made man, a rich man, snap my fingers at you all! do you hear? my brother in new zealand is dead. what do you say to that?" "i am very sorry for you," said mr. burnet. "are you? you are that envious you don't know how to look me in the face! thirty thousand pounds, burnet! what do you say to that? have you got thirty thousand pounds? i snap my fingers at you all!" and he did it. "my poor brother died six months ago. ah! sad, sad! lonely old bachelor! not a creature to weep for him but me. they have been six months finding out my address; and now i can go to new zealand and live on my property worth thirty thousand pounds, or, the lawyer writes, the land can be sold and the cash sent over to me. i think i like cash better than land. shake hands again, burnet. i've told the men i'll give them a half-holiday, as there's not much doing, and a sovereign apiece, which you will advance to them. i'll give a cheque for it, you know." mr. burnet did not respond. "now, some men," rayner went on, wiping the heat from his streaming face, "would have their heads turned by such luck as the death of a rich bachelor brother; but i'm as cool as a cucumber, only the weather is rather warm. shake hands, burnet; you'll never find a bit of pride in me. cheer again, mates, and off to your homes, and may you all have rich brothers and end with thirty thousand pounds!" it was evident that poor rayner's head was completely turned by his sudden prosperity. perhaps few men could have taken such a change without some excitement; probably few men would have become so insane on account of what only changed his fortunes, not himself, or, rather, had so far only changed himself for the worse. all this bluster and talk made no impression on either mr. burnet or mitchell, who waited quietly until rayner's extravagant delight should have spent itself. the other men, too, began to see how ridiculous rayner was making himself. they soon moved off, by twos and threes, back to their work; and presently rayner found himself alone with his employer and the new man just come down from london. "i suppose," said mr. burnet calmly, "that you will not wish to work any longer, rayner, in my factory?" "that for your factory!" said rayner, snapping his fingers again; "i'll never do another day's work as long as i live. i'll pay you what you like instead of a week's notice, or you may fine me what you like. but i'm off to london by the next train to see my lawyer, and to enjoy myself a bit. i'll send for my wife and the children when i'm ready for them." "hear one word," said mr. burnet. "i have no wish to detain you an hour if you wish to go, nor will i take any payment or fine. the only thing that troubles me is that not one of the other men is capable of filling your place, not one of them could undertake the position of foreman, even if i were willing to offer it." "no," replied rayner, "you can't fill my place with one of those duffers. but, i say, what about this chap from london? can't you make him foreman?" mr. burnet and mitchell looked at each other; then said the master, "what do you think, mitchell?" "settle it between you," cried rayner, "it is no business of mine. good-bye, and good luck to you! i shall see no more of that old _times and post_, i'm thankful to say. new times and a new post for me! so i'm off!" and away he went, down the private road and into the highroad, and to his cottage home, where he astounded his wife by his words and manner, and from whence he betook himself and was seen no more in littlebourne. a fortnight later, mrs. rayner, a quiet, sensible woman, took herself and her children out of the place, and rayner and his thirty thousand pounds were only remembered as something to laugh over and wonder at. as for thomas mitchell--well, it was almost too good to be true. he looked over the works, saw the presses, talked with the men, and came to the conclusion that he could undertake the duties of foreman. it was a great rise for him. "i never thought of such a thing, sir, when i came down here." "nor did i, mitchell. i only thought of bringing you into good air, and setting you up in health. if rayner had not made room for you, you could only have been one of the journeymen printers." "seems to me," said mitchell huskily, "that a kind hand has led me here in a wonderful way. i see quite plainly that it is not myself that has brought me here." "i see that too," answered mr. burnet. "i little thought when i found a naughty girl astray on the river that such events would occur. your juliet did not seem of any consequence to me, but when rowles told me of her father's bad health i just said to myself that he would have a better chance in the country. and the idea put itself into shape, and you were brought down here, and then exactly at the right moment rayner's good fortune--if it really turns out to be good fortune--came to him, and the post was open for you, and i believe you will prove to be the right man in the right place." chapter xii. a wonderful discovery. there was one person who was much vexed that he could not have a hand in the late doings. this was roberts, the butler, who still was far from well, and not allowed out except in the garden on dry days. but he talked a good deal with the housekeeper; and one day, after one of these talks, she went to mr. burnet and said, "if you have no objection, sir, i should like to ask mrs. mitchell and juliet to take tea with me some afternoon." "by all means," replied mr. burnet. "you can give them some of your scones, mrs. johnson, and some of your new strawberry jam." accordingly a day was fixed for mrs. mitchell and juliet to drink tea at bourne house. they arrived at four o'clock, neatly dressed, and were taken by mrs. johnson into her own little room. "you see," explained the housekeeper, "i am what is called cook-housekeeper; i do the cooking and manage the house. then there is mary the housemaid, under my orders; she is out this afternoon, so you won't see her. and there is the butler, who is not under my orders; and you won't see him, because he has his meals in his room, being still an invalid. i daresay your juliet will take his tea up to him." "oh, yes, i will," cried juliet. "he has been very kind to me." "so have a good many people," said mrs. johnson. "now, here you are. you'll find him in the first room on the right-hand side, at the top of the first flight of stairs." as soon as juliet had started with the tray on which roberts's tea was arranged, mrs. johnson went on talking to mrs. mitchell. "the house is not all furnished yet, and roberts is not in the room which is really to be his. there are three reception rooms, a lovely drawing-room opening into the conservatory, good dining-room, and small study. eight bed-rooms: mr. burnet's, mr. leonard's, the butler's, the housemaid's, mine, and there will be three spare rooms; so i suppose mr. burnet means to have a good deal of staying company." "eight bed-rooms!" repeated mrs. mitchell; "and only one housemaid for all of them! why, however will she keep them all?" "you may well ask that," said the housekeeper in a peculiar tone. "i'll show you over the house by and by, and you shall judge for yourself how mary will manage it." juliet now returned. "well, how does he seem?" "he seems pretty well," said juliet; "and he was very kind." "ay, he's kind enough. sugar, mrs. mitchell? jam, juliet? you are able to leave the little ones when you come out, i suppose?" "oh, yes," mrs. mitchell answered. "my second girl, amy, is almost as big as juliet, and a handy girl too. and you know we have no baby now." "i know, i know," said the housekeeper. "so you did not feel much put about when juliet was away from you?" "oh, no, not in that way." "no, to be sure. scones, mrs. mitchell? milk, juliet?" when tea was ended mrs. johnson took her visitors over the house. they saw the sitting-rooms, only partly furnished, and all the bed-rooms except that in which roberts was reposing himself. some of these chambers were furnished, others were quite empty. mary's room had two beds in it, two chests of drawers, two washstands, and so forth. "ah!" and mrs. johnson nodded her head; "yes, you see i got everything double. do you understand?" "everything double!" said mrs. mitchell. "and only mary in the room." "only mary in the room!" "well, i see you don't take in what i mean. it is this. when we get settled and have a lot of visitors in the house i shall want help in the kitchen, and mary will want help in the rooms. what would you say to letting juliet come and try how she would like the place?" there was no doubt that juliet would like it; her face said so. and mrs. mitchell, after looking serious for a few minutes, brightened up and said, "do you think she would do? you know, she was so tiresome that her aunt could not keep her." "yes, i know; but she has had a stern lesson, and if she will try to be a good girl i should like to give her the chance. what do you say yourself, juliet?" instead of saying as she used, "i'm that stupid and awkward that i can't do nothing," or that still worse thing, "i suppose i can do anything i want to," juliet replied modestly, "i will try to do what you tell me." "that's all i want," cried mrs. johnson kindly; "no girl can do better than what she is told. and as soon as i can settle it with mr. burnet i will come and settle it with you. now, we will go out and look at the gardens, which are pretty though not to say large." when there came a pause in the conversation juliet said to her mother, "mr. robert was very kind, and would like to take you and me and father in a boat on the river some day soon. and he would like to go on saturday afternoon if he is well enough. and he thinks mrs. bosher's brother would come too, and if mr. robert is not well enough to row, mrs. bosher's brother will row, and mr. robert will steer; and mr. robert says we are to meet him at the lock at three o'clock, which is between luncheon and dinner." "and i hope you will have a nice trip," were mrs. johnson's last words as she said good-bye at the gate. juliet felt quite frightened at her good fortune; it seemed to make her want to cry more than poverty and trouble had done. and she said her prayers more earnestly than she had said them when she was naughty and unhappy. as the days went by and all was well, her father growing stronger, the children rosier, the house more comfortable, she did feel very deeply that the great blessings showered upon her had not been deserved, but were sent to make her better in the future than she had been in the past. there was yet one more thing that she desired; that was to take her parents down the river to the place where she had been almost shipwrecked in the _fairy_. they, too, wished to see the spot where their daughter had narrowly escaped a terrible death, which they shuddered even to think of. three o'clock on the afternoon of saturday saw the whole mitchell family at the lock. the children came to see their elders off, and to spend the afternoon with philip and emily. "glad to see you out in the daylight," said mr. rowles to mr. mitchell. "you are twice the man you were, now that you are keeping better hours." mitchell only smiled; he did not think it possible to quite overcome rowles's prejudice. "here's the tub which phil has brought up from the ferry. he thought you would like a flat-bottomed tub, mary." mrs. mitchell looked about, expecting to see a round thing similar to a washing-tub. but her husband knew better. "yes," said he, "when i was a young man i used to go to battersea on holidays, i and some others, and nothing would suit us but outrigged gigs, randans, and such like; but now i'm growing old, and a flat-bottomed tub suits us better, my missus and me. shall we get in, do you think, ned?" "yes, get in. here they come, four on 'em--two blue stripes, one red stripe, and one all gals. they can all go in together." "in the water!" cried mrs. mitchell. "no, mary; in the lock. what a cockney you are!" he went to work the paddles and the handles, and while he was so employed the others heard a tremendous halloo from the bank on the far side of the river. juliet looked slightly alarmed and said to her mother, "i think it is mrs. bosher's brother." and so it was. he had come down through the wood and the fields by the same path which juliet had gone up on the sad day when she ran away from littlebourne lock. but he was not frightened by the cows, nor caught by the brambles, and had he met himself with a gun he would not have been at all terrified. as soon as his loud deep voice was heard, philip got into the _fairy_ and went across to fetch him. while this was doing the four boats got through the lock, and rowles came back to talk to his friends. "i suppose you can swim?" he said to mitchell. "yes; and so can my boy albert. swimming-baths in london, you know, where you get clean and learn to swim all in one." "a better bath here," returned rowles, "and nothing to pay." he looked lovingly at the beautiful river, rippled by the soft wind into a deeper blue than the clear blue overhead. mitchell, too, was learning to love the thames. "and what are you waiting for now?" mrs. rowles asked. "why, for a friend; that is to say, mr. robert from the house." "ah, he can't get along very fast on account of his rheumatics. but he won't keep you standing about very long; and here's mrs. bosher's brother to fill up the time." and rowles turned to greet the new arrival, who looked indeed big enough to fill up any amount of time or space, even had he been without the great yellow rose which he wore in his button-hole. while they were in friendly talk with mrs. bosher's brother, the party on the eyot did not notice who was coming along the road from the village. it was a middle-aged man, who walked rather limpingly, and who made most extraordinary gestures as he approached the group. first he stood and stared, then he rubbed his eyes and stared again. then he took out his spectacles and put them on, took them off, rubbed them, and put them on again. he advanced a few steps, cast his hands up in the air, leaned heavily on his stick, and exclaimed under his breath, "i can't believe it! who could have thought it? it is like a story-book!" then he went on a few steps further and came close behind the group, which was gathered round mrs. bosher's brother, listening to his loud, hearty remarks. rowles was the first who saw the new-comer. he looked over his shoulder and nodded. then mrs. bosher's brother roared out, "hullo! here you are at last! how do you feel?" and before the new-comer could reply to this greeting all the other eyes were turned upon him, with expressions of surprise and bewilderment. "you! what brings you here?" "what brings _you_ here?" mrs. bosher's brother was the only person who remained calm. "what's the matter?" said he. "are you old friends or old enemies?" "it is so odd," said mitchell; "i can't make it out." "well, shake hands," cried roberts; and he shook hands all round. when that was over mr. rowles said he would like to know what it was all about, and so at last matters were explained. "it is daniel roberts, who married my poor sister nan, that died nine years come the st of november." while mitchell said this he was gazing harder than ever at roberts. "why did you never tell me his name?" mrs. mitchell asked of juliet. "i did," juliet replied. "i always called him mr. robert." "ain't he mr. robert then?" asked rowles, still perplexed. "no," said the butler; "i am daniel roberts. roberts is my surname, and robert is not my christian name. but some people have no ear for music, and can't hear an s when it is at the end of the word." mrs. mitchell turned to her children. "it is your uncle roberts. i _am_ surprised at finding him here. why, daniel, mrs. johnson said she thought it was partly owing to you that mr. burnet had us brought down here." "so it was, mary. but, mind you, i did not know it was you. that girl there, they called her juliet, and then they talked about juliet's father being a printer and out of health, and all that; and i thinks to myself that there was mitchell, poor nan's brother, who was a printer, and i should not like to think that he was out of health and out of work, and that gave me a kind of feeling for all printers, and i put in a word for juliet's father. but i little thought that juliet's father was poor nan's brother." "ain't you glad, man?" said mrs. bosher's brother, giving a squeeze to roberts's rheumatic arm; "ain't you glad?" "glad--oh, it's agony!--yes, glad as i can be." "well, i can't make it out now!" said mitchell, taking off his hat to cool his head. "just to think that mr. robert the butler is my brother-in-law!" "are you sorry, man?" roared mrs. bosher's brother, putting his great rose into mitchell's face; "are you sorry?" "sorry!--phew, it's delicious, but stifling--no, i'm certainly not sorry." "then get into the boat, and do the rest of your talking there." they took the hint. mrs. bosher's brother rowed them gently down the stream to banksome weir, the scene of juliet's escape, and afterwards he rowed them gently back again. he said he could do that kind of rowing in his sleep. they were all very happy; a happy family party. and not the least happy was juliet mitchell, who had put away from her all her former follies and ill-humours, and had begun a new life of gentleness, obedience, and industry. mr. burnet and leonard passed them in another boat, and smiled and nodded at them. mr. and mrs. webster passed them, walking on the towing-path, and nodded and smiled at them. mrs. bosher's bonnet came to see them in the evening, and nodded more than ever. and a very kind letter came from miss sutton, with a hymn-book as a special present to juliet. the end. * * * * * (this file was made using scans of public domain works in the international children's digital library.) dick and his cat. an old tale in a new garb. by mary ellis. [illustration] j. hamilton, chestnut street, philadelphia. . [illustration: dick and his cat.] entered according to act of congress, in the year , by j. hamilton, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the eastern district of pennsylvania. j. fagan & son, stereotypers, philad'a. a word to parents. the story of "dick whittington and his cat" has so often amused the little ones, who never wearied of its repetition, that the author of the following version thought she might extend the pleasure derived from it by putting it in language which they could read for themselves. no word contains more than _four letters_, and none is over _one syllable_ in length, so that any child who has the least knowledge of reading will be able to enjoy it for himself. dick and his cat. part i. once on a time, a poor boy was seen to go up and down the side-walk of a town, and sob and cry. at last he sat down on a door-step. he was too weak to run more. he had had no food all the day. it was a day in june. the air was mild. the warm sun sent down its rays of love on all. but poor dick had no joy on this fair day. he laid his head down on the step, and took a nap; for he was sick and weak for want of food. as he lay, a girl came to the door. she saw the poor boy lie on the step; but he did not see her. she went in, and said to a man who was in the room, "a poor boy has lain down on our step to take a nap." the man came to the door to see the boy. he said, "this boy does not look nice. his hair has not seen a comb all day; his face and feet are full of dirt; and his coat is torn." the man did not like such a mean boy to be at his door. but when he saw the lad's thin, pale face, as he lay at his feet, he felt sad for him. just then the boy woke up. he went to run off when he saw the man and girl at the door, but they made him stay. "why did you lie down here?" the man said to the boy. "i was weak and sick." "have you had no food to eat?" "i have had no food all day." then the girl went in and got him a roll and a mug of milk. the boy ate so fast and so much that they had to wait till he was done, to talk to him more. "have you no pa nor ma?" said the man. a tear fell from the poor boy's eye, as he said, "i have no pa, and my ma they took from me, and i can not find her. she was sick a long time. i used to sit at her side and lay my head on her knee. once she said to me that my pa had gone home to god, and that she must go too. then she got too sick to rise from her bed. one day they put me on the bed by her side. she laid her hand on my head, and she said, "i pray thee, o god, take care of my poor boy." "then she shut her eyes and grew so pale, and her hand got so cold, it made me cry. but she did not move, nor turn her eyes on me. they took me off the bed and sent me out to play. but i sat down at the door and wept for my ma. "the next day i saw them lay her in a long box of wood and take her off. i have run up and down all day to find her. do you know what they have done with my ma? oh! tell me, if you can." then the poor lad wept so hard that the man and the girl felt sad for him. "how old are you, my boy?" said the man. "i was six last may." "what is your name?" "dick." "well, dick," said this good man, "you may come in here, if you like, and stay till you can find your ma. i will give you food to eat, and you can help me to work. when your ma does come for you, you may go home with her." [illustration] part ii. [illustration] dick soon made up his mind to live with this kind, good man. the man was not rich. he had to work hard, and dick was made to work too. but he did not mind that. but the girl was not kind to dick. she gave him a box on the ear when he did not do as she bid him. she did not let him sit down to eat till she had done, and all that she gave him was the bits that she had left. she made him a bed of a pile of old rags, at one end of the loft. dick had no one now to show him how to be good, and he soon got to be a bad boy. he told lies, and when no eye was on him, he took what was not his. he did not know god saw him. he used a bad word now and then, and did not work so well as once he did. the man who took dick to live with him was sad to see him such a bad boy, and did not know what to do with him. dick had now no joy in life, for no bad boy can be gay and glad. but he did not like to feel that he was made sad by his own bad ways. he said it was the way he had to live that made him bad. [illustration] part iii. [illustration] poor dick had now no one to love him but a cat. one day, when he was out at play, he saw some boys pelt a cat to kill her. he did not like to have them kill the cat, so he ran to her, took her up in his arms, and took her home. the girl let him keep the cat, for she kept off all the rats and mice. she was a gray cat. she had fine soft fur, and a long tail. when dick had done his tea, he took puss on his knee to pat her on the head, and talk to her, as if she knew all that he said to her. she then did rub her head on his arm, and purr, and lie down on his knee and take a nap. she had her bed on his heap of rags. once when dick had felt bad all day, he lay down on his bed. he said to puss, "no one is kind to me but you, puss; no one has love for me. i will run off. i will not stay." dick did not shut his eyes, but when it was yet dark, he got up, and went out of his room, down to the door. he put his hand on the key and gave it a turn. he felt the cold air on his face when he went out. but he ran on fast, till he was so weak, he had to stop. just then a big bell near him rang out loud on the air to say that day had come once more. it made dick turn his eyes to see this bell, and as it rang, he felt it say to him, "turn back, dick!--turn back, dick!--turn back, dick!" dick did not move. he did not know what to do. his eyes were on the bell as it rung out, "turn back, dick!--turn back, dick! turn back, dick!" it put him in mind of the time when his ma had laid her hand on his head ere she went to god, and said, "o god, take care of my poor boy!" it put him in mind what a bad boy he had been, and how he had made his life a hard one by his ill ways. he made up his mind to go back. but then he said, "if they find out i have run off, they will beat me." this fear made him run so fast, that he got home and back to his heap of rags ere the man and the girl were up. as dick lay on his bed, he made up his mind to be a good boy. he knew his ma used to pray to god to make him good, so he bent his own knee to pray, and said, "o god, make dick a good boy." just then the girl came to the door, and said, "dick! dick! get up! it is day!" so dick soon went down and was so kind and good, they did not know what to make of it. but dick went on day by day, and soon he saw that when he was kind and good, they were kind and true to him. it was hard work for dick to give up all his bad ways. but each morn and eve he went to god, to ask him for help, and he did not ask in vain. by-and-by the girl let him sit with her. she made him a good bed. miss puss yet kept her seat on his knee, when he sat down to rest, and all was love and joy. [illustration] part iv. [illustration] one day a man, by the name of jack, came to see them. he was to go on the sea in a big ship, to a far off land. he had come to say good-bye. he said to them, "the land that the ship will sail to, is a far off land, and the men who live in it are not like us, and do not know our ways. they do not eat or wear what we do. now what you give me i will take with me, and sell it for you, and when i come back i will pay you what i get for it. it may be that i will get much gold for it; for the men in that far off land like what is made here, more than what they have at home." so the man and the girl were glad, and gave him much to sell for them. poor dick sat, with his cat on his knee; a tear was in his eye, for he too felt the wish to have some gold. the man saw him look sad, and said, "well, dick, my son, and what will you send?" dick wept. "i have but my cat," said dick. "well, send that," said jack; "it may be she will sell for more than all the rest." they all had much fun at this, and dick had to join in. he took puss up in his arms. he gave her a kiss and a pat on her head. he felt her soft fur. it was hard for him to part with her, for she had been his pet for a long time. but at last he set her down. he got a big bag. he put puss in it. she did not like to be thus shut up, but dick tied her in. so the man took the bag in his arms, and went to his ship. when he got to the ship, he let the cat out of the bag. she was glad to be free once more, and ran to find dick. but poor dick was at home, sad; for he knew that he had seen his puss for the last time. the ship was full of rats and mice, and puss had a fine time. she made them fly, and soon no more rats and mice were to be seen in the ship. the men were glad to have the cat, and gave her food and milk, so that she was well off. part v. [illustration] the ship went on her way. it was more than a year when they got to that far off land. the man who took the cat, had, as was said, the name of jack. he left the ship when he got to the land, and went to see the king. the king was glad to see jack, and told him, he must stay and dine with him. when they went to the room to dine, they saw that rats and mice were in it too, and had eat much of the food. they saw the rats and mice jump down and run when they went in the room. the king was in a rage, that he had lost his meal. jack said to him, "why do you let the rats and mice do so?" "i do not know how to help it," said the king. "i will give a pile of gold to one who will rid me of them." then jack was glad. he said to the king, "if you will give me a pile of gold, i will rid you of the rats and mice." the king said, "you are in fun. you do not know how to get rid of them." jack said, "we will see." so the next day, he put the cat in a bag, and went with the bag in his arm to the king. puss did not like to be shut up in the bag, and made much fuss. the king was glad to see jack, and said, "let me see what you have in your bag." but jack said, "not just yet; wait till we see the rats and mice." so they went to the room to dine. the rats and mice were at the food just as they had been. jack took the cord off the bag, and took out the cat. the king did not know what a cat was; for he had no cats in his land. jack held her in his arms till she had lost her fear, and then set her down with the rats and mice. she soon made them know what a cat was, and put them in such fear that they all fled. the king was so glad that he did not know what to do. they sat down to dine. not a rat came out of its hole. the king ate his meal with joy, and puss sat on his knee and fed out of his dish. the king told jack he must let him keep the cat. jack said, "i will give her to you, but you must give me the pile of gold." the king was glad to keep the cat and pay the gold. so jack put the gold in the bag that had held the cat, and went back to the ship. a year more went by, ere jack and his ship came back to port. he soon went to see dick, with the bag of gold. the man and the girl were both glad to find that jack had sold what they gave him, and that he had got a good deal for them. but when jack told them of the cat, and took out the bag of gold, they did not know what to say. and when poor dick was told that it was all for him, he had to cry for joy, and all the rest wept with him, for they were all fond of dick now, he had come to be such a good boy. "well, dick," said jack, "what will you do with all this gold? let us see what will be best." so they all said much, and sat up till it was late, to talk of dick and his pile of gold. at last dick said, "i will give some of it to each of you, who have been so good and kind to me. i will take part of the rest and lay it out upon my mind, that i may be wise when i grow to be a man. and what is left i will lay up, so that when i am a man, i will have it to work with, that i may grow to be rich; for to be good, and wise, and rich, is what i wish." they all said dick knew what was best. so that is what was done with the pile of gold that the king gave for the cat. [illustration: finis] transcriber's note: minor punctuation errors have been amended without note. the frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page. (this file was made using scans of public domain works in the international children's digital library.) [illustration: nettie comforts her mother.] the carpenter's daughter. "blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of god." by the authors of "the wide, wide world," etc. etc. with coloured frontispiece. london: george routledge and sons, the broadway, ludgate. by the authors of "the wide, wide world." price one shilling each, with coloured frontispiece the two schoolgirls. the carpenter's daughter. the prince in disguise. gertrude and her bible. martha and rachel. the widow and her daughter. the little black hen. the rose in the desert. george routledge and sons. london: savill, edwards & co., printers, chandos street. contents. chap. page i. saturday evening's work ii. sunday's rest iii. nettie's garret iv. the brown cloak in november v. the new blanket vi. the house-raising vii. the waffles viii. the golden city the carpenter's daughter. chapter i. saturday evening's work. down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. it ran over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one as if there had been no water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it ran. on one side of the little stream a worn foot path took its course among the bushes; and down this path one summer's afternoon came a woman and a girl. they had pails to fill at the spring; the woman had a large wooden one, and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with a little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used for that. the pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was singing; and the woman and the girl turned and went up the path again. after getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright light from the window of a house, on which the setting sun was shining. half way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water is heavy, and the tin pail which was so light before it was filled, had made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch all the way from the spring. they stopped to rest, and even the woman had a very weary, jaded look. "i feel as if i shall give up, some of these days," she exclaimed. "o no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. she was panting, with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look; only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it. "i shall," said the woman. "one can't stand everything,--for ever." the little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there she struck up the sweet air and words,-- "'there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for you.'" "yes, in the grave!" said the woman, bitterly. "there's no rest short of that,--for mind or body." "o yes, mother dear. 'for we which have believed do enter into rest.' jesus don't make us wait." "i believe you eat the bible and sleep on the bible," said the woman, with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "i am glad it rests you, nettie." "and you, mother." "sometimes," mrs. mathieson answered, with a sigh. "but there's your father going to bring home a boarder, nettie." "a boarder, mother!--what for?" "heaven knows!--if it isn't to break my back, and my heart together. i thought i had enough to manage before, but here's this man coming, and i've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night." "who is it, mother?" "it's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said mrs. mathieson. "but where can he sleep?" nettie asked, after a moment of thinking. her mother paused. "there's no room but yours he can have. barry wont be moved." "where shall i sleep, mother?" "there's no place but up in the attic. i'll see what i can do to fit up a corner for you--if i ever can get time," said mrs. mathieson, taking up her pail. nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile again till they reached the house. they went round to the front door, because the back door belonged to another family. at the door, as they set down their pails again before mounting the stairs, nettie smiled at her mother very placidly, and said-- "don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; i'll see to it in time. i can do it just as well." mrs. mathieson made no answer but groaned internally, and they went up the flight of stairs which led to their part of the house. the ground floor was occupied by somebody else. a little entry way at the top of the stairs received the wooden pail of water, and with the tin one nettie went into the room used by the family. it was her father and mother's sleeping-room, their bed standing in one corner. it was the kitchen apparently, for a small cooking-stove was there, on which nettie put the tea-kettle when she had filled it. and it was the common living-room also; for the next thing she did was to open a cupboard and take out cups and saucers and arrange them on a leaf table which stood toward one end of the room. the furniture was wooden and plain; the woodwork of the windows was unpainted; the cups and plates were of the commonest kind; and the floor had no covering but two strips of rag carpeting; nevertheless the whole was tidy and very clean, showing constant care. mrs. mathieson had sunk into a chair, as one who had no spirit to do anything; and watched her little daughter setting the table with eyes which seemed not to see her. they gazed inwardly at something she was thinking of. "mother, what is there for supper?" "there is nothing. i must make some porridge." and mrs. mathieson got up from her chair. "sit you still, mother, and i'll make it. i can." "if both our backs are to be broken," said mrs. mathieson, "i'd rather mine would break first." and she went on with her preparations. "but you don't like porridge," said nettie. "you didn't eat anything last night." "that's nothing, child. i can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain wasn't quite so full." nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully. "i wish you had something you liked, mother! if only i was a little older, wouldn't it be nice? i could earn something then, and i would bring you home things that you liked out of my own money." this was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some fancied and pleasant possibility. the gleam was so catching, mrs. mathieson turned from her porridge-pot which she was stirring, to give a very heartfelt kiss to nettie's lips; then she stirred on, and the shadow came over her face again. "dear," she said, "just go in barry's room and straighten it up a little before he comes in--will you? i haven't had a minute to do it, all day; and there wont be a bit of peace if he comes in and it isn't in order." nettie turned and opened another door, which let her into a small chamber used as somebody's bedroom. it was all brown, like the other; a strip of the same carpet in the middle of the floor, and a small cheap chest of drawers, and a table. the bed had not been made up, and the tossed condition of the bedclothes spoke for the strength and energy of the person that used them, whoever he was. a pair of coarse shoes were in the middle of the whole; another pair, or rather a pair of half-boots, out at the toes, were in the middle of the floor; stockings, one under the bed and one under the table. on the table was a heap of confusion; and on the little bureau were to be seen pieces of wood, half cut and uncut, with shavings, and the knife and saw that had made them. old newspapers, and school books, and a slate, and two kites, with no end of tail, were lying over every part of the room that happened to be convenient; also an ink bottle and pens; with chalk and resin and a medley of unimaginable things beside, that only boys can collect together and find delight in. if nettie sighed as all this hurly-burly met her eye, it was only an internal sigh. she set about patiently bringing things to order. first made the bed, which it took all her strength to do: for the coverlets were of a very heavy and coarse manufacture of cotton and woollen mixed, blue and white; and then gradually found a way to bestow the various articles in barry's apartment, so that things looked neat and comfortable. but perhaps it was a little bit of a sign of nettie's feeling, that she began softly to sing to herself, "'there is rest for the weary.'" "hollo!" burst in a rude boy of some fifteen years, opening the door from the entry,--"who's puttin' my room to rights?" a very gentle voice said, "i've done it, barry." "what have you done with that pine log?" "here it is,--in the corner behind the bureau." "don't you touch it now, to take it for your fire,--mind, nettie! where's my kite?" "you wont have time to fly it now, barry; supper will be ready in two minutes." "what you got?" "the same kind we had last night." "_i_ don't care for supper." barry was getting the tail of his kite together. "but please, barry, come now; because it will make mother so much more trouble if you don't. she has the things to clear away after you're done, you know!" "trouble! so much talk about trouble! _i_ don't mind trouble. i don't want any supper, i tell you." nettie knew well enough he would want it by and by, but there was no use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. barry got his kite together and went off. then came a heavier step on the stairs, which she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was ready. the tea was made, and mrs. mathieson put the smoking dish of porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in. a tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face enough if its expression had been different, and if its hue had not been that of a purplish-red flush. he came to the table and silently sat down as he took a survey of what was on it. "give me a cup of tea! have you got no bread, sophia?" "nothing but what you see. i hoped you would bring home some money, mr. mathieson. i have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. i don't know what you expect a lodger to live on." "live on his board,--that'll give you enough. but you want something to begin with. i'd go out and get one or two things--but i'm so confounded tired. i can't." mrs. mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet for her bonnet. "i'll go, mother! let me go, please. i want to go," exclaimed nettie, eagerly. "i can get it. what shall i get, father?" slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things, as quickly the child put hers on. "what shall i get, father?" "well, you can go down the street to jackson's, and get what your mother wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of meal and a quart of treacle. and ask him to give you a nice piece of pork out of his barrel." "she can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go yourself, mr. mathieson. that would be a great deal more than the child can carry, or i either." "then i'll go twice, mother; it isn't far; i'd like to go. i'll get it. please give me the money, father." he cursed and swore at her, for answer. "go along, and do as you are bid, without all this chaffering! go to jackson's and tell him you want the things, and i'll give him the money to-morrow. he knows me." nettie knew he did, and stood her ground. her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and foolish. "you know i can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and to-morrow is sunday." he cursed sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket and threw some money across the table to her. he was just in a state not to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where if he had been quite himself he would have given shillings. nettie took them without any remark, and her basket, and went out. it was just sundown. the village lay glittering in the light, that would be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing high, showed all bright in the sunbeams from its sparkling vane at the top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. nettie's home was in a branch-road, a few steps from the main street of the village that led up to the church at one end of it. all along that street the sunlight lay, on the grass and the roadway and the sidewalks and the tops of a few elm-trees. the street was empty; it was most people's supper-time. nettie turned the corner and went down the village. she went slowly; her little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and back and arms and head all seemed tired too. but nettie never thought it hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown and shawl she wore; for mrs. mathieson had seen better days. and besides that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this saturday night. nettie's gown was shabby too; yes, very, compared with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow nettie was not ashamed. she did not think of it now, as her slow steps took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do about the money. her father had given her two or three times as much, she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just got in his week's wages. what should nettie do? might she keep and give to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and from her father they could never get it again. he had his own ways of disposing of what he earned, and very little of it indeed went to the wants of his wife and daughter. what might nettie do? she pondered, swinging her basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street turned off again, and where the store of mr. jackson stood. there she found barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for. "o barry, how good!" exclaimed nettie; "you can help me carry my things home." "i'll know the reason first, though," answered barry. "what are you going to get?" "father wants a bag of corn meal and a piece of pork and some treacle; and you know i can't carry them all, barry. i've got to get bread and milk besides." "hurra!" said barry, "now we'll have fried cakes! i'll tell you what i'll do, nettie--i'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some to-night for supper." "o i can't, barry! i've got so much else to do, and it's saturday night." "very good--get your things home yourself then." barry turned away, and nettie made her bargains. he still stood by however and watched her. when the pork and the meal and the treacle were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to carry it. how many journeys to and fro would it cost her? "barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so, i'll make you the cakes." "be quick then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for i'm getting hungry." nettie went a few steps further on the main road of the village, which was little besides one long street and not very long either; and went in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the rest. it admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop--at least there was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and before, not behind, it sat a spruce little woman sewing. she jumped up as nettie entered. by the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a frenchwoman. she spoke english quite well, though not so fast as she spoke her own tongue. "i want two loaves of bread, mrs. august; and a pint of milk, if you please." "how will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the time." "o yes, i can," said nettie, cheerfully. "i can manage. they are not heavy." "no, i hope not," said the frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but two loaves are not one, no more. is your mother well?" she then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out the milk. nettie answered her mother was well. "and you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "somebody is tired this evening." "yes," said nettie, brightly; "but i don't mind. one must be tired sometimes. thank you, ma'am." the woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in her hand, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went up the street. "one must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her capable little head. "i should like to hear her say 'one must be rested sometimes;' but i do not hear that." so perhaps nettie thought, as she went homeward. it would have been very natural. now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the soft shades of evening were gathering and lights twinkled in windows. nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. perhaps she wished her saturday's work was all done, like other people's. all i can tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street, all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words, "no need of the sun in that day which never is followed by night." and that when she got home she ran up stairs quite briskly, and came in with a very placid face; and told her mother she had had a pleasant walk--which was perfectly true. "i'm glad, dear," said her mother, with a sigh. "what made it pleasant?" "why, mother," said nettie, "jesus was with me all the way." "god bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my heart!" there was only time for this little dialogue, for which mr. mathieson's slumbers had given a chance. but then barry entered, and noisily claimed nettie's promise. and without a cloud crossing her sweet brow, she made the cakes, and baked them on the stove, and served barry until he had enough; nor ever said how weary she was of being on her feet. there were some cakes left, and mrs. mathieson saw to it that nettie sat down and ate them; and then sent her off to bed without suffering her to do anything more; though nettie pleaded to be allowed to clear away the dishes. mrs. mathieson did that; and then sat down to make darns and patches on various articles of clothing, till the old clock of the church on the hill tolled out solemnly the hour of twelve all over the village. chapter ii. sunday's rest. nettie's room was the only room on that floor besides her mother's and barry's. it was at the back of the house, with a pleasant look-out over the trees and bushes between it and the spring. over these the view went to distant hills and fields, that always looked pretty in all sorts of lights, nettie thought. besides that, it was a clean, neat little room; bare to be sure, without even barry's strip of rag carpet; but on a little black table lay nettie's bible and sunday-school books; and each window had a chair; and a chest of drawers held all her little wardrobe and a great deal of room to spare besides; and the cot-bed in one corner was nicely made up. it was a very comfortable-looking room to nettie. "so this is the last night i shall sleep here!" she thought as she went in. "to-morrow i must go up to the attic. well,--i can pray there just the same; and god will be with me there just the same." it was a comfort; but it was the only one nettie could think of in connexion with her removal. the attic was no room, but only a little garret used as a lumber place; not boarded up, nor plastered at all; nothing but the beams and the side-boarding for the walls, and nothing but the rafters and the shingles between it and the sky. besides which, it was full of lumber of one sort and another. how nettie was to move up there the next day, being sunday, she could not imagine; but she was so tired that as soon as her head touched her pillow she fell fast asleep, and forgot to think about it. the next thing was the bright morning light rousing her, and the joyful thought that it was sunday morning. a beautiful day it was. the eastern light was shining over upon nettie's distant hills, with all sorts of fresh lovely colours and promise of what the coming hours would bring. nettie looked at them lovingly, for she was very fond of them and had a great many thoughts about those hills. "as the mountains are round about jerusalem, so the lord is round about his people;"--that was one thing they made her think of. she thought of it now as she was dressing, and it gave her the feeling of being surrounded with a mighty and strong protection on every side. it made nettie's heart curiously glad, and her tongue speak of joyful things; for when she knelt down to pray she was full of thanksgiving. the next thing was, that taking her tin pail nettie set off down to the spring to get water to boil the kettle. it was so sweet and pleasant--no other spring could supply nicer water. the dew brushed from the bushes and grass as she went by; and from every green thing there went up a fresh dewy smell that was reviving. the breath of the summer wind, moving gently, touched her cheek and fluttered her hair, and said god had given a beautiful day to the world; and nettie thanked him in her heart and went on rejoicing. sunday was nettie's holiday, and sunday-school and church were her delight. and though she went in all weathers, and nothing would keep her, yet sunshine is sunshine; and she felt so this morning. so she gaily filled her pail at the spring and trudged back with it to the house. the next thing was to tap at her mother's door. mrs. mathieson opened it, in her nightgown; she was just up, and looked as if her night's sleep had been all too short for her. "why, nettie!--is it late?" she said, as nettie and the tin pail came in. "no, mother; it's just good time. you get dressed, and i'll make the fire ready. it's beautiful out, mother." mrs. mathieson made no answer, and nettie went to work with the fire. it was an easy matter to put in some paper and kindle the light wood; and when the kettle was on, nettie went round the room softly setting it to rights as well as she could. then glanced at her father, still sleeping. "i can't set the table yet, mother." "no, child; go off, and i'll see to the rest. if i can get folks up, at least," said mrs. mathieson, somewhat despondingly. sunday morning that was a doubtful business, she and nettie knew. nettie went to her own room to carry out a plan she had. if she could manage to get her things conveyed up to the attic without her mother knowing it, just so much labour and trouble would be spared her, and her mother might have a better chance of some rest that day. little enough, with a lodger coming that evening! to get her things up there,--that was all nettie would do to-day; but that must be done. the steep stairs to the attic went up from the entry way, just outside of nettie's door. she went up the first time to see what place there was to bestow anything. the little garret was strewn all over with things carelessly thrown in, merely to get them out of the way. there was a small shutter window in each gable. one was open, just revealing the utter confusion; but half-showing the dust that lay on everything. the other window, the back one, was fairly shut up by a great heap of boxes and barrels piled against it. in no part was there a clear space, or a hopeful opening. nettie stood aghast for some moments, not knowing what to do. "but if i don't, mother will have to," she thought. it nerved her little arm, and one thought of her invisible protection nerved her heart, which had sunk at first coming up. softly she moved and began her operations, lest her mother down stairs should hear and find out what she was about before it was done. sunday too! but there was no help for it. notwithstanding the pile of boxes, she resolved to begin at the end with the closed window; for near the other there were things she could not move: an old stove, a wheelbarrow, a box of heavy iron tools, and some bags of charcoal and other matters. by a little pushing and coaxing, nettie made a place for the boxes, and then began her task of removing them. one by one, painfully, for some were unwieldy and some were weighty, they travelled across in nettie's arms, or were shoved, or turned over and over across the floor, from the window to a snug position under the eaves where she stowed them. barry would have been a good hand at this business, not to speak of his father: but nettie knew there was no help to be had from either of them; and the very thought of them did not come into her head. mr. mathieson, provided he worked at his trade, thought the "women-folks" might look after the house; barry considered that when he had got through the heavy labours of school, he had done his part of the world's work. so nettie toiled on with her boxes and barrels. they scratched her arms; they covered her clean face with dust; they tried her strength; but every effort saved one to her mother, and nettie never stopped except to gather breath and rest. the last thing of all under the window was a great old chest. nettie could not move it, and she concluded it might stay there very conveniently for a seat. all the rest of the pile she cleared away, and then opened the window. there was no sash; nothing but a wooden shutter fastened with a hook. nettie threw it open. there, to her great joy, behold she had the very same view of her hills, all shining in the sun now. only this window was higher than her old one, and lifted her up more above the tops of the trees, and gave a better and clearer and wider view of the distant open country she liked so much. nettie was greatly delighted, and refreshed herself with a good look out and a breath of fresh air before she began her labours again. that gave the dust a little chance to settle, too. there was a good deal to do yet before she could have a place clear for her bed, not to speak of anything more. however, it was done at last; the floor brushed up, all ready, and the top of the chest wiped clean; and next nettie set about bringing all her things up the stairs and setting them here, where she could. her clothes, her little bit of a looking-glass, her bible and books and slate, even her little washstand, she managed to lug up to the attic; with many a journey and much pains. but it was about done, before her mother called her to breakfast. the two lagging members of the family had been roused at last, and were seated at the table. "why, what have you been doing, child? how you look!" said mrs. mathieson. "how do i look?" said nettie. "queer enough," said her father. nettie laughed, and hastened to another subject; she knew if they got upon this there would be some disagreeable words before it was over. she had made up her mind what to do, and now handed her father the money remaining from her purchases. "you gave me too much, father, last night," she said, simply; "here is the rest." mr. mathieson took it and looked at it. "did i give you all this?" "yes, father." "did you pay for what you got, besides?" "yes." he muttered something which was very like an oath in his throat, and looked at his little daughter, who was quietly eating her breakfast. something touched him unwontedly. "you're an honest little girl!" he said. "there! you may have that for yourself;" and he tossed her a shilling. you could see, by a little streak of pink colour down each of nettie's cheeks, that some great thought of pleasure had started into her mind. "for myself, father?" she repeated. "all for yourself," said mr. mathieson, buttoning up his money with a very satisfied air. nettie said no more, only ate her breakfast a little quicker after that. it was time, too; for the late hours of some of the family always made her in a hurry about getting to sunday-school; and the minute nettie had done, she got her bonnet, her sunday bonnet--the best she had to wear--and set off. mrs. mathieson never let her wait for anything at home _that_ morning. this was nettie's happy time. it never troubled her, that she had nothing but a sun-bonnet of white muslin, nicely starched and ironed, while almost all the other girls that came to the school had little straw bonnets trimmed with blue and pink and yellow and green ribbons; and some of them wore silk bonnets. nettie did not even think of it; she loved her sunday lesson, and her bible, and her teacher, so much; and it was such a good time when she went to enjoy them all together. there was only a little way she had to go; for the road where mrs. mathieson lived, after running down a little further from the village, met another road which turned right up the hill to the church; or nettie could take the other way, to the main village street, and straight up that. generally she chose the forked way, because it was the emptiest. nettie's class in the sunday-school was of ten little girls about her own age; and their teacher was a very pleasant and kind gentleman, named mr. folke. nettie loved him dearly; she would do anything that mr. folke told her to do. their teacher was very apt to give the children a question to answer from the bible; for which they had to look out texts during the week. this week the question was, "who are happy?" and nettie was very eager to know what answers the other girls would bring. she was in good time, and sat resting and watching the boys and girls and teachers as they came in, before the school began. she was first there of all her class; and watching so eagerly to see those who were coming, that she did not know mr. folke was near till he spoke to her. nettie started and turned. "how do you do?" said her teacher, kindly. "are you quite well, nettie, this morning?" for he thought she looked pale and tired. but her face coloured with pleasure and a smile shone all over it, as she told him she was very well. "have you found out who are the happy people, nettie?" "yes, mr. folke; i have found a verse. but i knew before." "i thought you did. who are they, nettie?" "those that love jesus, sir." "ay. in the christian armour, you know, the feet are 'shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace.' with the love of jesus in our hearts, our feet can go over very rough ways and hardly feel that they are rough. do you find it so?" "o yes, sir!" he said no more, for others of the class now came up; and nettie wondered how he knew, or if he knew, that she had a rough way to go over. but his words were a help and comfort to her. so was the whole lesson that day. the verses about the happy people were beautiful. the seven girls who sat on one side of nettie repeated the blessings told of in the fifth chapter of matthew, about the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, those that hunger and thirst after righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, and the peacemakers. then came nettie's verse. it was this: "happy is he that hath the god of jacob for his help, whose hope is in the lord his god." the next girl gave the words of jesus, "if ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them." the last gave, "blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." then came mr. folke's verse, and nettie thought it was the most beautiful of all. "blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city." then mr. folke talked about that city; its streets of gold, and the gates of pearl, through which nothing that defileth can by any means enter. he told how jesus will make his people happy there; how they will be with him, and all their tears wiped away. and jesus will be their shepherd; his sheep will not wander from him anymore; "and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads." nettie could hardly keep from crying as mr. folke went on; she felt as if she was half in heaven already, and it seemed very odd to cry for gladness; but she could not help it. then the school closed with singing the hymn, "o how happy are they who the saviour obey, and have laid up their treasures above." from school they went to church, of course. a strange minister preached that day, and nettie could not understand him always; but the words of the hymn and mr. folke's words ran in her head then, and she was very happy all church time. and as she was walking home, still the tune and the words ran in her ears, "jesus all the day long is my joy and my song; o that all his salvation might see!" so, thinking busily, nettie got home and ran up stairs. what a change! it looked like a place very, very far from those gates of pearl. her mother sat on one side of the stove, not dressed for church, and leaning her head on her hand. mr. mathieson was on the other side, talking and angry. barry stood back, playing ball by himself by throwing it up and catching it again. the talk stopped at nettie's entrance. she threw off her bonnet and began to set the table, hoping that would bring peace. "your father don't want any dinner," said mrs. mathieson. "yes i do!"--thundered her husband; "but i tell you i'll take anything now; so leave your cooking till supper--when lumber will be here. go on, child! and get your work done." there were no preparations for dinner, and nettie was at a loss; and did not like to say anything for fear of bringing on a storm. her mother looked both weary and out of temper. the kettle was boiling,--the only thing about the room that had a pleasant seeming. "will you have a cup of tea, father?" said nettie. "anything you like--yes, a cup of tea will do; and hark'ye, child, i want a good stout supper got this afternoon. your mother don't choose to hear me. mr. lumber is coming, and i want a good supper to make him think he's got to the right place. do you hear, nettie?" "yes, father." nettie went on to do the best she could. she warmed the remains of last night's porridge and gave it to barry with treacle, to keep him quiet. meanwhile she had made the tea, and toasted a slice of bread very nicely, though with great pains, for the fire wasn't good; and the toast and a cup of tea she gave to her father. he eat it with an eagerness which let nettie know she must make another slice as fast as possible. "hollo! nettie--i say, give us some of that, will you?" said barry, finding his porridge poor in taste. "barry, there isn't bread enough--i can't," whispered nettie. "we've got to keep a loaf for supper." "eat what you've got, or let it alone!" thundered mr. mathieson, in the way he had when he was out of patience, and which always tried nettie exceedingly. "she's got more," said barry. "she's toasting two pieces this minute. i want one." "i'll knock you over, if you say another word," said his father. nettie was frightened, for she saw he meant to have the whole, and she had destined a bit for her mother. however, when she gave her father his second slice, she ventured, and took the other with a cup of tea to the forlorn figure on the other side of the stove. mrs. mathieson took only the tea. but mr. mathieson's ire was roused afresh. perhaps toast and tea didn't agree with him. "have you got all ready for mr. lumber?" he said, in a tone of voice very unwilling to be pleased. "no," said his wife,--"i have had no chance. i have been cooking and clearing up all the morning. his room isn't ready." "well, you had better get it ready pretty quick. what's to do?" "everything's to do," said mrs. mathieson. he swore at her. "why can't you answer a plain question? i say, _what's_ to do?" "there's all nettie's things in the room at present. they are all to move up stairs, and the red bedstead to bring down." "no, mother," said nettie, gently,--"all my things are up stairs already;--there's only the cot and the bed, that i couldn't move." mrs. mathieson gave no outward sign of the mixed feeling of pain and pleasure that shot through her heart. pleasure at her child's thoughtful love, pain that she should have to show it in such a way. "when did you do it, nettie?" "this morning before breakfast, mother. it's all ready, father, if you or barry would take up my cot and the bed, and bring down the other bedstead. it's too heavy for me." "that's what i call doing business and having some spirit," said her father. "not sitting and letting your work come to you. here, nettie--i'll do the rest for you." nettie ran with him to show him what was wanted; and mr. mathieson's strong arms had it all done very quickly. nettie eagerly thanked him; and then seeing him in good-humour with her, she ventured something more. "mother's very tired to-day, father," she whispered; "she'll feel better by and by if she has a little rest. do you think you would mind helping me put up this bedstead?" "well, here goes!" said mr. mathieson. "which piece belongs here, to begin with?" nettie did not know much better than he; but putting not only her whole mind but also her whole heart into it, she managed to find out and direct him successfully. her part was hard work; she had to stand holding up the heavy end of the bedstead while her father fitted in the long pieces; and then she helped him to lace the cords, which had to be drawn very tight; and precious time was running away fast, and nettie had had no dinner. but she stood patiently, with a thought in her heart which kept her in peace all the while. when it was done, mr. mathieson went out; and nettie returned to her mother. she was sitting where she had left her. barry was gone. "mother, wont you have something to eat?" "i can't eat, child. have you had anything yourself?" nettie had seized a remnant of her father's toast, and was munching it hastily. "mother, wont you put on your gown and come to church this afternoon? do! it will rest you. do, mother!" "you forget i've got to get supper, child. your father doesn't think it necessary that anybody should rest, or go to church, or do anything except work. what he is thinking of, i am sure i don't know. there is no place to eat in but this room, and he is going to bring a stranger into it; and if i was dying i should have to get up for every meal that is wanted. i never thought i should come to live so! and i cannot dress myself, or prepare the victuals, or have a moment to myself, but i have the chance of mr. lumber and your father in here to look on! it is worse than a dog's life!" it looked pretty bad, nettie thought. she did not know what to say. she began clearing away the things on the table. "and what sort of a man this mr. lumber is, i don't know. i dare say he is like his name--one of your father's cronies--a drinker and a swearer. and mr. mathieson will bring him here, to be on my hands! it will kill me before spring, if it lasts." "couldn't there be a bed made somewhere else for barry, mother? and then we could eat in there." "where would you make it? i could curtain off a corner of this room, but barry wouldn't have it, nor your father; and they'd all want to be close to the fire the minute the weather grows the least bit cool. no--there is nothing for me, but to live on till death calls for me!" "mother--jesus said, 'he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'" "o yes!" said mrs. mathieson, with a kind of long-drawn groan, "i don't know how it will be about that! i get so put about, now in these times, that it seems to me i don't know my own soul!" "mother, come to church this afternoon." "i can't, child. i've got to put up that man's bed and make it." "that is all done, mother, and the floor brushed up. do come!" "why, who put it up?" "father and i." "well! you do beat all, nettie. but i can't, child; i haven't time." "yes, mother, plenty. there's all the hour of sunday-school before church begins. now do, mother!" "well--you go off to school; and if i can, maybe i will. you go right off, nettie." nettie went, feeling weary and empty by dint of hard work and a dinner of a small bit of dry toast. but she thought little about that. she wanted to ask mr. folke a question. the lesson that afternoon was upon the peacemakers; and mr. folke asked the children what ways they knew of being a peacemaker? the answer somehow was not very ready. "isn't it to stop people from quarrelling?" one child asked. "how can you do that, kizzy?" kizzy seemed doubtful. "i could ask them to stop," she said. "well, suppose you did. would angry people mind your asking?" "i don't know, sir. if they were very angry, i suppose they wouldn't." "perhaps not. one thing is certain, kizzy; you must have peace in your own heart, to give you the least chance." "how, mr. folke?" "if you want to put out a fire, you must not stick into it something that will catch?" "that would make the fire worse," said one of the girls. "certainly. so if you want to touch quarrelsome spirits with the least hope of softening them, you must be so full of the love of jesus yourself that nothing but love can come out of your own spirit. you see it means a good deal, to be a peacemaker." "i always thought that must be one of the easiest things of the whole lot," said one of the class. "you wont find it so, i think; or rather you will find they are all parts of the same character, and the blessing is one. but there are more ways of being a peacemaker. what do you do when the hinge of a door creaks?" one said "she didn't know;" another said "nothing." "i stop my ears," said a third. mr. folke laughed. "_that_ would not do for a peacemaker," he said. "don't you know what makes machinery work smoothly?" "oil!" cried kizzy. "oil to be sure. one little drop of oil will stop ever so much creaking and groaning and complaining, of hinges and wheels and all sorts of machines. now, peoples' tempers are like wheels and hinges--but what sort of oil shall we use?" the girls looked at each other, and then one of them said, "kindness." "to be sure! a gentle word, a look of love, a little bit of kindness, will smooth down a roughened temper or a wry face, and soften a hard piece of work, and make all go easily. and so of reproving sinners. the psalmist says, 'let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head.' but you see the peacemaker must be righteous himself, or he hasn't the oil. love is the oil; the love of jesus." "mr. folke," said nettie, timidly, "wasn't jesus a peacemaker?" "the greatest that ever lived!" said mr. folke, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at her question. "he made all the peace there is in the world, for he bought it, when he died on the cross to reconcile man with god. all our drops of oil were bought with drops of blood." "and," said nettie, hesitatingly, "mr. folke, isn't that one way of being a peacemaker?" "what?" "i mean, to persuade people to be at peace with him?" "that is the way above all others, my child; that is truly to be the 'children of god.' jesus came and preached peace; and that is what his servants are doing, and will do, till he comes. and 'they shall be called the children of god.' 'beloved, if god so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'" mr. folke paused, with a face so full of thought, of eagerness, and of love, that none of the children spoke and some of them wondered. and before mr. folke spoke again the superintendent's little bell rang; and they all stood up to sing. but nettie mathieson hardly could sing; it seemed to her so glorious a thing to be _that_ sort of a peacemaker. could she be one? but the lord blessed the peacemakers; then it must be his will that all his children should be such; then he would enable her to be one! it was a great thought. nettie's heart swelled, with hope and joy and prayer. she knew whose peace she longed for, first of all. her mother had now come to church; so nettie enjoyed all the services with nothing to hinder. then they walked home together, not speaking much to each other, but every step of the way pleasant in the sunday afternoon light, till they got to their own door. nettie knew what her mother's sigh meant, as they mounted the stairs. happily, nobody was at home yet but themselves. "now, mother," said nettie, when she had changed her dress and come to the common room,--"what's to be for supper? i'll get it. you sit still and read, if you want to, while it's quiet. what must we have?" "there is not a great deal to do," said mrs. mathieson. "i boiled the pork this morning, and that was what set your father up so; that's ready; and he says there must be cakes. the potatoes are all ready to put down--i was going to boil 'em this morning, and he stopped me." nettie looked grave about the cakes. "however, mother," she said, "i don't believe that little loaf of bread would last, even if you and i didn't touch it; it is not very big." mrs. mathieson wearily sat down and took her testament, as nettie begged her; and nettie put on the kettle and the pot of potatoes, and made the cakes ready to bake. the table was set, and the treacle and everything on it, except the hot things, when barry burst in. "hollo, cakes!--hollo, treacle!" he shouted. "pork and treacle--that's the right sort of thing. now we're going to live something like." "hush, barry, don't make such a noise," said his sister. "you know it's sunday evening." "sunday! well, what about sunday? what's sunday good for, except to eat, i should like to know?" "o barry!" "o barry!" said he, mimicking her. "come, shut up, and fry your cake. father and lumber will be here just now." nettie hushed, as she was bade; and as soon as her father's step was heard below, she went to frying cakes with all her might. she just turned her head to give one look at mr. lumber as he came in. he appeared to her very like her father, but without the recommendation which her affection gave to mr. mathieson. a big, strong, burly fellow, with the same tinges of red about his face, that the summer sun had never brought there. nettie did not want to look again. she had a good specimen this evening of what they might expect in future. mrs. mathieson poured out the tea, and nettie baked the cakes; and perhaps because she was almost faint for want of something to eat, she thought no three people ever ate so many griddle cakes before at one meal. in vain plateful after plateful went upon the board, and nettie baked them as fast as she could; they were eaten just as fast; and when finally the chairs were pushed back, and the men went down stairs, nettie and her mother looked at each other. "there's only one left, mother," said nettie. "and he has eaten certainly half the piece of pork," said mrs. mathieson. "come, child, take something yourself; you're ready to drop. i'll clear away." but it is beyond the power of any disturbance to take away the gladness of a heart where jesus is. nettie's bread was sweet to her, even that evening. before she had well finished her supper, her father and his lodger came back. they sat down on either side the fire and began to talk,--of politics, and of their work on which they were then engaged, with their employers and their fellow-workmen; of the state of business in the village, and profits and losses, and the success of particular men in making money. they talked loudly and eagerly; and nettie had to go round and round them, to get to the fire for hot water and back to the table to wash up the cups and plates. her mother was helping at the table, but to get round mr. lumber to the pot of hot water on the fire every now and then, fell to nettie's share. it was not a very nice ending of her sweet sabbath day, she thought. the dishes were done and put away, and still the talk went on as hard as ever. it was sometimes a pleasure to nettie's father to hear her sing hymns of a sunday evening. nettie watched for a chance, and the first time there was a lull of the voices of the two men, she asked, softly, "shall i sing, father?" mr. mathieson hesitated, and then answered, "no, better not, nettie; mr. lumber might not find it amusing;" and the talk began again. nettie waited a little longer, feeling exceedingly tired; then she rose and lit a candle. "what are you doing, nettie?" her mother said. "i am going to bed, mother." "you can't take a candle up there, child! the attic's all full of things, and you'd certainly set us on fire." "i'll take great care, mother." "but you can't, child! the wind might blow the snuff of your candle right into something that would be all a flame by the time you're asleep. you must manage without a light somehow." "but i can't see to find my way," said nettie, who was secretly trembling with fear. "i'll light you then, for once, and you'll soon learn the way. give me the candle." nettie hushed the words that came crowding into her mouth, and clambered up the steep stairs to the attic. mrs. mathieson followed her with the candle till she got to the top, and there she held it till nettie had found her way to the other end where her bed was. then she said good-night and went down. the little square shutter of the window was open, and a ray of moonlight streamed in upon the bed. it was nicely made up; nettie saw that her mother had been there and had done that for her and wrought a little more space and order among the things around the bed. but the moonlight did not get in far enough to show much more. just a little of this thing and of that could be seen; a corner of a chest, or a gleam on the side of a meal bag; the half light showed nothing clearly except the confused fulness of the little attic. nettie had given her head a blow against a piece of timber as she came through it; and she sat down upon her little bed, feeling rather miserable. her fear was that the rats might visit her up there. she did not certainly know that there were rats in the attic, but she had been fearing to think of them and did not dare to ask; as well as unwilling to give trouble to her mother; for if they _did_ come there, nettie did not see how the matter could be mended. she sat down on her little bed, so much frightened that she forgot how tired she was. her ears were as sharp as needles, listening to hear the scrape of a rat's tooth upon a timber or the patter of his feet over the floor. for a few minutes nettie almost thought she could not sleep up there alone, and must go down and implore her mother to let her spread her bed in a corner of her room. but what a bustle that would make. her mother would be troubled, and her father would be angry, and the lodger would be disturbed, and there was no telling how much harm would come of it. no; the peacemaker of the family must not do that. and then the words floated into nettie's mind again, "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." like a strain of the sweetest music it floated in; and if an angel had come and brought the words straight to nettie, she could not have been more comforted. she felt the rats could not hurt her while she was within hearing of that music; and she got up and kneeled down upon the chest under the little window and looked out. it was like the day that had passed; not like the evening. so purely and softly the moonbeams lay on all the fields and trees and hills, there was no sign of anything but peace and purity to be seen. no noise of men's work or voices; no clangour of the iron foundry which on weekdays might be heard; no sight of anything unlovely; but the wide beauty which god had made, and the still peace and light which he had spread over it. every little flapping leaf seemed to nettie to tell of its maker; and the music of those words seemed to be all through the still air--"blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." tears of gladness and hope slowly gathered in nettie's eyes. the children of god will enter in, by and by, through those pearly gates, into that city of gold,--"where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the lord god giveth them light." "so he can give me light here--or what's better than light," thought nettie. "god isn't only out there, in all that beautiful moonlight world--he is here in my poor little attic too; and he will take just as good care of me as he does of the birds, and better, for i am his child, and they are only his beautiful little servants." nettie's fear was gone. she prayed her evening prayer; she trusted herself to the lord jesus to take care of her; and then she undressed herself and lay down and went to sleep, just as quietly as any sparrow of them all with its head under its wing. chapter iii. nettie's garret. nettie's attic grew to be a good place to her. she never heard the least sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. barry never came up there, and there she could not even hear the voices of her father and mr. lumber. she had a tired time of it down stairs. that first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on. nettie's mornings were always spent at school; mrs. mathieson would have that, as she said, whether she could get along without nettie or no. from the time nettie got home till she went to bed, she was as busy as she could be. there was so much bread to make, and so much beef and pork to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal times there were very often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations. mr. mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent should all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the difficulty was to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for now he brought none of his own earnings home, and mrs. mathieson had more than a sad guess where they went. by degrees he came to be very little at home in the evenings, and he carried off barry with him. nettie saw her mother burdened with a great outward and inward care at once, and stood in the breach all she could. she worked to the extent of her strength, and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of meals; and watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she would coax her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her testament. "it will rest you so, mother," nettie would say; "and i will make the bread just as soon as i get the dishes done. do let me! i like to do it." sometimes mrs. mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with her testament and look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could she find rest or comfort any more. "it don't signify, child," she said, one afternoon when nettie had been urging her to sit down and read. "i haven't the heart to do anything. we're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go." "oh no, mother!" said nettie. "i don't think we are." "i am sure of it. i see it coming every day. every day it is a little worse; and barry is going along with your father; and they are destroying me among them, body and soul too." "no, mother," said nettie, "i don't think that. i have prayed the lord jesus, and you know he has promised to hear prayer; and i know we are not going to ruin." "_you_ are not, child, i believe; but you are the only one of us that isn't. i wish i was dead, to be out of my misery!" "sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. do, mother! it will be an hour and more yet to supper, and i'll get it ready. you sit down and read, and i'll make the shortcakes. do, mother! and you'll feel better." it was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but mrs. mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her testament; and nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance over to the open book in her mother's hand and the weary, stony face that was bent over it. nettie had not said how her own back was aching, and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. but cakes and table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and nettie stole up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder; leaned a little heavily. [ ] "don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered. [ ] see frontispiece. "no. it don't seem to me as i've got any feeling left," said mrs. mathieson. it was the fourth chapter of john at which they were both looking. "don't it comfort you to read of jesus being wearied?" nettie went on, her head lying on her mother's shoulder. "why should it, child?" "i like to read it," said nettie. "then i know he knows how i feel sometimes." "god knows everything, nettie." "yes, mother; but then jesus _felt_ it. 'he took our infirmities.' and oh, mother, don't you love that tenth verse?--and the thirteenth and fourteenth?" mrs. mathieson looked at it, silently; then she said, "i don't rightly understand it, nettie. i suppose i ought to do so,--but i don't." "why, mother! i understand it. it means, that if jesus makes you happy, you'll never be unhappy again. 'whosoever drinketh of the water that i shall give him, _shall never thirst_,'--don't you see, mother? 'shall never thirst,'--he will have enough, and be satisfied." "how do you know it, nettie?" her mother asked, in a puzzled kind of way. "i know it, mother, because jesus has given that living water to me." "he never gave it to me," said mrs. mathieson, in the same tone. "but he _will_, mother. look up there--oh, how i love that tenth verse!--'if thou knewest the gift of god, and who it is that saith to thee, give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.' see, mother,--he will give, if we ask." "and do you feel so, nettie?--that you have enough, and are satisfied with your life every day?" "yes, mother," nettie said, quietly; "i am very happy. i am happy all the time; because i think that jesus is with me everywhere; when i'm upstairs, and when i'm busy here, and when i'm at school, and when i go to the spring; and all times. and that makes me very happy." "and don't you wish for anything you haven't got?" said her mother. "yes, one thing," said nettie. "i just wish that you and father and barry may be so happy too; and i believe that's coming; for i've prayed the lord, and i believe he will give it to me. i want it for other people too. i often think, when i am looking at somebody, of those words--'if thou knewest the gift of god, thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.'" with that, mrs. mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a passion of weeping that nettie was frightened. it was like the breaking up of an icy winter. she flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud; till hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase she rushed off to barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if nothing had happened. from that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother, nettie saw; though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was not now often the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past. nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the testament; and of all things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with nettie and hear her sing hymns. but both nettie and she had a great deal, as mrs. mathieson said, "to put up with." as weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. he and his friend lumber helped each other in mischief: they went together to jackson's shop and spent time in lounging and gossiping and talking politics there; and what was worse, they made the time and the politics go down with draughts of liquor. less and less money came to mrs. mathieson's hand; but her husband always required what he called a good meal to be ready for him and his lodger whenever he came home, and made no difference in his expectations whether he had provided the means or not. the lodger's rent and board had been at first given for the household daily expenses; but then mr. mathieson began to pay over a smaller sum, saying that it was all that was due; and mrs. mathieson suspected that the rest had been paid away already for brandy. then mr. mathieson told her to trade at jackson's on account, and he would settle the bill. mrs. mathieson held off from this as long as it was possible. she and nettie did their very best to make the little that was given them go a good way; they wasted not a crumb nor a penny, and did not spend on themselves what they really wanted; that they might not have the fearful storm of anger which was sure to come if the dinner was not plentiful and the supper did not please the taste of mr. mathieson and his lodger. by degrees it came to be very customary for mrs. mathieson and nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread, after all the more savoury food had been devoured by the others; and many a weary patch and darn filled the night hours because they had not money to buy a cheap dress or two. nettie bore it very patiently. mrs. mathieson was sometimes impatient. "this wont last me through the week, to get the things you want," she said one saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was lumber's payment to him. "you'll have to make it last," said he, gruffly. "will you tell me how i'm going to do that? here isn't more than half what you gave me at first." "send to jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't i tell you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise." "when will you pay jackson?" "i'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. it was a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and mrs. mathieson was staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was determined to say. "you may do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but i should think you would see for yourself that nettie has too much to get along with. she is getting just as thin and pale as she can be." "that's just your fool's nonsense!" said mr. mathieson; but he spoke it more quietly. nettie just then entered the room. "here, nettie, what ails you? come here. let's look at you. aint you as strong as ever you was? here's your mother says you're getting puny." nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so fresh and well, that he was quieted. he drew her to his arms, for his gentle dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and affection both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he kissed her. "there!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling me, for i don't like such doings. you tell me when you want anything." but with that, mr. mathieson got up and went off, out of the house; and nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. however, this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. it was the last she had from him in a good while. nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little of either she got. generally her father was rough, imperious, impatient, speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing in expressions of pleasure. sometimes a blessing did come upon her from the very depth of mrs. mathieson's heart, and went straight to nettie's; but it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited. so weeks went by. so her patient little feet went up and down the stairs with pails of water from the spring; and her hands made bread and baked cakes, and set rooms in order; and it was nettie always who went to mr. jackson's for meal and treacle, and to mrs. auguste's, the little frenchwoman's, as she was called, for a loaf when they were now and then out of bread. and with her mornings spent at school, nettie's days were very busy ones; and the feet that at night mounted the steps to her attic room were aching and tired enough. all the more that now nettie and her mother lived half the time on porridge; all the provision they dared make of other things being quite consumed by the three hearty appetites that were before them at the meal. and nettie's appetite was not at all hearty, and sometimes she could hardly eat at all. as the summer passed away it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret. nettie had never thought of that. as long as the summer sun warmed the roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out of her window at night, it was all very well; and nettie thought her sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the sky. but august departed with its sunny days, and september grew cool at evening; and october brought still sunny days, it is true, but the nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and nettie was obliged to cover herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter. the stars looked very lovely to nettie, when they peeped at her so, in her bed, out of their high heaven; and she was very content. then came november; and the winds began to come into the garret, not only through the open window, but through every crack between two boards. the whole garret was filled with the winds, nettie thought. it was hard managing then. shutting the shutter would bar out the stars, but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled through at her times of prayer morning and evening, nettie used to take the blanket and coverlets from the bed and wrap herself in them. it was all she could do. still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little garret chamber seemed to nettie very near heaven, as well as near the sky. but all this way of life did not make her grow strong, nor rosy; and though nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told. chapter iv. the brown cloak in november. november days drew toward an end; december was near. one afternoon mrs. mathieson, wanting nettie, went to the foot of the garret stairs to call her, and stopped, hearing nettie's voice singing. it was a clear, bird-like voice, and mrs. mathieson listened; at first she could not distinguish the words, but then came a refrain which was plain enough. "glory, glory, glory, glory, glory be to god on high, glory, glory, glory, glory, sing his praises through the sky; glory, glory, glory, glory, glory to the father give, glory, glory, glory, glory, sing his praises all that live." mrs. mathieson's heart gave way. she sat down on the lowest step and cried, for very soreness of heart. but work must be done; and when the song had ceased, for it went on some time, mrs. mathieson wiped her tears with her apron and called, "nettie!" "yes, mother. coming." "fetch down your school-cloak, child." she went back to her room, and presently nettie came in with the cloak, looking placid as usual, but very pale. "are you singing up there to keep yourself warm, child?" "well, mother, i don't know but it does," nettie answered, smiling. "my garret did seem to me full of glory just now; and it often does, mother." "the lord save us!" exclaimed mrs. mathieson, bursting into tears again. "i believe you're in a way to be going above, before my face!" "now, mother, what sort of a way is that of talking?" said nettie, looking troubled. "you know i can't die till jesus bids me; and i don't think he is going to take me now. what did you want me to do?" "nothing. you aint fit. i must go and do it myself." "yes i am fit. i like to do it," said nettie. "what is it, mother?" "somebody's got to go to mr. jackson's--but you aint fit, child; you eat next to none at noon. you can't live on porridge." "i like it, mother; but i wasn't hungry. what's wanting from jackson's?" nettie put on her cloak, and took her basket and went out. it was after sundown already, and a keen wind swept through the village street, and swept through nettie's brown cloak too, tight as she wrapped it about her. but though she was cold and blue, and the wind seemed to go through _her_ as well as the cloak, nettie was thinking of something else. she knew that her mother had eaten a very scanty, poor sort of dinner, as well as herself, and that _she_ often looked pale and wan; and nettie was almost ready to wish she had not given the last penny of her shilling, on sunday, to the missionary-box. when her father had given her the coin, she had meant then to keep it to buy something now and then for her mother; but it was not immediately needed, and one by one the pennies had gone to buy tracts, or as a mite to the fund for sending bibles or missionaries to those who did not know how to sing nettie's song of "glory." she wondered to herself now if she had done quite right; she could not help thinking that if she had one penny she could buy a smoked herring, which, with a bit of bread and tea, would make a comfortable supper for her mother, which she could relish. had she done right? but one more thought of the children and grown people who have not the bible,--who know nothing of the golden city with its gates of pearl, and are nowise fit to enter by those pure entrances where "nothing that defileth" can go in,--and nettie wished no more for a penny back that she had given to bring them there. she hugged herself in her cloak, and as she went quick along the darkening ways, the light from that city seemed to shine in her heart and make warmth through the cold. she was almost sorry to go to mr. jackson's shop; it had grown rather a disagreeable place to her lately. it was half full of people, as usual at that hour. "what do you want?" said mr. jackson, rather curtly, when nettie's turn came and she had told her errand. "what!" he exclaimed, "seven pounds of meal and a pound of butter, and two pounds of sugar! well, you tell your father that i should like to have my bill settled; it's all drawn up, you see, and i don't like to open a new account till it's all square." he turned away immediately to another customer, and nettie felt she had got her answer. she stood a moment, very disappointed, and a little mortified, and somewhat downhearted. what should they do for supper? and what a storm there would be when her father heard about all this and found nothing but bread and tea on the table. slowly nettie turned away, and slowly made the few steps from the door to the corner. she felt very blue indeed; coming out of the warm store the chill wind made her shiver. just at the corner somebody stopped her. "nettie!" said the voice of the little french baker, "what ails you? you look not well." nettie gave her a grateful smile, and said she was well. "you look not like it," said mme. auguste; "you look as if the wind might carry you off before you get home. come to my house--i want to see you in the light." "i haven't time; i must go home to mother, mrs. august." "yes, i know! you will go home all the faster for coming this way first. you have not been to see me in these three or four weeks." she carried nettie along with her; it was but a step, and nettie did not feel capable of resisting anything. the little frenchwoman put her into the shop before her, made her sit down, and lighted a candle. the shop was nice and warm and full of the savoury smell of fresh baking. "we have made our own bread lately," said nettie, in answer to the charge of not coming there. "do you make it good?" said mme. auguste. "it isn't like yours, mrs. august," said nettie, smiling. "if you will come and live with me next summer, i will teach you how to do some things; and you shall not look so blue neither. have you had your supper?" "no, and i am just going home to get supper. i must go, mrs. august." "you come in here," said the frenchwoman; "you are my prisoner. i am all alone, and i want somebody for company. you take off your cloak, nettie, and i shall give you something to keep the wind out. you do what i bid you!" nettie felt too cold and weak to make any ado about complying, unless duty had forbade; and she thought there was time enough yet. she let her cloak drop, and took off her hood. the little back room to which mme. auguste had brought her was only a trifle bigger than the bit of a shop; but it was as cozy as it was little. a tiny stove warmed it, and kept warm, too, a tiny iron pot and tea-kettle which were steaming away. the bed was at one end, draped nicely with red curtains; there was a little looking-glass, and some prints in frames round the walls; there was madame's little table covered with a purple cloth, and with her work and a small clock and various pretty things on it. mme. auguste had gone to a cupboard in the wall, and taken out a couple of plates and little bowls, which she set on a little round stand; and then lifting the cover of the pot on the stove, she ladled out a bowlful of what was in it, and gave it to nettie with one of her own nice crisp rolls. "eat that!" she said. "i shan't let you go home till you have swallowed that to keep the cold out. it makes me all freeze to look at you." so she filled her own bowl, and made good play with her spoon, while between spoonfuls she looked at nettie; and the good little woman smiled in her heart to see how easy it was for nettie to obey her. the savoury, simple, comforting broth she had set before her was the best thing to the child's delicate stomach that she had tasted for many a day. "is it good?" said the frenchwoman when nettie's bowl was half empty. "it's so good!" said nettie. "i didn't know i was so hungry." "now you will not feel the cold so," said the frenchwoman, "and you will go back quicker. do you like my _riz-au-gras_?" "_what_ is it, ma'am?" said nettie. the frenchwoman laughed, and made nettie say it over till she could pronounce the words. "now you like it," she said; "that is a french dish. do you think mrs. mat'ieson would like it?" "i am sure she would!" said nettie. "but i don't know how to make it." "you shall come here and i will teach it to you. and now you shall carry a little home to your mother and ask her if she will do the honour to a french dish to approve it. it do not cost anything. i cannot sell much bread the winters; i live on what cost me nothing." while saying this, mme. auguste had filled a little pail with the _riz-au-gras_, and put a couple of her rolls along with it. "it must have the french bread," she said; and she gave it to nettie, who looked quite cheered up, and very grateful. "you are a good little girl!" she said. "how keep you always your face looking so happy? there is always one little streak of sunshine here"--drawing her finger across above nettie's eyebrows--"and another here,"--and her finger passed over the line of nettie's lips. "that's because i _am_ happy, mrs. august." "_always?_" "yes, always." "what makes you so happy always? you was just the same in the cold winter out there, as when you was eating my _riz-au-gras_. now me, i am cross in the cold, and not happy." but the frenchwoman saw a deeper light come into nettie's eyes as she answered, "it is because i love the lord jesus, mrs. august, and he makes me happy." "_you?_" said madame. "my child!--what do you say, nettie? i think not i have heard you right." "yes, mrs. august, i am happy because i love the lord jesus. i know he loves me, and he will take me to be with him." "not just yet," said the frenchwoman, "i hope! well, i wish i was so happy as you, nettie. good-bye!" nettie ran home, more comforted by her good supper, and more thankful to the goodness of god in giving it, and happy in the feeling of his goodness than can be told. and very, very glad she was of that little tin pail in her hand she knew her mother needed. mrs. mathieson had time to eat the rice broth before her husband came in. "she said she would show me how to make it," said nettie, "and it don't cost anything." "why, it's just rice and--_what_ is it? i don't see," said mrs. mathieson. "it isn't rice and milk." nettie laughed at her mother. "mrs. august didn't tell. she called it reeso---- i forget what she called it!" "it's the best thing i ever saw," said mrs. mathieson. "there--put the pail away. your father's coming." he was in a terrible humour, as they expected; and nettie and her mother had a sad evening of it. and the same sort of thing lasted for several days. mrs. mathieson hoped that perhaps mr. lumber would take into his head to seek lodgings somewhere else; or at least that mathieson would have been shamed into paying jackson's bill; but neither thing happened. mr. lumber found his quarters too comfortable; and mr. mathieson spent too much of his earnings on drink to find the amount necessary to clear off the scores at the grocer's shop. from that time, as they could run up no new account, the family were obliged to live on what they could immediately pay for. that was seldom a sufficient supply; and so, in dread of the storms that came whenever their wants touched mr. mathieson's own comfort, nettie and her mother denied themselves constantly what they very much needed. the old can sometimes bear this better than the young. nettie grew more delicate, more thin, and more feeble, every day. it troubled her mother sadly. mr. mathieson could not be made to see it. indeed he was little at home except when he was eating. chapter v. the new blanket. nettie had been in barry's room one evening, putting it to rights; through the busy day it had somehow been neglected. mrs. mathieson's heart was so heavy that her work dragged; and when nettie came out and sat down to her sunday-school lesson, her mother kept watching her for a long time with a dull, listless face, quite still and idle. the child's face was busy over her bible, and mrs. mathieson did not disturb her, till nettie lifted her head to glance at the clock. then the bitterness of her mother's heart broke out. "he's a ruined man!" she exclaimed, in her despair. "he's a ruined man! he's taking to drinking more and more. it's all over with him--and with us." "no, mother," said nettie, gently,--"i hope not. there's better times coming, mother. god _never_ forsakes those that trust in him. he has promised to hear prayer; and i have prayed to him, and i feel sure he will save us." mrs. mathieson was weeping bitterly. "so don't you cry, mother. trust! 'only believe'--don't you remember jesus said that? just believe him, mother. i do." and proving how true she spoke--how steadfast and firm was the faith she professed, with that, as nettie got up to put away her books, her lips burst forth into song; and never more clear nor more sweet than she sung then, sounded the wild sweet notes that belong to the words--favourites with her. there was no doubt in her voice at all. "great spoils i shall win, from death, hell, and sin, 'midst outward afflictions shall feel christ within; and when i'm to die, receive me, i'll cry; for jesus hath loved me, i cannot tell why." mrs. mathieson sobbed at first; but there came a great quietness over her; and as the clear beautiful strain came to an end, she rose up, threw her apron over her face, and knelt quietly down by the side of her bed; putting her face in her hands. nettie stood and looked at her; then turned and went up the stair to her own praying-place; feeling in her heart as if instead of two weary feet she had had "wings as angels," to mount up literally. she knew that part of her prayer was getting its answer. she knew by the manner of her mother, that it was in no bitterness and despair but in the humbleness of a bowed heart that she had knelt down; and nettie's slow little feet kept company with a most bounding spirit. she went to bed and covered herself up, not to sleep, but because it was too cold to be in the garret a moment uncovered; and lay there broad awake, "making melody in her heart to the lord." it was very cold up in nettie's garret now; the winter had moved on into the latter part of december, and the frosts were very keen; and the winter winds seem to come in at one end of the attic and to just sweep through to the other, bringing all except the snow with them. even the snow often drifted in through the cracks of the rough wainscot board, or under the shutter, and lay in little white streaks or heaps on the floor, and never melted. to-night there was no wind, and nettie had left her shutter open that she might see the stars as she lay in bed. it did not make much difference in the feeling of the place, for it was about as cold inside as out; and the stars were great friends of nettie. to-night she lay and watched them, blinking down at her through her garret window with their quiet eyes; they were always silent witnesses to her of the beauty and purity of heaven, and reminders too of that eye that never sleeps and that hand that planted and upholds all. how bright they looked down to-night! it was very cold, and lying awake made nettie colder; she shivered sometimes under all her coverings; still she lay looking at the stars in that square patch of sky that her shutter opening gave her to see, and thinking of the golden city. "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." "there shall be no more curse; but the throne of god and of the lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him." "his servants shall serve him"--thought nettie; "and mother will be there,--and father will be there, and barry,--and i shall be there! and then i shall be happy. and i am happy now. 'blessed be the lord, which hath not turned away my prayer, nor his mercy from me!'"--and if that verse went through nettie's head once, it did fifty times. so did this one, which the quiet stars seemed to repeat and whisper to her, "the lord redeemeth the soul of his servants, and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate." and though now and then a shiver passed over nettie's shoulders, with the cold, she was ready to sing for very gladness and fulness of heart. but lying awake and shivering did not do nettie's little body any good; she looked so very white the next day, that it caught even mr. mathieson's attention. he reached out his arm and drew nettie toward him, as she was passing between the cupboard and the table. then he looked at her, but he did not say how she looked. "do you know day after to-morrow is christmas day?" said he. "yes, i know. it's the day when christ was born," said nettie. "well, i don't know anything about that," said her father; "but what i mean is, that a week after is new year. what would you like me to give you, nettie,--hey?" nettie stood still for a moment, then her eyes lighted up. "will you give it to me, father, if i tell you?" "i don't know. if it is not extravagant, perhaps i will." "it will not cost much," said nettie, earnestly. "will you give me what i choose, father, if it does not cost too much?" "i suppose i will. what is it?" "father, you wont be displeased?" "not i!" said mr. mathieson, drawing nettie's little form tighter in his grasp; he thought he had never felt it so slight and thin before. "father, i am going to ask you a great thing!--to go to church with me new year's day." "to church!" said her father, frowning; but he remembered his promise, and he felt nettie in his arms yet. "what on earth good will that do you?" "a great deal of good. it would please me so much, father." "what do you want me to go to church for?" said mr. mathieson, not sure yet what humour he was going to be in. "to thank god, father, that there was a christmas; when jesus came, that we might have a new year." "what? what?" said mr. mathieson. "what are you talking about?" "because, father," said nettie, trembling, and seizing her chance, "since jesus loved us and came and died for us, we all may have a new year of glory. i shall, father; and i want you too. oh do, father!" and nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson held her fast, and his face showed a succession of changes for a minute or so. but she presently raised her head from his shoulder, where it had sunk, and kissed him, and said-- "may i have what i want, father?" "yes--go along," said mr. mathieson. "i should like to know how to refuse you, though. but, nettie, don't you want me to give you anything else?" "nothing else!" she told him, with her face all shining with joy. mr. mathieson looked at her and seemed very thoughtful all supper time. "can't you strengthen that child up a bit?" he said to his wife afterwards. "she does too much." "she does as little as i can help," said mrs. mathieson; "but she is always at something. i am afraid her room is too cold o' nights. she aint fit to bear it. it's bitter up there." "give her another blanket or quilt, then," said her husband. "i should think you would see to that. does she say she is cold?" "no,--never except sometimes when i see her looking blue, and ask her." "and what does she say then?" "she says sometimes she is a little cold." "well, do put something more over her, and have no more of it!" said her husband, violently. "sit still and let the child be cold, when another covering would make it all right!" and he ended with swearing at her. mrs. mathieson did not dare to tell him that nettie's food was not of a sufficiently nourishing and relishing kind; she knew what the answer to that would be; and she feared that a word more about nettie's sleeping-room would be thought an attack upon mr. lumber's being in the house. so she was silent. but there came home something for nettie in the course of the christmas week, which comforted her a little, and perhaps quieted mr. mathieson too. he brought with him, on coming home to supper one evening, a great thick roll of a bundle, and put it in nettie's arms, telling her that was for her new year. "for me!" said nettie, the colour starting a little into her cheeks. "yes, for you. open it, and see." so nettie did, with some trouble, and there tumbled out upon the floor a great heavy warm blanket, new from the shop. mr. mathieson thought the pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long while. "is this for _me_, father?" "i mean it to be so. see if it will go on that bed of yours and keep you warm." nettie gave her father some very hearty thanks, which he took in a silent, pleased way; and then she hastened off with her blanket upstairs. how thick and warm it was! and how nicely it would keep her comfortable when she knelt, all wrapped up in it, on that cold floor. for a little while it would; not even a warm blanket would keep her from the cold more than a little while at a time up there. but nettie tried its powers the first thing she did. did mr. mathieson mean the blanket to take the place of his promise? nettie thought of that, but like a wise child she said nothing at all till the sunday morning came. then, before she set off for sunday-school, she came to her father's elbow. "father, i'll be home a quarter after ten; will you be ready then?" "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson. "for my new year's," said nettie. "you know you promised i should go to church with you." "did i? and aint you going to take the blanket for your new year's, and let me off, nettie?" "no, father, to be sure not. i'll be home at a quarter past; please don't forget." and nettie went off to school very thankful and happy, for her father's tone was not unkind. how glad she was new year's day had come on sunday. mr. mathieson was as good as his word. he was ready at the time, and they walked to the church together. that was a great day to nettie. her father and mother going to church in company with her and with each other. but nobody that saw her sober sweet little face would have guessed how very full her heart was of prayer, even as they walked along the street among the rest of the people. and when they got to church, it seemed as if every word of the prayers and of the reading and of the hymns and of the sermon, struck on all nettie's nerves of hearing and feeling. would her father understand any of those sweet words? would he feel them? would they reach him? nettie little thought that what he felt most, what _did_ reach him, though he did not thoroughly understand it, was the look of her own face; though she never but once dared turn it toward him. there was a little colour in it more than usual; her eye was deep in its earnestness; and the grave set of her little mouth was broken up now and then in a way that mr. mathieson wanted to watch better than the straight sides of her sun-bonnet would let him. once he thought he saw something more. he walked home very soberly, and was a good deal on the silent order during the rest of the day. he did not go to church in the afternoon. but in the evening, as her mother was busy in and out getting supper ready, and mr. lumber had not come in, mr. mathieson called nettie to his side. "what was you crying for in church this forenoon?" he said, low. "crying!" said nettie, surprised. "was i crying?" "if it wasn't tears i saw dropping from under your hands on to the floor, it must have been some drops of rain that had got there, and i don't see how they could very well. there warn't no rain outside. what was it for, hey?" there came a great flush all over nettie's face, and she did not at once speak. "hey?--what was it for?"--repeated mr. mathieson. the flush passed away. nettie spoke very low and with lips all of a quiver. "i remember. i was thinking, father, how 'all things are ready'--and i couldn't help wishing that you were ready too." "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson, somewhat roughly. "all things ready for what?" "ready for you," said nettie. "jesus is ready to love you, and calls you--and the angels are ready to rejoice for you--and i----" "go on! what of you?" nettie lifted her eyes to him. "i am ready to rejoice too, father." but the time of rejoicing was not yet. nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson was not angry, yet he flung away from her with a rude "pshaw!" and that was all the answer she got. but the truth was, that there was something in nettie's look, of tenderness, and purity, and trembling hope, that her father's heart could not bear to meet; and what is more, that he was never able to forget. nettie went about her evening business helping her mother, and keeping back the tears which were very near again; and mr. mathieson began to talk with mr. lumber, and everything was to all appearance just as it had been hitherto. and so it went on after that. chapter vi. the house-raising.[ ] [ ] a festival common in america on the completion of a house. it grew colder and colder in nettie's garret--or else she grew thinner and felt it more. she certainly thought it was colder. the snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better; then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter. nettie's whole day was so busy that she had little time to think, except when she went upstairs at night; covered up there under her blankets and quilts, and looking up at the stars, she used to feel sadly that things were in a very bad way. her father was out constantly o' nights, and they knew too surely where he spent them. he was not a confirmed drunkard yet; but how long would it take, at this rate? and that man lumber leading him on, with a thicker head himself, and barry following after! no seeming thought nor care for his wife and daughter and their comfort; it was with great difficulty they could get from him enough money for their daily needs; and to make that do, nettie and her mother pinched and starved themselves. often and often nettie went to bed with an empty stomach, because she was not hearty enough to eat porridge or pork, and the men had not left enough of other viands for herself and her mother. and neither of them would pretend to want that little there was, for fear the other wanted it more. her mother was patient and quiet now; not despairing, as a few months ago; and that was such joy to nettie that she felt often much more like giving thanks than complaining. yet she saw her mother toiling and insufficiently cared for, and she went to bed feeling very poor and thin herself; then nettie used to look at the stars and remember the lord's promises and the golden city, till at last she would go to sleep upon her pillow feeling the very richest little child in all the country. "they shall not be ashamed that wait for me"--was one word which was very often the last in her thoughts. nettie had no comfort from her father in all the time between new year and spring. except one word. one morning she went to barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. barry had no mind to the job. "why can't mother do it?" he said, "if you can't?" "mother is busy and hasn't a minute. i always do it for her." "well, why can't you go on doing it? you're accustomed to it, you see, and i don't like going out so early," said barry, stretching himself. "i would, and i wouldn't ask you; only, barry, somehow i don't think i'm quite strong lately and i can hardly bring the pail, it's so heavy to me. i have to stop and rest ever so many times before i can get to the house with it." "well, if you stop and rest, i suppose it wont hurt you," said barry. "_i_ should want to stop and rest, too, myself." his little sister was turning away, giving it up; when she was met by her father who stepped in from the entry. he looked red with anger. "you take the pail and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! don't you let nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or i'll turn you out of the house. you lazy scoundrel! you don't deserve the bread you eat. would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?" barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that mr. mathieson in a rage advanced toward him with uplifted fist; but nettie sprang in between and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother. "please, father, don't!" she cried; "please, father, don't be angry. barry didn't think--he didn't"-- "why didn't he?" said mr. mathieson. "great lazy rascal! he wants to be flogged." "oh don't!" said nettie,--"he didn't know why i asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me." "why did you, then?" "because it made my back ache so to bring it, i couldn't help asking him." "did you ever ask him before?" "never mind, please, father!" said nettie, sweetly. "just don't think about me, and don't be angry with barry. it's no matter now." "who does think about you? your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before." "mother didn't know my back ached. father, you know she hasn't a minute, she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know i wasn't strong enough. father, don't tell her, please, i asked barry. it would worry her so. please don't, father." "_you_ think of folks, anyhow. you're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed mr. mathieson as he turned away and left her. nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side. "am i that?" she thought. "shall i be that? oh lord, my saviour, my dear redeemer, send thy peace here!"--she was still in the same place and position when barry came in again. "it's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "it's as slippery as the plague, going down that path to the water--it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. i'm all froze stiff with the water i've spilled on me!" "i know it's very slippery," said nettie. "and then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it--it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. it's the most wretched work!" "i know it, barry," said nettie. "i am sorry you have to do it." "what did you make me do it for, then?" said he, angrily. "you got it your own way this time, but never mind,--i'll be up with you for it." "barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till i get stronger, and don't mind; and as soon as ever i can i'll do it again. but you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path." "stuff!" said barry. and from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. he was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling. so the winter slowly passed and the spring came. spring months came, at least; and now and then to be sure a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelled sweet with the opening buds. those days were lovely, and nettie enjoyed them no one can tell how much. on her walk to school, it was so pleasant to be able to step slowly and not hasten to be out of the cold; and nettie's feet did not feel ready for quick work now-a-days. it was so pleasant to hear the sparrows and other small birds, and to see them, with their cheery voices and sonsy little heads, busy and happy. and the soft air was very reviving too. then at home the work was easier, a great deal; and in nettie's garret the change was wonderful. there came hours when she could sit on the great chest under her window and look out, or kneel there and pray, without danger of catching her death of cold; and instead of that, the balmy perfumed spring breeze coming into her window, and the trees budding, and the grass on the fields and hills beginning to look green, and the sunlight soft and vapoury. such an hour--or quarter of an hour--to nettie was worth a great deal. her weary little frame seemed to rest in it, and her mind rested too. for those days were full not only of the goodness of god, but of the promise of his goodness. nettie read it, and thanked him. yet things in the household were no better. one evening nettie and her mother were sitting alone together. they were usually alone in the evenings, though not usually sitting down quietly with no work on hand. nettie had her sunday-school lesson, and was busy with that, on one side of the fire. mrs. mathieson on the other side sat and watched her. after a while nettie looked up and saw her mother's gaze, no longer on her, fixed mournfully on the fire and looking through that at something else. nettie read the look, and answered it after her own fashion. she closed her book and sang, to a very, very sweet, plaintive air, "i heard the voice of jesus say, come unto me and rest: lay down, thou weary one, lay down thy head upon my breast. i came to jesus as i was, weary, and worn, and sad, i found in him a resting-place, and he has made me glad. "i heard the voice of jesus say, i am this dark world's light; look unto me--thy morn shall rise, and all thy day be bright. i looked to jesus, and i found in him my star, my sun; and in that light of life i'll walk till travelling days are done." she sang two verses, clear, glad, and sweet, as nettie always sang; then she paused and looked at her mother. "do you keep up hope yet, nettie?" said mrs. mathieson, sadly. "yes, mother," nettie said, quietly. "mine gets beat out sometimes," said mrs. mathieson, drooping her head for an instant on her hands. "your father's out every night now; and you know where he goes; and he cares less and less about anything else in the world but jackson's store, and what he gets there, and the company he finds there. and he don't want much of being a ruined man." "yes, mother. but the bible says we must wait on the lord." "wait! yes, and i've waited; and i see you growing as thin as a shadow and as weak as a mouse; and your father don't see it; and he's let you sleep in that cold place up there all winter just to accommodate that lumber!--i am sure he is well named." "o mother, my garret is nice now,--on the warm days. you can't think how pretty it is out of my window--prettier than any window in the house." "outside, i dare say. it isn't a place fit for a cat to sleep on!" "mother, it's a good place to me. i don't want a better place. i don't think anybody else has a place that seems so good to me; for mother, jesus is always there." "i expect there'll be nothing else but heaven good enough for you after it!" said mrs. mathieson, with a sort of half sob. "i see you wasting away before my very eyes." "mother," said nettie, cheerfully, "how can you talk so? i feel well--except now and then." "if your father could only be made to see it!--but he can't see anything, nor hear anything. there's that house-raising to-morrow, nettie--it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me." "why, mother?" "i know how it will be," said mrs. mathieson; "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up; and your father'll be in the first of it; and i somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. i wish almost he'd get sick--or anything, to keep him away. they make such a time after a house-raising." "o mother, don't wish that," said nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. mr. mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman; and always had plenty of work and was much looked up to among his fellows. nettie began to think whether _she_ could make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging; hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him; could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? she thought and thought; and resolved that she must try. it did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure mr. mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing, except her own timid affection, and the one other thing it was possible to offer him,--a good supper. how to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother. mrs. mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles,[ ] and mr. mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made; now if mrs. moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs,--she believed she could manage it still. "but we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and i don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic." [ ] _waffles_, a species of sweet-cake used on such festivals in america. nor did nettie. it was to no power _under_ heaven that she trusted. but she must use her means. she easily got the iron from mrs. moss. then she borrowed the eggs from mme. auguste, who in lent time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes and many a heart prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles. "how do you manage the iron, mother?" "why it is made hot," said mrs. mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then when the batter is light you pour it in, and clap it together, and put it in the stove." "but how can you pour it in, mother? i don't see how you can fill the iron." "why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. you'll see." the first thing nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light? she never saw any look better, mrs. mathieson said; "but i forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them;--it was so that your father used to admire them; they wont be waffles without sugar and cinnamon, i'm afraid he'll think;--but i don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them." mrs. mathieson ended with a sigh. nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order; then set the table. when all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that god would take care of her and bless her errand. she put the whole matter in the lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak and went down to her mother. mr. mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and nettie was now on her way to do it. "it's turned a bad afternoon; i'm afraid it aint fit for you to go, nettie." "i don't mind," said nettie. "may be i'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before i come back." "well, you know where the raising is? it's out on the shallonway road, on beyond mrs. august's, a good bit." nettie nodded, and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, mrs. mathieson felt a great strain on her heart. she would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. she went to the window, and looked out at the weather. chapter vii. the waffles. the early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, march-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole sky-full of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. the large feathery flakes were falling now, fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. nettie had no overshoes; she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. she hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snowflakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by and by. nettie thought little of it. what was she thinking of? she was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed friend who has promised to be always with his servants; and remembering his promise--"they shall not be ashamed that wait for me." what did the snow and the wet matter to nettie? yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached mr. jackson's store and went in. the white frosting had lodged all round her old black silk hood and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure. mr. jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty; but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. so nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. her heart began to beat a little bit now. the feathery snowflakes fell thicker and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. nettie went on, past the little bakewoman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. then came houses more scattered; large handsome houses with beautiful gardens and grounds and handsome garden palings along the roadside. past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here mr. jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. the wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. she went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. the men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rung sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on ladders, some were below. nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. at last she found him. he and barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. she was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand; she waited. barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. if she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. mr. mathieson was looking the other way. "i say, mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "i s'pose 'taint worth carrying any of this stuff--jackson'll have enough without it?" the words were explained to nettie's horror by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips. "jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a confounded wet evening. but i've stood to my word, and i expect he'll stand to his'n." "he gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man from the top of the ladder. "punch and oysters," said mathieson, hammering away, "or i've raised the last frame i ever _will_ raise, for him. i expect he'll stand it." "oysters aint much count," said another speaker. "i'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day." "father," said nettie. she had come close up to him, but she trembled. what possible chance could she have? "hollo!" said mr. mathieson, turning suddenly. "nettie!--what's to pay, girl?" he spoke roughly, and nettie saw that his face was red. she trembled all over, but she spoke as bravely as she could. "father, i am come to invite you home to supper to-night. mother and i have a particular reason to want to see you. will you come?" "come where?" said mr. mathieson, but half understanding her. "come home to tea, father. i came to ask you. mother has made something you like." "i'm busy, child. go home. i'm going to supper at jackson's. go home." he turned to his hammering again. but nettie stood still in the snow and waited. "father--" she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low. "what? aint you gone?" exclaimed mr. mathieson. "father," said nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you,--and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful and just ready to bake. wont you come and have them with us? mother says they'll be very nice." "why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled barry,--"when we weren't going to punch and oysters? that's a better game!" if mathieson had not been drinking he might have been touched by the sight of nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. she looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps mr. mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and barry's suggestion fell into ready ground. "i tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "what are you doing here? i tell you i'm _not_ coming home--i'm engaged to supper to-night, and i'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. go home!" nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. she would not have delayed to obey, if her father had been quite himself; in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. she waited an instant and again said softly and pleadingly, "father, i've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready." "cinnamon and sugar"--he cursed with a great oath; and turning gave nettie a violent push from him, that was half a blow. "go home!" he repeated--"go home! and mind your business; and don't take it upon you to mind mine." nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. nobody saw her. mr. mathieson had not looked after giving her the push, and barry had gone over to help somebody who called him. nettie felt dizzy and sick; but she picked herself up, and wet and downhearted took the road home again. she was sadly downhearted. her little bit of a castle in the air had tumbled all to pieces; and what was more, it had broken down upon her. a hope, faint indeed, but a hope, had kept her up through all her exertions that day; she felt very feeble, now the hope was gone; and that her father should have laid a rough hand on her, hurt her sorely. it hurt her bitterly; he had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now, rather made it more sorrowful than less so to nettie's mind. she could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment nettie's faith trembled. feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, _would_ the lord not hear her, after all? it was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her sick. there was more to do that; the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. nettie walked slowly back upon her road till she neared the shop of mme. auguste; then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps. she did not remain there two seconds. mme. auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. she saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see nettie fall down at her threshold. as instantly two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. then madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands. she had lain nettie on the floor of the inner room and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse. "why, my nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?" "i don't know," said nettie, scarce over her breath. "do you feel better now, _mon enfant_?" nettie did not, and did not speak. mme. auguste mixed a spoonful of brandy and water and made her take it. that revived her a little. "i must get up and go home," were the first words she said. "you will lie still there, till i get some person to lift you on the bed," said the frenchwoman, decidedly. "i have not more strength than a fly. what ails you, nettie?" "i don't know." "take one spoonful more. what did you have for dinner to-day?" "i don't know. but i must go home!" said nettie, trying to raise herself. "mother will want me--she'll want me." "you will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow;--"and i will find some person to carry you home--or some person what will bring your mother here. i will go see if i can find some one now. you lie still, nettie." nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. she was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief, that she had for a moment, and under any discouragement, failed to trust fully the lord's promises. she trusted them now. let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "for he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_." "our heart shall rejoice in him, _because we have trusted in his holy name_." prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled nettie's heart all the while the frenchwoman was gone. meanwhile mme. auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to nettie. nettie was like herself now, only very pale. "i must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. how did i come in here?" "blood!" said the frenchwoman,--"where did you cut yourself, nettie? let me look!" which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that nettie smiled at her. her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was. "how did i get in here, mrs. august?" the frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again. "what did you have for dinner, nettie? you did not tell me." "not much--i wasn't hungry," said nettie. "o, i must get up and go home to mother." "you shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "it is good for you. you must take it. where is your father? don't talk, but tell me. i will do everything right." "he is at work on mr. jackson's new house." "is he there to-day?" "yes." mme. auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. it was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come. if they were not gone by already!--how should she know? even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. the men came along, a scattered group of four or five. "is mr. mat'ieson there?" she said. mme. auguste hardly knew him by sight. "men, i say! is mr. mat'ieson there?" "george, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking, tall man paused at madame's threshold. "are you mr. mat'ieson?" said the frenchwoman. "yes, ma'am. that's my name." "will you come in? i have something to speak to you. your little daughter nettie is very sick." "sick!" exclaimed the man. "nettie!--where is she?" "she is here. hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very sick. she is come fainting at my door, and i have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and i think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night." "where is she?" said mr. mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. he looked round the shop. "she is not here--you shall see her--but you must not tell her she is sick," said the frenchwoman, anxiously. "where is she?" repeated mr. mathieson, with a tone and look which made mme. auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. she opened the inner door without further preparation, and mr. mathieson walked in. by the fading light he saw nettie lying on the floor at his feet. he was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. he stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word. "father," said nettie, softly. he stooped down over her. "what do you want, nettie?" "can't i go home?" "she must better not go home to-night!" began mme. auguste, earnestly. "it is so wet and cold! she will stay here with me to-night, mr. mat'ieson. you will tell her that it is best." but nettie said, "_please_ let me go home! mother will be so troubled." she spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. he stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up. "have you got anything you can put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "i'll fetch it back." seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. she put on nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. as she folded and arranged the thick stuff round nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering-- "i would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. i wish i could keep you. now she is ready, mr. mat'ieson." and mr. mathieson stalked out of the house, and strode along the road with firm, swift steps, till, past jackson's, and past the turning, he came to his own door, and carried nettie upstairs. he never said a word the whole way. nettie was too muffled up, and too feeble to speak; so the first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he did with nettie still in his arms. mrs. mathieson, standing white and silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a question. her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self, only exceedingly pale. as soon as she caught sight of her mother's face, nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held her fast. "what do you want, nettie?" he asked. it was the first word. "nothing, father," said nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and then you and mother have supper." mr. mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the snow-wet counterpane which was round her. "what is the matter?" faltered mrs. mathieson. "nothing much, mother," said nettie, quietly; "only i was a little sick. wont you bake the waffles and have supper?" "what will _you_ have?" said her father. "nothing--i've had something. i feel nicely now," said nettie. "mother, wont you have supper, and let me see you?" mrs. mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but nettie's desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the bedside, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. nettie's eyes watched her, and mr. mathieson when he thought himself safe watched _her_. he did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was the expression of his face. mrs. mathieson was devoured by fear, even in observing this; but nettie was exceedingly happy. she did not feel anything but weakness: and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat his supper there at home after all. she was the only one that enjoyed anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. mrs. mathieson had asked an account of nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory one. she had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at mrs. august's and brought her home; that was about all. after supper he came and sat by nettie again; and said she was to sleep there, and he would go up and take nettie's place in the attic. nettie in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the question short, and bade mrs. mathieson go up and get anything nettie wanted. when she had left the room, he stooped his head down to nettie and said low-- "what was that about your lip?" nettie started; she thought he would fancy it had been done, if done at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. but she did not, dare not, answer. she said it was only that she had found a little blood on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she fell on mrs. august's threshold, when she had fainted. "show me your handkerchief," said her father. nettie obeyed. he looked at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been wounded; and nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even looked pale himself as he turned away from her. but he was as gentle and kind as he could be; nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off up to bed and nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep, she was very, very happy. but she did not tell her hopes or her joys to her mother; she only told her thanks to the lord; and that she did till she fell asleep. the next morning nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself. that was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. mr. mathieson sent barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while mrs. mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take nettie in his arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. he did not talk, and he kept barry quiet; he was like a different man. nettie, feeling indeed very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. she was very pale yet, and it distressed mr. mathieson to see that she could not eat. so he laid her on the bed, when he was going to his work, and told her she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something good when he came home. the day was strangely long and quiet to nettie. instead of going to school and flying about at home doing all sorts of things, she lay on the bed and followed her mother with her eyes as she moved about the room at her work. the eyes often met mrs. mathieson's eyes; and once nettie called her mother to her bedside. "mother, what is the matter with you?" mrs. mathieson stood still, and had some trouble to speak. at last she told nettie she was sorry to see her lying there and not able to be up and around. "mother," said nettie, expressively,--"'there is rest for the weary.'" "o nettie," said her mother, beginning to cry,--"you are all i have got!--my blessed one!" "hush, mother," said nettie; "_i_ am not your blessed one,--you forget; and i am not all you have got. where is jesus, mother? o mother, 'rest in the lord!'" "i don't deserve to," said mrs. mathieson, trying to stop her tears. "i feel very well," nettie went on; "only weak, but i shall be well directly. and i am so happy, mother. wont you go on and get dinner? and mother, just do that;--'rest in the lord.'" nettie was not able to talk much, and mrs. mathieson checked herself and went on with her work, as she begged. when her father came home at night he was as good as his word, and brought home some fresh oysters, that he thought would tempt nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed quietly at home and never made a move toward going out. eating was not in nettie's line just now; the little kind frenchwoman had been to see her in the course of the day and brought some delicious rolls and a jug of _riz-au-gras_, which was what seemed to suit nettie's appetite best of all. chapter viii. the golden city. several days went on; she did not feel sick, and she was a little stronger; but appetite and colour were wanting. her father would not let her do anything; he would not let her go up to her garret to sleep, though nettie pleaded for it, fearing he must be uncomfortable. he said it was fitter for him than for her, though he made faces about it. he always came home and stayed at home now, and especially attended to nettie; his wages came home too, and he brought every day something to try to tempt her to eat; and he was quiet and grave and kind--not the same person. mrs. mathieson in the midst of all her distress about nettie began to draw some free breaths. but her husband thought only of his child; unless, perhaps, of himself; and drew none. regularly after supper he would draw nettie to his arms and sit with her head on his shoulder; silent generally, only he would sometimes ask her what she would like. the first time he put this inquiry when mr. lumber was out of the way, nettie answered by asking him to read to her. mr. mathieson hesitated a little, not unkindly, and then read; a chapter in the bible, of course, for nettie wished to hear nothing else. and after that he often read to her; for mr. lumber kept up his old habits and preferred livelier company, and so was always out in the evenings. so several days passed; and when saturday came, mr. mathieson lost half a day's work and took a long walk to a farm where the people kept pigeons; and brought home one for nettie's supper. however, she could fancy but very little of it. "what shall i do for you?" said her father. "you go round like a shadow, and you don't eat much more. what shall i do that you would like?" this time there was nobody in the room. nettie lifted her head from his shoulder and met his eyes. "if you would come to jesus, father!" "what?" said mr. mathieson.--"i don't know anything about that, nettie. i aint fit." "jesus will take you anyhow, father, if you will come." "we'll talk about that some other time," said mr. mathieson,--"when you get well." "but suppose i don't get well, father?" "eh?----" said mr. mathieson, startled. "perhaps i shan't get well," said nettie, her quiet, grave face not changing in the least; "then i shall go to the golden city; and father, i shall be looking for you till you come." mr. mathieson did not know how to answer her; he only groaned. "father, will you come?" nettie repeated, a little faint streak of colour in her cheeks showing the earnestness of the feeling at work. but her words had a mingled accent of tenderness and hope which was irresistible. "yes, nettie--if you will show me how," her father answered, in a lowered voice. and nettie's eye gave one bright flash of joy. it was as if all her strength had gone out at that flash, and she was obliged to lean back on her father's shoulder and wait; joy seemed to have taken away her breath. he waited too, without knowing why she did. "father, the only thing to do is to come to jesus." "what does that mean, nettie? you know i don't know." "it means, father, that jesus is holding out his hand with a promise to you. now if you will take the promise,--that is all." "what is the promise, nettie?" nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat; and then said, "'this is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life.'" "how can a sinful man take such a promise?" said mr. mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "that is for people like you, nettie, not me." "oh, jesus has bought it!" cried nettie; "it's free. it's without price. you may have it if you'll believe in him and love him, father. i can't talk." she had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her. her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew and yet more than at first. for two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. but except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. he read to her in the bible; nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. he went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first sunday. nettie stayed at home on the bed and sang psalms in her heart. after those two weeks there was a change for the better. nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. the weather was changing too, now. april days were growing soft and green; trees budding and grass freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe. nettie went out and took little walks in the sun, which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her; sent mr. lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. with windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too. but nettie had a tenderness for her old garret as long as she lived. "it had got to be full of the bible, mother," she said one day. "you know it was too cold often to sit up there; so i used to go to bed and lie awake and think of things,--at night when the stars were shining,--and in the morning in the moonlight sometimes." "but how was the garret full of the bible, nettie?" "oh, i had a way of looking at some part of the roof or the window when i was thinking; when i couldn't have the bible in my hands." "well, how did that make it?" "why the words seemed to be all over, mother. there was one big nail i used often to be looking at when i was thinking over texts, and a knot-hole in one of the wainscot boards; my texts used to seem to go in and out of that knot-hole. and somehow, mother, i got so that i hardly ever opened the shutter without thinking of those words--'open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth the truth may enter in.' i don't know why, but i used to think of it. and out of that window i used to see the stars, and look at the golden city." "look at it!" said mrs. mathieson. "in my thoughts, you know, mother. oh, mother, how happy we are, that are going to the city! it seems to me as if all that sunlight was a curtain let down, and the city is just on the other side." it was a lovely spring day, the windows open, and the country flooded with a soft misty sunlight, through which the tender greens of the opening leaf began to appear. nettie was lying on the bed in her room, her mother at work by her side. mrs. mathieson looked at her earnest eyes, and then wistfully out of the window where they were gazing. "what makes you think so much about it?" she said, at last. "i don't know; i always do. i used to think about it last winter, looking out at the stars. why, mother, you know jesus is there; how can i help thinking about it?" "he is here, too," murmured poor mrs. mathieson. "mother," said nettie, tenderly, "aren't those good words,--'he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_?' i have thought of those words, very often." nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. she gave her the best she could. her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. but when nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. so sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. the words were from a little bit of a book of translations of german hymns which mr. folke, her sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of nettie's hand. "'as god leads me so my heart in faith shall rest. no grief nor fear my soul shall part from jesus' breast. in sweet belief i know what way my life doth go-- since god permitteth so-- that must be best.'" slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and mrs. mathieson was mute. for some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. mr. mathieson was never deceived. whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason, _he_ saw well enough and saw constantly that nettie was going to leave him. there was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. he went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought barry to his bearings. what more did nettie want? one sunday, late in may, nettie had stayed at home alone while the rest of the family were gone to church, the neighbour down stairs having promised to look after her. she needed no looking after, though; she spent her time pleasantly with her bible and her hymns, till feeling tired she went to her room to lie down. the windows were open; it was a very warm day; the trees were in leaf, and from her bed nettie could only see the sunshine in the leaves, and in one place through a gap in the trees, a bit of bright hill-side afar off. the birds sang merrily, and nothing else sounded at all; it was very sabbath stillness. so nettie lay till she heard the steps of the church-goers returning; and presently, after her mother had been there and gone, her father came into her room to see her. he kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. both were silent some time, while the birds sang on. "father," said nettie. he turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted. "father," said nettie, "the streets of the city are all of gold." "well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, nettie?" "only, i was thinking, if the _streets_ are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!" he knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bedside and laid his face in his hands. "i am a sinful man, nettie!" he said. "father, 'this is a faithful saying, that jesus christ came into the world to save sinners.'" "i don't deserve he should save me, nettie." "well, father, ask him to save you, _because_ you don't deserve it." "what sort of a prayer would that be?" "the right one, father; for jesus does deserve it, and for his sake is the only way. if you deserved it, you wouldn't want jesus; but now '_he_ is our peace.' o father listen, listen, to what the bible says." she had been turning the leaves of her bible, and read low and earnestly--"'now we are ambassadors for god, as though god did beseech you by us; we pray you, in christ's stead, be ye reconciled to god.' oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to him?" "god knows i am willing!" said mr. mathieson. "_he_ is willing, i am sure," said nettie. "'he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him.' he has made peace; he is the prince of peace; he will give it to you, father." there was a long silence. mr. mathieson never stirred. nor nettie, hardly. the words were true of her,--"he that believeth shall not make haste." she waited, looking at him. then he said, "what must i do, nettie?" "believe on the lord jesus christ." "how, child?" "father, the best way is to ask him, and he will tell you how. if you are only willing to be his servant--if you are willing to give yourself to the lord jesus--are you willing, father?" "i am willing, anything!--if he will have me," said mr. mathieson. "then go, father!" said nettie, eagerly;--"go and ask him, and he will teach you how; he will, he has promised. go, father, and ask the lord--will you? go now." her father remained still a moment--then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. she was too much exhausted to pray, otherwise than with a thought. her mother soon came in, and startled by her flushed look, asked how she did. "well," nettie said. mrs. mathieson was uneasy, and brought her something to take, which nettie couldn't eat; and insisted on her lying still and trying to go to sleep. nettie thought she could not sleep; and she did not for some time; then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke; and during that time read surely in nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour, what was the sentence of separation. she read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for nettie's sake. the sun was descending toward the western hilly country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when nettie awoke. "are you there, mother?" she said--"and is the sunday so near over! how i have slept." "how do you feel, dear?" "why, i feel well," said nettie. "it has been a good day. the gold is all in the air here--not in the streets." she had half raised herself and was sitting looking out of the window. "do you think of that city all the time?" inquired mrs. mathieson, half jealously. "mother," said nettie, slowly, still looking out at the sunlight, "would you be very sorry, and very much surprised, if i were to go there before long?" "i should not be very much surprised, nettie," answered her mother, in a tone that told all the rest. her child's eye turned to her sorrowfully and understandingly. "you'll not be very long before you'll be there too," she said. "now kiss me, mother." could mrs. mathieson help it? she took nettie in her arms, but instead of the required kiss there came a burst of passion that bowed her head in convulsive grief against her child's breast. the pent-up sorrow, the great burden of love and tenderness, the unspoken gratitude, the unspeakable longing of heart, all came in those tears and sobs that shook her as if she had forgotten on what a frail support she was half resting. nay, nature must speak this one time; she had taken the matter into her own hands, and she was not to be struggled with, for a while. nettie bore it--how did she bear it? with a little trembling of lip at first; then that passed, and with quiet sorrow she saw and felt the suffering which had broken forth so stormily. true to her office, the little peacemaker tried her healing art. softly stroking her mother's face and head while she spoke, she said very softly and slowly, "mother, you know it is jesus that said, 'blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' you have the mourning now, but he will find the comfort by and by." ashamed of her giving way, and of her having left it to the weak one to act the part of the strong, mrs. mathieson checked herself, held up her head and dried her tears. nettie lay down wearily. "i will stay here, mother," she said, "till tea is ready; and then i will come." mrs. mathieson went to attend to it. when nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. she said nothing however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. she took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and eat an egg that her mother had boiled for her. it was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table and mrs. mathieson was busy about, that nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. he looked grave, subdued, tender; she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. he met her eyes, and answered them. "i understand it now, nettie," he said. it was worth while to see nettie's smile. she was not a child very given to expressing her feelings, and when pleasure reached that point with her, it was something to see such a breaking of light upon a face that generally dwelt in twilight sobriety. her father drew her close, close within his arms; and without one word nettie sat there, till, for very happiness and weariness, she fell asleep; and he carried her to her room. there was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. it was like one of those spring days that were passed--full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. it was a breath of rest. but they knew it would end--for a time; and one summer day the end came. it was a sunday again, and again nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. nettie knew it too. "how soon do you think father will be home?" she said. "not before another hour, i think," said mrs. mathieson. "why, what of it, nettie?" "nothing----" said nettie, doubtfully. "i'd like him to come." "it wont be long," said her mother. "mother, i am going to give you my little dear hymn book," said nettie, presently; "and i want to read you this hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. may i?" "read," said mrs. mathieson; and she put up her hand to hide her face from nettie. nettie did not look, however; her eyes were on her hymn, and she read it, low and sweetly--very sweetly--through. there was no tremor in her voice, but now and then a little accent of joy or a shade of tenderness. "'meet again! yes, we shall meet again, though now we part in pain! his people all together christ shall call. hallelujah! "'soon the days of absence shall be o'er, and thou shalt weep no more; our meeting day shall wipe all tears away. hallelujah! "'now i go with gladness to our home, with gladness thou shalt come; there i will wait to meet thee at heaven's gate. hallelujah! "'dearest! what delight again to share our sweet communion there! to walk among the holy ransomed throng. hallelujah! "'here, in many a grief, our hearts were one, but there in joys alone; joys fading never, increasing, deepening ever. hallelujah! "'not to mortal sight can it be given to know the bliss of heaven; but thou shalt be soon there, and sing with me, hallelujah! "'meet again! yes, we shall meet again, though now we part in vain! his people all together christ shall call. hallelujah!'" mrs. mathieson's head bowed as the hymn went on, but she dared not give way to tears, and nettie's manner half awed and half charmed her into quietness. it was not likely she would forget those words ever. when the reading had ceased, and in a few minutes mrs. mathieson felt that she could look toward nettie again, she saw that the book had fallen from her hand and that she was almost fainting. alarmed instantly, she called for help, and got one of the inmates of the house to go after mr. mathieson. but nettie sank so fast, they were afraid he would not come in time. the messenger came back without having been able to find him; for after the close of the services in the church mr. mathieson had gone out of his way on an errand of kindness. nettie herself was too low to ask for him, if indeed she was conscious that he was not there. they could not tell; she lay without taking any notice. but just as the last rays of the sun were bright in the leaves of the trees and on the hills in the distance, mr. mathieson's step was heard. one of the neighbours met him and told him what he must expect; and he came straight to nettie's room. and when he bent down over her and spoke, nettie knew his voice and opened her eyes, and once more smiled. it was like a smile from another country. her eyes were fixed on him. mr. mathieson bent yet nearer and put his lips to hers; then he tried to speak. "my little peacemaker, what shall i do without you?" nettie drew a long, long breath. "peace--is--made," she slowly said. and the peacemaker was gone. the end. london: the broadway, ludgate hill. new york: , broome street. george routledge & sons' juvenile books. s. d. every boy's book. edited by _edmund routledge_. a new edition, re-written and revised. a complete encyclopædia of sports and amusements, &c. with engravings by harvey and harrison weir, and coloured illustrations. crown vo, cloth gilt. _in to, cloth, and royal vo, gilt and gilt edges, price s. d._ s. d. grimm's household stories. with illustrations. rev. j. g. wood's our garden friends and foes. illustrations. andersen's stories for the household. plates. jabez hogg on the microscope. illustrations. poets' corner. a selection of poetry. edited by _j. c. m. bellew_. sheridan knowles's dramatic works. kitto's bible history. _in cloth, gilt edges, price s. each._ s. d. routledge's every boy's annual. edited by _edmund routledge_. with coloured illustrations. pepper's play-book of science. plates. d'aulnoy's fairy tales. translated by _planché_. don quixote. with illustrations. planche's fairy tales. by _perrault_. an illustrated natural history. by the _rev. j. g. wood, m.a._ with illustrations by william harvey, and full-page plates by wolf and harrison weir. pepper's play-book of mines, minerals, and metals. with illustrations. motley's rise of the dutch republic. pictures from nature. by _mary howitt_. with coloured plates. routledge's five-shilling juvenile books. _with many illustrations, bound in cloth gilt._ s. d. my mother's picture-book. containing full-page pictures, printed in colours by kronheim. demy to, cloth. the red riding-hood picture-book. containing full-page pictures, printed in colours by kronheim. demy to. the snow-white and rose-red picture-book. with pages of coloured plates, by kronheim and others. schnick-schnack. a new edition, with coloured plates. in new binding. imperial mo, cloth. the orville college boys: a story of school life. by _mrs. henry wood_, author of "east lynne." with illustrations. post vo, cloth, gilt edges. the adventures of stephen scudamore. by _arthur locker_. with full-page plates. post vo, cloth, gilt edges. tales of the civil war. by the _rev. h. c. adams, m.a._ with full-page plates. fcap. vo, cloth, gilt edges. the hunting grounds of the old world. by the _old shekarry_. new edition. with illustrations. crown vo. marryat's children of the new forest. marryat's little savage. great sieges of history. m'farlane's british india. lillian's golden hours. by _silverpen_. the young yagers. by _mayne reid_. the young voyageurs. by ditto. the boy tar. by ditto. wonders of science. by _h. mayhew_. peasant boy philosopher. by ditto. odd people. by _mayne reid_. plant hunters. by ditto. ran away to sea. by ditto. the white brunswickers. by the _rev. h. c. adams_. the boy's treasury of sports and pastimes. hollowdell grange. by _g. m. fenn_. the queens of society. the wits and beaux of society. my father's garden. by _thomas miller_. barford bridge. by _rev. h. c. adams_. studies for stories. papers for thoughtful girls. the boy's own country book. by _t. miller_. the forest ranger. by _major campbell_. among the squirrels. wonderful inventions. by _john timbs_. robinson crusoe. illustrations. entertaining knowledge. with plates. pleasant tales. with plates. �sop's fables. with plates by h. weir. extraordinary men and women. dora and her papa. by the author of "lillian's golden hours." tales upon texts. by _rev. h. c. adams_. the illustrated girl's own treasury. great battles of the british army. coloured plates. the prince of the house of david. with plates. the pillar of fire. with plates. the throne of david. with plates. the story of the reformation. by _d'aubigné_ popular astronomy and orbs of heaven. wood's natural history picture-book: animals. illustrations. fcap. to. wood's natural history picture-book: birds. illustrations. fcap. to. wood's natural history picture-book: fish, reptiles, insects, &c. illustrations. fcap. to. golden light: stories for the young. with large pictures. imp. mo. popular nursery tales and rhymes. with illustrations. imp. mo. hans andersen's stories and tales. with illustrations. imp. mo. scripture natural history. by _maria e. catlow_. with pages of coloured illustrations. square. picture history of england. with full-page illustrations. fcap. to. what the moon saw, and other tales. by _hans c. andersen_, with illustrations. imp. mo. the book of trades. with hundreds of illustrations. imp. mo. routledge's scripture gift-book. with coloured plates. demy to. the child's coloured scripture book. with coloured plates. imp. mo. the good child's coloured book. oblong folio. coloured plates. child's picture book of wild animals. plates, printed in colours by kronheim. large oblong, boards. 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ludgate hill. new york: , broome street. j. ogden and co., printers, , st. john street e c. the african trader; or, the adventures of harry bayford, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ this is rather a short book, only small pages in book format. harry is a young chap, just about ready to leave school, when his father suffers some business losses, and the stress kills him. harry is left with some sisters, and he does not want to be a burden to them so he gets a job on board a trading vessel, and off they go to africa. here many of the crew catch the yellow fever, and die. the captain is ill, but appears to be surviving. an african seaman is a senior rating aboard the vessel. with a rich cargo, and badly under-manned, the vessel sets off for home. there is a fire in one of the holds, to which the vessel succumbs. harry and the african seaman make themselves a raft, but the captain perishes. they are picked up almost at once by a slave trader, but a royal navy man-of-war appears and gives chase. the slave trader delays the chase by chucking slaves overboard, who then have to be picked up by the pursuer. it all gets sorted out, and harry's cousin is an officer on the man-of-war. the african seaman is a religious man, and it actually turns out that he is the very person harry had been asked to look out for by his old nurse. so there is a happy ending, as far as harry is concerned, but there certainly were a few casualties on the way. ________________________________________________________________________ the african trader; or, the adventures of harry bayford, by w.h.g. kingston. chapter one. my father, after meeting with a severe reverse of fortune, dies, and my sisters and i are left destitute.--our faithful old black nurse mammy, takes care of my sisters, while i, invited by a former acquaintance, captain willis of the "chieftain," sail with him on a trading voyage to the coast of africa. our school was breaking up for the midsummer holidays--north, south, east, and west we sped to our different destinations, thinking with glee of the pleasures we believed to be in store for us. i was bound for liverpool, where my father, a west india merchant, now resided. he had for most of his life lived in jamaica, where i was born, and from whence i had a few years before accompanied him to england to go to school. "i am sorry we shall not see you back, bayford," said the good doctor, as he shook me warmly by the hand. "may our heavenly father protect you, my boy, wherever you go." "i hope to go as a midshipman on board a man-of-war, sir," i answered. "my father expects to get me appointed to a ship this summer, and i suppose that is the reason i am leaving." the doctor looked kindly and somewhat sadly at me. "you must not, harry, raise your hopes on that point too high," he answered, in a grave tone. "when i last heard from your father, saying he desired to remove you, he was very unwell. i grieve to have to say this, but it is better that you should be prepared for evil tidings. god bless you harry bayford. the coach will soon be up; i must not detain you longer." the doctor again warmly wrung my hand. i hastened after peter the porter, who was wheeling my trunk down to the village inn where the coach stopped, and i had just time to mount on the top when the guard cried out, "all right;" the coachman laid his whip along the backs of the horses, which trotted gaily forward along the dusty road. my spirits would naturally have risen at finding myself whirled along at the rate of ten miles an hour on my way homeward, but the last words spoken by the doctor continually recurred to me, and contributed greatly to damp them. i managed, however, at length, to persuade myself that my anticipations of evil were mere fancies. on reaching liverpool, having called a porter to carry my things, i hurried homewards, expecting to receive the usual happy greetings from my father and sisters. my spirits sank when looking up at the windows, i saw that all the blinds were drawn down. i knocked at the door with trembling hand. a strange and rough-looking man opened it. "is my father at home?" i asked, in a low voice. the man hesitated, looking hard at me, and then said, "yes; but you can't see him. there are some ladies upstairs--your sisters, i suppose--you had better go to them." there was an ominous silence in the house; no one was moving about. what had become of all the servants? i stole gently up to jane and mary's boudoir. they, and little emily our younger sister, were seated together, all dressed in black. sobs burst from them, as they threw their arms round my neck, without uttering a word. i then knew to a certainty what had happened--our kind father was dead; but i little conceived the sad misfortunes which had previously overtaken him and broken his heart, leaving his children utterly destitute. jane, on recovering herself, in a gentle sad voice told me all about it. "mary and i intend going out as governesses, but we scarcely know what to do for dear emily and you harry, though we will devote our salaries to keep you and her at school." "oh, i surely can get a place as a nursemaid," said emily, a fair delicate girl, looking but ill-adapted for the situation she proposed for herself. "and i, jane, will certainly not deprive you and mary of your hard-earned salaries, even were you to obtain what would be required," i answered, firmly. "i ought rather to support you, and i hope to be able to do so by some means or other." my sisters even then were not aware of the sad position in which we were placed. our father had been a man of peculiarly reserved and retiring manners; he had formed no friendships in england, and the few people he knew were simply business acquaintances. an execution had been put into the house even before his death, so that we had no power over a single article it contained. the servants, with the exception of my sisters' black nurse, had gone away, and we had not a friend whose hospitality we could claim. she, good creature (mammy, as we called her), finding out, on seeing my trunk in the hall, that i had arrived, came breathless, from hurrying up stairs, into the room, and embracing me, kissed my forehead and cheeks as if i had still been a little child; and i felt the big drops fall from her eyes as she held me in her shrivelled arms. "sad all this, massa harry, but we got good fader up dere, and he take care of us though he call massa away," and she cast her eyes to heaven, trusting with a simple firm faith to receive from thence that protection she might have justly feared she was not likely to obtain on earth. "we all have our sorrows, dear children," she continued, "massa had many sorrows when he lose your mother and his fortune, and i have my sorrows when i was carried away by slaver people, and leave my husband and piccaniny in africa, and now your sorrows come. but we can pray to the good god, and he lift us out of dem all." mammy had often told us of the cruel way in which she had been kidnapped, and how her husband had escaped with her little boy; and after she became a christian (and a very sincere one she was), her great grief arose from supposing that her child would be brought up as a savage heathen in ignorance of the blessed truths of the gospel. my sisters and i, as children, had often wept while she recounted her sad history, but at the time i speak of, i myself was little able to appreciate the deeper cause of her sorrow. i thought, of course, that it was very natural she should grieve for the loss of her son, but i did not understand that it arose on account of her anxiety for his soul's salvation. "i pray day and night," i heard her once tell jane, "dat my piccaniny learn to know christ, and i sure god hear my prayers. how he bring it about i cannot tell." we and mammy followed our father to the grave, and were then compelled to quit the house, leaving everything behind us, with the exception of my sisters' wardrobes and a few ornaments, which they claimed as their property. mammy did her best to cheer us. she had taken, unknown to my sisters, some humble, though clean, lodgings in the outskirts of the town, and to these she had carried whatever we were allowed to remove. "see, massa harry," she said, showing me an old leathern purse full of gold. "we no want food for long time to come, and before then god find us friends and show us what to do." my sisters possessed various talents, and they at once determined to employ them to the best advantage. jane and mary drew beautifully, and were adepts in all sorts of fancy needle-work. emily, though young, had written one or two pretty tales, and we were sure that she was destined to be an authoress. mammy, therefore, entreated them not to separate, assuring them that her only pleasure on earth would be to labour and assist in protecting them. had they had no other motive, for her sake alone, they would have been anxious to follow her advice. i was the only one of the family who felt unable to do anything for myself. i wrote too bad a hand to allow me any hopes of obtaining a situation in a counting-house; and though i would have gone out as an errand boy or page rather than be a burden to my sisters, i was sure they would not permit this, and, besides, i felt that by my taking an inferior position they would be lowered in the cold eyes of the world. i had ardently wished to go to sea, and i thought that the captain who had promised to take me as a midshipman would still receive me could i reach portsmouth. i did not calculate the expense of an outfit, nor did i think of the allowance young gentlemen are expected to receive on board a man-of-war. i had wandered one day down to the docks to indulge myself in the sight of the shipping, contemplating the possibility of obtaining a berth on board one of the fine vessels i saw fitting out, and had been standing for some time on the quay, when i observed a tall good-looking man, in the dress of a merchantman's captain, step out of a boat which had apparently come from a black rakish looking brigantine lying a short distance out in the stream. i looked at him hard, for suddenly it occurred to me that i remembered his features. yes, i was certain. he had been junior mate of the "fair rosomond," in which vessel we had come home from jamaica, and a great chum of mine. "mr willis," i said, "do you remember me? i am harry bayford." "not by looks, but by your voice and eyes i do, my boy," he answered, grasping my hand and shaking it heartily. "but what has happened? i see you are in mourning." i told him of my father's misfortunes and death; and as we walked along frankly opened out on my views and plans. "you will have no chance in the navy without means or friends, harry," he answered. "there's no use thinking about the matter; but if your mind is set on going to sea i'll take you, and do my best to make a sailor of you. i have command of the `chieftain,' an african trader, the brigantine you see off in the stream there. though we do not profess to take midshipmen, i'll give you a berth in my cabin, and i don't see that in the long run you will run more risk than you would have to go through on board vessels trading to other parts of the world." "thank you, captain willis, very much," i exclaimed, "i little expected so soon to go to sea." "don't talk of thanks, harry," he answered, "your poor father was very kind to me, and i am glad to serve you. i had intended calling on him before sailing; and if your sisters will allow me, i'll pay them a visit, and answer any objections they may make to your going." after dining with the captain at an inn, i hurried home with, what i considered, this good news. my sisters, however, were very unwilling to sanction my going. they had heard so much of the deadly climate of the african coast, and of dangers from slavers and pirates, that they dreaded the risk i should run. captain willis, according to his promise, called the next day, and not without difficulty quieted their apprehensions. mammy, though unwilling to part with me, still could not help feeling a deep interest in my undertaking, as she thought that i was going to visit her own still-loved country; and while assisting my sisters to prepare my outfit she entertained me with an account of its beauties and wonders, while i promised to bring her back from it all sorts of things which i expected to collect. "and suppose, mammy, i was to fall in with your little piccaniny, shall i bring him back to you?" i asked, with the thoughtlessness of a boy--certainly not intending to hurt her feelings. she dropped her work, gazing at me with a tearful eye. "he fine little black boy, big as you when four year old," she said, and stopped as if in thought, and then added, "ah, massa harry, he no little boy now though, him great big man like him fader, you no know him, i no know him." "but what is his name, mammy? that would be of use," i said. "him called cheebo," she answered, heaving a deep sigh. "but africa great big country--tousands and tousands of people; you no find cheebo among dem; god only find him. his eye everywhere. he hears mammy's prayers, dat great comfort." "that it is, indeed," said jane, fearing that my careless remarks had needlessly grieved poor mammy, by raising long dormant feelings in her heart. "and oh, my dear harry, if you are brought into danger, and inclined to despair--and i fear you will have many dangers to go through--recollect that those who love you at home are earnestly praying for you; and at the same time never forget to pray for yourself, and to feel assured that god will hear our united prayers, and preserve you in the way he thinks best." "i will try to remember," i said, "but do not fancy, jane, that i am going to run my head into all sorts of dangers. i daresay we shall have a very pleasant voyage out, and be back again in a few months with a full cargo of palm oil, ivory, gold-dust, and all sorts of precious things, such as i understand captain willis is going to trade for." "you will not forget cheebo though, massa harry," said mammy, in a low voice. the idea that i might meet her son was evidently taking strong possession of her mind. "that i will not," i answered. "i'll ask his name of every black fellow i meet, and if i find him i'll tell him that i know his mother mammy, and ask him to come with me to see you." "oh, but he not know dat name," exclaimed mammy. "me called ambah in africa; him fader called quamino. you no forget dat." "i hope not; but i'll put them in my pocketbook," i said, writing down the names, though i confess that i did so without any serious thoughts about the matter, but merely for the sake of pleasing old mammy. when i told captain willis afterwards, he was highly amused with the notion, and said that i might just as well try to find a needle in a bundle of hay as to look for the old woman's son on the coast of africa. the day of parting from my poor sisters and our noble-hearted nurse arrived. i did not expect to feel it so much as i did, and i could then understand how much grief it caused them. "cheer up, harry," said captain willis, as the "chieftain," under all sail, was standing down the mersey. "you must not let thoughts of home get the better of you. we shall soon be in blue water, and you must turn to and learn to be a sailor. by the time you have made another voyage or so i expect to have you as one of my mates, and, perhaps, before you are many years older, you will become the commander of a fine craft like this." i followed the captain's advice, and by the time we had crossed the line i could take my trick at the helm, and was as active aloft as many of the elder seamen on board. chapter two. the "chieftain" arrives off the coast of africa, and we carry on a brisk trade with the natives, who come off to us through the surf.--at length captain willis proposes to run up the river bonny to complete our cargo. not forgetful of my promise to mammy, i make inquiries for her son cheebo. it was my morning watch. i was indulging in the pleasure particularly enjoyable after sweltering in the close hot atmosphere of the cabin, of paddling about with bare feet on the wet deck, over which i and some of the men were heaving buckets of water, while others were lustily using holy-stones and scrubbing brushes, under the superintendence of mr wesbey, the first mate. the black cook was lighting his fire in the caboose, from whence a wreath of smoke ascended almost perpendicularly in the clear atmosphere. the sea was smooth as glass, but every now and then a slowly heaving swell lifted the vessel, and caused her sails, which hung down against the masts, to give a loud flap, while here and there the surface was broken by the fin or snout of some monster of the deep swimming round us. our monkey, quako, who had been turned out of his usual resting-place, was exhibiting more than his ordinary agility-- springing about the rigging, and chattering loudly, now making his way aloft, whence he looked eastwards, and now returning to the caboose, as if to communicate his ideas to his sable friend. "what makes quako so frisky this morning?" i asked of dick radforth, the boatswain, a sturdy broad shouldered man of iron frame, who, with trousers tucked up, and bare arms brawny as those of hercules, was standing, bucket in hand, near me, deluging the deck with water. "he smells his native land, harry," he answered, "and thinks he is going to pay a visit to his kith and kindred. we shall have to keep him moored pretty fast, or he will be off into the woods to find them. i have a notion you will get a sight of it before long, when the sea breeze sets in and sends the old barky through the water." "what! the coast of africa!" i exclaimed, and thoughts of that wonderful region, with its unexplored rivers, its gloomy forests, and its black skinned inhabitants, with their barbarous customs and superstitious rites, rose in my mind. "aye, sure and it will be a pleasant day when we take our departure from the land, and see the last of it," observed dick. "if those niggers would trade like other people we might make quick work of it, and be away home again in a few weeks, but we may thank our stars if we get a full cargo by this time next year, without leaving some of our number behind." "what? i should not fancy that any of our fellows were likely to desert," i observed. "no; but they are likely to get pressed by a chap who won't let go his gripe of them again," answered dick. "who is that?" i asked. "yellow-fingered jack we call him sometimes, the coast fever," said dick. "if they would but take better care of themselves and not drink those poisonous spirits and sleep on shore at night, they might keep out of his clutches. i give this as a hint to you, harry. i have been there a score of times, and am pretty well seasoned, but i have felt his gripe, though i do not fear him now." i thanked the boatswain for his advice. it was given, i suspected, for others' benefit as well as mine. as the bright hot red sun rose in the sky, casting his beams down on our heads, and making the pitch bubble up from the seams in the deck--as it had done not unfrequently during the voyage--a few cats' paws were seen playing over the mirror-like deep. the sails bulged out occasionally, again to hang down as before; then once more they swelled out with the gentle breeze, and the brigantine glided through the water, gradually increasing her speed. i was eagerly looking out for the coast; at length it came in sight--its distant outline rendered indistinct by the misty pall which hung over it. as we drew nearer, its forest covered heights had a particularly gloomy and sombre appearance, which made me think of the cruelties i had heard were practised on those shores, of the barbarous slave trade, of the fearful idolatries of its dark-skinned children, of its wild beasts, and of its deadly fevers. there was nothing exhilarating, nothing to give promise of pleasure or amusement. as our gallant brigantine glided gaily on, sending the sparkling foam from her bows through the tiny wavelets of the ocean, which glittered in the radiance of a blue and cloudless sky, and her sails filled with the fresh sea breeze, these feelings rapidly wore off. now, on either side, appeared a fleet of fishing canoes, the wild songs of their naked crews coming across the water, as with rugged sails of matting lolling at their ease, they steered towards the shore. we overtook some of them, and such a loud jabber as they set up, talking to each other, or hailing us, i had never heard. being near enough to the dangerous coast, we hove-to, and watched them as they fearlessly made their way to shore on the summits of a succession of rollers which burst in fearful breakers on the beach. with our glasses we could see hundreds of dingy figures like black ants, hurrying down to meet them, and to assist in hauling up their canoes. as i cast my eye along the coast i could see many a bay and headland bordered with a rim of glittering white sand, fringed by an unbroken line of sparkling surf. now we could make out the mud walls and thatched roofs of the native villages, scattered here and there along the shore, mostly nestling amid groves of graceful cocoa-nut trees, while further inland appeared, at distant intervals, that giant monarch of the tropical forest, the silk cotton tree, stretching its mighty limbs upwards towards the sky, and far and wide around. such was my first view of the african coast. "well, what do you think of it?" asked captain willis. "it looks better than i expected," i said. "but i don't see how we are ever to reach it, much less carry on any trade with the people. how can we possibly send any goods on shore?" "you will see presently," he answered. "we have hoisted our trading signal, and before long we shall have plenty of dealers along side unless some other vessel has been before us; if so, we may have to wait some days till the black merchants can bring more goods down from the interior. the people about here are imbued with the very spirit of commerce. they understand too how to make a sharp bargain. we have to be wide awake, or, naked savages as they are, they will contrive to outwit us." our various assortments of cotton and other goods had been got up from the hold ready for the expected trade. the captain had also taken out from his strong box a supply of sovereigns and spanish dollars, should coin be demanded, though he relied chiefly on the more advantageous proceeding of barter. after standing off and on the coast for some hours, we perceived several large canoes about to be launched. on either side of each canoe stood a dozen or fifteen men, holding to the gunwale with one hand, and carrying a paddle in the other. at a signal from their head man the canoe was hurried into the foaming surf; but, instead of getting in, they swam by her side, guiding her course, until the first heavy swell was past, then they threw themselves simultaneously into her, and began to paddle with might and main till they got beyond the outer swell, and on they came, shouting with satisfaction at the success of their enterprise. two got off without accident; but three others, when in the very midst of the breakers, were swamped, and i thought that their crews, and, at all events, their cargoes, would be lost. but no such thing. as i watched them through the glass i saw that they were all holding on to the gunwale, shoving her from side to side, until the water was thrown out, when in they got again, and began to gather up numerous articles floating around them. this accomplished, off they came as if nothing had happened. as they got alongside i discovered the reason why their effects did not sink--some were casks of palm oil, which naturally floated, while the elephants' tusks and other pieces of ivory, were fastened to large floats of cork-wood, and several of the men had small light wooden boxes, which contained gold-dust, secured to their waists. though these were of a weight sufficient greatly to incumber, if not to sink, an ordinary swimmer, so expert were, they in the water that they appeared in no way to be inconvenienced. several of them recognised captain willis, who had frequently before been off the coast, and having been fairly dealt with by him, and aware that he knew the price they would be ready to take, gave him very little trouble. some, however, tried to outwit him, but he was very firm with them, and let them understand that he was indifferent to trading except on equitable terms. altogether he was well satisfied with the result of his first day's business. we stood off the coast before the sea breeze died away, and returned again on the following morning. this sort of work we continued for several days. it was, however, a very tedious mode of proceeding. at length we found that the amount of produce, brought off from day to day, rapidly diminishing, while the natives began to demand higher prices than at first. we accordingly stood down the coast towards another native town, with the inhabitants of which we began to trade in the same way as before. from the time we first came into these latitudes we kept a bright look-out night and day. i asked old radforth what was the use of doing this when we were engaged in a lawful commerce, which must of necessity prove an advantage to the negroes. "why, you see, harry, there are other gentry visit this coast with a very different object in view," he answered. "for the spaniards and portuguese, especially, come here to carry off the unfortunate inhabitants as slaves, and sometimes the villainous crews of their craft, if in want of provisions and water, will help themselves, without ceremony, from any merchantman they may fall in with. and should she have a rich cargo on board, they have been known, i have heard say, to make her people walk the plank, and sink or burn her, so that no one may know anything about the matter. now our skipper has no fancy to be caught in that fashion, and if we were to sight a suspicious looking sail, as the `chieftain' has got a fast pair of heels of her own, we should do our best to keep out of her way. you see when once fellows take to slaving they go from bad to worse. i have known something of the trade in my time, and it made my heart turn sick to see the way in which they crowd hundreds of their fellow-creatures down on the slave decks of their vessels, packed as close together as herrings in a cask, for their run across the atlantic to the brazils or cuba. it may be, before we leave this coast, you will have the opportunity of seeing for yourself, so i need not tell you more about it now." after this i was as vigilant as anyone on board in looking out for suspicious craft,--for i had no fancy to be caught by a piratical slaver, and be made to walk the plank, and have our gallant little "chieftain" sent to the bottom. we continued cruising along the coast for some weeks, slowly exchanging our cargo for african products. at length captain willis got tired of this style of doing business. "i am going to run up the river bonny, harry, where we are certain in time to get a full cargo of palm oil, though i would rather have filled up without going into harbour at all, for the climate, i own, is not the healthiest possible, and we may chance to have a touch of sickness on board." he spoke, however, in so unconcerned a way that i had no serious apprehensions on that score. i had not forgotten my promise to mammy, and had asked all the blacks i could manage to speak to if they could tell me anything of cheebo. i need scarcely say that my question was received with a broad grin by most of them. "plenty cheebos," was the general reply. "dat black fellow cheebo; and dat, and dat, and dat quamino," was added, when i said that such was the name of the father of the cheebo of whom i was in search, but none of them answered the description of poor mammy's son. at length i felt very much inclined to give up my inquiries as hopeless. chapter three. we enter a river.--its scenery described.--receive a visit from the king, and trade with the natives.--the products of africa, for which we trade, mentioned, and the curious mode in which trade is conducted.-- fever breaks out on board, and several of the crew die.--sad end of poor bob.--the boatswain and mates attacked with fever.--more deaths.--the captain's unwillingness, notwithstanding this, to leave the river till his cargo is completed. standing in towards the coast with the sea breeze we saw before us an opening between two low mangrove covered points, which formed the mouth of the river we were about to ascend. the scarcely ever ceasing rollers, coming across the wide atlantic, broke on the bar which ran across its entrance with somewhat less violence than on the coast itself. still there was an ugly looking line of white foam which had to be crossed before we could gain the smooth water within. we hove-to, making the signal for a pilot. a canoe in a short time came off, having on board a burly negro, dressed in a broad brimmed hat, nankeen trousers, and white jacket, with a sash round his waist. he produced several documents to show that he was capable of taking a vessel over the bar. "wait bit captain," he said, "high water soon, and den ship go in smooth--batten down hatches though, case sea break aboard." captain willis followed this advice; it was well that he did so. "up helm now captain--bar berry good--plenty breeze." we stood on with all canvas set; the hands at their stations ready to shorten sail when necessary. soon we found ourselves mounting to the top of a high roller, then on we glided, till in another instant down we came amid the hissing roaring breakers, their foam-topped summits dancing up on either side, and deluging our decks. i saw our black pilot holding on pretty tightly by the main shrouds--i followed his example, for i expected every moment to feel the vessel's keel touching the bar, when i knew that if she were to hang there even for the shortest possible time, the following sea might break over her stem, and make a clean sweep of her deck. on she sped though, lifted by another huge roller; downwards we then glided amid the eddying creamy waters on to the calm surface of the river, up which the next minute we were gliding rapidly. the appearance of the banks on either side was not attractive. as far as the eye could reach was one dense jungle of mangrove bushes, and though we ran on for several miles it in no way improved. the wind died away as we advanced, and the atmosphere became hot and oppressive. i had expected to see pleasant openings, with neat cottages, plantations of maize, rice, and other grain, pepper, palms and palmetos; but instead, a uniform line of the sombre tinted mangrove alone presented itself, the trees just too high to prevent our having a view over them of any more attractive scenery which might have existed beyond. i asked our black pilot when we should come to the town. "by by den you see," he answered with a look which denoted that we should in time witness something worth beholding. the water was as smooth as glass. here and there coveys of birds might be seen skimming along the surface, while overhead a flight of scarlet winged flamingos swept in wide circles, their plumage flashing in the sun as they prepared to descend on one of the many sandbanks in the stream, to carry on their fishing operations. as we advanced, now and then a canoe would shoot out from among the jungle; the black skinned paddlers coming quickly alongside, to ascertain our character and the objects for which we wished to trade. sometimes too we could see troops of monkeys making their way among the branches, their small grinning faces peering out at us as we glided by through some channel near the shore. hour after hour thus passed by, but at length, towards evening, the belt of mangrove bushes diminished in thickness, and other trees of more attractive appearance began to take their place, and openings appeared with a few huts scattered about on the slopes of gently rising ground. as evening was closing in we caught sight, in the far distance, of a congregation of huts, and the pilot gave the captain the welcome information, that he might shorten sail, and prepare to come to an anchor. by the time we had made everything snug darkness closed down upon us. we could just see a few lights twinkling ahead, while on either side, across the stream, appeared the dark outline of the tall trees which clothed the river's banks. silence reigned around us, with the exception of the ripple of the water against the vessel's bows; but from afar off came a confused mixture of sounds, which appeared like the croaking of frogs, the chirruping of crickets, and other creeping and flying things, the screeching and chattering of monkeys, mingled with the voices of human beings making merry round their huts. the air was damp and heavy and hot; at the same time i felt that i should like to be seated by a roaring drying fire. we kept a watch on deck as if we were at sea, with arms ready for use, for though our pilot had assured us "that all good people here," captain willis was too well acquainted, both with the character of the natives, and the sort of gentry who might possibly be in the river waiting for a cargo of slaves, to put himself in their power. i tumbled and tossed about during the night in my berth, unable to sleep, both on account of the heat, and, strange to say, of the perfect quiet which prevailed. next morning a large canoe was seen coming off from the shore, in which was seated a white headed old negro in a glazed cocked hat, a red hunting coat on his shoulders, a flannel petticoat round his waist, and a pair of worsted slippers on his feet. the pilot, who had remained on board, notified to the captain, with great formality, that he was king dingo, coming to receive his dash or payment for allowing us to trade with his people. his majesty was received with due ceremony, and conducted into the cabin, when, as soon as he was seated, notwithstanding the early hour of the day, he signified that it was his royal pleasure to be presented with a bottle of rum. having taken two or three glasses, which seemed to have no other effect on him than sharpening his wits, he handed it to one of his attendants, and then applied himself to the breakfast, which had just been placed on the table, and i dare not say how many cups of coffee, sweetened to the brim with sugar, he swallowed in rapid succession. having received half a dozen muskets, as many kegs of powder, brass pans, wash basins, plates, gunflints, and various cotton articles, as his accustomed dash, and requested a dozen bottles of rum in addition, he took his departure, promising to come again and do a little trade on his own account. the subjects of the sable potentate were now allowed to come on board, and several canoes were seen approaching us from different parts of the shore. one brought a tusk of ivory, others jars of palm oil, several had baskets of india-rubber, or gum-elastic, as it is called. besides these articles, they had ebony, bees'-wax, tortoise-shell, gold-dust, copper-ore, ground nuts, and others to dispose of. we soon found that the business of trading with these black merchants was not carried on at the rate we should have desired. the trader, having hoisted his goods out of his canoe, would place them on deck, and seat himself before them, looking as unconcerned as if he had not the slightest wish to part with them. some would wait till the captain came forward and made an offer; others would ask a price ten times the known value of the article, extolling its excellence, hinting that very little more was likely to be brought down the river for a long time to come, and that several other traders were soon expected. the captain would then walk away, advising the owner to keep it till he could obtain the price he asked. the trader would sit still till the captain again came near him, then ask a somewhat lower price. on this being refused he would perhaps make a movement as if about to return to his canoe, without having the slightest intention of so doing; and so the game would go on till the captain would offer the former price for the article, when, perhaps, the trader would sit on, time being of no consequence to him, in the hopes that he might still receive a larger amount of goods. on other occasions the captain had to commence bargaining, when he invariably offered considerably below the true mark, when the trader as invariably asked something greatly above it. the captain would then walk aft, and, perhaps, come back and talk about the other ports he intended to visit, where the natives were more reasonable in their demands. captain willis was too cool a hand to show any impatience, and he thus generally made very fair bargains, always being ready to give a just value for the articles he wished to purchase. as each jar of oil, each tooth or box of gold-dust, or basket of india-rubber, could alone be procured by this process, some idea may be formed of the time occupied every day in trading. palm oil was, however, the chief article we were in search of; but two weeks passed by, and still a considerable number of our casks remained unfilled. fever too had broken out on board. three of our men were down with it, and day after day others were added to the number. the two first seized died, and we took them on shore to be buried. this had a depressing effect on the rest. when we returned on board we found that a third was nearly at his last gasp. poor fellow, the look of despair and horror on his countenance i can never forget. "harry," he exclaimed, seizing my hand as i went to him with a cup of cooling drink, "i am not fit to die, can no one do any thing for me? i dare not die, can't some of those black fellows on shore try to bring me through--they ought to know how to man handle this fever." "i am afraid that they are but bad doctors, bob," i answered, "however, take this cooling stuff it may perhaps do you good." "a river of it won't cool the burning within me," he gasped out. "oh harry, and if i die now, that burning will last for ever and ever. i would give all my wages, and ten times as much, for a few days of life. harry, i once was taught to say my prayers, but i have not said them for long years, and curses, oaths, and foul language have come out of my lips instead. i want to have time to pray, and to recollect what i was taught as a boy." i tried to cheer him up, as i called it, but alas, i too had forgotten to say my prayers, and had been living without god in the world, and though i did not curse and swear, my heart was capable of doing that and many other things that were bad, and so i could offer the poor fellow no real consolation. i persuaded him to drink the contents of the cup; but i saw as i put it to his lips that he could with difficulty get the liquid down his throat. "you have had a hard life of it, bob, and perhaps god will take that into consideration," i said, making use of one of the false notions satan suggests to the mind of seamen as well as to others. bob knew it to be false. "that won't undo all the bad things i have been guilty of; it won't unsay all the blasphemies and obscene words which have flowed from my lips," he gasped out. "then try to pray as you used to do," i said, "i will try and pray with you, but i am a bad hand at that i am afraid." "oh, i can't pray now, it's too late! too late!" he exclaimed in a low despairing voice, as he sank back on his pillow, turning his fast glazing eye away from me. he had been delirious for some time before then, but his senses had lately been restored. he seemed instinctively to feel that i could offer him none of the consolation he needed. while i was still standing by the side of his bunk, one of the mates came forward to see how the sick were getting on. he spoke a few words to try and comfort the dying man. they had no more effect than mine, he only groaned out, "it's too late! too late! too late!" his voice rapidly grew weaker--there was a slight convulsive struggle; the mate lifted his hand, it fell down by his side. "poor bob has gone," he said, "there will be more following before long, i fear. if i was the captain i would get out of this river without waiting for a full cargo, or we shall not have hands enough left to take the vessel home." this scene made a deep impression on me; too late! too late! continued sounding in my ears. what if i were to be brought to utter the same expression? where was poor bob now? i tried not to think of the matter, but still those fearful words "too late" would come back to me; then i tried to persuade myself that i was young and strong, and as i had led a very different sort of life to most of the men, i was more likely than any one to escape the gripe of the fever. we had another trip on shore to bury poor bob. the captain seemed sorry for him. "he was a man of better education than his messmates, though, to be sure, he had been a wild chap," he observed to me. bob's conscience had been awakened; that of the others remained hardened or fast asleep, and they died as they had lived, foul, unwashed, unfit to enter a pure and holy heaven. i am drawing a sad and painful picture, but it is a true one. i did not then understand how full of horror it was, though i thought it very sad to lose so many of our crew. we continued to carry on trade as before, and the captain sent messengers urging the natives to hasten in bringing palm oil on board, but they showed no inclination to hurry themselves; and as to quitting the river till he had a full cargo on board, he had no intention of doing that. hitherto the officers had escaped; but one morning the second mate reported that the first mate was unable to leave his berth, though he believed that it was nothing particular; but dick radforth, who was considered to be the strongest man on board, when he had tried to get up that morning, had been unable to rise. the captain sent me forward to see him. some hours must have passed since he was attacked. he was fearfully changed, but still conscious. "black jack has got hold of me at last, harry, but i'll grapple with him pretty tightly before i let him get the victory, do you see," he observed, when i told him that the captain had sent me to see him. "i'm obliged to him, but if he wishes to give me a longer spell of life, and to save the others on board, he will put to sea without loss of time, while the land breeze lasts. a few mouthfuls of sea air would set me up in a trice. if we don't get that there will be more of us down with fever before night." the boatswain had scarcely said this when he began to rave and tumble and toss about in his berth, and i had to call two of the men to assist me in keeping him quiet. when i got back to the cabin, i told the captain what radforth had said. "oh, that's only the poor fellow's raving. it will never do to leave the river without our cargo, for if we do some other trader will sure to be in directly afterwards and take advantage of what has been collected for us. however, i have had notice that lots of oil will be brought on board in a few days, and when we get that, we will put to sea even though we are not quite full." the captain shortly afterwards paid radforth a visit; but the boatswain was raving at the time, and never again spoke while in his senses. the following day we carried him to his grave on shore. the death of one who was looked upon as the most seasoned and strongest man, had, as may be supposed, a most depressing effect among the crew. it was soon also evident that the first mate was ill with the fever, and indeed more than half our number were now down with it. still the captain could not bring himself to quit the river. "in a few days very possibly we shall have a full cargo harry," he said to me. "in the meantime, i daresay, the rest will hold out. radforth overworked himself, or he would not have caught the fever. take care harry you don't expose yourself to the sun, and you will keep all to rights my boy,--i am very careful about that--though i am so well seasoned that nothing is likely to hurt me." "i wish we were out of the river, captain willis," i could not help replying. "the mates and the men are always talking about it, and they say the season is unusually sickly or this would not have happened." "they must mind their own business, and stay by the ship, wherever i choose to take her," he exclaimed, in an angry tone, and i saw that i should have acted more wisely in not making the observation i had just let fall. still, to do him justice, captain willis was as kind and attentive as he possibly could be to the sick men; he constantly visited the first mate, and treated him as if he had been a brother. all this time not a word about religion was spoken on board; i had, it is true, a bible in my chest, put there by my sisters, but i had forgotten all about it, and there was not another in the ship. except in the instance i have mentioned, and in one or two others, not even the sick men seemed concerned about their souls. the only consolation which those in health could offer to them, was the hope that they might recover. "cheer up dick," or, "cheer up tom, you'll struggle through it, never say die--you will be right again before long old boy," and such like expressions were uttered over and over again, often to those at their last gasp, and so the poor fellows went out of the world believing that they were going to recover and enjoy once more the base pursuits and unholy pleasures in which their souls' delighted. alas, i have often though what a fearful waking up there must have been of those i had thus seen taking their departure from this world, yet the rest of us remained as hardened, and in most cases as fearless, of consequences as before. the death of the first mate, which very soon occurred, made the second mate, i perceived, somewhat more anxious than before about himself. the first mate had been a strong healthy man, and had often before been out on the coast, while the second mate was always rather sickly, and this was his first visit to the shores of africa. whether or not his fears had an effect upon him, i cannot say, but he began to look very ill, and became every day more anxious about himself. the captain tried to arouse him, telling him that we should be at sea enjoying the fresh breeze in a few days, and that he must hold out till then. "still it is of no use, harry," he said to me, as i was walking the deck with him one evening, trying to get a few mouthfuls of air. "i know i shall never leave this horrible place alive unless the captain would give the order at once to trip the anchor, then perhaps the thought of being free of it would set me up again." i told the captain when i went into the cabin what the poor mate had said, for i really thought our going away might be the means of saving his life, as well as that of others aboard. he took what i said in very good part, but was as obstinately bent in remaining as before. "those are all fancies, harry," he answered. "he has taken it into his head that he is to die, and that is as likely to kill him as the fever itself." "but then he fancies that he would get well if we were at sea," i replied. "perhaps that really would set him up again." "well, well, just tell him that you heard me ay i hoped to get away in two or three days, perhaps that will put him to rights," answered the captain, laughing. "now, harry, don't let me hear any more of this sort of thing; i have bother enough with these black traders without having to listen to the fancies of my own people." i told the mate what the captain had said. "if the vessel does get away at the time he mentioned, i hope that i may be able to help in taking her to sea, if not, mark my words harry, there will be a good many more of us down with the fever." he spoke too truly. the traders continued to arrive but slowly, as before, with their oil. the captain waited and waited like an angler anxious to catch more fish. before the week was over the second mate was dead, and we had only two men fit for duty on board. chapter four. more victims to the fever.--the captain himself attacked.--we ship some krumen and other blacks, among whom is a christian, paul balingo.--paul instructs the captain and me in the truth.--captain willis gets somewhat better, and we prepare for sea. the ship was almost full, and we had a few more empty casks, and were expecting some traders on board during the day with oil which would fill them up. when i turned out of my berth, just as morning broke, i found the captain seated in his cabin, with his head resting on his hands. he felt a little ill, he acknowledged, but said he was sure it was nothing. "we will get under weigh at daylight to-morrow morning, when the tide makes down, and i shall soon be all to rights," he observed. still, i could not help remarking that he looked pale, and moved with difficulty. "i have agreed to ship half-a-dozen krumen, and two or three other black seamen, who are knocking about here," he added. "this fever has made us terribly short-handed; but i hope the fellows who are sick will come round when we are in blue water again. harry, go forward and see how they are getting on, and send tom raven to me." raven was one of the two men who had hitherto escaped the lever, and being a good seaman, had been promoted to the rank of mate. i went on deck, but saw neither him nor grinham, the other man. i made my way forward to where the crew were berthed, under the topgallant forecastle, expecting to find them there. grinham was in his berth; he and two other poor fellows were groaning and tossing with fever, but the rest were perfectly quiet. i thought they were asleep. what was my horror, on looking into their berths, to find that their sleep was that of death! "water, water," murmured grinham. i ran and fetched some, and as i gave it to him i asked where raven was. "i don't know," he answered, somewhat revived by the cool draught. "it's his watch on deck. he said he felt a little ill when he relieved me." having done what i could for the other man, i went to look for raven. i found him in the second mate's berth. he too was ill with fever, and seemed to have forgotten that he ought to have been on deck, and that the vessel had been left without anyone to look-out. i told him that the captain had resolved to put to sea the next day. "had he gone a week ago the lives of some of us might have been saved, but it is too late now," he answered with a groan. sick at heart, after attending to him, i returned to the cabin, to make my report to the captain. "what, all! everyone of them sick!" he exclaimed, sighing deeply. "then god have mercy upon us. you must not fall ill, harry." "not if i can help it, sir," i replied. "i must keep up," he said, and if i can get these krumen on board we will still put to sea. they are trustworthy fellows, and, harry, you must be my mate. you are somewhat young; but you have got a head on your shoulders. you must keep your wits alive. "i'll do my best, sir," i answered, feeling not a little proud of the rank to which i thus was raised. i had, indeed, for some time past been performing the duties of mate, supercargo, steward, and not unfrequently helping the black cook, sambo, and, indeed, lending a hand to everything which required to be done. now sambo and i were literally the only two people capable of working on board. the captain himself i feared greatly had got the fever, notwithstanding his assertions to the contrary. it was surprising that i, the youngest in the ship, and least inured to the climate, should have escaped. i had always been very healthy; had never done anything to hurt my constitution, and had followed the captain's advice in keeping out of the sun, and was inclined to feel somewhat self-satisfied on that account--not considering that it was owing to god's mercy and loving-kindness that i had been preserved. the captain said he would go and see raven; but having got up, after moving a few paces, he sat down again with a groan, and a deadly pallor came over his countenance. he felt that he, too, had got the fever. i advised him to lie down again and rest, but to that he would not consent. he was determined to carry on the trade as usual during the day, and to get ready for sea as soon as the black seamen, whom he expected every hour on board, arrived. he sent me up frequently to see whether they were coming off, and now, when too late, he seemed as anxious as anyone had been to get the vessel out of the river. i was thankful when at length i found two canoes alongside with the expected blacks. the krumen were fine athletic fellows, neatly dressed in shirts and trousers, and having all served on board men-of-war or in merchant vessels, spoke a little english. they had been hired by the captain's agent on shore; and as their wages had been settled, and they knew the duties they were required to perform, they went to work at once under their head man, who had been appointed to act as boatswain, and seemed inclined to be orderly and obedient. besides the krumen there were, as i have before said, several other black seamen engaged, who had been mostly recaptured slaves, and had afterwards entered on board men-of-war or merchant vessels touching at sierra leone. i was struck with the manner of one of them, a fine active man, as i, now the only representative of the "chieftain's" officers and crew, stood near the gangway to receive them. touching his hat in a respectful manner, he asked after captain willis. "he know me, paul balingo. i sail once with him some time ago. he kind man, so i come again." i told him that the captain was rather unwell. he had charged me not to let the blacks fancy that he had the fever. i added, that i was sure he would be glad to see him in the cabin. "i go when you tell i come on board," answered paul. "sorry to hear him ill." "oh, he says its nothing," i observed, "and as soon as the tide serves we are to go down the river, and put to sea." i made this remark in obedience to the captain's instructions. i now gave directions to the black boatswain to get the cargo stowed without delay. the captain was much pleased to hear that paul balingo had joined the vessel, and said he would see him at once. "i remember him well," he observed, "a good steady fellow." i told paul to come down, and he received a friendly welcome. i then reminded the captain that there was another duty to be performed. it was to bury the men who had died during the night. this was beyond the strength of those who still survived. "i see to it, sir," said paul. "the sooner the better then," observed the captain. "and when you return we will trip the anchor, if there is wind enough to help us along." four bodies were lowered into the canoe, and paul and some of his companions took them on shore. he had fastened them up in canvas, for there was no time to make coffins; indeed, the carpenter was among them. i should like to have accompanied him to pay the last mark of respect i could to the poor fellows, but there were too many duties to be performed on board to allow of this. i watched them, however, through the glass as they stood on the beach, which formed our burial place. to my surprise, after the graves were dug, i observed paul balingo take off his hat--his companions imitating his example--when he seemed to be lifting up his hands in prayer. then he addressed a number of natives who were standing round, and the bodies were carefully lowered into the graves, and covered up. when he returned on board i told him that the captain was very much obliged to him for what he had done. "and i saw too," i observed, "that you were praying for the poor fellows." "no, massa; i no pray for dem," he answered. "if when dey died dey loved jesus christ, den dey no want my prayers; if dey no love him, den he no love dem. no, massa, me pray for dose that stand round, and for dose still alive. i pray dat god's holy spirit would come into dere hearts, and told dem to love jesus, and dat he died for sinners. i prayed dat dey would hear his word, and love him and serve him. den i tell dem that jesus christ came down on earth, and become man, and be obedient to god, and do all dat good child should do who lub him parents, and dat he pure and holy like lamb widout spot or blemish, and dat he died on de cross, and be punished instead of wicked man, and dat god den say dat one who not deserve punishment being punished he will forgive all dose his dear son present to him, who lub him and serve him. den i tell dem dat jesus christ died for dem, and dat if dey trust to him he put away all dere sins, and god not look at dere sins any more. den i turn de matter about, and i say dat you and all men are poor and naked and covered with dirt and sores, and not fit to go into de presence of pure and holy god; but if you love christ and trust dat he died and was punished instead of you, den he put on you a white robe, cover you wid his righteousness, and den when you go to god he longer see that you are poor and naked, but he only see the white robe, and he say, `now you may come into dis pure and bright heaven, and live wid me.' then once more i say again, look here, god put you into this world, and you owe god everything. you ought to obey him and serve him, and give him all your strength and health, and to try and please him in all things every moment of your life. next i remind dem dat none of us do it, so we owe god a debt, and the longer we live the greater is the debt. it is not den all the things that we do dat god reckon, but the many things that we ought to do and which we leave undone. we receive all the good things from god, and we give him nothing in return. then we have no means to pay this debt, so jesus christ, because he love us, say he pay it, and god say he accept his payment and set us free. den i say to the people, do you believe dis? if you do, and try to love god, and serve god, and do what jesus christ did when he was on earth, den you have living faith, and you are free, and god no say longer that you owe him debt, but he call you his dear children, and when you leave this world he receive you in heaven." "why, paul," i exclaimed, after listening with astonishment to what he had said, "i little expected to hear such things come out of a--" (i was going to say negro's mouth, but changed it to) "african sailor's mouth. you ought to be a missionary." "every christian man ought to be a missionary," he answered. "if he love the lord jesus, and know that the lord jesus love him, then he ought to tell that love to others, and if he knows the value of his own soul then he values the souls of others, and try to win those souls for christ. the truth is, massa, i do want to be missionary, and i seek to go to england to learn more. i there learn to preach the gospel, and when i come back i carry the glad tidings of salvation to my ignorant countrymen." i was very much struck with paul's earnestness and zeal, though at that time i could scarcely comprehend all he said--i myself knew nothing experimentally of the great love of jesus of which he spoke. the poor black christian was far more enlightened than i was. still i felt a satisfaction at having him on board. he at once showed that he was not a mere theoretical christian, for as soon as his duty on board the ship was over, he devoted himself to attending on the sick men. all the hours he could snatch from sleep he spent by the side of their bunks, urging them to trust to jesus, and to repent of their sins while yet there was time. the poor second mate grew worse and worse. paul visited him, and he heard from the lips of the black seaman, perhaps for the first time, the full and free message of salvation; and, i believe, from what paul told me, and from the remarks the mate made to me before he died, that he had fully accepted god's gracious offer of reconciliation. i am going ahead though too fast in my narrative. before the morning came that we were to have left our anchorage captain willis himself was laid prostrate with the fever, and having now no one on board to navigate the vessel, we could not venture to sea. i would have done my best to find our way to sierra leone, but the black boatswain refused to leave the harbour without an officer capable of taking charge of the brigantine. we were compelled, therefore, to wait till captain willis should recover sufficiently, or till the arrival of another english vessel which could spare one of her mates to take charge of the "chieftain." before many days were over captain willis, and sambo, the black cook, and i, were the only persons of those who had come into the river, still alive on board. had the krumen been badly disposed, they might, without difficulty, have taken possession of the vessel, and made off with her rich cargo; but they appeared, as far i could judge, to intend to act faithfully, and perform their various duties as well as if the captain's eye had been constantly upon them. about paul i had no doubt. little as i knew of vital religion myself, i was sure that he was a true man, and that he acted according to his professions. nothing could exceed his attention to the captain; he or i were constantly at his bedside; and paul showed considerable skill in treating the disease. i believe that it was mainly owing to him, through god's mercy, that the captain did not succumb to it, as the rest of the crew had done. "paul," said the captain one morning, when he felt himself getting a little better, "i owe you my life, i will try not to forget you." "oh, no, no captain, poor fellow like me not able to do you good; give god de praise," he answered solemnly, looking upwards. "oh, if you did but know how god loves you, how he takes care of you, and gives you all the good things of life, and saves you from danger, and wishes you to come and live with him, and be happy for ever and ever, you would try to love him and serve him, and obey him in all things." "i don't think that god can care for one who has cared so little for him," answered the captain. "i don't mean to say that i call myself a bad man, or that i have many great sins on my conscience, and so, i suppose, if i died he would hot shut me out of heaven altogether." "captain," said paul, fixing his eyes steadily on him, "the debil told you dat; he a liar from the beginning. god says, `there is none that doeth good, no not one,' `the soul that sinneth shall surely die.' what does dat mean? not, surely, that if you sinner he let you get into heaven. i ask you, captain, whether you are a sinner, or whether you pure and holy, and trust to christ, and love christ, and fit to go and live for ever and ever in the pure and holy heaven with him? understand, i do not ask whether you are a great sinner in your own sight, but whether you have ever committed any sins; and remember, god says, `the soul that sinneth,' not only the soul that is a great sinner." the captain looked much annoyed. "yes, of course, i have committed some sins; but i don't see why god has any right to charge them against me." "god made this world, and all things that are therein. god rules this world, and god made his laws, and he says they are just and right, and god says, `the soul that sinneth shall surely die,'" answered paul, solemnly. "captain understand, it is not i who say that. god says it. but though god is a god of justice he is full of love and mercy, and he has therefore formed a plan for the benefit of sinning men, by which man's sins can be washed away, by which his justice will be satisfied, his love and mercy shown. he has allowed another to be punished instead of the sinner," paul continued, explaining to the captain god's plan of salvation much in the same terms as he had already explained it to me. "i never understood that matter before," said the captain. "but still i do not see how god can expect us to be as good as you say." "massa captain, i do not say dat god expect us to be good; but still he has a right to demand that we should be good. he made man pure and holy and upright, and he gave him free will to act as he chose; but man disobeyed god and went away from him, and forgot him, and so god has the right to punish man. but den god is full of love and mercy, and he does not want to punish him, but wants him to come back to him, and so he has sent his message to man to tell him how he may do that. now as man cannot be good and pure and holy and do nothing but good, but, on the contrary, does much harm, he must either accept god's plan of salvation, or be punished. you have heard, captain, about the thief on the cross, even when he was dying he put faith in jesus, and jesus told him that he should be that night with him in paradise. so you see, captain, there is hope for the sinner, even at the last, and this shows that god does not expect us to do anything good in order to be saved, but only just to put faith in the sacrifice of his dear son--that is to say, to believe that he was punished instead of us. but then remember, captain, that only one thief was saved; and that shows to us that we must not put off turning to jesus to the last, and, therefore, i pray you, captain, go to him at once; trust to him now, and you will not feel unhappy; and if this fever takes you away, as it has taken away so many people on board this ship, you will hab no fear of death, for you will go to live with jesus, and be happy with him for ever and ever." captain willis groaned. "i'll pray wid you, captain," said paul, and he knelt down by the side of the bed, and lifted up his voice in prayer, and earnestly besought god to send his holy spirit to soften the captain's heart, and to enlighten his mind. i had listened attentively to all that paul had said, and i prayed that the blessing which he asked for the captain might descend on me also; for i had begun to discover that my heart was very hard, and prone to evil, and that i had no love for jesus, no desire to obey his law. thus the truths of the gospel, as they fell from the lips of the black sailor, first came home to my heart. several days passed by--the "chieftain" was got ready for sea, and the captain considered himself well enough to take the command. chapter five. we at length get out of the river into the open sea, but a calm comes on, and the captain again becomes very ill.--no one on board understanding navigation, i doubt whether i shall find my way to sierra leone.--the captain does not believe that he is in danger.--paul pleads with him about the safety of his soul.--a fire breaks out in the hold.-- we in vain endeavour to extinguish it.--the rest of the crew desert us.--paul and i endeavour to save the captain, but driven from the cabin by the flames leap overboard and reach a small boat, which we right and get into.--see a schooner approaching us. at day-break the pilot came on board, the sails were loosed, the anchor hove-up, and the "chieftain," with a hot land breeze, which still blew strong, glided down the river. captain willis, who had been brought from his cabin by paul and sambo, sat propped up with pillows on the deck. it was melancholy to see him, his once strong frame reduced to a mere skeleton, his countenance pale and haggard, and his strong voice now sounding weak and hollow, and scarcely to be heard by those to whom he issued his orders. i stood by him to repeat them. i saw him cast an eye towards the spot which contained the graves of our shipmates, and i could divine his thoughts. perhaps he might have reflected that had he not been so greedy of gain, many of them might be still alive, while he himself might be enjoying health and strength. the mangrove covered shores looked even more sombre and monotonous than before, in the grey light of morning, as we glided down between them. the air was hot and oppressive, and full of pestilence, and it seemed a wonder to me that i should have lived so many weeks while breathing such an atmosphere. i dreaded lest the breeze should fail us, and we should be compelled to spend another night under its influence; but the wind held, the tide was in our favour, and we had nearly reached the mouth of the river before the wind dropped, and we had to bring up. a few minutes afterwards the fresh sea breeze came rushing in, pure and sweet, and comparatively cool. with what delight did i gulp it down. i quickly felt like another creature. the captain also seemed to revive rapidly under its influence, and i began to hope that he would ultimately recover. i eagerly watched the sparkling lines of white foam as the ocean waves, meeting the ebbing current of the river, broke across the bar. how i longed for the evening, when the land breeze would again fill our sails, and carry us out into the open bounding ocean. it seemed to me that then all difficulty would be passed, and we should only have to shape our course for england, and steer on till we should reach it. the captain, unwilling again to go below, sat all day on deck under an awning, ready for the moment when we might venture to weigh anchor. it came at last. just before sunset the hot wind began to blow. although the bar still wore a threatening aspect, the pilot declared that, without fear, we might venture over it. not a moment was lost, on we stood towards it. in a short time foaming breakers were hissing and bubbling around us. once more i felt the vessel rising to the heaving wave, and welcomed the showers of spray which flew over her deck. on she sped, but very slowly; now she sank downwards, and it seemed as if the next roller would send her back on the bar. it glided under her, however, and then she appeared floating, as it were, almost at rest on its summit, and then downwards she slid, slowly making her onward way. in a few minutes more we were in the free open ocean, and the dark sombre river, with its gloomy associations, was far astern. every inch of canvas the vessel could carry was set, that we might get a good offing before nightfall, when a calm was to be expected. "i never wish to see that place again," i could not help exclaiming. "don't say that, harry," answered the captain. "we may hope to have better luck the next time. if you ever want to grow rich you must run some risk. we have had an unusually sickly season, which may not again occur; and if the owners ask me to go back, i am not the man to refuse to do so, and i should look to you to go along with me." can it be possible, i thought, that a man, after running so fearful a risk, would willingly again expose himself to the same danger, merely for the sake of rapidly gaining wealth? i forgot at the moment that people not only hazard their health but their souls, for that object. had i remembered the fact, i should not have been surprised at what the captain had said. we had got out of sight of land, but the wind was very light, and we made little progress. in a short time it fell calm altogether, and the vessel lay like a log on the water. the heat, too, was very great, and the captain appeared to suffer from it. it was evident, indeed, that he was falling rapidly back, and he had now no strength to come on deck. i was much alarmed on his account, for i thought it too likely that, after apparently being so near recovery, he would die. i was anxious also on our own account, for knowing so little as i did about navigation, i could not tell how i should take the vessel into port. i got out a chart and studied it, and marked the spot where i believed we then were. i then drew a line from it to sierra leone, the place for which i intended to steer. it lay about north-west of us, and i hoped that if i could sight the land to the southward i might coast along till i came to it. there were, however, i knew, strong currents running, which might take us out of our course, and we might have contrary winds, which would further increase the difficulty. i thought that very likely some of the blacks knew more about the matter than i did, but i did not like to confess my apprehensions to them lest they might be tempted to play some trick, and perhaps run away with the vessel altogether. the only person in whom i could confide was paul. i knew that i could trust him thoroughly, but then i suspected that he was not a better navigator than i was, as he had only served on board a man-of-war and merchantmen, when he would not have been able to learn anything about the matter. the captain caught sight of me through the open door of his berth, as i was poring over the chart spread out on the table of the main cabin. "what are you about, harry?" he asked. i told him that i was looking at the chart to see what course we ought to steer. "don't trouble yourself about that, lad," he answered; "i shall be well as soon as the breeze comes. it's this hot calm keeps me down. if the wind had continued, i should have been myself again by this time, though i have had a narrow squeak for it i'll allow." his face looked so pale and haggard, his eyes so sunken, his voice so weak and trembling, that i could not help fearing that he was mistaken. i was unwilling to alarm him, but it was so important that i should know how to act in case of his death, that i could not help saying,--"but suppose anything was to happen to you, sir, what should you advise me to do?" "i do not intend that anything shall happen to me, harry," he answered, evidently annoyed at my remark. "after having got this valuable cargo on board we must not think of such a thing. why harry, in all my voyages i have never collected half so rich a freight." "i earnestly hope that you may recover your health, sir," i said. "i mentioned the subject simply in case of accidents, and i did not suppose that you would be offended." "of course i am not, harry," he replied. "you don't suppose that i am a coward and afraid to die; and if it was not for the sake of the vessel and her freight, i should not care, i fancy, so much about the matter; but it would never do now to knock under--so don't, harry, put those gloomy thoughts again into my head." on going on deck i told paul my fears about the captain. "yes, he very bad," he said; "but i more sorry about him soul. he think more of the cargo, which may go to the bottom in one moment, than of his soul, which live for ever and ever. o massa harry, we must speak again to him about dat. we will plead with him with tears in our eyes, that he think about his soul, and we will tell him not to trouble about the vessel." without loss of time we went to the captain. at first he listened somewhat coldly to what paul said, but he did not grow angry. "i thank you for interesting yourself about me," he said at last. "you may be right, and if you will pray with me i will try to join you." paul and i thereon knelt down, as we had done before, and paul, in very plain language, earnestly besought god to send his holy spirit to soften the captain's heart, to show him that he was a lost sinner, and had need of a saviour--to enlighten his mind, and to enable him to take hold of christ as the only way whereby he could be saved. the captain remained for a long time afterwards silent. at length he put out his hand and grasped paul's. "i see it now," he said, sighing deeply. "i have been, and still am, a great sinner. oh, that i knew better how i could be saved." "believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved," said paul, in a firm voice. "that is god's loving message. he sends no other; and, captain, if all the ministers of your country were to come to you, they could bring you no other. if you do believe on jesus, and are to die this very day, he says to you just what he said when hanging on the cross on calvary to the dying thief, `this night thou shalt be with me in paradise.'" the captain was greatly moved, and i heard him, between his sobs, exclaiming, "lord, i believe, help thou my unbelief." oh how necessary is that prayer! and i am sure it is one which is always answered, when the sinner is truly desirous of turning from his sins, and is seeking, by every means in his power, to strengthen his belief. i had got out my bible several days before, and i now read it constantly to the captain, as well as to myself. whenever i came to a passage which seemed to meet his case, he desired me to read it over and over again. notwithstanding this, the desire was strong within him to recover, for the sake of carrying home the vessel and her rich freight in safety. that was but natural, and i earnestly hoped that he might be restored to health. instead, however, of gaining strength, he appeared to grow weaker and weaker. the calm had now continued for several days. often as i looked over the side i saw dark triangular fins just rising above the surface, and moving here and there round the ship, and frequently the whole form of the monster could be discerned as it glided by; and when i saw its keen cruel eyes glancing up towards me, i felt a shudder pass through my frame, such as, according to the vulgar notion, a person feels when it is said that some one is walking over his grave. occasionally, when anything was thrown overboard, a white flash was seen rising out of the deep, and a large pair of jaws, armed with sharp teeth, opening, gulped it down, and directly afterwards the creature went swimming on, watching for any other dainty morsel which might come in its way. "how dreadful it would be to fall overboard," i thought. "calm as the sea is, a person, with those creatures around, would have very little chance of escaping with life." dark clouds had been gathering around, and the wavelets began to play over the hitherto calm ocean. although as yet there was not much wind, the sails were trimmed, and, by the captain's orders, the vessel was put on a north-west course. i concluded, consequently, that he at all events intended touching at sierra leone, to obtain a mate and some white hands. the wind, however, rapidly increased, sail was taken in, and before long it was blowing a perfect hurricane. this made the poor captain more anxious than ever to get on deck, but when he attempted to move he found that he had not strength even to sit up. the wind howled and whistled, the vessel tumbled fearfully about, and the seas, which rose up in foaming masses, frequently broke on board, deluging her deck. i had gone down to the captain, who had directed me to visit him every quarter of an hour to let him know how things were going on, when, as i entered the cabin, i discovered a strong smell of burning, and directly afterwards i saw thin wreaths of black smoke making their way through the forward bulk-head. the dreadful conviction came upon me that the vessel was on fire. i sprang on deck, and calling the boatswain and paul, i told them my fears. that they were too well founded we had soon fearful evidence, for the smoke, now in thick volumes, rose above the deck, both fore and aft. still there might be time to extinguish the fire. to do this it was necessary to take off the main-hatchway, and, in spite of the risk of a sea beating over us, it was done. the instant it was off dense masses of black smoke rose up from below, preventing all attempts which the boatswain and some of his men made to discover the seat of the fire. "we must take to the boats," he exclaimed, "the ship soon all in flames, then the boats burn and we no get away." paul and i as well as sambo tried to persuade him and his krumen to make more efforts to put out the fire before they lowered the boats. with the sea then running, indeed there was every probability that they would be swamped. we set them the example, by rigging the pumps, and filling buckets from alongside to heave down the hold. thus encouraged, they laboured for a short time, but finding their efforts of no effect, they abandoned the work and began to lower the boats. the wind had happily by this time somewhat moderated; while most of the people were engaged in launching the long boat, paul and i with two other men set to work to lower one of the smaller boats. we had not forgotten the poor captain, and as the smoke had not yet made its way into his cabin, i did not intend to let him know what had occurred till the last, when i hoped, with the assistance of paul and others, to get him lowered safely into one of the boats. all hands were working away with frantic haste, for we could not tell at what moment the flames might burst forth, and render the deck untenable. at length the long boat was launched, and the boatswain and the krumen leaped into her. they called to sambo and the rest to follow. i thought sambo would have remained faithful to the captain, and have come to assist him, but at that moment a forked flame burst up from the hold, so alarming him, that he followed the rest. paul and i entreated the other men to remain by the smaller boat, while we went into the cabin to bring up my poor friend the captain. as i was descending the companion hatch, i heard the boatswain shouting to the other men, and caught sight of them running to the side. still i hoped that should they desert us, paul and i might be able, after placing the captain in the boat, to lower her in safety. "the ship on fire," exclaimed captain willis, when i told him what had occurred, "heave water down the hold. do all you can to save our rich freight, that must not be lost on any account." i told him that we had done what we could, and that the rest of the crew had already deserted the vessel. the captain sank back on his pillow, "i have no strength to move," he murmured, "and you and paul cannot lift me." "we will try, massa captain," said paul. i proposed that we should lift him in his cot through the skylight. the captain at length agreed to this. i sprang on deck, intending to secure a tackle to the main boom, by which we might carry out my proposal with greater ease. what was my horror on reaching the deck, to find that the blacks, on quitting the falls, had neglected to secure them, and that the boat having fallen into the water had been washed away and capsized. the flames, too, which were now ascending through the main-hatchway had caught the other boat, and already her bows were burned through. with this appalling intelligence i returned below. escape seemed impossible. i proposed building a raft, it was a desperate resource, and there might not be time even to lash a few spars together. i could not bear the thought of allowing the poor captain to perish miserably without an attempt to save him. he divined my thoughts. "its of no use, harry, i am prepared for death, and resign myself to the arms of that merciful god whom i have so lately learned to know," he said, with perfect calmness. paul, while the captain had been speaking, seized a bright axe which hung against the bulk-head as an ornament, intending to cut away whatever might assist in forming a raft, and had sprang on deck with it. he now came down through the skylight hatch, "it is too late," he exclaimed, "the flames come aft." he spoke too truly. at that instant dense masses of smoke rushed into the cabin, and the flames burst through the after bulk head. i was scorched, by the heat and almost suffocated. so dense was the smoke which filled the captain's berth, that i could no longer see him. i felt paul grasping my hand, "come harry, come, too late to save poor captain," he said, dragging me after him. i was almost stifled, and gasped for breath. in another moment i should have fallen, indeed i was so overcome with the smoke that i did not know what was happening. happily however i kept firm hold of paul, and suddenly i found myself plunged headlong into the water. he had hauled me through the cabin window. "now strike out massa harry, i see boat not far off, we get to her," he exclaimed. i did as he directed me, but the thought of the horrid sharks i had seen swimming about the vessel, almost paralysed my senses, and every moment i expected to find myself seized by the cruel jaws of one of them. "cheer up harry, cheer up," shouted paul; "there is the boat, we got friend in heaven who look after us; never fear, we reach her soon, cheer up." with such like cries he continued to animate me. he shouted thus not only for that object, but to keep any sharks which might be inclined to seize us at a distance. the boat, as we got near her, was, i saw, keel upwards. "never fear massa harry," said paul, "we soon right her." we at length reached the boat, and paul showing me the way, after some exertion, he going ahead and i keeping astern, we managed to turn her over. we then shook her from side to side till we had hove out a considerable amount of water in her. he told me to get in over the stern, and to begin bailing with my hat. i did as he advised, thankful to find myself out of the grasp of the sharks. he kept splashing about with his heels, and constantly turning round to see that none of the monsters were near. looking up i caught sight of the long boat standing away from us under sail towards the shore. she had already got too far off to allow of our cries reaching her, or even indeed for those on board to see us. we were thus cruelly deserted by our shipmates. we could only hope for their credit that they supposed we had already lost our lives, and that there would be no use looking for us. at length i having partially cleared the boat, paul also got in, and we both began bailing away as hard as we could with our hats. while thus employed i saw a huge shark approaching, and i fancied looking disappointed at our having escaped his hungry maw. happily the sea by this time had gone considerably down, or our task would have been rendered hopeless. as it was it took us a considerable time to lessen the water in the boat, for deep as she was, the water which leaped in often again nearly refilled her. still we persevered, for we were, we knew, labouring for our lives. meantime the shark, as if longing to make us its prey, kept swimming round and round the boat. at a short distance the brigantine was burning furiously, and already the flames, ascending the masts, had caught the rigging and sails. while as i could not help doing, i turned my gaze at her i saw far away in the horizon the white sail of a vessel. "a sail! a sail!" i shouted; "we are saved paul, we are saved." paul looked up for a minute. "yes," he said, "she standing this way. the burning ship bring her down to us. she big schooner. may be good, may be bad! though." chapter six. a calm comes on, and we remain during the night suffering from hunger and thirst.--paul tells me his history, and i find that he is cheebo, of whom i am in search.--his joy at hearing of his mother makes him regardless of the suffering we are enduring--the schooner picks us up.-- paul suspects her character.--before long we discover that she is a slaver, and she runs up a river to receive her cargo on board. scarcely had we caught sight of the stranger than the wind entirely fell and she lay totally becalmed. the smooth sea enabled us to free the boat completely, and now we had nothing to do but to sit down and watch the burning brigantine. first one of the tall masts, completely encircled by the flames, fell hissing into the water. the other, after standing awhile in solitary grandeur, formed a fiery pinnacle to the flaming hull below. at length it followed its companion, and then the fire ran riot fore and aft. sometimes wearied by the sight, i put my hands before my eyes to shut it out, but then i could not help thinking of the sad fate of the poor captain, whose body lay on its funeral pile on board. "ah, he happy now," whispered paul. he had also been thinking of him. "he say he love jesus; he trust to jesus, no fear for him." paul's words brought consolation to my heart. our own condition might well have made me depressed, yet i felt supported by the strong faith of my companion in a way i formerly should not have thought possible. we had no food, and not a drop of fresh water to quench our burning thirst. some way off we could see pieces of burnt spars floating about. i thought of trying to paddle the boat up to them with our hands, hoping to find some which might serve as oars, and enable us to reach the schooner in the distance. i quickly, however, gave up the attempt, for scarcely had i put my hand into the water than i saw a huge pair of jaws darting towards it, and i had just time to pull it out before they made a snap close to me, which would, in a moment, have bitten it off. night soon came down upon us as we thus sat utterly helpless in our boat, while the sea around was lighted up with the flames of the burning vessel. loaded as she was almost entirely with combustible materials, they burned with unusual fierceness. her whole interior, as the sides were burned away, appeared one glowing mass, surrounded by a rim of flames which fed upon her stout timbers and planking. suddenly there came a loud hissing noise across the water, then a dense vapour ascended from her midst, and in an instant after all was darkness. the remains of the "chieftain" had sunk into the depths of ocean. "i am afraid our chance of being picked up by the schooner is gone," i observed to paul. "she very probably, when the breeze comes, will stand away from us." "there is no such thing as chance, massa harry," he answered. "if it is god's will she come, if not, he find some other way to save us. let us pray that he do what he judge best." thereon paul, without waiting for my reply, knelt down in the bottom of the boat and lifted up his voice in prayer to our merciful father in heaven, for that protection which we more than ever felt we so much needed. i imitating his example, heartily joined him. as we sat in the boat side by side talking together, for neither of us were inclined to sleep, i asked him how it was that he, a common sailor, had become so well instructed a christian? "ah, massa harry, i knew about jesus when i quite a little boy; but only a few years ago i learned to love him and trust to him as i now do," he answered. "i'll tell you how dis was. when i piccaniny i hab kind fader and moder, and we live in yourba country, in our own village, far away. one night the enemy come and attack the village, and carry off many men and women and children. my fader take me up and run away into de wood, my moder follow, but she fall, and the slaver people catch her and take her with the rest. my poor fader, like to break him heart, but for my sake he live and hide away till the slaver people gone. he tried to find my moder, but from dat day to dis he neber hear of her more. after some time it was told him dat a great many people go to a place called abeokuta, and dat dere day built town, and let no slave-takers come near them, so my fader go there, and we live there, and work and grow rich, and many more people come, and we not fear any of our enemies. all the people were heathens, and prayed to the fetish. "after some time many people come from sierra leone, who had been carried off in slavers, and taken by the english cruisers, and landed there. they find relations and friends in abeokuta, and so they stop to live with us. some of them had learned in sierra leone about god and his son jesus christ, and they tell us, and many of the people of abeokuta say they will no longer pray to the fetish, but will only pray to god, and love him and serve him. my fader was among these, and now the only thing he cared for in life was to listen to the missionaries and hear about jesus christ. only one thing made him unhappy, that was that my poor moder should not learn the truth of the gospel. he knew that she was carried away by bad people, and he afraid that she become bad like them; but he pray day and night that god in his mercy would make known to her his great love, as he had made it known to him. "oh, if i could but hear that she had become a christian how happy i should be!" he used to say to me over and over again. "paul," that was the name i had got when i was christened, "you must pray for your moder wid me, and i am sure that god will hear our prayers." "at last my fader grew sick, and he made me promise, if he died, that i would go to sierra leone and try to find if my moder was dere. my fader grew worse and worse, but still him very happy, and taking my hand, he say, `paul, you must meet me in heaven, and you must bring your moder there, and then we all live together for ever and ever, where there are no more slave-dealers, and no more war, and no more cruelty,' and den him die. "after dat i set off to go to sierra leone, but slave-dealer catch me on the way and take me on board slaver, with nearly four hundred other black fellows, and we were all put down in ship's hold, and carried away to the coast of brazil. but english man-of-war catch the slaver. the english captain find out that i was a christian, and so he ask me if i like to serve on board de man-of-war, and i say yes. the captain, good christian man himself, so i learn to speak english, and he taught me to read bible, and i learn still more about jesus than i did in abeokuta. at last we got back to sierra leone, and then i remember my promise to my father, and while i on shore trying to learn about my moder, the ship sail away, and no more come back. i no hear about my moder, and have no money, so i ship on board merchant vessel, and after sailing in her along the coast for some time i go on board another, and then i again go on board man-of-war. at last i get back to sierra leone, and fall very sick, and sent to hospital, then a good missionary come to me and i tell him what my fader had said, and he ask me if i think i going to heaven, and then he tell me more about the right way, and pray with me. and now i find jesus as my own saviour and friend, and love him, and wish to serve him, and obey him. then the wish came into my heart to preach the gospel to my countrymen, but i, still poor and very ignorant, and i thought if i could make two or three voyages and save money, i would go to england and study there, and be better able to declare the glad tidings of salvation, and that the people would more willingly listen to me. "it was on the second trip i made that the vessel i was in was wrecked not far from the mouth of the bonny, and i was making my way with some of those who had escaped with me to sierra leone when captain willis engaged me to serve on board the `chieftain.'" while paul was giving me this sketch of his history an idea had forcibly taken possession of my mind. "tell me," i exclaimed suddenly, "what was your name before you were christened?" "cheebo," he answered. "and your father's name," i inquired eagerly. "my father, him called quamino," he said, in a surprised tone. "oh paul!" i cried out, seizing his hand, "i have indeed then good news for you. your father's and your prayers have been answered, for i can assure you that your mother is a true and faithful christian. i have known her all my life, her name she has told me was ambah, and that she was torn away from her husband and child as your mother was from you." "yes, yes, ambah was my mother's name, and did she tell you that her husband's name was quamino, and their piccaniny was called cheebo?" he asked, almost gasping for breath. "those were the very names she gave me, and i wrote them in my pocket book so that i might not forget them." i answered. "oh, massa harry, that is indeed joyful news," he cried out. "then i and my mother and father will all meet in heaven, praise god! i now not fear what man can do unto me." it would be difficult to do justice to the feeling displayed by paul, even were i to repeat all he said, his piety, his gratitude, and his joy. he could talk of nothing else during the night. he seemed to be insensible to hunger and thirst, and to forget altogether the dangerous position in which we were placed. now he kneeled down in prayer, now he gave vent to his feelings in a hymn of praise. i could not help sympathising with him, and rejoicing that i had been the means of giving him the information which made him so happy. still i must confess that i myself suffered not a little from the pangs of hunger, and would have given much for a glass of cold water. when morning dawned the schooner was still in sight. i looked anxiously round for the sign of a breeze, hoping that if it did come the stranger would stand towards us. at all events it seemed probable that having seen the burning vessel those on board, in common humanity, would sail over the spot where she had been, on the chance of picking up any of her crew who might have escaped. paul, however, did not seem to wish this as much as i did. i saw him narrowly watching the vessel, then he shook his head as if he did not like her looks. the sun rose high in the sky, and beat down on our heads. my thirst became intolerable, and whatever might be the character of the stranger, i could not help longing that she would pick us up. the breeze came at last, her sails filled. how eagerly i watched her. "she is standing towards us," i cried out, "we must soon be seen." i stood up on a thwart and waved a handkerchief. "better not massa harry," said paul, but i did not heed him. the schooner came on rapidly. again i waved my handkerchief, and held it between my two hands, so that it might flutter in the breeze. the stranger approached. she was a fine large square topsail schooner, with a black hull and taunt raking masts. she rounded to close to us, so that she could drop down to where our boat lay. a rope was hove to us, and i clambered up her side, paul following me. we were both so weak when we reached her deck that we could scarcely stand. i pointed to my mouth, just able to murmur, "water! water!" "si, si, aqua aqua," said a man, who appeared to be an officer; when one of the men dipped a mug into a cask on deck, and brought it to us. i took part of the contents then handed it to paul; but the seaman signed to me to drain it myself, casting, i thought, a contemptuous glance at my negro companion. however, he brought another cup full, and even though i emptied it to the bottom, still my thirst was scarcely quenched. an officer now appeared from below, and addressing me in english, asked me how i came to be in the boat. i told him exactly what had occurred. "it is fortunate for you that we picked you up, for another vessel might not pass this way for days to come," he observed. "but what a pity so rich a cargo should have been lost." the unhappy fate of the poor captain did not seem to concern him much. i could not make out the character of the vessel. she was spanish, i guessed, and her officers and crew appeared smart active fellows; and though she looked in some respects like a man-of-war, she certainly was not one. her hatches were off, and as far as i could judge there was nothing to show that she was a slaver. the officer who had spoken to me finding that i was a young gentleman, politely invited me down into the cabin, telling paul that he might go forward among the men. paul thanked him, and took advantage of the permission granted him. the officers were going to breakfast, and i was very thankful when they invited me to join them. altogether they treated me very civilly. i found an opportunity of speaking to paul during the day. "bad vessel this," he whispered. "dey put you on shore soon massa harry, and so no harm come to you, but i fear they make me slave, and i no get back to see my moder. still i pray god that he find a way for escape." i had too much reason soon afterwards to know that paul was right in his conjectures. the next day we came in sight of a large vessel. signals were exchanged, and we hove-to near each other. the boats were then actively engaged in bringing numerous articles on board the schooner--arms and ammunition, and cutlery, and manchester goods, and farinha (the meal on which slaves on board ship are fed), and cases which i found contained slave shackles. there was no secret indeed made about the matter. the schooner having taken her cargo on board, the other vessel sailed away while we stood towards the coast. the carpenters were busily employed in fitting an additional deck in the hold, and paul told me that it was called the slave deck, and that the slaves we were to take on board would be seated along it, packed close together side by side, and that they would thus be kept during the whole run to the brazils, or wherever the schooner was bound with her hapless freight. "you see what this vessel is," said the officer who had spoken to me in english. "we have saved your life, and must exact a promise from you not to appear as a witness against any one on board should you at any future period be called on to do so. let me advise you indeed not to take notice of anything that occurs on board and it will be the better for you. we do not wish to harm you, but there are those among us who hold human life very cheap, and they are not likely to stand on ceremony should you interfere with their proceedings." i replied that i was very grateful to him and the other officers for treating me kindly, and that i only desired to be put on board an english trader, in which i could work a passage home, "and i hope," i added, "that my black companion will be allowed to accompany me." "as to that i can make no promise," he answered. "the captain will decide the matter; but, i have no doubt, that if we fall in with an english trader you will be allowed to go on board her." a bright look-out was kept from the mast-head, and twice the schooner altered her course to avoid a sail seen in the distance. at length we came off the mouth of a river. a signal was made from the shore. with a fair breeze we ran in, and proceeding up some distance, dropped anchor in a creek, where the schooner lay concealed by the tall trees which grew on its banks. chapter seven. i witness the embarkation of slaves collected at the barracoons, and the cruel way in which they are treated and packed in the hold of the slaver.--unwilling to desert paul, i remain on board, and the slaver puts to sea.--paul is threatened for attempting to comfort the slaves with the gospel news.--the schooner receives more slaves on board along the coast.--some are drowned coming off--the slaver gets on shore just as a man-of-war is seen in the offing.--a fog comes on, and the schooner's crew making desperate efforts to get her off, she escapes, to my bitter disappointment, from the man-of-war's boats, along the coast. i found myself once more exposed to the pestilential air of an african river. i in vain tried to sleep. all night long i heard the sound of the carpenters at work fitting the slave decks, and fixing the bars across them, to which the captive negroes were to be secured. the crew were employed most of their time in hoisting water casks, and a further supply of farinha, on board. at length when morning broke i went on deck to breathe the air, which i hoped would be somewhat cooler than that of the calm. through an opening in the trees i saw several long low sheds with cottages and huts scattered round them, while a number of people were moving about. the door in the end of one of the sheds was thrown open, and there issued forth a long line of black figures, walking two and two, and secured together by iron shackles round their wrists. they staggered along with unwilling steps, looking round on the trees and distant blue hills, which they were destined never again to see, and even now it seemed to me that could they have wrenched their hands from those iron bonds they would have attempted to strike a blow for freedom, and make their escape into the forest. on either side of them, however, walked ruffianly looking fellows, with pistols in their belts and heavy whips in their hands, with which, if their captives attempted to lag behind, they urged them on. one or two were whites, but most of them were negroes, and seemed to have no scruple in leading their countrymen into captivity. so long a line came forth that it seemed impossible the building could have held so many human beings. some were strong men, who cast scowling glances at their guards; others were youths, many mere lads and young boys, and there were a considerable number of women, mostly young, many, indeed, being mere girls. several of the elder women had infants in their arms, and children of various ages trotted by the sides of others, or clung to their hands. the sad procession came towards the vessel. a bridge had been formed from her deck to the shore. the leading slaves hesitated as they reached it, and refused to move forward till urged on by the lash of their guards. their condition had been bad before, but they knew now that they were to be shut down and crowded together in the dark noisome hold of the slave ship. as they arrived on board they were compelled to go below and take their seats on the bare deck, side by side, with their legs secured to the iron bars, and so closely packed that their knees were drawn up almost to their chins. still, although nearly a hundred had come on board, a considerable portion of the deck remained unoccupied. i took an opportunity of going on shore, no one interfering with me. as i went through the village i passed a house of some size, in front of which the captain was seated in the verandah with another white man, with whom he appeared to be eagerly bargaining. the latter was, i found, the principle slave-dealer, to whom the sheds or barracoons, in which the slaves were confined, belonged. going on i looked into one of the barracoons. the heat and odour which proceeded from it made me unwilling to enter. it was full of blacks, seated on narrow benches, with their arms and legs secured to long bars which ran in front of them. here they had been placed as they were brought down from the interior, and kept in readiness for the arrival of the slaver. this, i suspect, was the gang for whom the captain had been bargaining with their owner, as they were immediately afterwards summoned out and marched down, as the others had been, to the vessel. while i was still on shore i saw coming through the woods another long line of captives. they had come, apparently, a long distance, for they were mostly foot-sore, and several could scarcely move along; not a few were wounded, and many of the men, and even of the women, bore traces on their backs of the cruel lash which had been inflicted to make them hasten their steps when they had showed any unwillingness to proceed. they were allowed but a short time to rest in the barracoons, and having been fed with farinha, mixed into porridge, were marched down to the ship. they gazed at her with looks of dismay, for they knew that she was to convey them away over the wide ocean they had heard of, but never seen, to an unknown land, where they were to toil, unrequited, for hard task-masters. i thought of remaining on shore rather than proceed in the slave vessel; but was unwilling to desert paul, and he had not been allowed to land. i therefore returned, hoping to obtain his release. "you must remain with us a little longer," said my friend the officer, who spoke english, "and we will land you on another part of the coast, where you are more likely than here to meet with a trader." i was compelled to comply, indeed i knew by his tone and manner, that i should not be allowed to remain behind. all the slaves which had been collected in the depot having been received on board, the schooner cast off from the bank, and proceeded down the river. as we crossed the bar the vessel pitched heavily, and shipped several seas. the poor wretches below, as the water rushed down upon them, fancying that they were about to be drowned, gave vent to piercing shrieks and cries. the spanish crew heard them with perfect indifference, and no one, with the exception of paul, took the slightest trouble to calm their fears--he managing to slip down into the hold assured them that there was no danger; but he could offer them very little comfort besides as to their prospects in this world. still he could speak to them of another and a better land, "where the weary are at rest, and the wicked cease from troubling," and where the shackles of slavery are cast aside, and to which the god of mercy invites all his creatures to come and dwell with him, and be at rest. he was endeavouring to explain to the miserable beings the simple troths of the gospel, when he was overheard by one of the officers, and ordered on deck, with a threat that should he again be found speaking to the slaves he would be shackled along with them. we ran down the coast and came to an anchorage in-shore. there were numerous huts and several large canoes drawn up on the beach, on which a heavy surf was breaking. in a short time people appeared collecting from all quarters and a canoe came off with a burly negro on board, who, as he climbed up the side was treated with great ceremony. he was, i found, the king of that part of the country, his chief revenue being derived from slave dealing. his business with the captain was quickly concluded. a signal was made from the vessel, and soon afterwards i saw a long line of slaves coming forth from behind a wood which concealed the barracoons where they had been confined. they were marched down to the canoes, and thrust in one after the other in spite of their struggles. the canoes were now launched, and began to make their way through the surf. three succeeded in getting alongside, but the fourth was overturned by a heavy roller, and the unfortunate passengers thrown out amid the foaming waters. some, as if thus glad to escape from their persecutors, sank without making a struggle for life; others clung to the canoe, and a few were either washed back on the beach or picked up by the surrounding canoes, to which the crew had already made their way. eight or ten human beings thus lost their lives, but the event seemed to cause no concern to the captain or his officers. he had only agreed to pay for those brought off to him in safety. the embarkation continued as before, and we were soon surrounded by canoes full of slaves, who were forthwith hoisted on board and stowed below. their price, chiefly in goods, was then lowered into the canoes, which returned to the shore with much more caution than they had come out. two days afterwards we obtained an other addition to our cargo still further down the coast. on this occasion we brought up in a sheltered bay. here the slaves were conveyed on large rafts. every expedition was used in getting them on board, for news had been received that an english cruiser was in the neighbourhood. the moment they were stowed away the anchor was hove-up and sail was made. as we were going out, and appeared to be clear of the harbour, i heard a grating sound, and felt the vessel's keel touch the ground. at the same moment the look-out from the mast-head gave notice that a sail was in sight in the offing. every effort was made to get the schooner off, but she stuck fast. one of the officers had gone aloft with a spy-glass. on his return i observed a look of consternation in the countenance of the captain and his mates. after talking eagerly together one of them went aloft. he remained for sometime with his spy-glass turned towards the stranger, which, in a short time, could be seen clearly from the deck, and from the expressions i heard them utter, i found that she was supposed to be a british man-of-war. i endeavoured to conceal my satisfaction, for i hoped that the unfortunate slaves would be rescued, and that paul and i might be taken on board her. it shortly, however, fell perfectly calm, and the spirits of the slaver's crew revived. the tide was rising, anchors were carried out, and desperate efforts were made to heave the vessel off. a report now came from aloft that several boats were approaching from the direction of the cruiser. the spaniards, on hearing this, began to stamp about the deck, grinding their teeth and shaking their fists towards where the boats were supposed to be, working themselves into a perfect fury. arms were got up on deck, and the two guns the vessel carried were loaded and run out. the savage cries and oaths, and fierce gestures of the crew, made them look more like demons than men. i looked anxiously for paul, fearing that in their fury they might injure him, but he had wisely taken shelter in the berth forward so as to be out of their sight. i had thought of hiding in the cabin where i slept, but felt too anxious to watch the issue of events to do so. of one thing i felt very sure, that though the spaniards might fight, the british seamen would soon be in possession of the slaver. the day was drawing to a close, however, and i began to fear that the boats might not reach the schooner before darkness set in. in a short time too, i observed a thick mist gathering over the land, which rose higher and higher, and came moving towards us. we were soon completely enveloped in it. this seemed to give the slaver's crew great satisfaction, and they again began to talk and laugh in their usual tone, while all the time they continued their exertions to get the vessel off. lazy as the spaniards are they can work as hard as any one when they have a sufficient motive to arouse them. i observed the captain frequently wetting his finger and holding it up, and soon i felt a light breeze blowing from the land. the sails were let fall, and the crew making another desperate effort, the schooner glided away up to her anchors. no time was lost in weighing them. i thought the crew would have shouted to show their satisfaction, but not a sound was uttered. onward she glided, keeping close in-shore. my heart sank within me, and my hopes of escaping from the vile slave ship vanished. the lead was kept going. i felt sure that no stranger would venture to stand in so close to the coast as we were doing. on we stood till the spanish seamen seemed satisfied that they had made good their escape from the boats of the cruiser. as the schooner had by this time nearly a full cargo of slaves, i feared that she would not again touch on the coast, and that i was destined to make a voyage on board the hateful craft across the atlantic. chapter eight. the spaniards believing the man-of-war to be far away, steer to the westward.--we sight her, and she chases us.--cruel device of the slaver's crew to assist their escape.--paul, among others, being thrown overboard that the man-of-war might have to pick them up; i fear that he has been lost.--my life preserved by one of the officers, when threatened by the slaver's crew.--the schooner escapes, but dismasted in a gale, and again overtaken.--paul and my cousin jack come on board, and i join the corvette as a midshipman.--returning to england i restore cheebo to his mother.--my adventures show that "all works together for good to them who love god."--jack becomes a commander, marries my sister mary, and i find ample means for supporting the rest of my dear sisters. the schooner ran on during the night, keeping the coast close aboard to enjoy the advantage of the land breeze. i managed to get a word with paul to ask him whether he thought there was a probability of her making her escape. "i pray god for the poor slaves," he answered, "and hope english cruiser still catch her." as may be supposed a very bright look-out was kept for the cruiser. as the day advanced she was no where to be seen, and the captain, anxious to make as quick a run as possible across the atlantic, the vessel's head was turned to the westward, the wind still blowing off shore. still, however, a haze hung over the ocean, sufficiently thick to prevent objects being seen in the far distance. this seemed still further to favour the escape of the slaver. we had got some distance off the land when the haze lifted, and away to the southward a sail was seen, which the spaniards at once seemed to know was the british man-of-war. she saw us at the same moment, and crowded all sail in chase. the schooner was put before the wind, which now came from the southward, and every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, men also going aloft with buckets of water to wet the sails. again the same scene of impotent rage i had before witnessed was enacted, and the fury of the spaniards increased as they saw the man-of-war gaining on us, she apparently having more wind than we had. i, as i had previously done, kept as much as i could out of their way, and tried to prevent any gleam of satisfaction appearing in my countenance. the man-of-war was a corvette--evidently a powerful and very fast craft, against which the slaver would not have had the shadow of a chance, had even her crew possessed the courage to fight, which i felt very sure, in spite of their bravado, they would not. the corvette had been bringing the breeze up with her, and now the schooner felt it herself, and began to move more rapidly through the water. she, too, was a fast vessel, and her crew might justly have entertained hopes of escaping. i little thought of the cruel device they were contemplating to aid them in so doing. at length the man-of-war had got almost near enough to reach the slaver with her bow-chasers. she tried the range of one of them, but the shot fell short. on this the captain turned, with a savage determination in his eye, and spoke to one of the officers. directly afterwards i saw him descend to the slave deck with two or three of the men, and they quickly returned with one of the unfortunate captives. instantly the unhappy slave was secured to a plank, and, in spite of his cries and entreaties, hove overboard. as the poor wretch floated astern i could not help recollecting that the sea swarmed with sharks, and that he would probably be seized before many minutes were over by one of the ravenous monsters. i guessed the object of the spaniards; it was confiding in the humanity of my countrymen that they would heave-to in order to pick up the poor black, should he escape the sharks, and thus allow the schooner to gain ground. the device answered the expectations of its cruel perpetrators. the corvette hove-to, a boat was lowered, and the slave taken up. the spaniards seemed delighted with the result of their experiment, and prepared to try it again. another slave was brought up on deck, and, like the former, hove overboard. scarcely had he reached the water when a fearful shriek was heard, and the poor wretch and the plank together disappeared below the surface. this, however, did not prevent the spaniards from again attempting the plan to impede the progress of their pursuer, and three more slaves were brought up. just then i heard several of the crew shouting out "el heretico!" and what was my horror to see them dragging paul aft. he spoke to them in such spanish as he could command, but uttered no cry, and when he understood their object, walked calmly among them to the gangway. i could not restrain myself, but ran up to him and implored my english-speaking friend to plead on his behalf. "take care my lad, or you may be treated in the same way," was the answer. "oh, but he has just heard of his mother, who longs to see him, and i have promised to take him to her," i cried out. "oh, ask them if any of them have mothers from whom they have been long parted, would they not desire to see them again? will they not have compassion on my poor friend?" "don't grieve for me, massa harry," said paul, while the sailors were lashing him to the plank. "god take care of me. give my lub to my moder, and tell her i meet her in heaven, and she know me den." in vain i pleaded. my friend seizing me by the arm, dragged me away, while the savages hove paul overboard. "go into my cabin," he exclaimed, "its your only chance of safety." i saw, as he dragged me aft, that the spaniards were preparing to throw several other slaves into the sea; and, as i turned my head, three in rapid succession were thrust through the gangway, secured, as the others had been, to floats. my friend had not cautioned me without reason, for i heard the crew clamouring for the "englez." my friend went out to them, and on his return told me that they wished to throw me into the sea, but that he had advised them not to do so lest after all the schooner should be captured, when the captain of the man-of-war would certainly deal more hardly with them for having thus treated a countryman. i thanked him for interfering as far as i was concerned, but, at the same time, could not help observing that the english captain would consider the crime of throwing any one overboard equally great, whatever the colour of the sufferer. "ah, we think little about the life of a black," he answered carelessly. "so it seems," i said, for i felt utterly horrified at what i had witnessed. a feeling of desperate indifference to my own fate had crept over me. "poor paul! that the wretches should have treated you thus," i said to myself. then i remembered how paul would have acted, and i prayed that he might be protected, though i confess i had little expectation of his escaping the ravenous jaws of a shark. so eager was i to ascertain what had happened, that had not my friend locked the door on me, in spite of his warnings, i should have gone out again to watch the progress of the chase. some time elapsed; i longed again to hear the sound of the corvette's guns, but in vain. the wind had increased, as i could judge by the movement of the vessel; and i at length began to fear that she would after all escape. some hours passed away, my friend at length came back. "you are hungry, i dare say," he said, "and you may come into the cabin and have some supper, but it is not safe for you to go on deck, the crew are angry at your having interfered about the black seaman; although our plan has answered, for your good natured-countrymen, by stopping to pick up the negroes, have enabled us to escape them. a few of the wretches were, to be sure, picked off by the sharks." "did my friend, the black sailor, escape?" i asked eagerly. "as to that i cannot say," he answered, "undoubtedly some escaped, or the corvette would not have hove-to so often. but come, the supper is on the table." i declared that i had no appetite; but he insisted upon my going into the cabin, and said that he should be offended if i did not. "it would be better for you also to put an indifferent face on the matter," he added. those of the officers who came to supper were laughing and talking in good spirits, and, as far as i could judge, seemed to be amusing themselves at my expense. i, however, had the wisdom to follow my friend's advice, and showed no signs of annoyance. i confess, too, that the sight of the food quickly restored my appetite. when supper was over my friend advised me to go back to my cabin. "we shall be far away from the corvette by to-morrow morning, and then you can come on deck if you like," he observed. as i lay in my berth the dreadful scenes i had witnessed came constantly before my sight, and i kept alternately hoping that paul might have been saved, and fearing that he was lost. for a long time too it seemed i could not go to sleep. the vessel also was pitching heavily, the sea dashed against her sides, and i could hear the roaring and whistling of the wind in her rigging; it was evidently blowing very hard. at last i dropped off to sleep. i was awakened by a loud crash, and the fearful shrieks and cries which arose from the hold. no longer heeding my friend's caution, slipping on my clothes, i rushed on deck. the schooner's masts had gone by the board, and she lay helpless on the foaming ocean. the crew were shouting and swearing as they endeavoured to cut away the masts, which were battering against her sides, while ever and anon a heavy sea striking her, swept over her deck, and from the shrieks which came up out of the waters a short distance away to leeward, i had little doubt that several of the people had been washed overboard. fearing that such might be my fate were i to remain on deck, i hurried back again into the cabin. i knew that nothing could be done till daylight, and that it would be impossible to rig jury-masts until the sea was somewhat smoother. perhaps before then the slaver and her living freight might be carried down into the depths of ocean. i would not venture to lie down, but sat in the cabin, ready to rush out and make an attempt for my life should such a catastrophe appear imminent. the night seemed very long. at length i saw daylight through the bull's-eye overhead, and the movement of the vessel was less violent than before. i could no longer restrain my curiosity, and made my way on deck. the crew, much diminished, were sheltering themselves under the bulwarks, while the officers were collected in the after part of the vessel. i saw that their eyes were directed to windward, i looked in the same direction, and there to my infinite satisfaction i caught sight of the corvette standing towards us. i was glad to see my english friend among the officers, but the captain and first mate were gone. they had been carried overboard. i felt that they deserved their fate, terrible as it was. the corvette soon came up, and hove-to to windward; a boat was lowered and pulled towards us. i watched her eagerly. a lieutenant was steering, and among her crew i observed a black man. i tried to make out his features, but at that distance it was impossible. the hope rose in my breast that he might be paul. as the schooner still rolled heavily it was no easy matter for the boat to get alongside without the risk of being swamped. she at length came up under our quarter. i looked anxiously over the bulwarks, and to my joy saw that the black was indeed paul. he caught sight of me. "all right massa harry," he shouted, "we soon aboard, praise god that you safe." "silence!" said the officer, for paul had forgotten the discipline of a man-of-war in speaking. at that moment i thought i recognised the lieutenant's countenance; yes, i was nearly certain it was my cousin jack haultaught, whose yarns, when he was a midshipman, first made me wish to go to sea. he and his crew soon sprang on to the low deck of the schooner, while the boat, with a couple of hands in her, was veered astern. i first greeted paul warmly. his joy at seeing me was excessive, for he had been afraid that the slavers would have thrown me overboard as they had him, and as i had not been picked up thought my life had been sacrificed. as my cousin jack did not know me i had time to talk to paul. "oh massa harry we must praise god for all his mercy and goodness to us, what we think going to be very bad for us he make turn out for the best. the captain of the corvette, my old friend, he good christian man, he say he take me to england with him, and then i see my dear moder, and learn more of the bible, and then come back and preach the gospel to my poor countrymen." the hatches, which had hitherto been kept battened down, were now taken off. the five hundred human beings crowded below were evidence of the character of the vessel, and enabled the lieutenant at once to claim her as a prize to her majesty's ship "triton." i do not wish to dwell on the fearful sight which met our eyes as we looked down below on the mass of humanity jammed, pressed, and huddled together. and oh, the horrible odour which arose from that foul hold! it seemed impossible that human beings could have existed a minute in it, much less the many hours during which those unhappy people had been shut up during the gale. how fearful would have been their sufferings had they been compelled thus to make the passage across the atlantic. how enormous a proportion of them would have died. as it was, many of them had their limbs broken, and many were sadly crushed and bruised. at length i went up to the lieutenant and put out my hand. "you don't know me, cousin jack," i said. "what, harry!" he exclaimed, looking at me hard. "i am delighted to see you my boy. the negro sailor told me that there was a young englishman on board, but i did not expect to find you. you will be welcome on board the `triton,' and if you have a fancy for continuing at sea, i think the captain will be able to enter you as a supernumerary, and get you regularly appointed when we return to england." i told him that above all things it was what i should like. i now accompanied him to the "triton," carrying with us the surviving officers of the slaver. they were treated with scant ceremony, but without any undue harshness, on board, and berthed together in a cabin run up on the lower deck. i was, however, able to speak a good word for the officer who had treated me kindly, and been the means of saving my life, and i was pleased to hear the captain thank him, and afterwards the officers, to show their sense of his conduct, invited him to mess with them. he declined doing so, however. he afterwards told my cousin jack that in consequence of the scenes he had witnessed he had resolved to have nothing more to do with the slave trade. "it was a great temptation," he said. "i expected to make my fortune in a short time, and that induced me to engage in the accursed traffic." the corvette now took the schooner in tow. as soon as the sea was calm enough hands were sent on board her to rig jury-masts, and a course was steered for sierra leone. the slaver, as may be supposed, was condemned, the slaves liberated, and the whole of them settled in the colony. paul entered on board the "triton," and i was placed as a midshipman on her quarter-deck. we cruised for a short time longer on the coast, and captured another slaver, and then, as the corvette had been her due time on the station, she was ordered home. jack, from having been at sea, had not heard of the misfortunes of my family. as soon as the ship was paid off he insisted on accompanying me and paul back to liverpool. we reached the house where i had left my sisters under mammy's care. flowers bloomed before the windows, and there was an air of neatness and comfort about the little abode which looked very pleasing. i begged jack and paul to remain outside while i went in to prepare the inmates for their arrival. mammy opened the door. she seized me in her arms the moment she saw me, and i did not at all mind the kisses she bestowed on my cheeks, though her lips were thick and her black face shrivelled. "your sisters up stairs, massa harry. they so glad you come back," she exclaimed, and dragged me along. she opened the door where they were seated at work. "i have brought some strangers to see you," i said, after our greetings were over. "you remember our cousin jack haultaught; he insisted on coming, he is a first-rate capital fellow, and a true friend of mine." "we shall be very glad to see him and to thank him," said mary and jane together. "and i shall be delighted," cried emily. "i recalled his giving me all sorts of curious things when he came back from his first voyage. i'll run down and ask him in." "mammy," i said, feeling very doubtful how i could best prepare her for meeting her son. "you remember the commission you gave me, i did my best to execute it. i asked all the people i met if they knew cheebo." "ah, you no hear of him," said mammy, with a sigh. "i did not say that," i answered. "mammy, you believe that god hears your prayers." "yes, massa harry, i am sure he does," she said, and then it seemed to flash across her that i had something of interest to communicate about her son. "you hear of cheebo, he become christian, oh say dat, massa harry, say dat." "yes, mammy," i answered, taking her hand, "i not only heard of him, but i have seen him; and, mammy, do you think the joy would not be too much for you if i were to tell you that i hope you will see him too?" "oh, he is come! he is come!" exclaimed mammy. i made a sign to my sisters to remain with our old nurse, whispering to mary that i was going to bring up her long lost son. i hurried down stairs, and found that emily had already invited jack and his companion into the house. i led paul to the door, and my sisters slipping out; we left the old woman and her son together. and now it is time that i should bring my yarn to a conclusion. jack seemed to find liverpool a very delightful place; and perhaps it may account for his so doing, when i say that before he went away he asked my sister mary to marry him. she did not refuse. soon afterwards he got his promotion, which he well deserved for his activity and zeal during his long service on the african coast. through the interest of the captain of the "triton" i got appointed to a man-of-war brig on that station, where, being pretty well up to the tricks of the slavers, i was instrumental in capturing a number of vessels, and assisting to put down the abominable slave trade. as a good deal of prize money came into my pocket, i had the gratification of sending home considerable sums to my sisters. mammy's joy, when she found that not only had her son become a christian, but that her husband had accepted the truth, was full. she willingly parted with paul when she heard of his wish to become a missionary of the gospel. he returned to sierra leone, and after remaining a short time there, went on to abeokuta, to labour with others in spreading the glad tidings of salvation among the dark-skinned sons of africa. dusty diamonds cut and polished, by r.m. ballantyne. first published ________________________________________________________________________ as so often with ballantyne there are two concurrent stories in this book. in one of these we meet two little stray and homeless boys in the vicinity of whitechapel in the east-end of london. these two are rescued from the streets, trained up and sent to canada to live as part of a farmer's family there. the other story concerns the mother of one of the boys, with too many children, a drink-habit, and a wife-beating and criminal husband: plainly there's not much going for her, but her eldest daughter manages to bring life together for the family. the bad father, on his release from jail, deserts his wife, which is no bad thing; the wife takes the blue ribbon and gives up drinking; a couple of well-to-do gentlemen take an interest in the family; and finally they all emigrate to canada and live happily ever after. of course, it is a little more complicated than that, with a burglary thrown in as well as a smattering of do-good-ers and do-bad-ers. but for those with an interest in the street-life of the nineteenth century this will be a very interesting book for you. a note about the author. robert michael ballantyne was born in and died in . he was educated at the edinburgh academy, and in he became a clerk with the hudson bay company, working at the red river settlement in northern canada until , arriving back in edinburgh in . the letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should construct a book based on these letters. three of his most enduring books were written over the next decade, "the young fur traders", "ungava", "the hudson bay company", and were based on his experiences with the h.b.c. in this period he also wrote "the coral island" and "martin rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by ballantyne. having been chided for small mistakes he made in these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about. with these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for teenagers. he researched the cornish mines, the london fire brigade, the postal service, the railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the life-boat service, south africa, norway, the north sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, algiers, and many more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived. he was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he encountered with great care and attention to detail. his young readers looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the s and s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year, all very good reading. the rate of production diminished in the last ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed. he published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for very young children under the pseudonym "comus". for today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what we would nowadays call "pi". in part that was the way people wrote in those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the red river settlement, in the wilds of canada, he had been a little dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how they ought to behave, as he felt he had been. some of his books were quite short, little over pages. these books formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less pocket-money. these books are particularly well-written and researched, because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for their money. they were published as six series, three books in each series. re-created as an e-text by nick hodson, september . ________________________________________________________________________ dusty diamonds cut and polished, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. an accident and some of its curious results. every one has heard of those ponies--those shaggy, chubby, innocent-looking little creatures--for which the world is indebted, we suppose, to shetland. well, once on a time, one of the most innocent-looking, chubbiest, and shaggiest of shetland ponies--a dark brown one--stood at the door of a mansion in the west-end of london. it was attached to a wickerwork vehicle which resembled a large clothes-basket on small wheels. we do not mean, of course, that the pony was affectionately attached to it. no; the attachment was involuntary and unavoidable, by reason of a brand-new yellow leather harness with brass buckles. it objected to the attachment, obviously, for it sidled this way, and straddled that way, and whisked its enormous little tail, and tossed its rotund little head, and stamped its ridiculously small feet; and champed its miniature bit, as if it had been a war-horse of the largest size, fit to carry a wallace, a bruce, or a richard of the lion-heart, into the midst of raging battle. and no wonder; for many months had not elapsed since that brown creature had kicked up its little heels, and twirled its tail, and shaken its shaggy mane in all the wild exuberance of early youth and unfettered freedom on the heather hills of its native island. in the four-wheeled basket sat a little girl whom it is useless to describe as beautiful. she was far beyond that! her delicate colour, her little straight nose, her sparkling teeth, her rosebud of a mouth, her enormous blue eyes, and floods of yellow hair--pooh! these are not worth mentioning in the same sentence with her expression. it was that which carried all before it, and swept up the adoration of man-and-woman-kind as with the besom of fascination. she was the only child of sir richard brandon. sir richard was a knight and a widower. he was knighted, not because of personal merit, but because he had been mayor of some place, sometime or other, when some one connected with royalty had something important to do with it! little diana was all that this knight and widower had on earth to care for, except, of course, his horses and dogs, and guns, and club, and food. he was very particular as to his food. not that he was an epicure, or a gourmand, or luxurious, or a hard drinker, or anything of that sort--by no means. he could rough it, (so he said), as well as any man, and put up with whatever chanced to be going, but, when there was no occasion for roughing it, he did like to see things well cooked and nicely served; and wine, you know, was not worth drinking--positively nauseous--if it was not of the best. sir richard was a poor man--a very poor man. he had only five thousand a year--a mere pittance; and he managed this sum in such a peculiar way that he never had anything wherewith to help a struggling friend, or to give to the poor, or to assist the various religious and charitable institutions by which he was surrounded; while at certain intervals in the year he experienced exasperating difficulty in meeting the demands of those torments to society, the tradespeople--people who ought to be ashamed of themselves for not being willing to supply the nobility and gentry with food and clothing gratuitously! moreover, sir richard never by any chance laid anything by. standing by the pony's head, and making tender efforts to restrain his waywardness, stood a boy--a street boy--a city arab. to a londoner any description of this boy would be superfluous, but it may be well to state, for the benefit of the world at large, that the class to which he belonged embodies within its pale the quintessence of rollicking mischief, and the sublimate of consummate insolence. this remarkable boy was afflicted with a species of dance--not that of saint vitus, but a sort of double-shuffle, with a stamp of the right foot at the end--in which he was prone to indulge, consciously and unconsciously, at all times, and the tendency to which he sometimes found it difficult to resist. he was beginning to hum the sharply-defined air to which he was in the habit of performing this dance, when little diana said, in a silvery voice quite in keeping with her beauty-- "let go his head, boy; i'm quite sure that he cannot bear restraint." it may be remarked here that little di was probably a good judge on that point, being herself nearly incapable of bearing restraint. "i'd better not, miss," replied the boy with profound respect in tone and manner, for he had yet to be paid for the job; "he seems raither frisky, an' might take a fancy to bolt, you know." "let his head go, i say!" returned miss diana with a flashing of the blue eyes, and a pursing of the rosebud mouth that proved her to be one of adam's race after all. "vell, now, don't you think," rejoined the boy, in an expostulating tone, "that it would be as veil to vait for the guv'nor before givin' 'im 'is 'ead?" "do as i bid you, sir!" said di, drawing herself up like an empress. still the street boy held the pony's head, and it is probable that he would have come off the victor in this controversy, had not diana's dignified action given to the reins which she held a jerk. the brown pony, deeming this full permission to go on, went off with a bound that overturned the boy, and caused the fore-wheel to strike him on the leg as it passed. springing up with the intention of giving chase to the runaway, the little fellow again fell, with a sharp cry of pain, for his leg was broken. at the same moment sir richard brandon issued from the door of his mansion leisurely, and with an air of calm serenity, pulling on his gloves. it was one of the knight's maxims that, under all circumstances, a gentleman should maintain an appearance of imperturbable serenity. when, however, he suddenly beheld the street boy falling, and his daughter standing up in her wickerwork chariot, holding on to the brown pony like an amazon warrior of ancient times, his maxim somehow evaporated. his serenity vanished. so did his hat as he bounded from beneath it, and left it far behind in his mad and hopeless career after the runaway. a policeman, coming up just as sir richard disappeared, went to the assistance of the street boy. "not much hurt, youngster," he said kindly, as he observed that the boy was very pale, and seemed to be struggling hard to repress his feelings. "vell, p'raps i is an' p'raps i ain't, bobby," replied the boy with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile, for he felt safe to chaff or insult his foe in the circumstances, "but vether hurt or not it vont much matter to you, vill it?" he fainted as he spoke, and the look of half-humorous impudence, as well as that of pain, gave place to an expression of infantine repose. the policeman was so struck by the unusual sight of a street boy looking innocent and unconscious, that he stooped and raised him quite tenderly in his arms. "you'd better carry him in here," said sir richard brandon's butler, who had come out. "i saw it 'appen, and suspect he must be a good deal damaged." sir richard's footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid's bed, and attended to by the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways. "oh! what ever shall we do?" exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed symptoms of returning consciousness. "send for the doctor," suggested the housemaid. "no," said the butler, "send for a cab, and 'ave the boy sent home. i fear that master will blame me for givin' way to my feelin's, and won't thank me for bringin' 'im in here. you know he is rather averse to the lower orders. besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at 'ome, no doubt. i dare say you'd like to go 'ome, wouldn't you?" he said, observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious expression. "i dessay i should, if i could," he answered, with a mingled glance of mischief and pain, "but if you'll undertake to carry me, old cock, i'll be 'appy to go." "i'll send you in a cab, my poor boy," returned the butler, "and git a cabman as i'm acquainted with to take care of you." "all right! go a'ead, ye cripples," returned the boy, as the cook approached him with a cup of warm soup. "oh! ain't it prime!" he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and smacking his lips. "i think i'll go in for a smashed pin every day o' my life for a drop o' that stuff. surely it must be wot they drinks in 'eaven! have 'ee got much more o' the same on 'and?" "never mind, but you drink away while you've got the chance," replied the amiable cook; "there's the cab coming, so you've no time to lose." "vell, i _am_ sorry i ain't able to 'old more, an' my pockets wont 'old it neither, bein' the wuss for wear. thankee, missus." he managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before the cab drew up. "where do you live?" asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid. "vere do i live?" he repeated. "vy, mostly in the streets; my last 'ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but i do sometimes condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion 'ouse in vitechapel." "and what is your name? sir richard may wish to inquire for you-- perhaps." "may he? oh! i'm sorry i ain't got my card to leave, but you just tell him, john--is it, or thomas?--ah! thomas. i knowed it couldn't 'elp to be one or t'other;--you just tell your master that my name is robert, better known as bobby, frog. but i've lots of aliases, if that name don't please 'im. good-bye, thomas. farewell, and if for ever, then-- you know the rest o' the quotation, if your eddication's not bin neglected, w'ich is probable it was. oh! by the way. this 'assik is the gift of the 'ouse-maid? you observe the answer, cabby, in case you and i may differ about it 'ereafter." "yes," said the amused butler, "a gift from jessie." "ah!--jus' so. an' she's tender-'earted an' on'y fifteen. wots 'er tother name? summers, eh? vell, it's prettier than vinters. tell 'er i'll not forget 'er. now, cabman--'ome!" a few minutes more, and bobby frog was on his way to the mansion in whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering extremely from his broken limb. meanwhile, the brown pony--having passed a bold costermonger, who stood shouting defiance at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him, when he stepped quickly out of its way--eluded a dray-man, and entered on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction worth mentioning. by that time it had left the agonised father far behind. the day was fine; the air bracing. the utmost strength of poor little diana, and she applied it well, made no impression whatever on the pony's tough mouth. influences of every kind were favourable. on the illogical principle, probably, that being "in for a penny" justified being "in for a pound," the pony laid himself out for a glorious run. he warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered along, driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad with fear. gradually he drew towards the more populous streets, and here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him became more frequent, also more decided, though not more successful. at last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to accomplish. in a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. that lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. the front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer's shop, the other into a chemist's window. thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! the hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. as to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed--or appeared to change--to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin. but what of the fair little charioteer? truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. the doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it--truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. a tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. in little diana's case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. she was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances. at the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable number --we are not quite sure of what division--in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. he was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like hercules, and the figure of apollo. he turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in england! number proved a most effectual buffer, for di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming-- "oh! i have killed him! i've killed him!" and burst into tears. "no, my little lady," said number , as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, "you've not quite done for me, though you've come nearer the mark than any _man_ has ever yet accomplished. come, now, what can i do for you? you're not hurt, i hope?" this sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident. "hurt? oh! no, i'm not hurt," exclaimed di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of number ; "but i'm quite sure you must be hurt--awfully. i'm _so_ sorry! indeed i am, for i didn't mean to knock you down." this also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while number sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least--only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone. "wot does she mean by knockin' of 'im down?" asked a small butcher's boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker's boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning. "she means wot she says," replied the small baker's boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, "she knocked the constable down." "wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?--walk-_er_!" "very good; you've no call to b'lieve it unless you like," replied the baker's boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, "but she did it, though--an' that's six month with 'ard labour, if it ain't five year." at this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. he was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic. "my child! my darling! my dear di!" he gasped. "papa!" responded diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug. "oh! i say," whispered the small butcher, "it's a melly-drammy--all for nuffin!" "my!" responded the small baker, with a solemn look, "won't the lord left-tenant be down on 'em for play-actin' without a licence, just!" "is the pony killed?" inquired sir richard, recovering himself. "not in the least, sir. 'ere 'e is, sir; all alive an' kickin'," answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, "but the hinsurance offices wouldn't 'ave the clo'se-baskit at no price. shall i order up the remains of your carriage, sir?" "oh! i'm so glad he's not dead," said diana, looking hastily up, "but this policeman was nearly killed, and _i_ did it! he saved my life, papa." a chorus of voices here explained to sir richard how number had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom. "i am deeply grateful to you," said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might say, involuntarily. "will you come to my house?" said sir richard. "here is my card. i should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and--" "and the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that sir richard hesitated. "be so good as to call a cab," said sir richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey. "here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time. sir richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving number to look after the pony and the remains. thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale. chapter two. the irresistible power of love. need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of di and her nurse when the former returned home? the child was an affectionate creature as well as passionate. the nurse, mrs screwbury, was also affectionate without being passionate. poor diana had never known a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout mrs screwbury did what in her lay to fill the place of mother. sir richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might have done had it owned a child. he illuminated her to some extent-- explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around himself; but his light did not extend far. he was proud of her, however, and very fond of her--when good. when not good, he was--or rather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery. nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful child. indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery. "papa," said di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after the accident, "i _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. it seems such a dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go spinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. i wonder it didn't kill him. i'm _so_ sorry." di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her just then. "it must indeed have been an unpleasant blow," replied sir richard, gravely, "but then, dear, you couldn't help it, you know--and i dare say he is none the worse for it now. men like him are not easily injured. i fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony." "oh! i quite forgot about him," exclaimed di; "the naughty boy! he wouldn't let go the pony's reins when i bid him, but i saw he tumbled down when we set off." "yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, i fear, for his disobedience. his leg had been broken. is it not so, balls?" "yes, sir," replied the butler, "'e 'as 'ad 'is--" balls got no farther, for diana, who had been struck dumb for the moment by the news, recovered herself. "his leg broken!" she exclaimed with a look of consternation; "oh! the poor, poor boy!--the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as knocking down the poor policeman!" there is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her thoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy. "we sent 'im 'ome, sir, in a cab." "i'm afraid that was a little too prompt," returned the knight thoughtfully. "a broken leg requires careful treatment, i suppose. you should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor." balls coughed. he was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as he thought his master would have wished was in vain. "i thought, sir richard, that you didn't like the lower orders to go about the 'ouse more--" again little di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the boy's home was. "in the neighbour'ood of w'itechapel, miss di." "then, papa, we will go straight off to see him," said the child, in the tone of one whose mind is fully made up. "you and i shall go together-- won't we? good papa!" "that will do, balls, you may go. no, my dear di, i think we had better not. i will write to one of the city missionaries whom i know, and ask him to--" "no, but, papa--dear papa, we _must_ go. the city missionary could never say how very, _very_ sorry i am that he should have broken his leg while helping me. and then i should _so_ like to sit by him and tell him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. poor, _poor_ boy, we _must_ go, papa, won't you?" "not to-day, dear. it is impossible to go to-day. there, now, don't begin to cry. perhaps--perhaps to-morrow--but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty--how _very_ nasty--the places are in which our lower orders live." "oh! yes i have," said di eagerly. "haven't i seen our nursery on cleaning days?" a faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight's countenance. "true, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. then the smells. oh! they are very dreadful--" "what--worse than _we_ have when there's cabbage for dinner?" "yes, much worse than that." "i don't care, papa. we _must_ go to see the boy--the poor, _poor_ boy, in spite of dirt and smells. and then, you know--let me up on your knee and i'll tell you all about it. there! well, then, you know, i'd tidy the room up, and even wash it a little. oh, you can't think how nicely i washed up my doll's room--her corner, you know,--that day when i spilt all her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe it up, i accidentally burst her, and all her inside came out--the sawdust, i mean. it was the worst mess i ever made, but i cleaned it up as well as jessie herself could have done--so nurse said." "but the messes down in whitechapel are much worse than you have described, dear," expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers of resistance were going. "so much the better, papa," replied di, kissing her sire's lethargic visage. "i should like _so_ much to try if i could clean up something worse than my doll's room. and you've promised, you know." "no--only said `perhaps,'" returned sir richard quickly. "well, that's the same thing; and now that it's all nicely settled, i'll go and see nurse. good-bye, papa." "good-bye, dear," returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate and the newspaper. chapter three. poverty manages to board out her infant for nothing. on the night of the day about which we have been writing, a woman, dressed in "unwomanly rags" crept out of the shadow of the houses near london bridge. she was a thin, middle-aged woman, with a countenance from which sorrow, suffering, and sin had not been able to obliterate entirely the traces of beauty. she carried a bundle in her arms which was easily recognisable as a baby, from the careful and affectionate manner in which the woman's thin, out-spread fingers grasped it. hurrying on to the bridge till she reached the middle of one of the arches, she paused and looked over. the thames was black and gurgling, for it was intensely dark, and the tide half ebb at the time. the turbid waters chafed noisily on the stone piers as if the sins and sorrows of the great city had been somehow communicated to them. but the distance from the parapet to the surface of the stream was great. it seemed awful in the woman's eyes. she shuddered and drew back. "oh! for courage--only for one minute!" she murmured, clasping the bundle closer to her breast. the action drew off a corner of the scanty rag which she called a shawl, and revealed a small and round, yet exceedingly thin face, the black eyes of which seemed to gaze in solemn wonder at the scene of darkness visible which was revealed. the woman stood between two lamps in the darkest place she could find, but enough of light reached her to glitter in the baby's solemn eyes as they met her gaze, and it made a pitiful attempt to smile as it recognised its mother. "god help me! i can't," muttered the woman with a shiver, as if an ice-block had touched her heart. she drew the rag hastily over the baby's head again, pressed it closer to her breast, retraced her steps, and dived into the shadows from which she had emerged. this was one of the "lower orders" to whom sir richard brandon had such an objection, whom he found it, he said, so difficult to deal with, (no wonder, for he never tried to deal with them at all, in any sense worthy of the name), and whom it was, he said, useless to assist, because all _he_ could do in such a vast accumulation of poverty would be a mere drop in the bucket. hence sir richard thought it best to keep the drop in his pocket where it could be felt and do good--at least to himself, rather than dissipate it in an almost empty bucket. the bucket, however, was not quite empty--thanks to a few thousands of people who differed from the knight upon that point. the thin woman hastened through the streets as regardless of passers-by as they were of her, until she reached the neighbourhood of commercial street, spitalfields. here she paused and looked anxiously round her. she had left the main thoroughfare, and the spot on which she stood was dimly lighted. whatever she looked or waited for, did not, however, soon appear, for she stood under a lamp-post, muttering to herself, "i _must_ git rid of it. better to do so than see it starved to death before my eyes." presently a foot-fall was heard, and a man drew near. the woman gazed intently into his face. it was not a pleasant face. there was a scowl on it. she drew back and let him pass. then several women passed, but she took no notice of them. then another man appeared. his face seemed a jolly one. the woman stepped forward at once and confronted him. "please, sir," she began, but the man was too sharp for her. "come now--you've brought out that baby on purpose to humbug people with it. don't fancy you'll throw dust in _my_ eyes. i'm too old a cock for that. don't you know that you're breaking the law by begging?" "i'm _not_ begging," retorted the woman, almost fiercely. "oh! indeed. why do you stop me, then?" "i merely wished to ask if your name is thompson." "ah hem!" ejaculated the man with a broad grin, "well no, madam, my name is _not_ thompson." "well, then," rejoined the woman, still indignantly, "you may move on." she had used an expression all too familiar to herself, and the man, obeying the order with a bow and a mocking laugh, disappeared like those who had gone before him. for some time no one else appeared save a policeman. when he approached, the woman went past him down the street, as if bent on some business, but when he was out of sight she returned to the old spot, which was near the entrance to an alley. at last the woman's patience was rewarded by the sight of a burly little elderly man, whose face of benignity was unmistakably genuine. remembering the previous man's reference to the baby, she covered it up carefully, and held it more like a bundle. stepping up to the newcomer at once, she put the same question as to name, and also asked if he lived in russell square. "no, my good woman," replied the burly little man, with a look of mingled surprise and pity, "my name is _not_ thompson. it is twitter-- samuel twitter, of twitter, slime and--, but," he added, checking himself, under a sudden and rare impulse of prudence, "why do you ask my name and address?" the woman gave an almost hysterical laugh at having been so successful in her somewhat clumsy scheme, and, without uttering another word, darted down the alley. she passed rapidly round by a back way to another point of the same street she had left--well ahead of the spot where she had stood so long and so patiently that night. here she suddenly uncovered the baby's face and kissed it passionately for a few moments. then, wrapping it in the ragged shawl, with its little head out, she laid it on the middle of the footpath full in the light of a lamp, and retired to await the result. when the woman rushed away, as above related, mr samuel twitter stood for some minutes rooted to the spot, lost in amazement. he was found in that condition by the returning policeman. "constable," said he, cocking his hat to one side the better to scratch his bald head, "there are strange people in this region." "indeed there are, sir." "yes, but i mean _very_ strange people." "well, sir, if you insist on it, i won't deny that some of them are _very_ strange." "yes, well--good-night, constable," said mr twitter, moving slowly forward in a mystified state of mind, while the guardian of the night continued his rounds, thinking to himself that he had just parted from one of the very strangest of the people. suddenly samuel twitter came to a full stop, for there lay the small baby gazing at him with its solemn eyes, apparently quite indifferent to the hardness and coldness of its bed of stone. "abandoned!" gasped the burly little man. whether mr twitter referred to the infant's moral character, or to its being shamefully forsaken, we cannot now prove, but he instantly caught the bundle in his arms and gazed at it. possibly his gaze may have been too intense, for the mild little creature opened a small mouth that bore no proportion whatever to the eyes, and attempted to cry, but the attempt was a failure. it had not strength to cry. the burly little man's soul was touched to the centre by the sight. he kissed the baby's forehead, pressed it to his ample breast, and hurried away. if he had taken time to think he might have gone to a police-office, or a night refuge, or some such haven of rest for the weary, but when twitter's feelings were touched he became a man of impulse. he did not take time to think--except to the extent that, on reaching the main thoroughfare, he hailed a cab and was driven home. the poor mother had followed him with the intention of seeing him home. of course the cab put an end to that. she felt comparatively easy, however, knowing, as she did, that her child was in the keeping of "twitter, slime and ---." that was quite enough to enable her to trace mr twitter out. comforting herself as well as she could with this reflection, she sat down in a dark corner on a cold door-step, and, covering her face with both hands, wept as though her heart would break. gradually her sobs subsided, and, rising, she hurried away, shivering with cold, for her thin cotton dress was a poor protection against the night chills, and her ragged shawl was--gone with the baby. in a few minutes she reached a part of the whitechapel district where some of the deepest poverty and wretchedness in london is to be found. turning into a labyrinth of small streets and alleys, she paused in the neighbourhood of the court in which was her home--if such it could be called. "is it worth while going back to him?" she muttered. "he nearly killed baby, and it wouldn't take much to make him kill me. and oh! he was so different--once!" while she stood irresolute, the man of whom she spoke chanced to turn the corner, and ran against her, somewhat roughly. "hallo! is that you?" he demanded, in tones that told too clearly where he had been spending the night. "yes, ned, it's me. i was just thinking about going home." "home, indeed--'stime to b'goin' home. where'v you bin? the babby 'll 'v bin squallin' pretty stiff by this time." "no fear of baby now," returned the wife almost defiantly; "it's gone." "gone!" almost shouted the husband. "you haven't murdered it, have you?" "no, but i've put it in safe keeping, where _you_ can't get at it, and, now i know that, i don't care what you do to _me_." "ha! we'll see about that. come along." he seized the woman by the arm and hurried her towards their dwelling. it was little better than a cellar, the door being reached by a descent of five or six much-worn steps. to the surprise of the couple the door, which was usually shut at that hour, stood partly open, and a bright light shone within. "wastin' coal and candle," growled the man with an angry oath, as he approached. "hetty didn't use to be so extravagant," remarked the woman, in some surprise. as she spoke the door was flung wide open, and an overgrown but very handsome girl peered out. "oh! father, i thought it was your voice," she said. "mother, is that you? come in, quick. here's bobby brought home in a cab with a broken leg." on hearing this the man's voice softened, and, entering the room, he went up to a heap of straw in one corner whereon our little friend bobby frog--the street-arab--lay. "hallo! bobby, wot's wrong with 'ee? you ain't used to come to grief," said the father, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, and giving him a rough shake. things oftentimes "are not what they seem." the shake was the man's mode of expressing sympathy, for he was fond of his son, regarding him, with some reason, as a most hopeful pupil in the ways of wickedness. "it's o' no use, father," said the boy, drawing his breath quickly and knitting his brows, "you can't stir me up with a long pole now. i'm past that." "what! have 'ee bin runned over?" "no--on'y run down, or knocked down." "who did it? on'y give me his name an' address, an' as sure as my name's ned i'll--" he finished the sentence with a sufficiently expressive scowl and clenching of a huge fist, which had many a time done great execution in the prize ring. "it wasn't a he, father, it was a she." "well, no matter, if i on'y had my fingers on her windpipe i'd squeeze it summat." "if you did i'd bang your nose! she didn't go for to do it a-purpose, you old grampus," retorted bobby, intending the remark to be taken as a gentle yet affectionate reproof. "a doctor's bin an' set my leg," continued the boy, "an' made it as stiff as a poker wi' what 'e calls splints. he says i won't be able to go about for ever so many weeks." "an' who's to feed you, i wonder, doorin' them weeks? an' who sent for the doctor? was it him as supplied the fire an' candle to-night?" "no, father, it was me," answered hetty, who was engaged in stirring something in a small saucepan, the loose handle of which was attached to its battered body by only one rivet; the other rivet had given way on an occasion when ned frog sent it flying through the doorway after his retreating wife. "you see i was paid my wages to-night, so i could afford it, as well as to buy some coal and a candle, for the doctor said bobby must be kept warm." "afford it!" exclaimed ned, in rising wrath, "how can 'ee say you can afford it w'en i 'aven't had enough grog to _half_ screw me, an' not a brown left. did the doctor ask a fee?" "no, father, i offered him one, but he wouldn't take it." "ah--very good on 'im! i wonder them fellows has the cheek to ask fees for on'y givin' advice. w'y, i'd give advice myself all day long at a penny an hour, an' think myself well off too if i got that--better off than them as got the advice anyhow. what are you sittin' starin' at an' sulkin' there for?" this last remark was addressed gruffly to mrs frog, who, during the previous conversation, had seated herself on a low three-legged stool, and, clasping her hands over her knees, gazed at the dirty blank walls in blanker despair. the poor woman realised the situation better than her drunken husband did. as a bird-fancier he contributed little, almost nothing, to the general fund on which this family subsisted. he was a huge, powerful fellow, and had various methods of obtaining money--some obvious and others mysterious--but nearly all his earnings went to the gin-palace, for ned was a man of might, and could stand an enormous quantity of drink. hetty, who worked, perhaps we should say slaved, for a firm which paid her one shilling a week, could not manage to find food for them all. mrs frog herself with her infant to care for, had found it hard work at any time to earn a few pence, and now bobby's active little limbs were reduced to inaction, converting him into a consumer instead of a producer. in short, the glaring fact that the family expenses would be increased while the family income was diminished, stared mrs frog as blankly in the face as she stared at the dirty blank wall. and her case was worse, even, than people in better circumstances might imagine, for the family lived so literally from hand to mouth that there was no time even to think when a difficulty arose or disaster befell. they rented their room from a man who styled it a furnished apartment, in virtue of a rickety table, a broken chair, a worn-out sheet or two, a dilapidated counterpane, four ragged blankets, and the infirm saucepan before mentioned, besides a few articles of cracked or broken crockery. for this accommodation the landlord charged ninepence per day, which sum had to be paid _every night_ before the family was allowed to retire to rest! in the event of failure to pay they would have been turned out into the street at once, and the door padlocked. thus the necessity for a constant, though small, supply of cash became urgent, and the consequent instability of "home" very depressing. to preserve his goods from the pawnbroker, and prevent a moonlight flitting, this landlord had printed on his sheets the words "stolen from ---" and on the blankets and counterpane were stamped the words "stop thief!" mrs frog made no reply to her husband's gruff question, which induced the man to seize an empty bottle, as being the best way of rousing her attention. "come, you let mother alone, dad," suggested bobby, "she ain't a-aggrawatin' of you just now." "why, mother," exclaimed hetty, who was so busy with bobby's supper, and, withal, so accustomed to the woman's looks of hopeless misery that she had failed to observe anything unusual until her attention was thus called to her, "what ever have you done with the baby?" "ah--you may well ask that," growled ned. even the boy seemed to forget his pain for a moment as he now observed, anxiously, that his mother had not the usual bundle on her breast. "the baby's gone!" she said, bitterly, still keeping her eyes on the blank wall. "gone!--how?--lost? killed? speak, mother," burst from hetty and the boy. "no, only gone to where it will be better cared for than here." "come, explain, old woman," said ned, again laying his hand on the bottle. as hetty went and took her hand gently, mrs frog condescended to explain, but absolutely refused to tell to whose care the baby had been consigned. "well--it ain't a bad riddance, after all," said the man, as he rose, and, staggering into a corner where another bundle of straw was spread on the floor, flung himself down. appropriately drawing two of the "stop thief" blankets over him, he went to sleep. then mrs frog, feeling comparatively sure of quiet for the remainder of the night, drew her stool close to the side of her son, and held such intercourse with him as she seldom had the chance of holding while bobby was in a state of full health and bodily vigour. hetty, meanwhile, ministered to them both, for she was one of those dusty diamonds of what may be styled the east-end diggings of london--not so rare, perhaps, as many people may suppose--whose lustre is dimmed and intrinsic value somewhat concealed by the neglect and the moral as well as physical filth by which they are surrounded. "of course you've paid the ninepence, hetty?" "yes, mother." "you might 'ave guessed that," said bobby, "for, if she 'adn't we shouldn't 'ave bin here." "that and the firing and candle, with what the doctor ordered, has used up all i had earned, even though i did some extra work and was paid for it," said hetty with a sigh. "but i don't grudge it, bobby--i'm only sorry because there's nothing more coming to me till next week." "meanwhile there is nothing for _this_ week," said mrs frog with a return of the despair, as she looked at her prostrate son, "for all i can manage to earn will barely make up the rent--if it does even that-- and father, you know, drinks nearly all he makes. god help us!" "god _will_ help us," said hetty, sitting down on the floor and gently stroking the back of her mother's hand, "for he sent the trouble, and will hear us when we cry to him." "pray to him, then, hetty, for it's no use askin' me to join you. i can't pray. an' don't let your father hear, else he'll be wild." the poor girl bent her head on her knees as she sat, and prayed silently. her mother and brother, neither of whom had any faith in prayer, remained silent, while her father, breathing stertorously in the corner, slept the sleep of the drunkard. chapter four. samuel twitter astonishes mrs. twitter and her friends. in a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person and belongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. let us now make the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred. he has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of samuel twitter. on the night of which we write mrs twitter happened to have a "few friends" to tea. and let no one suppose that mrs twitter's few friends were to be put off with afternoon tea--that miserable invention of modern times--nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread and butter. by no means. we have said that samuel twitter was rich, and mrs twitter, conscious of her husband's riches, as well as grateful for them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazing extent. unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced with muffins or crumpets, was her idea of "tea." the liquid was a secondary point--in one sense--but it was always strong. it was the only strong liquid in fact allowed in the house, for mr twitter, mrs twitter, and all the little twitters were members of the blue ribbon army; more or less enthusiastic according to their light and capacity. the young twitters descended in a graduated scale from sammy, the eldest, (about sixteen), down through molly, and willie, and fred, and lucy, to alice the so-called "baby"--though she was at that time a remarkably robust baby of four years. mrs twitter's few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciated her hospitality, insomuch that the "few" bade fair to develop by degrees into many. well, mrs twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at its height. the subject of conversation was poverty. mrs loper, a weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with pounds a year was a poor family. mrs loper did not know that mrs twitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it. mrs twitter herself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject. "of course," continued mrs loper, "i don't mean to say that people with five hundred are _very_ poor, you know; indeed it all depends on the family. with six children like you, now, to feed and clothe and educate, and with everything so dear as it is now, i should say that five hundred was poverty." "well, i don't quite agree with you, mrs loper, on that point. to my mind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, and the capacity to manage, in the head of the family. i remember one family just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, i may say in the prime of life. a hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income the widow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear. she trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of their garments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of her boys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent in visiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had always a little to spare out of her limited income. now, if wealth is to be measured by results, i think we may say that that poor lady was rich. she was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she was taken home to the better land. her small means, having been judiciously invested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, but she never was what the world esteems rich." mrs twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsome countenance, as if to invite his opinion. "i quite agree with you," he said, helping himself to a crumpet, "there are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up. the former are really rich, the latter really poor." having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, mr crackaby,--that was his name,--proceeded to consume the crumpet. there was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. he quite agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess--the liberality, not the small means--and that, on the other hand, riches with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then--and the black sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said "but then"--it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into bronze,--exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same time to make the two ends meet. as no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep's argument, they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which ignorance seeks to conceal herself, and which politeness substitutes for the more emphatic "pooh," or the inelegant "bosh." then, applying themselves with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically speaking, and went off on a new tack. "mr twitter is rather late to-night, i think?" said mr crackaby, consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character. "he is, indeed," replied the hostess, "business must have detained him, for he is the very soul of punctuality. that is one of his many good qualities, and it is _such_ a comfort, for i can always depend on him to the minute,--breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by business." "ah, yes, business has much to answer for," remarked mrs loper, in a tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad fellow; "whatever mischief happens with one's husband it's sure to be business that did it." "pardon me, madam," objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way, was stickler, "business does bring about much of the disaster that often appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders--" "oh! mr stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named larrabel, who usually did the audience part of mrs twitter's little tea parties, "how _can_ you suggest such ideas, especially when mr twitter is unusually late?" mr stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery, and murder in the abstract. "there, you've said it all over again," interrupted mrs larrabel, with an unwonted frown. "but then," continued stickler, regardless of the interruption, "a broken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe, may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to mr twitter." "surely," said mrs loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable. in this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the evening grew late and the party began to grow alarmed. "i do hope nothing has happened to him," said mrs loper, with a solemnised face. "i think not. i have seen him come home much later than this--though not often," said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quite at ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallower channels. as the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even suggested by mrs loper that crackaby should proceed to twitter's office--a distance of three miles--to inquire whether and when he had left; while the smiling mrs larrabel proposed to send information to the headquarters of the police in scotland yard, because the police knew everything, and could find out anything. "you have no idea, my dear," she said, "how clever they are at scotland yard. would you believe it, i left my umbrellar the other day in a cab, and i didn't know the number of the cab, for numbers won't remain in my head, nor the look of the cabman, for i never look at cabmen, they are so rude sometimes. i didn't even remember the place where i got into the cab, for i can't remember places when i've to go to so many, so i gave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policeman stepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if i had lost anything. he was so polite and pleasant that i told him of my loss, though i knew it would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman. "`i think, madam,' he said, `that if you go down to scotland yard to-morrow morning, you may probably find it there.' "`young man,' said i, `do you take me for a fool!' "`no, madam, i don't,' he replied. "`or do you take my umbrellar for a fool,' said i, `that it should walk down to scotland yard of its own accord and wait there till i called for it?' "`certainly not, madam,' he answered with such a pleasant smile that i half forgave him. "`nevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of scotland yard to-morrow,' he added, `it might be as well to call in and inquire.' "`thank you,' said i, with a stiff bow as i left him. on the way home, however, i thought there might be something in it, so i did go down to scotland yard next day, where i was received with as much civility as if i had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of umbrellas as an egg's full of meat--almost. "`you'd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,' said the polite constable who escorted me. "`know it, sir!' said i, `yes, i should think i would. seven and sixpence it cost me--new, and i've only had it a week--brown silk with a plain handle--why, there it is!' and there it was sure enough, and he gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book, which i did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so nervous. now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there? they say the days of miracles are over, but i don't think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one." "the days of miracles are indeed over, ma'am," said the black sheep, "but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. when i inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising." most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. mrs larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at scotland yard--thus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted. they were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door. "there he is at last," exclaimed every one. "it is his knock, certainly," said mrs twitter, with a perplexed look, "but rather peculiar--not so firm as usual--there it is again! impatient! i never knew my sam impatient before in all our wedded life. you'd better open the door, dear," she said, turning to the eldest twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, "mary seems to have fallen asleep." before the eldest twitter could obey, the maligned mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master's step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily. the guests looked at each other anxiously. it might be that to some minds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violated blue-ribbonism occurred. as certainly these visions did _not_ occur to mrs twitter. she would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her husband. trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her confidence in her sam was unbounded. even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward bang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood before the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not doubt him. "forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that might well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "i--i-- business kept me in the office very late, and then--" he cast an imbecile glance at the bundle. "what _ever_ have you got there, sam?" asked his wondering wife. "goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed mrs loper. "live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision. "yes, mrs loper, it moves. it is alive--though not very much alive, i fear. my dear, i've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street. not a soul there but me. would have perished or been trodden on if i had not taken it up. see here!" he untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly, at the assembled company. it is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with compound interest. chapter five. treats still further of riches, poverty, babies, and police. when mr and mrs twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest twitter's disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. they opened up their minds to each other thus:-- "now, samuel," said mrs twitter, "the question is, what are you going to do with it?" "well, mariar," returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, "i suppose we must send it to the workhouse." "you know quite well, sam, that you don't mean that," said mrs twitter, "the dear little forsaken mite! just look at its solemn eyes. it has been clearly cast upon us, sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it." "what! with six of our own, mariar?" "yes, sam. isn't there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?" "and with only pounds a year?" objected mr twitter. "_only_ five hundred. how can you speak so? we are _rich_ with five hundred. can we not educate our little ones?" "yes, my dear." "and entertain our friends?" "yes, my love,--with crumpets and tea." "don't forget muffins and bloater paste, and german sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!" "i don't forget 'em, mariar. my recollection of 'em is powerful; i may even say vivid." "well," continued the lady, "haven't you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friends--" "yes, my dear,--and they are _still_ loans," murmured the husband. "and don't we give a little--i sometimes think too little--regularly to the poor, and to the church, and haven't we got a nest-egg laid by in the post-office savings-bank?" "all true, mariar, and all _your_ doing. but for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, i should have been bankrupt long ere now." mr twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife's character. she was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their bright sides. her economy would have degenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with her liberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almost eager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she could spare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles. indeed mrs twitter's vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. one of her favourite texts of scripture, which was always in her mind, and which she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls with many other words of god, was, "gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost." acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up the fragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodity to spare, and was never in a hurry. she gathered up bits of twine and made neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket--a pretty large basket--which in time became such a repository of wealth in that respect that the six twitters never failed to find the exact size and quality of cordage wanted by them--and, indeed, even after the eldest, sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenly required a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mind would, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother's basket! if friends wrote short notes to mrs twitter--which they often did, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents--the blank leaves were always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pile grew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business. and so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad. she emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became a living fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not she wanted not. but to return from this digression-- "well, then," said mrs twitter, "don't go and find fault, samuel," (she used the name in full when anxious to be impressive), "with what providence has given us, by putting the word `only' to it, for we are _rich_ with five hundred a year." mr twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be more careful in future of the use to which he put the word "only." "but," said he, "we haven't a hole or corner in the house to put the poor thing in. to be sure, there's the coal-cellar and the scuttle might be rigged up as a cradle, but--" he paused, and looked at his wife. the deceiver did not mean all this to be taken as a real objection. he was himself anxious to retain the infant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist maria more certainly on his side. "not a corner!" she exclaimed, "why, is there not the whole parlour? do you suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand, and a five-foot mirror? couldn't we lift the poor darling in and out in half a minute? besides, there is our own room. i feel as if there was an uncomfortable want of some sort ever since _our_ baby was transplanted to the nursery. so we will establish the old bassinet and put the mite there." "and what shall we call it, maria?" "call it--why, call it--call it--mite--no name could be more appropriate." "but, my love, mite, if a name at all, is a man's--that is, it sounds like a masculine name." "call it mita, then." and so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adopted by that "rich" family. it seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers to various homes--the homes of england, so to speak! but let not our readers become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, and open the door with our secret latch-key. this home is in some respects peculiar. it is not a poor one, for it is comfortable and clean. neither is it a rich one, for there are few ornaments, and no luxuries about it. over the fire stoops a comely young woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faint light that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. the wall is only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of the rooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green trees and a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on an inverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemed rather more real than himself. the picture is better, perhaps, than the bricks were, yet it is not enlivening. the only other objects in the room worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner; a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of queen victoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of sir robert peel in a frame of rosewood beside it. on a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast. under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age. near the window is another small, but older child--a boy of about six or seven. he is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black cloth helmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before. having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizes a very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it. close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and very powerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of a police-constable's uniform. behold, reader, the _tableau vivant_ to which we would call your attention! "where d'you go on duty to-day, giles," asked the comely young woman, raising her face to that of her husband. "oxford circus," replied the policeman. "it is the first time i've been put on fixed-point duty. that's the reason i'm able to breakfast with you and the children, molly, instead of being off at half-past five in the morning as usual. i shall be on for a month." "i'm glad of it, giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeing something of you. i wish you'd let me look at that cut on your shoulder. do!" "no, no, molly," returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully away from him. "hands off! you know the punishment for assaulting the police is heavy! now then, monty," (to the boy), "give up my helmet and truncheon. i must be off." "not yet, daddy," cried monty, "i's a pleeceman of the a division, number , 'ats me, an' i'm goin' to catch a t'ief. i 'mell 'im." "you smell him, do you? where is he, d'you think?" "oh! i know," replied the small policeman--here he came close up to his father, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, "he's under de table, but don' tell 'im i know. his name's joe!" "all right, i'll keep quiet, monty, but look alive and nab him quick, for i must be off." thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made a sudden dive under it, and collared his little brother. the arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the "t'ief" refused to be captured. a struggle ensued, in the course of which the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down, and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor. "it's my duty, i fear," said giles, "to take you both into custody and lock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, but i'll be merciful and let you off this time, monty, if you lend your mother a hand to pick up the pieces." monty agreed to accept this compromise. the helmet and truncheon were put to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out "on duty." chapter six. wealth pays a visit to poverty. it was an interesting sight to watch police-constable number as he went through the performance of his arduous duties that day at the regent circus in oxford street. to those who are unacquainted with london, it may be necessary to remark that this circus is one of those great centres of traffic where two main arteries cross and tend to cause so much obstruction, that complete stoppages would become frequent were it not for the admirable management of the several members of the police force who are stationed there to keep order. the "oxford circus," as it is sometimes called, is by no means the largest or most crowded of such crossings, nevertheless the tide of traffic is sufficiently strong and continuous there to require several police-constables on constant duty. when men are detailed for such "fixed-point" duty they go on it for a month at a time, and have different hours from the other men, namely, from nine in the morning till five in the afternoon. we have said it was interesting to watch our big hero, number , in the performance of his arduous duties. he occupied the crossing on the city side of the circus. it was a magnificent afternoon, and all the metropolitan butterflies were out. busses flowed on in a continuous stream, looking like big bullies who incline to use their weight and strength to crush through all obstruction. the drivers of these were for the most part wise men, and restrained themselves and their steeds. in one or two instances, where the drivers were unwise, a glance from the bright eye of giles scott was quite sufficient to keep all right. and giles could only afford to bestow a fragmentary glance at any time on the refractory, for, almost at one and the same moment he had to check the impetuous, hold up a warning hand to the unruly, rescue a runaway child from innumerable horse-legs, pilot a stout but timid lady from what we may call refuge-island, in the middle of the roadway, to the pavement, answer an imbecile's question as to the whereabouts of the tower or saint paul's, order a loitering cabby to move on, and look out for his own toes, as well as give moderate attention to the carriage-poles which perpetually threatened the small of his own back. we should imagine that the premium of insurance on the life of number was fabulous in amount, but cannot tell. besides his great height, giles possessed a drooping moustache, which added much to his dignified appearance. he was also imperturbably grave, except when offering aid to a lady or a little child, on which occasions the faintest symptoms of a smile floated for a moment on his visage like an april sunbeam. at all other times his expression was that of incorruptible justice and awful immobility. no amount of chaff, no quantity of abuse, no kind of flattery, no sort of threat could move him any more than the seething billows of the mediterranean can move gibraltar. costermongers growled at him hopelessly. irate cabmen saw that their wisdom lay in submission. criminals felt that once in his grasp their case was hopeless, just as, conversely, old ladies felt that once under his protection they were in absolute security. even street-boys felt that references to "bobbies," "coppers," and "slops;" questions as to how 'is 'ead felt up there; who rolled 'im hout so long; whether his mother knew 'e was hout; whether 'e'd sell 'em a bit of 'is legs; with advice to come down off the ladder, or to go 'ome to bed-- that all these were utterly thrown away and lost upon giles scott. the garb of the london policeman is not, as every one knows, founded on the principles of aesthetics. neither has it been devised on utilitarian principles. indeed we doubt whether the originator of it, (and we are happy to profess ignorance of his name), proceeded on any principle whatever, except the gratification of a wild and degraded fancy. the colour, of course, is not objectionable, and the helmet might be worse, but the tunic is such that the idea of grace or elegance may not consist with it. we mention these facts because giles scott was so well-made that he forced his tunic to look well, and thus added one more to the already numerous "exceptions" which are said to "prove the rule." "allow me, madam," said giles, offering his right-hand to an elderly female, who, having screwed up her courage to make a rush, got into sudden danger and became mentally hysterical in the midst of a conglomerate of hoofs, poles, horse-heads, and wheels. the female allowed him, and the result was sudden safety, a gasp of relief, and departure of hysteria. "not yet, please," said giles, holding up a warning right-hand to the crowd on refuge-island, while with his left waving gently to and fro he gave permission to the mighty stream to flow. "now," he added, holding up the left-hand suddenly. the stream was stopped as abruptly as were the waters of jordan in days of old, and the storm-staid crew on refuge-island made a rush for the mainland. it was a trifling matter to most of them that rush, but of serious moment to the few whose limbs had lost their elasticity, or whose minds could not shake off the memory of the fact that between and lives are lost in london streets by accidents every year, and that between and are more or less severely injured annually. before the human stream had got quite across, an impatient hansom made a push. the eagle eye of number had observed the intention, and in a moment his gigantic figure stood calmly in front of the horse, whose head was raised high above his helmet as the driver tightened the reins violently. just then a small slipshod girl made an anxious dash from refuge-island, lost courage, and turned to run back, changed her mind, got bewildered, stopped suddenly and yelled. giles caught her by the arm, bore her to the pavement, and turned, just in time to see the hansom dash on in the hope of being overlooked. vain hope! number saw the number of the hansom, booked it in his memory while he assisted in raising up an old gentleman who had been overturned, though not injured, in endeavouring to avoid it. during the lull--for there are lulls in the rush of london traffic, as in the storms of nature,--giles transferred the number of that hansom to his note-book, thereby laying up a little treat for its driver in the shape of a little trial the next day terminating, probably, with a fine. towards five in the afternoon the strain of all this began to tell even on the powerful frame of giles scott, but no symptom did he show of fatigue, and so much reserve force did he possess that it is probable he would have exhibited as calm and unwearied a front if he had remained on duty for eighteen hours instead of eight. about that hour, also, there came an unusual glut to the traffic, in the form of a troop of the horse-guards. these magnificent creatures, resplendent in glittering steel, white plumes, and black boots, were passing westward. giles stood in front of the arrested stream. a number of people stood, as it were, under his shadow. refuge-island was overflowing. comments, chiefly eulogistic, were being freely made and some impatience was being manifested by drivers, when a little shriek was heard, and a child's voice exclaimed:-- "oh! papa, papa--there's _my_ policeman--the one i so nearly killed. he's _not_ dead after all!" giles forgot his dignity for one moment, and, looking round, met the eager gaze of little di brandon. another moment and duty required his undivided attention, so that he lost sight of her, but di took good care not to lose sight of him. "we will wait here, darling," said her father, referring to refuge-island on which he stood, "and when he is disengaged we can speak to him." "oh! i'm _so_ glad he's not dead," said little di, "and p'raps he'll be able to show us the way to my boy's home." di had a method of adopting, in a motherly way, all who, in the remotest manner, came into her life. thus she not only spoke of our butcher and our baker, which was natural, but referred to "my policeman" and "my boy" ever since the day of the accident. when giles had set his portion of the traffic in harmonious motion he returned to his island, and was not sorry to receive the dignified greeting of sir richard brandon, while he was delighted as well as amused by the enthusiastic grasp with which di seized his huge hand in both of her little ones, and the earnest manner in which she inquired after his health, and if she had hurt him much. "did they put you to bed and give you hot gruel?" she asked, with touching pathos. "no, miss, they didn't think i was hurt quite enough to require it," answered giles, his drooping moustache curling slightly as he spoke. "i had hoped to see you at my house," said sir richard, "you did not call." "thank you, sir, i did not think the little service i rendered your daughter worth making so much of. i called, however, the same evening, to inquire for her, but did not wish to intrude on you." "it would have been no intrusion, friend," returned sir richard, with grand condescension. "one who has saved my child's life has a claim upon my consideration." "a dook 'e must be," said a small street boy in a loud stage whisper to a dray-man--for small street-boys are sown broadcast in london, and turn up at all places on every occasion, "or p'raps," he added on reflection, "'e's on'y a markiss." "now then," said giles to the dray-man with a motion of the hand that caused him to move on, while he cast a look on the boy which induced him to move off. "by the way, constable," said sir richard, "i am on my way to visit a poor boy whose leg was broken on the day my pony ran away. he was holding the pony at the time. he lives in whitechapel somewhere. i have the address here in my note-book." "excuse me, sir, one moment," said number , going towards a crowd which had gathered round a fallen horse. "i happen to be going to that district myself," he continued on returning, "what is the boy's name?" "robert--perhaps i should rather say bobby frog," answered sir richard. "the name is familiar," returned the policeman, "but in london there are so many--what's his address, sir,--roy's court, near commercial street? oh! i know it well--one of the worst parts of london. i know the boy too. he is somewhat noted in that neighbourhood for giving the police trouble. not a bad-hearted fellow, i believe, but full of mischief, and has been brought up among thieves from his birth. his father is, or was, a bird-fancier and seller of penny articles on the streets, besides being a professional pugilist. you will be the better for protection there, sir. i would advise you not to go alone. if you can wait for five or ten minutes," added giles, "i shall be off duty and will be happy to accompany you." sir richard agreed to wait. within the time mentioned giles was relieved, and, entering a cab with his friends, drove towards whitechapel. they had to pass near our policeman's lodgings on the way. "would you object, sir, stopping at my house for five minutes?" he asked. "certainly not," returned the knight, "i am in no hurry." number stopped the cab, leaped out and disappeared through a narrow passage. in less than five minutes a very tall gentlemanly man issued from the same passage and approached them. little di opened her blue eyes to their very uttermost. it was _her_ policeman in plain clothes! she did not like the change at all at first, but before the end of the drive got used to him in his new aspect--all the more readily that he seemed to have cast off much of his stiffness and reserve with his blue skin. near the metropolitan railway station in whitechapel the cab was dismissed, and giles led the father and child along the crowded thoroughfare until they reached commercial street, along which they proceeded a short distance. "we are now near some of the worst parts of london, sir," said giles, "where great numbers of the criminal and most abandoned characters dwell." "indeed," said sir richard, who did not seem to be much gratified by the information. as for di, she was nearly crying. the news that _her_ boy was a thief and was born in the midst of such naughty people had fallen with chilling influence on her heart, for she had never thought of anything but the story-book "poor but honest parents!" "what large building is that?" inquired the knight, who began to wish that he had not given way to his daughter's importunities, "the one opposite, i mean, with placards under the windows." "that is the well-known home of industry, instituted and managed by miss macpherson and a staff of volunteer workers. they do a deal of good, sir, in this neighbourhood." "ah! indeed," said sir richard, who had never before heard of the home of industry. "and, pray, what particular industry does this miss mac-- what did you call her?" "macpherson. the lady, you know, who sends out so many rescued waifs and strays to canada, and spends all her time in caring for the poorest of the poor in the east-end and in preaching the gospel to them. you've often seen accounts of her work, no doubt, in the _christian_?" "well--n-no. i read the _times_, but, now you mention it, i have some faint remembrance of seeing reference to such matters. very self-denying, no doubt, and praiseworthy, though i must say that i doubt the use of preaching the gospel to such persons. from what i have seen of these lowest people i should think they were too deeply sunk in depravity to be capable of appreciating the lofty and sublime sentiments of christianity." number felt a touch of surprise at these words, though he was too well-bred a policeman to express his feelings by word or look. in fact, although not pre-eminently noted for piety, he had been led by training, and afterwards by personal experience, to view this matter from a very different standpoint from that of sir richard. he made no reply, however, but, turning round the corner of the home of industry, entered a narrow street which bore palpable evidence of being the abode of deepest poverty. from the faces and garments of the inhabitants it was also evidently associated with the deepest depravity. as little di saw some of the residents sitting on their doorsteps with scratched faces, swelled lips and cheeks, and dishevelled hair, and beheld the children in half-naked condition rolling in the kennel and extremely filthy, she clung closer to her father's side and began to suspect there were some phases of life she had never seen--had not even dreamt of! what the knight's thoughts were we cannot tell, for he said nothing, but disgust was more prominent than pity on his fine countenance. those who sat on the doorsteps, or lolled with a dissipated air against the door-posts, seemed to appreciate him at his proper value, for they scowled at him as he passed. they recognised number , however, (perhaps by his bearing), and gave him only a passing glance of indifference. "you said it would be dangerous for me to come here by myself," said sir richard, turning to giles, as he entered another and even worse street. "are they then so violent?" "many of them are among the worst criminals in london, sir. here is the court of which you are in search: roy's court." as he spoke, ned frog staggered out of his own doorway, clenched his fists, and looked with a vindictive scowl at the strangers. a second glance induced him to unclench his fists and reel round the corner on his way to a neighbouring grog-shop. whatever other shops may decay in that region, the grog-shops, like noxious weeds, always flourish. the court was apparently much deserted at that hour, for the men had not yet returned from their work--whatever that might be--and most of the women were within doors. "this is the house," continued giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; "i have been here before. they know me." the door was opened by hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through hetty's face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering. "is your mother at home, hetty!" "oh! yes, sir. mother, here's mr scott. come in, sir. we are so glad to see you, and--" she stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed. "i've brought some friends of bobby to inquire for him. sir richard brandon--mrs frog." number stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented wealth to poverty. wealth made a slightly confused bow to poverty, and poverty, looking askance at wealth, dropt a mild courtesy. "vell now, i'm a dutchman if it ain't the hangel!" exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either wealth or poverty could utter a word. "oh! it's _my_ boy," exclaimed di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of bobby's hand. it was a pre-eminently dirty hand, and formed a remarkable contrast to the little hands that grasped it! the small street boy was, for the first time in his life, bereft of speech! when that faculty returned, he remarked in language which was obscure to di:-- "vell, if this ain't a go!" "what is a go?" asked di with innocent surprise. instead of answering, bobby frog burst into a fit of laughter, but stopped rather suddenly with an expression of pain. "oh! 'old on! i say. this won't do. doctor 'e said i musn't larf, 'cause it shakes the leg too much. but, you know, wot's a cove to do ven a hangel comes to him and axes sitch rum questions?" again he laughed, and again stopped short in pain. "i'm _so_ sorry! does it feel _very_ painful? you can't think how constantly i've been thinking of you since the accident; for it was all my fault. if i hadn't jumped up in such a passion, the pony wouldn't have run away, and you wouldn't have been hurt. i'm so _very, very_ sorry, and i got dear papa to bring me here to tell you so, and to see if we could do anything to make you well." again bobby was rendered speechless, but his mind was active. "wot! i ain't dreamin', am i? 'as a hangel _really_ come to my bedside all the vay from the vest-end, an' brought 'er dear pa'--vich means the guv'nor, i fancy--all for to tell me--a kid whose life is spent in `movin' on'--that she's wery, wery, sorry i've got my leg broke, an' that she's bin an' done it, an' she would like to know if she can do hanythink as'll make me vell! but it ain't true. it's a big lie! i'm dreamin', that's all. i've been took to hospital, an' got d'lirious-- that's wot it is. i'll try to sleep!" with this end in view he shut his eyes, and remained quite still for a few seconds, and when di looked at his pinched and pale face in this placid condition, the tears _would_ overflow their natural boundary, and sobs _would_ rise up in her pretty throat, but she choked them back for fear of disturbing her boy. presently the boy opened his eyes. "wot, are you there yet?" he asked. "oh yes. did you think i was going away?" she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. "i won't leave you now. i'll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. i have slept once on a shake-down, when i was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv'nile party. so if you've a corner here, it will do nicely--" "my dear child," interrupted her amazed father, "you are talking nonsense. and--do keep a little further from the bed. there may be-- you know--infection--" "oh! you needn't fear infection here, sir," said mrs frog, somewhat sharply. "we are poor enough, god knows, though i _have_ seen better times, but we keep ourselves pretty clean, though we can't afford to spend much on soap when food is so dear, and money so scarce--so _very_ scarce!" "forgive me, my good woman," said sir richard, hastily, "i did not mean to offend, but circumstances would seem to favour the idea--of--of--" and here wealth--although a bank director and chairman of several boards, and capable of making a neat, if weakly, speech on economic laws and the currency when occasion required--was dumb before poverty. indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and fairly looked her in the face. "the fact is, mrs frog," said giles scott, coming to the rescue, "sir richard is anxious to know something about your affairs--your family, you know, and your means of--by the way, where is baby?" he said looking round the room. "she's gone lost," said mrs frog. "lost?" repeated giles, with a significant look. "ay, lost," repeated mrs frog, with a look of equal significance. "bless me, how did you lose your child?" asked sir richard, in some surprise. "oh! sir, that often happens to us poor folk. we're used to it," said mrs frog, in a half bantering half bitter tone. sir richard suddenly called to mind the fact--which had not before impressed him, though he had read and commented on it--that , children under ten years of age had been lost that year, (and it was no exceptional year, as police reports will show), in the streets of london, and that of these children were _never found_. he now beheld, as he imagined, one of the losers of the lost ones, and felt stricken. "well now," said giles to mrs frog, "let's hear how you get along. what does your husband do?" "he mostly does nothin' but drink. sometimes he sells little birds; sometimes he sells penny watches or boot-laces in cheapside, an' turns in a little that way, but it all goes to the grog-shop; none of it comes here. then he has a mill now an' again--" "a mill?" said sir richard,--"is it a snuff or flour--" "he's a professional pugilist," explained giles. "an' he's employed at a music-hall," continued mrs frog, "to call out the songs an' keep order. an' bobby always used to pick a few coppers by runnin' messages, sellin' matches, and odd jobs. but he's knocked over now." "and yourself. how do you add to the general fund?" asked sir richard, becoming interested in the household management of poverty. "well, i char a bit an' wash a bit, sir, when i'm well enough--which ain't often. an' sometimes i lights the jews' fires for 'em, an' clean up their 'earths on saturdays--w'ich is their sundays, sir. but hetty works like a horse. it's she as keeps us from the work'us, sir. she's got employment at a slop shop, and by workin' 'ard all day manages to make about one shillin' a week." "i beg your pardon--how much?" "one shillin', sir." "ah, you mean one shilling a day, i suppose." "no, sir, i mean one shillin' a _week_. mr scott there knows that i'm tellin' what's true." giles nodded, and sir richard said, "ha-a-hem," having nothing more lucid to remark on such an amazing financial problem as was here set before him. "but," continued mrs frog, "poor hetty has had a sad disappointment this week--" "oh! mother," interrupted hetty, "don't trouble the gentleman with that. perhaps he wouldn't understand it, for of course he hasn't heard about all the outs and ins of slop-work." "pardon me, my good girl," said sir richard, "i have not, as you truly remark, studied the details of slop-work minutely, but my mind is not unaccustomed to financial matters. pray let me hear about this--" a savage growling, something between a mastiff and a man, outside the door, here interrupted the visitor, and a hand was heard fumbling about the latch. as the hand seemed to lack skill to open the door the foot considerately took the duty in hand and burst it open, whereupon the huge frame of ned frog stumbled into the room and fell prostrate at the feet of sir richard, who rose hastily and stepped back. the pugilist sprang up, doubled his ever ready fists, and, glaring at the knight, asked savagely: "who the--" he was checked in the utterance of a ferocious oath, for at that moment he encountered the grave eye of number . relaxing his fists he thrust them into his coat-pockets, and, with a subdued air, staggered out of the house. "my 'usband, sir," said mrs frog, in answer to her visitor's inquiring glance. "oh! is that his usual mode of returning home?" "no, sir," answered bobby from his corner, for he was beginning to be amused by the succession of surprises which wealth was receiving, "'e don't always come in so. sometimes 'e sends 'is 'ead first an' the feet come afterwards. in any case the furniture's apt to suffer, not to mention the in'abitants, but you've saved us to-night, sir, or, raither, mr scott 'as saved both us an' you." poor little di, who had been terribly frightened, clung closer to her father's arm on hearing this. "perhaps," said sir richard, "it would be as well that we should go, in case mr frog should return." he was about to say good-bye when di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay. "we haven't heard, you know, about the slops yet. do stop just one minute, dear papa. i wonder if it's like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when i'm ill." "it's not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. but you are right. let us hear about it, miss hetty." the idea of "miss" being applied to hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened. "indeed, sir, i do not complain," said hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. "i am thankful for what has been sent--indeed i am--only it _was_ a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us." she stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. "go on, hetty," said her mother, "and don't be afraid. bless you, he's not goin' to report what you say." "i know that, mother. well, sir, this was the way on it. they sometimes--" "excuse me--who are `they'?" "i beg pardon, sir, i--i'd rather not tell." "very well. i respect your feelings, my girl. some slop-making firm, i suppose. go on." "yes, sir. well--they sometimes gives me extra work to do at home. it do come pretty hard on me after goin' through the regular day's work, from early mornin' till night, but then, you see, it brings in a little more money--and, i'm strong, thank god." sir richard looked at hetty's thin and colourless though pretty face, and thought it possible that she might be stronger with advantage. "of late," continued the girl, "i've bin havin' extra work in this way, and last week i got twelve children's ulsters to make up. this job when finished would bring me six and sixpence." "how much?" "six and sixpence, sir." "for the whole twelve?" asked sir richard. "yes, sir--that was sixpence halfpenny for makin' up each ulster. it's not much, sir." "no," murmured wealth in an absent manner; "sixpence halfpenny is _not_ much." "but when i took them back," continued hetty--and here the tears became again obstreperous and difficult to restrain--"the master said he'd forgot to tell me that this order was for the colonies, that he had taken it at a very low price, and that he could only give me three shillin's for the job. of--of course three shillin's is better the nothin', but after workin' hard for such a long long time an' expectin' six, it was--" here the tears refused to be pent up any longer, and the poor girl quietly bending forward hid her face in her hand. "come, i think we will go now," said sir richard, rising hastily. "good-night, mrs frog, i shall probably see you again--at least--you shall hear from me. now, di--say good-night to your boy." in a few minutes sir richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court. "the old screw," growled bobby, when the door was shut. "'e didn't leave us so much as a single bob--not even a brown, though 'e pretends that six of 'em ain't much." "don't be hard on him, bobby," said hetty, drying her eyes; "he spoke very kind, you know, an' p'raps he means to help us afterwards." "spoke kind," retorted the indignant boy; "i tell 'ee wot, hetty, you're far too soft an' forgivin'. i s'pose that's wot they teaches you in sunday-school at george yard--eh? vill speakin' kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin's!" the door opened at that moment, and number re-entered. "the gentleman sent me back to give you this, mrs frog," laying a sovereign on the rickety table. "he said he didn't like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but i told him he needn't be afraid on that score! was i right, missis? look well after it, now, an' see that ned don't get his fingers on it." giles left the room, and mrs frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom. bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. he did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, "i beg your parding, old gen'l'm'n, an' i on'y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come 'ere sometimes to 'urt our feelin's in that vay!" at that moment hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother's dirty face, whispered, "yes, bobby, that's what they teach me in sunday-school at george yard." thereafter wealth drove home in a cab, and poverty went to bed in her rags. chapter seven. bicycling and its occasional results. it is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the fresh air and quiet of the country. to the man who spends most of his time in the heart of london, going into the country--even for a short distance--is like passing into the fields of elysium. this was, at all events, the opinion of stephen welland; and stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument. one morning, early in the summer-time, young welland, (he was only eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of kensington, and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets. arrived in the suburbs of london he got up steam, to use his own phrase, and went at a rapid pace until he met a "chum," by appointment. this chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend samuel twitter, junior--known at home as sammy, and by his companions as sam. "isn't it a glorious day, sam?" said welland as he rode up and sprang off his steed. "magnificent!" answered his friend, also dismounting and shaking hands. "why, stephen, what an enormous machine you ride!" "yes, it's pretty high-- inches. my legs are long, you see. well, where are we to run to-day?" "wherever you like," said sam, "only let it be a short run, not more than forty miles, for i've got an appointment this afternoon with my old dad which i can't get off." "that'll do very well," said welland, "so we can go round by--" here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend not to remember. it is sufficient to know that it represented the required "short" run of forty miles--such is the estimate of distance by the youth of the present day! "now then, off we go," said welland, giving his wheel--he quite ignored the existence of the little thing at the back--a shove, putting his left foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over. young twitter followed suit, but sammy was neither expert nor graceful. true, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for several yards. once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion, and the two friends thereafter kept abreast. "oh! isn't it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one's cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and houses flow past at such a pace? it is the likest thing to flying i ever felt," said welland, as they descended a slight incline at, probably, fifteen miles an hour. "it is delightful," replied sam, "but, i say, we better put on the brakes here a bit. it gets much steeper further down." instead of applying the brake, however, young welland, in the exuberance of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything should go wrong. twitter was by no means as bold as his friend, but, being ashamed to show the white feather, he quietly threw his shorter legs over the handles, and thus the two, perched--from a fore-and-aft point of view-- upon nothing, went in triumph to the bottom of the hill. a long stretch of smooth level road now lay before them. it required the merest touch on the treadles to send them skimming along like skaters on smooth ice, or swallows flying low. like gentle ghosts they fleeted along with little more than a muffled sound, for their axles turned in ball-sockets and their warning bells were silent save when touched. onward they went with untiring energy, mile after mile, passing everything on the way--pedestrians, equestrians, carts and gigs; driving over the level ground with easy force, taking the hills with a rush to keep up the pace, and descending on the other sides at what welland styled a "lightning run." now they were skimming along a road which skirted the margin of a canal, the one with hands in his coat-pockets, the other with his arms crossed, and both steering with their feet; now passing under a railway-arch, and giving a wild shout, partly to rouse the slumbering echoes that lodged there, and partly to rouse the spirit of a small dog which chanced to be passing under it--in both cases successfully! anon they were gliding over a piece of exposed ground on which the sun beat with intense light, causing their shadows to race along with them. again they were down in a hollow, gliding under a row of trees, where they shut off a little of the steam and removed their caps, the better to enjoy the grateful shade. soon they were out in the sunshine again, the spokes of their wheels invisible as they topped a small eminence from the summit of which they took in one comprehensive view of undulating lands, with villages scattered all round, farm-houses here and there, green fields and flowering meadows, traversed by rivulet or canal, with cattle, sheep, and horses gazing at them in silent or startled wonder, and birds twittering welcome from the trees and hedge-rows everywhere. now they were crossing a bridge and nearing a small town where they had to put hands to the handles again and steer with precaution, for little dogs had a tendency to bolt out at them from unexpected corners, and poultry is prone to lose its heads and rush into the very jaws of danger, in a cackling effort to avoid it. stray kittens and pigs, too, exhibited obstinate tendencies, and only gave in when it was nearly too late for repentance. little children, also, became sources of danger, standing in the middle of roads until, perceiving a possible catastrophe, they dashed wildly aside--always to the very side on which the riders had resolved to pass,--and escaped by absolute miracle! presently they came to a steep hill. it was not steep enough to necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. they therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe and rest a while. "that _was_ a glorious run, wasn't it, sam?" said welland, flicking the dust from his knees with his handkerchief. "what d'ye say to a glass of beer?" "can't do it, stephen, i'm blue ribbon." "oh! nonsense. why not do as i do--drink in moderation?" "well, i didn't think much about it when i put it on," said sam, who was a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; "the rest of us did it, you know, by father's advice, and i joined because they did." welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said-- "well, come, i'll go in for one glass. i'll be my own doctor, and prescribe it medicinally! besides, it's an exceptional occasion this, for it is awfully hot." "it's about the best run i ever had in the same space of time," said welland on quitting the beer shop. "first-rate," returned sam, "i wish my old dad could ride with us. he _would_ enjoy it so." "couldn't we bring him out on a horse? he could ride that, i suppose?" "never saw him on a horse but once," said sam, "and that time he fell off. but it's worth suggesting to him." "better if he got a tricycle," said welland. "i don't think that would do, for he's too old for long rides, and too short-winded. now, stephen, i'm not going to run down this hill. we _must_ take it easy, for it's far too steep." "nonsense, man, it's nothing to speak of; see, i'll go first and show you the way." he gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow. "stay! there's a caravan or something at the bottom--wild beasts' show, i think! stop! hold on!" but sam twitter shouted in vain. welland's was a joyous spirit, apt to run away with him. he placed his legs over the handles for security, and allowed the machine to run. it gathered speed as it went, for the hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground. the pace began to exceed even welland's idea of pleasure, but now it was too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send him over. he did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on the level road at the foot. but just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and welland looked at it earnestly. at an ordinary pace such a turn could have been easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. still he lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action. the people of the caravan--whoever they were--had seen him coming, and, beginning to realise his danger to some extent, had hastily cleared the road to let him pass. welland considered the rate of speed; felt, rather than calculated, the angle of inclination; leaned over boldly until the tire almost slipped sideways on the road, and came rushing round with a magnificent sweep, when, horrible sight! a slight ridge of what is called road-metal crossed the entire road from side to side! a drain or water pipe had recently been repaired, and the new ridge had not yet been worn down by traffic. there was no time for thought or change of action. another moment and the wheel was upon it, the crash came, and the rider went off with such force that he was shot well in advance of the machine, as it went with tremendous violence into the ditch. if welland's feet had been on the treadles he must have turned a complete somersault. as it was he alighted on his feet, but came to the ground with such force that he failed to save himself. one frantic effort he made and then went down headlong and rolled over on his back in a state of insensibility. when sam twitter came to the bottom of the hill with the brake well applied he was able to check himself in time to escape the danger, and ran to where his friend lay. for a few minutes the unfortunate youth lay as if he had been dead. then his blood resumed its flow, and when the eyes opened he found sam kneeling on one side of him with a smelling bottle which some lady had lent him, and a kindly-faced elderly man with an iron-grey beard kneeling on the other side and holding a cup of water to his lips. "that's right, stephen, look up," said sam, who was terribly frightened, "you're not much hurt, are you?" "hurt, old fellow, eh?" sighed stephen, "why should i be hurt? where am i? what has happened?" "take a sip, my young friend, it will revive you," said the man with the kindly face. "you have had a narrow escape, but god has mercifully spared you. try to move now; gently--we must see that no bones have been broken before allowing you to rise." by this time welland had completely recovered, and was anxious to rise; all the more that a crowd of children surrounded him, among whom he observed several ladies and gentlemen, but he lay still until the kindly stranger had felt him all over and come to the conclusion that no serious damage had been done. "oh! i'm all right, thank you," said the youth on rising, and affecting to move as though nothing had happened, but he was constrained to catch hold of the stranger rather suddenly, and sat down on the grass by the road-side. "i do believe i've got a shake after all," he said with a perplexed smile and sigh. "but," he added, looking round with an attempt at gaiety, "i suspect my poor bicycle has got a worse shake. do look after it, sam, and see how it is." twitter soon returned with a crestfallen expression. "it's done for, stephen. i'm sorry to say the whole concern seems to be mashed up into a kind of wire-fencing!" "is it past mending, sam?" "past mending by any ordinary blacksmith, certainly. no one but the maker can doctor it, and i should think it would take him a fortnight at least." "what is to be done?" said stephen, with some of his companion's regret of tone. "what a fool i was to take such a hill--spoilt such a glorious day too--for you as well as myself, sam. i'm _very_ sorry, but that won't mend matters." "are you far from home, gentlemen?" asked the man with the iron-grey beard, who had listened to the conversation with a look of sympathy. "ay, much too far to walk," said welland. "d'you happen to know how far off the nearest railway station is?" "three miles," answered the stranger, "and in your condition you are quite unfit to walk that distance." "i'm not so sure of that," replied the youth, with a pitiful look. "i think i'm game for three miles, if i had nothing to carry but myself, but i can't leave my bicycle in the ditch, you know!" "of course you can't," rejoined the stranger in a cheery tone, "and i think we can help you in this difficulty. i am a london city missionary. my name is john seaward. we have, as you see, brought out a number of our sunday-school children, to give them a sight of god's beautiful earth; poor things, they've been used to bricks, mortar, and stone all their lives hitherto. now, if you choose to spend the remainder of the day with us, we will be happy to give you and the injured bicycle a place in our vans till we reach a cabstand or a railway station. what say you? it will give much pleasure to me and the teachers." welland glanced at his friend. "you see, sam, there's no help for it, old boy. you'll have to return alone." "unless your friend will also join us," said the missionary. "you are very kind," said sam, "but i cannot stay, as i have an engagement which must be kept. never mind, stephen. i'll just complete the trip alone, and comfort myself with the assurance that i leave you in good hands. so, good-bye, old boy." "good-bye, twitter," said stephen, grasping his friend's hand. "twitter," repeated the missionary, "i heard your friend call you sam just now. excuse my asking--are you related to samuel twitter of twitter, slime, and company, in the city?" "i'm his eldest son," said sam. "then i have much pleasure in making your acquaintance," returned the other, extending his hand, "for although i have never met your father, i know your mother well. she is one of the best and most regular teachers in our sunday-schools. is she not, hetty?" he said, turning to a sweet-faced girl who stood near him. "indeed she is, i was her pupil for some years, and now i teach one of her old classes," replied the girl. "i work in the neighbourhood of whitechapel, sir," continued the missionary, "and most of the children here attend the institution in george yard." "well, i shall tell my mother of this unexpected meeting," said sam, as he remounted his bicycle. "good-bye, stephen. don't romp too much with the children!" "adieu, sam, and don't break your neck on the bicycle." in a few minutes sam twitter and his bicycle were out of sight. chapter eight. a great and memorable day. when young stephen welland was conducted by john seaward the missionary into a large field dotted with trees, close to where his accident had happened, he found that the children and their guardians were busily engaged in making arrangements for the spending of an enjoyable day. and then he also found that this was not a mere monster excursion of ordinary sunday-schools, but one of exceedingly poor children, whose garments, faces, and general condition, told too surely that they belonged to the lowest grade in the social scale. "yes," said the missionary, in reply to some question from welland, "the agency at george yard, to which i have referred, has a wide-embracing influence--though but a small lump of leaven when compared with the mass of corruption around it. this is a flock of the ragged and utterly forlorn, to many of whom green fields and fresh air are absolutely new, but we have other flocks besides these." "indeed! well, now i look at them more carefully, i see that their garments do speak of squalid poverty. i have never before seen such a ragged crew, though i have sometimes encountered individuals of the class on the streets." "hm!" coughed the missionary with a peculiar smile. "they are not so ragged as they were. neither are they as ragged as they will be in an hour or two." "what do you mean?" "i mean that these very rough little ones have to receive peculiar treatment before we can give them such an outing as they are having to-day. as you see, swings and see-saws have been put up here, toys are now being distributed, and a plentiful feast will ere long be forthcoming, through the kindness of a christian gentleman whose heart the lord has inclined to `consider the poor,' but before we could venture to move the little band, much of their ragged clothing had to be stitched up to prevent it falling off on the journey, and we had to make them move carefully on their way to the train--for vans have brought us only part of the way. now that they are here, our minds are somewhat relieved, but i suspect that the effect of games and romping will undo much of our handiwork. come, let us watch them." the youth and the missionary advanced towards a group of the children, whose souls, for the time being, were steeped in a see-saw. this instrument of delight consisted of a strong plank balanced on the trunk of a noble tree which had been recently felled, with many others, to thin the woods of the philanthropist's park. it was an enormous see-saw! such as the ragged creatures had never before seen--perhaps never conceived of, their experiences in such joys having been hitherto confined to small bits of broken plank placed over empty beer barrels, or back-yard fences. no fewer than eight children were able to find accommodation on it at one and the same time, besides one of the bigger boys to straddle in the centre; and it required the utmost vigilance on the part of a young man teacher at one end of the machine, and hetty frog at the other end, to prevent the little ragamuffins at either extremity from being forced off. already the missionary's anticipation in regard to the undoing of their labour had begun to be verified. there were at least four of the eight whose nether garments had succumbed to the effort made in mounting the plank, and various patches of flesh-colour revealed the fact that the poor little wearers were innocent of flannels. but it was summer-time, and the fact had little effect either on wearers or spectators. the missionary, however, was not so absorbed in the present but that he felt impelled to remark to welland: "that is their winter as well as summer clothing." the bicyclist said nothing in reply, but the remark was not lost upon him. "now, dick swiller," said the young man teacher, "i see what you're up to. you mustn't do it!" richard swiller, who was a particularly rugged as well as ragged boy of about thirteen, not being in the habit of taking advice, did do it. that is, he sent his end of the plank up with such violence that the other end came to the ground with a shock which caused those who sat there to gasp, while it all but unseated most of those who were on the higher end. indeed one very small and pinched but intelligent little boy, named by his companions blobby, who looked as if time, through the influence of privation and suffering, had been dwindling instead of developing him,--actually did come off with a cry of alarm, which, however, changed into a laugh of glee when he found himself in his teacher's arms, instead of lying "busted on the ground," as he afterwards expressed it when relating the incident to an admiring audience of fellow ragamuffins in the slums of spitalfields. blobby was immediately restored to his lost position, and swiller was degraded, besides being made to stand behind a large tree for a quarter of an hour in forced inaction, so that he might have time to meditate on the evil consequences of disobedience. "take care, robin," said hetty, to a very small but astonishingly energetic fellow, at her end of the see-saw, who was impressed with the notion that he was doing good service by wriggling his own body up and down, "if you go on so, you'll push lilly snow off." robin, unlike dick, was obedient. he ceased his efforts, and thereby saved the last button which held his much too small waistcoat across his bare bosom. "what a sweet face the child she calls lilly snow has--if it were only clean," observed welland. "a little soap and water with a hair brush would make her quite beautiful." "yes, she is very pretty," said the missionary and the kindly smile with which he had been watching the fun vanished, as he added in a sorrowful voice, "her case is a very sad one, dear child. her mother is a poor but deserving woman who earns a little now and then by tailoring, but she has been crushed for years by a wicked and drunken husband who has at last deserted her. we know not where he is, perhaps dead. five times has her home been broken up by him, and many a time has she with her little one been obliged to sit on doorsteps all night, when homeless. little lilly attends our sunday-school regularly, and hetty is her teacher. it is not long since hetty herself was a scholar, and i know that she is very anxious to lead lilly to the lord. the sufferings and sorrows to which this poor child has been exposed have told upon her severely, and i fear that her health will give way. a day in the country like this may do her good perhaps." as the missionary spoke little lilly threw up her arms and uttered a cry of alarm. robin, although obedient, was short of memory, and his energetic spirit being too strong for his excitable little frame he had recommenced his wriggling, with the effect of bursting the last button off his waistcoat and thrusting lilly off the plank. she was received, however, on hetty's breast, who fell with her to the ground. "not hurt, hetty!" exclaimed the missionary, running forward to help the girl up. "oh! no, sir," replied hetty with a short laugh, as she rose and placed lilly on a safer part of the see-saw. "come here, hetty," said john seaward, "and rest a while. you have done enough just now; let some one else take your place." after repairing the buttonless waistcoat with a pin and giving its owner a caution, hetty went and sat down on the grass beside the missionary. "how is bobby?" asked the latter, "i have not found a moment to speak to you till now." "thank you, sir, he's better; much better. i fear he will be well too soon." "how so? that's a strange remark, my girl." "it may seem strange, sir, but--you know--father's very fond of bobby." "well, hetty, that's not a bad sign of your father." "oh but, sir, father sits at his bedside when he's sober, an' has such long talks with him about robberies and burglaries, and presses him very hard to agree to go out with him when he's well. i can't bear to hear it, for dear bobby seems to listen to what he says, though sometimes he refuses, and defies him to do his worst, especially when he--" "stay, dear girl. it is very very sad, but don't tell me anything more about your father. tell it all to jesus, hetty. he not only sympathises with, but is able to save--even to the uttermost." "yes, thank god for that `uttermost,'" said the poor girl, clasping her hands quickly together. "oh, i understood that when he saved _me_, and i will trust to it now." "and the gentleman who called on you,--has he been again?" asked the missionary. "no, sir, he has only come once, but he has sent his butler three or four times with some money for us, and always with the message that it is from miss diana, to be divided between bobby and me. unfortunately father chanced to be at home the first time he came and got it all, so we got none of it. but he was out the other times. the butler is an oldish man, and a very strange one. he went about our court crying." "crying! hetty, that's a curious condition for an oldish butler to be in." "oh, of course i don't mean cryin' out like a baby," said hetty, looking down with a modest smile, "but i saw tears in his eyes, and sometimes they got on his cheeks. i can't think what's the matter with him." whatever mr seaward thought on this point he said nothing, but asked if bobby was able to go out. oh yes, he was quite able to walk about now with a little help, hetty said, and she had taken several walks with him and tried to get him to speak about his soul, but he only laughed at that, and said he had too much trouble with his body to think about his soul--there was time enough for that! they were interrupted at this point by a merry shout of glee, and, looking up, found that young welland had mounted the see-saw, taken lilly snow in front of him, had dick swiller reinstated to counterbalance his extra weight, and was enjoying himself in a most hilarious manner among the fluttering rags. assuredly, the fluttering rags did not enjoy themselves a whit less hilariously than he. in this condition he was found by the owner of the grounds, george brisbane, esquire, of lively hall, who, accompanied by his wife, and a tall, dignified friend with a little girl, approached the see-saw. "i am glad you enjoy yourself so much, my young friend," he said to welland; "to which of the ragged schools may you belong?" in much confusion--for he was rather shy--welland made several abortive efforts to check the see-saw, which efforts dick swiller resisted to the uttermost, to the intense amusement of a little girl who held mrs brisbane's hand. at last he succeeded in arresting it and leaped off. "i beg pardon," he said, taking off his cap to the lady as he advanced, "for intruding uninvited on--" "pray don't speak of intrusion," interrupted mr brisbane, extending his hand; "if you are here as mr seaward's friend you are a welcome guest. your only intrusion was among the little ones, but as they seem not to resent it neither do i." welland grasped the proffered hand. "thank you very much," he returned, "but i can scarcely lay claim to mr seaward's friendship. the fact is, i am here in consequence of an accident to my bicycle." "oh! then you _are_ one of the poor unfortunates after all," said the host. "come, you are doubly welcome. not hurt much, i hope. no? that's all right. but don't let me keep you from your amusements. remember, we shall expect you at the feast on the lawn. you see, sir richard," he added, turning to his dignified friend, "when we go in for this sort of thing we don't do it by halves. to have any lasting effect, it must make a deep impression. so we have got up all sorts of amusements, as you observe, and shall have no fewer than two good feeds. come, let us visit some other--why, what are you gazing at so intently?" he might well ask the question, for sir richard brandon had just observed hetty frog, and she, unaccustomed to such marked attention, was gazing in perplexed confusion on the ground. at the same time little di, having caught sight of her, quitted mrs brisbane, ran towards her with a delighted scream, and clasping her hand in both of hers, proclaimed her the sister of "my boy!" hetty's was not the nature to refuse such affection. though among the poorest of the poor, and clothed in the shabbiest and most patchy of garments, (which in her case, however, were neat, clean and well mended), she was rich in a loving disposition; so that, forgetting herself and the presence of others, she stooped and folded the little girl in her arms. and, when the soft brown hair and pale pretty face of poverty were thus seen as it were co-mingling with the golden locks and rosy cheeks of wealth, even sir richard was forced to admit to himself that it was not after all a very outrageous piece of impropriety! "oh! i'm _so_ glad to hear that he's much better, and been out too! i would have come to see him again long long ago, but p--" she checked herself, for mrs screwbury had carefully explained to her that no good girl ever said anything against her parents; and little di had swallowed the lesson, for, when not led by passion, she was extremely teachable. "and oh!" she continued, opening her great blue lakelets to their widest state of solemnity, "you haven't the smallest bit of notion how i have dreamt about my boy--and my policeman too! i never can get over the feeling that they might both have been killed, and if they had, you know, it would have been me that did it; only think! i would have-- been--a murderer! p'raps they'd have hanged me!" "but they weren't killed, dear," said hetty, unable to restrain a smile at the awful solemnity of the child, and the terrible fate referred to. "no--i'm _so_ glad, but i can't get over it," continued di, while those near to her stood quietly by unable to avoid overhearing, even if they had wished to do so. "and they do such strange things in my dreams," continued di, "you can't think. only last night i was in our basket-cart--the dream-one, you know, not the real one--and the dream-pony ran away again, and gave my boy such a dreadful knock that he fell flat down on his back, tumbled over two or three times, and rose up--a policeman! not _my_ policeman, you know, but quite another one that i had never seen before! but the very oddest thing of all was that it made me so angry that i jumped with all my might on to his breast, and when i got there it wasn't the policeman but the pony! and it was dead--quite dead, for i had killed it, and i wasn't sorry at all--not a bit!" this was too much for hetty, who burst into a laugh, and sir richard thought it time to go and see the games that were going on in other parts of the field, accompanied by welland and the missionary, while hetty returned to her special pet lilly snow. and, truly, if "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin," there were touches of nature enough seen that day among these outcasts of society to have warranted their claiming kin with the whole world. leap-frog was greatly in favour, because the practitioners could abandon themselves to a squirrel-and-cat sort of bound on the soft grass, which they had never dared to indulge in on the london pavements. it was a trying game, however, to the rags, which not only betrayed their character to the eye by the exhibition of flesh-tints through numerous holes, but addressed themselves also to the ears by means of frequent and explosive rendings. pins, however, were applied to the worst of these with admirable though temporary effect, and the fun became faster and more furious,--especially so when the points of some of the pins touched up the flesh-tints unexpectedly. on these occasions the touches of nature became strongly pronounced-- expressing themselves generally in a yell. another evidence of worldly kinship was, that the touched-up ones, instead of attributing the misfortune to accident, were prone to turn round with fierce scowl and doubled fists under the impression that a guilty comrade was in rear! the proceedings were totally arrested for one hour at mid-day, when unlimited food was issued, and many of the forlorn ones began to feel the rare sensation of being stuffed quite full and rendered incapable of wishing for more! but this was a mere interlude. like little giants refreshed they rose up again to play--to swing, to leap, to wrestle, to ramble, to gather flowers, to roll on the grass, to bask in the gladdening sunshine, and, in some cases, to thank god for all his mercies, in spite of the latent feeling of regret that there was so little of all that enjoyment in the slums, and dark courts, and filthy back-streets of the monster city. of course all the pins were extracted in this second act of the play, and innumerable new and gaping wounds were introduced into the clothing, insomuch that all ordinary civilised people, except philanthropists, would have been shocked with the appearance of the little ones. but it was during the third and closing act of the play that the affair culminated. the scene was laid on the lawn in front of mr brisbane's mansion. enter, at one end of the lawn, a band of small and dirty but flushed and happy boys and girls, in rags which might appropriately be styled ribbons. at the other end of the lawn a train of domestics bearing trays with tea, cakes, buns, pies, fruits, and other delectable things, to which the ragged army sits down. enter host and hostess, with sir richard, friends and attendants. (_host_.)--after asking a blessing--"my little friends, this afternoon we meet to eat, and only one request have i to make--that you shall do your duty well." (small boy in ribbons.--"von't i, just!") "no platter shall return to my house till it be empty. no little one shall quit these premises till he be full; what cannot be eaten must be carried away." (the ragged army cheers.) (_host_.)--"enough. fall-to." (they fall-to.) (_little boy_ in tatters, pausing.)--"_i_ shan't fall two, i'll fall three or four." (_another little boy_, in worse tatters.)--"so shall i." (_first little boy_.)--"i say, jim, wot would mother say if she was here?" (_jim_.)--"she'd say nothin'. 'er mouth 'ud be too full to speak." (prolonged silence. only mastication heard, mingled with a few cases of choking, which are promptly dealt with.) (_blobby_, with a sigh.)--"i say, robin, i'm gettin' tight." (_robin_, with a gasp.)--"so am i; i'm about bustin'." (_blobby_, coming to another pause.)--"i say, robin, i'm as full as i can 'old. so's all my pockits, an' there's some left over!" (_robin--sharply_.)--"stick it in your 'at, then." (blobby takes off his billycock, thrusts the remnant of food therein, and puts it on.) enter the brass band of the neighbouring village, (the bandsmen being boys), which plays a selection of airs, and sends a few of the smaller ragamuffins to sleep. (_sir richard brandon_, confidentially to his friend.)--"it is an amazing sight." (_host_.)--"would that it were a more common sight!" enter more domestics with more tea, buns, and fruit; but the army is glutted, and the pockets are brought into requisition: much pinning being a necessary consequence. (_lilly snow_, softly.)--"it's like 'eaven!" (_hetty_, remonstratingly.)--"oh! lilly, 'eaven is quite different." (_dick swiller_.)--"i'm sorry for it. couldn't be much 'appier to my mind." (_host_.)--"now, dear boys and girls, before we close the proceedings of this happy day, my excellent friend, your missionary, mr seaward, will say a few words." john seaward steps to the front, and says a few words--says them so well, too, so simply, so kindly, yet so heartily, that the army is roused to a pitch of great enthusiasm; but we leave this speech to the reader's imagination: after which--_exeunt omnes_. and, as the curtain of night falls on these ragged ones, scattered now, many of them, to varied homes of vice, and filth, and misery, the heavy eyelids close to open again, perchance, in ecstatic dreams of food, and fun and green fields, fresh air and sunshine, which impress them more or less with the idea embodied in the aphorism, that "god made the country, but man made the town." chapter nine. how the poor are succoured. "i am obliged to you, mr seaward, for coming out of your way to see me," said sir richard brandon, while little di brought their visitor a chair. "i know that your time is fully occupied, and would not have asked you to call had not my friend mr brisbane assured me that you had to pass my house daily on your way to--to business." "no apology, sir richard, pray. i am at all times ready to answer a call whether of the poor or the rich, if by any means i may help my lord's cause." the knight thought for a moment that he might claim to be classed among the poor, seeing that his miserable pittance of five thousand barely enabled him to make the two ends meet, but he only said: "ever since we had the pleasure of meeting at that gathering of ragged children, my little girl here has been asking so many questions about poor people--the lower orders, i mean--which i could not answer, that i have asked you to call, that we may get some information about them. you see, diana is an eccentric little puss," (di opened her eyes very wide at this, wondering what "eccentric" could mean), "and she has got into a most unaccountable habit of thinking and planning about poor people." "a good habit, sir richard," said the missionary. "`blessed are they that consider the poor.'" sir richard acknowledged this remark with a little bow. "now, we should like to ask, if you have no objection, what is your chief object in the mission at--what did you say its name--ah! george yard?" "to save souls," said mr seaward. "oh--ah--precisely," said the knight, taken somewhat aback by the nature and brevity of the answer, "that of course; but i meant, how do you proceed? what is the method, and what the machinery that you put in motion?" "perhaps," said the missionary, drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket, "this will furnish you with all the information you desire. you can read it over to miss diana at your leisure--and don't return it; i have plenty more. meanwhile i may briefly state that the mission premises are in george yard, high street, whitechapel, one of the worst parts of the east of london, where the fire of sin and crime rages most fiercely; where the soldiers of the cross are comparatively few, and would be overwhelmed by mere numbers, were it not that they are invincible, carrying on the war as they do in the strength of him who said, `lo, i am with you alway.' "in the old coaching days," continued mr seaward, "this was a great centre, a starting-point for mail-coaches. for nigh thirty years the mission has been there. the `black horse' was a public-house in george yard, once known to the magistrates as one of the worst gin-shops and resort of thieves and nurseries of crime in london. that public-house is now a shelter for friendless girls, and a place where sick children of the poor are gratuitously fed." from this point the missionary went off into a graphic account of incidents illustrative of the great work done by the mission, and succeeded in deeply interesting both diana and her father, though the latter held himself well in hand, knowing, as he was fond of remarking, that there were two sides to every question. checking his visitor at one point, he said, "you have mentioned ragged schools and the good that is done by them, but why should not the school-boards look after such children?" "because, sir richard, the school-boards cannot reach them. there are upwards of , people in london who have never lived more than three months in one place. no law reaches this class, because they do not stay long enough in any neighbourhood for the school-board authorities to put the law into operation. now, nearly three hundred of the children of these wanderers meet in our free ragged day schools twice a day for instruction. here we teach them as efficiently as we can in secular matters, and of course they are taught the word of god, and told of jesus the saviour of sinners; but our difficulties are great, for children as well as parents are often in extremest poverty, the former suffering from hunger even when sent to school--and they never stay with us long. let me give you an instance:-- "one morning a mother came and begged to have her children admitted. she had just left the workhouse. three children in rags, that did not suffice to cover much less to protect them, stood by her side. she did not know where they were to sleep that night, but hoped to obtain a little charing and earn enough to obtain a lodging somewhere. she could not take the children with her while seeking work--would we take them in? for, if not, they would have to be left in the streets, and as they were very young they might lose themselves or be run over. we took them in, fed, sympathised with, and taught them. in the afternoon the mother returned weary, hungry, dejected. she had failed to obtain employment, and took the children away to apply for admission to a casual ward." "what is a casual ward, mr missionary?" asked di. "seaward, my love,--his name is not missionary," said sir richard. "a casual ward," answered the visitor, "is an exceedingly plain room with rows of very poor beds; mere wooden frames with canvas stretched on them, in which any miserable beggars who choose to submit to the rules may sleep for a night after eating a bit of bread and a basin of gruel-- for all which they pay nothing. it is a very poor and comfortless place--at least you would think it so--and is meant to save poor people from sleeping, perhaps dying, in the streets." "do some people sleep in the streets?" asked di in great surprise. "yes, dear, i'm sorry to say that many do." "d'you mean on the stones, in their night-dresses?" asked the child with increasing surprise. "yes, love," said her father, "but in their ordinary clothes, not in their night-dresses--they have no night-dresses." little di had now reached a pitch of surprise which rendered her dumb, so the missionary continued: "here is another case. a poor widow called once, and said she would be so grateful if we would admit her little girl and boy into the schools. she looked clean and tidy, and the children had not been neglected. she could not afford to pay for them, as she had not a penny in the world, and applied to us because we made no charge. the children were admitted and supplied with a plain but nourishing meal, while their mother went away to seek for work. we did not hear how she sped, but she had probably taken her case to god, and found him faithful, for she had said, before going away, `i know that god is the father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow.' "again, another poor woman came. her husband had fallen sick. till within a few days her children had been at a school and paid for, but now the bread-winner was ill--might never recover--and had gone to the hospital. these children were at once admitted, and in each case investigation was made to test the veracity of the applicants. "of course," continued the missionary, "i have spoken chiefly about the agencies with which i happen to have come personally in contact, but it must not be supposed that therefore i ignore or am indifferent to the other grand centres of influence which are elsewhere at work in london; such as, for instance, the various agencies set agoing and superintended by dr barnardo, whose _home for working and destitute boys_, in stepney causeway, is a shelter from which thousands of rescued little ones go forth to labour as honest and useful members of society, instead of dying miserably in the slums of london, or growing up to recruit the ranks of our criminal classes. these agencies, besides rescuing destitute and neglected children, include _homes for destitute girls_ and for _little boys_ in ilford and jersey, an _infirmary for sick children of the destitute classes_ in stepney, _orphan homes, ragged and day schools, free dinner-table to destitute children, mission halls, coffee palaces_, and, in short, a grand net-work of beneficent agencies--evangelistic, temperance, and medical--for the conduct of which is required not far short of one hundred pounds a day!" even sir richard brandon, with all his supposed financial capacities, seemed struck with the magnitude of this sum. "and where does dr barnardo obtain so large an amount?" he asked. "from the voluntary gifts of those who sympathise with and consider the poor," replied seaward. "then," he added, "there is that noble work carried on by miss rye of the _emigration home for destitute little girls_, at the avenue house, peckham, from which a stream of destitute little ones continually flows to canada, where they are much wanted, and who, if allowed to remain here, would almost certainly be _lost_. strong testimony to the value of this work has been given by the bishops of toronto and niagara, and other competent judges. let me mention a case of one of miss rye's little ones, which speaks for itself. "a little girl of six was deserted by both father and mother." "oh! _poor_ little thing!" exclaimed the sympathetic di, with an amazing series of pitiful curves about her eyebrows. "yes, poor indeed!" responded seaward. "the mother forsook her first; then her father took her on the tramp, but the little feet could not travel fast enough, so he got tired of her and offered her to a workhouse. they refused her, so the tramping was continued, and at last baby was sold for three shillings to a stranger man. on taking his purchase home, however, the man found that his wife was unwilling to receive her; he therefore sent poor little baby adrift in the streets of london!" "_what_ a shame!" cried di, with flashing orbs. "was it not? but, when father and mother cast this little one off, the lord cared for it. an inspector of police, who found it, took it to his wife, and she carried it to miss rye's home, where it was at once received and cared for, and, doubtless, this little foundling girl is now dwelling happily and usefully with a canadian family." "how nice!" exclaimed di, her eyes, lips, and teeth bearing eloquent witness to her satisfaction. "but no doubt you have heard of miss rye's work, as well as that of miss annie macpherson at the home of industry, and, perhaps, contributed to--" "no," interrupted sir richard, quickly, "i do not contribute; but pray, mr seaward, are there other institutions of this sort in london?" "oh! yes, there are several, it would take me too long to go into the details of the various agencies we have for succouring the poor. there is, among others, the church of england `_central home for waifs and strays_,' with a `receiving house' for boys in upper clapton, and one for girls in east dulwich, with the archbishop of canterbury for its president. possibly you may have heard of the `_strangers' rest_,' in saint george street, ratcliff highway, where, as far as man can judge, great and permanent good is being constantly done to the souls of sailors. a sailor once entered this `rest' considerably the worse for drink. he was spoken to by christian friends, and asked to sign the pledge. he did so, and has now been steadfast for years. returning from a long voyage lately, he went to revisit the _rest_, and there, at the bible-class, prayed. part of his prayer was--`god bless the strangers' rest. o lord, we thank thee for this place, and we shall thank thee to all eternity.' this is a sample of the feeling with which the place is regarded by those who have received blessing there. in the same street, only a few doors from this rest, is the `_sailor's welcome home_.' this is more of a home than the other, for it furnishes lodging and unintoxicating refreshment, while its devoted soul-loving manager, miss child, and her assistant workers, go fearlessly into the very dens of iniquity, and do all they can to bring sailors to jesus, and induce them to take the pledge against strong drink, in which work they are, through god's blessing, wonderfully successful. these two missions work, as it were, into each other's hands. in the `rest' are held prayer-meetings and bible-classes, and when these are dismissed, the sailors find the open door of the `welcome home' ready to receive them, and the inmates there seek to deepen the good influence that has been brought to bear at the meetings--and this in the midst of one of the very worst parts of london, where temptation to every species of evil is rampant, on the right-hand and on the left, before and behind. "but, sir richard, although i say that a grand and extensive work of salvation to soul, body, and spirit is being done to thousands of men, and women, and children, by the agencies which i have mentioned, and by many similar agencies which i have not now time to mention, as well as by the band of city missionaries to which i have the honour to belong, i would earnestly point out that these all put together only scratch the surface of the vast mass of corruption which has to be dealt with in this seething world of london, the population of which is, as you are aware, equal to that of all scotland; and very specially would i remark that the work is almost exclusively carried on by the _voluntary contributions_ of those who `consider the poor!' "the little tract which i have given you will explain much of the details of this great work, as carried on in the george yard mission. when you have read that, if you desire it, i will call on you again. meanwhile engagements compel me to take my leave." after luncheon, that day, sir richard drew his chair to the window, but instead of taking up the newspaper and recommending his little one to visit the nursery, he said: "come here, di. you and i will examine this pamphlet--this little book--and i'll try to explain it, for reports are usually very dry." di looked innocently puzzled. "should reports always be wet, papa?" sir richard came nearer to the confines of a laugh than he had reached for a long time past. "no, love--not exactly wet, but--hm--you shall hear. draw the stool close to my knee and lay your head on it." with his large hand on the golden tresses, sir richard brandon began to examine the record of work done in the george yard mission. "what is this?" he said. "_toy classes_,--why, this must be something quite in your way, di." "oh yes, i'm sure of that, for i adore toys. tell me about it." "these toy classes are for the cheerless and neglected," said the knight, frowning in a businesslike way at the pamphlet. "sometimes so many as eighty neglected little ones attend these classes. on one occasion, only one of these had boots on, which were very old, much too large, and both lefts. when they were seated, toys and scrap-books were lent to them. there were puzzles, and toy-bricks, and many other things which kept them quite happy for an hour. of course the opportunity was seized to tell them about jesus and his love. a blessed lesson which they would not have had a chance of learning at home--if they had homes; but many of them had none. when it was time to go they said--`can't we stay longer?' "the beginning of this class was interesting," said sir richard, continuing to read. "the thought arose--`gather in the most forlorn and wretched children; those who are seldom seen to smile, or heard to laugh; there are many such who require christian sympathy.' the thought was immediately acted on. a little barefooted ragged boy was sent into the streets to bring in the children. soon there was a crowd round the school-door. the most miserable among the little ones were admitted. the proceedings commenced with prayer--then the toys were distributed, the dirty little hands became active, and the dirty little faces began to look happy. when the toys were gathered up, some could not be found, so, at the next meeting, some of the bigger children were set to watch the smaller ones. presently one little detective said: `please, teacher, teddy's got a horse in his pocket,' and another said that sally had an elephant in her pinafore! occasion was thus found to show the evil of stealing, and teach the blessedness of honesty. they soon gave up pilfering, and they now play with the toys without desiring to take them away." "how nice!" said di. "go on, papa." "what can this be?" continued sir richard, quoting--"_wild flowers of the forest day nursery_. oh! i see--very good idea. i'll not read it, di, i'll tell you about it. there are many poor widows, you must know, and women whose husbands are bad, who have no money to buy food and shelter for themselves and little ones except what they can earn each day. but some of these poor women have babies, and they can't work, you know, with babies in their arms, neither can they leave the babies at home with no one to look after them, except, perhaps, little sisters or brothers not much older than themselves, so they take their babies to this cradle-home, and each pays only twopence, for which small sum her baby is taken in, washed, clothed, warmed, fed, and amused by kind nurses, who keep it till the mother returns from her work to get it back again. isn't that good?" "oh! yes," assented di, with all her heart. "and i read here," continued her father, "that thousands of the infants of the poor die every year because they have not enough food, or enough clothing to keep them warm." "oh _what_ a pity!" exclaimed di, the tears of ready sympathy rushing hot into her upturned eyes. "so you see," continued sir richard, who had unconsciously, as it were, become a pleader for the poor, "if there were a great many nurseries of this kind all over london, a great many little lives would be saved." "and why are there not a great many nurseries of that kind, papa?" "well, i suppose, it is because there are no funds." "no what? papa." "not enough of money, dear." "oh! _what_ a pity! i wish i had lots and lots of money, and then wouldn't i have cradle-homes everywhere?" sir richard, knowing that he had "lots and lots" of money, but had not hitherto contributed one farthing to the object under consideration, thought it best to change the subject by going on with the george yard record. but we will not conduct the reader through it all--interesting though the subject certainly is. suffice it to say that he found the account classed under several heads. under "_feeding the hungry_," for instance, he learned that many poor children are entirely without food, sometimes, for a whole day, so that only two courses are open to them-- to steal food and become criminals, or drift into sickness and die. from which fate many hundreds are annually rescued by timely aid at george yard, the supplies for which are sent by liberal-minded christians in all ranks of life--from mr crackaby with his pounds a year, up through mr brisbane and his class to the present earl of shaftesbury--who, by the way, has taken a deep interest and lent able support to this particular mission for more than a quarter of a century. but the name of sir richard brandon did not appear on the roll of contributors. he had not studied the "lower orders" much, except from a politico-economical-argumentative after-dinner-port-winey point of view. under the head of "_clothing necessitous children_," he found that some of the little ones presented themselves at the school-door in such a net-work of rags, probably infected, as to be unfit even for a ragged school. they were therefore taken in, had their garments destroyed, and were supplied with new clothes. also, that about children between the ages of three and fourteen years were connected with the institution--scattered among the various works of usefulness conducted for the young. under "_work among lads_," he found that those big boys whom one sees idling about corners of streets, fancying themselves men, smoking with obvious dislike and pretended pleasure, and on the highroad to the jail and the gallows--that those boys were enticed into classes opened for carpentry, turning, fretwork, and other attractive industrial pursuits-- including even printing, at a press supplied by lord shaftesbury. this, in connection with evening classes for reading, writing, and arithmetic--the whole leading up to the grand object and aim of all--the salvation of souls. under other heads he found that outcast boys were received, sheltered, sent to industrial homes, or returned to friends and parents; that temperance meetings were held, and drunkards, male and female, sought out, prayed for, lovingly reasoned with, and reclaimed from this perhaps the greatest curse of the land; that juvenile bands of hope were formed, on the ground of prevention being better than cure; that lodging-houses, where the poorest of the poor, and the lowest of the low do congregate, were visited, and the gospel proclaimed to ears that were deaf to nearly every good influence; that mothers' meetings were held--one of them at that old headquarters of sin, the "black horse," where counsel and sympathy were mingled with a clothing club and a bible-woman; that there were a working men's benefit society, bible-classes, sunday-school, a sewing-class, a mutual labour loan society, a shelter for homeless girls, a library, an invalid children's dinner, a bath-room and lavatory, a flower mission, and--hear it, ye who fancy that a penny stands very low in the scale of financial littleness--a farthing bank! all this free--conducted by an unpaid band of considerably over a hundred christian workers, male and female--and leavening the foundations of society, without which, and similar missions, there would be very few leavening influences at all, and the superstructure of society would stand a pretty fair chance of being burst up or blown to atoms--though the superstructure is not very willing to believe the fact! in addition to all this, sir richard learned, to his great amazement, that the jews won't light their fires on the sabbath-day--that is, on our saturday--that they won't even poke it, and that this abstinence is the immediate cause of a source of revenue to the un-jewish poor, whom the jews hire to light and poke their fires for them. and, lastly, sir richard brandon learned that mr george holland, who had managed that mission for more than quarter of a century, was resolved, in the strength of the lord, to seek out the lost and rescue the perishing, even though he, sir richard, and all who resembled him, should refuse to aid by tongue or hand in the glorious work of rescuing the poor from sin and its consequences. chapter ten. balls, bobby, sir richard, and giles appear on the stage. as from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step, so, from the dining-room to the kitchen there is but a stair. let us descend the stair and learn that while sir richard was expounding the subject of "the poor" to little di, mr balls, the butler, was engaged on the same subject in the servants' hall. "i cannot tell you," said balls, "what a impression the sight o' these poor people made on me." "la! mr balls," said the cook, who was not unacquainted with low life in london, having herself been born within sound of bow-bells, "you've got no occasion to worrit yourself about it. it 'as never bin different." "that makes it all the worse, cook," returned balls, standing with his back to the fireplace and his legs wide apart; "if it was only a temporary depression in trade, or the repeal of the corn laws that did it, one could stand it, but to think that such a state of things _always_ goes on is something fearful. you know i'm a country-bred man myself, and ain't used to the town, or to such awful sights of squalor. it almost made me weep, i do assure you. one room that i looked into had a mother and two children in it, and i declare to you that the little boy was going about stark naked, and his sister was only just a slight degree better." "p'raps they was goin' to bed," suggested mrs screwbury. "no, nurse, they wasn't; they was playing about evidently in their usual costume--for that evenin' at least. i would not have believed it if i had not seen it. and the mother was so tattered and draggled and dirty--which, also, was the room." "was that in the court where the frogs live?" asked jessie summers. "it was, and a dreadful court too--shocking!" "by the way, mr balls," asked the cook, "is there any chance o' that brat of a boy bobby, as they call him, coming here? i can't think why master has offered to take such a creeter into his service." "no, cook, there is no chance. i forgot to tell you about that little matter. the boy was here yesterday and he refused--absolutely declined a splendid offer." "i'm glad to hear it," returned the cook. "tell us about it, mr balls," said jessie summers with a reproachful look at the other. "i'm quite fond of that boy--he's such a smart fellow, and wouldn't be bad-looking if he'd only wash his face and comb his hair." "he's smart enough, no doubt, but impudence is his strong point," rejoined the butler with a laugh. the way he spoke to the master beats everything. "`i've sent for you, my boy,' said sir richard, in his usual dignified, kindly way, `to offer you the situation of under-gardener in my establishment.'" "`oh! that's wot you wants with me, is it?' said the boy, as bold as brass; indeed i may say as bold as gun-metal, for his eyes an' teeth glittered as he spoke, and he said it with the air of a dook. master didn't quite seem to like it, but i saw he laid restraint on himself and said: `you have to thank my daughter for this offer--' "`thank you, miss,' said the boy, turnin' to miss di with a low bow, imitatin' sir richard's manner, i thought, as much as he could. "`of course,' continued the master, rather sharply, `i offer you this situation out of mere charity--' "`oh! you do, do you?' said the extraordinary boy in the coolest manner, `but wot if i objec' to receive charity? ven i 'olds a 'orse i expecs to be paid for so doin', same as you expecs to be paid w'en you attends a board-meetin' to grin an' do nuffin.' "`come, come, boy,' said sir richard, gettin' redder in the face than i ever before saw him, `i am not accustomed to low pleasantry, and--' "`an' i ain't accustomed,' broke in the boy, `to 'igh hinsults. do you think that every gent what years a coat an' pants with 'oles in 'em is a beggar?' "for some moments master seemed to be struck speechless, an' i feared that in spite of his well-known gentleness of character he'd throw the ink-stand at the boy's head, but he didn't; he merely said in a low voice, `i would dismiss you at once, boy, were it not that i have promised my daughter to offer you employment, and you can see by her looks how much your unnatural conduct grieves her.' "an' this was true, for poor miss di sat there with her hands clasped, her eyes full of tears, her eyebrows disappearin' among her hair with astonishment, and her whole appearance the very pictur' of distress. `however,' continued sir richard, `i still make you the offer, though i doubt much whether you will be able to retain the situation. your wages will--' "`please sir,' pleaded the boy, `don't mention the wages. i couldn't stand that. indeed i couldn't; it would really be too much for me.' "`why, what do you mean?' says master. "`i mean,' says impudence, `that i agree with you. i don't think i _could_ retain the sitivation, cause w'y? in the fust place, i ain't got no talent at gardenin'. the on'y time i tried it was w'en i planted a toolip in a flower-pot, an' w'en i dug it up to see 'ow it was a-gittin on a cove told me i'd planted it upside down. however, i wasn't goin' to be beat by that cove, so i say to 'im, jack, i says, i planted it so a purpus, an' w'en it sprouts i'm a-goin' to 'ang it up to see if it won't grow through the 'ole in the bottom. in the second place, i couldn't retain the sitivation 'cause i don't intend to take it, though you was to offer me six thousand no shillin's an' no pence no farthin's a year as salary.' "i r'ally did think master would ha' dropt out of his chair at that. as for miss di, she was so tickled that she gave a sort of hysterical laugh. "`balls,' said master, `show him out, and--' he pulled up short, but i knew he meant to say have an eye on the great-coats and umbrellas, so i showed the boy out, an' he went down-stairs, quite quiet, but the last thing i saw of him was performin' a sort of minstrel dance at the end of the street just before he turned the corner and disappeared." "imp'rence!" exclaimed the cook. "naughty, ungrateful boy!" said mrs screwbury. "but it was plucky of him," said jessie summers. "i would call it cheeky," said balls, "i can't think what put it into his head to go on so." if mr balls had followed bobby frog in spirit, watched his subsequent movements, and listened to his remarks, perhaps he might have understood the meaning of his conduct a little better. after he had turned the corner of the street, as above mentioned, bobby trotted on for a short space, and then, coming to a full stop, executed a few steps of the minstrel dance, at the end of which he brought his foot down with tremendous emphasis on the pavement, and said-- "yes, i've bin an' done it. i know'd i was game for a good deal, but i did _not_ think i was up to that. one never knows wot 'e's fit for till 'e tries. wot'll hetty think, i wonder?" what hetty thought he soon found out, for he overtook her on the thames embankment on her way home. bobby was fond of that route, though a little out of his way, because he loved the running water, though it _was_ muddy, and the sight of steamers and barges. "well, bobby," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "where have you been?" "to see old swallow'd-the-poker, hetty." "what took you there?" asked the girl in surprise. "my legs. you don't suppose i've set up my carriage yet, do you?" "come, you know what i mean." "vell, then, i went because i was sent for, an' wot d'ye think? the old gen'l'man hoffered me the sitivation of under-gardener!" "you don't say so! oh! bobby, what a lucky boy--an' what a kind gentleman! tell me all about it now," said hetty, pressing her hand more tenderly on her brother's shoulder. "what wages is he to give you?" "no wages wotsomever." hetty looked into her brother's face with an expression of concerned surprise. she knew some tradespeople who made her work hard for so very little, that it was not difficult to believe in a gentleman asking her brother to work for nothin'! still she had thought better of sir richard, and expected to hear something more creditable to him. "ah, you may look, but i do assure you he is to give me no wages, an' i'm to do no work." here bobby executed a few steps of his favourite dance, but evidently from mere habit, and unconsciously, for he left off in the middle, and seemed to forget the salient point of emphasis with his foot. "what _do_ you mean, bobby?--be earnest, like a dear boy, for once." "earnest!" exclaimed the urchin with vehemence. "i never was more in earnest in my life. you should 'ave seen swallow'd-the-poker w'en i refused to 'ave it." "refused it?" "ay--refused it. come hetty, i'll explain." the boy dropped his facetious tone and manner while he rapidly ran over the chief points of his interview with sir richard. "but why did you refuse so good an offer?" asked hetty, still unable to repress her surprise. "because of daddy." "daddy?" "ay, daddy. you know he's fond o' me, is daddy, and, d'ye know, though p'r'aps you mayn't believe it, i'm raither fond o' _him_; but 'e's a bad 'un, is daddy. he's bent on mischief, you see, an' 'e's set his 'art on my 'elpin' of 'im. but i _wont_ 'elp 'im--that's flat. now, what d'ye think, hetty," (here he dropped his voice to almost a whisper and looked solemn), "dad wants to make use o' me to commit a burglary on swallow'd-the-poker's 'ouse." "you don't mean it, bobby!" "but i do, hetty. dad found out from that rediklous butler that goes veepin' around our court like a leeky pump, that the old gen'l'man was goin' to hoffer me this sitivation, an 'e's bin wery 'ard on me to accept it, so that i may find out the ways o' the 'ouse where the plate an' waluables lay, let 'im in some fine dark night an' 'elp 'im to carry off the swag." a distressed expression marked poor hetty's reception of this news, but she said never a word. "now you won't tell, hetty?" said the boy with a look of real anxiety on his face. "it's not so much his killin' me i cares about, but i wouldn't bring daddy to grief for any money. i'd raither 'elp 'im than that. you'll not say a word to nobody?" "no, bobby, i won't say a word." "vell, you see," continued the boy, "ven i'd made myself so disagreeable that the old gen'l'man would 'ave nothin' to do with me, i came straight away, an' 'ere i am; but it _was_ a trial, let me tell you, specially ven 'e come to mention wages--an sitch a 'eavenly smell o' roasted wittles come up from the kitchen too at the moment, but i 'ad only to look at miss di, to make me as stubborn as a nox or a hass. `wot!' thinks i to myself, `betray that hangel--no, never!' yet if i was to go into that 'ouse i know i'd do it, for daddy's got sitch a wheedlin' way with 'im w'en 'e likes, that i couldn't 'old hout long--so i giv' old swallowed-the-poker sitch a lot o' cheek that i thought 'e'd kick me right through the winder. he was considerable astonished as well as riled, i can tell you, an' miss di's face was a pictur', but the old butler was the sight. he'd got 'is face screwed up into sitch a state o' surprise that it looked like a eight-day clock with a gamboil. now, hetty, i'm goin' to tell 'ee what'll take your breath away. i've made up my mind to go to canada!" hetty did, on hearing this, look as if her breath had been taken away. when it returned sufficiently she said: "bobby, what put that into your head?" "the 'ome of hindustry," said bobby with a mysterious look. "the home of industry," repeated the girl in surprise, for she knew that institution well, having frequently assisted its workers in their labour of love. "yes, that's the name--'ome of hindustry, what sends off so many ragged boys to canada under miss macpherson." "ay, bobby, it does a great deal more than that," returned the girl. "sending off poor boys and girls to canada is only one branch of its work. if you'd bin to its tea-meetin's for the destitute, as i have, an' its clothin' meetin's and its mothers' meetin's, an--" "'ow d'ye know i 'aven't bin at 'em all?" asked the boy with an impudent look. "well, you know, you couldn't have been at the mothers' meetings, bobby." "oh! for the matter o' that, no more could you." "true, but i've heard of them all many and many a time; but come, tell me all about it. how did you come to go near the home of industry at all after refusing so often to go with me?" "vell, i didn't go because of bein' axed to go, you may be sure o' that, but my little dosser, tim lumpy, you remember 'im? the cove wi' the nose like a button, an' no body to speak of--all legs an' arms, like a 'uman win'-mill; vell, you must know they've nabbed 'im, an' given 'im a rig-out o' noo slops, an' they're goin' to send 'im to canada. so i 'appened to be down near the 'ome one day three weeks past, an' i see lumpy a-goin' in. `'allo!' says i. `'allo!' says 'e; an' then 'e told me all about it. `does they feed you well?' i axed. `oh! don't they, just!' said 'e. `there's to be a blow hout this wery night,' said 'e. `i wonder,' says i, `if they'd let me in, for i'm uncommon 'ungry, i tell you; 'ad nuffin' to heat since last night.' just as i said that, a lot o' fellers like me came tumblin' up to the door--so i sneaked in wi' the rest--for i thought they'd kick me hout if they knowed i'd come without inwitation." "well, and what then?" asked hetty. here our little street-arab began to tell, in his own peculiar language and style, how that he went in, and found a number of ladies in an upper room with forms set, and hot tea and bread to be had--as much as they could stuff--for nothing; that the boys were very wild and unruly at first, but that after the chief lady had prayed they became better, and that when half-a-dozen nice little girls were brought in and had sung a hymn or two they were quite quiet and ready to listen. like many other people, this city arab did not like to speak out freely, even to his sister, on matters that touched his feelings deeply, but he said enough to let the eager and thankful hetty know that not only had jesus and his love been preached to the boys, but she perceived that what had been said and sung had made an unusual impression, though the little ragged waif sought to conceal it under the veil of cool pleasantry, and she now recognised the fact that the prayers which she had been putting up for many a day in her brother's behalf had been answered. "oh! i'm so happy," she said; and, unable to restrain herself, flung her arms round bobby's neck and kissed him. it was evident that the little fellow rather liked this, though he pretended that he did not. "come, old gal," he said brusquely, "none o' that sort o' thing. i can't stand it. don't you see, the popilation is lookin' at us in surprise; besides, you've bin an' crushed all my shirt front!" "but," continued hetty, as they walked on again, "i'm not happy to hear that you are goin' to canada. what ever will i do without you, bobby?" poor girl, she could well afford to do without him in one sense, for he had hitherto been chiefly an object of anxiety and expense to her, though also an object of love. "i'm sorry to think of goin' too, hetty, for your sake an' mother's, but for daddy's sake and my own i _must_ go. you see, i can't 'old hout agin 'im. w'en 'e makes up 'is mind to a thing you know 'e sticks to it, for 'e's a tough un; an' 'e's got sitch a wheedlin' sort o' way with 'im that i can't 'elp givin' in a'most. so, you see, it'll be better for both of us that i should go away. but i'll come back, you know, hetty, with a fortin--see if i don't--an' then, oh! won't i keep a carridge an' a ridin' 'oss for daddy, an' feed mother an' you on plum-duff an' pork sassengers to breakfast, dinner, an' supper, with ice cream for a relish!" poor hetty did not even smile at this prospect of temporal felicity. she felt that in the main the boy was right, and that the only chance he had of escaping the toils in which her father was wrapping him by the strange union of affection and villainy, was to leave the country. she knew, also, that, thanks to the home of industry and its promoters, the sending of a ragged, friendless, penniless london waif, clothed and in his right mind, to a new land of bright and hopeful prospects, was an event brought within the bounds of possibility. that night bob frog stood with his dosser, (i.e. his friend), tim lumpy, discussing their future prospects in the partial privacy of a railway-arch. they talked long, and, for waifs, earnestly--both as to the land they were about to quit and that to which they were going; and the surprising fact might have been noted by a listener--had there been any such present, save a homeless cat--that neither of the boys perpetrated a joke for the space of at least ten minutes. "vy," observed little frog at length, "you seem to 'ave got all the fun drove out o' you, lumpy." "not a bit on it," returned the other, with a hurt look, as though he had been charged with some serious misdemeanour, "but it do seem sitch a shabby thing to go an' forsake my blind old mother." "but yer blind old mother wants you to go," said bobby, "an' says she'll be well looked arter by the ladies of the 'ome, and that she wouldn't stand in the way o' your prospec's. besides, she ain't yer mother!" this was true. tim lumpy had neither father nor mother, nor relative on earth, and the old woman who, out of sheer pity, had taken him in and allowed him to call her "_mother_," was a widow at the lowest possible round of that social ladder, at the top of which--figuratively speaking--sits her gracious majesty the queen. mrs lumpy had found him on her door-step, weeping and in rags, at the early age of five years. she had taken him in, and fed him on part of a penny loaf which formed the sole edible substance for her own breakfast. she had mended his rags to the extent of her ability, but she had not washed his face, having no soap of her own, and not caring to borrow from neighbours who were in the same destitute condition. besides, she had too hard a battle to fight with an ever-present and pressing foe, to care much about dirt, and no doubt deemed a wash of tears now and then sufficient. lumpy himself seemed to agree with her as to this, for he washed himself in that fashion frequently. having sought for his parents in vain, with the aid of the police, mrs lumpy quietly kept the boy on; gave him her surname, prefixed that of timothy, answered to the call of mother, and then left him to do very much as he pleased. in these circumstances, it was not surprising that little tim soon grew to be one of the pests of his alley. tim was a weak-eyed boy, and remarkably thin, being, as his friend had said, composed chiefly of legs and arms. there must have been a good deal of brain also, for he was keen-witted, as people soon began to find out to their cost. tim was observant also. he observed, on nearing the age of ten years, that in the great river of life which daily flowed past him, there were certain faces which indicated tender and kindly hearts, coupled with defective brain-action, and a good deal of self-will. he became painfully shrewd in reading such faces, and, on wet days, would present himself to them with his bare little red feet and half-naked body, rain water, (doing duty for tears), running from his weak bloodshot eyes, and falsehoods of the most pitiable, complex, and impudent character pouring from his thin blue lips, whilst awful solemnity seemed to shine on his visage. the certain result was--coppers! these kindly ones have, unwittingly of course, changed a text of scripture, and, for the words "_consider_ the poor," read "throw coppers to the poor!" you see, it is much easier to relieve one's feelings by giving away a few pence, than to take the trouble of visiting, inquiring about, and otherwise _considering_, the poor! at all events it would seem so, for tim began to grow comparatively rich, and corrupted, still more deeply, associates who were already buried sufficiently in the depths of corruption. at last little tim was met by a lady who had befriended him more than once, and who asked him why he preferred begging in the streets to going to the ragged school, where he would get not only food for the body, but for the soul. he replied that he was hungry, and his mother had no victuals to give him, so he had gone out to beg. the lady went straight to mrs lumpy, found the story to be true, and that the poor half-blind old woman was quite unable to support the boy and herself. the lady prevailed on the old woman to attend the meetings for poor, aged, and infirm women in miss macpherson's "beehive," and little tim was taken into the "home for destitute little boys under ten years of age." it was not all smooth sailing in that home after tim lumpy entered it! being utterly untamed, tim had many a sore struggle ere the temper was brought under control. one day he was so bad that the governess was obliged to punish him by leaving him behind, while the other boys went out for a walk. when left alone, the lady-superintendent tried to converse with him about obedience, but he became frightfully violent, and demanded his rags that he might return again to the streets. finally he escaped, rushed to his old home in a paroxysm of rage, and then, getting on the roof, declared to the assembled neighbours that he would throw himself down and dash out his brains. in this state a bible-woman found him. after offering the mental prayer, "lord, help me," she entreated him to come down and join her in a cup of tea with his old mother. the invitation perhaps struck the little rebel as having a touch of humour in it. at all events he accepted it and forthwith descended. over the tea, the bible-woman prayed aloud for him, and the poor boy broke down, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness. soon afterwards he was heard tapping at the door of the home--gentle and subdued. thus was this waif rescued, and he now discussed with his former comrade the prospect of transferring themselves and their powers, mental and physical, to canada. diverging from this subject to bobby's father, and his dark designs, tim asked if ned frog had absolutely decided to break into sir richard brandon's house, and bobby replied that he had; that his father had wormed out of the butler, who was a soft stupid sort of cove, where the plate and valuables were kept, and that he and another man had arranged to do it. "is the partikler night fixed?" asked tim. "yes; it's to be the last night o' this month." "why not give notice?" asked tim. "'cause i won't peach on daddy," said bob frog stoutly. little tim received this with a "quite right, old dosser," and then proposed that the meeting should adjourn, as he was expected back at the home by that time. two weeks or so after that, police-constable number was walking quietly along one of the streets of his particular beat in the west-end, with that stateliness of step which seems to be inseparable from place, power, and six feet two. it was a quiet street, such as wealth loves to inhabit. there were few carriages passing along it, and fewer passengers. number had nothing particular to do--the inhabitants being painfully well-behaved, and the sun high. his mind, therefore, roamed about aimlessly, sometimes bringing playfully before him a small abode, not very far distant, where a pretty woman was busy with household operations, and a ferocious policeman, about three feet high, was taking into custody an incorrigible criminal of still smaller size. a little boy, with very long arms and legs, might have been seen following our friend giles scott, until the latter entered upon one of those narrow paths made by builders on the pavements of streets when houses are undergoing repairs. watching until giles was half way along it, the boy ran nimbly up and accosted him with a familiar-- "well, old man, 'ow are you?" "pretty bobbish, thank you," returned the constable, for he was a good-natured man, and rather liked a little quiet chaff with street-boys when not too much engaged with duty. "well, now, are you aweer that there's a-goin' to be a burglairy committed in this 'ere quarter?" asked the boy, thrusting both hands deep into his pockets, and bending his body a little back, so as to look more easily up at his tall friend. "ah! indeed, well no, i didn't know it, for i forgot to examine the books at scotland yard this morning, but i've no doubt it's entered there by your friend who's goin' to commit it." "no, it ain't entered there," said the boy, with a manner and tone that rather surprised number ; "and i'd advise you to git out your note-book, an' clap down wot i'm a-goin' to tell ye. you know the 'ouse of sir richard brandon?" "yes, i know it." "well, that 'ouse is to be cracked on the st night o' this month." "how d'you know that, lad?" asked giles, moving towards the end of the barricade, so as to get nearer to his informant. "no use, bobby," said tim, "big as you are, you can't nab me. believe me or not as you like, but i advise you to look arter that there 'ouse on the st if you valley your repitation." tim went off like a congreve rocket, dashed down a side street, sloped into an alley, and melted into a wilderness of bricks and mortar. of course giles did not attempt to follow, but some mysterious communications passed between him and his superintendent that night before he went to bed. chapter eleven. sir richard and mr. brisbane discuss, and di listens. "my dear sir," said sir richard brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to george brisbane, esquire of lively hall, "the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with." "it is, unquestionably," assented brisbane, "so difficult, that i am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise." "pardon me, brisbane, there i think you are in error. everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. if the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials--not in further legislation. but what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?" "i mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. great age is a sufficient argument of itself, i think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive--not repulsive, as at present-- and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. `god pity the aged poor,' is often my prayer, `and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.'" "but, my dear sir," returned sir richard, "you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand." "well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms--sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave." "but, then, brisbane, as i said, it is their own fault--they have the workhouse to go to." "but, then, as _i_ said, sir richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as i have described. however, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. indeed scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as--`the poor ye have always with you,' and, `blessed are they who consider the poor.' don't you agree with me, mr welland?" stephen welland--who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with mr brisbane and sir richard--replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion. "take another glass of sherry," said sir richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; "it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point." "no more, thank you, sir richard." "come, come--fill your glass," said the knight; "you and i must set an example of moderate drinking to brisbane, as a counter-blast to his blue-ribbonism." welland smiled and re-filled his glass. "nay, i never thrust my opinions on that point on people," said brisbane, with a laugh, "but if you _will_ draw the sword and challenge me, i won't refuse the combat!" "no, no, brisbane. please spare us! i re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. i quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it--and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and i won't offend again." "ah, sir richard, you are an unfair foe. you draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before i can return on you. however, you have stated my position so well that i forgive you and shake hands. but, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor--how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man's table will go to sustain them i now, just take the glass of wine which welland has swallowed--against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, sir richard. its value is, say, sixpence. excuse me, i do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! well, i happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the `beehive' in spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. with dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to canada. such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. twopence an hour is the pay. they are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. many of these women, i may remark, are true christians. i wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. one woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. she was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. when i questioned her she said--`i have difficulties indeed, but i tell my father all. sometimes, when i'm very hungry and have nothing to eat, i tell him, and i know he hears me, for he takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.' "`but how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?' i asked. "`well, sir,' she said, `sometimes, when very hard-up, i spend part of it this way:--i buy a hap'orth o' tea, a hap'orth o' sugar, a hap'orth o' drippin', a hap'orth o' wood and a penn'orth o' bread. sometimes when better off than usual i get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps quarter of a hundredweight, because i save a farthing by getting the whole quarter, an' that lasts me a long time, and wi' the farthing i mayhap treat myself to a drop o' milk. sometimes, too, i buy my penn'orth o' wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for i can make it go further that way.' "so, you see, welland," continued brisbane, "your glass of sherry would have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman, who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of her, as you now are of your own mother." "it is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so low an ebb," returned the young man seriously. "yes, and it is very difficult," said sir richard, "to reduce one's mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard the subject of finance from a different standpoint." "but the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to understand," resumed brisbane, "is the state of mind and feeling of those professing christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of absolute wealth to many of the destitute." this latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host-- all the more so, perhaps, that he knew brisbane did not intend it as a thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a year--for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take shootings in scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why, he must pay for it, you know! "the greatest trouble of these poor women, i found," continued brisbane, "is their rent, which varies from shillings to shillings a week for their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out of `the house,' so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. one of them told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair of `specs,' and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her fading eyesight. i thought at the time what a deal of good might be done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send their disused spectacles to the home of industry in commercial street, spitalfields, for the poor. by the way, your sight must have changed more than once, sir richard! have you not a pair or two of disused spectacles to spare?" "well, yes, i have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don't you think?" "oh! by no means. we could manage to convert the rims into blue steel, and leave something over for sugar and tea." "well, i'll send them," said sir richard with a laugh. "by the way, you mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful work, although too old for much. what plan might that be?" "it is a very simple plan," answered brisbane, "and consists chiefly in the work being apportioned according to ability. worn garments and odds and ends of stuff are sent to the beehive from all parts of the country by sympathising friends. these are heaped together in one corner of the room where the poor old things work. down before this mass of stuff are set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. these skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of clothing, including the house slippers and glengarry caps worn by the little rescued boys. even handkerchiefs and babies' long frocks are conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! the work, thus selected and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering limbs of any destitute child that may enter the refuge as well as to complete the outfits of the little emigrants." "well, brisbane, i freely confess," said sir richard, "that you have roused a degree of interest in poor old women which i never felt before, and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. do the old women receive any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?" "no, i am sorry to say they do not--at least not usually. you see it takes a hundred or more sixpences every monday merely to keep that sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work at _half-price_, that it has been hitherto continued. you see it is a matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. it enables them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and trust in god as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and bare cupboards. "the day on which i visited the place i could not bear the thought of this, so i gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. this sufficed. large kettles are always kept in readiness for such occasions. these were put on immediately by the matron. the elder girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty minutes i had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating heartily and enjoying a hot meal. my own soul was fed, too--for the words came to me, `i was an hungered and ye gave me meat,' and one old woman, sitting near me, said, `i have a long walk home, and have been casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether i could spare a penny for a cup of tea on the way. how good the lord is to send this!'" with large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened colour and varying expression, sat little di brandon at her father's elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity stirred her little heart to its very centre. in the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid commentary, to the sympathetic mrs screwbury, and finally, in bed, presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of steaming tea! chapter twelve. sammy twitter's fall. we must turn now to samuel twitter, senior. that genial old man was busy one morning in the nursery, amusing little mita, who had by that time attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period of life, and was what mrs loper, mr crackaby, and mr stickler called "engaging." "mariar!" shouted mr twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishing her toilet in the adjoining room. "she's makin' faces at me--yes, she's actually attempting to laugh!" "the darling!" came from the next room, in emphatic tones. "mariar!" "well, dear." "is sammy down in the parlour?" "i don't know. why?" "because he's not in his room--tumti-iddidy-too-too--you charming thing!" it must be understood that the latter part of this sentence had reference to the baby, not to mrs twitter. having expended his affections and all his spare time on mita,--who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,--mr twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen sammy yet. "no, sir, i hain't." "are you sure he's not in his room?" "well, no, sir, but i knocked twice and got no answer." "very odd; sammy didn't use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly," said mr twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son. obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. more than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that sammy's bed was unruffled, so that sammy himself must have slept elsewhere! in silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, "mariar, sammy's gone!" "dead!" exclaimed mrs twitter with a look of horror. "no, no; not dead, but gone--gone out of the house. did not sleep in it last night, apparently." poor mrs twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face. up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add, deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of god, their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathies with suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carried into practical effect. the consequence was that they were a well-ordered and loving family. there are many such in our land-- families which are guided by the spirit and the word of god. the sudden disappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the twitter family was not an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his own particular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mother since he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had been hitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of the eight-day clock by his father every saturday night. in addition to all this, sammy was of an amiable disposition, and had been trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion--which his father had fixed at fifteen--he was allowed a latch-key, as he had frequently to work at his employer's books till a lateish hour,-- sometimes eleven o'clock--after the family, including the domestic, had gone to rest. "now, samuel," said mrs twitter, with a slight return of her wonted energy, "there can be only two explanations of this. either the dear boy has met with an accident, or--" "well, mariar, why do you pause?" "because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his going wrong or running away! the first thing i've got to do, samuel, is to go to the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have to advise." "the very thing i was thinking of, mariar; but don't it strike you it might be better that _i_ should go to the station?" "no, samuel, the station is near. i can do that, while you take a cab, go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. now, go; we have not a moment to lose. mary," (this was the next in order to sammy), "will look after the children's breakfast. make haste!" mr twitter made haste--made it so fast that he made too much of it, over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting the front door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into the shade. but twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. he arose undamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and went his way. mrs twitter immediately followed her husband's example in a less violent and eccentric manner. the superintendent of police received her with that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristic of the force. he listened with patient attention to the rather incoherent tale which she told with much agitation--unbosoming herself to this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings and opinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidential friend though he was an absolute stranger--such is the wonderful influence of power in self-possessed repose, over weakness in distressful uncertainty! having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word of interruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions and noted the replies, the superintendent advised mrs twitter to calm herself, for that it would soon be "all right;" to return home, and abide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in the circumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the first ray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of sammy's disappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap. "what a thing it is," she muttered to herself on her way home, "to put things into the hands of a _man_--one you can feel sure will do everything sensibly and well, and without fuss." the good lady meant no disparagement to her sex by this--far from it; she referred to a manly man as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment, rather disparagingly about the salute which her samuel's bald pate had given to the door that morning. probably she failed to think of the fussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent of police, for it is said that people seldom see themselves! but mrs twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and her conscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done samuel a slight injustice. indeed she _had_ done him injustice, for that estimable little man went about his inquiries after the lost sammy with a lump as big as a walnut on the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy that might have made the superintendent himself envious. "not been at the office for two days, sir!" exclaimed mr twitter, repeating--in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it--the words of sammy's employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line. "no, sir," said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware. "do--you--mean--to--tell--me," said twitter, with deliberate solemnity, "that my son samuel has not been in this office for _two days_?" "that is precisely what i mean to tell you," returned the hardware man, "and i mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregular of late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he has come here drunk." "drunk!" repeated twitter, almost in a shout. "yes, sir, drunk--intoxicated." the hardware man seemed at that moment to mr twitter the hardest-ware man that ever confronted him. he stood for some moments aghast and speechless. "are you aware, sir," he said at last, in impressive tones, "that my son samuel wears the blue ribbon?" the hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it. this latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing mr twitter to a condition of sudden humility. "there, sir," said he, "i entirely agree with you, but i had believed-- indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise--that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon." this was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that sammy was not immaculate--that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father's heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. in his extremity, he looked up to god and found relief in rolling his care upon him. as he slowly recovered from the shock, twitter's brain resumed its wonted activity. "you have a number of clerks, i believe?" he suddenly asked the hardware man. "yes, i have--four of them." "would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?" "certainly not. come along." on entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. the latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. the reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen. the employer took no notice, and mr twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. he made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:-- "mr dobbs, may i have the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation with you outside?" "c-certainly, sir," replied dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat. "will you be so good as to tell me, mr dobbs," said twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, "where my son samuel twitter spent last night?" twitter looked steadily in the clerk's eyes as he put this question. he was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded. "eh! your--your--son s-samuel," stammered dobbs, looking at twitter's breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face. he had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. mr twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality. "my poor boy," he said, "don't attempt to deceive me. you are guilty, and you know it. stay, don't speak yet. i have no wish to injure you. on the contrary, i pray god to bless and save you; but what i want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. if you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, i assure you." "does--does--he know anything about this?" asked dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man. "no, nothing of your having led sammy astray, if that's what you mean,-- at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing, if you only confide in me. of course he may have his suspicions." "well, sir," said dobbs, with a sigh of relief, "he's in my lodgings." having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called a cab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son sammy lay sprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the night before, after a season of drunken riot. he was in a heavy sleep, with his still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight of dissipation. "sammy," said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently by the arm; but the poor boy made no answer--even a roughish shake failed to draw from him more than the grumbled desire, "let me alone." "oh! god spare and save him!" murmured the father, in a still husky voice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed--prayed as though his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer lay apparently unconscious through it all. he rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when a heavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and the landlady, announcing "a gentleman, sir," ushered in the superintendent of police, who looked at mr twitter with a slight expression of surprise. "you are here before me, i see, sir," he said. "yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?" "well, i had not much difficulty. you see it is part of our duty to keep our eyes open," replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile, "and i have on several occasions observed your son entering this house with a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with his blue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me this morning i came straight here." "thank you--thank you. it is _very_ kind. i--you--it could not have been better managed." mr twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed. "perhaps," said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, "you would prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. if i can be of any further use to you, you know where to find me. good-day, sir." without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left the room. "oh! sammy, sammy, speak to me, my dear boy--speak to your old father!" he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but the drunken sleeper did not move. rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady. "i'll go home, missis," he said, "and send the poor lad's mother to him." "very well, sir, i'll look well after 'im till she comes." twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to her lodger's room. there, to her surprise, she found sammy up and hastily pulling on his boots. in truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still very drunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. he had indeed been asleep when his father's entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intense shame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commenced with this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. but the thought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had a sensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made. at the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. dressing himself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of the earnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distracted mother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that he had fled. plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walking swiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendered desperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a low grog-shop, and called for a glass of beer. "well, i say, you're com--comin' it raither strong, ain't you, young feller?" said a voice at his elbow. he looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot. "that's no business of yours," replied sam twitter, sharply. "well, thash true, 'tain't no b-busnish o' mine. i--i'm pretty far gone m'self, i allow; but i ain't quite got the l-length o' drinkin' in a p-public 'ouse wi' th' bl-blue ribb'n on." the fallen lad glanced at his breast. there it was,--forgotten, desecrated! he tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders--most of whom were women of the lowest grade--and dashed it on the floor. "thash right.--you're a berrer feller than i took you for," said the sot at his elbow. to avoid further attention sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten. he had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered. "have a glass, ol' feller?" said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him. "thank you, no--not to-day," replied john seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion--fishing for men! "i have come to give you a glass to-day, friends." "well, that's friendly," said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out of which next minute staggered ned frog. "come, what is't to be, old man?" "a looking-glass," replied the missionary, picking out a tract from the bundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter. "but the tract is not the glass i speak of, friend: here it is, in the word of that god who made us all--made the throats that swallow the drink, and the brains that reel under it." here he read from a small bible, "`but they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.'" "bah!" said ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as he left the place with a swing; "i don't drink wine, old man; can't afford anything better than beer, though sometimes, when i'm in luck, i have a drop of old tom." there was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous were the witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he took no notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning over the leaves of his bible. when there was a lull he said:-- "now, dear sisters," (turning to the women who, with a more or less drunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), "for sisters of mine you are, having been made by the same heavenly father; i won't offer you another glass,--not even a looking-glass,--for the one i have already held up to you will do, if god's holy spirit opens your eyes to see yourselves in it; but i'll give you a better object to look at. it is a saviour--one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sin in every form. you know his name well, most of you; it is jesus, and that name means saviour, for he came to save his people from their sins." at this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent on keeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. she asked him with a leer if he had got a wife. "no," he said, "but i have got a great respect and love for women, because i've got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face of this earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother. sister," he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near him with a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, "the best prayer that i could offer up for you--and i _do_ offer it--is, that the little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartily as i bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strong drink and refuse the saviour." at that moment a loud cry was heard outside. they all rose and ran to the door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with her eyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, and her ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enter the public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almost destroyed her. she had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freely over her face as the missionary lifted her. he was a powerful man, and could take her up tenderly and with ease. she was not much hurt, however. after seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchief she professed to be much better. this little incident completed the good influence which the missionary's words and manner had previously commenced. most of the women began to weep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hope addressed to them. a few of course remained obdurate, though not unimpressed. all this time young sam twitter remained in his dark corner, with his head resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. well did he know john seaward, and well did seaward know him, for the missionary had long been a fellow-worker with mrs twitter in george yard and at the home of industry. the boy was very anxious to escape seaward's observation. this was not a difficult matter. when the missionary left, after distributing his tracts, sammy rose up and sought to hide himself--from himself, had that been possible--in the lowest slums of london. chapter thirteen. tells of some curious and vigorous peculiarities of the lower orders. now it must not be supposed that mrs frog, having provided for her baby and got rid of it, remained thereafter quite indifferent to it. on the contrary, she felt the blank more than she had expected, and her motherly heart began to yearn for it powerfully. to gratify this yearning to some extent, she got into the habit of paying frequent visits, sometimes by night and sometimes by day, to the street in which samuel twitter lived, and tried to see her baby through the stone walls of the house! her eyes being weak, as well as her imagination, she failed in this effort, but the mere sight of the house where little matty was, sufficed to calm her maternal yearnings in some slight degree. by the way, that name reminds us of our having omitted to mention that baby frog's real name was matilda, and her pet name matty, so that the name of mita, fixed on by the twitters, was not so wide of the mark as it might have been. one night mrs frog, feeling the yearning strong upon her, put on her bonnet and shawl--that is to say, the bundle of dirty silk, pasteboard, and flowers which represented the one, and the soiled tartan rag that did duty for the other. "where are ye off to, old woman?" asked ned, who, having been recently successful in some little "job," was in high good humour. "i'm goin' round to see mrs tibbs, ned. d'you want me?" "no, on'y i'm goin' that way too, so we'll walk together." mrs frog, we regret to say, was not particular as to the matter of truth. she had no intention of going near mrs tibbs, but, having committed herself, made a virtue of necessity, and resolved to pay that lady a visit. the conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. arrived at twitter's street an idea struck mrs frog. "ned," said she, "i'm tired." "well, old girl, you'd better cut home." "i think i will, ned, but first i'll sit down on this step to rest a bit." "all right, old girl," said ned, who would have said the same words if she had proposed to stand on her head on the step--so easy was he in his mind as to how his wife spent her time; "if you sit for half-an-hour or so i'll be back to see you 'ome again. i'm on'y goin' to bundle's shop for a bit o' baccy. ain't i purlite now? don't it mind you of the courtin' days?" "ah! ned," exclaimed the wife, while a sudden gush of memory brought back the days when he was handsome and kind,--but ned was gone, and the slightly thawed spring froze up again. she sat down on the cold step of a door which happened to be somewhat in the shade, and gazed at the opposite windows. there was a light in one of them. she knew it well. she had often watched the shadows that crossed the blind after the gas was lighted, and once she had seen some one carrying something which looked like a baby! it might have been a bundle of soiled linen, or undarned socks, but it might have been matty, and the thought sent a thrill to the forlorn creature's heart. on the present occasion she was highly favoured, for, soon after ned had left, the shadows came again on the blind, and came so near it as to be distinctly visible. yes, there could be no doubt now, it _was_ a baby, and as there was only one baby in that house it followed that the baby was _her_ baby--little matty! here was something to carry home with her, and think over and dream about. but there was more in store for her. the baby, to judge from the shadowy action of its fat limbs on the blind, became what she called obstropolous. more than that, it yelled, and its mother heard the yell--faintly, it is true, but sufficiently to send a thrill of joy to her longing heart. then a sudden fear came over her. what if it was ill, and they were trying to soothe it to rest! how much better _she_ could do that if she only had the baby! "oh! fool that i was to part with her!" she murmured, "but no. it was best. she would surely have bin dead by this time." the sound of the little voice, however, had roused such a tempest of longing in mrs frog's heart, that, under an irresistible impulse, she ran across the road and rang the bell. the door was promptly opened by mrs twitter's domestic. "is--is the baby well?" stammered mrs frog, scarce knowing what she said. "_you've_ nothink to do wi' the baby that i knows on," returned mrs twitter's domestic, who was not quite so polite as her mistress. "no, honey," said mrs frog in a wheedling tone, rendered almost desperate by the sudden necessity for instant invention, "but the doctor said i was to ask if baby had got over it, or if 'e was to send round the--the--i forget its name--at once." "what doctor sent you?" asked mrs twitter, who had come out of the parlour on hearing the voices through the doorway, and with her came a clear and distinct yell which mrs frog treasured up in her thinly clad but warm bosom, as though it had been a strain from paradise. "there must surely be some mistake, my good woman, for my baby is quite well." "oh! thank you, thank you--yes, there must have been some mistake," said mrs frog, scarce able to restrain a laugh of joy at the success of her scheme, as she retired precipitately from the door and hurried away. she did not go far, however, but, on hearing the door shut, turned back and took up her position again on the door-step. poor mrs frog had been hardened and saddened by sorrow, and suffering, and poverty, and bad treatment; nevertheless she was probably one of the happiest women in london just then. "_my_ baby," she said, quoting part of mrs twitter's remarks with a sarcastic laugh, "no, madam, she's not _your_ baby _yet_!" as she sat reflecting on this agreeable fact, a heavy step was heard approaching. it was too slow for that of ned. she knew it well--a policeman! there are hard-hearted policemen in the force--not many, indeed, but nothing is perfect in this world, and there are a _few_ hard-hearted policemen. he who approached was one of these. "move on," he said in a stern voice. "please, sir, i'm tired. on'y restin' a bit while i wait for my 'usband," pleaded mrs frog. "come, move on," repeated the unyielding constable in a tone that there was no disputing. indeed it was so strong that it reached the ears of ned frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife. ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. he advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman's forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another. as every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with ned frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had "his work cut out for him." the tussle that ensued was tremendous, and mrs frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. but it was brief. before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the "baccy" which he had purchased. thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find ned frog at a certain mansion in the west-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at her majesty's expense. the comrade, however, not being aware of ned's incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. he had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner's fate. but this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose. "ned must be ill, or got a haccident o' some sort," he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. "howsever, you an' me'll go at it alone, sniveller." "wery good, bunky," replied sniveller, "'ow is it to be? by the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout--or wot?" "the larder windy, my boy." "sorry for that," said sniveller. "why?" "'cause it _is_ so 'ard to go past the nice things an' smell 'em all without darin' to touch 'em till i lets you in. couldn't you let me 'ave a feed first?" "unpossible," said the burglar. "wery good," returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation. now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of sir richard brandon. one of these was number . it is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings--though not deeds of evil--were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull's-eye lanterns. the only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, mr thomas balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit. of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore number laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies. about that "wee short hour" of which the poet burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted sir richard brandon's pantry. to the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened. "they've bin an' forgot it!" he whispered. "git in," was the curt reply. sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor--not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash. sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. he also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. he likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. the smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him. number smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness. meanwhile, the chief operator, bunky, went round to the back door. sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. another moment, and bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion. yet another moment, and bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for number was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude. "now, then, show a light," said giles, quietly. two bull's-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the laocoon, without the serpents. "fetch the bracelets," said giles. at these words the bull's-eyes converged, and sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished--he was never heard of more! then followed two sharp _clicks_, succeeded by a sigh of relief as number relaxed his arms. "you needn't rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man," said giles to bunky in a low voice. bunky did _not_ feel inclined. he thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. he was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint sir richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger. referring to this matter on the following day in the servants' hall, thomas balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer--for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler--and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the metropolitan police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of number ! chapter fourteen. number off duty. some time after the attempt made upon sir richard brandon's house, giles scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on. his pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. the juvenile policeman, and the incorrigible criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the queen, the other under that of sir robert peel. giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on. "they expect pretty hard work of you, giles," remarked molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty. "why, moll, you wouldn't have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?" replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. "somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o' life don't do it, who will?" "true, giles, but surely you won't deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had a _little_ less to do, and a _little_ more time with your family. you men,--especially you scotchmen--are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can't open her lips to say a word, but you pounce upon it and make an argument of it." "now molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! why do you take me so sharp? isn't taking-up the special privilege of the police?" "am i not entitled," said molly, ignoring her husband's question, "to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled noses, and black eyes?" "come now," returned giles, "you must admit that i have fewer of these discomforts than most men of the force, owing, no doubt, to little men being unable to reach so high--and, d'you know, it's the little men who do most damage in life; they're such a pugnacious and perverse generation! as to swelled noses, these are the fortune of war, at least of civil war like ours--and black eyes, why, my eyes are black by nature. if they were of a heavenly blue like yours, molly, you might have some ground for complaint when they are blackened." "and then there is such dreadful tear and wear of clothes," continued molly; "just look at that, now!" she held up to view a sock with a hole in its heel large enough to let an orange through. "why, molly, do you expect that i can walk the streets of london from early morning till late at night, protect life and property, and preserve public tranquillity, as this little book puts it, besides engaging in numerous scuffles and street rows without making a hole or two in my socks?" "ah! giles, if you had only brain enough to take in a simple idea! it's not the making of holes that i complain of. it is the making of such awfully big ones before changing your socks! there now, don't let us get on domestic matters. you have no head for these, but tell me something about your little book. i am specially interested in it, you see, because the small policeman in the crib over there puts endless questions about his duties which i am quite unable to answer, and, you know, it is a good thing for a child to grow up with the idea that father and mother know everything." "just so, molly. i hope you'll tell your little recruit that the first and foremost duty of a good policeman is to obey orders. let me see, then, if i can enlighten you a bit." "but tell me first, giles--for i really want to know--how many are there of you altogether, and when was the force established on its present footing, and who began it, and, in short, all about it. it's _so_ nice to have you for once in a way for a quiet chat like this." "you have laid down enough of heads, molly, to serve for the foundation of a small volume. however, i'll give it you hot, since you wish it, and i'll begin at the end instead of the beginning. what would you say, now, to an army of eleven thousand men?" "i would say it was a very large one, though i don't pretend to much knowledge about the size of armies," said molly, commencing to mend another hole about the size of a turnip. "well, that, in round numbers, is the strength of the metropolitan police force at the present time--and not a man too much, let me tell you, for what with occasional illnesses and accidents, men employed on special duty, and men off duty--as i am just now--the actual available strength of the force at any moment is considerably below that number. yes, it is a goodly army of picked and stalwart men, (no self-praise intended), but, then, consider what we have to do." "we have to guard and keep in order the population of the biggest city in the world; a population greater than that of the whole of scotland." "oh! of course, you are sure to go to scotland for your illustrations, as if there was no such place as england in the world," quietly remarked molly, with a curl of her pretty lip. "ah! molly, dear, you are unjust. it is true i go to scotland for an illustration, but didn't i come to england for a wife? now, don't go frowning at that hole as if it couldn't be bridged over." "it is the worst hole you ever made," said the despairing wife, holding it up to view. "you make a worsted hole of it then, moll, and it'll be all right. besides, you don't speak truth, for i once made a worse hole in your heart." "you never did, sir. go on with your stupid illustrations," said molly. "well, then, let me see--where was i?" "in scotland, of course!" "ah, yes. the population of all scotland is under four millions, and that of london--that is, of the area embraced in the metropolitan police district, is estimated at above four million seven hundred thousand--in round numbers. of course i give it you all in round numbers." "i don't mind how round the numbers are, giles, so long as they're all square," remarked the little wife with much simplicity. "well, just think of that number for our army to watch over; and that population--not all of it, you know, but part of it--succeeds--in spite of us in committing, during one year, no fewer than , `principal' offences such as murders, burglaries, robberies, thefts, and such-like. what they would accomplish if we were not ever on the watch i leave you to guess. "last year, for instance, burglaries, as we style house-breaking by night, were committed in london. the wonder is that there are not more, when you consider the fact that the number of doors and windows found open by us at night during the twelve months was nearly , . the total loss of property by theft during the year is estimated at about , pounds. besides endeavouring to check crime of such magnitude, we had to search after above , persons who were reported lost and missing during the year, about , of whom were children." "oh! the _poor_ darlings," said molly, twisting her sympathetic eyebrows. "ay, and we found of these darlings," continued the practical giles, "and of the adults. of the rest some returned home or were found by their friends, but adults and children have been lost altogether. then, we found within the twelve months dead bodies which we had to take care of and have photographed for identification. during the same period, (and remember that the record of every twelve months is much the same), we seized over , stray dogs and returned them to their owners or sent them to the dogs' home. we arrested over , persons for being drunk and disorderly. we inspected all the public vehicles and horses in london. we attended to accidents which occurred in the streets, of which were fatal. we looked after more than , articles varying in value from pence to pounds which were lost by a heedless public during the year, about , of which articles were restored to the owners. we had to regulate the street traffic; inspect common lodging-houses; attend the police and other courts to give evidence, and many other things which it would take me much too long to enumerate, and puzzle your pretty little head to take in." "no, it wouldn't," said molly, looking up with a bright expression; "i have a wonderful head for figures--especially for handsome manly figures! go on, giles." "then, look at what is expected of us," continued number , not noticing the last remark. "we are told to exercise the greatest civility and affability towards every one--high and low, rich and poor. we are expected to show the utmost forbearance under all circumstances; to take as much abuse and as many blows as we can stand, without inflicting any in return; to be capable of answering almost every question that an ignorant--not to say arrogant--public may choose to put to us; to be ready, single-handed and armed only with our truncheons and the majesty of the law, to encounter burglars furnished with knives and revolvers; to plunge into the midst of drunken maddened crowds and make arrests in the teeth of tremendous odds; to keep an eye upon strangers whose presence may seem to be less desirable than their absence; to stand any amount of unjust and ungenerous criticism without a word of reply; to submit quietly to the abhorrence and chaff of boys, labourers, cabmen, omnibus drivers, tramps, and fast young men; to have a fair knowledge of the `three rs' and a smattering of law, so as to conduct ourselves with propriety at fires, fairs, fights, and races, besides acting wisely as to mad dogs, german bands, (which are apt to produce mad _men_), organ-grinders, furious drivers, and all other nuisances. in addition to all which we must be men of good character, good standing--as to inches--good proportions, physically, and good sense. in short, we are expected to be--and blamed if we are not--as near to a state of perfection as it is possible for mortal man to attain on this side the grave, and all for the modest sum which you are but too well aware is the extent of our income." "is one of the things expected of you," asked molly, "to have an exceedingly high estimate of yourselves?" "nay, molly, don't you join the ranks of those who are against us. it will be more than criminal if you do. you are aware that i am giving the opinion expressed by men of position who ought to know everything about the force. that we fulfil the conditions required of us not so badly is proved by the fact that last year, out of the whole , there were officers and men who obtained rewards for zeal and activity, while only one man was discharged, and four men were fined or imprisoned. i speak not of number one--or, i should say number . for myself i am ready to admit that i am the most insignificant of the force." "o giles! what a barefaced display of mock modesty!" "nay, molly, i can prove it. everything in this world goes by contrast, doesn't it? then, is there a man in the whole force except myself, i ask, whose wife is so bright and beautiful and good and sweet that she reduces him to mere insignificance by contrast?" "there's something in that, giles," replied molly with gravity, "but go on with your lecture." "i've nothing more to say about the force," returned giles; "if i have not said enough to convince you of our importance, and of the debt of gratitude that you and the public of london owe to us, you are past conviction, and--" "you are wrong, giles, as usual; i am never past conviction; you have only to take me before the police court in the morning, and any magistrate will at once convict me of stupidity for having married a scotchman and a policeman!" "i think it must be time to go on my beat, for you beat me hollow," said number , consulting his watch. "no, no, giles, please sit still. it is not every day that i have such a chance of a chat with you." "such a chance of pitching into me, you mean," returned giles. "however, before i go i would like to tell you just one or two facts regarding this great london itself, which needs so much guarding and such an army of guardians. you know that the metropolitan district comprises all the parishes any portion of which are within miles of charing cross--this area being square miles. the rateable value of it is over twenty-six million eight hundred thousand pounds sterling. see, as you say you've a good head for _figures_, there's the sum on a bit of paper for you-- , , pounds. during last year , new houses were built, forming new streets and four new squares--the whole covering a length of miles. the total number of new houses built during the last _ten_ years within this area has been , , extending over miles of streets and squares!" "stay, i can't stand it!" cried molly, dropping her sock and putting her fingers in her ears. "why not, old girl?" "because it is too much for me; why, even _your_ figure is a mere nothing to such sums!" "then," returned giles, "you've only got to stick me on to the end of them to make my information ten times more valuable." "but are you quite sure that what you tell me is true, giles?" "quite sure, my girl--at least as sure as i am of the veracity of colonel henderson, who wrote the last police report." at this point the chat was interrupted by the juvenile policeman in the crib under sir robert peel. whether it was the astounding information uttered in his sleepy presence, or the arduous nature of the duty required of him in dreams, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when number uttered the word "report" there came a crash like the report of a great gun, and number of the a division, having fallen overboard, was seen on the floor pommelling some imaginary criminal who stoutly refused to be captured. giles ran forward to the assistance of number , as was his duty, and took him up in his arms. but number had awakened to the fact that he had hurt himself, and, notwithstanding the blandishments of his father, who swayed him about and put him on his broad shoulders, and raised his curly head to the ceiling, he refused for a long time to be comforted. at last he was subdued, and returned to the crib and the land of dreams. "now, molly, i must really go," said giles, putting on his uniform. "i hope number won't disturb you again. good-bye, lass, for a few hours," he added, buckling his belt. "here, look, do you see that little spot on the ceiling?" "yes,--well?" said molly, looking up. giles took unfair advantage of her, stooped, and kissed the pretty little face, received a resounding slap on the back, and went out, to attend to his professional duties, with the profound gravity of an incapable magistrate. there was a bright intelligent little street-arab on the opposite side of the way, who observed giles with mingled feelings of admiration, envy, and hatred, as he strode sedately along the street like an imperturbable pillar. he knew number personally; had seen him under many and varied circumstance, and had imagined him under many others-- not unfrequently as hanging by the neck from a lamp-post--but never, even in the most daring flights of his juvenile fancy, had he seen him as he has been seen by the reader in the bosom of his poor but happy home. chapter fifteen. mrs. frog sinks deeper and deeper. "nobody cares," said poor mrs frog, one raw afternoon in november, as she entered her miserable dwelling, where the main pieces of furniture were a rickety table, a broken chair, and a heap of straw, while the minor pieces were so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention. there was no fire in the grate, no bread in the cupboard, little fresh air in the room and less light, though there was a broken unlighted candle stuck in the mouth of a quart bottle which gave promise of light in the future--light enough at least to penetrate the november fog which had filled the room as if it had been endued with a pitying desire to throw a veil over such degradation and misery. we say degradation, for mrs frog had of late taken to "the bottle" as a last solace in her extreme misery, and the expression of her face, as she cowered on a low stool beside the empty grate and drew the shred of tartan shawl round her shivering form, showed all too clearly that she was at that time under its influence. she had been down to the river again, more than once, and had gazed into its dark waters until she had very nearly made up her mind to take the desperate leap, but god in mercy had hitherto interposed. at one time a policeman had passed with his weary "move on"--though sometimes he had not the heart to enforce his order. more frequently a little baby-face had looked up from the river with a smile, and sent her away to the well-known street where she would sit in the familiar door-step watching the shadows on the window-blind until cold and sorrow drove her to the gin-palace to seek for the miserable comfort to be found there. whatever that comfort might amount to, it did not last long, for, on the night of which we write, she had been to the palace, had got all the comfort that was to be had out of it, and returned to her desolate home more wretched than ever, to sit down, as we have seen, and murmur, almost fiercely, "nobody cares." for a time she sat silent and motionless, while the deepening shadows gathered round her, as if they had united with all the rest to intensify the poor creature's woe. presently she began to mutter to herself aloud-- "what's the use o' your religion when it comes to this? what sort of religion is in the hearts of these," (she pursed her lips, and paused for an expressive word, but found none), "these rich folk in their silks and satins and broadcloth, with more than they can use, an' feedin' their pampered cats and dogs on what would be wealth to the likes o' me! religion! bah!" she stopped, for a voice within her said as plainly as if it had spoken out: "who gave you the sixpence the other day, and looked after you with a tender, pitying glance as you hurried away to the gin-shop without so much as stopping to say `thank you'? she wore silks, didn't she?" "ah, but there's not many like that," replied the poor woman, mentally, for the powers of good and evil were fighting fiercely within her just then. "how do you know there are not many like that?" demanded the voice. "well, but _all_ the rich are not like that," said mrs frog. the voice made no reply to that! again she sat silent for some time, save that a low moan escaped her occasionally, for she was very cold and very hungry, having spent the last few pence, which might have given her a meal, in drink; and the re-action of the poison helped to depress her. the evil spirit seemed to gain the mastery at this point, to judge from her muttered words. "nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no work to be got, hetty laid up in hospital, ned in prison, bobby gone to the bad again instead of goin' to canada, and--nobody cares--" "what about baby?" asked the voice. this time it was mrs frog's turn to make no reply! in a few minutes she seemed to become desperate, for, rising hastily, she went out, shut the door with a bang, locked it, and set out on the familiar journey to the gin-shop. she had not far to go. it was at the corner. if it had not been at that corner, there was one to be found at the next--and the next--and the next again, and so on all round; so that, rushing past, as people sometimes do when endeavouring to avoid a danger, would have been of little or no avail in this case. but there was a very potent influence of a negative kind in her favour. she had no money! recollecting this when she had nearly reached the door, she turned aside, and ran swiftly to the old door-step, where she sat down and hid her face in her hands. a heavy footstep sounded at her side the next moment. she looked quickly up. it was a policeman. he did not apply the expected words--"move on." he was a man under whose blue uniform beat a tender and sympathetic heart. in fact, he was number --changed from some cause that we cannot explain, and do not understand--from the metropolitan to the city police force. his number also had been changed, but we refuse to be trammelled by police regulations. number he was and shall remain in this tale to the end of the chapter! instead of ordering the poor woman to go away, giles was searching his pockets for a penny, when to his intense surprise he received a blow on the chest, and then a slap on the face! poor mrs frog, misjudging his intentions, and roused to a fit of temporary insanity by her wrongs and sorrows, sprang at her supposed foe like a wildcat. she was naturally a strong woman, and violent passion lent her unusual strength. oh! it was pitiful to witness the struggle that ensued!--to see a woman, forgetful of sex and everything else, striving with all her might to bite, scratch, and kick, while her hair tumbled down, and her bonnet and shawl falling off made more apparent the insufficiency of the rags with which she was covered. strong as he was, giles received several ugly scratches and bites before he could effectually restrain her. fortunately, there were no passers-by in the quiet street, and, therefore, no crowd assembled. "my poor woman," said giles, when he had her fast, "do keep quiet. i'm going to do you no harm. god help you, i was goin' to give you a copper when you flew at me so. come, you'd better go with me to the station, for you're not fit to take care of yourself." whether it was the tender tone of giles's voice, or the words that he uttered, or the strength of his grasp that subdued mrs frog, we cannot tell, but she gave in suddenly, hung down her head, and allowed her captor to do as he pleased. seeing this, he carefully replaced her bonnet on her head, drew the old shawl quite tenderly over her shoulders, and led her gently away. before they had got the length of the main thoroughfare, however, a female of a quiet, respectable appearance met them. "mrs frog!" she exclaimed, in amazement, stopping suddenly before them. "if you know her, ma'am, perhaps you may direct me to her home." "i know her well," said the female, who was none other than the bible-nurse who visited the sick of that district; "if you have not arrested her for--for--" "oh no, madam," interrupted giles, "i have not arrested her at all, but she seems to be unwell, and i was merely assisting her." "oh! then give her over to me, please. i know where she lives, and will take care of her." giles politely handed his charge over, and went on his way, sincerely hoping that the next to demand his care would be a man. the bible-woman drew the arm of poor mrs frog through her own, and in a few minutes stood beside her in the desolate home. "nobody cares," muttered the wretched woman as she sank in apathy on her stool and leaned her head against the wall. "you are wrong, dear mrs frog. _i_ care, for one, else i should not be here. many other christian people would care, too, if they knew of your sufferings; but, above all, god cares. have you carried your troubles to him?" "why should i? he has long ago forsaken me." "is it not, dear friend, that you have forsaken him? jesus says, as plain as words can put it, `come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.' you tell me it is of no use to go to him, and you don't go, and then you complain that he has forsaken you! where is my friend hetty?" "in hospital." "indeed! i have been here several times lately to inquire, but have always found your door locked. your husband--" "he's in prison, and bobby's gone to the bad," said mrs frog, still in a tone of sulky defiance. "i see no sign of food," said the bible-nurse, glancing quickly round; "are you hungry?" "hungry!" exclaimed the woman fiercely, "i've tasted nothin' at all since yesterday." "poor thing!" said the bible-nurse in a low tone; "come--come with me. i don't say more. you cannot speak while you are famishing. stay, first one word--" she paused and looked up. she did not kneel; she did not clasp her hands or shut her eyes, but, with one hand on the door-latch, and the other grasping the poor woman's wrist, she prayed-- "god bless and comfort poor mrs frog, for jesus' sake." then she hurried, without uttering a word, to the institution in george yard. the door happened to be open, and the figure of a man with white hair and a kind face was seen within. entering, the bible-nurse whispered to this man. another moment and mrs frog was seated at a long deal table with a comfortable fire at her back, a basin of warm soup, and a lump of loaf bread before her. the bible-nurse sat by and looked on. "somebody cares a little, don't _you_ think?" she whispered, when the starving woman made a brief pause for breath. "yes, thank god," answered mrs frog, returning to the meal as though she feared that some one might still snatch it from her thin lips before she got it all down. when it was finished the bible-nurse led mrs frog into another room. "you feel better--stronger?" she asked. "yes, much better--thank you, and quite able to go home." "there is no occasion for you to go home to-night; you may sleep there," (pointing to a corner), "but i would like to pray with you now, and read a verse or two." mrs frog submitted, while her friend read to her words of comfort; pleaded that pardon and deliverance might be extended, and gave her loving words of counsel. then the poor creature lay down in her corner, drew a warm blanket over her, and slept with a degree of comfort that she had not enjoyed for many a day. when it was said by mrs frog that her son bobby had gone to the bad, it must not be supposed that any very serious change had come over him. as that little waif had once said of himself, when in a penitent mood, he was about as bad as he could be, so couldn't grow much badder. but when his sister lost her situation in the firm that paid her such splendid wages, and fell ill, and went into hospital in consequence, he lost heart, and had a relapse of wickedness. he grew savage with regard to life in general, and committed a petty theft, which, although not discovered, necessitated his absence from home for a time. it was while he was away that the scene which we have just described took place. on the very next day he returned, and it so happened that on the same day hetty was discharged from hospital "cured." that is to say, she left the place a thin, tottering, pallid shadow, but with no particular form of organic disease about her. she and her mother had received some food from one who cared for them, through the bible-nurse. "mother, you've been drinkin' again," said hetty, looking earnestly at her parent's eyes. "well, dear," pleaded mrs frog, "what could i do? you had all forsaken me, and i had nothin' else to comfort me." "oh! mother, darling mother," cried hetty, "do promise me that you will give it up. i won't get ill or leave you again--god helping me; but it will kill me if you go on. _do_ promise." "it's of no use, hetty. of course i can easily promise, but i can't keep my promise. i _know_ i can't." hetty knew this to be too true. without the grace of god in the heart, she was well aware that human efforts _must_ fail, sooner or later. she was thinking what to reply, and praying in her heart for guidance, when the door opened and her brother bobby swaggered in with an air that did not quite accord with his filthy fluttering rags, unwashed face and hands, bare feet and unkempt hair. "vell, mother, 'ow are ye? hallo! hetty! w'y, wot a shadder you've become! oh! i say, them nusses at the hospital must 'ave stole all your flesh an' blood from you, for they've left nothin' but the bones and skin." he went up to his sister, put an arm round her neck, and kissed her. this was a very unusual display of affection. it was the first time bobby had volunteered an embrace, though he had often submitted to one with dignified complacency, and hetty, being weak, burst into tears. "hallo! i say, stop that now, young gal," he said, with a look of alarm, "i'm always took bad ven i see that sort o' thing, i can't stand it." by way of mending matters the poor girl, endeavouring to be agreeable, gave a hysterical laugh. "come, that's better, though it ain't much to boast of,"--and he kissed her again. finding that, although for the present they were supplied with a small amount of food, hetty had no employment and his mother no money, our city arab said that he would undertake to sustain the family. "but oh! bobby, dear, don't steal again." "no, hetty, i won't, i'll vork. i didn't go for to do it a-purpose, but i was overtook some'ow--i seed the umbrellar standin' handy, you know, and--etceterer. but i'm sorry i did it, an' i won't do it again." swelling with great intentions, robert frog thrust his dirty little hands into his trouser pockets--at least into the holes that once contained them--and went out whistling. soon he came to a large warehouse, where a portly gentleman stood at the door. planting himself in front of this man, and ceasing to whistle in order that he might speak, he said:-- "was you in want of a 'and, sir?" "no, i wasn't," replied the man, with a glance of contempt. "sorry for that," returned bobby, "'cause i'm in want of a sitivation." "what can you do?" asked the man. "oh! hanythink." "ah, i thought so; i don't want hands who can do anything, i prefer those who can do something." bobby frog resumed his whistling, at the exact bar where he had left off, and went on his way. he was used to rebuffs, and didn't mind them. but when he had spent all the forenoon in receiving rebuffs, had made no progress whatever in his efforts, and began to feel hungry, he ceased the whistling and became grave. "this looks serious," he said, pausing in front of a pastry-cook's shop window. "but for that there plate glass _wot_ a blow hout i might 'ave! beggin' might be tried with advantage. it's agin the law, no doubt, but it ain't a _sin_. yes, i'll try beggin'." but our arab was not a natural beggar, if we may say so. he scorned to whine, and did not even like to ask. his spirit was much more like that of a highwayman than a beggar. proceeding to a quiet neighbourhood which seemed to have been forgotten by the police, he turned down a narrow lane and looked out for a subject, as a privateer might search among "narrows" for a prize. he did not search long. an old lady soon hove in sight. she seemed a suitable old lady, well-dressed, little, gentle, white-haired, a tottering gait, and a benign aspect. bobby went straight up and planted himself in front of her. "please, ma'am, will you oblige me with a copper?" the poor old lady grew pale. without a word she tremblingly, yet quickly, pulled out her purse, took therefrom a shilling, and offered it to the boy. "oh! marm," said bobby, who was alarmed and conscience-smitten at the result of his scheme, "i didn't mean for to frighten you. indeed i didn't, an' i won't 'ave your money at no price." saying which he turned abruptly round and walked away. "boy, boy, _boy_!" called the old lady in a voice so entreating, though tremulous, that bobby felt constrained to return. "you're a most remarkable boy," she said, putting the shilling back into her purse. "i'm sorry to say, marm, that you're not the on'y indiwidooal as 'olds that opinion." "what do you mean by your conduct, boy?" "i mean, marm, that i'm wery 'ard up. _uncommon_ 'ard up; that i've tried to git vork an' can't git it, so that i'm redooced to beggary. but, i ain't a 'ighway robber, marm, by no means, an' don't want to frighten you hout o' your money if you ain't willin' to give it." the little tremulous old lady was so pleased with this reply that she took half-a-crown out of her purse and put it into the boy's hand. he looked at her in silent surprise. "it ain't a _copper_, marm!" "i know that. it is half-a-crown, and i willingly give it you because you are an honest boy." "but, marm," said bobby, still holding out the piece of silver on his palm, "i _ain't_ a honest boy. i'm a thief!" "tut, tut, don't talk nonsense; i don't believe you." "vel now, this beats all that i ever did come across. 'ere's a old 'ooman as i tells as plain as mud that i'm a thief, an' nobody's better able to give a opinion on that pint than myself, yet she _won't_ believe it!" "no, i won't," said the old lady with a little nod and a smile, "so, put the money in your pocket, for you're an honest boy." "vell, it's pleasant to 'ear that, any'ow," returned bobby, placing the silver coin in a vest pocket which was always kept in repair for coins of smaller value. "where do you live, boy? i should like to come and see you." "my residence, marm, ain't a mansion in the vest-end. no, nor yet a willa in the subarbs. i'm afear'd, marm, that i live in a district that ain't quite suitable for the likes of you to wisit. but--" here bobby paused, for at the moment his little friend tim lumpy recurred to his memory, and a bright thought struck him. "well, boy, why do you pause?" "i was on'y thinkin', marm, that if you wants to befriend us poor boys-- they calls us waifs an' strays an' all sorts of unpurlite names--you've on'y got to send a sov, or two to miss annie macpherson, 'ome of hindustry, commercial street, spitalfields, an' you'll be the means o' doin' a world o' good--as i 'eard a old gen'l'm with a white choker on say the wery last time i was down there 'avin' a blow out o' bread an' soup." "i know the lady and the institution well, my boy," said the old lady, "and will act on your advice, but--" ere she finished the sentence bobby frog had turned and fled at the very top of his speed. "stop! stop! stop!" exclaimed the old lady in a weakly shout. but the "remarkable boy" would neither stop nor stay. he had suddenly caught sight of a policeman turning into the lane, and forthwith took to his heels, under a vague and not unnatural impression that if that limb of the law found him in possession of a half-crown he would refuse to believe his innocence with as much obstinacy as the little old lady had refused to believe his guilt. on reaching home he found his mother alone in a state of amused agitation which suggested to his mind the idea of old tom. "wot, bin at it again, mother?" "no, no, bobby, but somethin's happened which amuses me much, an' i can't keep it to myself no longer, so i'll tell it to you, bobby." "fire away, then, mother, an' remember that the law don't compel no one to criminate hisself." "you know, bob, that a good while ago our matty disappeared. i saw that the dear child was dyin' for want o' food an' warmth an' fresh air, so i thinks to myself, `why shouldn't i put 'er out to board wi' rich people for nothink?'" "a wery correct notion, an' cleverer than i gave you credit for. i'm glad to ear it too, for i feared sometimes that you'd bin an' done it." "oh! bobby, how could you ever think that! well, i put the baby out to board with a family of the name of twitter. now it seems, all unbeknown to me, mrs twitter is a great helper at the george yard ragged schools, where our hetty has often seen her; but as we've bin used never to speak about the work there, as your father didn't like it, of course i know'd nothin' about mrs twitter bein' given to goin' there. well, it seems she's very free with her money and gives a good deal away to poor people." (she's not the only one, thought the boy.) "so what does the bible-nurse do when she hears about poor hetty's illness but goes off and asks mrs twitter to try an' git her a situation." "`oh! i know hetty,' says mrs twitter at once, `that nice girl that teaches one o' the sunday-school classes. send her to me. i want a nurse for our baby,' that's for matty, bob--" "what! _our_ baby!" exclaimed the boy with a sudden blaze of excitement. "yes--our baby. she calls it _hers_!" "well, now," said bobby, after recovering from the fit of laughter and thigh-slapping into which this news had thrown him, "if this don't beat cockfightin' all to nuffin'! why, mother, hetty'll know baby the moment she claps eyes on it." "of course she will," said mrs frog; "it is really very awkward, an' i can't think what to do. i'm half afraid to tell hetty." "oh! don't tell her--don't tell her," cried the boy, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous glee. "it'll be sich fun! if i 'ad on'y the chance to stand be'ind a door an' see the meetin' i wouldn't exchange it--no not for a feed of pork sassengers an' suet pud'n. i must go an' tell this to tim lumpy. it'll bust 'im--that's my on'y fear, but i must tell 'im wotever be the consikences." with this stern resolve, to act regardless of results, bob frog went off in search of his little friend, whose departure for canada had been delayed, from some unknown cause, much to bob's satisfaction. he found tim on his way to the beehive, and was induced not only to go with him, but to decide, finally, to enter the institution as a candidate for canada. being well-known, both as to person and circumstances, he was accepted at once; taken in, washed, cropped, and transformed as if by magic. chapter sixteen. sir richard visits the beehive, and sees many surprising things. "my dear mrs loper," said mrs twitter over a cup of tea, "it is very kind of you to say so, and i really do think you are right, we have done full justice to our dear wee mita. who would ever have thought, remembering the thin starved sickly child she was the night that sam brought her in, that she would come to be such a plump, rosy, lovely child? i declare to you that i feel as if she were one of my own." "she is indeed a very lovely infant," returned mrs loper. "don't you think so, mrs larrabel?" the smiling lady expanded her mouth, and said, "very." "but," continued mrs twitter, "i really find that the entire care of her is too much for me, for, although dear mary assists me, her studies require to be attended to, and, do you know, babies interfere with studies dreadfully. not that i have time to do much in that way at present. i think the bible is the only book i really study now, so, you see, i've been thinking of adding to our establishment by getting a new servant;--a sort of nursery governess, you know,--a cheap one, of course. sam quite agrees with me, and, as it happens, i know a very nice little girl just now--a very very poor girl--who helps us so nicely on sundays in george yard, and has been recommended to me as a most deserving creature. i expect her to call to-night." "be cautious, mrs twitter," said mrs loper. "these _very_ poor girls from the slums of whitechapel are sometimes dangerous, and, excuse me, rather dirty. of course, if you know her, that is some security, but i would advise you to be very cautious." "thank you, my dear," said mrs twitter, "i usually am very cautious, and will try to be so on this occasion. i mean her to be rather a sort of nursery governess than a servant.--that is probably the girl." she referred to a rather timid knock at the front door. in another second the domestic announced hetty frog, who entered with a somewhat shy air, and seemed fluttered at meeting with unexpected company. "come in, hetty, my dear; i'm glad to see you. my friends here know that you are a helper in our sunday-schools. sit down, and have a cup of tea. you know why i have sent for you?" "yes, mrs twitter. it--it is very kind. our bible-nurse told me, and i shall be so happy to come, because--but i fear i have interrupted you. i--i can easily come back--" "no interruption at all, my dear. here, take this cup of tea--" "and a crumpet," added mrs larrabel, who sympathised with the spirit of hospitality. "yes, take a crumpet, and let me hear about your last place." poor hetty, who was still very weak from her recent illness, and would gladly have been excused sitting down with two strangers, felt constrained to comply, and was soon put at her ease by the kindly tone and manner of the hostess. she ran quickly over the chief points of her late engagements, and roused, without meaning to do so, the indignation of the ladies by the bare mention of the wages she had received for the amount of work done. "well, my dear," said the homely mrs twitter, "we won't be so hard on you here. i want you to assist me with my sewing and darning--of which i have a very great deal--and help to take care of baby." "very well, ma'am," said hetty, "when do you wish me to begin my duties?" "oh! to-morrow--after breakfast will do. it is too late to-night. but before you go, i may as well let you see the little one you are to have charge of. i hear she is awake." there could be no doubt upon that point, for the very rafters of the house were ringing at the moment with the yells which issued from an adjoining room. "come this way, hetty." mrs loper and mrs larrabel, having formed a good opinion of the girl, looked on with approving smiles. the smiles changed to glances of surprise, however, when hetty, having looked on the baby, uttered a most startling scream, while her eyes glared as though she saw a ghostly apparition. seizing the baby with unceremonious familiarity, hetty struck mrs twitter dumb by turning it on its face, pulling open its dress, glancing at a bright red spot on its back, and uttering a shriek of delight as she turned it round again, and hugged it with violent affection, exclaiming, "oh! my blessed matty!" "the child's name is not matty; it is mita," said mrs twitter, on recovering her breath. "what _do_ you mean, girl?" "her name is _not_ mita, it is matty," returned hetty, with a flatness of contradiction that seemed impossible in one so naturally gentle. mrs twitter stood, aghast--bereft of the power of speech or motion. mrs loper and mrs larrabel were similarly affected. they soon recovered, however, and exclaimed in chorus, "what _can_ she mean?" "forgive me, ma'am," said hetty, still holding on to baby, who seemed to have an idea that she was creating a sensation of some sort, without requiring to yell, "forgive my rudeness, ma'am, but i really couldn't help it, for this is my long-lost sister matilda." "sister matilda!" echoed mrs loper. "long-lost sister matilda!" repeated mrs larrabel. "this--is--your--long-lost sister matilda," rehearsed mrs twitter, like one in a dream. the situation was rendered still more complex by the sudden entrance of mr twitter and his friend crackaby. "what--what--what's to do _now_, mariar?" "sister matilda!" shouted all three with a gasp. "lunatics, every one of 'em," murmured crackaby. it is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add that a full explanation ensued when the party became calmer; that mrs twitter could not doubt the veracity of hetty frog, but suspected her sanity; that mrs frog was sent for, and was recognised at once by mr twitter as the poor woman who had asked him such wild and unmeaning questions the night on which he had found the baby; and that mr and mrs twitter, mrs loper, mrs larrabel, and crackaby came to the unanimous conclusion that they had never heard of such a thing before in the whole course of their united lives--which lives, when united, as some statisticians would take a pride in recording, formed two hundred and forty-three years! poor mrs twitter was as inconsolable at the loss of her baby as mrs frog was overjoyed at the recovery of hers. she therefore besought the latter to leave little mita, _alias_ matty, with her just for one night longer-- only one night--and then she might come for her in the morning, for, you know, it would have been cruel to remove the child from her warm crib at that hour to a cold and comfortless lodging. of course mrs frog readily consented. if mrs frog had known the events that lay in the womb of the next few hours, she would sooner have consented to have had her right-hand cut off than have agreed to that most reasonable request. but we must not anticipate. a few of our _dramatis personae_ took both an active and an inactive part in the events of these hours. it is therefore imperative that we should indicate how some of them came to be in that region. about five of the clock in the afternoon of the day in question, sir richard brandon, his daughter and idol diana, and his young friend stephen welland, sat in the dining-room of the west-end mansion concluding an early and rather hasty dinner. that something was pending was indicated by the fact that little di sat accoutred in her hat and cloak. "we shall have to make haste," said sir richard, rising, "for i should not like to be late, and it is a long drive to whitechapel." "when do they begin?" asked welland. "they have tea at six, i believe, and then the meeting commences at seven, but i wish to be early that i may have a short conversation with one of the ladies of the home." "oh! it will be so nice, and such fun to see the dear little boys. how many are going to start for canada, to-night, papa?" "about fifty or sixty, i believe, but i'm not sure. they are sent off in batches of varying size from time to time." "is the demand for them so great?" asked welland, "i should have thought that canadian farmers and others would be afraid to receive into their dwellings what is often described as the scum of the london streets." "they were afraid at first, i am told, but soon discovered that the little fellows who came from miss macpherson's home had been subjected to such good training and influences before leaving that they almost invariably turned out valuable and trustworthy workmen. no doubt there are exceptions in this as in every other case, but the demand is, it seems, greater than the supply. it is, however, a false idea that little waifs and strays, however dirty or neglected, are in any sense the scum of london. youth, in all circumstances, is cream, and only turns into scum when allowed to stagnate or run to waste. come, now, let us be off. mr seaward, the city missionary, is to meet us after the meeting, and show you and me something of those who have fallen very low in the social scale. brisbane, who is also to be at the meeting, will bring di home. by the way, have you heard anything yet about that poor comrade and fellow-clerk of yours--twitter, i think, was his name-- who disappeared so suddenly?" "nothing whatever. i have made inquiries in all directions--for i had a great liking for the poor fellow. i went also to see his parents, but they seemed too much cut up to talk on the subject at all, and knew nothing of his whereabouts." "ah! it is a very sad case--very," said sir richard, as they all descended to the street. "we might, perhaps, call at their house to-night in passing." entering a cab, they drove away. from the foregoing conversation the reader will have gathered that the party were about to visit the beehive, or home of industry, and that sir richard, through the instrumentality of little di and the city missionary, had actually begun to think about the poor! it was a special night at the beehive. a number of diamonds with some of their dust rubbed off--namely, a band of little boys, rescued from the streets and from a probable life of crime, were to be assembled there to say farewell to such friends as took an interest in them. the hive had been a huge warehouse. it was now converted, with but slight structural alteration, into a great centre of light in that morally dark region, from which emanated gospel truth and christian influence, and in which was a refuge for the poor, the destitute, the sin-smitten, and the sorrowful. not only poverty, but sin-in-rags, was sure of help in the beehive. it had been set agoing to bring, not the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. when sir richard arrived he found a large though low-roofed room crowded with people, many of whom, to judge from their appearance, were, like himself, diamond-seekers from the "west-end," while others were obviously from the "east-end," and had the appearance of men and women who had been but recently unearthed. there were also city missionaries and other workers for god in that humble-looking hall. among them sat mr john seaward and george brisbane, esquire. placing di and welland near the latter, sir richard retired to a corner where one of the ladies of the establishment was distributing tea to all comers. "where are your boys, may i ask?" said the knight, accepting a cup of tea. "over in the left corner," answered the lady. "you can hardly see them for the crowd, but they will stand presently." at that moment, as if to justify her words, a large body of boys rose up, at a sign from the superintending genius of the place, and began to sing a beautiful hymn in soft, tuneful voices. it was a goodly array of dusty diamonds, and a few of them had already begun to shine. "surely," said sir richard, in a low voice, "these cannot be the ragged, dirty little fellows you pick up in the streets?" "indeed they are," returned the lady. "but--but they seem to me quite respectable and cleanly fellows, not at all like--why, how has the change been accomplished?" "by the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread, scissors, cast-off garments, and love." sir richard smiled. perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless, this statement embodied probably the whole truth. when an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is presented, at the refuge, or is "picked up" in the streets, his case is promptly and carefully inquired into. if he seems a suitable character--that is, one who is _utterly_ friendless and parentless, or whose parents are worse than dead to him--he is received into the home, and the work of transformation--both of body and soul--commences. first he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. his elfin locks are cropped close and cleansed. his rags are burned, and a new suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which, perhaps, he is fed. then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is internally sound in wind and limb. if passed by the doctor, he receives a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. in all of these various processes love is the guiding principle of the operator-- love to god and love to the boy. he is made to understand, and to _feel_, that it is in the name of jesus, for the love of jesus, and in the spirit of jesus--not of mere philanthropy--that all this is done, and that his body is cared for _chiefly_ in order that the soul may be won. little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been the tender mercies of the world--and that the roughest part of the world--should become somewhat "respectable," as sir richard put it, under such new and blessed influences. suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise-- "oh! oh! there is _my_ boy!" a hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor di, shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on welland's ready arm. her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed--but it was true. there stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little bobby frog, with his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered, and himself looking as meek and "respectable" as the best of them. beside him stood his fast friend tim lumpy. bobby was not, however, one of the emigrant band. having joined only that very evening, and been cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as a privileged guest. tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time. at the sound of the sweet little voice, bobby frog's meek look was replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken. we do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail, interesting though they were. other matters of importance claim our attention. it will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of "the sailors' welcome home" and of the "strangers' rest," both of ratcliff highway, also from the chief of the ragged schools in george yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is. before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered: "it is time to go, sir richard." it was the voice of john seaward. following him, sir richard and welland went out. it had grown dark by that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy labyrinths into which seaward quickly conducted his followers. "you have no occasion to fear, sir," said the missionary, observing that sir richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. "it would, indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of 'em know me. i remember being told by one of the greatest roughs i ever knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had _many_ and many a time knocked down and robbed people. that man is now an earnest christian, and, like paul, goes about preaching the name which he once despised." at the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said, "good-night, sir." "was that the man you were speaking of?" asked sir richard, quickly. "oh no, sir," replied seaward with a laugh; "that's what he was once like, indeed, but not what he is like now. his voice is no longer gruff. take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we will go into this lodging. it is one of the common lodging-houses of london, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the police. each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and cook his food. if he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he becomes entitled to a free night on sundays." the room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some extent. it was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew, the view of the whole room was unobstructed. at the inner angle of the room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily roasted whole at it. gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave a sufficient light to the place. this was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and miserable set of men that the world can produce. they were not all of one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly many of them were. the place was the last refuge of the destitute; the social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless, thriftless, or criminal finally descends. sir richard and welland had put on their oldest great-coats and shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now mingled. if they had worn the same garments for months or years without washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places, they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not otherwise. some of the people, however, were noisy enough. many of them were smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. those who had once been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the tables, and apparently slept. for sleeping in earnest there were rooms overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering, which, however, the law compelled to be clean. one of the rooms contained seventy such beds. little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few glanced at them with indifference. it was otherwise in regard to seaward. he received many a "good-night, sir," as he passed, and a kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems. one of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors' voices, with an expression of mingled surprise and alarm. it was sammy twitter, with hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. he seemed the very embodiment of woe and degradation. on seeing his old friend welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless. welland had not observed him. "you would scarcely believe it, sir," said the missionary, in a low tone; "nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here. you will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only home." "heaven help me!" said sir richard; "my friend brisbane has often told me of this, but i have never quite believed it--certainly never realised it--until to-night. and even now i can hardly believe it. i see no one here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name." "do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand side, sitting alone?" asked seaward, turning his back to the spot indicated. "yes." "well, that is a clergyman. i know him well. you would never guess it from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were to speak to him." "that i will not do," returned the other firmly. "you are right, sir," said seaward, "i would not advise that you should--at least not here, or now. i have been in the habit of reading a verse or two of the word and giving them a short address sometimes about this hour. have you any objection to my doing so now? it won't detain us long." "none in the world; pray, my good sir, don't let me disarrange your plans." "perhaps," added the missionary, "you would say a few words to--" "no, no," interrupted the other, quickly; "no, they are preaching to _me_ just now, mr seaward, a very powerful sermon, i assure you." during the foregoing conversation young welland's thoughts had been very busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when he had laughed at sam twitter's blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how far his conduct on that occasion had helped sam in his downward career. "my friends," said the missionary aloud, "we will sing a hymn." some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. they were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the "service." the missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he knew that his "labour in the lord" should not be in vain. he pulled out two small hymn-books and handed one to sir richard, the other to welland. sir richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a religious service in a low lodging-house! the worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note. however, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by john seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful heart to work it. young welland also could sing well, and joined heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of "the wonderful words of life." after a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his hearers that there really was hope for the hopeless, and rest for the weary in jesus christ. when he had finished, stephen welland surprised him, as well as his friend sir richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming, in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention: "friends, i had no intention of saying a word when i came here, but, god forgive me, i have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and warn you against giving way to strong drink. i had--nay, i _have_--a dear friend who once put on the blue ribbon." here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend's terrible fall, and wound up with the warning: "fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good resolves--beware of strong drink. i know not where my comrade is now. he may be dead, but i think not, for he has a mother and father who pray for him without ceasing. still better, as you have just been told, he has an advocate with god, who is able and willing to save him to the uttermost. forgive me, mr seaward, for speaking without being asked. i could not help it." "no need to ask forgiveness of me, mr welland. you have spoken on the lord's side, and i have reason to thank you heartily." while this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy pale and his head bowed down. on reaching the door, he rushed out like one who expected to be pursued. it was young sam twitter. few of the inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten. "we must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house," said seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street, "for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met with as they stagger home." "no; i have had enough for one night," said sir richard. "i shall not be able to digest it all in a hurry. i'll go home by the metropolitan, if you will conduct me to the nearest station." "come along, then. this way." they had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street, when they observed a poor woman sitting on a door-step. it was mrs frog, who had returned to sit on the old familiar spot, and watch the shadows on the blind, either from the mere force of habit, or because this would probably be the last occasion on which she could expect to enjoy that treat. a feeling of pity entered sir richard's soul as he looked on the poorly clothed forlorn creature. he little knew what rejoicing there was in her heart just then--so deceptive are appearances at times! he went towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman turned the corner, and approached. "why, giles scott!" exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which giles shook respectfully, "you seem to be very far away from your beat to-night." "no, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. i have exchanged into the city, for reasons that i need not mention." at this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart full of unsold vegetables and rubbish. "hallo! you big blue-coat-boy," he cried politely to giles, "wot d'ye call _that_?" giles had caught sight of "_that_" at the same moment, and darted across the street. "why, it's fire!" he shouted. "run, young fellow, you know the fire-station!" "_i_ know it," shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and disappeared, while number beat a thundering tattoo on samuel twitter's front door. chapter seventeen. things become too hot for the twitter family. before the thunder of giles scott's first rap had ceased, a pane of glass in one of the lower windows burst, and out came dense volumes of smoke, with a red tongue or two piercing them here and there, showing that the fire had been smouldering long, and had got well alight. it was followed by an appalling shriek from mrs frog, who rushed forward shouting, "oh! baby! baby!" "hold her, sir," said giles to young welland, who sprang forward at the same moment. welland was aware of the immense value of prompt obedience, and saw that giles was well fitted to command. he seized mrs frog and held her fast, while giles, knowing that there was no time to stand on ceremony, stepped a few paces back, ran at the door with all his might, and applied his foot with his great weight and momentum to it. as the oak is shattered by the thunderbolt, so was samuel twitter's door by the foot of number . but the bold constable was met by a volume of black smoke which was too much even for him. it drove him back half suffocated, while, at the same time, it drove the domestic out of the house into his arms. she had rushed from the lower regions just in time to escape death. a single minute had not yet elapsed, and only half-a-dozen persons had assembled, with two or three policemen, who instantly sought to obtain an entrance by a back door. "hold her, sir richard," said welland, handing the struggling mrs frog over. the knight accepted the charge, while welland ran to the burning house, which seemed to be made of tinder, it blazed up so quickly. giles was making desperate efforts to enter by a window which vomited fire and smoke that defied him. an upper window was thrown open, and samuel twitter appeared in his night-dress, shouting frantically. stephen welland saw that entrance or egress by lower window or staircase was impossible. he had been a noted athlete at school. there was an iron spout which ran from the street to the roof. he rushed to that, and sprang up more like a monkey than a man. "pitch over blankets!" roared giles, as the youth gained a window of the first floor, and dashed it in. "the donkey-cart!" shouted welland, in reply, and disappeared. giles was quick to understand. he dragged--almost lifted--the donkey and cart on to the pavement under the window where mr twitter stood waving his hands and yelling. the poor man had evidently lost his reason for the time, and was fit for nothing. a hand was seen to grasp his neck behind, and he disappeared. at the same moment a blanket came fluttering down, and welland stood on the window-sill with mrs twitter in his arms, and a sheet of flame following. the height was about thirty feet. the youth steadied himself for one moment, as if to take aim, and dropped mrs twitter, as he might have dropped a bundle. she not only went into the vegetable cart, with a bursting shriek, but right through it, and reached the pavement unhurt--though terribly shaken! four minutes had not yet elapsed. the crowd had thickened, and a dull rumbling which had been audible for half a minute increased into a mighty roar as the fiery-red engine with its brass-helmeted heroes dashed round the corner, and pulled up with a crash, seeming to shoot the men off. these swarmed, for a few seconds, about the hose, water plug, and nozzles. at the same instant the great fire-escape came rushing on the scene, like some antediluvian monster, but by that time giles had swept away the debris of the donkey-cart, with mrs twitter imbedded therein, and had stretched the blanket with five powerful volunteers to hold it. "jump, sir, jump!" he cried. samuel twitter jumped--unavoidably, for welland pushed him--just as the hiss and crackle of the water-spouts began. he came down in a heap, rebounded like india-rubber, and was hurled to one side in time to make way for one of his young flock. "the children! the children!" screamed mrs twitter, disengaging herself from the vegetables. "where are they?" asked a brass-helmeted man, quietly, as the head of the escape went crashing through an upper window. "the top floor! all of 'em there!--top flo-o-o-r!" "no--no-o-o! some on the second fl-o-o-or!" yelled mr twitter. "i say _top--floo-o-o-r_," repeated the wife. "you forget--baby--ba-i-by!" roared the husband. a wild shriek was mrs twitter's reply. the quiet man with the brass helmet had run up the escape quite regardless of these explanations. at the same time top windows were opened up, and little night-dressed figures appeared at them all, apparently making faces, for their cries were drowned in the shouts below. from these upper windows smoke was issuing, but not yet in dense, suffocating volumes. the quiet man of the escape entered a second floor window through smoke and flames as though he were a salamander. the crowd below gave him a lusty cheer, for it was a great surging crowd by that time; nevertheless it surged within bounds, for a powerful body of police kept it back, leaving free space for the firemen to work. a moment or two after the quiet fireman had entered, the night-dressed little ones disappeared from the other windows and congregated, as if by magic, at the window just above the head of the escape. almost simultaneously the fly-ladder of the escape--used for upper windows--was swung out, and when the quiet fireman had got out on the window-sill with little lucy in his arms and little alice held by her dress in his teeth, its upper rounds touched his knees, as if with a kiss of recognition! he descended the fly-ladder, and shoved the two terrified little ones somewhat promptly into the canvas shoot, where a brother fireman was ready to pilot them together xxx to the ground. molly being big had to be carried by herself, but willie and fred went together. during all this time poor mrs frog had given herself over to the one idea of screaming "baby! bai-e-by!" and struggling to get free from the two policemen, who had come to the relief of sir richard, and who tenderly restrained her. in like manner mr and mrs twitter, although not absolutely in need of restraint, went about wringing their hands and making such confused and contradictory statements that no one could understand what they meant, and the firemen quietly went on with their work quite regardless of their existence. "policeman!" said sam twitter, looking up in the face of number , with a piteous expression, and almost weeping with vexation, "_nobody_ will listen to me. i would go up myself, but the firemen won't let me, and my dear wife has such an idea of sticking to truth that when they ask her, `is your baby up there?' she yells `no, not _our_ baby,' and before she can explain she gasps, and then i try to explain, and that so bamboozles--" "_is_ your baby there?" demanded number vehemently. "yes, it is!" cried twitter, without the slightest twinge of conscience. "what room?" "that one," pointing to the left side of the house on the first floor. just then part of the roof gave way and fell into the furnace of flame below, leaving visible the door of the very room to which twitter had pointed. a despairing groan escaped him as he saw it, for now all communication seemed cut off, and the men were about to pull the escape away to prevent its being burned, while, more engines having arrived, something like a mountain torrent of water was descending on the devoted house. "stop, lads, a moment," said giles, springing upon the escape. he might have explained to the firemen what he had learned, but that would have taken time, and every second just then was of the utmost value. he was up on the window-sill before they well understood what he meant to do. the heat was intolerable. a very lake of fire rolled beneath him. the door of the room pointed out by twitter was opposite--fortunately on the side furthest from the centre of fire, but the floor was gone. only two great beams remained, and the one giles had to cross was more than half burned through. it was a fragile bridge on which to pass over an abyss so terrible. but heroes do not pause to calculate. giles walked straight across it with the steadiness of a rope-dancer, and burst in the scarred and splitting door. the smoke here was not too dense to prevent his seeing. one glance revealed baby frog lying calmly in her crib as if asleep. to seize her, wrap her in the blankets, and carry her to the door of the room, was the work of a moment, but the awful abyss now lay before him, and it seemed to have been heated seven times. the beam, too, was by that time re-kindling with the increased heat, and the burden he carried prevented giles from seeing, and balancing himself so well. he did not hesitate, but he advanced slowly and with caution. a dead silence fell on the awe-stricken crowd, whose gaze was concentrated now on the one figure. the throbbing of the engines was heard distinctly when the roar of excitement was thus temporarily checked. as giles moved along, the beam cracked under his great weight. the heat became almost insupportable. his boots seemed to shrivel up and tighten round his feet. "he's gone! no, he's not!" gasped some of the crowd, as the tall smoke and flame encompassed him, and he was seen for a moment to waver. it was a touch of giddiness, but by a violent impulse of the will he threw it off, and at the same time bounded to the window, sending the beam, which was broken off by the shock, hissing down into the lake of fire. the danger was past, and a loud, continuous, enthusiastic cheer greeted gallant number as he descended the chute with the baby in his arms, and delivered it alive and well, and more solemn than ever, to its mother--its _own_ mother! when sir richard brandon returned home that night, he found it uncommonly difficult to sleep. when, after many unsuccessful efforts, he did manage to slumber, his dreams re-produced the visions of his waking hours, with many surprising distortions and mixings--one of which distortions was, that all the paupers in the common lodging-houses had suddenly become rich, while he, sir richard, had as suddenly become poor, and a beggar in filthy rags, with nobody to care for him, and that these enriched beggars came round him and asked him, in quite a facetious way, "how he liked it!" next morning, when the worthy knight arose, he found his unrested brain still busy with the same theme. he also found that he had got food for meditation, and for discussion with little di, not only for some time to come, but, for the remainder of his hours. chapter eighteen. the ocean and the new world. doctors tell us that change of air is usually beneficial, often necessary, nearly always agreeable. relying on the wisdom of this opinion, we propose now to give the reader who has followed us thus far a change of air--by shifting the scene to the bosom of the broad atlantic--and thus blow away the cobwebs and dust of the city. those who have not yet been out upon the great ocean cannot conceive-- and those who have been out on it may not have seen--the splendours of a luminous fog on a glorious summer morning. the prevailing ideas in such circumstances are peace and liquidity! the only solid object visible above, below, or around, being the ship on which you stand. everything else is impalpable, floating, soft, and of a light, bright, silvery grey. the air is warm, the sea is glass; it is circular, too, like a disc, and the line where it meets with the sky is imperceptible. your little bark is the centre of a great crystal ball, the limit of which is immensity! as we have said, peace, liquidity, luminosity, softness, and warmth prevail everywhere, and the fog, or rather, the silvery haze--for it is dry and warm as well as bright--has the peculiar effect of deadening sound, so that the quiet little noises of ship-board rather help than destroy the idea of that profound tranquillity which suggests irresistibly to the religious mind the higher and sweeter idea of "the peace of god." but, although intensely still, there is no suggestion of death in such a scene. it is only that of slumber! for the ocean undulates even when at rest, and sails flap gently even when there is no wind. besides this, on the particular morning to which we call attention, a species of what we may call "still life" was presented by a mighty iceberg--a peaked and towering mountain of snowy white and emerald blue--which floated on the sea not a quarter of a mile off on the starboard bow. real life also was presented to the passengers of the noble bark which formed the centre of this scene, in the form of gulls floating like great snowflakes in the air, and flocks of active little divers rejoicing unspeakably on the water. the distant cries of these added to the harmony of nature, and tended to draw the mind from mere abstract contemplation to positive sympathy with the joys of other animals besides one's-self. the only discordant sounds that met the ears of those who voyaged in the bark _ocean queen_ were the cacklings of a creature in the hen-coops which had laid an egg, or thought it had done so, or wished to do so, or, having been sea-sick up to that time, perhaps, endeavoured to revive its spirits by recalling the fact that it once did so, and might perhaps do so again! by the way there was also one other discord, in the form of a pugnacious baby, which whimpered continuously, and, from some unaccountable cause, refused to be comforted. but that was a discord which, as in some musical chords, seemed rather to improve the harmony-- at least in its mother's ears. the _ocean queen_ was an emigrant ship. in her capacious hull, besides other emigrants, there were upwards of seventy diamonds from the beehive in spitalfields on their way to seek their fortunes in the lands that are watered by such grand fresh-water seas as lakes superior and huron and michigan and ontario, and such rivers as the ottawa and the saint lawrence. robert frog and tim lumpy were among those boys, so changed for the better in a few months that, as the former remarked, "their own mothers wouldn't know 'em," and not only improved in appearance, but in spirit, ay, and even to some small extent in language--so great had been the influence for good brought to bear on them by christian women working out of love to god and souls. "ain't it lovely?" said tim. "splendacious!" replied bob. the reader will observe that we did not say the language had, at that time, been _much_ improved! only to some small extent. "i've seen pictur's of 'em, bob," said tim, leaning his arms on the vessel's bulwarks as he gazed on the sleeping sea, "w'en a gen'l'man came to george yard with a magic lantern, but i never thought they was so big, or that the holes in 'em was so blue." "nor i neither," said bob. they referred, of course, to the iceberg, the seams and especially the caverns in which graduated from the lightest azure to the deepest indigo. "why, i do believe," continued bobby, as the haze grew a little thinner, "that there's rivers of water runnin' down its sides, just like as if it was a mountain o' loaf-sugar wi' the fire-brigade a-pumpin' on it. an' see, there's waterfalls too, bigger i do b'lieve than the one i once saw at a pantomime." "ay, an' far prettier too," said tim. bobby frog did not quite see his way to assent to that. the waterfalls on the iceberg were bigger, he admitted, than those in the pantomime, but then, there was not so much glare and glitter around them. "an' i'm fond of glare an' glitter," he remarked, with a glance at his friend. "so am i, bob, but--" at that instant the dinner-bell rang, and the eyes of both glittered-- they almost glared--as they turned and made for the companion-hatch, bob exclaiming, "ah, that's the thing that _i'm_ fond of; glare an' glitter's all wery well in its way, but it can't 'old a candle to grub!" timothy lumpy seemed to have no difference of opinion with his friend on that point. indeed the other sixty-eight boys seemed to be marvellously united in sentiment about it, for, without an exception, they responded to that dinner-bell with a promptitude quite equal to that secured by military discipline! there was a rattling of feet on decks and ladderways for a few seconds, and then all was quiet while a blessing was asked on the meal. for many years miss annie macpherson has herself conducted parties of such boys to canada, but the party of which we write happened to be in charge of a gentleman whom we will name the guardian; he was there to keep order, of course, but in truth this was not a difficult matter, for the affections of the boys had been enlisted, and they had already learned to practise self-restraint. that same day a whale was seen. it produced a sensation among the boys that is not easily described. considerately, and as if on purpose, it swam round the ship and displayed its gigantic proportions; then it spouted as though to show what it could do in that line, and then, as if to make the performance complete and reduce the westminster aquarium to insignificance, it tossed its mighty tail on high, brought it down with a clap like thunder, and finally dived into its native ocean followed by a yell of joyful surprise from the rescued waifs and strays. there were little boys, perhaps even big ones, in that band, who that day received a lesson of faith from the whale. it taught them that pictures, even extravagant ones, represent great realities. the whale also taught them a lesson of error, as was proved by the remark of one waif to a brother stray:-- "i say, piggie, it ain't 'ard _now_, to b'lieve that the whale swallered jonah." "you're right, konky." strange interlacing of error with error traversed by truth in this sublunary sphere! piggie was wrong in admitting that. konky was right, for, as every one knows, or ought to know, it was not a whale at all that swallowed jonah, but a "great fish" which was "prepared" for the purpose. but the voyage of the _ocean queen_ was not entirely made up of calms, and luminous fogs, and bergs, and whales, and food. a volume would be required to describe it all. there was much foul weather as well as fair, during which periods a certain proportion of the little flock, being not very good sailors, sank to depths of misery which they had never before experienced--not even in their tattered days--and even those of them who had got their "sea-legs on," were not absolutely happy. "i say, piggie," asked the waif before mentioned of his chum, (or dosser), konky, "'ow long d'ee think little mouse will go on at his present rate o' heavin'?" "i can't say," answered the stray, with a serious air; "i ain't studied the 'uman frame wery much, but i should say, 'e'll bust by to-morrow if 'e goes on like 'e's bin doin'." a tremendous sound from little mouse, who lay in a neighbouring bunk, seemed to justify the prophecy. but little mouse did not "bust." he survived that storm, and got his sea-legs on before the next one. the voyage, however, was on the whole propitious, and, what with school-lessons and bible-lessons and hymn-singing, and romping, and games of various kinds instituted and engaged in by the guardian, the time passed profitably as well as pleasantly, so that there were, perhaps, some feelings of regret when the voyage drew to an end, and they came in sight of that great land which the norsemen of old discovered; which columbus, re-discovering, introduced to the civilised world, and which, we think, ought in justice to have been named columbia. and now a new era of life began for those rescued waifs and strays-- those east-end diamonds from the great london fields. canada--with its mighty lakes and splendid rivers, its great forests and rich lands, its interesting past, prosperous present, and hopeful future--opened up to view. but there was a shadow on the prospect, not very extensive, it is true, but dark enough to some of them just then, for here the hitherto united band was to be gradually disunited and dispersed, and friendships that had begun to ripen under the sunshine of christian influence were to be broken up, perhaps for ever. the guardian, too, had to be left behind by each member as he was severed from his fellows and sent to a new home among total strangers. still there were to set off against these things several points of importance. one of these was that the guardian would not part with a single boy until the character of his would-be employer was inquired into, and his intention to deal kindly and fairly ascertained. another point was, that each boy, when handed over to an employer, was not to be left thereafter to care for himself, but his interests were to be watched over and himself visited at intervals by an emissary from the beehive, so that he would not feel friendless or forsaken even though he should have the misfortune to fall into bad hands. the guardian also took care to point out that, amid all these leave-takings and partings, there was one who would "never leave nor forsake" them, and to whom they were indebted for the first helping hand, when they were in their rags and misery, and forsaken of man. at last the great gulf of saint lawrence was entered, and here the vessel was beset with ice, so that she could not advance at a greater rate than two or three miles an hour for a considerable distance. soon, however, those fields of frozen sea were passed, and the end of the voyage drew near. then was there a marvellous outbreak of pens, ink, and paper, for the juvenile flock was smitten with a sudden desire to write home before going to the interior of the new land. it was a sad truth that many of the poor boys had neither parent nor relative to correspond with, but these were none the less eager in their literary work, for had they not miss macpherson and the ladies of the home to write to? soon after that, the party landed at the far-famed city of quebec, each boy with his bag containing change of linen, and garments, a rug, etcetera; and there, under a shed, thanks were rendered to god for a happy voyage, and prayer offered for future guidance. then the guardian commenced business. he had momentous work to do. the home of industry and its work are well-known in canada. dusty diamonds sent out from the beehive were by that time appreciated, and therefore coveted; for the western land is vast, and the labourers are comparatively few. people were eager to get the boys, but the character of intending employers had to be inquired into, and this involved care. then the suitability of boys to situations had to be considered. however, this was finally got over, and a few of the reclaimed waifs were left at quebec. this was the beginning of the dispersion. "i don't like it at all," said bobby frog to his friend tim lumpy, that evening in the sleeping car of the railway train that bore them onward to montreal; "they'll soon be partin' you an' me, an' that'll be worse than wallerin' in the mud of vitechapel." bobby said this with such an expression of serious anxiety that his little friend was quite touched. "i hope not, bob," he replied. "what d'ee say to axin' our guardian to put us both into the same sitivation?" bobby thought that this was not a bad idea, and as they rolled along these two little waifs gravely discussed their future prospects. it was the same with many others of the band, though not a few were content to gaze out of the carriage windows, pass a running commentary on the new country, and leave their future entirely to their guardian. soon, however, the busy little tongues and brains ceased to work, and ere long were steeped in slumber. at midnight the train stopped, and great was the sighing and groaning, and earnest were the requests to be let alone, for a batch of the boys had to be dropped at a town by the way. at last they were aroused, and with their bags on their shoulders prepared to set off under a guide to their various homes. soon the sleepiness wore off, and, when the train was about to start, the reality of the parting seemed to strike home, and the final handshakings and good wishes were earnest and hearty. thus, little by little, the band grew less and less. montreal swallowed up a good many. while there the whole band went out for a walk on the heights above the reservoir with their guardian, guided by a young scotsman. "that's a jolly-lookin' 'ouse, tim," said bob frog to his friend. the scotsman overheard the remark. "yes," said he, "it is a nice house, and a good jolly man owns it. he began life as a poor boy. and do you see that other villa--the white one with the green veranda among the trees? that was built by a man who came out from england just as you have done, only without anybody to take care of him; god however cared for him, and now you see his house. he began life without a penny, but he had three qualities which will make a man of any boy, no matter what circumstances he may be placed in. he was truthful, thorough, and trustworthy. men knew that they might believe what he said, be sure of the quality of what he did, and could rely upon his promises. there was another thing much in his favour, he was a total abstainer. drink in this country ruins hundreds of men and women, just as in england. shun drink, boys, as you would a serpent." "i wouldn't shun a drink o' water just now if i could get it," whispered bobby to his friend, "for i'm uncommon thirsty." at this point the whole band were permitted to disperse in the woods, where they went about climbing and skipping like wild squirrels, for these novel sights, and scents, and circumstances were overwhelmingly delightful after the dirt and smoke of london. when pretty well breathed--our waifs were grown too hardy by that time to be easily exhausted--the guardian got them to sit round him and sing that sweet hymn: "shall we gather at the river?" and tears bedewed many eyes, for they were reminded that there were yet many partings in store before that gathering should take place. and now the remnant of the band--still a goodly number--proceeded in the direction of the far west. all night they travelled, and reached belleville, where they were received joyfully in the large house presented as a free gift to miss macpherson by the council of the county of hastings. it served as a "distributing home" and centre in canada for the little ones till they could be placed in suitable situations, and to it they might be returned if necessary, or a change of employer required it. this belleville home was afterwards burned to the ground, and rebuilt by sympathising canadian friends. but we may not pause long here. the far west still lies before us. our gradually diminishing band must push on. "it's the sea!" exclaimed the boy who had been named little mouse, _alias_ robbie dell. "no, it ain't," said konky, who was a good deal older; "it's a lake." "ontario," said the guardian, "one of the noble fresh-water seas of canada." onward, ever onward, is the watchword just now--dropping boys like seed-corn as they go! woods and fields, and villas, and farms, and waste-lands, and forests, and water, fly past in endless variety and loveliness. "a panoramy without no end!" exclaimed tim lumpy after one of his long gazes of silent admiration. "_wot_ a diff'rence!" murmured bobby frog. "wouldn't mother an' daddy an' hetty like it, just!" the city of toronto came in sight. the wise arrangements for washing in canadian railway-cars had been well used by the boys, and pocket-combs also. they looked clean and neat and wonderfully solemn as they landed at the station. but their fame had preceded them. an earnest crowd came to see the boys, among whom were some eager to appropriate. "i'll take that lad," said one bluff farmer, stepping forward, and pointing to a boy whose face had taken his fancy. "and i want six boys for our village," said another. "i want one to learn my business," said a third, "and i'll learn him as my own son. here are my certificates of character from my clergyman and the mayor of the place i belong to." "i like the looks of that little fellow," said another, pointing to bob frog, "and should like to have him." "does you, my tulip?" said bobby, whose natural tendency to insolence had not yet been subdued; "an' don't you vish you may get 'im!" it is but justice to bobby, however, to add, that this remark was made entirely to himself. to all these flattering offers the guardian turned a deaf ear, until he had passed through the crowd and marshalled his boys in an empty room of the depot. then inquiries were made; the boys' characters and capacities explained; suitability on both sides considered; the needs of the soul as well as the body referred to and pressed; and, finally, the party went on its way greatly reduced in numbers. thus they dwindled and travelled westward until only our friend bobby, tim, konky, and little mouse remained with the guardian, whose affections seemed to intensify as fewer numbers were left on which they might concentrate. soon the little mouse was caught. a huge backwoods farmer, who could have almost put him in his coat-pocket, took a fancy to him. the fancy seemed to be mutual, for, after a tearful farewell to the guardian, the mouse went off with the backwoodsman quite contentedly. then konky was disposed of. a hearty old lady with a pretty daughter and a slim son went away with him in triumph, and the band was reduced to two. "i do believe," whispered bob to tim, "that he's goin' to let us stick together after all." "you are right, my dear boy," said the guardian, who overheard the remark. "a family living a considerable distance off wishes to have two boys. i have reason to believe that they love the lord jesus, and will treat you well. so, as i knew you wished to be together, i have arranged for your going to live with them." as the journey drew to a close, the guardian seemed to concentrate his whole heart on the little waifs whom he had conducted so far, and he gave them many words of counsel, besides praying with and for them. at last, towards evening, the train rushed into a grand pine-wood. it soon rushed out of it again and entered a beautiful piece of country which was diversified by lakelet and rivulet, hill and vale, with rich meadow lands in the hollows, where cattle browsed or lay in the evening sunshine. the train drew up sharply at a small road-side station. there was no one to get into the cars there, and no one to get out except our two waifs. on the road beyond stood a wagon with a couple of spanking bays in it. on the platform stood a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, short-legged farmer with a face like the sun, and a wide-awake on the back of his bald head. "mr merryboy, i presume?" said the guardian, descending from the car. "the same. glad to see you. are these my boys?" he spoke in a quick, hearty, off-hand manner, but bobby and tim hated him at once, for were they not on the point of leaving their last and best friend, and was not this man the cause? they turned to their guardian to say farewell, and, even to their own surprise, burst into tears. "god bless you, dear boys," he said, while the guard held open the door of the car as if to suggest haste; "good-bye. it won't be _very_ long i think before i see you again. farewell." he sprang into the car, the train glided away, and the two waifs stood looking wistfully after it with the first feelings of desolation that had entered their hearts since landing in canada. "my poor lads," said mr merryboy, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, "come along with me. home is only six miles off, and i've got a pair of spanking horses that will trundle us over in no time." the tone of voice, to say nothing of "home" and "spanking horses," improved matters greatly. both boys thought, as they entered the wagon, that they did not hate him quite so much as at first. the bays proved worthy of their master's praise. they went over the road through the forest in grand style, and in little more than half an hour landed bobby and tim at the door of their canadian home. it was dark by that time, and the ruddy light that shone in the windows and that streamed through the door as it opened to receive them seemed to our waifs like a gleam of celestial light. chapter nineteen. at home in canada. the family of mr merryboy was a small one. besides those who assisted him on the farm--and who were in some cases temporary servants--his household consisted of his wife, his aged mother, a female servant, and a small girl. the latter was a diamond from the london diggings, who had been imported the year before. she was undergoing the process of being polished, and gave promise of soon becoming a very valuable gem. it was this that induced her employer to secure our two masculine gems from the same diggings. mrs merryboy was a vigorous, hearty, able-bodied lady, who loved work very much for the mere exercise it afforded her; who, like her husband, was constitutionally kind, and whose mind was of that serious type which takes concern with the souls of the people with whom it has to do as well as with their bodies. hence she gave her waif a daily lesson in religious and secular knowledge; she reduced work on the sabbath-days to the lowest possible point in the establishment, and induced her husband, who was a little shy as well as bluff and off-hand, to institute family worship, besides hanging on her walls here and there sweet and striking texts from the word of god. old mrs merryboy, the mother, must have been a merry girl in her youth; for, even though at the age of eighty and partially deaf, she was extremely fond of a joke, practical or otherwise, and had her face so seamed with the lines of appreciative humour, and her nutcracker mouth so set in a smile of amiable fun, and her coal-black eyes so lit up with the fires of unutterable wit, that a mere glance at her stirred up your sources of comicality to their depths, while a steady gaze usually resulted in a laugh, in which she was sure to join with an apparent belief that, whatever the joke might be, it was uncommonly good. she did not speak much. her looks and smiles rendered speech almost unnecessary. her figure was unusually diminutive. little martha, the waif, was one of those mild, reticent, tiny things that one feels a desire to fondle without knowing why. her very small face was always, and, as bobby remarked, awfully grave, yet a ready smile must have lurked close at hand somewhere, for it could be evoked by the smallest provocation at any time, but fled the instant the provoking cause ceased. she seldom laughed, but when she did the burst was a hearty one, and over immediately. her brown hair was smooth, her brown eyes were gentle, her red mouth was small and round. obedience was ingrained in her nature. original action seemed never to have entered her imagination. she appeared to have been born with the idea that her sphere in life was to do as she was directed. to resist and fight were to her impossibilities. to be defended and kissed seemed to be her natural perquisites. yet her early life had been calculated to foster other and far different qualities, as we shall learn ere long. tim lumpy took to this little creature amazingly. she was so little that by contrast he became quite big, and felt so! when in martha's presence he absolutely felt big and like a lion, a roaring lion capable of defending her against all comers! bobby was also attracted by her, but in a comparatively mild degree. on the morning after their arrival the two boys awoke to find that the windows of their separate little rooms opened upon a magnificent prospect of wood and water, and that, the partition of their apartment consisting of a single plank-wall, with sundry knots knocked out, they were not only able to converse freely, but to peep at each other awkwardly--facts which they had not observed the night before, owing to sleepiness. "i say, tim," said bob, "you seem to have a jolly place in there." "first-rate," replied tim, "an' much the same as your own. i had a good squint at you before you awoke. isn't the place splendacious?" "yes, tim, it is. i've been lookin' about all the mornin' for adam an' eve, but can't see 'em nowhere." "what d'ee mean?" "why, that we've got into the garden of eden, to be sure." "oh! stoopid," returned tim, "don't you know that they was both banished from eden?" "so they was. i forgot that. well, it don't much matter, for there's a prettier girl than eve here. don't you see her? martha, i think they called her--down there by the summer-'ouse, feedin' the hanimals, or givin' 'em their names." "there you go again, you ignorant booby," said tim; "it wasn't eve as gave the beasts their names. it was adam." "an' wot's the difference, i should like to know? wasn't they both made _one_ flesh? however, i think little martha would have named 'em better if she'd bin there. what a funny little thing she is!" "funny!" returned tim, contemptuously; "she's a _trump_!" during the conversation both boys had washed and rubbed their faces till they absolutely shone like rosy apples. they also combed and brushed their hair to such an extent that each mass lay quite flat on its little head, and bade fair to become solid, for the guardian's loving counsels had not been forgotten, and they had a sensation of wishing to please him even although absent. presently the house, which had hitherto been very quiet, began suddenly to resound with the barking of a little dog and the noisy voice of a huge man. the former rushed about, saying "good-morning" as well as it could with tail and tongue to every one, including the household cat, which resented the familiarity with arched back and demoniacal glare. the latter stamped about on the wooden floors, and addressed similar salutations right and left in tones that would have suited the commander of an army. there was a sudden stoppage of the hurricane, and a pleasant female voice was heard. "i say, bob, that's the missus," whispered tim through a knot-hole. then there came another squall, which seemed to drive madly about all the echoes in the corridors above and in the cellars below. again the noise ceased, and there came up a sound like a wheezy squeak. "i say, tim, that's the old 'un," whispered bob through the knot-hole. bob was right, for immediately on the wheezy squeak ceasing, the hurricane burst forth in reply: "yes, mother, that's just what i shall do. you're always right. i never knew such an old thing for wise suggestions! i'll set both boys to milk the cows after breakfast. the sooner they learn the better, for our new girl has too much to do in the house to attend to that; besides, she's either clumsy or nervous, for she has twice overturned the milk-pail. but after all, i don't wonder, for that red cow has several times showed a desire to fling a hind-leg into the girl's face, and stick a horn in her gizzard. the boys won't mind that, you know. pity that martha's too small for the work; but she'll grow--she'll grow." "yes, she'll grow, franky," replied the old lady, with as knowing a look as if the richest of jokes had been cracked. the look was, of course, lost on the boys above, and so was the reply, because it reached them in the form of a wheezy squeak. "oh! i say! did you ever! milk the keows! on'y think!" whispered bob. "ay, an' won't i do it with my mouth open too, an' learn 'ow to send the stream up'ards!" said tim. their comments were cut short by the breakfast-bell; at the same time the hurricane again burst forth: "hallo! lads--boys! youngsters! are you up?--ah! here you are. good-morning, and as tidy as two pins. that's the way to get along in life. come now, sit down. where's martha? oh! here we are. sit beside me, little one." the hurricane suddenly fell to a gentle breeze, while part of a chapter of the bible and a short prayer were read. then it burst forth again with redoubled fury, checked only now and then by the unavoidable stuffing of the vent-hole. "you've slept well, dears, i hope?" said mrs merryboy, helping each of our waifs to a splendid fried fish. sitting there, partially awe-stricken by the novelty of their surroundings, they admitted that they had slept well. "get ready for work then," said mr merryboy, through a rather large mouthful. "no time to lose. eat--eat well--for there's lots to do. no idlers on brankly farm, i can tell you. and we don't let young folk lie abed till breakfast-time every day. we let you rest this morning, bob and tim, just by way of an extra refresher before beginning. here, tuck into the bread and butter, little man, it'll make you grow. more tea, susy," (to his wife). "why, mother, you're eating nothing--nothing at all. i declare you'll come to live on air at last." the old lady smiled benignly, as though rather tickled with that joke, and was understood by the boys to protest that she had eaten more than enough, though her squeak had not yet become intelligible to them. "if you do take to living on air, mother," said her daughter-in-law, "we shall have to boil it up with a bit of beef and butter to make it strong." mrs merryboy, senior, smiled again at this, though she had not heard a word of it. obviously she made no pretence of hearing, but took it as good on credit, for she immediately turned to her son, put her hand to her right ear, and asked what susy said. in thunderous tones the joke was repeated, and the old lady almost went into fits over it, insomuch that bob and tim regarded her with a spice of anxiety mingled with their amusement, while little martha looked at her in solemn wonder. twelve months' experience had done much to increase martha's love for the old lady, but it had done nothing to reduce her surprise; for martha, as yet, did not understand a joke. this, of itself, formed a subject of intense amusement to old mrs merryboy, who certainly made the most of circumstances, if ever woman did. "have some more fish, bob," said mrs merryboy, junior. bob accepted more, gratefully. so did tim, with alacrity. "what sort of a home had you in london, tim?" asked mrs merryboy. "well, ma'am, i hadn't no home at all." "no home at all, boy; what do you mean? you must have lived somewhere." "oh yes, ma'am, i always lived somewheres, but it wasn't nowheres in partikler. you see i'd neither father nor mother, an' though a good old 'ooman did take me in, she couldn't purvide a bed or blankets, an' her 'ome was stuffy, so i preferred to live in the streets, an' sleep of a night w'en i couldn't pay for a lodgin', in empty casks and under wegitable carts in covent garden market, or in empty sugar 'ogsheads. i liked the 'ogsheads best w'en i was 'ungry, an' that was most always, 'cause i could sometimes pick a little sugar that was left in the cracks an' 'oles, w'en they 'adn't bin cleaned out a'ready. also i slep' under railway-arches, and on door-steps. but sometimes i 'ad raither disturbed nights, 'cause the coppers wouldn't let a feller sleep in sitch places if they could 'elp it." "who are the `coppers?'" asked the good lady of the house, who listened in wonder to tim's narration. "the coppers, ma'am, the--the--pl'eece." "oh! the police?" "yes, ma'am." "where in the world did they expect you to sleep?" asked mrs merryboy with some indignation. "that's best known to themselves, ma'am," returned tim; "p'raps we might 'ave bin allowed to sleep on the thames, if we'd 'ad a mind to, or on the hatmosphere, but never 'avin' tried it on, i can't say." "did you lead the same sort of life, bob?" asked the farmer, who had by that time appeased his appetite. "pretty much so, sir," replied bobby, "though i wasn't quite so 'ard up as tim, havin' both a father and mother as well as a 'ome. but they was costly possessions, so i was forced to give 'em up." "what! you don't mean that you forsook them?" said mr merryboy with a touch of severity. "no, sir, but father forsook me and the rest of us, by gettin' into the stone jug--wery much agin' my earnest advice,--an' mother an' sister both thought it was best for me to come out here." the two waifs, being thus encouraged, came out with their experiences pretty freely, and made such a number of surprising revelations, that the worthy backwoodsman and his wife were lost in astonishment, to the obvious advantage of old mrs merryboy, who, regarding the varying expressions of face around her as the result of a series of excellent jokes, went into a state of chronic laughter of a mild type. "have some more bread and butter, and tea, bob and some more sausage," said mrs merryboy, under a sudden impulse. bob declined. yes, that london street-arab absolutely declined food! so did tim lumpy! "now, my lads, are you quite sure," said mr merryboy, "that you've had enough to eat?" they both protested, with some regret, that they had. "you couldn't eat another bite if you was to try, could you?" "vell, sir," said bob, with a spice of the `old country' insolence strong upon him, "there's no sayin' what might be accomplished with a heffort, but the consikences, you know, might be serious." the farmer received this with a thunderous guffaw, and, bidding the boys follow him, went out. he took them round the farm buildings, commenting on and explaining everything, showed them cattle and horses, pigs and poultry, barns and stables, and then asked them how they thought they'd like to work there. "uncommon!" was bobby frog's prompt reply, delivered with emphasis. "fust rate!" was tim lumpy's sympathetic sentiment. "well, then, the sooner we begin the better. d'you see that lot of cord-wood lying tumbled about in the yard, bob?" "yes, sir." "you go to work on it, then, and pile it up against that fence, same as you see this one done. an' let's see how neatly you'll do it. don't hurry. what we want in canada is not so much to see work done quickly as done well." taking tim to another part of the farm, he set him to remove a huge heap of stones with a barrow and shovel, and, leaving them, returned to the house. both boys set to work with a will. it was to them the beginning of life; they felt that, and were the more anxious to do well in consequence. remembering the farmer's caution, they did not hurry, but tim built a cone of stones with the care and artistic exactitude of an architect, while bobby piled his billets of wood with as much regard to symmetrical proportion as was possible in the circumstances. about noon they became hungry, but hunger was an old foe whom they had been well trained to defy, so they worked on utterly regardless of him. thereafter a welcome sound was heard--the dinner-bell! having been told to come in on hearing it, they left work at once, ran to the pump, washed themselves, and appeared in the dining-room looking hot, but bright and jovial, for nothing brightens the human countenance so much, (by gladdening the heart), as the consciousness of having performed duty well. from the first this worthy couple, who were childless, received the boys into their home as sons, and on all occasions treated them as such. martha mild, (her surname was derived from her character), had been similarly received and treated. "well, lads," said the farmer as they commenced the meal--which was a second edition of breakfast, tea included, but with more meat and vegetables--"how did you find the work? pretty hard--eh?" "oh! no, sir, nothink of the kind," said bobby, who was resolved to show a disposition to work like a man and think nothing of it. "ah, good. i'll find you some harder work after dinner." bobby blamed himself for having been so prompt in reply. "the end of this month, too, i'll have you both sent to school," continued the farmer with a look of hearty good-will, that tim thought would have harmonised better with a promise to give them jam-tart and cream. "it's vacation time just now, and the schoolmaster's away for a holiday. when he comes back you'll have to cultivate mind as well as soil, my boys, for i've come under an obligation to look after your education, and even if i hadn't, i'd do it to satisfy my own conscience." the _couleur-de-rose_ with which bob and tim had begun to invest their future faded perceptibly on hearing this. the viands, however, were so good that it did not disturb them very much. they ate away heartily, and in silence. little martha was not less diligent, for she had been busy all the morning in the dairy and kitchen, playing, rather than working, at domestic concerns, yet in her play doing much real work, and acquiring useful knowledge, as well as an appetite. after dinner the farmer rose at once. he was one of those who find it unnecessary either to drink or smoke after meals. indeed, strong drink and tobacco were unknown in his house, and, curiously enough, nobody seemed to be a whit the worse for their absence. there were some people, indeed, who even went the length of asserting that they were all the better for their absence! "now for the hard work i promised you, boys; come along." chapter twenty. occupations at brankly farm. the farmer led our two boys through a deliciously scented pine-wood at the rear of his house, to a valley which seemed to extend and widen out into a multitude of lesser valleys and clumps of woodland, where lakelets and rivulets and waterfalls glittered in the afternoon sun like shields and bands of burnished silver. taking a ball of twine from one of his capacious pockets, he gave it to bobby along with a small pocket-book. "have you got clasp-knives?" he asked. "yes, sir," said both boys, at once producing instruments which were very much the worse for wear. "very well, now, here is the work i want you to do for me this afternoon. d'you see the creek down in the hollow yonder--about half a mile off?" "yes, yes, sir." "well, go down there and cut two sticks about ten feet long each; tie strings to the small ends of them; fix hooks that you'll find in that pocket-book to the lines. the creek below the fall is swarming with fish; you'll find grasshoppers and worms enough for bait if you choose to look for 'em. go, and see what you can do." a reminiscence of ancient times induced bobby frog to say "walke-e-r!" to himself, but he had too much wisdom to say it aloud. he did, however, venture modestly to remark-- "i knows nothink about fishin', sir. never cotched so much as a eel in--" "when i give you orders, _obey_ them!" interrupted the farmer, in a tone and with a look that sent bobby and tim to the right-about double-quick. they did not even venture to look back until they reached the pool pointed out, and when they did look back mr merryboy had disappeared. "vell, i say," began bobby, but tim interrupted him with, "now, bob, you _must_ git off that 'abit you've got o' puttin' v's for double-u's. wasn't we told by the genl'm'n that gave us a partin' had-dress that we'd never git on in the noo world if we didn't mind our p's and q's? an' here you are as regardless of your v's as if they'd no connection wi' the alphabet." "pretty cove _you_ are, to find fault wi' _me_," retorted bob, "w'en you're far wuss wi' your haitches--a-droppin' of 'em w'en you shouldn't ought to, an' stickin' of 'em in where you oughtn't should to. go along an' cut your stick, as master told you." the sticks were cut, pieces of string were measured off, and hooks attached thereto. then grasshoppers were caught, impaled, and dropped into a pool. the immediate result was almost electrifying to lads who had never caught even a minnow before. bobby's hook had barely sunk when it was seized and run away with so forcibly as to draw a tremendous "hi! hallo!! ho!!! i've got 'im!!!" from the fisher. "hoy! hurroo!!" responded tim, "so've i!!!" both boys, blazing with excitement, held on. the fish, bursting, apparently, with even greater excitement, rushed off. "he'll smash my stick!" cried bob. "the twine's sure to go!" cried tim. "hold o-o-on!" this command was addressed to his fish, which leaped high out of the pool and went wriggling back with a heavy splash. it did not obey the order, but the hook did, which came to the same thing. "a ten-pounder if he's a' ounce," said tim. "you tell that to the horse--hi ho! stop that, will you?" but bobby's fish was what himself used to be--troublesome to deal with. it would not "stop that." it kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with tim's fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together. "splendid!" exclaimed bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; "at 'em again!" at them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. at all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so. at the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little martha mild appeared on the scene. she had been sent, she said, to work with them. "to play with us, you mean," suggested tim. "no, father said work," the child returned simply. "it's jolly work, then! but i say, old 'ooman, d'you call mr merryboy father?" asked bob in surprise. "yes, i've called him father ever since i came." "an' who's your real father?" "i have none. never had one." "an' your mother?" "never had a mother either." "well, you air a curiosity." "hallo! bob, don't forget your purliteness," said tim. "come, mumpy; father calls you mumpy, doesn't he?" "yes." "then so will i. well, mumpy, as i was goin' to say, you may come an' _work_ with my rod if you like, an' we'll make a game of it. we'll play at work. let me see where shall we be?" "in the garden of eden," suggested bob. "the very thing," said tim; "i'll be adam an' you'll be eve, mumpy." "very well," said martha with ready assent. she would have assented quite as readily to have personated jezebel or the witch of endor. "and i'll be cain," said bobby, moving his line in a manner that was meant to be persuasive. "oh!" said martha, with much diffidence, "cain was wicked, wasn't he?" "well, my dear eve," said tim, "bobby frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen cains. in fact, you can't cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness." "bah! go to bed," said cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble. as for eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity. "hi! cain's got another bite," cried adam, while eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way. "hallo! got 'im again!" shouted tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; "out o' the way, eve, else you'll get shoved into gihon." "euphrates, you stoopid!" said cain, turning his beehive training to account. having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait. but tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a "real wopper," which gave him some trouble to land. when landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to eve's satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when adam renewed the bait. now, bobby frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give tim a gentle push behind. for tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged. "tim," said bob. "adam, if you please--or call me father, if you prefer it!" "well, then, father, since i haven't got an abel to kill, i'm only too 'appy to have a adam to souse." saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off! eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. he quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor eve's inexpressible relief. "what d'ee mean by that, bob?" demanded tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion. "cain, if you please--or call me son, if you prefers it," cried bob, as he ran out of his friend's way; "but don't be waxy, father adam, with your own darlin' boy. i couldn't 'elp it. you'd ha' done just the same to me if you'd had the chance. come, shake 'ands on it." tim lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. he grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand. "i forgive you, cain, but please go an' look for abel an' pitch into _him_ w'en next you git into that state o' mind, for it's agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so." saying which, tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed. "wot a remarkable difference," said bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, "'tween these 'ere diggin's an' commercial road, or george yard, or ratcliff 'ighway. ain't it, tim?" before tim could reply, mr merryboy came forward. "capital!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; "well done, lads, well done. we shall have a glorious supper to-night. now, mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. she'll want your help. ha!" he added, turning to the boys, as martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, "i thought you'd soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. it's not difficult here. and what do you think of martha, my boys?" "she's a trump!" said bobby, with decision. "fust rate!" said tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise. "quite true, lads; though why you should say `fust' instead of first-rate, tim, is more than i can understand. however, you'll get cured of such-like queer pronunciations in course of time. now, i want you to look on little mumpy as your sister, and she's a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor--london. has she told you anything about herself yet?" "nothin', sir," answered bob, "'cept that when we axed--asked, i mean--i ax--ask your parding--she said she'd neither father nor mother." "ah! poor thing; that's too true. come, pick up your fish, and i'll tell you about her as we go along." the boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home. "martha came to us only last year," said the farmer. "she's a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, i suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. no one knows who was her father or mother. she was `found' in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, i suppose, in her sales, and i doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. of course the man's lodging was given up the day he left it. as the man had been a misanthrope--that's a hater of everybody, lads--nobody cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. the consequence was, that poor martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. she was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circumstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn't know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was martha. "the widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of london low life that you have so much of, you rascals! the lady gave the child the pet surname of mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. but poor martha was not destined to have this mother very long. after a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. thus little mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but god found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the refuge--the beehive as you call it--which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the pounds required to pay her passage and outfit to canada. they kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that i wanted a little lass here, they sent her to me, for which i thank god, for she's a dear little child." the tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the london mines and thus given to him. reader, they are prolific mines, those east-end mines of london! if you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners! need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich canadian soil? it need not! one of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between bobby frog and mrs merryboy, senior. it seemed as if that jovial old lady and our london waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm. there was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. he had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. the old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations. and bobby _was_ satisfied. so, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the new world. chapter twenty one. treats of altered circumstances and blue-ribbonism. once again we return to the great city, and to mrs frog's poor lodging. but it is not poor now, for the woman has at last got riches and joy-- such riches as the ungodly care not for, and a joy that they cannot understand. it is not all riches and joy, however. the master has told us that we shall have "much tribulation." what then? are we worse off than the unbelievers? do _they_ escape the tribulation? it is easy to prove that the christian has the advantage of the worldling, for, while both have worries and tribulation without fail, the one has a little joy along with these--nay, much joy if you choose--which, however, will end with life, if not before; while the other has joy unspeakable and full of glory, which will increase with years, and end in absolute felicity! let us look at mrs frog's room now, and listen to her as she sits on one side of a cheerful fire, sewing, while hetty sits on the other side, similarly occupied, and matty, _alias_ mita, lies in her crib sound asleep. it is the same room, the same london atmosphere, which no moral influence will ever purify, and pretty much the same surroundings, for mrs frog's outward circumstances have not altered much in a worldly point of view. the neighbours in the court are not less filthy and violent. one drunken nuisance has left the next room, but another almost as bad has taken his place. nevertheless, although not altered much, things are decidedly improved in the poor pitiful dwelling. whereas, in time past, it used to be dirty, now it is clean. the table is the same table, obviously, for you can see the crack across the top caused by ned's great fist on that occasion when, failing rather in force of argument while laying down the law, he sought to emphasise his remarks with an effective blow; but a craftsman has been at work on the table, and it is no longer rickety. the chair, too, on which mrs frog sits, is the same identical chair which missed the head of bobby frog that time he and his father differed in opinion on some trifling matter, and smashed a panel of the door; but the chair has been to see the doctor, and its constitution is stronger now. the other chair, on which hetty sits, is a distinct innovation. so is baby's crib. it has replaced the heap of straw which formerly sufficed, and there are two low bedsteads in corners which once were empty. besides all this there are numerous articles of varied shape and size glittering on the walls, such as sauce-pans and pot-lids, etcetera, which are made to do ornamental as well as useful duty, being polished to the highest possible degree of brilliancy. everywhere there is evidence of order and care, showing that the inmates of the room are somehow in better circumstances. let it not be supposed that this has been accomplished by charity. mrs samuel twitter is very charitable, undoubtedly. there can be no question as to that; but if she were a hundred times more charitable than she is, and were to give away a hundred thousand times more money than she does give, she could not greatly diminish the vast poverty of london. mrs twitter had done what she could in this case, but that was little, in a money point of view, for there were others who had stronger claims upon her than mrs frog. but mrs twitter had put her little finger under mrs frog's chin when her lips were about to go under water, and so, figuratively, she kept her from drowning. mrs twitter had put out a hand when mrs frog tripped and was about to tumble, and thus kept her from falling. when mrs frog, weary of life, was on the point of rushing once again to london bridge, with a purpose, mrs twitter caught the skirt of her ragged robe with a firm but kindly grasp and held her back, thus saving her from destruction; but, best of all, when the poor woman, under the influence of the spirit of god, ceased to strive with her maker and cried out earnestly, "what must i do to be saved?" mrs twitter grasped her with both hands and dragged her with tender violence towards the fold, but not quite into it. for mrs twitter was a wise, unselfish woman, as well as good. at a certain point she ceased to act, and said, "mrs frog, go to your own hetty, and she will tell you what to do." and mrs frog went, and hetty, with joyful surprise in her heart, and warm tears of gratitude in her eyes, pointed her to jesus the saviour of mankind. it was nothing new to the poor woman to be thus directed. it is nothing new to almost any one in a christian land to be pointed to christ; but it _is_ something new to many a one to have the eyes opened to see, and the will influenced to accept. it was so now with this poor, self-willed, and long-tried--or, rather, long-resisting--woman. the spirit's time had come, and she was made willing. but now she had to face the difficulties of the new life. conscience--never killed, and now revived--began to act. "i must work," she said, internally, and conscience nodded approval. "i must drink less," she said, but conscience shook her head. "it will be very hard, you see," she continued, apologetically, "for a poor woman like me to get through a hard day without just _one_ glass of beer to strengthen me." conscience did all her work by looks alone. she was naturally dumb, but she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at the mention of _one_ glass of beer she frowned so that poor mrs frog almost trembled. at this point hetty stepped into the conversation. all unaware of what had been going on in her mother's mind, she said, suddenly, "mother, i'm going to a meeting to-night; will you come?" mrs frog was quite willing. in fact she had fairly given in and become biddable like a little child,--though, after all, that interesting creature does not always, or necessarily, convey the most perfect idea of obedience! it was a rough meeting, composed of rude elements, in a large but ungilded hall in whitechapel. the people were listening intently to a powerful speaker. the theme was strong drink. there were opponents and sympathisers there. "it is the greatest curse, i think, in london," said the speaker, as hetty and her mother entered. "bah!" exclaimed a powerful man beside whom they chanced to sit down. "i've drank a lot on't an' don't find it no curse, at all." "silence," cried some in the audience. "i tell 'ee it's all barn wot 'e's talkin'," said the powerful man. "put 'im out," cried some of the audience. but the powerful man had a powerful look, and a great bristly jaw, and a fierce pair of eyes which had often been blackened, and still bore the hues of the last fight; no one, therefore, attempted to put him out, so he snapped his fingers at the entire meeting, said, "bah!" again, with a look of contempt, and relapsed into silence, while the speaker, heedless of the slight interruption, went on. "why, it's a blue ribbon meeting, hetty," whispered mrs frog. "yes, mother," whispered hetty in reply, "that's one of its names, but its real title, i heard one gentleman say, is the gospel-temperance association, you see, they're very anxious to put the gospel first and temperance second; temperance bein' only one of the fruits of the gospel of jesus." the speaker went on in eloquent strains pleading the great cause--now drawing out the sympathies of his hearers, then appealing to their reason; sometimes relating incidents of deepest pathos, at other times convulsing the audience with touches of the broadest humour, insomuch that the man who said "bah!" modified his objections to "pooh!" and ere long came to that turning-point where silence is consent. in this condition he remained until reference was made by the speaker to a man-- not such a bad fellow too, when sober--who, under the influence of drink, had thrown his big shoe at his wife's head and cut it so badly that she was even then--while he was addressing them--lying in hospital hovering between life and death. "that's me!" cried the powerful man, jumping up in a state of great excitement mingled with indignation, while he towered head and shoulders above the audience, "though how _you_ come for to 'ear on't beats me holler. an' it shows 'ow lies git about, for she's _not_ gone to the hospital, an' it wasn't shoes at all, but boots i flung at 'er, an' they only just grazed 'er, thank goodness, an' sent the cat flyin' through the winder. so--" a burst of laughter with mingled applause and cheers cut off the end of the sentence and caused the powerful man to sit down in much confusion, quite puzzled what to think of it all. "my friend," said the speaker, when order had been restored, "you are mistaken. i did not refer to you at all, never having seen or heard of you before, but there are too many men like you--men who would be good men and true if they would only come to the saviour, who would soon convince them that it is wise to give up the drink and put on the blue ribbon. let it not be supposed, my friends, that i say it is the _duty_ of every one to put on the blue ribbon and become a total abstainer. there are circumstances in which a `little wine' may be advisable. why, the apostle paul himself, when timothy's stomach got into a chronic state of disease which subjected him, apparently, to `frequent infirmities,' advised him to take a `little wine,' but he didn't advise him to take many quarts of beer, or numerous glasses of brandy and water, or oceans of old tom, or to get daily fuddled on the poisons which are sold by many publicans under these names. still less did paul advise poor dyspeptic timothy to become his own medical man and prescribe all these medicines to himself, whenever he felt inclined for them. yes, there are the old and the feeble and the diseased, who may, (observe i don't say who _do_, for i am not a doctor, but who _may_), require stimulants under medical advice. to these we do not speak, and to these we would not grudge the small alleviation to their sad case which may be found in stimulants; but to the young and strong and healthy we are surely entitled to say, to plead, and to entreat--put on the blue ribbon if you see your way to it. and by the young we mean not only all boys and girls, but all men and women in the prime of life, ay, and beyond the prime, if in good health. surely you will all admit that the young require no stimulants. are they not superabounding in energy? do they not require the very opposite--sedatives, and do they not find these in constant and violent muscular exercise?" with many similar and other arguments did the speaker seek to influence the mass of human beings before him, taking advantage of every idea that cropped up and every incident in the meeting that occurred to enforce his advice--namely, total abstinence for the young and the healthy-- until he had stirred them up to a state of considerable enthusiasm. then he said:-- "i am glad to see you enthusiastic. nothing great can be done without enthusiasm. you may potter along the even tenor of your way without it, but you'll never come to much good, and you'll never accomplish great things, without it. what is enthusiasm? is it not seeing the length, breadth, height, depth, and bearing of a good thing, and being zealously affected in helping to bring it about? there are many kinds of enthusiasts, though but one quality of enthusiasm. weak people show their enthusiasm too much on the surface. powerful folk keep it too deep in their hearts to be seen at all. what then, are we to scout it in the impulsive because too obvious; to undervalue it in the reticent because almost invisible? nay, let us be thankful for it in any form, for the _thing_ is good, though the individual's manner of displaying it may be faulty. let us hope that the too gushing may learn to clap on the breaks a little--a very little; but far more let us pray that the reticent and the self-possessed, and the oh!--dear--no--you'll--never-- catch--me--doing--that--sort--of--thing people, may be enabled to get up more steam. better far in my estimation the wild enthusiast than the self-possessed and self-sufficient cynic. just look at your gentlemanly cynic; good-natured very likely, for he's mightily pleased with himself and excessively wise in regard to all things sublunary. why, even he has enthusiasm, though not always in a good cause. follow him to the races. watch him while he sees the sleek and beautiful creatures straining every muscle, and his own favourite drawing ahead, inch by inch, until it bids fair to win. is _that_ our cynic, bending forward on his steed, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheek, and partly open mouth and quick-coming breath, and so forgetful of himself that he swings off his hat and gives vent to a lusty cheer as the favourite passes the winning-post? "but follow him still further. don't let him go. hold on to his horse's tail till we see him safe into his club, and wait there till he has dined and gone to the opera. there he sits, immaculate in dress and bearing, in the stalls. it is a huge audience. a great star is to appear. the star comes on--music such as might cause the very angels to bend and listen. "the sweet singer exerts herself; her rich voice swells in volume and sweeps round the hall, filling every ear and thrilling every heart, until, unable to restrain themselves, the vast concourse rises _en masse_, and, with waving scarf and kerchief, thunders forth applause! and what of our cynic? there he is, the wildest of the wild--for he happens to love music--shouting like a maniac and waving his hat, regardless of the fact that he has broken the brim, and that the old gentleman whose corns he has trodden on frowns at him with savage indignation. "yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and shall _we_ be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing with the demon drink to save men and women, (ourselves included, perhaps), from his clutches; racing with despair to place hope before the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with time to snatch the young out of the way of the destroyer before he lays hand on them; and singing--ay, shouting--songs of triumph and glory to god because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved; because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow; because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the new song. "some people tell us that these things are not true. others say they won't last. my friends, i know, and many of you know, that they _are_ true, and even if they were _not_ to last, have we not even now ground for praise? shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? but we don't admit that these things won't last. very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, `how long will it last?' if these objectors be now able to take note of the world's doings, they have their answer from father time himself; for does he not say, `christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' the blue ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. who will come now and put it on?" "i will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" he soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue. "hetty," whispered mrs frog in a low, timid voice, "i think i would like to put it on too." if the voice had been much lower and more timid, hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. she knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of god. "come along, mother," she said--but said no more, for her heart was too full. mrs frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast. thus did that poor woman begin her christian course with the fruit of self-denial. she then set about the work of putting her house in order. it was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, "lo! i am with you alway." in all her walk she found hetty a guardian angel. "i must work, hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am i to do with baby? there is no one to take charge of her when i go out." "i am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that i get such good pay from the lady i work for, but as you want to work, i can easily manage for baby. you know i've often wished to speak of the infant nursery in george yard. before you sent matty away i wanted you to send her there, but--" hetty paused. "go on, dear. i was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that it?" said mrs frog. "well, mother, it don't matter now, thank god. the infant nursery, you know, is a part of the institution there. the hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in london through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for--nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms--while the mothers are at work. they charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. they will keep matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it, mother?" "it will indeed, hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?" "yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! there is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother." mrs frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor! now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology. we return again to mrs frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with hetty. "i can't bear to think of 'im, hetty," said mrs frog. "you an' me sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. he's bin pretty bad to me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that, hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink." "yes, mother, i can, and, bless the lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. when is his time up?" "this day three weeks. the twelve months will be out then. we must pray for 'im, hetty." "yes, mother. i am always prayin' for him. you know that." there was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. they soon changed the subject to one more agreeable. "isn't bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said hetty, "and so well written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had so little schoolin'." "it just makes my heart sing," returned mrs frog. "read it again to me, hetty. i'll never tire o' hearin' it. i only wish it was longer." the poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in the writing. nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's heart. we shall therefore give it _verbatim et literatim_. brankly farm--kanada. "deer mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. o you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for kensintn gardings--wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals--wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my--ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus--all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun bobby." "isn't it beautiful?" said mrs frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband's return. "yes, mother. bless the people that sent 'im out to canada," said hetty, "for he would never have got on here." there came a tap to the door as she spoke, and mrs twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome. "i came, mrs frog," she said, accepting the chair--for there was even a third chair--which hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will be home again." good mrs twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's feelings by needless reference to jail. "i expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied mrs frog. "that will do nicely," returned mrs twitter. "you see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con--in getting men like ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of--of getting on in life, you understand?" "_yes_, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life," said mrs frog, sadly. "well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman--the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, mrs frog--which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as i happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the yard, to the mothers' meeting, i thought i'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send ned to me the moment he comes home." "i will, ma'am, and god bless you for thinkin' of us so much." "remember, now," said mrs twitter, impressively, "_before_ he has time to meet any of his old comrades. tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. i won't tell you what. that is my message to him. and now, how is my mita? oh! i need not ask. there she lies like a little angel!" (mrs twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "i wish i saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, mrs frog." mrs frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. she was thankful, however, to the good lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages. "ah!" sighed mrs twitter, "if we could only transport you all to canada--" "oh! ma'am," exclaimed mrs frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had _such_ a nice letter from our bobby. let her see it, hetty." "yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't quite understand yet the need for capital letters." "never mind, hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned mrs twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short." "yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said mrs frog, indulging in a truism. mrs twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint mrs frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. she sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which canada had received since it was discovered. "now, mind, send ned up _at once_," said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room. "yes, mrs twitter, i will; good-night." chapter twenty two. ned frog's experiences and sammy twitter's woes. but ned frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time. when discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her. it may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with ned of expressing his feelings. a growl was more common and more natural, considering his character. drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do. as he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. to become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. the saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. as he turned into commercial street, ned met number full in the face. he knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. guilty men usually over-reach themselves. giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front. in a retired spot ned examined his "find." it contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of mrs samuel twitter, written in ink and without any address. "you're in luck, ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. "now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere mrs s.t. lives, so you can't find 'er to return it to 'er. besides, it's more than likely she won't feel the want of it--w'ereas i feels in want of it wery much indeed. of course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first place, i refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, i 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so i don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, i'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an' 'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly--'ere goes!" having thus cleared his conscience, ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer. almost immediately afterwards he met an irishman, an old friend. "terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand. "hooroo! ned frog, sure i thought ye was in limbo!" "you thought right, terry; only half-an-hour out. come along, i'll stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. by the way, have you done that job yet?" "what job?" "why, the dynamite job, of course." "no, i've gi'n that up," returned the irishman with a look of contempt. "to tell you the honest truth, i don't believe that the way to right ireland is to blow up england. but there's an englishman you'll find at the swan an' anchor--a sneakin' blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink--he'll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. i'm off it." notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. he met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him. it was hetty, praying. the poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound. it was the voice of little matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds. ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes. "no peace there," he said, sternly. "prayin' an' squallin' don't suit me, so good-night to 'ee all." with that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return! "is that you, ned frog?" inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed. "no, 'tain't," said ned, fiercely, as he left the court. he went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. paying the requisite fourpence for the night's lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. it was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong. next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. he went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of dean and flower street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to ned's new home. having paid a week's rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer. while thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes' conversation with him outside. "ned," he said, "i'm glad i fell in with you, for i'm uncommon 'ard up just now." "i never lends money," said ned, brusquely turning away. "'old on, ned, i don't want yer money, bless yer. i wants to _give_ you money." "oh! that's quite another story; fire away, old man." "well, you see, i'm 'ard up, as i said, for a man to keep order in my place. the last man i 'ad was a good 'un, 'e was. six futt one in 'is socks, an' as strong as a 'orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than 'im come in to the 'all, an' they 'ad a row, an' my man got sitch a lickin' that he 'ad to go to hospital, an' 'e's been there for a week, an' won't be out, they say, for a month or more. now, ned, will you take the job? the pay's good an' the fun's considerable. so's the fightin', sometimes, but you'd put a stop to that you know. an', then, you'll 'ave all the day to yourself to do as you like." "i'm your man," said ned, promptly. thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of london are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them. one night ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow--a sort of book-stall on wheels--who was pushing his way through the crowded street. it was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with "bah!" and "pooh!" and had ended by putting on the blue ribbon. he had once been a comrade of ned frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him. "hallo! reggie north, can that be you?" north let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, "how are 'ee, old man? w'y you're lookin' well, close cropped an' comfortable, eh! livin' at her majesty's expense lately? where d'ee live now, ned? i'd like to come and see you." ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode. "but i say, north, how respectable you are! what's come over you? not become a travellin' bookseller, have you?" "that's just what i am, ned." "well, there's no accountin' for taste. i hope it pays." "ay, pays splendidly--pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better." "how's that?" asked ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; "oh! i see, bibles." "yes, ned, bibles, the word of god. will you buy one?" "no, thank 'ee," said ned, drily. "here, i'll make you a present o' one, then," returned north, thrusting a bible into the other's hand; "you can't refuse it of an old comrade. good-night. i'll look in on you soon." "you needn't trouble yourself," ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the bible after him, but checked himself. it was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way. the hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests! we do not mean to describe the proceedings. let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said-- "signor twittorini will now sing." the signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. there was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all _so natural_, as one half-tipsy woman remarked. so it was--intensely natural--for signor twittorini was no other than poor sammy twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk--as much with misery as with beer. the manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. as poor sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great italian singer in low society. but sammy had over-rated his own powers. after the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. when it had partially subsided, sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage. this was the climax! it brought down the house! never before had they seen such an actor. he was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an _encore_ with tremendous fervour, expecting that signor twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. but poor sammy did not respond. "i see,--you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and i've no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now, and stick to the programme." "i can't sing," said sammy, in passionate despair. "come, come, young feller, i don't like actin' _off_ the stage, an' the audience is gittin' impatient." "but i tell you i can't sing a note," repeated sam. "what! d'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?" "i wish i was!" cried poor sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands. "come now. you've joked enough. go on and do your part," said the puzzled manager. "but i tell you i'm _not_ joking. i couldn't sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!" it might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated--we know not--but the truth of what sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept. the manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that signor twittorini had met with a sudden disaster--not a very serious one-- which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening. this, with a very significant look and gesture from ned frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly. ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. he did so by the back door, and found sam still sitting on the door-step. "what's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him. "you've made a pretty mess of it to-night." "i couldn't help it--indeed i couldn't. perhaps i'll do better next time." "better! ha! ha! you couldn't ha' done better--if you'd on'y gone on. but why do ye sit there?" "because i've nowhere to go to." "there's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?" "yes, but i haven't got a single rap." "well, then, ain't there the casual ward? why don't you go there? you'll git bed and board for nothin' there." having put this question, and received no answer, ned turned away without further remark. hardened though ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. he turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but signor twittorini was gone. he had heard the manager's voice, and fled. a policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level. here he knocked with trembling hand. he was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread--quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses--so dead was the silence--each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. one of the trestles was empty. he was told he might appropriate it. "are they dead?" he asked, looking round with a shudder. "not quite," replied his jailer, with a short laugh, "but dead-beat most of 'em--tired out, i should say, and disinclined to move." sam twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again. in the morning sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation. so he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in london--depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow! aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so. some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in ned frog's voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist's coming out. he followed him a short way, and then running forward, said-- "oh, sir! i'm very low!" "hallo! signor twittorini again!" said ned, wheeling round, sternly. "what have i to do with your being low? i've been low enough myself at times, an' nobody helped--" ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false. "i think i'm dying," said sam, leaning against a house for support. "well, if you do die, you'll be well out of it all," replied ned, bitterly. "what's your name?" "twitter," replied sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name. "twitter--twitter. i've heard that name before. why, yes. father's name samuel--eh? mother alive--got cards with mrs samuel twitter on 'em, an' no address?" "yes--yes. how do you come to know?" asked sam in surprise. "never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi' me. i've got a sort o' right to feed you. ha! ha! come along." sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless. in a few minutes he was in ned's garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction. "have some beer!" said ned, filling a pewter pot. "no--no--no--no!" said sam, shuddering as he turned his head away. "well, youngster," returned ned, with a slight look of surprise, "please yourself, and here's your health." he drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade sam lie down and rest. the miserable boy was only too glad to do so. he flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the "sweet restorer" embraced him was the huge form of ned frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth. chapter twenty three. hopes revive. mr thomas balls, butler to sir richard brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants' hall, delivered himself of the opinion that "things was comin' to a wonderful pass when sir richard brandon would condescend to go visitin' of a low family in whitechapel." "but the family is no more low than you are, mr balls," objected jessie summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal. "of course not, my dear," replied balls, with a paternal smile. "i did not for a moment mean that mr samuel twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. sir richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an' he 'as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. whether he's right or whether he's wrong ain't for me to say. i merely remark that, things being as they are, the master 'as come to a wonderful pass." "it's all along of miss diana," said mrs screwbury. "that dear child 'as taken the firm belief into her pretty 'ead that all people are equal in the sight of their maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist sir richard round her little finger, and she's taken a great fancy to that twitter family ever since she's been introduced to them at that 'ome of industry by mr welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. and mrs twitter goes about the 'ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she's grown quite fond of her." "but we _ain't_ all equal, mrs screwbury," said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, "an' nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it." "quite right, cook," said balls. "for instance, no one would ever admit that i was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to mrs screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with jessie summers as a 'ouse-maid, or that i was equal to sir richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. no, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and i fear that when death comes, he's not very particular as to who it is he's cuttin' down when he's got the order." a ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. "that's for the cab," remarked mr balls as he went out. now, while these things were taking place at the "west-end," in the "east-end" the twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves--that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. for the cloud that sammy's disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed. since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. on the contrary, sammy was never out of his parents' thoughts. they prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. they also took every possible step to discover their boy's retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting sammy up: but all in vain. it must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced mrs twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. she did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at george yard and at commercial street. at the twitter social board--which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned--sat not only mr and mrs twitter and all the little twitters, but also mrs loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and mrs larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and mr crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and mr stickler, who was oracular. thus the small table was full. "mariar, my dear," said mr twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, "we must just take things as we find 'em. the world is not goin' to change its course on purpose to please _us_. things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether." "you're right, mr twitter. i always said so," remarked mrs loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. "if we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we'd have to--have to--" "succumb to it," suggested mrs larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles. "no, mrs larrabel, i never succumb--from principle i never do so. the last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. i would bow to it." "quite right, ma'am, quite right," said stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; "to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, i ask you, would be the result?" as mrs loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage. these remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of crackaby and excite the mental energies of twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend crackaby felt for him sincerely. thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument--which was not always the case. poor twitter! he was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire--his house having been uninsured--but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. a few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child's bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. mr twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. he had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. mr twitter was not absolutely ruined. he had only "got into difficulties." but this was a small matter in his and his good wife's eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved sammy. he had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, "_so_ sensitive." it never occurred to mrs twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace. "you have not yet advertised, i think?" said crackaby. "no, not yet," answered twitter; "we cannot bear to publish it. but we have set several detectives on his track. in fact we expect one of them this very evening; and i shouldn't wonder if that was him," he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door. "please, ma'am," said the domestic, "mr welland's at the door with another gentleman. 'e says 'e won't come in--'e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment." "oh! bid 'em come in, bid 'em come in," said mrs twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small. another moment, and stephen welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with sir richard brandon, on their way to the beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of sam. "come in, and welcome, _do_," said mrs twitter to sir richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the beehive meetings by that time. "and miss diana, too! i'm _so_ glad you've brought her. sit down, dear. not so near the door. to be sure there ain't much room anywhere else, but--get out of the way, stickler." the black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and di was accommodated with his chair. stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. if a lamp-post had been knighted stickler would have bowed down to it. if an ass had been what he styled "barrow-knighted," he would have lain down and let it walk over him--perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick--certainly would not have resented one. "allow me, sir richard," he said, with some reference to the knight's hat. "hush, stickler!" said mrs twitter. the black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard. "your stick, sir richard," said stickler, "permit--" "hold your tongue, stickler," said mrs twitter. the black sheep held his tongue--between his teeth,--and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching mrs twitter's head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity. sir richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the city missionary, john seaward, came in. he evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting. "you are heartily welcome. come in," said mrs twitter, looking about for a chair, "come, sit beside me, mr seaward, on the stool. you'll not object to a humble seat, i know." "i am afraid," said sir richard, "that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests." "oh! dear, no, sir, i love unexpected guests--the more unexpected the more i--molly, dear," (to her eldest girl), "take all the children up-stairs." mrs twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time. "but what of sam?" asked young welland in a low tone; "any news yet?" "none," said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck. "dear, darling child," said mrs twitter, returning the embrace with interest. "but i have brought you news," said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush. "news!" echoed twitter with sudden vehemence. "oh! mr seaward," exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale. "yes," continued seaward; "as all here seem to be friends, i may tell you that sam has been heard of at last. he has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over sam will be for good instead of evil." an expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known. at this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was mrs twitter that it must be sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of number . "i--i--beg your pardon, mr scott, i thought that--" "no harm done, ma'am," said giles. "may i come in?" "certainly, and most welcome." when the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. but they did not! probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion. "you have found him!" exclaimed mrs twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in giles's calm countenance with tearful eyes. "yes, ma'am, i am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. i have just left him." "and does he know you have come here? is he expecting us?" asked the poor woman breathlessly. "oh! dear, no, ma'am, i rather think that if he knew i had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me." "how d'you know he's not willing?" demanded mr twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for sammy. "because i heard him say so, sir. i went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of north, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. i knew north well, and recognised your son at once. north seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return," ("bless him! bless him!" from mrs twitter), "for i heard him say as i passed--`oh! no, no, no, i can _never_ return home!'" "where is he? take me to him at once. my bonnet and shawl, molly!" "pardon me, ma'am," said giles. "it is not a very fit place for a lady--though there are _some_ ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it--" "yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place," interposed twitter. "come, it is _my_ duty to go to this place. can you lead me to it, mr scott?" "oh! and i should like to go too--so much, so _very_ much!" it was little di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous. "pardon me, sir richard," said mr seaward, "this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where mr scott says poor sam is staying. if you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell sam that some one wishes to see him." "your plan is pretty good, but i will arrange my plans myself," said mr twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. "go and do your own part, mr seaward. give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave sammy to me. i will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. are you ready?" "quite ready," said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man's sudden display of resolution. mrs twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. sir richard agreed to go and take di with him, if giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call. "you see," he said, "i have been in similar places before now, but--not with my little child!" as for loper, larrabel, crackaby, stickler, and company--feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,--they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned. it was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that sam twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by number . that day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. one penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. with the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself. on his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. "hallo! young feller," exclaimed the man, "you're the chap that was livin' wi' ned frog the night i called to see 'im--eh! sam twitter, ain't you?" "yes," said young sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. "yes, i am. t-twitter _is_ my name. you're the man that gave him the bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin' to speak to him about his soul?" "the same, young feller. that's me, an' reggie north is my name. he'd 'ave 'ad some trouble to turn me out _once_, though, but i've given up quarrellin' and fightin' now, havin' enlisted under the banner of the prince of peace," replied the man, who was none other than our bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech--"bah!" and "pooh!" at the gospel-temperance meeting. "where are you going?" sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound. "well, i'm going there too, so come along." sam could not choose but go with the man. he would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off. entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and north, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered sam half. several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, north and his friend sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal. "what made you leave ned?" asked north. "how did you know i'd left him?" "why, because if you was still with him you wouldn't be here!" this was so obvious that sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile. "i left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and i've got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that i can't resist it, so i came away. and there's no chance of any one offering me beer in this place." "not much," said north, with a grin. "but, young feller," (and there was something earnestly kind in the man's manner here), "if you feel an _awful_ desire for drink, you'd better put on this." he touched his bit of blue ribbon. "no use," returned sam, sorrowfully, "i once put it on, and--and--i've broke the pledge." "that's bad, no doubt; but what then?" returned north; "are we never to tell the truth any more 'cause once we told a lie? are we never to give up swearin' 'cause once we uttered a curse? the lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. why, sin is the very thing he saves us from--if we'll only come to him." sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. reggie north listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. the words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. the speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. he was discoursing on poverty and its causes. "it is nothing more nor less," he said, with emphasis, "than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty." "hear! hear!" cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence. "what right," asked the man, somewhat indignantly, "what right has sir crossly cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that 'e don't know what to do with, when we're starvin'?" (hear!) "he didn't earn these millions; they was left to 'im by his father, an' _he_ didn't earn 'em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an' back to the time of the robber who came over with william--the greatest robber of all--an' stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers." (hear! hear!) "an' what right has lord lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he's got?" (`ha! you may say that!' from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) "what right has he, i say, to his lands? the ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. my friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. what right have they, i ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? if i had my way," (_hear_! hear! and a laugh), "i would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as i see before me--such as this poor fellow," (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said `just so' feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). "do i not speak the truth?" he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him. "well, mister, i ain't just quite clear about that," said reggie north, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. there was an immediate and complete silence, for north had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. "i'm not a learned man, you see, an' hain't studied the subjec', but isn't there a line in the bible which says, `blessed are they that consider the poor?' now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an' no rich to consider 'em!" there was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but north checked him with-- "'old on, sir, i ain't done yet. you said that sir cowley cross--" "crossly cowel," cried his opponent, correcting. "i ax your pardon; sir crossly cowel--that 'e 'ad no right to 'is millions, 'cause 'e didn't earn 'em, and because 'is father left 'em to 'im. now, i 'ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing--but of coorse that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment--an' she was left a fi' pun note by 'er father as 'ad a game leg--though that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment neither. now, what puzzles me is, that if sir cow--cross--" a great shout of laughter interrupted north here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer. "what puzzles me is," continued north, "that if sir crossly cowel 'as no right to 'is millions, my old grandmother 'ad no right to 'er fi' pun note!" ("hear, hear," and applause.) "i don't know nothin' about that there big thief willum you mentioned, nor yet lord lorrumdoddy, not bein' 'ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in 'is principles--" "of course i does," said the social reformer indignantly. "well, then," resumed north, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, "do you see that man? if you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. what right have you to two coats when he has none?" the reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity. to give his argument more force, reggie north took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up. "see here, mates, when i came to this house i said to myself, `the lord 'as given me success to-day in sellin' his word,'--you know, some of you, that i'm a seller of bibles and testaments?" "ay, ay, old boy. _we_ know you," said several voices. "and i wasn't always that," added north. "_that's_ true, anyhow," said a voice with a laugh. "well. for what i was, i might thank drink and a sinful heart. for what i am i thank the lord. but, as i was goin' to say, i came here intendin' to give this sixpence--it ain't much, but it's all i can spare--to some poor feller in distress, for i practise what i preach, and i meant to do it in a quiet way. but it seems to me that, seein' what's turned up, i'll do more good by givin' it in a public way--so, there it is, old man," and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes. the change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to sir crossly cowel, or lord lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity. the poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a "thank 'ee," to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by north. "stop, stop, my fine fellow! not quite so fast. if you'll wait till i've finished my little business here, i'll take you to where you'll get some warm grub for nothin', and maybe an old coat too." encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while north and sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted. "the first thing you must do, my boy," said north, kindly, "is to return to your father's 'ouse; an' that advice cuts two ways--'eaven-ward an' earth-ward." "oh! no, no, _no_, i can never return home," replied sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father. it was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of number , who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the twitter family. chapter twenty four. the returning prodigal. for a considerable time the bible-seller plied sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them. they were followed by one of the ladies of the beehive, who devote all their time--and, may we not add, all their hearts--to the rescue of the perishing. along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. she was our friend hetty frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns. after her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. they greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of sir richard brandon followed seaward. "a bloated haristocrat!" growled one of the men. "got a smart little darter, anyhow," remarked another, as di, holding tight to her father's hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm. for poor little di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in _couleur de rose_, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. the reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. she had imagined sorrowful faces. had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. altogether poor little di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. in after years she reached one of the true heights--which was out of sight higher than the false one! there was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work--like the visit of di and her father. they were familiar with the east-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast. they carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine--in the person of hetty frog--sat down before it. simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang--"come to the saviour." the others joined--even sir richard brandon made an attempt to sing--as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. meanwhile, john seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. and so eloquent with nature's simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the twitters while the comforting gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around. but _we_ must not forget the twitters. they are our text and sermon just now! young sam twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. but his companion whispered him to wait a bit. soon his attention was riveted. while he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. he wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled--as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. the man's hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. on one of his fingers was a gold ring. this incongruity was lost on sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him. these things were not, however, lost on reggie north, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion. when, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. he naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. but great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand. again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it. a strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy's frame. he stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father! "sammy--dear, dear sammy," whispered the man, in a husky voice. but sammy could not reply. he was thunderstruck. neither could his father speak, for he was choking. but reggie north had heard enough. he was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation. "now then, old gen'lm'n," he whispered, "don't you go an' make a fuss, if you're wise. go out as quiet as you came in, an' leave this young 'un to me. it's all right. i'm on _your_ side." samuel twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man's manner, and the wisdom of his advice. letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. two minutes later, north and sammy followed. they found the old father outside, who again grasped his son's hand with the words, "sammy, my boy--dear sammy;" but he never got further than that. number was there too. "you'll find the cab at the end of the street, sir," he said, and next moment sammy found himself borne along--not unwillingly--by north and his father. a cab door was opened. a female form was seen with outstretched arms. "mother!" "sammy--darling--" the returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. mr twitter turned round. "thank you. god bless you, whoever you are," he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there. "no thanks to me, sir. look higher," said the bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. "now then, cabby, drive on." the cabby obeyed. having already received his instructions he did not drive home. where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. it was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to sammy opened the door. mrs twitter remained in the cab while sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. they were shown into what the boy must have considered--if he considered anything at all just then--a preposterously small room. the lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, "the bath is quite ready, sir." "now, sammy,--dear boy," said mr twitter, "off with your rags--and g-git into that b-bath." obviously mr twitter did not speak with ease. in truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath. "now then, sammy--look sharp! you didn't use--to--be--so--slow! eh?" "no, father. i suppose it--it--is want of habit. i haven't undressed much of late." this very nearly upset poor mr twitter. he made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress. "it--it's not too hot--eh?" "oh! no, father. it's--it's--v-very nice." "go at it with a will, sammy. head and all, my boy--down with it. and don't spare the soap. lots of soap here, sammy--no end of soap!" the truth of which mr twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream. "oh! hold on, father, it's getting into my eyes." "my boy--dear sammy--forgive me. i didn't quite know what i was doing. never mind. down you go again, sammy--head and all. that's it. now, that's enough; out you come." "oh! father," said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, "it's so good of you to forgive me so freely." "forgive you, my son! forgive! why, i'd--i'd--" he could say no more, but suddenly clasped sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent. unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself. "you dirty boy! what d'you mean by it?" "it's your own fault, daddy," replied sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel. a knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence. "please, sir," said a female voice, "the lady in the cab sends to say that she's gettin' impatient." "tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes," replied mr twitter with reckless hilarity. "yes, sir." "now, my boy, here's your toggery," said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle--"your best suit, sammy; the one you used to wear only on sundays, you extravagant fellow." sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. his father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by mrs twitter. he was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed. next morning early--before breakfast--mrs twitter assembled all the little twitters, and put them on chairs in a row--according to order, for mrs twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. they ranged from right to left thus:-- molly, willie, fred, lucy, and alice--with alice's doll on a doll's chair at the left flank of the line. "now children," said mrs twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large--in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with alice's doll. "now children, your dear brother sammy has come home." "oh! how nice! where has he been? what has he seen? why has he been away so long? how jolly!" were the various expressions with which the news was received. "silence." the stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. to say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild. "now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away--no notice at all." "are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?" asked little alice with a look of wonder. "dear child, you do not understand me. we are all charmed to see sammy back, and so thankful--so glad--that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to him _except_," (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), "_except_ ask him _where--he-- has--been_." "mayn't we ask him how he liked it, mamma?" said alice. "liked what, child?" "where he has been, mamma." "no, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back." fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that sammy had been _somewhere_ that was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, fred said nothing. "now, dolly," whispered little alice, bending down, "'member dat--you're so glad sammy's come back; mustn't say more--not a word more." "it is enough for you to know, my darlings," continued mrs twitter, "that sammy has been wandering and has come back." "listen, dolly, you hear? sammy's been wandering an' come back. dat's 'nuff for you." "you see, dears," continued mrs twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor sammy's feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, "you see, sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won't like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so i want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like--your lessons,--for instance, when he comes down." "before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?" asked alice, who was extremely conscientious. "darling child," exclaimed the perplexed mother, "you'll never take it in. what i want to impress on you is--" she stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of sammy himself was heard on the stair. "now, mind, children, not a word--not--a--word!" the almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek--pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction. fortunately for sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, alice began an elaborate account of her dolly's recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and lucy of her attempts to draw and paint. mr and mrs twitter contented themselves with gazing on sammy's somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them. thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father's house. chapter twenty five. canada again--and surprising news. it is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. we have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it--for it is a grand truism. let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of brankly in canada. lake ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. we can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. at the bottom of the hill lies brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of god. it is a good many years, reader, since you and i were last here. then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. but these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly. the fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. the plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. everything is improved--well, no, not everything. mr merryboy's legs have not improved. they will not move as actively as they were wont to do. they will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. but mr merryboy's spirit has improved--though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good! mrs merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but mrs merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. the few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was--especially when she speaks or smiles. the hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of canada. wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. she is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. it is quite clear, however, when you look into granny's coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created! but who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? two young men and a young girl. one young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. the other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. the girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft--just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, "my little pet!" why, these are two "waifs" and a "stray!" don't you know them? look again. is not the stout fellow our friend bobby frog, the slim one tim lumpy, and the girl martha mild? but who, in all london, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? nobody--except those good samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are. mr merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. as granny, mrs merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house. "something seems to be wrong with father this morning, i think," said mrs merryboy, junior, listening. granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled. "he's either unusually jolly or unusually savage--a little more tea, mother," said tim lumpy, pushing in his cup. tim, being father-and-motherless, called mr merryboy father and the wife mother. so did martha, but bobby frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder mrs merryboy granny. "something for good or evil must have happened," said bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer. at last the door flew open and the storm burst in. and we may remark that mr merryboy's stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din--not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places. "hallo! good people all, how are 'ee? morning--morning. boys, d'ee know that the saw-mill's come to grief?" "no, are you in earnest, father?" cried tim, jumping up. "in earnest! of course i am. pretty engineers you are. sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. don't know which, and what's more i don't care. come, martha, my bantam chicken, let's have a cup of tea. bother that stick, it can't keep its legs much better than myself. how are you, mother? glorious weather, isn't it?" mr merryboy ignored deafness. he continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him. and she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. after all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what bobby frog in his early days would have described in the words, "wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy?" but bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches--though he still had some trouble with his r's. as he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman's report. and, truly, when he and tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water's edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. the machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. the result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. the result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw! "h'm! that comes of haste," muttered bob, as he surveyed the wreck. "if i had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened." "never mind, bob, we must learn by experience, you know," said tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. "luckily, we have a spare saw in the store." "run and fetch it," said bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation. when he was gone bob and tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen. the first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame. "there," said bob, as he flung it down, "you won't use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, tim?" "plenty--more than we want." "well, you go to work on it while i fix up the new saw." to work the two went accordingly--adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house. "so soon!" exclaimed bob; "dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy." "d'ye think so, bob? well, now, i look on it as a great comfort-- specially when you're hungry." "ah! but that's because you are greedy, tim. you always were too fond o' your grub." "come, bob, no slang. you know that mother doesn't like it. by the way, talkin' of mothers, is it on wednesday or thursday that you expect _your_ mother?" "thursday, my boy," replied bob, with a bright look. "ha! that _will_ be a day for me!" "so it will, bob, i'm glad for your sake," returned tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. his friend at once understood its significance. "tim, my boy, i'm sorry for you. i wish i could split my mother in two and give you half of her." "yes," said tim, somewhat absently, "it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you." "but there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations," said bob, taking his friend's arm as they approached the house. "come along, come along, youngsters," shouted mr merryboy from the window, "the dinner's gettin' cold, and granny's gettin' in a passion. look sharp. if you knew what news i have for you you'd look sharper." "what news, sir?" asked bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly "groan" with viands--it was too strong for that--but which was heavily weighted therewith. "i won't tell you till after dinner--just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite." "but suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn't it?" said tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer's eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping. "well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for i won't tell you," said mr merryboy firmly. "it will do you good--eh! mother, won't a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times-- eh?" the old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room. "i knew you'd agree with me--ha! ha! you always do, mother," cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention. after dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when mr merryboy called them back. "what would you say, boys, to hear that sir richard brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in canada?" "i would think he'd gone mad, sir, or changed his nature," responded bob. "well, as to whether he's gone mad or not i can't tell--he may have changed his nature, who knows? that's not beyond the bounds of possibility. anyway, he is coming. i've got a letter from a friend of mine in london who says he read it in the papers. but perhaps you may learn more about it in _that_." he tossed a letter to bob, who eagerly seized it. "from sister hetty," he cried, and tore it open. the complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology. "dearest bob," it ran, "you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. i had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. sir richard has changed his mind! you know, in my last, i told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter--as well as mother and me, and matty. he is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn't merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. it's all owing to that sweet miss di, who comes so much about here that she's almost as well-known as giles scott the policeman, or our missionary. by the way, giles has been made an inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and--he's a wonderful man is giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he's old enough. he's big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. after all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is? "but i'm wandering, i always do wander, bob, when i write to you! well, as i was saying, sir richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with miss di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. he wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the lord jesus--and not ashamed to say so. as i had already taken our passages in the _amazon_ steamer--" "the _amazon_!" interrupted mr merryboy, with a shout, "why, that steamer has arrived already!" "so it has," said bob, becoming excited; "their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they'll be here immediately!" "perhaps to-night!" exclaimed mrs merryboy. "oh! _how_ nice!" murmured martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that hetty about whom she had heard so much. "impossible!" said tim lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. "they would never come on without dropping us a line from quebec, or montreal, to announce their arrival." "that's true, tim," said mr merryboy, "but you've not finished the letter, bob--go on. mother, mother, what a variety of faces you _are_ making!" this also was true, for old mrs merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses. "as i had already," continued bob, reading, "taken our passages in the _amazon_ steamer, sir richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear mr and mrs merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to brandon--which, i believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where sir richard means us all to go to. i don't know exactly where it is--and i don't know anybody who does, but that's no matter. enough for mother, and matty, and me to know that it's within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean! "you'll also be glad to hear that mr twitter with all his family is to join this band. it quite puts me in mind of the story of the pilgrim fathers, that i once heard in dear mr holland's meeting hall, long ago. i wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the beehive. wouldn't that be charming! but, then,--who would be left to look after london? no, it is better that they should remain at home. "poor mr twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. his boys and girls will be a great help to him in canada, instead of a burden as they have been in london--the younger ones i mean, of course, for molly, and sammy, and willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. i don't think mrs twitter quite likes it, and i'm sure she's almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving george yard. it is said that their friends mrs loper, mrs larrabel, stickler, and crackaby, want to join, but i rather think sir richard isn't very keen to have them. mr stephen welland is also coming. one of sir richard's friends, mr brisbane i think, got him a good situation in the mint-- that's where all the money is coined, you know--but, on hearing of this expedition to canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the mint--very unwillingly, however, i believe, for he wanted very much to go into the mint. now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for i'm in the middle of packing), hetty." now, while bob frog was in the act of putting hetty's letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door. he brought a telegram addressed to "mr robert frog." it was from montreal, and ran thus: "we have arrived, and leave this on tuesday forenoon." "why, they're almost here _now_," cried bob. "harness up, my boy, and off you go--not a moment to lose!" cried mr merryboy, as bob dashed out of the room. "take the bays, bob," he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, "and the biggest wagon. don't forget the rugs!" ten minutes later, and bob frog, with tim lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station. chapter twenty six. happy meetings. it was to the same railway station as that at which they had parted from their guardian and been handed over to mr merryboy years before that bobby frog now drove. the train was not due for half an hour. "tim," said bob after they had walked up and down the platform for about five minutes, "how slowly time seems to fly when one's in a hurry!" "doesn't it?" assented tim, "crawls like a snail." "tim," said bob, after ten minutes had elapsed, "what a difficult thing it is to wait patiently when one's anxious!" "isn't it!" assented tim, "so hard to keep from fretting and stamping." "tim," said bob, after twenty minutes had passed, "i wonder if the two or three dozen people on this platform are all as uncomfortably impatient as i am." "perhaps they are," said tim, "but certainly possessed of more power to restrain themselves." "tim," said bob, after the lapse of five-and-twenty minutes, "did you ever hear of such a long half-hour since you were born?" "never," replied the sympathetic tim, "except once long ago when i was starving, and stood for about that length of time in front of a confectioner's window till i nearly collapsed and had to run away at last for fear i should smash in the glass and feed." "tim, i'll take a look round and see that the bays are all right." "you've done that four times already, bob." "well, i'll do it five times, tim. there's luck, you know, in odd numbers." there was a sharpish curve on the line close to the station. while bob frog was away the train, being five minutes before its time, came thundering round the curve and rushed alongside the platform. bob ran back of course and stood vainly trying to see the people in each carriage as it went past. "oh! _what_ a sweet eager face!" exclaimed tim, gazing after a young girl who had thrust her head out of a first-class carriage. "let alone sweet faces, tim--this way. the third classes are all behind." by this time the train had stopped, and great was the commotion as friends and relatives met or said good-bye hurriedly, and bustled into and out of the carriages--commotion which was increased by the cheering of a fresh band of rescued waifs going to new homes in the west, and the hissing of the safety valve which took it into its head at that inconvenient moment to let off superfluous steam. some of the people rushing about on that platform and jostling each other would have been the better for safety valves! poor bobby frog was one of these. "not there!" he exclaimed despairingly, as he looked into the last carriage of the train. "impossible," said tim, "we've only missed them; walk back." they went back, looking eagerly into carriage after carriage--bob even glancing under the seats in a sort of wild hope that his mother might be hiding there, but no one resembling mrs frog was to be seen. a commotion at the front part of the train, more pronounced than the general hubbub, attracted their attention. "oh! where is he--where is he?" cried a female voice, which was followed up by the female herself, a respectable elderly woman, who went about the platform scattering people right and left in a fit of temporary insanity, "where is my bobby, where _is_ he, i say? oh! _why_ won't people git out o' my way? _git_ out o' the way," (shoving a sluggish man forcibly), "where are you, bobby? bo-o-o-o-o-by!" it was mrs frog! bob saw her, but did not move. his heart was in his throat! he _could_ not move. as he afterwards said, he was struck all of a heap, and could only stand and gaze with his hands clasped. "out o' the _way_, young man!" cried mrs frog, brushing indignantly past him, in one of her erratic bursts. "oh! bobby--where _has_ that boy gone to?" "mother!" gasped bob. "who said that?" cried mrs frog, turning round with a sharp look, as if prepared to retort "you're another" on the shortest notice. "mother!" again said bob, unclasping his hands and holding them out. mrs frog had hitherto, regardless of the well-known effect of time, kept staring at heads on the level which bobby's had reached when he left home. she now looked up with a startled expression. "can it--is it--oh! bo--" she got no further, but sprang forward and was caught and fervently clasped in the arms of her son. tim fluttered round them, blowing his nose violently though quite free from cold in the head--which complaint, indeed, is not common in those regions. hetty, who had lost her mother in the crowd, now ran forward with matty. bob saw them, let go his mother, and received one in each arm-- squeezing them both at once to his capacious bosom. mrs frog might have fallen, though that was not probable, but tim made sure of her by holding out a hand which the good woman grasped, and laid her head on his breast, quite willing to make use of him as a convenient post to lean against, while she observed the meeting of the young people with a contented smile. tim observed that meeting too, but with very different feelings, for the "sweet eager face" that he had seen in the first-class carriage belonged to hetty! long-continued love to human souls had given to her face a sweetness--and sympathy with human spirits and bodies in the depths of poverty, sorrow, and deep despair had invested it with a pitiful tenderness and refinement--which one looks for more naturally among the innocent in the higher ranks of life. poor tim gazed unutterably, and his heart went on in such a way that even mrs frog's attention was arrested. looking up, she asked if he was took bad. "oh! dear no. by no means," said tim, quickly. "you're tremblin' so," she returned, "an' it ain't cold--but your colour's all right. i suppose it's the natur' o' you canadians. but only to think that my bobby," she added, quitting her leaning-post, and again seizing her son, "that my bobby should 'ave grow'd up, an' his poor mother knowed nothink about it! i can't believe my eyes--it ain't like bobby a bit, yet some'ow i _know_ it's 'im! why, you've grow'd into a gentleman, you 'ave." "and you have grown into a flatterer," said bob, with a laugh. "but come, mother, this way; i've brought the wagon for you. look after the luggage, tim--oh! i forgot. this is tim, hetty--tim lumpy. you remember, you used to see us playing together when we were city arabs." hetty looked at tim, and, remembering bobby's strong love for jesting, did not believe him. she smiled, however, and bowed to the tall good-looking youth, who seemed unaccountably shy and confused as he went off to look after the luggage. "here is the wagon; come along," said bob, leading his mother out of the station. "the waggin, boy; i don't see no waggin." "why, there, with the pair of bay horses." "you don't mean the carridge by the fence, do you?" "well, yes, only we call them wagons here." "an' you calls the 'osses _bay_ 'osses, do you?" "well now, _i_ would call 'em beautiful 'osses, but i suppose bay means the same thing here. you've got strange ways in canada." "yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as i hope you shall find out ere long. get in, now. take care! now then, hetty--come, matty. how difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling matty i left in london!" matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother. "do you drive, tim; i'll stay inside," said bob. in another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to brankly farm at the rate of ten miles an hour. need it be said that the amiable merryboys did not fail of their duty on that occasion? that hetty and matty took violently to brown-eyed martha at first sight, having heard all about her from bob long ago--as she of them; that mrs merryboy was, we may say, one glowing beam of hospitality; that mrs frog was, so to speak, one blazing personification of amazement, which threatened to become chronic--there was so much that was contrary to previous experience and she was so slow to take it in; that mr merryboy became noisier than ever, and that, what between his stick and his legs, to say nothing of his voice, he managed to create in one day hubbub enough to last ten families for a fortnight; that the domestics and the dogs were sympathetically joyful; that even the kitten gave unmistakeable evidences of unusual hilarity-- though some attributed the effect to surreptitiously-obtained cream; and, finally, that old granny became something like a chinese image in the matter of nodding and gazing and smirking and wrinkling, so that there seemed some danger of her terminating her career in a gush of universal philanthropy--need all this be said, we ask? we think not; therefore we won't say it. but it was not till bob frog got his mother all to himself, under the trees, near the waterfall, down by the river that drove the still unmended saw-mill, that they had real and satisfactory communion. it would have been interesting to have listened to these two--with memories and sympathies and feelings towards the saviour of sinners so closely intertwined, yet with knowledge and intellectual powers in many respects so far apart. but we may not intrude too closely. towards the end of their walk, bob touched on a subject which had been uppermost in the minds of both all the time, but from which they had shrunk equally, the one being afraid to ask, the other disinclined to tell. "mother," said bob, at last, "what about father?" "ah! bobby," replied mrs frog, beginning to weep, gently, "i know'd ye would come to that--you was always so fond of 'im, an' he was so fond o' you too, indeed--" "i know it, mother," interrupted bob, "but have you never heard of him?" "never. i might 'ave, p'r'aps, if he'd bin took an' tried under his own name, but you know he had so many aliases, an' the old 'ouse we used to live in we was obliged to quit, so p'r'aps he tried to find us and couldn't." "may god help him--dear father!" said the son in a low sad voice. "i'd never 'ave left 'im, bobby, if he 'adn't left me. you know that. an' if i thought he was alive and know'd w'ere he was, i'd go back to 'im yet, but--" the subject was dropped here, for the new mill came suddenly into view, and bob was glad to draw his mother's attention to it. "see, we were mending that just before we got the news you were so near us. come, i'll show it to you. tim lumpy and i made it all by ourselves, and i think you'll call it a first-class article. by the way, how came you to travel first-class?" "oh! that's all along of sir richard brandon. he's sitch a liberal gentleman, an' said that as it was by his advice we were goin' to canada, he would pay our expenses; and he's so grand that he never remembered there was any other class but first, when he took the tickets, an' when he was show'd what he'd done he laughed an' said he wouldn't alter it, an' we must go all the way first-class. he's a strange man, but a good 'un!" by this time they had reached the platform of the damaged saw-mill, and bob pointed out, with elaborate care, the details of the mill in all its minute particulars, commenting specially on the fact that most of the telling improvements on it were due to the fertile brain and inventive genius of tim lumpy. he also explained the different kinds of saws--the ripping saw, and the cross-cut saw, and the circular saw, and the eccentric saw--just as if his mother were an embryo mill-wright, for he _felt_ that she took a deep interest in it all, and mrs frog listened with the profound attention of a civil engineer, and remarked on everything with such comments as--oh! indeed! ah! well now! ain't it wonderful? amazin'! an' you made it all too! oh! bobby!--and other more or less appropriate phrases. on quitting the mill to return to the house they saw a couple of figures walking down another avenue, so absorbed in conversation that they did not at first observe bob and his mother, or take note of the fact that matty, being a bouncing girl, had gone after butterflies or some such child-alluring insects. it was tim lumpy and hetty frog. and no wonder that they were absorbed, for was not their conversation on subjects of the profoundest interest to both?--george yard, whitechapel, commercial street, spitalfields, and the sailor's home, and the rests, and all the other agencies for rescuing poor souls in monstrous london, and the teachers and school companions whom they had known there and never could forget! no wonder, we say, that these two were absorbed while comparing notes, and still less wonder that they were even more deeply absorbed when they got upon the theme of bobby frog--so much loved, nay, almost worshipped, by both. at last they observed mrs frog's scarlet shawl--which was very conspicuous--and her son, and tried to look unconscious, and wondered with quite needless surprise where matty could have gone to. bobby frog, being a sharp youth, noted these things, but made no comment to any one, for the air of canada had, somehow, invested this waif with wonderful delicacy of feeling. although bob and his mother left off talking of ned frog somewhat abruptly, as well as sorrowfully, it does not follow that we are bound to do the same. on the contrary, we now ask the reader to leave brankly farm rather abruptly, and return to london for the purpose of paying ned a visit. chapter twenty seven. a strange visit and its results. edward frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quantity), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. but in other respects he has not fallen off--nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected. when ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. he inquired for mrs frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,--and no one knew where she had gone. with a heavy heart ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. he thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings. "if i'd on'y put it all in the savin's bank," he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, "i'd 'ave bin well off to-day." an old comrade turned the corner at that moment. "what! ned frog!" he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. "well, this _is_ good luck. come along, old boy!" it was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. he went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to. he was "treated." he drank beer. other old friends came in. he drank gin. if good resolves had been coming up in his mind earlier in the day he forgot them now. if better feelings had been struggling for the mastery, he crushed them now. he got drunk. he became disorderly. he went into high street, whitechapel, with a view to do damage to somebody. he succeeded. he tumbled over a barrow, and damaged his own shins. he encountered number soon after, and, through his influence, passed the night in a police cell. after this ned gave up all thought of searching for his wife and family. "better let 'em alone," he growled to himself on being discharged from the police-office with a caution. but, as we have said or hinted elsewhere, ned was a man of iron will. he resolved to avoid the public-house, to drink in moderation, and to do his drinking at home. being as powerful and active as ever he had been, he soon managed, in the capacity of a common labourer, to scrape enough money together to enable him to retake his old garret, which chanced to be vacant. indeed its situation was so airy, and it was so undesirable, that it was almost always vacant. he bought a few cages and birds; found that the old manager of the low music-hall was still at work and ready to employ him, and thus fell very much into his old line of life. one night, as he was passing into his place of business--the music-hall--a man saw him and recognised him. this was a city missionary of the john seaward type, who chanced to be fishing for souls that night in these troubled waters. there are many such fishermen about, thank god, doing their grand work unostentatiously, and not only rescuing souls for eternity, but helping, more perhaps than even the best informed are aware of, to save london from tremendous evil. what it was in ned frog that attracted this man of god we know note but, after casting his lines for some hours in other places, he returned to the music-hall and loitered about the door. at a late hour its audience came pouring out with discordant cries and ribald laughter. soon ned appeared and took his way homeward. the missionary followed at a safe distance till he saw ned disappear through the doorway that led to his garret. then, running forward, he entered the dark passage and heard ned's heavy foot clanking on the stone steps as he mounted upwards. the sound became fainter, and the missionary, fearing lest he should fail to find the room in which his man dwelt--for there were many rooms in the old tenement--ran hastily up-stairs and paused to listen. the footsteps were still sounding above him, but louder now, because ned was mounting a wooden stair. a few seconds later a heavy door was banged, and all was quiet. the city missionary now groped his way upwards until he came to the highest landing, where in the thick darkness he saw a light under a door. with a feeling of uncertainty and a silent prayer for help he knocked gently. the door was opened at once by a middle-aged woman, whose outline only could be seen, her back being to the light. "is it here that the man lives who came up just now?" asked the missionary. "what man?" she replied, fiercely, "i know nothink about men, an' 'ave nothink to do with 'em. ned frog's the on'y man as ever comes 'ere, an' _he_ lives up there." she made a motion, as if pointing upwards somewhere, and banged the door in her visitor's face. "up there!" the missionary had reached the highest landing, and saw no other gleam of light anywhere. groping about, however, his hand struck against a ladder. all doubt as to the use of this was immediately banished, for a man's heavy tread was heard in the room above as he crossed it. mounting the ladder, the missionary, instead of coming to a higher landing as he had expected, thrust his hat against a trap-door in the roof. immediately he heard a savage human growl. evidently the man was in a bad humour, but the missionary knocked. "who's there?" demanded the man, fiercely, for his visitors were few, and these generally connected with the police force. "may i come in?" asked the missionary in a mild voice--not that he put the mildness on for the occasion. he was naturally mild--additionally so by grace. "oh! yes--you may come in," cried the man, lifting the trap-door. the visitor stepped into the room and was startled by ned letting fall the trap-door with a crash that shook the whole tenement. planting himself upon it, he rendered retreat impossible. it was a trying situation, for the man was in a savage humour, and evidently the worse for drink. but missionaries are bold men. "now," demanded ned, "what may _you_ want?" "i want your soul," replied his visitor, quietly. "you needn't trouble yourself, then, for the devil's got it already." "no--he has not got it _yet_, ned." "oh! you know me then?" "no. i never saw you till to-night, but i learned your name accidentally, and i'm anxious about your soul." "you don't know me," ned repeated, slowly, "you never saw me till to-night, yet you're anxious about my soul! what stuff are you talkin'! 'ow can that be?" "now, you have puzzled _me_," said the missionary. "i cannot tell how that can be, but it is no `stuff' i assure you. i think it probable, however, that your own experience may help you. didn't you once see a young girl whom you had never seen before, whom you didn't know, whom you had never even heard of, yet you became desperately anxious to win her?" ned instantly thought of a certain woman whom he had often abused and beaten, and whose heart he had probably broken. "yes," he said, "i did; but then i had falled in love wi' her at first sight, and you can't have falled in love wi' _me_, you know." ned grinned at this idea in spite of himself. "well, no," replied the missionary, "not exactly. you're not a very lovable object to look at just now. nevertheless, i _am_ anxious about your soul _at first sight_. i can't tell how it is, but so it is." "come, now," said ned, becoming suddenly stern. "i don't believe in your religion, or your bible, or your prayin' and psalm-singin'. i tell you plainly, i'm a infidel. but if you can say anything in favour o' your views, fire away; i'll listen, only don't let me have any o' your sing-songin' or whinin', else i'll kick you down the trap-door and down the stair an' up the court and out into the street--speak out, like a man." "i will speak as god the holy spirit shall enable me," returned the missionary, without the slightest change in tone or manner. "well, then, sit down," said ned, pointing to the only chair in the room, while he seated himself on the rickety table, which threatened to give way altogether, while the reckless man swung his right leg to and fro quite regardless of its complainings. "have you ever studied the bible?" asked the missionary, somewhat abruptly. "well, no, of course not. i'm not a parson, but i have read a bit here and there, an' it's all rubbish. i don't believe a word of it." "there's a part of it," returned the visitor, "which says that god maketh his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. do you not believe that?" "of course i do. a man can't help believin' that, for he sees it--it falls on houses, fields, birds and beasts as well." "then you _do_ believe a word of it?" "oh! come, you're a deal too sharp. you know what i mean." "no," said his visitor, quickly, "i don't quite know what you mean. one who professes to be an infidel professes more or less intelligent disbelief in the bible, yet you admit that you have never studied the book which you profess to disbelieve--much less, i suppose, have you studied the books which give us the evidences of its truth." "don't suppose, mr parson, or missioner, or whatever you are," said ned, "that you're goin' to floor me wi' your larnin'. i'm too old a bird for that. do you suppose that i'm bound to study everything on the face o' the earth like a lawyer before i'm entitled to say i don't believe it. if i see that a thing don't work well, that's enough for me to condemn it." "you're quite right there. i quite go with that line of reasoning. by their fruits shall ye know them. a man don't usually go to a thistle to find grapes. but let me ask you, ned, do you usually find that murderers, drunkards, burglars, thieves, and blackguards in general are students of the bible and given to prayer and psalm-singing?" "ha! ha! i should rather think not," said ned, much tickled by the supposition. "then," continued the other, "tell me, honestly, ned, do you find that people who read god's word and sing his praise and ask his blessing on all they do, are generally bad fathers, and mothers, and masters, and servants, and children, and that from their ranks come the worst people in society?" "now, look here, mr missioner," cried ned, leaping suddenly from the table, which overturned with a crash, "i'm one o' them fellers that's not to be floored by a puff o' wind. i can hold my own agin most men wi' fist or tongue. but i like fair-play in the ring or in argiment. i have _not_ studied this matter, as you say, an' so i won't speak on it. but i'll look into it, an' if you come back here this day three weeks i'll let you know what i think. you may trust me, for when i say a thing i mean it." "will you accept a testament, then," said the missionary, rising and pulling one out of his pocket. "no, i won't," said ned, "i've got one." the missionary looked surprised, and hesitated. "don't you believe me?" asked ned, angrily. "at first i did not," was the reply, "but now that i stand before your face and look in your eyes i _do_ believe you." ned gave a cynical laugh. "you're easy to gull," he said; "why, when it serves my purpose i can lie like a trooper." "i know that," returned the visitor, quietly, "but it serves your purpose to-night to speak the truth. i can see that. may i pray that god should guide you?" "yes, you may, but not here. i'll have no hypocritical goin' down on my knees till i see my way to it. if i don't see my way to it, i'll let you know when you come back this day three weeks." "well, i'll pray for you in my own room, ned frog." "you may do what you like in your own room. good-night." he lifted the trap-door as he spoke, and pointed downward. the missionary at once descended after a brief "good-night," and a pleasant nod. ned just gave him time to get his head out of the way when he let the trap fall with a clap like thunder, and then began to pace up and down his little room with his hands in his pockets and his chin on his breast. after a short time he went to a corner of the room where stood a small wooden box that contained the few articles of clothing which he possessed. from the bottom of this he fished up the new testament that had been given to him long ago by reggie north. drawing his chair to the table and the candle to his elbow, the returned convict opened the book, and there in his garret began for the first time to read in earnest the wonderful word of life! chapter twenty eight. the great change. punctual to the day and the hour, the missionary returned to ned's garret. much and earnestly had he prayed, in the meantime, that the man might be guided in his search after truth, and that to himself might be given words of wisdom which might have weight with him. but the missionary's words were not now required. god had spoken to the rough man by his own word. the holy spirit had carried conviction home. he had also revealed the saviour, and the man was converted before the missionary again saw him. reader, we present no fancy portrait to you. our fiction had its counterpart in actual life. ned frog, in essential points at least, represents a real man--though we have, doubtless, saddled on his broad shoulders a few unimportant matters, which perhaps did not belong to him. "i believe that this is god's word, my friend," he said, extending his hand, the moment the missionary entered, "and in proof of that i will now ask you to kneel with me and pray." you may be sure that the man of god complied gladly and with a full heart. we may not, however, trace here the after-course of this man in detail. for our purpose it will suffice to say that this was no mere flash in the pan. ned frog's character did not change. it only received a new direction and a new impulse. the vigorous energy and fearless determination with which he had in former days pursued sin and self-gratification had now been turned into channels of righteousness. very soon after finding jesus for himself, he began earnestly to desire the salvation of others, and, in a quiet humble way, began with the poor people in his own stair. but this could not satisfy him. he was too strong both in body and mind to be restrained, and soon took to open-air preaching. "i'm going to begin a mission," he said, one day, to the missionary who had brought him to the saviour. "there are many stout able fellows here who used to accept me as a leader in wickedness, and who will, perhaps, agree to follow me in a new walk. some of them have come to the lord already. i'm goin', sir, to get these to form a band of workers, and we'll take up a district." "good," said the missionary, "there's nothing like united action. what part of the district will you take up yourself, ned?" "the place where i stand, sir," he replied. "where i have sinned there will i preach to men the saviour of sinners." and he did preach, not with eloquence, perhaps, but with such fervour that many of his old comrades were touched deeply, and some were brought to christ and joined his "daniel band." moreover, ned kept to his own district and class. he did not assume that all rich church-goers are hypocrites, and that it was his duty to stand in conspicuous places and howl to them the message of salvation, in tones of rasping discord. no, it was noted by his mates, as particularly curious, that the voice of the man who could, when he chose, roar like a bull of bashan, had become soft and what we may style entreative in its tone. moreover, he did not try to imitate clerical errors. he did not get upon a deadly monotone while preaching, as so many do. he simply _spoke_ when he preached-- spoke loud, no doubt, but in a tone precisely similar to that in which, in former days, he would have seriously advised a brother burglar to adopt a certain course, or to carefully steer clear of another course, in order to gain his ends or to avoid falling into the hands of the police. thus men, when listening to him, came to believe that he was really speaking to them in earnest, and not "preaching!" oh! that young men who aim at the high privilege of proclaiming the "good news" would reflect on this latter point, and try to steer clear of that fatal rock on which the church--not the episcopal, presbyterian, or any other church, but the whole church militant--has been bumping so long to her own tremendous damage! one point which told powerfully with those whom ned sought to win was, that he went about endeavouring, as far as in him lay, to undo the evil that he had done. some of it could never be undone--he felt that bitterly. some could be remedied--he rejoiced in that and went about it with vigour. for instance, he owed several debts. being a handy fellow and strong, he worked like a horse, and soon paid off his debts to the last farthing. again, many a time had he, in days gone by, insulted and defamed comrades and friends. these he sought out with care and begged their pardon. the bulldog courage in him was so strong that in former days he would have struck or insulted any man who provoked him, without reference to his, it might be, superior size or strength. he now went as boldly forward to confess his sin and to apologise. sometimes his apologies were kindly received, at other times he was rudely repelled and called a hypocrite in language that we may not repeat, but he took it well; he resented nothing now, and used to say he had been made invulnerable since he had enlisted under the banner of the prince of peace. yet, strange to say, the man's pugilistic powers were not rendered useless by his pacific life and profession. one day he was passing down one of those streets where even the police prefer to go in couples. suddenly a door burst open and a poor drunken woman was kicked out into the street by a big ruffian with whom ned was not acquainted. not satisfied with what he had done, the rough proceeded to kick the woman, who began to scream "murder!" a crowd at once collected, for, although such incidents were common enough in such places, they always possessed sufficient interest to draw a crowd; but no one interfered, first, because no one cared, and, second, because the man was so big and powerful that every one was afraid of him. of course ned interfered, not with an indignant statement that the man ought to be ashamed of himself, but, with the quiet remark-- "she's only a woman, you know, an' can't return it." "an' wot 'ave _you_ got to do with it?" cried the man with a savage curse, as he aimed a tremendous blow at ned with his right-hand. our pugilist expected that. he did not start or raise his hands to defend himself, he merely put his head to one side, and the huge fist went harmlessly past his ear. savagely the rough struck out with the other fist, but ned quietly, yet quickly put his head to the other side, and again the fist went innocently by. a loud laugh and cheer from the crowd greeted this, for, apart altogether from the occasion of the disagreement, this turning of the head aside was very pretty play on the part of ned--being a remarkably easy-looking but exceedingly difficult action, as all boxers know. it enabled ned to smile in the face of his foe without doing him any harm. but it enraged the rough to such an extent, that he struck out fast as well as hard, obliging ned to put himself in the old familiar attitude, and skip about smartly. "i don't want to hurt you, friend," said ned at last, "but i _can_, you see!" and he gave the man a slight pat on his right cheek with one hand and a tap on the forehead with the other. this might have convinced the rough, but he would not be convinced. ned therefore gave him suddenly an open-handed slap on the side of the head which sent him through his own doorway; through his own kitchen--if we may so name it--and into his own coal-cellar, where he measured his length among cinders and domestic _debris_. "i didn't want to do it, friends," said ned in a mild voice, as soon as the laughter had subsided, "but, you see, in the bible--a book i'm uncommon fond of--we're told, as far as we can, to live peaceably with all men. now, you see, i couldn't live peaceably wi' this man to-day. he wouldn't let me, but i think i'll manage to do it some day, for i'll come back here to-morrow, and say i'm sorry i had to do it. meanwhile i have a word to say to you about this matter." here ned got upon the door-step of his adversary, and finished off by what is sometimes styled "improving the occasion." of course, one of the first things that ned frog did, on coming to his "right mind," was to make earnest and frequent inquiries as to the fate of his wife and family. unfortunately the man who might have guided him to the right sources of information--the city missionary who had brought him to a knowledge of the truth--was seized with a severe illness, which not only confined him to a sick-bed for many weeks, but afterwards rendered it necessary that he should absent himself for a long time from the sphere of his labours. thus, being left to himself, ned's search was misdirected, and at last he came to the heart-breaking conclusion that they must have gone, as he expressed it, "to the bad;" that perhaps his wife had carried out her oft-repeated threat, and drowned herself, and that bobby, having been only too successful a pupil in the ways of wickedness, had got himself transported. to prosecute his inquiries among his old foes, the police, was so repugnant to ned that he shrank from it, after the failure of one or two attempts, and the only other source which might have been successful he failed to appeal to through his own ignorance. he only knew of george yard and the home of industry by name, as being places which he had hated, because his daughter hetty was so taken up with them. of course he was now aware that the people of george yard did good work for his new master, but he was so ignorant of the special phase of their work at the beginning of his christian career that he never thought of applying to them for information. afterwards he became so busy with his own special work, that he forgot all about these institutions. when the missionary recovered and returned to his work, he at once--on hearing for the first time from ned his family history--put him on the scent, and the discovery was then made that they had gone to canada. he wrote immediately, and soon received a joyful reply from hetty and a postscript from bobby, which set his heart singing and his soul ablaze with gratitude to a sparing and preserving god. about that time, however, the robust frame gave way under the amount of labour it was called on to perform. ned was obliged to go into hospital. when there he received pressing invitations to go out to canada, and offers of passage-money to any extent. mrs frog also offered to return home without delay and nurse him, and only waited to know whether he would allow her. ned declined, on the ground that he meant to accept their invitation and go to canada as soon as he was able to undertake the voyage. a relapse, however, interfered with his plans, and thus the visit, like many other desirable events in human affairs, was, for a time, delayed. chapter twenty nine. home again. time passed away, and bobby frog said to his mother one morning, "mother, i'm going to england." it was a fine summer morning when he said this. his mother was sitting in a bower which had been constructed specially for her use by her son and his friend tim lumpy. it stood at the foot of the garden, from which could be had a magnificent view of the neighbouring lake. rich foliage permitted the slanting sunbeams to quiver through the bower, and little birds, of a pert conceited nature, twittered among the same. martha mild--the very embodiment of meek, earnest simplicity, and still a mere child in face though almost a woman in years--sat on a wooden stool at mrs frog's feet reading the bible to her. martha loved the bible and mrs frog; they were both fond of the bower; there was a spare half-hour before them;--hence the situation, as broken in upon by bobby. "to england, bobby?" "to england, mother." martha said nothing, but she gave a slight--an almost imperceptible-- start, and glanced at the sturdy youth with a mingled expression of anxiety and surprise. the surprise bob had expected; the anxiety he had hoped for; the start he had not foreseen, but now perceived and received as a glorious fact! oh! bobby frog was a deep young rascal! his wild, hilarious, reckless spirit, which he found it so difficult to curb, even with all surroundings in his favour, experienced a great joy and sensation of restfulness in gazing at the pretty, soft, meek face of the little waif. he loved martha, but, with all his recklessness, he had not the courage to tell her so, or to ask the condition of her feelings with regard to himself. being ingenious, however, and with much of the knowing nature of the "stray" still about him, he hit on this plan of killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by briefly announcing his intentions to his mother; and the result was more than he had hoped for. "yes, mother, to england--to london. you see, father's last letter was not at all satisfactory. although he said he was convalescent and hoped to be able to travel soon, it seemed rather dull in tone, and now several posts have passed without bringing us a letter of any kind from him. i am beginning to feel anxious, and so as i have saved a good bit of money i mean to have a trip to old england and bring daddy out with me." "that will be grand indeed, my son. but will mr merryboy let ye go, bobby?" "of course he will. he lets me do whatever i please, for he's as fond o' me as if he were my father." "no; he ain't that," returned mrs frog, with a shake of the head; "your father was rough, bobby, specially w'en in liquor, but he 'ad a kind 'art at bottom, and he was very fond o' you, bobby--almost as fond as he once was o' me. mr merryboy could never come up to 'im in _that_." "did i say he came up to him, mother? i didn't say he was as fond o' me as my own father, but _as if he was_ my father. however, it's all arranged, and i go off at once." "not before breakfast, bobby?" "no, not quite. i never do anything important on an empty stomach, but by this time to-morrow i hope to be far on my way to the sea-coast, and i expect martha to take good care of you till i come back." "i'll be _sure_ to do that," said martha, looking up in mrs frog's face affectionately. bob frog noted the look, and was satisfied. "but, my boy, i shan't be here when you come back. you know my visit is over in a week, and then we go to sir richard's estate." "i know that, mother, but martha goes with you there, to help you and hetty and matty to keep house while tim lumpy looks after the farm." "farm, my boy, what nonsense are you talking?" "no nonsense, mother, it has all been arranged this morning, early though it is. mr merryboy has received a letter from sir richard, saying that he wants to gather as many people as possible round him, and offering him one of his farms on good terms, so mr merryboy is to sell this place as soon as he can, and tim and i have been offered a smaller farm on still easier terms close to his, and not far from the big farm that sir richard has given to his son-in-law mr welland--" "son-in-law!" exclaimed mrs frog. "do you mean to say that mr welland, who used to come down an' preach in the lodgin'-'ouses in spitalfields 'as married that sweet hangel miss di?" "i do mean that, mother. i could easily show him a superior angel, of course," said bob with a steady look at martha, "but he has done pretty well, on the whole." "pretty well!" echoed mrs frog indignantly; "he couldn't 'ave done better if 'e'd searched the wide world over." "there i don't agree with you," returned her son; "however, it don't matter--hallo! there goes granny down the wrong path!" bob dashed off at full speed after mrs merryboy, senior, who had an inveterate tendency, when attempting to reach mrs frog's bower, to take a wrong turn, and pursue a path which led from the garden to a pretty extensive piece of forest-land behind. the blithe old lady was posting along this track in a tremulo-tottering way when captured by bob. at the same moment the breakfast-bell rang; mr merryboy's stentorian voice was immediately heard in concert; silvery shouts from the forest-land alluded to told where hetty and matty had been wandering, and a rush of pattering feet announced that the dogs of the farm were bent on being first to bid the old gentleman good-morning. as bob frog had said, the following day found him far on his way to the sea-coast. a few days later found him on the sea,--wishing, earnestly, that he were on the land! little more than a week after that found him in london walking down the old familiar strand towards the city. as he walked slowly along the crowded thoroughfare, where every brick seemed familiar and every human being strange, he could not help saying to himself mentally, "can it be possible! was it here that i used to wander in rags? thank god for the rescue and for the rescuers!" "shine yer boots, sir?" said a facsimile of his former self. "certainly, my boy," said bob, at once submitting himself to the operator, although, his boots having already been well "shined," the operation was an obvious absurdity. the boy must have felt something of this, for, when finished, he looked up at his employer with a comical expression. bob looked at him sternly. "they were about as bright before you began on 'em," he said. "they was, sir," admitted the boy, candidly. "how much?" demanded the old street boy. "on'y one ha'penny, sir," replied the young street boy, "but ven the day's fine, an' the boots don't want much shinin', we gin'rally expecs a penny. gen'l'min _'ave_ bin known to go the length of tuppence." bob pulled out half-a-crown and offered it. the boy grinned, but did not attempt to take it. "why don't you take it, my boy?" "you _don't_ mean it, do you?" asked the boy, as the grin faded and the eyes opened. "yes, i do. here, catch. i was once like you. christ and canada have made me what you see. here is a little book that will tell you more about that." he chanced to have one of miss macpherson's _canadian homes for london wanderers_ in his pocket, and gave it to the little shoe-black,--who was one of the fluttering free-lances of the metropolis, not one of the "brigade." bob could not have said another word to have saved his life. he turned quickly on his heel and walked away, followed by a fixed gaze and a prolonged whistle of astonishment. "how hungry i used to be here," he muttered as he walked along, "so uncommon hungry! the smell of roasts and pies had something to do with it, i think. why, there's the shop--yes, the very shop, where i stood once gazing at the victuals for a full hour before i could tear myself away. i do think that, for the sake of starving boys, to say nothing of men, women, and girls, these grub-shops should be compelled to keep the victuals out o' the windows and send their enticing smells up their chimneys!" presently he came to a dead stop in front of a shop where a large mirror presented him with a full-length portrait of himself, and again he said mentally, "can it be possible!" for, since quitting london he had never seen himself as others saw him, having been too hurried, on both occasions of passing through canadian cities, to note the mirrors there. in the backwoods, of course, there was nothing large enough in the way of mirror to show more than his good-looking face. the portrait now presented to him was that of a broad-chested, well-made, gentlemanly young man of middle height, in a grey tweed suit. "not _exactly_ tip-top, a , superfine, you know, bobby," he muttered to himself with the memory of former days strong upon him, "but--but-- perhaps not altogether unworthy of--of--a thought or two from little martha mild." bob frog increased in stature, it is said, by full half an inch on that occasion, and thereafter he walked more rapidly in the direction of whitechapel. with sad and strangely mingled memories he went to the court where his early years had been spent. it was much the same in disreputableness of aspect as when he left it. time had been gnawing at it so long that a few years more or less made little difference on it, and its inhabitants had not improved much. passing rapidly on he went straight to the beehive, which he had for long regarded as his real home, and there, once again, received a hearty welcome from its ever busy superintendent and her earnest workers; but how different his circumstances now from those attending his first reception! his chief object, however, was to inquire the way to the hospital in which his father lay, and he was glad to learn that the case of ned frog was well-known, and that he was convalescent. it chanced that a tea-meeting was "on" when he arrived, so he had little more at the time than a warm shake of the hand from his friends in the home, but he had the ineffable satisfaction of leaving behind him a sum sufficient to give a sixpence to each of the miserable beings who were that night receiving a plentiful meal for their bodies as well as food for their souls--those of them, at least, who chose to take the latter. none refused the former. on his way to the hospital he saw a remarkably tall policeman approaching. "well, you _are_ a long-legged copper," he muttered to himself, with an irrepressible laugh as he thought of old times. the old spirit seemed to revive with the old associations, for he felt a strong temptation to make a face at the policeman, execute the old double-shuffle, stick his thumb to the end of his nose, and bolt! as the man drew nearer he did actually make a face in spite of himself--a face of surprise--which caused the man to stop. "excuse me," said bob, with much of his old bluntness, "are not you number ?" "that is not my number now, sir, though i confess it was once," answered the policeman, with a humorous twinkle of the eye. bobby noticed the word "sir," and felt elated. it was almost more than waif-and-stray human nature could stand to be respectfully "sirred" by a london policeman--his old foe, whom, in days gone by and on occasions innumerable, he had scorned, scouted, and insulted, with all the ingenuity of his fertile brain. "your name is giles scott, is it not?" he asked. "it is, sir." "do you remember a little ragged boy who once had his leg broken by a runaway pony at the west-end--long ago?" "yes, as well as if i'd seen him yesterday. his name was bobby frog, and a sad scamp he was, though it is said he's doing well in canada." "he must 'ave changed considerable," returned bob, reverting to his old language with wonderful facility, "w'en number don't know 'im. yes, in me, robert frog, esquire, of chikopow farm, canada vest, you be'old your ancient henemy, who is on'y too 'appy to 'ave the chance of axin your parding for all the trouble he gave you, an' all the 'ard names he called you in days gone by." bobby held out his hand as he spoke, and you may be sure our huge policeman was not slow to grasp it, and congratulate the stray on his improved circumstances. we have not time or space to devote to the conversation which ensued. it was brief, but rapid and to the point, and in the course of it bob learned that molly was as well, and as bright and cheery as ever--also somewhat stouter; that monty was in a fair way to become a real policeman, having just received encouragement to expect admission to the force when old enough, and that he was in a fair way to become as sedate, wise, zealous, and big as his father; also, that little jo aimed at the same honourable and responsible position, and was no longer little. being anxious, however, to see his father, bob cut the conversation short, and, having promised to visit his old enemy, hastened away. the ward of the hospital in which bob soon found himself was a sad place. clean and fresh, no doubt, but very still, save when a weary sigh or a groan told of suffering. among the beds, which stood in a row, each with its head against the wall, one was pointed out on which a living skeleton lay. the face was very very pale, and it seemed as if the angel of death were already brooding over it. yet, though so changed, there was no mistaking the aspect and the once powerful frame of ned frog. "i'd rather not see any one," whispered ned, as the nurse went forward and spoke to him in a low voice, "i'll soon be home--i think." "father, _dear_ father," said bob, in a trembling, almost choking voice, as he knelt by the bedside and took one of his father's hands. the prostrate man sprang up as if he had received an electric shock, and gazed eagerly into the face of his son. then, turning his gaze on the nurse, he said-- "i'm not dreaming, am i? it's true, is it? is this bobby?" "whether he's bobby or not i can't say," replied the nurse, in the tone with which people sometimes address children, "but you're not dreaming-- it _is_ a gentleman." "ah! then i _am_ dreaming," replied the sick man, with inexpressible sadness, "for bobby is no gentleman." "but it _is_ me, daddy," cried the poor youth, almost sobbing aloud as he kissed the hand he held, "why, you old curmudgeon, i thought you'd 'ave know'd the voice o' yer own son! i've grow'd a bit, no doubt, but it's me for all that. look at me!" ned did look, with all the intensity of which he was capable, and then fell back on his pillow with a great sigh, while a death-like pallor overspread his face, almost inducing the belief that he was really dead. "no, bobby, i ain't dead yet," he said in a low whisper, as his terrified son bent over him. "thank god for sendin' you back to me." he stopped, but, gradually, strength returned, and he again looked earnestly at his son. "bobby," he said, in stronger tones, "i thought the end was drawin' near--or, rather, the beginnin'--the beginnin' o' the new life. but i don't feel like that now. i feel, some'ow, as i used to feel in the ring when they sponged my face arter a leveller. i did think i was done for this mornin'. the nurse thought so too, for i 'eerd her say so; an' the doctor said as much. indeed i'm not sure that my own 'art didn't say so--but i'll cheat 'em all yet, bobby, my boy. you've put new life into my old carcase, an' i'll come up to the scratch yet--see if i don't." but ned frog did not "come up to the scratch." his work for the master on earth was finished--the battle fought out and the victory gained. "gi' them all my love in canada, bobby, an' say to your dear mother that i _know_ she forgives me--but i'll tell her all about that when we meet--in the better land." thus he died with his rugged head resting on the bosom of his loved and loving son. chapter thirty. the new home. once again, and for the last time, we shift our scene to canada--to the real backwoods now--the brandon settlement. sir richard, you see, had been a noted sportsman in his youth. he had chased the kangaroo in australia, the springbok in africa, and the tiger in india, and had fished salmon in norway, so that his objections to the civilised parts of canada were as strong as those of the red indians themselves. he therefore resolved, when making arrangements to found a colony, to push as far into the backwoods as was compatible with comfort and safety. hence we now find him in the _very_ far west. we decline to indicate the exact spot, because idlers, on hearing of its fertility and beauty and the felicity of its inhabitants, might be tempted to crowd to it in rather inconvenient numbers. let it suffice to say, in the language of the aborigines, that it lies towards the setting sun. around brandon settlement there are rolling prairies, illimitable pasture-land, ocean-like lakes, grand forests, and numerous rivers and rivulets, with flat-lands, low-lands, high-lands, undulating lands, wood-lands, and, in the far-away distance, glimpses of the back-bone of america--peaked, and blue, and snow-topped. the population of this happy region consists largely of waifs with a considerable sprinkling of strays. there are also several families of "haristocrats," who, however, are not "bloated"--very much the reverse. the occupation of the people is, as might be expected, agricultural; but, as the colony is very active and thriving and growing fast, many other branches of industry have sprung up, so that the hiss of the saw and the ring of the anvil, the clatter of the water-mill, and the clack of the loom, may be heard in all parts of it. there is a rumour that a branch of the great pacific railway is to be run within a mile of the brandon settlement; but that is not yet certain. the rumour, however, has caused much joyful hope to some, and rather sorrowful anxiety to others. mercantile men rejoice at the prospect. those who are fond of sport tremble, for it is generally supposed, though on insufficient grounds, that the railway-whistle frightens away game. any one who has travelled in the scottish highlands and seen grouse close to the line regarding your clanking train with supreme indifference, must doubt the evil influence of railways on game. meanwhile, the sportsmen of brandon settlement pursue the buffalo and stalk the deer, and hunt the brown and the grizzly bear, and ply rod, net, gun, and rifle, to their hearts' content. there is even a bank in this thriving settlement--a branch, if we mistake not, of the flourishing bank of montreal--of which a certain mr welland is manager, and a certain thomas balls is hall-porter, as well as general superintendent, when not asleep in the hall-chair. mrs welland, known familiarly as di, is regarded as the mother of the settlement--or, more correctly, the guardian angel--for she is not yet much past the prime of life. she is looked upon as a sort of goddess by many people; indeed she resembles one in mind, face, figure, and capacity. we use the last word advisedly, for she knows and sympathises with every one, and does so much for the good of the community, that the bare record of her deeds would fill a large volume. amongst other things she trains, in the way that they should go, a family of ten children, whose adoration of her is said to be perilously near to idolatry. she also finds time to visit an immense circle of friends. there are no poor in brandon settlement yet, though there are a few sick and a good many aged, to whom she ministers. she also attends on sir richard, who is part of the bank family, as well as a director. the good knight wears well. his time is divided between the children of di, the affairs of the settlement, and a neighbouring stream in which the trout are large and pleasantly active. mrs screwbury, who spent her mature years in nursing little di, is renewing her youth by nursing little di's little ones, among whom there is, of course, another little di whom her father styles di-licious. jessie summers assists in the nursery, and the old cook reigns in the canadian kitchen with as much grace as she formerly reigned in the kitchen at the "west-end." quite close to the bank buildings there is a charming villa, with a view of a lake in front and a peep through the woods at the mountains behind, in which dwells the cashier of the bank with his wife and family. his name is robert frog, esquire. his wife's name is martha. his eldest son, bobby--a boy of about nine or ten--is said to be the most larky boy in the settlement. we know not as to that, but any one with half an eye can see that he is singularly devoted to his mild little brown-eyed mother. there is a picturesque little hut at the foot of the garden of beehive villa, which is inhabited by an old woman. to this hut bobby the second is very partial, for the old woman _is_ exceedingly fond of bobby--quite spoils him in fact--and often entertains him with strange stories about a certain lion of her acquaintance which was turned into a lamb. need we say that this old woman is mrs frog? the bank cashier offered her a home in beehive villa, but she prefers the little hut at the foot of the garden, where she sits in state to receive visitors and is tenderly cared for by a very handsome young woman named matty, who calls her "mother". matty is the superintendent of a neighbouring school, and it is said that one of the best of the masters of that school is anxious to make matty and the school his own. if so, that master must be a greedy fellow--all things considered. there is a civil engineer--often styled by bob frog an uncivil engineer--who has planned all the public works of the settlement, and is said to have a good prospect of being engaged in an important capacity on the projected railway. but of this we cannot speak authoritatively. his name is t lampay, esquire. ill-natured people assert that when he first came to the colony his name was tim lumpy, and at times his wife hetty calls him lumpy to his face, but, as wives do sometimes call their husbands improper names, the fact proves nothing except the perversity of woman. there is a blind old woman in his establishment, however, who has grown amiably childish in her old age, who invariably calls him tim. whatever may be the truth as to this, there is no question that he is a thriving man and an office-bearer in the congregational church, whose best sabbath-school teacher is his wife hetty, and whose pastor is the reverend john seaward--a man of singular good fortune, for, besides having such men as robert frog, t. lampay, and sir richard brandon to back him up and sympathise with him on all occasions, he is further supported by the aid and countenance of samuel twitter, senior, samuel twitter, junior, mrs twitter, and all the other twitters, some of whom are married and have twitterers of their own. samuel twitter and his sons are now farmers! yes, reader, you may look and feel surprised to hear it, but your astonishment will never equal that of old twitter himself at finding himself in that position. he never gets over it, and has been known, while at the tail of the plough, to stop work, clap a hand on each knee, and roar with laughter at the mere idea of his having taken to agriculture late in life! he tried to milk the cows when he first began, but, after having frightened two or three animals into fits, overturned half a dozen milk-pails, and been partially gored, he gave it up. sammy is his right-hand man, and the hope of his declining years. true, this right-hand has got the name of being slow, but he is considered as pre-eminently sure. mrs twitter has taken earnestly to the sick, since there are no poor to befriend. she is also devoted to the young--and there is no lack of them. she is likewise strong in the tea-party line, and among her most favoured guests are two ladies named respectively loper and larrabel, and two gentlemen named crackaby and stickler. it is not absolutely certain whether these four are a blessing to the new settlement or the reverse. some hold that things in general would progress more smoothly if they were gone; others that their presence affords excellent and needful opportunity for the exercise of forbearance and charity. at all events mrs twitter holds that she could not live without them, and george brisbane, esquire, who owns a lovely mansion on the outskirts of the settlement, which he has named lively hall, vows that the departure of that quartette would be a distinct and irreparable loss to society in brandon settlement. one more old friend we have to mention, namely, reggie north, who has become a colporteur, and wanders far and near over the beautiful face of canada, scattering the seed of life with more vigour and greater success than her sons scatter the golden grain. his periodical visits to the settlement are always hailed with delight, because north has a genial way of relating his adventures and describing his travels, which renders it necessary for him to hold forth as a public lecturer at times in the little chapel, for the benefit of the entire community. on these occasions north never fails, you may be quite sure, to advance his master's cause. besides those whom we have mentioned, there are sundry persons of both sexes who go by such names as dick swiller, blobby, robin, lilly snow, robbie dell, and little mouse, all of whom are grown men and women, and are said to have originally been london waifs and strays. but any one looking at them in their backwoods prosperity would pooh-pooh the idea as being utterly preposterous! however this may be, it is quite certain that they are curiously well acquainted with the slums of london and with low life in that great city. these people sometimes mention the name of giles scott, and always with regret that that stalwart policeman and his not less stalwart sons are unable to see their way to emigrate, but if they did, as bobby frog the second asks, "what would become of london?" "they'd make such splendid backwoodsmen," says one. "and the daughters would make such splendid wives for backwoodsmen," says another. mr merryboy thinks that canada can produce splendid men of its own without importing them from england, and mrs merryboy holds that the same may be said in regard to the women of canada, and old granny, who is still alive, with a face like a shrivelled-up potato, blinks with undimmed eyes, and nods her snow-white head, and beams her brightest smile in thorough approval of these sentiments. ah, reader! brandon settlement is a wonderful place, but we may not linger over it now. the shadows of our tale have lengthened out, and the sun is about to set. before it goes quite down let us remind you that the diamonds which you have seen dug out, cut, and polished, are only a few of the precious gems that lie hidden in the dust of the great cities of our land; that the harvest might be very great, and that the labourers at the present time are comparatively few. the end. alone in london by hesba stretton author of "jessica's first prayer," "little meg's children," etc. contents. chapter i. not alone ii. waifs and strays iii. a little peacemaker iv. old oliver's master v. forsaken again vi. the grasshopper a burden vii. the prince of life viii. no pipe for old oliver ix. a new broom and a crossing x. highly respectable xi. among thieves xii. tony's welcome xiii. new boots xiv. in hospital xv. tony's future prospects xvi. a bud fading xvii. a very dark shadow xviii. no room for dolly xix. the golden city xx. a fresh day dawns xxi. polly chapter i. not alone. it had been a close and sultry day--one of the hottest of the dog-days--even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves had never stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds had found themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now and then. all day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets of london, with a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefooted children had felt the dusty pavement burn under their tread almost as painfully as the icy pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter. in the parks, and in every open space, especially about the cool splash of the fountains at charing cross, the people, who had escaped from the crowded and unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or sought every corner where a shadow could be found. but in the alleys and slums the air was heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up and down, charged with sickening smells from the refuse of fish and vegetables decaying in the gutters. overhead the small, straight strip of sky was almost white, and the light, as it fell, seemed to quiver with the burden of its own burning heat. out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between holborn and the strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet across, with high buildings on each side. in the most part the ground floors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but leads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short cut to it, pretty often used. these shops are not of any size or importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods, two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare, but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads. above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words, "james oliver, news agent." the shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. after two customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would have been almost impossible to find room for a third. along the end ran a little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to the living-room lying behind the shop. this evening the flap was down--a certain sign that james oliver, the news agent, had some guest within, for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size of the counter. the room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the great city. but inside james oliver's house the gas was already lighted in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air, though both door and window were wide open. for there was a window, though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide, which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the very core of the maze of streets. as the houses were four stories high, it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilight there. this room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former times. it was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was clean and whole. there had been a fire, but it had died out, and the coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it. james oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where he could keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hour no customers ever turned into it. he was an old man, and seemed very old and infirm by the dim light. he was thin and spare, with that peculiar spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one can. his teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years ago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. a fine network of wrinkles puckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. he stooped a good deal, and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. yet his face was very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile now and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome and the more noticed when it came. old oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman, with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room to rights, and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. she was just replacing her needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife, which she always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on her black silk bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him goodbye. "eh, charlotte," said oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath, "what would i give to be a-top of the wrekin, seeing the sun set this evening! many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when we were young, and all of us alive. dost remember how many a mile of country we could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across the thousands of green fields? why, i saw snowdon once, more than sixty miles off, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. i always think of the top of the wrekin when i read of moses going up mount pisgah and seeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. eh, lass! there's a change in us all now!" "ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her head slowly. "all the folks i used to sew for at aston, and uppington, and overlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. it wouldn't seem like the same place at all. and now there's none but you and me left, brother james. well, well! its lonesome, growing old." "yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old oliver, in a dreamy voice. "i'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and i don't feel quite myself like i used to do; but i've got something i didn't use to have. sometimes of an evening, before i've lit the gas, i've a sort of a feeling as if i could almost see the lord jesus, and hear him talking to me. he looks to me something like our eldest brother, him that died when we were little. charlotte, thee remembers him? a white, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behind clouds. well, whether it's only a dream or no i cannot tell, but there's a face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and i think to myself, maybe the lord jesus says, 'old oliver's lonesome down there in the dark, and his eyes growing dim. i'll make myself half-plain to him.' then he comes and sits here with me for a little while." "oh, that's all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," said charlotte, sharply. "perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but i should be very lonesome without that." they did not speak again until charlotte had given a final shake to the bed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. she put them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spoke again in a constrained and mysterious manner. "heard nothing of susan, i suppose?" she said. "not a word," answered old oliver, sadly. "it's the only trouble i've got. that were the last passion i ever went into, and i was hot and hasty, i know." "so you always used to be at times," said his sister. "ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speaking slowly. "i told her if she married young raleigh, she should never darken my doors again--never again. and she took me at my word though she might have known it was nothing but father's hot temper. darken my doors! why, the brightest sunshine i could have 'ud be to see her come smiling into my shop, like she used to do at home." "well, i think susan ought to have humbled herself," said charlotte. "it's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see her folly. do you know where she is?" "i know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully. "young raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him; but i didn't mean susan to take me at my word. i shouldn't speak so hasty and hot now." "and to think. i'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with such pretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "she might have done so much better with her cleverness too. such a milliner as she might have turned out! well good-bye, brother james, and don't go having any more of those visions; they're not wholesome for you." "i should be very lonesome without them," answered oliver. "good-bye, charlotte, good-bye, and god bless you. come again as soon as you can." he went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quiet alley, till she turned into the street. then, with a last nod to the back of her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly into his dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to the darker room within. hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a little chilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, and threw a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk, looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. he must have fallen into a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled by the constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softened murmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found that complete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. a church clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. he went out hurriedly to put the shutters up. chapter ii. waifs and strays. in the shop it was not yet so dark but that old oliver could see his way out with the shutters, which during the day occupied a place behind the door. he lifted the flap of the counter, and was about to go on with his usual business, when a small voice, trembling a little, and speaking from the floor at his very feet, caused him to pause suddenly. "please, rere's a little girl here," said the voice. oliver stooped down to bring his eyes nearer to the ground, until he could make out the indistinct outline of the figure of a child, seated on his shop floor, and closely hugging a dog in her arms. her face looked small to him; it was pale, as if she had been crying quietly, and though he could not see them, a large tear stood on each of her cheeks. "what little girl are you?" he asked, almost timidly. "rey called me dolly," answered the child. "haven't you any other name?" inquired old oliver "nosing else but poppet," she said; "rey call me dolly sometimes, and poppet sometimes. ris is my little dog, beppo." she introduced the dog by pushing its nose into his hand, and beppo complacently wagged his tail and licked the old man's withered fingers. "what brings you here in my shop, my little woman?" asked oliver. "mammy brought me," she said, with a stifled sob; "she told me run in rere, dolly, and stay till mammy comes back, and be a good girl always. am i a good girl?" "yes, yes," he answered, soothingly; "you're a very good little girl, i'm sure; and mother 'ill come back soon, very soon. let us go to the door, and look for her." he took her little hand in his own; such a little hand it felt, that he could not help tightening his fingers fondly over it; and then they stood for a few minutes on the door-sill, while old oliver looked anxiously up and down the alley. at the greengrocer's next door there flared a bright jet of gas, and the light shone well into the deepening darkness. but there was no woman in sight, and the only person about was a ragged boy, barefoot and bareheaded with no clothing but a torn pair of trousers, very jagged about the ankles, and a jacket through which his thin shoulders displayed themselves. he was lolling in the lowest window-sill of the house opposite, and watched oliver and the little girl looking about them with sundry signs of interest and amusement. "she ain't nowhere in sight," he called across to them after a while, "nor won't be, neither, i'll bet you. you're looking out for the little un's mother, ain't you, old master?" "yes," answered oliver; "do you know anything about her, my boy?" "nothink," he said, with a laugh; "only she looked as if she were up to some move, and as i'd nothink particular on hand, i just followed her. she was somethink like my mother, as is dead, not fat or rosy, you know, with a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her. i thought there'd be a lark when she left the little 'un in your shop, so i just stopped to see. she bolted as if the bobbies were after her." "how long ago?" asked oliver, anxiously. "the clocks had just gone eight," he answered; "i've been watching for you ever since." "why! that's a full hour ago," said the old man, looking wistfully down the alley; "it's time she was come back again for her little girl." [illustration: the little stranger.] but there was no symptom of anybody coming to claim the little girl, who stood very quietly at his side, one hand holding the dog fast by his ear, and the other still lying in oliver's grasp. the boy hopped on one foot across the narrow alley, and looked up with bright, eager eyes into the old man's face. "i say," he said, earnestly, "don't you go to give her up to the p'lice. they'd take her to the house, and that's worse than the jail. bless yer! they'd never take up a little thing like that to jail for a wagrant. you just give her to me, and i'll take care of her. it 'ud be easy enough to find victuals for such a pretty little thing as her. you give her up to me, i say." "what's your name?" asked oliver, clasping the little hand tighter, "and where do you come from?" "from nowhere particular," answered the boy; "and my name's antony; tony, for short. i used to have another name; mother told it me afore she died, but it's gone clean out o' my head. tony i am, anyhow, and you can call me by it, if you choose." "how old are you, tony?" inquired oliver, still lingering on the threshold, and looking up and down with his dim eyes. "bless yer! i don't know," replied tony; "i weren't much bigger nor her when mother died, and i've found myself ever since. i never had any father." "found yourself!" repeated the old man, absently. "ah, it's not bad in the summer," said tony, more earnestly than before: "and i could find for the little 'un easy enough. i sleep anywhere, in covent garden sometimes, and the parks--anywhere as the p'lice 'ill let me alone. you won't go to give her up to them p'lice, will you now, and she so pretty?" he spoke in a beseeching tone, and old oliver looked down upon him through his spectacles, with a closer survey than he had given to him before. the boy's face was pale and meagre, with an unboyish sharpness about it, though he did not seem more than nine or ten years old. his glittering eyes were filled with tears, and his colourless lips quivered. he wiped away the tears roughly upon the ragged sleeve of his jacket. "i never were such a baby before," said tony, "only she is such a nice little thing, and such a tiny little 'un. you'll keep her, master, won't you? or give her up to me?" "ay, ay! i'll take care of her," answered oliver, "till her mother comes back for her. she'll come pretty soon, i know. but she wants her supper now, doesn't she?" he stooped down to bring his face nearer to the child's, and she raised her hand to it, and stroked his cheek with her warm, soft fingers. "beppo wants his supper, too," she said, in a clear, shrill, little voice, which penetrated easily through old oliver's deafened hearing. "and beppo shall have some supper as well as the little woman," he answered. "i'll put the shutters up now, and leave the door ajar, and the gas lit for mother to see when she comes back; and if mother shouldn't come back to night, the little woman will sleep in my bed, won't she?" "dolly's to be a good girl till mammy comes back," said the child, plaintively, and holding harder by beppo's ear. "let me put the shutters up, master," cried tony, eagerly; "i won't charge you nothink, and i'll just look round in the morning to see how you're getting along. she is such a very little thing." the shutters were put up briskly, and then tony took a long, farewell gaze of the old man and the little child, but he could not offer to touch either of them. he glanced at his hands, and oliver did the same; but they both shook their heads. "i'll have a wash in the morning afore i come," he said, nodding resolutely; "good-bye, guv'ner; goodbye, little 'un." old oliver went in, leaving his door ajar, and his gas lit, as he had said. he fed the hungry child with bread and butter, and used up his half-pennyworth of milk, which he bought for himself every evening. then he lifted her on to his knee, with beppo in her arms, and sat for a long while waiting. the little head nodded, and dolly sat up, unsteadily striving hard to keep awake; but at last she let beppo drop to the floor, while she herself fell upon the old man's breast, and lay there without moving. it chimed eleven o'clock at last, and oliver knew it was of no use to watch any longer. he managed to undress his little charge with gentle, though trembling hands, and then he laid her down on his bed, putting his only pillow against the wall to make a soft nest for the tender and sleepy child. she roused herself for a minute, and stared about her, gazing steadily, with large, tearful eyes, into his face. then as he sat down on the bedstead beside her, to comfort her as well as he could, she lifted herself up, and knelt down, with her folded hands laid against his shoulder. "dolly vewy seepy," she lisped, "but must say her prayers always." "what are your prayers, my dear?" he asked. "on'y god bless gan-pa, and father, and mammy, and poor beppo, and make me a good girl," murmured the drowsy voice, as dolly closed her eyes again, and fell off into a deep sleep the next moment. chapter iii. a little peacemaker. it was a very strange event which had befallen old oliver. he went back to his own chair, where he smoked his broseley pipe every night, and sank down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had nursed any child, and even dolly's small weight was a burden to him. her tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. in shaking out her frock a letter fell from it, and oliver picked it up wondering whoever it could be for. it was directed to himself, "mr. james oliver, news-agent," and he broke the seal with eager expectation. the contents were these, written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:-- "dear father, "i am very very sorry i ever did anything to make you angry with me. this is your poor susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker betwixt you and me. i'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your door. i'm going down to portsmouth for three days, because he listed five months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to india, and he sails on friday. so i thought i wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and i said i'll leave her with father till i come back, and her pretty little ways will soften him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his regiment comes home again, poor fellow. for he's very good to me when he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. please do forgive me for pity's sake, and for christ's sake, if i'm worthy to use his name, and do take care of my little girl till i come home to you both on friday, from your now dutiful daughter, "poor susan." the tears rolled fast down old oliver's cheeks as he read this letter through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. why! this was his own little grandchild, then--his very own! and no doubt susan had christened her dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died so many years ago. dolly was the short for dorothy, and in early times he had often called his wife by that name. he had turned his gas off and lighted a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new treasure. the tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. his spectacles grew very dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. then he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and sobbed out, "bless her! bless her!" he returned to his chair, his head shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again. "dear lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear lord! how very good thou art to me! didst thee not say, 'i'll not leave thee comfortless, i'll come to thee?' i know what that means, bless thy name; and the good spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart. i know thou didst not leave me alone before. no, no! that was far from thee, lord. alone!--why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as well. lonesome!--they don't know thee, lord, and they don't know me. thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. yes, yes,--yes." he murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. but no sleep came to the old man. he was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child waking in the night and wanting something. the air was close and hot, and now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. his grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three days. oh, how he would welcome her! he would not let her speak one word of her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. it was partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-tempered. he had learnt better since then. chapter iv. old oliver's master. very early in the morning, before the tardy daylight could creep into the darkened room, old oliver was up and busy. he had been in the habit of doing for himself, as he called it, ever since his daughter had forsaken him, and he was by nature fastidiously clean and neat. but now there would be additional duties for him during the next three days; for there would be dolly to wash, and dress, and provide breakfast for. every few minutes he stole a look at her lying still asleep; and as soon as he discovered symptoms of awaking, he hastily lifted beppo on to the bed, that her opening eyes should be greeted by some familiar sight. she stretched out her wonderful little hands, and caught hold of the dog's rough head before venturing to lift her eyelids, while oliver looked on in speechless delight. at length she ventured to peep slyly at him, and then addressed herself to beppo. "what am i to call ris funny old man, beppo?" she asked. "i am your grandpa, my darling," said oliver, in his softest voice. "are you god-bless-gan-pa?" inquired dolly, sitting up on her pillow, and staring very hard with her blue eyes into his wrinkled face. "yes, i am," he answered, looking at her anxiously. "dolly knows," she said, counting upon her little fingers; "rere's father, and mammy, and beppo; and now rere's gan-pa. dolly'll get up now." she flung her arms suddenly about his neck and kissed him, while old oliver trembled with intense joy. it was quite a marvel to him how she helped him to dress her, laughing merrily at the strange mistakes he made in putting on her clothes the wrong side before; and when he assured her that her mother would come back very soon, she seemed satisfied to put up with any passing inconvenience. the shop, with its duties, and the necessity of getting in his daily stock of newspapers, entirely slipped his memory; and he was only recalled to it by a very loud rapping at the door as he was pouring out dolly's breakfast. to his great surprise he discovered that he had forgotten to take down his shutters, though it was past the hour when his best customers passed by. the person knocking proved to be none other than tony, who greeted the old man's appearance with a prolonged whistle, and a grave and reproachful stare. "come," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "this'll never do, you know. business is business, and must be minded. you pretty nearly frightened me into fits; anybody could have knocked me down with a straw when i see the shutters up. how is she?" "she's very well, thank you, my boy," answered oliver, meekly. "mother not turned up, i guess?" said tony. "no; she comes on friday," he replied. tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to no remark until after the shutters were in their place. then he surveyed himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. his face and hands were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were unsoiled. his jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also. "washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much about," remarked tony, "in the fountains at charing cross; but i hadn't time to get my rags done, so i did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were going down; but i could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out. anyhow, i'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master." "to be sure, to be sure," answered oliver. "come in, my boy, and i'll give you a bit of breakfast with her and me." "you haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked tony, in a patronizing tone. "not to-day's paper, i'm afraid," he said. "i'm afraid not," continued tony; "overslept yourself, eh? not as i can read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one here as well as anywhere else. shall i run and get 'em for you, now i'm on my legs?" oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest gaze, and said, "honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money. there was some doubt in the old man's mind after tony had disappeared as to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have reached the place and returned, tony was back again with his right number of papers. before many minutes tony was sitting upon an old box at a little distance from the table, where oliver sat with his grandchild. a basin of coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and beppo was sniffing round him with a doubtful air. dolly was shy in this strange company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her companions with astonishment and admiration. when the meal was finished, old oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it aloud to tony, who listened with undivided interest. "then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "you'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,--nor to the p'lice neither," he added, with a brightening face. "no, no, no!" answered oliver, emphatically. "besides, her mother's coming on friday. i wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!" "and he's 'listed!" said tony, in a tone of envy. "they wouldn't take me yet a while, if i offered to go. but who's that she speaks of?--'for christ's sake, if i am worthy to use his name.' who is he?" "don't you know?" asked oliver. "no, never heard tell of him before," he answered. "is he any friend o' yours?" [a] [footnote a: it may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not exaggerated. the city mission reports, and similar records, show that such cases are too frequent.] "ay!" said oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. and he's my master, besides." "and she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued tony. "yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud grieve him to his heart. why, he's always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. if she hadn't been my own little girl, i daren't have turned her out of my doors. no, no, dear lord, thee knows as i'd have taken care of her, for thy sake." he spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily. "how long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last. "not very long," replied oliver, regretfully. "i used to fancy i was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o'work; and now i can't do very much. only he knows how old i am, and he doesn't care so that i love him, which i do, tony." "i should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his fingers through his wet and tangled hair. "he takes to children and little 'uns?" he said, in a questioning tone. "ay, dearly!" answered old oliver. "i reckon he'd scarcely take me for a man yet," said tony, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height; "though i don't know as i should care to work for him. i'd rather have a crossing, and be my own master. but if i get hard up, do you think he'd take to me, if you spoke a word for me?" "are you sure you don't know anything about him?" asked oliver. "not i; how should i?" answered tony. "why, you don't s'pose as i know all the great folks in london, though i've seen sights and sights of 'em riding about in their carriages. i told you i weren't much bigger nor her there when mother died, and i've picked up my living up and down the streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till i can help 'em on now. it don't cost much to keep a boy on the streets. there's nothink to pay for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and a rag now and then. all i want's a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn't i get along just? but i don't know how to get 'em." "perhaps the lord jesus would give them to you, if you'd ask him," said oliver, earnestly. "who's he?" inquired tony, with an eager face. "him--christ. it's his other name," answered the old man. "ah! i see," he said, nodding. "well, if i can't get 'em myself, i'll think about it. he'll want me to work for him, you know. where does he live?" "i'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied oliver. "well," said the boy, "i'll just look in after friday, and see if the little 'un's mother's come back. goodbye,--good-bye, little miss." he could take dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked down curiously at it,--a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen before so closely. a lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted with tears again. it was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. there was no fear that tony would forget to come back to old oliver's house. "thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if i do come to see you, it'll be to see her again--not for anythink as i can get." chapter v. forsaken again. the next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old oliver. the little child was so merry, yet withal so gentle and sweet-tempered, that she kept him in a state of unwearied delight, without any alloy of anxiety or trouble. she trotted at his side with short, running footsteps, when he went out early in the morning to fetch his daily stock of newspapers. she watched him set his room tidy, and made believe to help him by dusting the legs and seats of his two chairs. she stood with folded hands and serious face, looking on as he was busy with his cooking. when she was not thus engaged she played contentedly with beppo, prattling to him in such a manner, that oliver often forgot what he was about while listening to her. she played with him, too, frolicsome little games of hide-and-seek, in which he grew as eager as herself; and sometimes she stole his spectacles, or handkerchief, or anything she could lay her mischievous fingers upon to hide away in some unthought-of spot; while her shrewd, cunning little face put on an expression of profound gravity as old oliver sought everywhere for them. as friday evening drew near, the old man's gladness took a shade of anxiety. his daughter was coming home to him, and his heart was full of unutterable joy and gratitude; but he did not know exactly how they should go on in the future. he was averse to change; yet this little house, with its single room, to which he had moved when she forsook him, was too scanty in its accommodation. he had made up a rude sort of bed for himself under the counter in the shop, and was quite ready to give up his own to susan and his little love, as he called dolly; but would susan let him have his own way in this, and many other things? he provided a sumptuous tea, and added a fresh salad to it from the greengrocer's next door; but though he and dolly waited and watched till long after the child's bed-time, taking occasional snatches of bread and butter, still susan did not arrive. at length a postman entered the little shop with a noise which made oliver's heart beat violently, and tossed a letter down upon the counter. he carried it to the door, where there was still light enough to read it, and saw that it was in susan's handwriting. "my dear and dearest father, "my heart is almost broke, betwixt one thing and another. his regiment is to set sail immediate, and the colonel's lady has offered me very handsome wages to go out with her as lady's maid, her own having disappointed her at the last moment; which i could do very well, knowing the dressmaking. he said, 'do come, susan, and i'll never get drunk again, so help me god; and if you don't, i shall go to the bad altogether; for i do love you, susan.' i said, 'oh my child!' and the colonel's lady said, 'she's safe with her grandfather; and if he's a good man, as you say he is, he'll take the best of care of her. i'll give you three pounds to send him from here, and we'll send more from calcutta.' so they overpersuaded me, and there isn't even time to come back to london, for we are going in a few hours. you'll take care of my little dear, i know, you and aunt charlotte. i've sent a little box of clothes for her by the railway, and what more she wants aunt charlotte will see to, i'm sure, and do her mending, and see to her manners till i come home. oh! if i could only hear you say 'susan, my dear, i forgive you, and love you almost as much as ever,' i'd go with a lighter heart, and be almost glad to leave dolly to be a comfort to you. she will be a comfort to you, though she is so little, i'm sure. tell her mammy says she must be a good girl always till mammy comes back. a hundred thousand kisses for my dear father and my little girl. we shall come home as soon as ever we can; but i don't rightly know where india is. i think it's my bounden duty to go with him, as things have turned out. pray god take care of us all. "your loving, sorrowful daughter, "susan raleigh." chapter vi. the grasshopper a burden. it was some time before the full meaning of susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. true, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. but as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. the little child would belong to him alone. they might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. if he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence. he put dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night. as he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to tony, who took the shutter out of his hands. "s'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said, pointing with his thumb through the half open door. "no," answered oliver. "i've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to india with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me." "but whatever'll the master say to that?" inquired tony. "what master?" asked old oliver. "him--lord jesus christ. what'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said tony, with an eager face. "oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband," he answered, somewhat sadly. "it's all right, that is." "i s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said tony. "ay will he; him and me," replied old oliver; "there's no fear of that. you never read the testament, of course, my boy?" "can't read, i told you," he answered. "but what's that?" "a book all about him, the lord jesus," said oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. if you'll come of an evening, i'll read it aloud to you and my little love. she'll listen as quiet and good as any angel." "i'll come to-morrow," answered tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of glass over the door. then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of covent garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed. old oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. a chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. he lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the wrekin. he felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, hoary old man. his sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. his limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. but, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. he could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. and now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. it was very thoughtless and reckless of susan! suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and nobody would comfort her! it might very easily be so. he was not the hale man he was when susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. it was as much as he could do to lift dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long! old oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. his joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. he was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. what would become of them both, alone in london? he did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still, small voice, which said, "even to your old age i am he, and even to hoar hairs i will carry you: i have made, and i will bear; even i will carry, and will deliver you." and old oliver answered, with a sob, "yes, lord, yes!" chapter vii. the prince of life. in the new life which had now fairly begun for oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. when he was in the house playing with dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. on the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from india in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. he tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. he even forgot that he did forget; and when dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in london. the person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about dolly was tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. it was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for oliver. tony could not keep away from the place. though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while oliver read aloud, with dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections. the chief subject of their reading was the life of the master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old oliver. tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. he had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. but none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to tony of this master, as one who was always very near at hand. "i s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening." "ay, does he!" answered oliver, earnestly. "my boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. didn't i read you last night how he said, 'suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him." "i should very much like to see him some day," pursued tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--peter, and john, and them. i s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?" "they are dead," said oliver. "all of 'em?" asked tony. "all of them," he repeated. "dear, dear!" cried tony, his eyes glistening. "whatever did the master do when they all died? i'm very sorry for him now. he's had a many troubles, hasn't he?" "yes, yes," replied old oliver, with a faltering voice. "he was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. nobody ever bore so many troubles as him." "how long is it ago since they all died?" asked tony. "i can't rightly say," he answered. "i heard once, but it is gone out of my head. i only know it was the same when i was a boy. it must have been a long, long time ago." "the same when you was a boy!" repeated tony, in a tone of disappointment. "it must ha' been a long while ago. i thought all along as the master was alive now." "so he is, so he is!" exclaimed old oliver, eagerly. "i'll read to you all about it. they put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the prince of life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. his own words to john were, 'i am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, i am alive forevermore.' what else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?" tony made no answer. he sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. a very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. he had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could oliver's. his heart was heavy, and very sad. "i s'pose i can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last. "not exactly like other folks," said oliver. "i think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. but he sees us, and hears us. he himself says, 'behold, i am with you always.' i don't know whatever i should do, even with my little love here, if i wasn't sure jesus was with me as well." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said tony, after another pause. "i'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, i shall know he hears me--i should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please." he had turned his face away from oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. the old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and tony was listening in rapt attention. "my boy," he said, as the hour came for tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?" "anywhere as i can get out o' the wind," he answered. "it's cold now, nights--wery cold, master. but i must get along a bit farder on. lodgings is wery dear." "i've been thinking," said oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. i've heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, tony. look here, and see how you'd like it." it looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old oliver aright. he looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. but the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. he felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips. chapter viii. no pipe for old oliver. as some weeks went by, and no crossing and broom had been given to tony, he began to suspect that oliver was imposing upon him. now that he slept under the counter, he could often hear the old man talking aloud to his invisible friend as he smoked his pipe; and once or twice tony crept noiselessly to the door and watched him, after he had finished smoking, kneel down and hide his face in his hands for some minutes together. but the boy could see nothing, and his wish had not been granted; even though, as he grew more instructed, he followed oliver's example, and, kneeling down behind the counter, whispered out a prayer for it. to be sure his life was easier, especially the nights of it; for he never now went hungry and starved to bed upon some cold, hard door-step. but it was old oliver who did that for him, not old oliver's master. so far as he knew, the lord jesus had taken no notice whatever of him; and the feeling, at first angry, softened down into a kind of patient grief, which was quickly dying away into indifference. oliver had done himself no bad turn by offering a shelter to the solitary lad. tony always woke early in the morning, and if it rained he would run for the papers, before turning out to "find for himself" in the streets. he generally took care to be out of the way at meal-times; for it was as much as the old man could do to provide for himself and dolly. sometimes tony saw him at the till, counting over his pence with rather a troubled face. once, after receiving a silver fourpenny piece, an extraordinary and undreamed of event, tony dropped it, almost with a feeling of guilt, through the slit in the counter which communicated with the till. but oliver was so bewildered by its presence among the coppers, that he was compelled to confess what he had done, saying it would have cost him more than that for lodgings these cold nights. "no, no, tony," said oliver; "you're very useful, fetching my papers, and taking my little love out a-walking when the weather's fine. i ought to pay you something, instead of taking it of you." "keep it for dolly," said tony, bashfully, and pushing the coin into her little hand. "sank 'oo," answered dolly, accepting it promptly; "me'll give 'oo twenty kisses for it." it seemed ample payment to tony, who went down on his knees to have the kisses pressed upon his face, which had never felt a kiss since his mother died. but oliver was not satisfied with the bargain, though he drew dolly to him fondly, and left the money in her hand. "it 'ud buy you a broom, tony," he said. "oh, i've give up asking for a crossing," he answered, dejectedly; "for he never heard, or if he heard, he never cared; so it were no use going on teazing either him or me." "but this money 'ud buy the broom," said oliver; "and if you looked about you, you'd find the crossing. you never got such a bit of money before, did you?" "no, never," replied tony. "a tall, thin gentleman, with a dark face and very sharp eyes, gave it me for holding his horse, near temple bar. he says, 'mind you spend that well, my lad.' i'd know him again anywhere." "you ought to have bought a broom," said oliver, looking down at dolly's tightly-closed hand. "don't you go to take it of her," cried tony. "bless you! i'll get another some way. i never thought that were the way he'd give me a broom and a crossing. i thought it 'ud be sure to come direct." "well," said oliver, after a little pause, "i'll save the fourpence for you. it'll only be going without my pipe for a few nights, that's all. that's nothing, tony." it did not seem much to tony, who had no idea as yet of the pleasures of smoking; yet he roused up just before falling into his deep sleep at night to step softly to the door, and look in upon oliver. he was sitting in his arm-chair, with his pipe between his lips, but there was no tobacco in it; and he was holding more eager converse than ever with his unseen companion. "dear lord!" he said, "i'd do ten times more than this for thee. thou hast said, 'inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' tony's one of thy little ones. dear lord, do thee give him a crossing, if it be thy blessed will. do thee now, lord." tony could hear no more, and he stole back to bed, his mind full of new and vague hopes. he dreamed of the fourpenny piece, and the gentleman who had given it, and of dolly, who bought a wondrous broom with it, in his dream, which swept a beautiful crossing of itself. but old oliver sat still a long time, talking half aloud; for his usual drowsiness did not come to him. it was nearly five months now since dolly was left to him, and he felt his deafness and blindness growing upon him slowly. his infirmities were not yet so burdensome as to make him dependent upon others; but he felt himself gradually drawing near to such a state. dolly's clothes were getting sadly in want of mending; there was scarcely a fastening left upon them, and neither he nor tony could sew on a button or tape. it was a long time--a very long time--since his sister had been to see him; and, with the reluctancy of old age to any active exertion, he had put off from week to week the task of writing to her to tell her of susan's departure, and the charge he had in his little grandchild. he made up his mind that he would do it tomorrow. chapter ix. a new broom and a crossing. the morning was a fine soft, sunny december day, such as comes sometimes after a long season of rain and fog, and tony proposed taking dolly out for a walk through the streets, to which oliver gladly consented, as it would give to him exactly the undisturbed leisure he needed for writing his letter to charlotte. but dolly was not in her usual spirits; on the contrary, she was grave and sober, and at length tony, thinking she was tired, sat down on a door-step, and took her upon his knee, to tell her his dream of the wonderful broom which swept beautifully all by itself. dolly grew more and more pensive after hearing this, and sat silent for a long time, with her small head resting thoughtfully upon her hand, as she looked up and down the street. "dolly 'ud like to buy a boom," she said, at last, "a great, big boom; and gan-pa 'ill smoke his pipe again to-night. dolly's growing a big girl; and me must be a good girl till mammy comes back. let us go and buy a big boom, tony." for a few minutes tony tried to shake her resolution, and persuade her to change her mind. he even tempted her with the sight of a doll in a shop-window; but she remained steadfast, and he was not sorry to give in at last. since the idea had entered his head that the money had been given to him for the purpose of buying a broom, he had rather regretted parting with it, and he felt some anxiety lest he should not be allowed a second chance. dolly's light-heartedness had returned, and she trotted cheerfully by his side as they walked on in search of a shop where they could make their purchase. it was some time before they found one, and they had already left behind them the busier thoroughfares, and had reached a knot of quieter streets where there were more foot-passengers, for the fine morning had tempted many people out for pleasure as well as business. tony was particular in his choice of a broom, but once bought, he carried it over his shoulder, and went on his way with dolly in triumph. they were passing along chattering busily, when tony's eyes fell upon a child about as old as dolly, standing on the kerb-stone with a lady, who looked anxiously across to the other side of the broad and very dirty road, for the day before had been rainy. they were both finely dressed, and the little girl had on new boots of shining leather, which it was evident she was very much afraid of soiling. for a minute tony only looked on at their perplexity, but then he went up to them, holding dolly by the hand. [illustration: a new broom and a crossing] "if you'll take care of my little girl," he said, "i'll carry your little girl across the road. i'm wery clean for a street-boy, all but my feet, 'cos i've got this little girl to take care of; and i'll do it wery gentle." both the lady and the child looked very searchingly into tony's face. it was pale and meagre; but there was a pleasant smile upon it, and his eyes shone down upon the two children with a very loving light in them. the lady took dolly's hand in hers, nodding permission for him to carry her little child over to the other side, and she waited for him to come back to his own charge. then she took out her purse, and put twopence into his hand. "thank ye, my lady," said tony; "but i didn't do it for that. i'm only looking out for a crossing. me and dolly have bought this broom, and i'm looking out for a place to make a good crossing in." "why not make one here?" asked the lady. it seemed a good place to try one in; there were four roads meeting, and a cab-stand close by. plenty of people were passing to and fro, and the middle of the road was very muddy. tony begged a wisp of straw from a cabman, to make a seat for dolly in the sunshine under a blank bit of wall, while he set to work with a will, feeling rather pleased than not that the broom would not sweep of itself. a crossing was speedily made, and for two or three hours tony kept it well swept. by that time it was twelve o'clock, and dolly's dinner would be ready for her before they could reach home, if old oliver had not forgotten it. it seemed a great pity to leave his new post so early. most passers-by, certainly, had appeared not to see him at all; but he had already received fivepence halfpenny, chiefly in halfpence, from ladies who were out for their morning's walk; and dolly was enjoying herself very much in the sunshine, receiving all the attention which he could spare from his crossing. however a beginning was made. the broom and the crossing were his property; and tony's heart, beat fast with pride and gladness as he carried the weary little dolly all the way home again. he resolved to put by half of his morning's earnings towards replacing the fourpenny-piece she had given back to him; or perhaps he would buy her a beautiful doll, dressed like a real lady. chapter x. highly respectable. as old oliver was stooping over his desk on the counter, and bringing his dim eyes as close as he could to the letter he was writing, his shop-door was darkened by the unexpected entrance of his sister charlotte herself. she was dressed with her usual extreme neatness, bordering upon gentility, and she carried upon her arm a small fancy reticule, which contained some fresh eggs, and a few russet apples, brought up expressly from the country. oliver welcomed her with more than ordinary pleasure, and led her at once into his room behind. charlotte's quick eyes detected in an instant the traces of a child's dwelling there; and before oliver could utter a word, she picked up a little frock, and was holding it out at arm's length, with an air of utter surprise and misgiving. "brother james!" she exclaimed, and her questioning voice, with its tone of amazement, rang very clearly into his ears. "it's my little dolly's," he answered, in haste; "poor susan's little girl, who's gone out with her husband, young raleigh, to india, because he's 'listed, and left her little girl with me, her grandfather. she came on the very last day you were here." "well, to be sure!" cried his sister, sinking down on a chair, but still keeping the torn little frock in her hand. "i've had two letters from poor susan," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and i'll read them to you. the child's such a precious treasure to me, charlotte--such a little love, a hundred times better than any gold; and now you're come to mend up her clothes a bit, and see what she wants for me, there's nothing else that i desire. i was writing about her to you when you came in." "i thought you'd gone and picked up a lost child out of the streets," said charlotte, with a sigh of relief. "no, no; she's my own," he answered. "you hearken while i read poor susan's letters, and then you'll understand all about it. i couldn't give her up for a hundred gold guineas--not for a deal more than that." he knew susan's letters off by heart, and did not need his spectacles, nor a good light to read them by. charlotte listened with emphatic nods, and many exclamations of astonishment. "that's very pretty of susan," she remarked, "saying as aunt charlotte'll do her sewing, and see to her manners. ay, that i will! for who should know manners better than me, who used to work for the staniers, and dine at the housekeeper's table, with the butler and all the head servants? to be sure i'll take care that she does not grow up ungenteel. where is the dear child, brother james?" "she's gone out for a walk this fine morning," he answered. "not alone?" cried charlotte. "who's gone out with her? a child under five years old could never go out all alone in london: at least i should think not. she might get run over and killed a score of times." "oh! there's a person with her i've every confidence in," replied oliver. "what sort of person; man or woman; male or female?" inquired charlotte. "a boy," he answered, in some confusion. "a boy!" repeated his sister, as if he had said a monster. "what boy?" "his name's tony," he replied. "but where does he come from? is he respectable?" she pursued, fixing him with her glittering eyes in a manner which did not tend to restore his composure. "i don't know, sister," he said in a feeble tone. "don't know, brother james!" she exclaimed. "don't you know where he lives?" "he lives here," stammered old oliver; "at least he sleeps here under the counter; but he finds his own food about the streets." charlotte's consternation was past all powers of speech. here was her brother, a respectable man, who had seen better days, and whose sister had been a dressmaker in good families, harbouring in his own house a common boy off the streets, who, no doubt, was a thief and pickpocket, with all sorts of low ways and bad language. at the same time there was poor susan's little girl dwelling under the same roof; the child whose pretty manners she was to attend to, living in constant companionship with a vulgar and vicious boy! what she might have said upon recovering her speech, neither she nor oliver ever knew; for at this crisis tony himself appeared, carrying dolly and his new broom in his arms, and looking very haggard and tattered himself, his bare feet black with mud, and his bare head in a hopeless condition of confusion, and tangle. "we've bought a geat big boom, gan-pa," shouted dolly, as she came through the shop, and before she perceived the presence of a stranger; "and tony and dolly made a great big crossing, and dot ever so much money--" she was suddenly silent as soon as her eye fell upon the stranger; but aunt charlotte had heard enough. she rose with great dignity from her chair, and was about to address herself vehemently to tony, when old oliver interrupted her. "charlotte," he said, "the boy's a good boy, and he's a help to me. i couldn't send him away. he's one of the lord's poor little ones as are scattered up and down in this great city, without father or mother, and i must do all i can for him. it isn't much; it's only a bed under the counter, and a crust now and then, and he more than pays for it. you musn't come betwixt me and tony." old oliver spoke so emphatically, that his sister was impressed and silenced for a minute. she took the little girl away from tony, and glared at him with a sternness which made him feel very uncomfortable; but her eye softened a little, and her face grew less harsh. "you can't read or write?" she said, in a sharp voice. "no," he answered. "and you've not got any manners, or boots, or a cap on your head. you are ragged and ignorant, and not fit to live with this little girl," she continued, with energy. "if this little girl's mother saw her going about with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it 'ud break her heart i know. so if you wish to stay here with my brother, mr. oliver, and this little girl, miss dorothy raleigh, as i suppose her name is, you must get all these things. you must begin to learn to read and write, and talk properly. i shall come here again in a month's time--i shall come every month now--and if you haven't got some shoes for your feet, and a cap for your head, before i see you again, i shall just take the little girl away down into the country, where i live, and you'll never see her again. do you understand?" "yes," answered tony, nodding his head. "then you may take yourself away now," said the sharp old woman, "i don't want to be too hard upon you; but i've got this little girl to look after for her mother, and you must do as i say, or i shall carry her right off to be out of your way. take your broom and go; and never you think of such a thing as taking this little girl to sweep a crossing again. i never heard of such a thing. there, go!" tony slunk away sadly, with a sudden down-heartedness. he returned so joyous and triumphant, in spite of his weariness, that this unexpected and unpleasant greeting had been a very severe shock to him. with his broom over his shoulder, and with his listless, slouching steps, he sauntered slowly back to his crossing; but he had no heart for it now. chapter xi. among thieves. the night fell early, for a thick fog came on in the afternoon. tony cowered down upon his broom under the wall where dolly had sat in the sunshine all the morning to watch him sweep his crossing. it was all over now. she was lost to him; for he should never dare to go back to old oliver's house, and face that terrible old woman again. there was nothing for him but to return to his old life and his old haunts; and a chill ran through him, body and spirit, as he thought of it. his heap of paper shavings under the counter, where the biting winds could not reach him, came to his mind, and the tears rushed to his eyes. but to-night, at least, there would be no need to sleep out of doors, for he had some money in the safest corner of his ragged pocket, tied up in it securely with a bit of string. he could afford to pay for a night's lodging, and he knew very well where he could get one. about nine o'clock tony turned his weary feet towards a slum he knew of in westminster, where there was a cellar open to everybody who could pay two-pence for a night's shelter. his heart was very full and heavy with resentment against his enemy, and a great longing to see dolly. he loitered about the door of the cellar, reluctant and almost afraid to venture in; for it was so long since he had been driven to any of these places that he felt nearly like a stranger among them. besides, in former times he had been kicked, and beaten, and driven from the fire, and fought with by the bigger boys; and he had become unaccustomed to such treatment of late. how different this lodging-house was to the quiet peaceful home where dolly knelt down every evening at her grandfather's knee, and prayed for him; for now she always put tony's name into her childish prayers! he should never, never hear her again, nor see old oliver seated in his arm-chair, smoking his long pipe, while he talked with that strange friend and master of his. ah! he would never hear or know any more of that unseen christ, who was so willing to be his master and friend, for the lord jesus christ could never come into such a wicked place as this, which was the only home he had. he had given him the crossing and the broom, and that was the end of it. he must take care of himself now, and keep out of gaol if he could, and if not, why then he had better make a business of thieving, and become as good a pickpocket as "clever dog tom," who had once stolen a watch from a policeman himself. clever dog tom was the first to greet tony when he slipped in at last, and he seemed inclined to make much of him; but tony was too troubled for receiving any consolation from tom's friendly advances. he crept away into the darkest corner, and stretched himself on the thin straw which covered the damp and dirty floor, but he could not fall asleep. there was a good deal of quarreling among the boys, and the men who wished to sleep swore long and loudly at them. then there followed a fight, which grew so exciting at last that every person in the place, except tony, gathered about the boys in a ring, encouraging and cheering them. it was long after midnight before silence and rest came, and then he fell into a broken slumber, dreaming of dolly and old oliver, until he awoke and found his face wet with tears. he got up before any of his bed-fellows were aroused, and made his way out into the fresh keen air of a december morning. day after day went by, and night after night tony was growing more indifferent again to the swearing and fighting of his old comrades. he began to listen with delight to the tales of clever dog tom, who told him that hands like his would work well in his line, and his innocent-looking face would go a long way towards softening any judge and jury, or would bring him favour with the chaplain, and easy times in gaol. he kept his crossing still, and did tolerably well, earning enough to keep himself in food, and to pay for his night's shelter; but he was beginning to hanker after something more. if he could not be good, and be on the same side as old oliver and dolly, he thought it would be better to be altogether on the other side, like tom, who dressed well, and lived well, and was looked up to by other boys. it was a week after he had left old oliver's house, and he was about to leave his crossing for the night, when a gentleman stopped him suddenly, and looked keenly into his face. "hollo, my lad!" he said, "you're the boy i gave fourpence to a week ago for holding my horse. i told you to lay it out well. what did you do with it?" "me and dolly bought this broom," he answered, "and i've kept this crossing ever since." "well done!" said the gentleman. "and who is dolly?" "it's a little girl as i was very fond of," replied tony, with a deep sigh. it seemed so long ago that he spoke of his love for her as if it was a thing altogether passed away and dead, yet his heart still ached at the memory of it. "well, here's another fourpenny-bit for you," said his friend, "quite a new one. see how bright it is; no one has ever bought anything with it yet. dolly will like to see it." tony held it in the palm of his hand long after the gentleman was out of sight, gazing at it in the lamplight. it was very beautiful and shining; and oh! how dolly's eyes would shine and sparkle if she could only see it! and she ought to see it. by right it belonged to her; for had he not given her his first fourpenny-piece freely, and had twenty kisses for it, and then had she not given it him back to buy a broom with? she had never had a single farthing of all his earnings. how he would like to show her this beautiful piece of silver, and feel her soft little arms round his neck, when he said it was to be her very own! he felt that he dare not pass the night in the cellar with such a treasure about him, for tom, who was so clever, would be sure to find out that his pocket was worth the picking, and tony had not found that there was much honour among thieves. what was he to do? where was he to go? chapter xii. tony's welcome. almost without knowing where his feet were carrying him, tony sauntered through the streets until he found himself at the turn into the alley within a few yards of oliver's home, and his beloved dolly. at any rate he could pass down it, and, if the shop-door was not shut, he would wrap his beautiful silver coin in a rag, and throw it into the inside; they would be sure to guess who had done it, and what it was for. it was dark down the alley, only one lamp and the greengrocer's gas lighting it up, and tony stole along quietly in the shadow. it was nearly time for dolly to be going to bed, he thought, and old oliver was sure to be with her in the inner room; but just as he came into the revealing glare of the greengrocer's stall, his ears rang and his heart throbbed violently at the sound of a shrill little scream of gladness, and the next moment he felt himself caught by dolly's arms, and dragged into the house by them. "tony's come home, tony's come home, gan-pa!" she shouted with all her might. "dolly's found tony at last!" dolly's voice quivered, and broke down into quick, childish sobs, while she held tony very fast, lest he should escape from her once again; and old oliver came quickly from the room beyond, and laid his hand fondly upon the boy's shoulder. "why have you kept away from us so long, tony?" he asked. "oh, master!" he cried, "i've been a wicked boy, and a miserable boy. do forgive me, and i'll never do so no more. i s'pose you'll never let me sleep under the counter again?" "come in, come in!" answered oliver, pushing him gently before him into the house. "we've been waiting and watching for you every night, me and my little love. you ought not to have served us so, my lad; but we're too glad to be angry with you. charlotte's sharp, and she's very much afraid of low ways and manners; but she isn't a hard woman, and she didn't know anything about you. when i told her as you'd been left no bigger than my little love here to take care of yourself, alone, in london,--mother dead, and no father,--she shed tears about you, she did. and she left you the biggest of her eggs to be kept for your supper, with her kind love; and we've put it by for you. you shall have it this very night. dolly, my love, bring me the little saucepan." "i'm not so clean as i could wish," said tony, mournfully; for he had neglected himself during the last week, and looked very much like what he had done when he had first seen old oliver and his little grand-daughter. "take a bowl full of water into the shop, then," answered oliver, "and wash yourself, while i boil the egg. dolly'll find you a bit of soap and a towel; she's learning to be grand-pa's little housekeeper, she is." when tony returned to the kitchen he looked a different being; the gloom was gone as well as the grime. he felt as if he had come to himself after a long and very miserable dream. here was old oliver again, looking at him with a kindly light in his dim eyes, and dolly dancing about, with her pretty merry little ways; and beppo wagging his tail in joyous welcome, as he sniffed round and round him. even the egg was a token of forgiveness and friendliness. that terrible old woman was not his enemy, after all. he recollected what she had said he must do, and he resolved to do it for dolly's sake, and old oliver's. he would learn to read and write, and he would pinch himself hard to buy some better clothing, lest he should continue to be a disgrace to them; shoes he must have first of all, as those were what the sharp but friendly old woman had particularly mentioned. at any rate, he could never run away again from this home, where he was so loved and cared for. oliver told him how sadly dolly had fretted after him, and watched for him at the door, hour after hour, to see him come home again. he said that in the same way, only with a far greater longing and love, his master, the lord jesus christ, was waiting for tony to go to him. he could not half understand it, but a vague feeling of a love passing all understanding sank deeply into his heart. he fell asleep that night under the counter with the tranquil peacefulness of one who has been tossed about in a great storm and tempest, and has been brought safely to the desired haven. chapter xiii. new boots. it was several weeks before tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. he did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. he was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt charlotte came up to town again. she had sent word she was coming the last saturday in january; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from stratford, tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase. it was a small open space in one of the streets of whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. one dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. it was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of london streets. the salesman tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. for the first time in his life tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. there were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than tony, and he was not troubled about it. his chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet. he fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. they were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. there was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. he shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. it was a long way home to old oliver's alley, between holborn and the strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. he watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of st. paul's strike six. tea would be quite over now, and tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots. it was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. he felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. these back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. he lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. he fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. what hurt had been done to him? how was it that he could not bear to walk? he took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. he could not endure the agony of standing or moving. yet he must move; he must get up and walk. if he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting dolly's aunt. at that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. what if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets; and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. it was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. if he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning. but if that was true which old oliver said so often, that the lord jesus christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. oh! if he could but feel the hand of christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. it became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "oh! lord jesus christ! lord jesus christ!" after uttering this cry tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm. "why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,--my little fourpenny-bit, i call you. what brings you sitting here this cold night?" "i've fell down and hurt myself," answered tony, faintly. "where?" asked the stranger. "my leg," he answered. the gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain. "broken!" he said to himself. "my boy, where's your home?" "i haven't got any right home," answered tony, more faintly than before. he felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. the gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where tony was lying. [illustration: tony's accident.] chapter xiv. in hospital. the pain tony was suffering kept him partially conscious of what was happening to him. he knew that he was carried gently into a large hall, and that two or three persons came to look at him, to whom his new friend spoke in eager and rapid tones. "i know you do not take in accidents," he said; "but what could i do with the little fellow? he told me he had no home, and that was all he could say. you have two or three cots empty; and i'll double my subscription if it's necessary, rather than take him away. come, doctor, you'll admit my patient?" "i don't think i could send him away, mr. ross," answered another hearty voice. "we must get him into bed as soon as possible." tony felt himself carried up stairs into a large room, where there were a number of small beds, with a pale little face lying on every pillow. there was a vacant cot at the end, and he was laid upon it, after having his tattered clothes taken off him. his new boots were gone altogether, having been left behind on the steps of the warehouse. his hands and knees, bruised with crawling along the frosty stones, were gently bathed with a soft sponge and warm water. he was surrounded by kind faces, looking pitifully down upon him, and the gentleman who had brought him there spoke to him in a very pleasant and cheering voice. "my boy," he said, "you have broken your leg in your fall; but the doctor here, who is a great friend of mine, is going to mend it for you. it will give you a good deal of pain for a few minutes; but you'll bear it like a man, i know." "yes," murmured tony; "but will you let me go as soon as it's done?" "you could not do that," answered mr. ross, smiling. "it will be some weeks before you will be well enough to go; but you will be very happy here, i promise you." "oh! but i must go!" cried tony, starting up, but falling back again with a groan. "there's dolly and mr. oliver,--they'll think i've run away again, and i were trying all i could to get back to 'em. she'll be watching for me, and she'll fret ever so. oh! dolly, dolly!" he spoke in a tone of so much grief, that the smile quite passed away from the face of mr. ross, and he laid his hand upon his, and answered him very earnestly: "if you will tell me where they live," he said, "i will go at once and let them know all about your accident; and they shall come to see you to-morrow if you are well enough to see them." tony gave him very minute and urgent directions where to find old oliver's shop; and then he resigned himself, with the patience and fortitude of most of the little sufferers in that hospital, to the necessary pain he had to bear. it was sunday afternoon when old oliver and dolly entered the hall of the children's hospital and inquired for tony. there was something about the old man's look of age and the little child's sweet face which found them favour, even in a place where everybody was received with kindness. a nurse, who met them slowly climbing the broad staircase, turned back with them, taking dolly's hand in hers, and led them up to the room where they would find tony. there were many windows in it, and the sunshine, which never shone into their own home, was lighting it up gaily. the cots were all covered with white counterpanes, and most of the little patients, who had been asleep the night before, were now awake, and sitting up in bed, with little tables before them, which they could slide up and down as they wished along the sides of their cots. there was no sign of medicine, and nothing painful to see, except the wan faces of the children themselves. but oliver and dolly had no eyes but for tony, and they hurried on to the corner where he was lying. his face was very white, and his eyelids were closed, and his lips drawn in as if he were still in pain. but at the very gentle and almost frightened touch of dolly's fingers his eyes opened quickly, and then how his face changed! it looked as if all the sunshine in the room had centred upon it, and his voice shook with gladness. "dolly hasn't had to fret for tony this time," he said. "but dolly will fret till tony gets well again," she answered, clasping both her small hands round his. "no, no!" said old oliver; "dolly's going to be a very good girl, and help grand-pa to mind shop till tony comes home again." this promise of promotion partly satisfied dolly, and she sat still upon oliver's knee beside tony's cot, where his eyes could rest with contentment and pleasure upon them both, though the nurse would not let them talk much. when they went away she took them through the girls' wards in the story below; for the girls were more sumptuously lodged than the boys. these rooms were very lofty, with windows reaching to the cornice of the ceiling, and with grand marble chimney-pieces about the fireplaces; for in former times, the nurse told them, this had been a gentleman's mansion, where gay parties and assemblies had been held; but never had there been such a party and assembly as the one now in it. old oliver walked down between the rows of cots, with his little love clinging shyly to his hand, smiling tenderly upon each poor little face turned to look at them. some of the children smiled back to him, and nodded cheerfully to dolly, lifting up their dolls for her to see, and calling to her to listen to the pretty tunes their musical boxes were playing. but others lay quietly upon their pillows half asleep, with beautiful pictures hanging over their feeble heads,--pictures of christ carrying a lamb in his arms; and again, of christ with a little child upon his knee; and again, of christ holding the hand of the young girl who seemed dead, but whose ear heard his voice saying "arise!" and she came to life again in her father's and mother's house. the tears stood in old oliver's eyes, and his white head trembled a great deal before he had seen all, and given one of his tender glances to each child. "i wonder whatever the lord 'ud have said," he exclaimed, "if there'd been such a place as this in his days! he'd have come here very often. he does come, i know, and walks to and fro here of nights when the little ones are asleep, or may be awake through pain, and he blesses every one of them. ah, bless them! bless the little children, and the good folks who keep a place like this. bless them everyone!" he felt reluctant to go away; but his time was gone, and the nurse was needed elsewhere. she kissed dolly before she went, putting a biscuit in her hand, and told oliver the house was open every sunday afternoon for the friends of the children, if he chose to come again; and then they walked home with slow, short footsteps, and all the sunday evening they talked together of the beautiful place they had seen, and how happy tony would be in the children's hospital. chapter xv. tony's future prospects. old oliver and dolly made several visits to tony while he was in the hospital. every sunday afternoon they went back to it, until its great door, and wide staircase, and sunny ward, became almost as familiar to them as their own dull little house. tony recovered quickly, yet he was there some weeks before the doctor pronounced him strong enough to turn out again to rough it in the world. as he grew better he learned a number of things which were making him a wiser, as well as a stronger boy, before the time came for him to leave. the day before he was to go out of hospital, his friend, mr. ross, who had been often to see him, called for the last time, and found him in the room where the little patients who were nearly well were at play together. some of them were making believe to have a feast, with a small dinner-service of wooden plates and dishes, and a few bits of orange-peel, and biscuits; but tony was sitting quietly and gravely on one side, looking on from a distance. he had never learned to play. "antony," said mr. ross--he was the only person who ever called him antony, and it seemed to make more of a man of him--"what are you thinking to do when you leave here to-morrow?" "i s'pose i must go back to my crossing," answered tony, looking very grave. "no, i think i can do better for you than that," said his friend, "i have a sister living out in the country, about fifty miles from london; and she wants a boy to help the gardener, and run on errands for the house. she has promised to provide you with a home, and clothing, and to send you to school for two years, till you are about twelve, for we think you must be about ten years old now; and after that you shall have settled wages." tony listened with a quick throbbing of his heart and a contraction in his throat, which hindered him from speaking all at once when mr. ross had finished. what a grand thing it would be for himself! but then there were old oliver and dolly to be remembered. "it 'ud do first-rate for me," he said at last, "and i'd try my best to help in the garden; but i couldn't never leave mr. oliver and the little girl. she'd fret ever so; and he's gone so forgetful he'd lose his own head, if he could anyhow. why! of a morning they sell him any papers as they've too many of. sometimes it's all the 'star,' and sometimes it's all the 'standard;' and them as buys one won't have the other. i don't know why, i'm sure. but you see when i go for 'em i say twenty-five this, and thirteen that, and i count 'em over pretty sharp, i can tell you; though i couldn't read at all afore i came here, but i could tell which was which easy enough. then he'd never think to open his shop some mornings; and other mornings he'd open at four or five o'clock, just when he woke of hisself. no. i must stay and take care of 'em a bit; but thank you, sir, all the same." he had spoken so gravely and thoughtfully that his reasons went directly to the heart of mr. ross; but he asked him one more question, before he could let his good plan for the boy drop. "what has he done for you, antony? is he any relation of yours?" "no, no!" cried tony, his eyes growing bright, "i haven't got any relation in all the world; but he took me in out of love, and let me sleep comfortable under the counter, instead of in the streets. i love him, and dolly, i do. i'll stay by 'em as long as ever i live, if i have to sweep a crossing till i'm an old man like him. besides, i hear him speak a good word for me often and often to his master; and i s'pose nobody else 'ud do that." "what master?" inquired mr. ross. "him," answered tony, pointing to a picture of the saviour blessing young children, "he's always talking to him as if he could see him, and he tells him everythink. no, it 'ud be better for me to stay with him and dolly, and keep hard by my crossing, than go away from 'em, and have clothes, and lodging, and schooling for nothink." "i think it would," said mr. ross, "so you must go on as you are, antony, till i can find you something better than a crossing. you are looking very well, my boy; that's a nice, warm suit of clothes you have on, better than the rags you came in by a long way." it was a sailor's suit, sent to the hospital by some mother, whose boy had perhaps outgrown it; or, it may be, whose boy had been taken away from all her tender care for him. it was of good, rough, thick blue cloth, and fitted tony well. he had grown a good deal during his illness, and his face had become whiter and more refined; his hair, too, was cut to a proper length, and parted down the side, no longer lying about his head in a tangled mass. he coloured up with pleasure as mr. ross looked approvingly at him. "they've lent it me till i go out," he said, with a tone slightly regretful in his voice, "i only wish dolly could have seen me in it, and her aunt charlotte. my own things were too ragged for me to wear 'em in a place like this." "they've given it to you, antony," replied mr. ross, "those are the clothes you will go home in to-morrow." it seemed too much for tony to believe, though a nurse who was sitting by and sewing away busily, told him it was quite true. he was intensely happy all the rest of the day, often standing up, and almost straining his neck to get a satisfactory view of his own back, and stroking the nap of his blue trousers with a fondling touch. they would all see him in it; old oliver, dolly, and aunt charlotte. there would be no question now as to his fitness for taking dolly out for a walk; he would be dressed well enough to attend upon a princess. this made famous amends for the pair of old boots he had lost the night he broke his leg; a loss he had often silently lamented over in his own mind. the nurse told him she was patching up his old clothes, and making him a cap, to wear when he was at work on his crossing, for the new ones were much too good for that; and tony felt as rich as if a large fortune had been left to him. it was a very joyful thing to go home again. dolly was a little shy at first of this new tony, so different from the poor, ragged, wild-looking old tony; but a very short time was enough to make her familiar with his nice blue suit, and the anchor-buttons upon it. he found his place under the counter all nicely papered to keep the draughts out; and a little chaff mattress, made by aunt charlotte, laid down instead of the shavings upon the floor. it was even pleasanter to be here than in the hospital. but tony found it hard work to go back to his crossing in the morning; and he could not make out what was the matter with himself, he felt so cross and idle. his old clothes seemed really such horrid rags that he could scarcely bear to feel them about him; and if any passer-by looked closely at him, he went red and hot all over. he was not so successful as he thought he had been before his accident, or as he thought he ought to be; for the roads were getting cleaner with the drier weather, and few persons considered it necessary to give him a copper for his almost needless labour. worst of all,--clever dog tom found him out, and would come often to see him; sometimes jeering him for his poor spirit in being content with such low work, and sometimes boasting of the fine things he could do, and displaying the fine clothes he could wear. it was truly very hard work for tony, after his long holiday at the hospital, where he had had as much luxury and attention as a rich man's son. but at home in the evening tony felt all right again. old oliver set him to learn to read and write, and he was making rapid progress, more rapid than dolly, who began at the same time, but who was apt to look upon it all as only another kind of game, of which she grew more quickly tired than of hide-and-seek. there was no one to check her, or to make her understand it was real, serious work: neither old oliver nor tony could find any fault with their darling. now and then there came letters from her mother, full of anxious questions about her, and loving messages to her, telling her to be a good girl till she came back, but never saying a word as to when there was any chance of her returning to england. in one of these letters she sent word that a little sister was come for her out in india, who was just like what dolly herself had been when she was a baby; but neither oliver nor tony could quite believe that. there never had been such a child as dolly; there never would be again. chapter xvi a bud fading. a second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets. out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much. but away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat. old oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness. he never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year. if any one had told him in the dog-days of july that it was still april, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year. but about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set tony full of longings after the country, with its cornfields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen. he remembered his bible, too, and could repeat chapter after chapter describing his master's life, as they sat together in the perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it did not seem right to keep the gas burning. tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody wanted it; but in this extremity mr. ross came to his aid, and procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still open old oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went out, and put the shutters up when he came back. to become an errand-boy was a good step forwards, and tony was more than content. he never ran about bare-headed and barefooted now as he had done twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him. he did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. he kicked them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him. [illustration: dolly's monthly register.] but, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad change was creeping over dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. on the first of every month, which old oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly head reached to. he looked at this record often, smiling at the rate his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from under her drooping eyelids. the house was too dark for any sight to see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could not find its way into it, and day after day dolly became more like one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up, but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. one by one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows, along their road homewards. yet all the time old oliver was loving and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to the master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there was any change in her. dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would sit still for hours together, her arm around beppo, and her sweet, patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned towards the flickering light of the fire, while oliver pottered toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter. just as oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about dolly, so tony was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. moreover, when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day, with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and what he had seen, dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. he seemed to bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's. how should tony detect anything amiss with her? she never complained of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and still while he was busy with his lessons. but when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of november were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before christmas--a frost which had none of the beauty of white lime and clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank before it, and were chilled through and through, then dolly drooped and failed altogether. even old oliver's dull ears began to hear a little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away; and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. the old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. he bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. he intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him; but aunt charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism, and could not get up to old oliver's house. chapter xvii. a very dark shadow. the christmas week passed by, and the new year came in, cold and bleak, but tony was well secured against the weather, and liked the frosty air, which made it pleasant to run as fast as he could from place to place as he delivered his parcels. when boxing day came, which was half-holiday for him, he returned to the house at mid-day, carrying with him three mince-pies, which he had felt himself rich enough to buy in honour of the holiday. he had for a long time been reckoning upon shutting up shop for the whole afternoon, and upon going out for a long stroll through the streets with old oliver and dolly; and now that the hour was positively come he felt very light-hearted and full of spirits, defying the wind which wrestled with him at every turn. dolly must be wrapped up well, he said to himself, and old oliver must put on his drab great coat, with mother o' pearl buttons, which he had brought up from the country forty years ago, and which was still good for keeping out the cold. he ran down the alley, and passed through the shop whistling cheerily, and disdaining to lift the flap of the counter, he took a running vault over it, and landed at once inside the open kitchen-door. but there was old oliver sitting close to the fire, with dolly on his knee, and her little head lying upon his breast, while the tears trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks on to her pretty curls. beppo was standing between his legs, licking dolly's small hand, which hung languidly by her side. her eyelids were closed, and her face was deadly white; but when tony uttered a great cry of trouble, and fell on his knees before her, she opened her heavy eyes, and stretched out her cold thin hand to stroke his cheeks. "dolly's so very ill, tony," she murmured, "poor dolly's very ill indeed." "i don't know whatever is the matter with my little love," said the old man, in a low and trembling voice; "she fell down all of a sudden, and i thought she was dead, tony; but she's coming round again now. isn't my little love better now?" "yes, gan-pa, yes; dolly's better," she answered faintly. "let me hold her, master," said tony, his heart beating fast; "i can hold her stronger and more comfortable, maybe, than you. you're tired ever so, and you'd better get yourself a bit of dinner. shall tony nurse you now, dolly?" the little girl raised her arms to him, and tony took her gently into his own, sitting down upon the old box in the chimney-corner, and putting her to nestle comfortably against him. dolly closed her eyes again, and by-and-bye he knew that she had fallen into a light sleep, while old oliver moved noiselessly to and fro, only now and then saying half aloud, in a tone of strange earnestness and entreaty, "lord! dear lord!" after awhile the old man came and bent over them both, taking dolly's arm softly between his withered fingers, and looking down at it with a shaking head. "she's very thin, tony; look at this little arm," he said, "wasting away! wasting away! i've watched all my little ones waste away except my poor susan. couldn't there anything be done to save her?" "ay!" answered tony, in an energetic whisper, while he clasped dolly a little tighter in his arms; "ay! they could cure her easily at the hospital. bless yer! there were little 'uns ten times worse than her as they sent home cured. let us take her there as soon as ever she wakes up, and she'll be quite well directly, i promise you. the doctor knows me, and i'll speak to mr. ross for her. do you get a bit of dinner, and hearten yourself up for it; and we'll set off as soon as she's awake." old oliver turned away comforted, and prepared his own and tony's dinner, and put a mince-pie into the oven to be ready to tempt dolly's appetite when she awoke. but she slept heavily all the afternoon till it was almost dark outside, and the lamps were being lit, when she awoke, restless and feverish. "would dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like tony was." "yes, yes!" cried dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun shines, and dolly 'ud like to go. only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa." it was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. old oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. after they had put on all her own warmest clothing, tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by beppo. it was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower classes of the inhabitants were taking holiday. but old oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. he walked on by tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to one whom no one else could see or hear. once or twice tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his assent to what is said to him. so they passed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many passers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time. chapter xviii. no room for dolly. old oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. the door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. old oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly. "we've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, i know. i'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her." "we're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway. "full?" repeated old oliver, in a tone of questioning. "ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. there ain't no more room. we've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. this isn't the right time to bring any child here." "but my little love is very ill," continued old oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? the place where they nurse little children who are ill?" "it's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. we couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. but you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while i fetch one of the ladies." old oliver and tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. there was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. the old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them. "i think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the hospital for sick children, i think, and i've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. i think it must be a mistake." "no," said the lady; "i am sorry to say it is no mistake. we are quite full; there is not room for even one more. indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. who is your recommendation from?" "i didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than tony and me, and i thought that was enough. i never thought of getting any recommendation, and i don't know where i could get one." "mr. ross 'ud give us one," said tony, eagerly. "yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty." "you don't know me," interrupted tony, eagerly; "but mr. ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. they was so wery kind to me, that i couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. i'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. you jest say as it's tony and dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, i'm sure." "i wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. we should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. you had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. let me look at the poor child for a minute." she lifted up the collar of tony's blue jacket, which covered dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. it was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly. she stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile. "put dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun shines, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa." "what can i do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face. "the place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done." "how many children have you got here?" asked old oliver. "we have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full." "only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in london! they are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines. is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?" "there are two or three other hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. they are sure to be full just now. i think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all london for sick children." "then there's no room for my dolly?" he said. the lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face. "eh!" cried old oliver in a wailing voice, "i don't know whatever the dear lord 'ill say to that." he made a sign to tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. old oliver put his stick down, and took dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast. "let me carry her a little way, tony," he said. "she's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. i'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home." "i'll tell you what i can do," said the lady, wrapping dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live i will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in--for he is out just now--and perhaps he will come to see her. he knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them." "thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old oliver, feeling a little comforted. but when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. he tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to tony again. these streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they passed by; yet tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking. [illustration: no room for dolly] "dear lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. whatever can thy people be thinking about? they've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with nobody to help them or care for them as i care for this little one. oh, lord, lord! let my little love live! yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. thou loves her more than i do; and see, lord, she is very ill indeed." they reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried dolly in and laid her upon old oliver's bed. she was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. he crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. what was going to happen to dolly? what could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face? chapter xix. the golden city. tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old oliver calling his name feebly. he hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where dolly was lying. he had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. the fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless. the room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. but tony saw nothing except the dear face of dolly, resting on one check upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. old oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over dolly, as if to save her from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them. "don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. nor tony. are i going to die, gan-pa?" "yes, my little love," cried old oliver, moaning as he said it. "where are i going to?" asked dolly, very faintly. "you're going to see my lord and master," he said; "him as loves little children so, and carries them in his arms, and never lets them be sorrowful or ill or die again." "does he live in a bootiful place?" she asked, again. "it's a more beautiful place than i can tell," answered old oliver. "the lord jesus gives them light brighter than the sun; and the streets are all of gold, and there are many little children there, who always see the face of their father." "dolly's going rere," said the little child, solemnly. she smiled for a minute or two, holding beppo's ear between her failing fingers, and playing with it. tony's eyes were dim with tears, yet he could see her clear face clearly through them. what could he do? was there no one to help? "master, master!" he cried. "if the lord jesus is here he can save her. ask him, master." but old oliver paid no heed to him. for the child who was passing away from him he was all eye and ear, watching and listening as keenly as in his best and strongest days; but he was blind and deaf to everything else around him. tony's voice could not reach his brain. "will gan-pa come rere?" whispered the failing and faltering voice of dolly. "very soon," he answered; a radiant smile coming to his face, which made her smile as her eyes caught the glory of it. "very, very soon, my little love. you'll be there to meet me when i come." "dolly'll watch for gan-pa," she murmured, with long pauses between the words, which seemed to drop one by one upon tony's ear; "and dolly'll watch at the door for tony to come home; and she'll fret ever so if he never comes." tony felt her stir restlessly under his arm, and stretch her tiny limbs upon the bed as if she were very tired, and the languid eyelids drooped slowly till they quite hid her blue eyes, and she sighed softly as children sigh when they fall asleep, weary of their play. old oliver laid his shaking hand tenderly upon her head. "dear lord!" he said, "take my little love to thyself. i give her up to thee." it seemed to tony as if a thick mist of darkness fell all about him, and as if he were sinking down, down, very low into some horrible pit where he would never see the light of day again. but by-and-bye he came to himself, and found old oliver sobbing in short, heavy sobs, and swaying himself to and fro, while beppo was licking dolly's hand, and barking with a sharp, quiet bark, as he had been wont to do when he wanted her to play with him. the child's small features were quite still, but there was an awful smile upon them such as there had never been before, and tony could not bear to look upon it. he crossed her tiny hands lightly over one another upon her breast, and then he lifted beppo away gently, and drew the bed-clothes about her, so as to hide her smiling face. "master," he cried, "master, is she gone?" old oliver only answered by a deep moan; and tony put his arm about him, and raised him up. "come to your own chair, master," he said. he yielded to tony like a child, and seated himself in the chair, where he had so often sat and watched dolly while he smoked his pipe. the boy put his pipe between his fingers; but he only let it fall to the ground, where it broke into many pieces. tony did not know what to do, nor where to go for any help. "lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for him; for i don't know whatever to do, now little dolly's gone." he sat down on his old box, staring at oliver and the motionless form on the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. he could scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since--only it seemed like long years--since he had leaped over the counter in his light-heartedness. but he had not sat there many minutes before he heard a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask who was there. "antony," said a voice he knew very well, "i have come with the doctor, to see what we can do for your little girl." in an instant tony opened the door, and as mr. ross entered the boy flung his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly. "oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! dolly's dead, and i'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. they couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home." the doctor and mr. ross went on into the inner room, and tony pointed silently to the bed where dolly lay. old oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon tony's shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face. "i don't murmur," he said. "my dear lord can't do anything unkind. he'll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now i'm deaf and blind, even to him. i've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but there's a many things ought to be done, and i cannot think what." "leave it all to us," said mr. ross, leading him back to his chair. "but have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? you are an old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep." "no," he answered, shaking his head; "i'd rather stay here in my own place, if i'd a hundred other places to go to. i'm not afraid of my little love,--no, no! when everything is done as ought to be done, i'll lie in my own bed and watch her. it won't be lonesome, as long as she's here." in an hour's time all was settled for that night. a little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. the old man had given his promise to go to bed when mr. ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. a faint light burnt all night in the room, and tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with beppo upon his knees. there was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. that little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. it must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home. chapter xx. a fresh day dawns. old oliver and tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. the house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. yet from time to time old oliver forgot that dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. when mealtimes came round he would put out dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "gentle jesus, meek and mild." it was quite plain to tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop. "i've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to mr. ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and i must mind shop for him now as well as i can. he's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. he talks to dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till i can't hardly bear it. but i'm very fond of him,--fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little dolly; and i've made up my mind as his master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. i'm no ways afeared of not getting along." tony found that they got along very well. mr. ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without dolly. every sunday afternoon, however, old oliver and tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with tony's help, till they reached the children's hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. old oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "dear lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!" it was a reopening of tony's sorrow when aunt charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. she discovered, too, that old oliver had forgotten to write to susan,--indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,--and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach calcutta before susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound. it was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when susan raleigh had sent her little girl into old oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. it was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him. "hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "i'm antony oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name. "antony oliver!" repeated the stranger; "i never heard of you before." "well, i'm only tony," he answered; "but i live with old mr. oliver now, and call him grandfather. he likes it, and it does me good. it's like somebody belonging to me." "why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again. "ever since our little dolly died," said tony, in a faltering voice. "dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "oh! my poor susan!--my poor, dear girl!--however can i tell her this bad news?" "who are you?" cried tony. "are you dolly's father? oh, she's dead! she died last january, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think." "let me see poor susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face. "ay, come in," said tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "he's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. i know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. come in." raleigh entered the room, and saw old oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. the gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry. "don't you know me, father?" cried raleigh, almost unable to utter a word. "it's your poor susan's husband, and dolly's father." "dolly's father!" repeated old oliver, rising from his chair, and resting his hand upon raleigh's shoulder. "do you know that the dear lord has taken her to be where he is in glory?" "yes, i know it," he said, with a sob. he put the old man back in his seat, and drew a chair close up to him. they sat thus together in sorrowful silence for some minutes, until old oliver laid his hand upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "you've lost your arm," he said, pityingly. "ay!" answered raleigh; "our colonel was set upon by a tiger in the jungle, and i saved him; but the brute tore my arm, and craunched the bone between his teeth till it had to come off. it's spoiled me for a soldier." "yes, yes, poor fellow," answered old oliver, "but the lord knew all about it." "that he did," answered raleigh; "and he's taught me a bit more about himself than i used to know. i'm not spoiled to be his soldier. but i don't know much about the service yet, and i shall want you to teach me, father. you'll let me call you father, for poor susan's sake, won't you?" "to be sure--to be sure," said old oliver, keeping his hand still upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "well, father," he continued, "as i am not fit for a soldier, and as the colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. only susan's gone straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through london to see after you and dolly." "your little girl?" said oliver questioningly. "yes, the one born in india. her name's mary, but we call her polly. susan said it made her think of our little dolly at home. dear! dear! i don't know however i shall let her know." another fit of silence fell upon them, and tony left them together, for it was time to put up the shop shutters. it seemed just like the night when he had followed susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in the shop. he fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving him, or caring for him, and that he saw old oliver and dolly standing on the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to see her darling again. tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs and crying. when he went back into the house raleigh was talking again. "so susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park," he said, "and i'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor servants about the garden and premises. it's a house with three bedrooms, and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and scullery place downstairs. you can see the wrekin from the parlour window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the wrekin. as soon as ever the colonel's lady told susan where it was, she cried out, 'that's the very place for father!' you'd like to come and live with your own susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?" "yes, yes; for a little while," answered old oliver, with a smile upon his face. tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. if the old man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone, with nobody to love. he could get his living now in a respectable manner, and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in covent garden, or under the bridges. but he would be alone, and all the links which bound him to dolly and old oliver would be snapped asunder. he wondered if the lord jesus would let such a thing be. "but i couldn't leave tony," cried old oliver, suddenly; and putting on his spectacles to look for him. "come here, tony. he's like my own son to me, bless him! he calls me grandfather, and kept my heart up when i should have sunk very low without him. my master gave him to me the very same night he gave me my little love. no, no; dolly loved tony, and susan must come here to see me, but i could never leave my boy." old oliver had put his arm round tony, drawing him closer and closer to him as he spoke, until his withered cheek pressed fondly against his face. since dolly died neither of them had felt such a thrill of happiness as now. "the colonel and his lady must be told about this," said raleigh, after he had heard all that tony had been and done for old oliver; and when he was obliged to go away for the night, the soldier gave him such a cordial grasp of the hand, as set all his fingers tingling, and his heart throbbing with exultation. chapter xxi. polly. the lodge stood in a very lovely place, upon a slope of ground, which rose still higher to where the colonel's grand house was situated. there was a porch before the door, built of rough logs of pines, covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with seats in it, where you could sit and look out over a wide, rich plain, with little hills and dales in it, stretching far away towards the sky-line, where some distant mountains lay, so like to clouds, that you could scarcely tell which were soft and misty vapours, and which were solid and everlasting hills. the severn ran through the beautiful plain with so many windings, sometimes lying in shadow under deep banks, and sometimes glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, that it looked more like many little pools scattered about the meadows than one long, continuous river. not very far away, as raleigh had said, stood the wrekin, purple in the evening haze, but by day so plain, that one could see the great rock on its summit, which in olden times served as an altar to the god of fire. susan was very busy, and had been very busy all day over two things--preparing the house for the reception of her father, whom she had not seen for so many years, and in teaching her little girl, who was now eighteen months old, to say grand-pa. the one work was quite finished; everything was ready for old oliver, and now she was waiting and watching to see the colonel's spring cart arrive from the station with her husband, who was gone to meet old oliver and tony. for tony was not on any account to be parted from the old man--so said the colonel and his lady--but was to be employed about the garden, and as general errand boy for the house, and to live at the lodge with old oliver. susan's eyes were red, for as she had been busy about her work, she had several times cried bitterly over her lost little girl; but she had resolved within herself not to shed a single tear after her father was come, lest she should spoil the gladness of his coming home to her. at last the cart came in sight, and stopped, and raleigh and tony sprang out to help oliver to get down, while susan put down polly in the porch, and ran to throw her arms round her dear old father's neck. he was very quiet, poor old oliver. he had not spoken a word since he left the station, but had gazed about him as they drove along the pleasant lane with almost a troubled look upon his tranquil face. when his dim eyes caught the first glimpse of the wrekin he lifted his hat from his white and trembling head, as if to greet it like some great and dear friend, after so many years of absence. now he stood still at the wicket, leaning upon susan's arm, and looking round him again with a gentle yet sad smile. the air was so fresh, after the close streets of london, that to him it seemed even full of scents of numberless flowers; and the sun was shining everywhere, upon the blossoms in the garden, and the fine old elm-trees in the park, and the far-off hills. he grasped tony's hand in his, and bade him look well about him. "if only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!" he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice. but just then--scarcely had he finished speaking--there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like dolly's, that both old oliver and tony turned round quickly. it could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that dolly had had two years before. she ran and hid her face in her mother's gown; but susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old oliver. "say grand-pa, and kiss him, polly," she said, coaxingly. the little child held back shyly for a minute, for old oliver's head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him. "gan-pa!" she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight. they went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old oliver's arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the wrekin; and polly sat first on his knee, and then upon tony's, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements. but still it was not their own dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in london so happy and so merry for them. she was gone home to the father's house, and was watching for them there. tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old oliver the parting would be but short. as he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while susan sang polly to sleep in the kitchen, tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, "yet a little, and i will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where i am ye may be also. even so, come, lord jesus!" rivers of ice, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the rover's return. on a certain summer morning, about the middle of the present century, a big bluff man, of seafaring aspect, found himself sauntering in a certain street near london bridge. he was a man of above fifty, but looked under forty in consequence of the healthful vigour of his frame, the freshness of his saltwater face, and the blackness of his shaggy hair. although his gait, pilot-cloth coat, and pocketed hands proclaimed him a sailor, there were one or two contradictory points about him. a huge beard and moustache savoured more of the diggings than the deep, and a brown wide-awake with a prodigiously broad brim suggested the backwoods. pausing at the head of one of those narrow lanes which--running down between warehouses, filthy little rag and bone shops, and low poverty-stricken dwellings--appear to terminate their career, not unwillingly, in the thames, the sailor gazed before him with nautical earnestness for a few seconds, then glanced at the corner house for a name; found no name; cast his eyes up to the strip of blue sky overhead, as if for inspiration; obtained none; planted his legs wide apart as if he had observed a squall coming, and expected the lane to lurch heavily--wrinkled his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. "lost yer bearin's, capp'n?" exclaimed a shrill pert voice at his side. the seaman looked down, and beheld a small boy with a head like a disorderly door-mat, and garments to match. he stood in what may be styled an imitative attitude, with his hands thrust into his ragged pockets, his little legs planted wide apart, his cap thrust well back on his head, and his eyebrows wrinkled. he also pursed his lips to such an extent that they resembled a rosebud in a dirty bush. "yes, imp," replied the seaman--he meant to have said "impudence," but stopped at the first syllable as being sufficiently appropriate--"yes, imp, i _have_ lost my bearings, and i'll give you a copper if you'll help me to find 'em." "wot sort o' copper?" demanded the urchin, "there's three sorts of 'em, you know, in this 'ere kingdom--which appears to be a queendom at present--there's a farding and a ha'penny and a penny. i mention it, capp'n," he added apologetically, "in case you don't know, for you look as if you'd come from furrin parts." the seaman's look of surprise melted into a broad grin of amusement while this speech was being fluently delivered. at its conclusion he pulled out a penny and held it up. "well, it ain't much," said the small boy, "and i ain't used to hire myself out so cheap. however, as you seem to be raither poorly off, i don't mind if i lend you a hand for that. only, please, don't mention it among your friends, as it would p'raps lower their opinion of you, d'you see? now then w'ot d'you want to know?" to this the "capp'n," still smiling at the small boy's precocious insolence, replied that he was in search of an old woman who dwelt in a small court styled grubb's court, so he was told, which lay somewhere in that salubrious neighbourhood, and asked if he, the imp, knew of such a place. "know's of it? i should think i does. w'y, i lives there. it's right down at the foot o' this 'ere lane, an' a wery sweet 'ristocratik spot it is--quite a perninsular, bein' land, leastwise mud, a'most surrounded by water, the air bein' 'ighly condoosive to the 'ealth of rats, likewise cats. as to old women, there's raither a broad sprinklin' of 'em in the court, rangin' from the ages of seventy to a hundred an twenty, more or less, an' you'll take some time to go over 'em all, capp'n, if you don't know your old woman's name." "her name is roby--," said the seaman. "o, roby? ah," returned the small boy, looking sedately at the ground, "let me see--yes, that's the name of the old 'ooman, i think, wot 'angs out in the cabin, right-'and stair, top floor, end of the passage, w'ere most wisiters flattens their noses, by consekince of there bein' no light, and a step close to the door which inwariably trips 'em up. most wisiters to that old 'ooman begins their acquaintance with her by knocking at her door with their noses instead of their knuckles. we calls her place the cabin, 'cause the windows is raither small, and over'angs the river." "well then, my lad," said the seaman, "clap a stopper on your tongue, if you can, and heave ahead." "all right, capp'n," returned the small boy, "foller me, an' don't be frightened. port your helm a bit here, there's a quicksand in the middle o' the track--so, steady!" avoiding a large pool of mud with which the head of the lane was garnished, and which might have been styled the bathing, not to say wallowing, quarters of the grubb's court juveniles, the small boy led the bluff seaman towards the river without further remark, diverging only once from the straight road for a few seconds, for the purpose of making a furious rush at a sleeping cat with a yell worthy of a cherokee savage, or a locomotive whistle; a slight pleasantry which had the double effect of shooting the cat through space in glaring convulsions, and filling the small boy's mind with the placidity which naturally follows a great success. the lane presented this peculiarity, that the warehouses on its left side became more and more solid and vast and tall as they neared the river, while the shops and dwellings on its right became poorer, meaner, and more diminutive in the same direction, as if there were some mysterious connection between them, which involved the adversity of the one in exact proportion to the prosperity of the other. children and cats appeared to be the chief day-population of the place, and these disported themselves among the wheels of enormous waggons, and the legs of elephantine horses with an impunity which could only have been the result of life-long experience. the seaman was evidently unaccustomed to such scenes, for more than once during the short period of his progress down the lane, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and sprang to the rescue of those large babies which are supposed to have grown sufficiently old to become nursing mothers to smaller babies--acts which were viewed with a look of pity by the small boy, and called from him the encouraging observations, "keep your mind easy, capp'n; _they're_ all right, bless you; the hosses knows 'em, and wouldn't 'urt 'em on no account." "this is grubb's court," said the boy, turning sharply to the right and passing through a low archway. "thank 'ee, lad," said the seaman, giving him a sixpence. the small boy opened his eyes very wide indeed, exclaiming, "hallo! i say, capp'n, wot's this?" at the same time, however, putting the coin in his pocket with an air which plainly said, "whether you've made a mistake or not, you needn't expect to get it back again." evidently the seaman entertained no such expectations, for he turned away and became absorbed in the scene around him. it was not cheering. though the summer sun was high and powerful, it failed to touch the broken pavement of grubb's court, or to dry up the moisture which oozed from it and crept up the walls of the surrounding houses. everything was very old, very rotten, very crooked, and very dirty. the doorways round the court were wide open--always open--in some cases, because of there being no doors; in other cases, because the tenements to which they led belonged to a variety of families, largely composed of children who could not, even on tiptoe, reach or manipulate door-handles. nursing mothers of two feet high were numerous, staggering about with nurslings of a foot and a half long. a few of the nurslings, temporarily abandoned by the premature mothers, lay sprawling--in some cases squalling--on the moist pavement, getting over the ground like large snails, and leaving slimy tracks behind them. little boys, of the "city arab" type, were sprinkled here and there, and one or two old women sat on door-steps contemplating the scene, or conversing with one or two younger women. some of the latter were busy washing garments so dirty, that the dirty water of old father thames seemed quite a suitable purifier. "gillie," cried one of the younger women referred to, wiping the soap-suds from her red arms, "come here, you bad, naughty boy. w'ere 'ave you bin? i want you to mind baby." "w'y, mother," cried the small boy--who answered to the name of gillie--"don't you see i'm engaged? i'm a-showin' this 'ere sea-capp'n the course he's got to steer for port. he wants to make the cabin of old mother roby." "w'y don't you do it quickly, then?" demanded gillie's mother, "you bad, naughty, wicked boy. beg your parding, sir," she added, to the seaman, "the boy 'an't got no sense, besides bein' wicked and naughty--'e ain't 'ad no train', sir, that's w'ere it is, all along of my 'avin' too much to do, an' a large family, sir, with no 'usband to speak of; right up the stair, sir, to the top, and along the passage-door straight before you at the hend of it. mind the step, sir, w'en you gits up. go up with the gentleman, you bad, wicked, naughty boy, and show--" the remainder of the sentence became confused in distance, as the boy and the seaman climbed the stair; but a continuous murmuring sound, as of a vocal torrent, conveyed the assurance that the mother of gillie was still holding forth. "'ere it is," said the young pilot, pausing at the top of the staircase, near the entrance to a very dark passage. "keep 'er 'ead as she goes, but i'd recommend you to shorten sail, mind your 'elm, an 'ave the anchor ready to let go." having thus accommodated his language to the supposed intelligence of the seaman, the elfin youth stood listening with intense eagerness and expectation as the other went into the passage, and, by sundry kicks and bumps against wooden walls, gave evidence that he found the channel intricate. presently a terrible kick occurred. this was the seaman's toe against the step, of which he had been warned, but which he had totally forgotten; then a softer, but much heavier blow, was heard, accompanied by a savage growl--that was the seaman's nose and forehead against old mrs roby's portal. at this, gillie's expectations were realised, and his joy consummated. with mischievous glee sparkling in his eyes, he hastened down to the court to exhibit his sixpence to his mother, and to announce to all whom it might concern, that "the sea-capp'n had run his jib-boom slap through the old 'ooman's cabin-door." chapter two. the seaman takes the "cabin" by surprise and storm. without having done precisely what gillie had asserted of him, our seaman had in truth made his way into the presence of the little old woman who inhabited "the cabin," and stood there gazing round him as if lost in wonder; and well he might be, for the woman and cabin, besides being extremely old, were exceedingly curious, quaint, and small. the former was wrinkled to such an extent, that you could not have found a patch of smooth skin large enough for a pea to rest on. her teeth were all gone, back and front, and her nose, which was straight and well-formed, made almost successful attempts to meet a chin which had once been dimpled, but was now turned up. the mouth between them wore a benignant and a slightly humorous expression; the eyes, which were bright, black, and twinkling, seemed to have defied the ravages of time. her body was much bent as she sat in her chair, and a pair of crutches leaning against the chimney-piece suggested the idea that it would not be much straighter if she stood up. she was wrapped in a large, warm shawl, and wore a high cap, which fitted so close round her little visage, that hair, if any, was undistinguishable. the room in which she sat resembled the cabin of a ship in more respects than one. it was particularly low in the root so low that the seaman's hair touched it as he stood there looking round him; and across this roof ran a great beam, from which hung a variety of curious ornaments, such as a chinese lantern, a turkish scimitar, a new zealand club, an eastern shield, and the model of a full-rigged ship. elsewhere on the walls were, an ornamented dagger, a worsted-work sampler, a framed sheet of the flags of all nations, a sou'-wester cap and oiled coat, a telescope, and a small staring portrait of a sea-captain in his "go-to-meeting" clothes, which looked very much out of keeping with his staring sunburnt face, and were a bad fit. it might have been a good likeness, and was certainly the work of one who might have raised himself to the rank of a royal academician if he had possessed sufficient talent and who might have painted well if he had understood the principles of drawing and colour. the windows of the apartment, of which there were two very small square ones, looked out upon the river, and, to some extent overhung it, so that a man of sanguine temperament might have enjoyed fishing from them, if he could have been content to catch live rats and dead cats. the prospect from these windows was, however, the best of them, being a wide reach of the noble river, crowded with its stately craft, and cut up by its ever-bustling steamers. but the most noteworthy part of this room, or "cabin," was the space between the two windows immediately over the chimney-piece, which the eccentric old woman had covered with a large, and, in some cases, inappropriate assortment of objects, by way of ornament, each article being cleaned and polished to the highest possible condition of which it was susceptible. a group of five photographs of children--three girls and two boys, looking amazed-- formed the centrepiece of the design; around these were five other photographs of three young ladies and two young gentlemen, looking conscious, but pleased. the spaces between these, and every available space around them, were occupied by pot-lids of various sizes, old and battered, but shining like little suns; small looking-glasses, also of various sizes, some square and others round; little strings of beads; heads of meerschaums that had been much used in former days; pin-cushions, shell-baskets, one or two horse-shoes, and iron-heels of boots; several flat irons belonging to doll's houses, with a couple of dolls, much the worse for wear, mounting guard over them; besides a host of other nick-nacks, for which it were impossible to find names or imagine uses. everything--from the old woman's cap to the uncarpeted floor, and the little grate in which a little fire was making feeble efforts to warm a little tea-kettle with a defiant spout--was scrupulously neat, and fresh, and clean, very much the reverse of what one might have expected to find in connection with a poverty-stricken population, a dirty lane, a filthy court, a rickety stair, and a dark passage. possibly the cause might have been found in a large and much-worn family bible, which lay on a small table in company with a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, at the old woman's elbow. on this scene the nautical man stood gazing, as we have said, with much interest; but he was too polite to gaze long. "your servant, missis," he said with a somewhat clumsy bow. "good morning, sir," said the little old woman, returning the bow with the air of one who had once seen better society than that of grubb's court. "your name is roby, i believe," continued the seaman, advancing, and looking so large in comparison with the little room that he seemed almost to fill it. the little old woman admitted that that was her name. "my name," said the seaman, "is wopper, tho' i'm oftener called skipper, also capp'n, by those who know me." mrs roby pointed to a chair and begged captain wopper to sit down, which he did after bestowing a somewhat pointed glance at the chair, as if to make sure that it could bear him. "you was a nuss once, i'm told," continued the seaman, looking steadily at mrs roby as he sat down. "i was," answered the old woman, glancing at the photographs over the chimney-piece, "in the same family for many years." "you'll excuse me, ma'am," continued the seaman, "if i appear something inquisitive, i want to make sure that i've boarded the right craft d'ee see--i mean, that you are the right 'ooman." a look of surprise, not unmingled with humour, beamed from mrs roby's twinkling black eyes as she gazed steadily in the seaman's face, but she made no other acknowledgment of his speech than a slight inclination of her head, which caused her tall cap to quiver. captain wopper, regarding this as a favourable sign, went on. "you was once, ma'am, i'm told, before bein' a nuss in the family of which you've made mention, a matron, or somethin' o' that sort, in a foundlin' hospital--in your young days, ma'am?" again mrs roby admitted the charge, and demanded to know, "what then?" "ah, jus' so--that's what i'm comin' to," said captain wopper, drawing his large hand over his beard. "you was present in that hospital, ma'am, was you not, one dark november morning, when a porter-cask was left at the door by some person unknown, who cut his cable and cleared off before the door was opened,--which cask, havin' on its head two x's, and bein' labelled, `this side up, with care,' contained two healthy little babby boys?" mrs roby, becoming suddenly grave and interested, again said, "i was." "jus' so," continued the captain, "you seem to be the right craft--'ooman, i mean--that i'm in search of. these two boys, who were supposed to be brothers, because of their each havin' a brown mole of exactly the same size and shape on their left arms, just below their elbows, were named `stout,' after the thing in which they was headed up, the one bein' christened james, the other willum?" "yes, yes," replied the little old woman eagerly, "and a sweet lovely pair they was when the head of that barrel was took off, lookin' out of the straw in which they was packed like two little cheruphims, though they did smell strong of the double x, and was a little elevated because of the fumes that 'ung about the wood. but how do you come to know all this, sir, and why do you ask?" "excuse me, ma'am," replied the sailor with a smile, which curled up his huge moustache expressively,--"you shall know presently, but i must make quite sure that i'm aboard of--that is to say, that you _are_ the right 'ooman. may i ask, ma'am, what became of these two cheruphims, as you've very properly named 'em?" "certainly," answered mrs roby, "the elder boy--we considered him the elder, because he was the first took out of the barrel--was a stoodious lad, and clever. he got into a railway company, i believe, and became a rich man--married a lady, i'm told,--and changed his name to stoutley, so 'tis said, not thinkin' his right name suitable to his circumstances, which, to say truth, it wasn't, because he was very thin. i've heard it said that his family was extravagant, and that he went to california to seek his brother, and look after some property, and died there, but i'm not rightly sure, for he was a close boy, and latterly i lost all knowledge of him and his family." "and the other cheruphim, willum," said the sailor, "what of him?" "ah!" exclaimed mrs roby, a flush suffusing her wrinkled countenance, while her black eyes twinkled more than usual, "he was a jewel, _he_ was. they said in the hospital that he was a wild good-for-nothing boy, but _i_ never thought him so. he was always fond of me--very fond of me, and i of him. it is true he could never settle to anythink, and at last ran away to sea, when about twelve year old; but he didn't remain long at that either, for when he got to california, he left his ship, and was not heard of for a long time after that. i thought he was dead or drowned, but at last i got a letter from him, enclosing money, an' saying he had been up at the noo gold-diggings, an' had been lucky, dear boy, and he wanted to share his luck with me, an would never, never, forget me; but he didn't need to send me money to prove that. he has continued to send me a little every year since then;--ah! it's many, many years now,--ay, ay, many years." she sighed, and looked wistfully at the spark of fire in the grate that was making ineffectual attempts to boil the little tea-kettle with the defiant spout; "but why," she continued, looking up suddenly, "why do you ask about him?" "because i knew him," replied captain wopper, searching for something which appeared to be lost in the depths of one of his capacious pockets. "willum stout was a chum of mine. we worked together at the californy gold-mines for many a year as partners, and, when at last we'd made what we thought enough, we gave it up an' came down to san francisco together, an' set up a hotel, under the name of the `jolly tars,' by stout and company. i was the company, ma'am; an', for the matter o' that i may say i was the stout too, for both of us answered to the stout or the company, accordin' as we was addressed, d'ee see? when company thought he'd made enough money to entitle him to a holiday, he came home, as you see; but before leavin', willum said to him, `company, my lad, w'en you get home, you'll go and see that old 'oom of the name of roby, whom i've often told you about. she lives in lunun, somewheres down by the river in a place called grubb's court. she was very good to me, that old 'oom was, when she was young, as i've told you before. you go an' give her my blessin'--willum's blessin'--and this here bag and that there letter.' `yes,' says i, `willum, i'll do it, my boy, as soon as ever i set futt on british soil.' i did set futt on british soil this morning, and there's the letter; also the bag; so, you see, old lady, i've kep' my promise." captain wopper concluded by placing a small but heavy canvas bag, and a much-soiled letter, in mrs roby's lap. to say that the little old woman seized the letter with eager delight, would convey but a faint idea of her feelings as she opened it with trembling hands, and read it with her bright black eyes. she read it half aloud, mingled with commentary, as she proceeded, and once or twice came to a pause over an illegible word, on which occasions her visitor helped her to the word without looking at the letter. this circumstance struck her at last as somewhat singular, for she looked up suddenly, and said, "you appear, sir, to be familiar with the contents of my letter." "that's true, ma'am," replied captain wopper, who had been regarding the old woman with a benignant smile; "willum read it to me before i left, a-purpose to enable me to translate the ill-made pot-hooks and hangers, because, d'ee see, we were more used to handlin' the pick and shovel out there than the pen, an' willum used to say he never was much of a dab at a letter. he never wrote you very long ones, ma'am, i believe?" mrs roby looked at the fire pensively, and said, in a low voice, as if to herself rather than her visitor, "no, they were not long--never very long--but always kind and sweet to me--very sweet--ay, ay, it's a long, long time now, a long time, since he came to me here and asked for a night's lodging." "did you give it him, ma'am?" asked the captain. "give it him!" exclaimed mrs roby, with sudden energy, "of course i did. the poor boy was nigh starving. how could i refuse him? it is true i had not much to give, for the family i was with as nuss had failed and left me in great distress, through my savings bein' in their hands; and that's what brought me to this little room long, long ago--ay, ay. but no blame to the family, sir, no blame at all. they couldn't help failin', an' the young ones, when they grew up, did not forget their old nuss, though they ain't rich, far from it; and it's what they give me that enables me to pay my rent and stay on here--god bless 'em." she looked affectionately at the daguerreotypes which hung, in the midst of the sheen and glory of pot-lids, beads, and looking-glasses, above the chimney-piece. "you gave him, meanin' willum, nothing else, i suppose?" asked the captain, with a knowing look; "such, for instance, as a noo suit of clothes, because of his bein' so uncommon ragged that he looked as if he had bin captured in a clumsy sort of net that it would not have been difficult to break through and escape from naked; also a few shillin's, bein' your last, to pay his way down to gravesend, where the ship was lyin', that you had, through interest with the owners, got him a berth aboard?" "ah!" returned mrs roby, shaking her head and smiling gently, "i see that william has told you all about it." "he has, ma'am," replied captain wopper, with a decisive nod. "you see, out in the gold-fields of californy, we had long nights together in our tent, with nothin' to do but smoke our pipes, eat our grub, and spin yarns, for we had no books nor papers, nothin' to read except a noo testament, and we wouldn't have had even that, ma'am, but for yourself. it was the testament you gave to willum at partin', an' very fond of it he was, bein' your gift. you see, at the time we went to californy, there warn't many of us as cared for the word of god. most of us was idolaters that had run away from home, our chief gods--for we had many of 'em--bein' named adventure, excitement and gold; though there was some noble exceptions, too. but, as i was saying, we had so much time on our hands that we recalled all our past adventures together over and over again, and, you may be sure, ma'am, that your name and kindness was not forgotten. there was another name," continued captain wopper, drawing his chair nearer the fire, crossing his legs and stroking his beard as he looked up at the dingy ceiling, "that willum often thought about and spoke of. it was the name of a gentleman, a clerk in the customs, i believe, who saved his life one day when he fell into the river just below the bridge." "mr lawrence," said the old woman, promptly. "ah! mr lawrence; yes, that's the name," continued the captain. "willum was very grateful to him, and bid me try to find him out and tell him so. is he alive?" "dead," said mrs roby, shaking her head sadly. the seaman appeared much concerned on hearing this. for some time he did not speak, and then said that he had been greatly interested in that gentleman through willum's account of him. "had he left any children?" "yes," mrs roby told him; "one son, who had been educated as a doctor, and had become a sort of a city missionary, and was as pleasant a young gentleman as she ever knew." "so, then, you know him?" said the captain. "know him! i should think so. why, this is the district where he visits, and a kind friend he is to the poor, though he _is_ bashful a bit, an' seems to shrink from pushin' himself where he's not wanted." "not the less a friend to the poor on that account," thought captain wopper; but he said nothing, and mrs roby went on:-- "you see, his father before him did a great deal for the poor in a quiet way here, as i have reason to know, this district lying near his office, and handy, as it were. long after the time when he saved willum's life, he married a sweet young creeter, who helped him in visitin' the poor, but she caught fever among 'em and died, when their only son george was about ten year old. george had been goin' about with his mother on her visits, and seemed very fond of her and of the people, dear child; and after she died, he used to continue coming with his father. then he went to school and college and became a young doctor, and only last year he came back to us, so changed for the better that none of us would have known him but for his kindly voice and fine manly-looking manner. his shyness, too, has stuck to him a little, but it does not seem to hinder him now as it once did. ah!" continued mrs roby, in a sympathetic tone, "it's a great misfortune to be shy." she looked pensively at the little fire and shook her tall cap at it, as if it or the defiant tea-kettle were answerable for something in reference to shyness. "yes, it's a great misfortune to be shy," she repeated. "were you ever troubled with that complaint, captain wopper?" the captain's moustache curled at the corners as he stroked his beard, and said that really, on consideration, he was free to confess that he never had been convicted of that sin. mrs roby bestowed on him a look of admiration, and continued, "well, as i have said--" she was interrupted at this point by the entrance of an active little girl, with the dirtiest face and sweetest expression imaginable, with garments excessively ragged, blue eyes that sparkled as they looked at you, a mouth that seemed made for kissing, if only it had been clean, and golden hair that would have fallen in clustering curls on her neck, if it had not been allowed to twist itself into something like a yellow door-mat which rendered a bonnet unnecessary. bestowing a glance of surprise on the seaman, but without uttering a word, she went smartly to a corner and drew into the middle of the room a round table with one leg and three feet, whose accommodating top having been previously flat against the wall, fell down horizontal and fixed itself with a snap. on this the earnest little woman, quickly and neatly, spread a fairish linen cloth, and proceeded to arrange thereon a small tea-pot and cup and saucer, with other materials, for an early tea. "two cups, netta, my dear," said mrs roby. "yes, grannie," replied netta, in a soft quick, little voice. "your grandchild?" asked the captain. "no; a neighbour's child, who is very kind to me. she calls me grannie, because i like it. but, as i was saying," continued mrs roby, "young dr lawrence came back last year and began to visit us in the old way, intending to continue, he said, until he got a situation of some sort in the colonies, i believe; but i do hope he'll not be obliged to leave us, for he has bin a great blessin' to this neighbourhood, only he gets little pay for his work, i fear, and appears to have little of his own to live on, poor young man.--now, captain wopper, you'll stop and have a cup of tea with me. i take it early, you see,--in truth, i make a sort of dinner of it,--and we can have a talk about william over it. i'm proud to have a friend of his at my table, sir, i do assure you, though it _is_ a poor one." captain wopper accepted the invitation heartily, and thought, though he said nothing, that it was indeed a poor table, seeing that the only food on it besides the very weak tea in the wonderfully small pot, consisted of one small loaf of bread. "netta," exclaimed mrs roby, with a look of surprise, "there's no butter! go, fetch it, dear." mrs roby was, or thought herself, a remarkably deep character. she spoke to netta openly, but, in secret, bestowed a meaning glance on her, and slipped a small coin into her hand. the dirty, sweet-faced damsel replied by a remarkably knowing wink--all of which by-play, with the reason for it, was as clear to captain wopper as if it had been elaborately explained to him. but the captain was a discreet man. he became deeply absorbed in daguerreotypes and sauce-pan lids above the fireplace, to the exclusion of all else. "you've forgotten the bag, ma'am," said the captain, drawing his chair nearer the table. "so i have; dear me, what is it?" cried mrs roby, taking it up. "it's heavy." "gold!" said the captain. "gold?" exclaimed the old nurse. "ay, nuggets," said the seaman, opening it and emptying its contents on the table. as the old nurse gazed on the yellow heap her black eyes glittered with pleasure, as though they had derived additional lustre from the precious metal, and she drew them towards her with a trembling, almost greedy, motion, at sight of which captain wopper's countenance became troubled. "and did willie send this to me, dear boy?" "he did, ma'am, hoping that it would be of use in the way of making your home more comfortable, and enabling you to keep a better table." he glanced uneasily round the poor room and at the small loaf as he spoke, and the old woman observed the glance. "it is very kind of him, very kind," continued mrs roby. "what may it be worth, now?" "forty pounds, more or less," answered the captain. again the old woman's eyes sparkled greedily, and again the seaman's countenance fell. "surely, ma'am," said the captain, gravely, "things must be uncommon dear in london, for you tell me that willum has sent you a deal of money in time past, but you don't seem to be much the better for it." "captain wopper," said mrs roby, putting her hand lightly on the captain's arm as it lay on the table, and looking earnestly into his face, "if you had not been an old and valued friend of my dear willie-- which i learn that you are from his letter--i would have said your remark was a rude one; but, being what you are, i don't mind telling you that i save up every penny i can scrape together for little netta white, the girl that has just gone out to fetch the butter. although she's not well cared for,--owing to her mother, who's a washerwoman, bein' overburdened with work and a drunken husband,--she's one of the dearest creeters i ever did see. bless you, sir, you'd be amazed if you knew all the kind and thoughtful things that untrained and uncared for child does, and never thinks she's doing anything more than other people. it's all along of her mother's spirit, which is as good as gold. some months ago little netta happened to be up here when i was at tea, and, seeing the difficulty i had to move about with my old rheumatic limbs, she said she'd come and set out my tea and breakfast for me; and she's done it, sir, from that time to this, expecting nothing fur it, and thinking i'm too poor to give her anything. but she's mistaken," continued mrs roby, with a triumphant twinkle in her black eyes, "she doesn't know that i've made a confidant of her brother gillie, and give him a sixpence now and then to give to his mother without telling where he got it, and she doesn't know that i'm saving up to be able to leave something to her when i'm called home--it can't be long, now; it can't be long." "old 'ooman," cried captain wopper, whose face had brightened wonderfully during this explanation, "give us your flip--your hand. i honour your heart, ma'am, and i've no respect whatever for your brain!" "i'm not sure that that's a compliment," said mrs roby, with a smile. captain wopper assured her with much solemnity that it might or might not be a compliment, but it was a fact. "why, look here," said he, "you go and starve yourself, and deny yourself all sorts of little comforts-- what then? why, you'll die long before your time, which is very like taking the law into your own hands, ma'am, and then you won't leave to netta nearly as much as you might if you had taken care of yourself and lived longer, and saved up after a reasonable fashion. it's sheer madness. why, ma'am, you're starving _now_, but i'll put a stop to that. don't you mind, now, whether i'm rude or not. you can't expect anything else from an old gold-digger, who has lived for years where there were no women except such as appeared to be made of mahogany, with nothing to cover 'em but a coating of dirt and a blue skirt. besides, willum told me at parting to look after you and see that you wanted for nothing, which i promised faithfully to do. you've some regard for willum's wishes, ma'am?--you wouldn't have me break my promises to willum, would you?" the captain said this with immense rapidity and vigour, and finished it with such a blow of his heavy fist on the little table that the cups and plates danced, and the lid of the little tea-pot leaped up as if its heart were about to come out of its mouth. mrs roby was so taken by surprise that she could not speak for a few seconds, and before she had recovered sufficiently to do so, little netta came in with the butter. "now, ma'am," resumed the captain, when the girl had retired, "here's where it is. with your leave i'll reveal my plans to you, and ask your advice. when i was about to leave californy, willum told me first of all to go and find _you_ out, and give you that letter and bag of nuggets, which i've done. `then,' says he, `wopper, you go and find out my brother jim's widow, and give 'em my love an' dooty, and this letter, and this bag of nuggets,'--said letter and bag, ma'am, bein' now in my chest aboard ship. `so,' says i, `willum, i will--trust me.' `i do,' says he; `and, wopper,' says he, `keep your weather eye open, my boy, w'en you go to see 'em, because i've my suspicions, from what my poor brother said on his deathbed, when he was wandering in his mind, that his widow is extravagant. i don't know,' willum goes on to say, `what the son may be, but there's that cousin, emma gray, that lives in the house with 'em, _she's_ all right. _she's_ corresponded with me, off an' on, since ever she could write, and my brother bein' something lazy, poor fellar, through havin' too much to do i fancy, got to throw all the letter-writin' on her shoulders. you take special note of _her_, wopper, and if it should seem to you that they don't treat her well, you let me know.' `willum,' says i, `i will--trust me.' `well, then,' says willum, `there's one other individooal i want you to ferret out, that's the gentleman--he must be an old gentleman now--that saved my life when i was a lad, mr lawrence by name. you try to find _him_ out and if you can do him a good turn, do it.' `willum,' says i, `i'll do it--trust me.' `i do,' says he, `and when may i expect you back in californy, wopper?' `willum,' says i, `that depends.' `true,' says he, `it does. give us you're flipper, old boy, we may never meet again in these terrestrial diggings. good luck to you. don't forget my last will an' testimony as now expressed.' `willum,' says i, `i won't.' so, ma'am, i left californy with a sacred trust, so to speak, crossed the sea, and here i am." at this point captain wopper, having warmed in his subject, took in at one bite as much of the small loaf as would have been rather a heavy dinner for mrs roby, and emptied at one gulp a full cup of her tea, after which he stroked his beard, smiled benignantly at his hostess, became suddenly earnest again, and went on--chewing as he spoke. "now, ma'am, i've three questions to ask: in the first place, as it's not possible now to do a good turn to old mr lawrence, i must do it to his son. can you tell me where he lives?" mrs roby told him that it was in a street not far from where they sat, in a rather poor lodging. "secondly, ma'am, can you tell me where willum's sister-in-law lives,-- mrs stout, _alias_ stoutley?" "no, captain wopper, but i daresay mr lawrence can. he knows 'most everythink, and has a london directory." "good. now, in the third place, where am i to find a lodging?" mrs roby replied that there were plenty to be found in london of all kinds. "you haven't a spare room here, have you?" said the captain, looking round. mrs roby shook her head and said that she had not; and, besides, that if she had, it would be impossible for her to keep a lodger, as she had no servant, and could not attend on him herself. "mrs roby," said the captain, "a gold-digging seaman don't want no servant, nor no attendance. what's up aloft?" by pointing to a small trap-door in the ceiling, he rendered the question intelligible. "it's a garret, i believe," replied mrs roby, smiling; "but having no ladder, i've never been up." "you've no objection to my taking a look, have you?" asked the captain. "none in the world," replied the old woman. without more ado the seaman rose, mounted on a chair, pushed open the trap-door, thrust his head and shoulders through, and looked round. apparently the inspection was not deemed sufficiently close, for, to the old woman's alarm and inexpressible surprise, he seized the edges of the hole with his strong hands, raised himself up, and finally disappeared in the regions above! the alarm of the old woman was somewhat increased by the sound of her visitor's heavy tread on the boards overhead as he stumbled about. presently his head appeared looking down through the trap. in any aspect, captain wopper's shaggy head was an impressive one; but viewed in an upside-down position, with the blood running into it, it was peculiarly striking. "i say, old lady," he shouted, as if his position recalled the action and induced the tones of a boatswain, "it'll do. a capital berth, with two portholes and a bunk." the captain's head disappeared, and immediately his legs took its place, suggesting the outrageous idea that he had thrown a somersault. next moment his huge body slid down, and he stood on the floor much flushed and covered with dust. "now, old girl, is it to be?" he said, sitting down at the table. "will you take me as a lodger, for better and for worse? i'll fit up the berth on the main-deck, and be my own servant as well as your's. say the word." "i can refuse nothing to willie's friend," said old mrs roby, "but really i--" "done, it's a bargain," interrupted the captain, rising abruptly. "now, i'll go visit young mr lawrence and mrs stoutley, and to-morrow i'll bring my kit, take possession of my berth, and you and i shall sail in company, i hope, and be messmates for some time to come." chapter three. difficulties among the social summits. in one of the many mansions of the "west end" of london, a lady reclined one morning on a sofa wishing that it were afternoon. she was a middle-aged, handsome, sickly lady. if it had been afternoon she would have wished that it were evening, and if it had been evening she would have wished for the morning; for mrs stoutley was one of those languid invalids whose enjoyment appears to be altogether in the future or the past, and who seem to have no particular duties connected with the present except sighing and wishing. it may be that this unfortunate condition of mind had something to do with mrs stoutley's feeble state of health. if she had been a little more thoughtful about others, and less mindful of herself, she might, perhaps, have sighed and wished less, and enjoyed herself more. at all events her doctor seemed to entertain some such opinion, for, sitting in an easy chair beside her, and looking earnestly at her handsome, worn-out countenance, he said, somewhat abruptly, being a blunt doctor. "you must go abroad, madam, and try to get your mind, as well as your body, well shaken up." "why, doctor," replied mrs stoutley, with a faint smile; "you talk of me as if i were a bottle of physic or flat ginger-beer." "you are little better, silly woman," thought the doctor, but his innate sense of propriety induced him only to say, with a smile, "well, there is at least this much resemblance between you and a bottle of flat ginger-beer, namely, that both require to be made to effervesce a little. it will never do to let your spirits down as you have been doing. we must brighten up, my dear madam--not brighton up, by the way, we've had enough of brighton and bath, and such places. we must get away to the continent this summer--to the pyrenees, or switzerland, where we can breathe the fresh mountain air, and ramble on glaciers, and have a thorough change." mrs stoutley looked gently, almost pitifully at the doctor while he spoke, as if she thought him a well-meaning and impulsive, but rather stupid maniac. "impossible, my dear doctor," she said; "you know i could not stand the fatigues of such a journey." "well, then," replied the doctor, abruptly, "you must stop at home and die." "oh! what a shocking naughty man you are to talk so." mrs stoutley said this, however, with an easy good-natured air, which showed plainly that she did not believe her illness likely to have such a serious termination. "i will be still more naughty and shocking," continued the doctor, resolutely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, "for i shall prescribe not only a dose of mountain air, but a dose of mountain exercise, to be taken--and the patient to be well shaken while taken--every morning throughout the summer and autumn. moreover, after you return to england, you must continue the exercise during the winter; and, in addition to that, must have an object at the end of your walks and drives--not shopping, observe, that is not a sufficiently out-of-door object; nor visiting your friends, which is open to the same objection." mrs stoutley smiled again at this, and said that really, if visiting and shopping were forbidden, there seemed to be nothing left but museums and picture-galleries. to this the doctor retorted that although she might do worse than visit museums and picture-galleries, he would prefer that she should visit the diamond and gold fields of the city. "did you ever hear of the diamond and gold fields of london, miss gray?" he said, turning to a plain yet pretty girl, who had been listening in silence to the foregoing conversation. "never," answered miss gray, with a look of surprise. now, miss gray's look of surprise induces us to state in passing that this young lady--niece, also poor relation and companion, to mrs stoutley--possessed three distinct aspects. when grave, she was plain,--not ugly, observe; a girl of nineteen, with a clear healthy complexion and nut-brown hair, cannot in any circumstances be ugly; no, she was merely plain when grave. when she smiled she was decidedly pretty, and when she laughed she was captivating--absolutely irresistible! she seldom laughed, occasionally smiled, and was generally grave. there was something quite incomprehensible about her, for she was not an unusually good girl, and by no means a dashing girl, neither was she an intensely modest girl--and yet, plain emma gray had perhaps driven more young men into a condition of drivelling imbecility than any acknowledged beauty of the metropolis. observe, we say "perhaps," because we lay claim to no superhuman knowledge in regard to such matters. "they are rather extensive fields," continued the doctor, "scattered here and there about the metropolis, but lying chiefly in the city and on the banks of the thames. they comprise many picture-galleries, too, and museums; the latter containing wonderful specimens of old bones and fossil remains, filth, and miscellaneous abominations, in which the gold and diamonds are imbedded--sometimes buried,--and the former being hung with subjects--chiefly interiors--incomparably superior, in respect of graphic power, to the works of hogarth." "oh! i know what you mean," said miss gray, with a little smile. "your wits are sharper than mine, emma," said mrs stoutley, with a sigh and a placid look. "what _do_ you refer to, doctor tough?" "i refer to those districts, madam, chiefly inhabited by the poor, where there are innumerable diamonds and gold nuggets, some of which are being polished, and a good many are glittering brightly, though not yet fixed in their proper setting, while by far the greater number of them are down in the earth, and useless in the meantime, and apt to be lost for want of adventurous diggers. they are splendid fields those of london, and digging is healthful occupation--though it might not seem so at first sight. did you ever visit the poor, mrs stoutley?" with a slight elevation of her eyebrows, and the application of a scent-bottle to her delicate nose, as if the question had suggested bad smells, the lady said that--well, yes, she had once visited a poor old gardener who had been a faithful creature in the family of a former friend, but that her recollection of that visit did not tend to induce a wish for its repetition. "h'm!" coughed the doctor, "well, the taste of physic is usually bad at first, but one soon gets used to it, and the after effects, as you know, are exceedingly beneficial. i hope that when you visit the london diggings you may find the truth of this; but it will be time enough to speak of that subject when you return from rambling on the glaciers of switzerland, where, by the way, the dirt, rubbish, and wrack, called moraines, which lie at the foot of the glaciers, will serve to remind you of the gold-fields to which i have referred, for much of what composes those moraines was once solid rock in a fixed position on the heights, or glittering ice which reflected the sun's dazzling rays on surrounding high life, though it lies low in the earth now. to a lady of your intelligence, madam, i need not expound my parable. there are many avalanches, great and small, in english society as well as among the swiss mountains; and, whether by gradual subsidence or a tremendous rush, we must all find our places in the moraine at last." "really, doctor," said mrs stoutley, with a light laugh, "you seem to have already wandered much among these moral moraines, and to have acquired some of their ruggedness. how _can_ you talk of such dismal things to a patient? but are you really in earnest about my going abroad?" "indeed i am," replied the doctor, firmly, "and i advise you to begin your preparations at once, for you must set out on your travels in less than a month. i lay the responsibility of seeing my orders carried into effect on your shoulders, miss gray." so saying, the doctor rose and took his leave. mrs stoutley and her niece immediately began to discuss the subject of switzerland--the one languidly, the other with animation. it was plain enough that, although the invalid protested to the doctor her inability to travel, she really had no objection, perhaps felt some desire, to go abroad, for when miss gray mentioned the fact that there was a difficulty in the shape of insufficient funds, she replied with more warmth than usual-- "now, emma, what is the use of always bringing up that ridiculous idea?" "no doubt, auntie," the maiden replied, "it is a little ridiculous to run short of ready money, considering the style in which we live; but it would be still more ridiculous, you know, to go to switzerland without the means of paying our expenses while there." "what's that you say about expenses, cousin?" exclaimed a tall handsome stripling who entered at the moment, and seated himself on the sofa at his mother's feet. "oh, bother the expense!" he exclaimed, when the difficulty had been explained to him, "it can't cost so much to spend a few months in switzerland,--besides, we can do it cheap, you know. didn't mr what's-his-name, our man of business, say that there was a considerable balance at the banker's, and that if the what-d'ee-call-'em mines paid a reasonable dividend, we should easily get over our difficulties?" "he said something of that sort, i believe," replied mrs stoutley, with a sigh. "i rather think, cousin lewis," said emma, endeavouring to repress a smile, "that he said there was an inconsiderable balance at the bankers, and that _unless_ the gorong mine paid a reasonable dividend, we shouldn't easily get over our difficulties." both lewis and his mother laughed at the quiet way in which this was said, but, while both admitted that emma's view of the matter might perhaps be correct, lewis held that there was no good reason for supposing there would be any difficulty in the meantime in obtaining from their "man-of-business" the paltry sum that was required for a short tour on the continent. indeed mrs stoutley regarded this man-of-business as a mere sponge, who required only to be squeezed in order to the production of what was desired, and the man-of-business himself found it no easy matter to convince her that she held erroneous views on this subject, and that at her present rate of progress, she would, to use the doctor's glacial simile, very soon topple from the pinnacle of fashion, on which she sat, and fall with the crash of a social avalanche into the moraine of ruin. "what a wise little woman you are, cousin emma," said lewis, gaily. "you ought to have been bred to the law, or trained an accountant. however, we won't be guided by your advice just now, first, because the doctor has _ordered_ mother abroad for her health, which is our chief consideration; and, second, because i wish of all things to see switzerland, and climb mont blanc. besides, we are not so poor as you think, and i hope to add a little to our general funds in a day or two. by the way, can you lend me ten pounds just now, mother?" "why do you want it?" asked mrs stoutley, sternly, as if she meant to refuse, but at the same time opening her purse. "don't ask me just now. i will repay you tomorrow, with interest and shall then explain." with an easy, languid smile, the carelessly amiable invalid handed her last ten-pound note to her hopeful son, who had just transferred it to his pocketbook, when a footman entered and presented a scrap of dirty paper, informing his lady that the person who sent up the "card" desired to see her. "what is this?" said mrs stoutley, holding the paper gingerly with the tips of her fingers, "wip--wap--wopper! what is wopper? is the person a man or a woman?" the footman, who, although well-bred, found it difficult to restrain a smile, intimated that the person was a man, and added, that he said he had come from california, and wanted to see mrs stoutley very particularly. on hearing this, the lady's manner changed at once, and, with more animation than she had yet exhibited, she desired that he should be shown in. with his large wide-awake in one hand, and a canvas bag in the other, captain wopper entered the drawing-room, and looked around him with a beaming and rather bashful smile. "mrs stoutley, i believe," he said, advancing, "and miss emma gray, i suppose," he added, turning with a beaming glance towards the young lady. mrs stoutley admitted that he was right, and expressed some surprise that he, a perfect stranger, should be so well acquainted with their names. "i am indeed a stranger personally, ma'am," said captain wopper, smoothing the hair down on his rugged brow, "but i may be said to know you pretty well, seeing that i have for many years been the friend and messmate of your late husband's brother in californy." "indeed!" exclaimed mrs stoutley, with increasing animation, as she rose and held out her hand; "any friend of my brother-in-law is heartily welcome. be seated, mr wopper, and let me hear about him. he was very kind to my dear husband during his last illness--very kind. i shall never forget him." "no doubt he was," said the captain, accepting the chair which emma gray handed to him, with looks of great interest. "thank 'ee, miss. willum stout--excuse my familiarity, ma'am, i always called him willum, because we was like brothers--more than brothers, i may say, an' very friendly. yes, willum stout _was_ kind to his brother in his last days. it would have bin shame to him if he hadn't for your husband, ma'am, was kind to willum, an' he often said to me, over the camp-fires in the bush, that he'd never forget _his_ kindness. but it's over now," continued the seaman in a sad tone, "an' poor willum is left alone." "is my uncle _very_ poor?" asked lewis, who had been paying more attention to the appearance of their rugged visitor than to what he had said. "ay, _very_ poor," replied the seaman, "as regards near relations, leastwise such as he has seen and known in former days, but he an't poor as regards gold. he's got lots of that. he and i worked not far from each other for years, an' he used to hit upon good claims somehow, and shovelled up the nuggets like stones." "indeed! i wish he'd send a few of them this way," exclaimed lewis, with a careless laugh. "no doubt he might do so, young man, if he knew you were in need of 'em, but your father gave him to understand that his family was rich." "rich!" exclaimed lewis, with a smile, in which there was a touch of contempt. "well, yes, we were rich enough once, but when my father was away these wretched mines became--" "lewie!" exclaimed his mother, hastily, "what nonsense you do talk! really, one would think from your account that we were paupers." "well, mother, so we are--paupers to this extent at least, that we can't afford to take a run to switzerland, though ordered to do so for your health, because we lack funds." lewis said this half petulantly, for he had been a "spoilt child," and might probably have been by that time a ruined young man, but for the mercy of his creator, who had blessed him with an amiable disposition. he was one of those youths, in short, of whom people say that they can't be spoiled, though fond and foolish parents do their best to spoil them. "you mis-state the case, naughty boy," said mrs stoutley, annoyed at being thus forced to touch on her private affairs before a stranger. "no doubt our ready cash is what our man-of-business calls `locked up,' but that, you know, is only a matter of temporary inconvenience, and cannot last long." as mrs stoutley paused and hesitated, their visitor placed on the table a canvas bag, which, up to this point he had rested on one knee. "this bag," he said, "of nuggets, is a gift from willum. he desired me to deliver it to you, miss gray, as a _small_ acknowledgment of your kindness in writin' so often to him. he'd have bought you a silk gown, or a noo bonnet, so he said, but wasn't sure as to your taste in such matters, and thought you'd accept the nuggets and buy it for yourself. leastwise, that's somethin' like the speech willum tried to tell me to deliver, but he warn't good at speech-makin' no more than i at remembrin', and hoped you'd take the will for the deed." with a flush of surprise and pleasure, emma gray accepted both the will and the deed, with many expressions of gratitude, and said, that as she did not require either a silk dress or a bonnet just then, she would invest her little fortune; she would lend it at high interest, to a lady under temporary inconvenience, who was ordered by her doctor to switzerland for the benefit of her health. to this mrs stoutley protested very earnestly that the lady in question would not accept the loan on any consideration; that it must not be diverted from its destined use, but be honestly expended on silk-dresses and new bonnets. to which emma replied, that the destiny of the gift, with interest (she was very particular on that head), should be fulfilled in good time, but that meanwhile it must be lent out. in the midst of a cross-fire of this kind the bag was opened, and its contents poured on the table, to the immense admiration of all the company, none of whom had, until that day, beheld gold in its native condition. "how much may it be worth, mr wopper?" asked lewis, weighing one of the largest lumps. "about two hundred pound, i should say, more or less," replied the seaman. "indeed!" exclaimed the youth in surprise--an exclamation which was echoed by his mother and cousin in modified tones. while they sat thus toying with the lumps of gold, the conversation reverted to the sender of it, and the captain told such entertaining anecdotes of bush life, in all of which "uncle willum" had been an actor, that the afternoon arrived before mrs stoutley had time to wish for it. they also talked of the last illness of the deceased father of the family; and when it came out that captain (they had found out by that time that their visitor had been a skipper, and, by courtesy, a captain), had assisted "willum" in nursing mr stoutley, and had followed him to the grave, mrs stoutley's gratitude was such that she insisted on her visitor staying to dinner. "thank 'ee, ma'am," he said, "i've dined. i always dines at one o'clock if i can manage it." "but we don't dine till eight," said the lady, "so it will just suit for your supper." "do come," said emma gray, "we shall be quite alone, and shall have a great spinning of yarns over uncle william and the gold-fields." "well, i don't mind if i do," said the captain, "but before supper i must go to the docks for my kit and settle my lodgings." "i am going to the strand, and shall be happy to give you a lift," said lewis. the captain accepted the offer, and as they drove along, he and his young friend became very intimate, insomuch that lewis, who was lighthearted, open, and reckless, let him into his confidence, and spoke quite freely about his mother's difficulties. it is only justice to add that the captain did not encourage him in this. when, however, the youth spoke of himself, he not only encouraged him, but drew him out. among other things, he drew out of him the fact that he was in the habit of gambling, and that he fully expected--if his usual luck attended him--to assist in adding to the fund which was to take the family abroad. the captain looked at the handsome stripling for a few seconds in silent surprise. "you don't mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that you gamble?" "indeed i do," replied lewis, with a bland smile, and something of a twinkle in his eye. "for money?" asked the captain. "for money," assented the youth; "what have you to say against it?" "why, i've to say that it's mean." "that's strong language," said lewis, flushing. "it an't strong enough by a long way," returned the captain, with indignation, "it's more than mean, it's contemptible; it's despicable." the flush on lewis's face deepened, and he looked at his companion with the air of one who meditates knocking another down. perhaps the massive size and strength of the captain induced him to change his mind. it may be that there occurred to him the difficulty--if not impossibility--of knocking down a man who was down already, and the want of space in a cab for such violent play of muscle. at all events he did nothing, but looked "daggers." "look 'ee here, my lad," continued the captain, laying his huge hand on his companion's knee, and gazing earnestly into his face, "i don't mean for to hurt your feelin's by sayin' that _you_ are mean, or contemptible, or despicable, for i don't suppose you've thought much about the matter at all, and are just following in the wake of older men who ought to know better; but i say that the _thing_--gambling for money--is the meanest thing a man can do, short of stealing. what does it amount to? simply this--i want another man's money, and the other man wants mine. we daren't try open robbery, we would be ashamed of that; we're both too lazy to labour for money, and labour doesn't bring it in fast enough, therefore we'll go _play_ for it. i'll ask him to submit to be robbed by me on condition that i submit to be robbed by him; and which is to be the robbed, and which the robber, shall depend on the accidental turn of a dice, or something equally trifling--" "but i don't gamble by means of dice," interrupted lewis, "i play, and bet, on billiards, which is a game of skill, requiring much practice, judgment, and thought." "that makes no odds, my lad," continued the captain. "there is no connection whatever between the rolling of a ball and the taking away of a man's money, any more than there is between the turning of a dice and the taking of a man's money. both are dishonourable subterfuges. they are mere blinds put up to cover the great and mean fact, which is, that i want to get possession of my neighbour's cash." "but, captain," retorted lewis, with a smile--for he had now entered into the spirit of the argument--"you ignore the fact that while i try to win from my friend, i am quite willing that my friend should try to win from me." "ignore it? no!" cried captain wopper. "putt it in this way. isn't it wrong for me to have a longing desire and itching fingers to lay hold of _your_ cash?" "well, put in that simple form," said lewis, with a laugh, "it certainly is." "and isn't it equally wrong for you to have a hungering and thirsting after _my_ cash?" "of course that follows," assented lewis. "well, then," pursued the captain, "can any agreement between you and me, as to the guessing of black or white or the turning of dice or anything else, make a right out of two wrongs?" "still," said lewis, a little puzzled, "there is fallacy somewhere in your argument. i cannot see that gambling is wrong." "mark me, my lad," returned the captain, impressively, "it is no sufficient reason for the doing of a thing that you _cannot see_ it to be wrong. you are not entitled to do anything unless you _see_ it to be right. but there are other questions connected with gambling which renders it doubly mean--the question, for instance, whether a man is entitled to risk the loss of money which he calls his own, but which belongs to his wife and children as much as to himself. the mean positions, too, in which a gambler places himself, are numerous. one of these is, when a rich man wins the hard-earned and much-needed gains of a poor one." "but one is not supposed to know anything about the affairs of those from whom one wins," objected lewis. "all the more reason," replied captain wopper, "why a man should never gamble, lest, unwittingly, he should become the cause of great suffering--it might be, of death." still lewis "could not see" the wrong of gambling, and the discussion was cut short by the sudden stopping of the cab at a door in the strand, over which hung a lamp, on which the captain observed the word "billiards." "well, ta-ta, old fellow," said lewis, gaily, as he parted from his new friend, "we'll finish the argument another day. meanwhile, don't forget the hour--eight, sharp." chapter four. shows how the captain came to an anchor, and conceived a deep design. when captain wopper parted from his young friend, he proceeded along the strand in an unusually grave mood, shaking his head to such a degree, as he reflected on the precocious wickedness of the rising generation, that a very ragged and pert specimen of that generation, observing his condition, gravely informed him that there was an hospital for incurables in london, which took in patients with palsy and st. wituses' dance werry cheap. this recalled him from the depths of sorrowful meditation, and induced him to hail a cab, in which he drove to the docks, claimed his chest--a solid, seamanlike structure, reminding one of the wooden walls of old england--and returned with it to the head of the lane leading to grubb's court. dismissing the cab, he looked round for a porter, but as no porter appeared, the captain, having been accustomed through life to help himself, and being, as we have said, remarkably strong, shouldered the nautical chest, and bore it to the top of mrs roby's staircase. here he encountered, and almost tumbled over, gillie white, who saluted him with-- "hallo! ship aho-o-oy! starboard hard! breakers ahead! why, capp'n, you've all but run into me!" "why don't you show a light then," retorted the captain, "or blow your steam-whistle, in such a dark hole? what's that you've got in your arms?" "the baby," replied gillie. "what baby?" demanded the captain. "_our_ baby, of course," returned the imp, in a tone that implied the non-existence of any other baby worth mentioning. "i brought it up to show it to the sick 'ooman next door but one to mrs roby's cabin. she's very sick, she is, an' took a great longing to see our baby, cos she thinks it's like what her son was w'en _he_ was a baby. if he ever was, he don't look much like one now, for he's six-feet nothin' in his socks, an' drinks like a fish, if he don't do nothin' wuss. good-night capp'n. baby'll ketch cold if i keep on jawin' here. mind your weather eye, and port your helm when you reach the landin'. if you'll take the advice of a young salt, you'll clew up your mainsail an' dowse some of your top-hamper--ah! i thought so!" this last remark, delivered with a broad grin of delight, had reference to the fact that the captain had run the corner of his chest against the low roof of the passage with a degree of violence that shook the whole tenement. holding his breath in hopeful anticipation, and reckless of the baby's "ketching cold," the small boy listened for more. nor was he disappointed. in his progress along the passage captain wopper, despite careful steering, ran violently foul of several angles and beams, each of which mishaps sent a quiver through the old house, and a thrill to the heart of gillie white. in his earnest desire to steer clear of the sick woman's door, the luckless captain came into collision with the opposite wall, and anxiety on this point causing him to forget the step on which he had "struck" once before, he struck it again, and was precipitated, chest and all, against mrs roby's door, which, fortunately for itself, burst open, and let the avalanche of chest and man descend upon mrs roby's floor. knowing that the climax was now reached, the imp descended the stair filled with a sort of serene ecstasy, while captain wopper gathered himself up and sat down on his nautical portmanteau. "i tell 'ee what it is, old 'ooman," said he, stroking his beard, "the channel into this port is about the wust i ever had the ill-luck to navigate. i hope i didn't frighten 'ee?" "oh, dear no!" replied mrs roby, with a smile. to say truth, the old woman seemed less alarmed than might have been expected. probably the noise of the captain's approach, and previous experience, had prepared her for some startling visitation, for she was quite calm, and a humorous twinkle in her eyes seemed to indicate the presence of a spirit somewhat resembling that which actuated gillie white. "well, that's all right," said the captain, rising and pushing up the trap-door that led to his private berth in the new lodging; "and now, old lady, havin' come to an anchor, i must get this chest sent aloft as fast as i can, seein' that i've to clean myself an' rig out for a dinner at eight o'clock at the west end." "dear me," said mrs roby, in surprise, "you must have got among people of quality." "it won't be easy to hoist it up," said the captain, ignoring the remark, and eyeing the chest and trap-door in the roof alternately. just then a heavy step was heard in the passage; and a young man of large and powerful frame, with a gentle as well as gentlemanly demeanour, appeared at the door. "come in--come in," said mrs roby, with a bright look, "this is only my new lodger, a friend of dear wil--" "why, bless you, old 'ooman," interrupted captain wopper, "_he_ knows me well enough. i went to him this morning and got mrs stoutley's address. come in, dr lawrence. i may claim to act the host here now in a small way, perhaps, and bid visitors welcome--eh! mrs roby?" "surely, surely," replied the old woman. "thank you both for the welcome," said the visitor with a pleasant smile, as he shook hands with mrs roby. "i thought i recognised your voice, captain wopper, as you passed mrs leven's door, and came out to see how you and my old friend here get on together." "is she any better to-night, sir?" asked mrs roby, anxiously. lawrence shook his head sadly and said she was no better, and that he feared she had little chance of getting better while her dissipated son dwelt under the same roof with her. "it is breaking her heart," he added, "and, besides that, the nature of her disease is such that recovery is impossible unless she is fed on the most generous diet. this of course she cannot have, because she has no means of her own. her son gambles away nearly all his small salary, and she refuses to go to an hospital lest her absence should be the removal of the last restraining link between him and destruction. it is a very sad case-- very." captain wopper was struck with this reference to gambling coming so soon after his recent conversation on that subject, and asked if there were no charitable societies or charitable people in london who would help in a case so miserable. yes, there were plenty of charitable institutions, lawrence told him, but he feared that this woman had no special claim on any of them, and her refusal to go to an hospital would tell against her. there were also, he said, plenty of charitable people, but all of those he happened to be acquainted with had been appealed to by him so often that he felt ashamed to try them again. he had already given away as much of his own slender means as he could well spare, so that he saw no way out of the difficulty; but he had faith in providential supervision of human affairs, and he believed that a way would yet be opened up. "you're right, sir--right," said captain wopper, with emphasis, while he looked earnestly into the face of the young doctor. "this world wasn't made to be kicked about like a foot-ball by chance, or circumstances, or anything of the sort. look 'ee here, sir; it has bin putt into my heart to feel charitable leanings, and a good bit o' cash has bin putt into my pocket, so that, bein' a lone sort o' man, i don't have much use for it. that's on the one hand. on the other hand, here are you, sir, the son of a friend o' my chum willum stout, with great need of aid from charitable people, an' here we two are met together--both ready for action. now, i call that a providential arrangement, so please putt me down as one of your charitable friends. it's little i can boast of in that way as yet but it's not too late to begin. i've long arrears to pull up, so i'll give you that to begin with. it'll help to relieve mrs leven in the meantime." as he spoke, the captain drew a black pocketbook from his breast pocket and, taking a piece of paper therefrom, placed it in the doctor's hands. "this is a fifty-pound note!" said lawrence, in surprise. "well, what then?" returned the captain. "you didn't expect a thousand-pound note, did you?" "not quite that," replied lawrence, laughing, "but i thought that perhaps you had made a mistake." "ah! you judged from appearances, young man. don't you git into the way of doin' that, else you'll be for ever sailin' on the wrong tack. take my advice, an' never look as if you thought a man gave you more than he could afford. nobody never does that." "far be it from me," returned lawrence, "to throw cold water on generous impulses. i accept your gift with thanks, and will gladly put you on my list. if you should find hereafter that i pump you rather hard, please to remember that you gave me encouragement to do so." "pump away, sir. when you've pumped dry, i'll tell you!" "well," said lawrence, rising, "i'll go at once and bring your liberality into play; and, since you have done me so good a turn, remember that you may command my services, if they can ever be of any use to you." the captain cast a glance at the trap-door and the chest. "well," said he, "i can scarcely ask you to do it professionally, but if you'd lend a hand to get this noah's ark o' mine on to the upper deck, i'd--" "come along," cried lawrence, jumping up with a laugh, and seizing one end of the "ark." captain wopper grasped the other end, and, between them, with much puffing, pushing, and squeezing, they thrust the box through the trap to the upper regions, whither the captain followed it by means of the same gymnastic feat that he performed on his first ascent. thrusting his head down, he invited the doctor to "come aloft," which the doctor did in the same undignified fashion, for his gentle manner and spirit had not debarred him from the practice and enjoyment of manly exercises. "it's a snug berth, you see," said the captain, stumbling among the dusty lumber, and knocking his head against the beams, "wants cleaning up, tho', and puttin' to rights a bit, but i'll soon manage that; and when i git the dirt and cobwebs cleared away, glass putt in the port-holes, and a whitewash on the roof and walls, it'll be a cabin fit for an admiral. see what a splendid view of the river! just suited to a seafarin' man." "capital!" cried lawrence, going down on his knees to obtain the view referred to. "rather low in the roof, however, don't you think?" "low? not at all!" exclaimed the captain. "it's nothin' to what i've been used to on the coastin' trade off californy. why, i've had to live in cabins so small that a tall man couldn't keep his back straight when he was sittin' on the lockers; but we didn't _sit_ much in 'em; we was chiefly used to go into 'em to lie down. this is a palace to such cabins." the doctor expressed satisfaction at finding that his new "charitable contributor" took such enlarged views of a pigeon-hole, and, promising to pay him another visit when the "cabin" should have been put to rights, said good-bye, and went to relieve the wants of the sick woman. as the captain accompanied him along the passage, they heard the voice and step of poor mrs leven's dissipated son, as he came stumbling and singing up the stair. he was a stout good-looking youth, and cast a half impudent half supercilious look at captain wopper on approaching. he also bestowed a nod of careless recognition on dr lawrence. thinking it better to be out of the way, the captain said good-bye again to his friend, and returned to the cabin, where he expressed to mrs roby the opinion that, "that young feller leven was goin' to the dogs at railway speed." thereafter he went "aloft," and, as he expressed it, "rigged himself out," in a spruce blue coat with brass buttons; blue vest and trousers to match; a white dicky with a collar attached and imitation carbuncle studs down the front. to these he added a black silk neckerchief tied in a true sailor's knot but with the ends separated and carefully tucked away under his vest to prevent their interfering with the effulgence of the carbuncle studs; a pair of light shoes with a superabundance of new tie; a green silk handkerchief, to be carried in his hat, for the purpose of mopping his forehead when warm, and a red silk ditto to be carried in his pocket for the benefit of his nose. in addition to the studs, captain wopper wore, as ornaments, a solid gold ring, the rude workmanship of which induced the belief that he must have made it himself, and a large gold watch, with a gold chain in the form of a cable, and a rough gold nugget attached to it in place of a seal or key. we class the watch among simple ornaments because, although it went-- very demonstratively too, with a loud self-asserting tick--its going was irregular and uncertain. sometimes it went too slow without apparent cause. at other times it went too fast without provocation. frequently it struck altogether, and only consented to resume work after a good deal of gentle and persuasive threatening to wind it the wrong way. it had chronic internal complaints, too, which produced sundry ominous clicks and sounds at certain periods of the day. these passed off, however, towards evening. occasionally such sounds rushed as it were into a sudden whirr and series of convulsions, ending in a dead stop, which was an unmistakeable intimation to the captain that something vital had given way; that the watch had gone into open mutiny, and nothing short of a visit to the watchmaker could restore it to life and duty. "i'm off now," said the captain, descending when he was fully "rigged." "what about the door-key, mother?--you've no objection to my calling you mother, have you?" "none whatever, captain," replied mrs roby, with a pleasant smile, "an old friend of william may call me whatever he pleases--short," she added after momentary pause, "of swearin'." "trust me, i'll stop short of that. you see, old lady, i never know'd a mother, and i should like to try to feel what it's like to have one. it's true i'm not just a lad, but you are old enough to be my mother for all that, so i'll make the experiment. but what about the key of the door, mother? i can't expect you to let me in, you know." "just lock it, and take the key away with you," said mrs roby. "but what if a fire should break out?" said the captain, with a look of indecision. "i'm not afraid of fire. we've got a splendid brigade and plenty of fire-escapes, and a good kick from a fireman would open my door without a key." "mother, you're a trump! i'll lock you in and leave you with an easy mind--" he stopped abruptly, and mrs roby asked what was the matter. "well, it's what i said about an easy mind that threw me all aback," replied the captain, "for to tell 'ee the truth, i haven't got an easy mind." "not done anything wicked, i hope?" said mrs roby, anxiously. "no, no; nothin' o' that sort; but there _is_ somethin' lyin' heavy on my mind, and i don't see why i shouldn't make a confidant o' you, bein' my mother, d'ee see; and, besides, it consarns willum." the old woman looked eagerly at her lodger as he knitted his brows in perplexity and smoothed down his forelock. "here's where it is," he continued, drawing his chair closer to that of mrs roby; "when willum made me his exikooter, so to speak, he said to me, `wopper,' says he, `i'm not one o' them fellers that holds on to his cash till he dies with it in his pocket. i've got neither wife nor chick, as you know, an' so, wot i means to do is to give the bulk of it to them that i love while i'm alive--d'ee see?' `i do, willum,' says i. `well then,' says he, `besides them little matters that i axed you to do for me, i want you to take partikler notice of two people. one is the man as saved my life w'en i was a youngster, or, if he's dead, take notice of his child'n. the other is that sweet young creeter, emma gray, who has done the correspondence with me so long for my poor brother. you keep a sharp look-out an' find out how these two are off for money. if emma's rich, of course it's no use to give her what she don't need, and i'll give the most of what i've had the good fortune to dig up here to old mr lawrence, or his family, for my brother's widow, bein' rich, don't need it. if both emma and lawrence are rich, why then, just let me know, and i'll try to hit on some other plan to make away with it, for you know well enough i couldn't use it all upon myself without going into wicked extravagance, and my dear old mrs roby wouldn't know what to do with so much cash if i sent it to her. now, you promise to do this for me?' says he. `willum,' says i, `i do.'" "now, mother," continued the captain, "what troubles me is this, that instead o' findin' miss emma rich, and mr lawrence poor, or _wice wersa_, or findin' 'em both rich, i finds 'em both poor. that's where my difficulty lies." mrs roby offered a prompt solution of this difficulty by suggesting that william should divide the money between them. "that would do all well enough," returned the captain, "if there were no under-currents drivin' the ship out of her true course. but you see, mother, i find that the late mr stoutley's family is also poor--at least in difficulties--although they live in great style, and _seem_ to be rich; and from what i heard the other day, i know that the son is given to gamblin', and the mother seems to be extravagant, and both of 'em are ready enough to sponge on miss emma, who is quite willin'--far too willin'--to be sponged upon, so that whatever willum gave to her would be just thrown away. now the question is," continued the captain, looking seriously at the kettle with the defiant spout, "what am i to advise willum to do?" "advise him," replied mrs roby, promptly, "to give _all_ the money to dr lawrence, and get dr lawrence to marry miss gray, and so they'll both get the whole of it." a beaming smile crossed the captain's visage. "not a bad notion, mother; but what if dr lawrence, after gettin' the money, didn't want to marry miss gray?" "get him to marry her first and give the money afterwards," returned mrs roby. "ay, that might do," replied the captain, nodding slowly, "only it may be that a man without means may hesitate about marryin' a girl without means, especially if he didn't want _her_, and she didn't want _him_. i don't quite see how to get over all these difficulties." "there's only one way of getting over them," said mrs roby, "and that is, by bringin' the young people together, and givin' 'em a chance to fall in love." "true, true, mother, but, so far as i know, dr lawrence don't know the family. we couldn't," said the captain, looking round the room, dubiously, "ask 'em to take a quiet cup of tea here with us--eh? you might ask dr lawrence, as your medical man, and i might ask miss emma, as an old friend of her uncle, quite in an off-hand way, you know, as if by chance. they'd never see through the dodge, and would fall in love at once, perhaps--eh?" captain wopper said all this in a dubious tone, looking at the defiant kettle the while, as if propitiating its favourable reception of the idea, but it continued defiant, and hissed uncompromisingly, while its mistress laughed outright. "you're not much of a match-maker, i see," she said, on recovering composure. "no, captain, it wouldn't do to ask 'em here to tea." "well, well," said the captain, rising, "we'll let match-makin' alone for the present. it's like tryin' to beat to wind'ard against a cyclone. the best way is to square the yards, furl the sails, and scud under bare poles till it's over. it's blowin' too hard just now for me to make headway, so i'll wear ship and scud." in pursuance of this resolve, captain wopper put on his wide-awake, locked up his mother, and went off to dine at the "west end." chapter five. in which several important matters are arranged, and gillie white undergoes some remarkable and hitherto unknown experiences. it is not necessary to inflict on the reader mrs stoutley's dinner in detail; suffice it to say, that captain wopper conducted himself, on the whole, much more creditably than his hostess had anticipated, and made himself so entertaining, especially to lewis, that that young gentleman invited him to accompany the family to switzerland, much to the amusement of his cousin emma and the horror of his mother, who, although she enjoyed a private visit of the captain, did not relish the thought of his becoming a travelling companion of the family. she pretended not to hear the invitation given, but when lewis, knowing full well the state of her mind, pressed the invitation, she shook her head at him covertly and frowned. this by-play her son pretended not to see, and continued his entreaties, the captain not having replied. "now, do come with us, captain wopper," he said; "it will be such fun, and we should all enjoy you _so_ much--wouldn't we, emma?" ("yes, indeed," from emma); "and it would just be suited to your tastes and habits, for the fine, fresh air of the mountains bears a wonderful resemblance to that of the sea. you've been accustomed no doubt to climb up the shrouds to the crosstrees; well, in switzerland, you may climb up the hills to any sort of trees you like, and get shrouded in mist, or tumble over a precipice and get put into your shroud altogether; and--" "really, lewie, you ought to be ashamed of making such bad puns," interrupted his mother. "doubtless it would be very agreeable to have captain wopper with us, but i am quite sure it would be anything but pleasant for him to travel through such a wild country with such a wild goose as you for a companion." "you have modestly forgotten yourself and emma," said lewis; "but come, let the captain answer for himself. you know, mother, it has been your wish, if not your intention, to get a companion for me on this trip--a fellow older than myself--a sort of travelling tutor, who could teach me something of the geology and botany of the country as we went along. well, the captain is older than me, i think, which is one of the requisites, and he could teach me astronomy, no doubt, and show me how to box the compass; in return for which, i could show him how to box an adversary's nose, as practised by the best authorities of the ring. as to geology and botany, i know a little of these sciences already, and could impart my knowledge to the captain, which would have the effect of fixing it more firmly in my own memory; and every one knows that it is of far greater importance to lay a good, solid groundwork of education, than to build a showy, superficial structure, on a bad foundation. come, then, captain, you see your advantages. this is the last time of asking. if you don't speak now, henceforth and for ever hold your tongue." "well, my lad," said the captain, with much gravity, "i've turned the thing over in my mind, and since mrs stoutley is so good as to say it would be agreeable to her, i think i'll accept your invitation!" "bravo! captain, you're a true blue; come, have another glass of wine on the strength of it." "no wine, thank 'ee," said the captain, placing his hand over his glass, "i've had my beer; and i make it a rule never to mix my liquor. excuse me, ma'am," he continued, addressing his hostess, "your son made mention of a tooter--a travellin' tooter; may i ask if you've provided yourself with one yet!" "not yet," answered mrs stoutley, feeling, but not looking, a little surprised at the question, "i have no young friend at present quite suited for the position, and at short notice it is not easy to find a youth of talent willing to go, and on whom one can depend. can you recommend one?" mrs stoutley accompanied the question with a smile, for she put it in jest. she was, therefore, not a little surprised when the captain said promptly that he could--that he knew a young man--a doctor--who was just the very ticket (these were his exact words), a regular clipper, with everything about him trim, taut, and ship-shape, who would suit every member of the family to a tee! a hearty laugh from every member of the family greeted the captain's enthusiastic recommendation, and emma exclaimed that he must be a most charming youth, while lewis pulled out pencil and note-book to take down his name and address. "you are a most valuable friend at this crisis in our affairs," said lewis, "i'll make mother write to him immediately." "but have a care," said the captain, "that you never mention who it was that recommended him. i'm not sure that he would regard it as a compliment. you must promise me that." "i promise," said lewis, "and whatever i promise mother will fulfil, so make your mind easy on that head. now, mother, i shouldn't wonder if captain wopper could provide you with that other little inexpensive luxury you mentioned this morning. d'you think you could recommend a page?" "what's a page, lad?" "what! have you never heard of a page--a page in buttons?" asked lewis in surprise. "never," replied the captain, shaking his head. "why, a page is a small boy, usually clad in blue tights, to make him look as like a spider as possible, with three rows of brass buttons up the front of his jacket--two of the rows being merely ornamental, and going over his shoulders. he usually wears a man's hat for the sake of congruity, and is invariably as full of mischief as an egg is of meat. can you find such an article?" "ha!" exclaimed the captain. "what is he used for?" "chiefly for ornament, doing messages, being in the way when not wanted, and out of the way when required." "yes," said the captain, meditatively, "i've got my eye--" "your weather eye?" asked lewis. "yes, my _weather_ eye, on a lad who'll fit you." "to a tee?" inquired emma, archly. "to a tee, miss," assented the captain, with a bland smile. lewis again pulled out his note-book to enter the name and address, but the captain assured him that he would manage this case himself; and it was finally settled--for lewis carried everything his own way, as a matter of course--that dr george lawrence was to be written to next day, and captain wopper was to provide a page. "and you'll have to get him and yourself ready as fast as possible," said the youth in conclusion, "for we shall set off as soon as my mother's trunks are packed." next morning, while captain wopper was seated conversing with his old landlady at the breakfast-table--the morning meal having been just concluded--he heard the voice of gillie white in the court. going to the end of the passage, he ordered that imp to "come aloft." gillie appeared in a few seconds, nodded patronisingly to old mrs roby, hoped she was salubrious, and demanded to know what was up. "my lad," said the captain--and as he spoke, the urchin assumed an awful look of mock solemnity. "i want to know if you think you could behave yourself if you was to try?" "ah!" said gillie, with the air of a cross-examining advocate, "the keewestion is not w'ether i could behave myself if i wos to try, but, w'ether i _think_ i could. well, ahem! that depends. i think i could, now, if there was offered a very strong indoocement." "just so, my lad," returned the captain, nodding, "that's exactly what i mean to offer. what d'ee say to a noo suit of blue tights, with three rows brass buttons; a situation in a respectable family; a fair wage; as much as you can eat and drink; and a trip to switzerland to begin with?" while the captain spoke, the small boy's eyes opened wider and wider, and his month followed suit, until he stood the very picture of astonishment. "you _don't_ mean it?" he exclaimed. "indeed i do, my lad." "then _i'm_ your man," returned the small boy emphatically, "putt me down for that sitooation; send for a lawyer, draw up the articles, _i'll_ sign 'em right _off_, and--" "gillie, my boy," interrupted the captain, "one o' the very first things you have to do in larnin' to behave yourself is to clap a stopper on your tongue--it's far too long." "all right, capp'n," answered the imp, "i'll go to guy's hospital d'rectly and 'ave three-fourths of it ampitated." "do," said the captain, somewhat sternly, "an' ask 'em to attach a brake to the bit that's left. "now, lad," he continued, "you've got a very dirty face." gillie nodded, with his lips tightly compressed to check utterance. "and a very ragged head of hair," he added. again gillie nodded. the captain pointed to a basin of water which stood on a chair in a corner of the room, beside which lay a lump of yellow soap, a comb, and a rough jack-towel. "there," said he, "go to work." gillie went to work with a will, and scrubbed himself to such an extent, that his skin must undoubtedly have been thinner after the operation. the washing, however, was easy compared with the combing. the boy's mop was such a tangled web, that the comb at first refused to pass through it; and when, encouraged by the captain, the urchin did at last succeed in rending its masses apart various inextricable bunches came away bodily, and sundry teeth of the comb were left behind. at last, however, it was reduced to something like order, to the immense satisfaction of mrs roby and the captain. "now," said the latter, "did you ever have a turkish bath?" "no--never." "well, then, come with me and have one. have you got a cap?" "hm--never mind, come along; you're not cleaned up yet by a long way; but we'll manage it in course of time." as the captain and his small _protege_ passed along the streets, the former took occasion to explain that a turkish bath was a species of mild torture, in which a man was stewed alive, and baked in an oven, and par-boiled, and scrubbed, and pinched, and thumped (sometimes black and blue), and lathered with soap till he couldn't see, and heated up to seven thousand and ten, fahrenheit and soused with half-boiling water, and shot at with cold water--or shot into it, as the case might be--and rolled in a sheet like a mummy, and stretched out a like corpse to cool. "most men," he said, "felt gaspy in turkish baths, and weak ones were alarmed lest they should get suffocated beyond recovery; but strong men rather enjoy themselves in 'em than otherwise." "hah!" exclaimed the imp, "may i wentur' to ax, capp'n, wot's the effect on _boys_?" to this the captain replied that he didn't exactly know, never having heard of boys taking turkish baths. whereupon gillie suggested, that if possible he might have himself cleaned in an ordinary bath. "impossible, my lad," said the captain, decidedly. "no or'nary bath would clean you under a week, unless black soap and scrubbin' brushes was used. "but don't be alarmed, gillie," he added, looking down with a twinkle in his eyes, "i'll go into the bath along with you. we'll sink or swim together, my boy, and i'll see that you're not overdone. i'm rather fond of them myself, d'ee see, so i can recommend 'em from experience." somewhat reassured by this, though still a little uneasy in his mind, the imp followed his patron to the baths. it would have been a sight worth seeing, the entrance of these two into the temple of soap-and-water. to see gillie's well-made, but very meagre and dirty little limbs unrobed; to see him decked out with the scrimpest possible little kilt, such as would, perhaps, have suited the fancy of a fiji islander; to see his gaze of undisguised admiration on beholding his companion's towering and massive frame in the same unwonted costume, if we may so style it; to see the intensifying of his astonishment when ushered into the _first_ room, at beholding six or seven naked, and apparently dead men, laid round the walls, as if ready for dissection; to see the monkey-like leap, accompanied by a squeal, with which he sprang from a hot stone-bench, having sat down thereon before it had been covered with a cloth for his reception; to see the rapid return of his self-possession in these unusual circumstances, and the ready manner in which he submitted himself to the various operations, as if he had been accustomed to turkish baths from a period long prior to infancy; to see his horror on being introduced to the hottest room, and his furtive glance at the door, as though he meditated a rush into the open air, but was restrained by a sense of personal dignity; to see the ruling passion strong as ever in this (he firmly believed) his nearest approach to death, when, observing that the man next to him (who, as it were, turned the corner from him) had raised himself for a moment to arrange his pillow, he (gillie) tipped up the corner of the man's sheet, which hung close to his face in such a manner that he (the man), on lying down again, placed his bare shoulder on the hot stone, and sprang up with a yell that startled into life the whole of the half-sleeping establishment with the exception of the youth on the opposite bench, who, having noticed the act, was thrown into convulsions of laughter, much to the alarm of gillie, who had thought he was asleep and feared that he might "tell;"--to see him laid down like a little pink-roll to be kneaded, and to hear him remark, in a calm voice, to the stalwart attendant that he might go in and win and needn't be afraid of hurting him; to observe his delight when put under the warm "douche," his gasping shriek when unexpectedly assailed with the "cold-shower," and his placid air of supreme felicity when wrapped up like a ghost in a white sheet, and left to dry in the cooling-room--to see and hear all this, we say, would have amply repaid a special journey to london from any reasonable distance. the event, however, being a thing of the past and language being unequal to the description, we are compelled to leave it all to the reader's imagination. chapter six. a lesson taught and learned. two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, rather late in the evening, dr george lawrence called at "the cabin" in grubb's court, and found the captain taking what he called a quiet pipe. "i have been visiting poor mrs leven," he said to mrs roby, sitting down beside her, "and i fear she is a good deal worse to-night. that kind little woman, netta white, has agreed to sit by her. i'm sorry that i shall be obliged to leave her at such a critical stage of her illness, but i am obliged to go abroad for some time." "goin' abroad, sir!" exclaimed mrs roby in surprise, for the captain had not yet told her that lawrence was to be of the party, although he had mentioned about himself and gillie white. "yes, i'm going with mrs stoutley's family for some weeks to switzerland." captain wopper felt that his share in the arrangements was in danger of being found out. he therefore boldly took the lead. "ah! _i_ know all about that, sir." "indeed?" said lawrence. "yes, i dined the other day with mrs stoutley; she asked _me_ also to be of the party, and i'm going." lawrence again exclaimed, "indeed!" with increasing surprise, and added, "well, now, that _is_ a strange coincidence." "well, d'ee know," said the captain, in an argumentative tone, "it don't seem to me much of a coincidence. you know she had to git some one to go with her son, and why not you, sir, as well as any of the other young sawbones in london? if she hadn't got you she'd have got another, and that would have been a coincidence to _him_, d'ee see? then, as to me, it wasn't unnatural that she should take a fancy to the man that nussed her dyin' husband, an' was chum to her brother-in-law; so, you see, that's how it came about and i'm very glad to find, sir, that we are to sail in company for a short time." lawrence returned this compliment heartily, and was about to make some further remark, when little netta white rushed into the room with a frightened look and pale cheeks, exclaiming, "oh, dr lawrence, sir, she's _very_ ill. i think she's dying." without waiting for a reply, the child ran out of the room followed by lawrence and mrs roby, who was assisted by the captain--for she walked with great difficulty even when aided by her crutches. in a few seconds they stood beside mrs leven's bed. it was a lowly bed, with scant and threadbare coverings, and she who lay on it was of a lowly spirit--one who for many years had laid her head on the bosom of jesus, and had found him, through a long course of poverty and mental distress, "a very present help in trouble." "i fear that i'm very ill," she said, faintly. "no doubt you feel rather low just now," said the doctor, "but that is very much owing to your having lived so long on insufficient diet. i will give you something, however, which will soon pull you up a bit. come, cheer up. don't let your spirits get so low." "yes," she murmured, "i _am_ brought very low, but the lord will lift me up. he is my strength and my redeemer." she clasped her hands with difficulty, and shut her eyes. a silence followed, during which captain wopper drew lawrence into the passage. "d'you think she is near her end, doctor?" "she looks very like it," replied the doctor. "there is a possibility that she might recover if the right medicine could be found, namely, ease of mind; but her dissipated son has robbed her of that, and is the only one who can give it back to her--if indeed he has the power left now. she is dying of what is unprofessionally styled a broken heart. it is unfortunate that her son is not with her at present." "does no one know where to find him?" asked the captain. "i fear not," replied the doctor. "please, sir, i think _i_ know," said a subdued voice behind them. it was that of gillie white, who had drawn near very silently, being overawed by the sad scene in the sick-room. "do you, my lad? then get along as fast as you can and show me the way," said the captain, buttoning up his pilot-coat. "i'll bring him here before long, doctor, if he's to be found." in a few minutes the captain and gillie were at the head of the lane, where the former hailed a passing cab, bade the boy jump in, and followed him. "now, my lad, give the address," said the captain. "the strand," said the boy, promptly. "what number, sir?" asked the cabman, looking at the captain. "right on till i stop you," said gillie, with the air of a commander-in-chief--whom in some faint manner he now resembled, for he was in livery, being clothed in blue tights and brass buttons. in a short time gillie gave the order to pull up, and they got out in front of a brilliantly-lighted and open door with a lamp above it, on which was written the word billiards. the captain observed that it was the same door as that at which he had parted from lewis stoutley some days before. dismissing the cab and entering, they quickly found themselves in a large and well-lighted billiard-room, which was crowded with men of all ages and aspects, some of whom played, others looked on and betted, a good many drank brandy and water, and nearly all smoked. it was a bright scene of dissipation, where many young men, deceiving themselves with the idea that they went merely to practise or to enjoy a noble game of skill, were taking their first steps on the road to ruin. the captain, closely attended by gillie, moved slowly through the room, looking anxiously for fred leven. for some time they failed to find him. at last a loud curse, uttered in the midst of a knot of on-lookers, attracted their attention. it was followed by a general laugh, as a young man, whose dishevelled hair and flushed face showed that he had been drinking hard, burst from among them and staggered towards the door. "never mind, fred," shouted a voice that seemed familiar to the captain, "you'll win it back from me next time." ere the youth had passed, the captain stepped forward and laid his hand on his arm. fred uttered a savage growl, and drew back his clenched hand as if to strike, but captain wopper's size and calm look of decision induced him to hold his hand. "what d'you mean by interrupting me?" he demanded, sternly. "my lad," said the captain, in a low, solemn voice, "your mother is dying, come with me. you've no time to lose." the youth's face turned ashy pale, and he passed his hand hastily across his brow. "what's wrong?" exclaimed lewis stoutley, who had recognised the captain, and come forward at the moment. "did he lose his money to _you_?" asked the captain, abruptly. "well, yes, he did," retorted lewis, with a look of offended dignity. "come along, then, my lad. i want _you_ too. it's a case of life an' death. ask no questions, but come along." the captain said this with such an air of authority, that lewis felt constrained to obey. fred leven seemed to follow like one in a dream. they all got into a cab, and were driven back to grubb's court. as they ascended the stair, the captain whispered to lewis, "keep in the background, my lad. do nothing but look and listen." another moment and they were in the passage, where lawrence stopped them. "you're almost too late, sir," he said to fred, sternly. "if you had fed and clothed your mother better in time past, she might have got over this. fortunately for her, poor soul, some people, who don't gamble away their own and their parents' means, have given her the help that you have refused. go in, sir, and try to speak words of comfort to her _now_." he went in, and fell on his knees beside the bed. "mother!" he said. fain would he have said more, but no word could he utter. his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. mrs leven opened her eyes on hearing the single word, and her cheek flushed slightly as she seized one of his hands, kissed it and held it to her breast. then she looked earnestly, and oh! so anxiously, into his face, and said in a low tone:-- "fred, dear, are you so--" she stopped abruptly. "yes, yes," cried her son, passionately; "yes, mother, i'm sober _now_! oh mother, dearest, darling mother, i am guilty, guilty; i have sinned. oh forgive, forgive me! listen, listen! i am in earnest now, my mother. think of me as i used to be long ago. don't shut your eyes. look at me, mother, look at fred." the poor woman looked at him with tears of gladness in her eyes. "god bless you, fred!" she murmured. "it is long, long, since you spoke like that. but i knew you would. i have always expected that you would. praise the lord!" fred tried to speak, and again found that he could not, but the fountain of his soul was opened. he laid his face on his mother's hand and sobbed bitterly. those who witnessed this scene stood as if spellbound. as far as sound or motion went these two might have been in the room alone. presently the sound of sobbing ceased, and fred, raising his head, began gently to stroke the hand he held in his. sometime in his wild career, he knew not when or where, he had heard it said that this slight action had often a wonderful power to soothe the sick. he continued it for some time. then the doctor advanced and gazed into the invalid's countenance. "she sleeps," he said, in a low tone. "may i stay beside her?" whispered fred. lawrence nodded assent, and then motioning to the others to withdraw, followed them into mrs roby's room, where he told them that her sleeping was a good sign, and that they must do their best to prevent her being disturbed. "it won't be necessary for any one to watch. her son will prove her best attendant just now; but it may be as well that some one should sit up in this room, and look in now and then to see that the candle doesn't burn out, and that all is right. i will go now, and will make this my first visit in the morning." "captain wopper," said lewis stoutley, in a subdued voice, when lawrence had left, "i won this ten-pound note to-night from fred. i--i robbed him of it. will you give it to him in the morning?" "yes, my lad, i will," said the captain. "and will you let me sit up and watch here tonight?" "no, my lad, i won't. i mean to do that myself." "but do let me stay an hour or so with you, in case anything is wanted," pleaded lewis. "well, you may." they sat down together by the fireside, mrs roby having lain down on her bed with her clothes on, but they spoke never a word; and as they sat there, the young man's busy brain arrayed before him many and many a scene of death, and sickness, and suffering, and sorrow, and madness, and despair, which, he knew well from hearsay (and he now believed it), had been the terrible result of gambling and drink. when the hour was past, the captain rose and said, "now, lewis, you'll go, and i'll take a look at the next room." he put off his shoes and went on tiptoe. lewis followed, and took a peep before parting. fred had drawn three chairs to the bedside and lain down on them, with his shoulders resting on the edge of the bed, so that he could continue to stroke his mother's hand without disturbing her. he had continued doing so until his head had slowly drooped upon the pillow; and there they now lay, the dissipated son and the humble christian mother, sleeping quietly together. chapter seven. the great white mountain. we are in switzerland now; in the "land of the mountain and the flood"-- the land also of perennial ice and snow. the solemn presence of the great white mountain is beginning to be felt. its pure summit was first seen from geneva; its shadow is now beginning to steal over us. we are on the road to chamouni, not yet over the frontier, in a carriage and four. mrs stoutley, being a lady of unbounded wealth, always travels post in a carriage and four when she can manage to do so, having an unconquerable antipathy to railroads and steamers. she could not well travel in any other fashion here, railways not having yet penetrated the mountain regions in this direction, and a mode of ascending roaring mountain torrents in steamboats not having yet been discovered. she might, however, travel with two horses, but she prefers four. captain wopper, who sits opposite emma gray, wonders in a quiet speculative way whether "the mines" will produce a dividend sufficient to pay the expenses of this journey. he is quite disinterested in the thought, it being understood that the captain pays his own expenses. but we wander from our text, which is--the great white mountain. we are driving now under its shadow with mrs stoutley's party, which, in addition to the captain and miss gray, already mentioned, includes young dr george lawrence and lewis, who are on horseback; also mrs stoutley's maid (mrs stoutley never travels without a maid), susan quick, who sits beside the captain; and gillie white, _alias_ the spider and the imp, who sits beside the driver, making earnest but futile efforts to draw him into a conversation in english, of which language the driver knows next to nothing. but to return: mrs stoutley and party are now in the very heart of scenery the most magnificent; they have penetrated to a great fountain-head of european waters; they are surrounded by the cliffs, the gorges, the moraines, and are not far from the snow-slopes and ice-fields, the couloirs, the seracs, the crevasses, and the ice-precipices and pinnacles of a great glacial world; but not one of the party betrays the smallest amount of interest, or expresses the faintest emotion of surprise, owing to the melancholy fact that all is shrouded in an impenetrable veil of mist through which a thick fine rain percolates as if the mountain monarch himself were bewailing their misfortunes. "isn't it provoking?" murmured mrs stoutley drawing her shawl closer. "very," replied emma. "disgusting!" exclaimed lewis, who rode at the side of the carriage next his cousin. "it might be worse," said lawrence, with a grim smile. "impossible," retorted lewis. "come, captain, have you no remark to make by way of inspiring a little hope?" asked mrs stoutley. "why, never havin' cruised in this region before," answered the captain, "my remarks can't be of much value. hows'ever, there _is_ one idea that may be said to afford consolation, namely, that this sort o' thing can't last. i've sailed pretty nigh in all parts of the globe, an' i've invariably found that bad weather has its limits--that after rain we may look for sunshine, and after storm, calm." "how cheering!" said lewis, as the rain trickled from the point of his prominent nose. at that moment gillie white, happening to cast his eyes upward, beheld a vision which drew from him an exclamation of wild surprise. they all looked quickly in the same direction, and there, through a rent in the watery veil, they beheld a little spot of blue sky, rising into which was a mountain-top so pure, so faint so high and inexpressibly far off, yet so brilliant in a glow of sunshine, that it seemed as if heaven had been opened, and one of the hills of paradise revealed. it was the first near view that the travellers had obtained of these mountains of everlasting ice. with the exception of the exclamations "wonderful!" "most glorious!" they found no words for a time to express their feelings, and seemed glad to escape the necessity of doing so by listening to the remarks of their driver, as he went into an elaborate explanation of the name and locality of the particular part of mont blanc that had been thus disclosed. the rent in the mist closed almost as quickly as it had opened, utterly concealing the beautiful vision; but the impression it had made, being a first and a very deep one, could never more be removed. the travellers lived now in the faith of what they had seen. scepticism was no longer possible, and in this improved frame of mind they dashed into the village of chamouni--one of the haunts of those whose war-cry is "excelsior!"--and drove to the best hotel. their arrival in the village was an unexpected point of interest to many would-be mountaineers, who lounged about the place with macintoshes and umbrellas, growling at the weather. any event out of the common forms a subject of interest to men who wait and have nothing to do. as the party passed them, growlers gazed and speculated as to who the new-comers might be. some thought miss gray pretty; some thought otherwise--to agree on any point on such a day being, of course, impossible. others "guessed" that the young fellows must be uncommonly fond of riding to "get on the outside of a horse" in such weather; some remarked that the "elderly female" seemed "used up," or "_blasee_," and all agreed--yes, they _did_ agree on this point--that the thing in blue tights and buttons beside the driver was the most impudent-looking monkey the world had ever produced! the natives of the place also had their opinions, and expressed them to each other; especially the bronzed, stalwart sedate-looking men who hung about in knots near the centre of the village, and seemed to estimate the probability of the stout young englishmen on horseback being likely to require their services often--for these, said the driver, were the celebrated guides of chamouni; men of bone and muscle, and endurance and courage; the leaders of those daring spirits who consider--and justly so--the ascent to the summit of mont blanc, or monte rosa, or the matterhorn, a feat; the men who perform this feat it may be, two or three times a week--as often as you choose to call them to it, in fact-- and think nothing of it; the men whose profession it is to risk their lives every summer from day to day for a few francs; who have become so inured to danger that they have grown quite familiar with it, insomuch that some of the reckless blades among them treat it now and then with contempt, and pay the penalty of such conduct with their lives. sinking into a couch in her private sitting-room, mrs stoutley resigned herself to susan's care, and, while she was having her boots taken off, said with a sigh:-- "well, here we are at last. what do you think of chamouni, susan?" "rather a wet place, ma'am; ain't it?" with a languid smile, mrs stoutley admitted that it was, but added, by way of encouragement that it was not always so. to which susan replied that she was glad to hear it, so she was, as nothink depressed her spirits so much as wet and clouds, and gloom. susan was a pretty girl of sixteen, tall, as well as very sedate and womanly, for her age. having been born in one of the midland counties, of poor, though remarkably honest, parents, who had received no education themselves, and therefore held it to be quite unnecessary to bestow anything so useless on their daughter, she was, until very recently, as ignorant of all beyond the circle of her father's homestead as the daughter of the man in the moon--supposing no compulsory education-act to be in operation in the orb of night. having passed through them, she now knew of the existence of france and switzerland, but she was quite in the dark as to the position of these two countries with respect to the rest of the world, and would probably have regarded them as one and the same if their boundary-line had not been somewhat deeply impressed upon her by the ungallant manner in which the customs officials examined the contents of her modest little portmanteau in search, as gillie gave her to understand, of tobacco. mrs stoutley had particularly small feet, a circumstance which might have induced her, more than other ladies, to wear easy boots; but owing to some unaccountable perversity of mental constitution, she deemed this a good reason for having her boots made unusually tight. the removal of these, therefore, afforded great relief, and the administration of a cup of tea produced a cheering reaction of spirits, under the influence of which she partially forgot herself, and resolved to devote a few minutes to the instruction of her interestingly ignorant maid. "yes," she said, arranging herself comfortably, and sipping her tea, while susan busied herself putting away her lady's "things," and otherwise tidying the room, "it does not always rain here; there is a little sunshine sometimes. by the way, where is miss gray?" "in the bedroom, ma'am, unpacking the trunks." "ah, well, as i was saying, they have a little sunshine sometimes, for you know, susan, people _must_ live, and grass or grain cannot grow without sunshine, so it has been arranged that there should be enough here for these purposes, but no more than enough, because switzerland has to maintain its character as one of the great refrigerators of europe." "one of the what, ma'am?" "refrigerators," explained mrs stoutley; "a refrigerator, susan, is a freezer; and it is the special mission of switzerland to freeze nearly all the water that falls on its mountains, and retain it there in the form of ice and snow until it is wanted for the use of man. isn't that a grand idea?" the lecturer's explanation had conveyed to susan's mind the idea of the switzers going with long strings of carts to the top of mont blanc for supplies of ice to meet the european demand, and she admitted that it _was_ a grand idea, and asked if the ice and snow lasted long into the summer. "long into it!" exclaimed her teacher. "why, you foolish thing, its lasts all through it." "oh indeed, ma'am!" said susan, who entertained strong doubts in her heart as to the correctness of mrs stoutley's information on this point. "yes," continued that lady, with more animation than she had experienced for many months past, so invigorating was the change of moral atmosphere induced by this little breeze of instruction; "yes, the ice and snow cover the hills and higher valleys for dozens and dozens of miles round here in all directions, not a few inches deep, such as we sometimes see in england, but with thousands and millions of tons of it, so that the ice in the valleys is hundreds of feet thick, and never melts away altogether, but remains there from year to year--has been there, i suppose, since the world began, and will continue, i fancy, until the world comes to an end." mrs stoutley warmed up here, to such an extent that she absolutely flushed, and susan, who had heretofore regarded her mistress merely as a weakish woman, now set her down, mentally, as a barefaced story-teller. "surely, ma'am," she said, with diffidence, "ice and snow like that doesn't fill _all_ the valleys, else we should see it, and find it difficult to travel through 'em; shouldn't we, ma'am?" "silly girl!" exclaimed her preceptress, "i did not say it filled _all_ the valleys, but the _higher_ valleys--valleys such as, in england and scotland, would be clothed with pasturage and waving grain, and dotted with cattle and sheep and smiling cottages." mrs stoutley had by this time risen to a heroic frame, and spoke poetically, which accounts for her ascribing risible powers to cottages. "and thus you see, susan," she continued, "switzerland is, as it were, a great ice-tank, or a series of ice-tanks, in which the ice of ages is accumulated and saved up, so that the melting of a little of it--the mere dribbling of it, so to speak--is sufficient to cause the continuous flow of innumerable streams and of great rivers, such as the rhone, and the rhine, and the var." the lecture received unexpected and appropriate illustration here by the sudden lifting of the mists, which had hitherto blotted out the landscape. "oh, aunt!" exclaimed emma, running in at the moment, "just look at the hills. how exquisite! how much grander than if we had seen them quite clear from the first!" emma was strictly correct, for it is well known that the grandeur of alpine scenery is greatly enhanced by the wild and weird movements of the gauze-like drapery with which it is almost always partially enshrouded. as the trio stood gazing in silent wonder and admiration from their window, which, they had been informed, commanded a view of the summit of mont blanc, the mist had risen like a curtain partially rolled up. all above the curtain-foot presented the dismal grey, to which they had been too long accustomed, but below, and, as it were, far behind this curtain, the mountain-world was seen rising upwards. so close were they to the foot of the great white monarch, that it seemed to tower like a giant-wall before them; but this wall was varied and beautiful as well as grand. already the curtain had risen high enough to disclose hoary cliffs and precipices, with steep grassy slopes between, and crowned with fringes of dark pines; which latter, although goodly trees, looked like mere shrubs in their vast setting. rills were seen running like snowy veins among the slopes, and losing themselves in the masses of _debris_ at the mountain-foot. as they gazed, the curtain rose higher, disclosing new and more rugged features, on which shone a strange, unearthly light--the result of shadow from the mist and sunshine behind it--while a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtain's under-edge in one direction. still higher it rose! susan exclaimed that the mountain was rising into heaven; and emma and mrs stoutley, whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent expectancy and admiration. the gleam of stronger light above referred to, widened, and susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great glacier des bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice, thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley. from that moment susan's disbelief in her lady's knowledge changed into faith, and deepened into profound veneration. it was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of the ice-world by which they were surrounded. the great ice-fountain of those regions, commencing at the summit of mont blanc, flings its ample waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des bossons, which filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges and higher valleys of the alps, until they reach those regions where summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the form of ice by melting them. "is it possible," said emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, "that a glacier really _flows_?" "so learned men tell us, and so we must believe," said mrs stoutley. "flows, ma'am?" exclaimed susan, in surprise. "yes, so it is said," replied mrs stoutley, with a smile. "but we can see, ma'am, by lookin' at it, that it _don't_ flow; can't we, ma'am?" said susan. "true, susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses." susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem. while the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, lewis, lawrence, and the captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner--although, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. they walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. and then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment. "why, lawrence," said lewis, "didn't they tell us that we could see the top of mont blanc from chamouni?" "they certainly did," replied lawrence, "but i can't see it." "there are two or three splendid-looking peaks," said lewis, pointing up the valley, "but surely that's not the direction of the top we look for." "no, my lad, it ain't the right point o' the compass by a long way," said the captain; "but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let's overhaul her." "heave a-head then, captain," said lewis, "and clap on stun's'ls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don't look sharp." the "strange sail" was a woman. she soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that lawrence, being the best french scholar of the three (the captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her. she turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the chamouni guides, named antoine grennon. her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time. after some complimentary remarks, lawrence asked if it were possible to see the summit of mont blanc from where they stood. certainly it was; the guide's pretty wife could point it out and attempted to do so, but was for a long time unsuccessful, owing to the interference of preconceived notions--each of our travellers having set his heart upon beholding a majestic peak of rugged rock, mingled, perhaps, with ice-blocks and snow. "most extraordinary," exclaimed the puzzled captain, "i've squinted often enough at well-known peaks when on the look-out for landmarks from the sea, an' never failed to make 'em out. let me see," he added, getting behind the woman so as to look straight along her outstretched arm, "no, _i_ can't see it. my eyes must be giving way." "surely," said lawrence, "you don't mean that little piece of smooth snow rising just behind the crest of yonder mountain like a bit of rounded sugar?" "oui, monsieur"--that was precisely what she meant; _that_ was the summit of mont blanc. and so, our three travellers--like many hundreds of travellers who had gone before them, and like many, doubtless, who shall follow--were grievously disappointed with their first view of mont blanc! they lived, however to change their minds, to discover that the village of chamouni lies too close to the toe of the great white mountain to permit of his being seen to advantage. one may truly see a small scrap of the veritable top from chamouni, but one cannot obtain an idea of what it is that he sees. as well might a beetle walk close up to the heel of a man, and attempt from that position to form a correct estimate of his size; as well might one plant himself two inches distant from a large painting and expect to do it justice! no, in order to understand mont blanc, to "realise" it, to appreciate it adequately, it requires that we should stand well back, and get up on one of the surrounding heights, and make the discovery that as _we_ rise _he_ rises, and looks vaster and more tremendous the further off we go and the higher up we rise, until, with foot planted on the crest of one of the neighbouring giants, we still look up, as well as down, and learn--with a feeling of deeper reverence, it may be, for the maker of the "everlasting hills"--that the grand monarch with the hoary head does in reality tower supreme above them all. chapter eight. introduces the reader to various personages, and touches on glaciers. at this time our travellers, having only just been introduced to the mountain, had a great deal to hear and see before they understood him. they returned to the hotel with the feeling of disappointment still upon them, but with excellent appetites for dinner. in the _salle a manger_ they met with a miscellaneous assortment of tourists. these, of whom there were above thirty, varied not only as to size and feature, but as to country and experience. there were veteran alpine men--steady, quiet, bronzed-looking fellows, some of them--who looked as if they had often "attacked" and conquered the most dangerous summits, and meant to do so again. there were men, and women too, from england, america, germany, france, and russia. some had been at chamouni before, and wore the self-possessed air of knowledge; others had obviously never been there before, and were excited. many were full of interest and expectation, a few, chiefly very young men, wore a _blase_, half-pitiful, half-patronising air, as though to say, "that's right, good people, amuse yourselves with your day-dreams while you may. _we_ have tried a few weeks of this sort of thing, and have done a summit or two; in imagination we have also been up mont blanc and monte rosa, and the matterhorn, and a few of the hymalaya peaks, and most of the mountains in the moon, and several of the fixed stars, and--haw--are now rather boa-ord with it all than otherwise!" there were men who had done much and who said little, and men who had done little and who spoke much. there were "ice-men" who had a desire to impart their knowledge, and would-be ice-men who were glad to listen. easy-going men and women there were, who flung the cares of life behind them, and "went in," as they said, for enjoyment; and who, with abounding animal spirits, a dash of religious sentiment, much irrepressible humour and fun, were really pleasant objects to look at, and entertaining companions to travel with. earnest men and women there were, too, who gathered plants and insects, and made pencil-sketches and water-colour drawings during their rambles among mountains and valleys, and not a few of whom chronicled faithfully their experiences from day to day. there was a polish count, a tall, handsome, middle-aged, care-worn, anxious-looking man, who came there, apparently in search of health, and who was cared for and taken care of by a dark-eyed little daughter. this daughter was so beautiful, that it ought to have made the count well--so thought most of the young men-- simply to look at her! there was a youthful british lord, who had come to "do" mont blanc and a few other peaks. he was under charge of a young man of considerable experience in mountaineering, whose chief delight seemed to be the leading of his charge to well-known summits by any other and more difficult tracks than the obvious and right ones, insomuch that lewis stoutley, who had a tendency to imprudent remark, said in his hearing that he had heard of men who, in order to gain the roof of a house, preferred to go up by the waterspout rather than the staircase. there was an artist, whom lewis--being, as already observed, given to insolence--styled the mad artist because he was enthusiastic in his art, galvanic in his actions, and had large, wild eyes, with long hair, and a broad-brimmed conical hat. besides these, there was a russian professor, who had come there for purposes of scientific investigation, and a couple of german students, and a scotch man of letters, whose aim was general observation, and several others, whose end was simply seeing the world. in the arrangements of the table, captain wopper found himself between emma gray and the polish count, whose name was horetzki. directly opposite to him sat mrs stoutley, having her son lewis on her right, and dr lawrence on her left. beside the count sat his lovely little daughter nita, and just opposite to her was the mad artist. this arrangement was maintained throughout the sojourn of the various parties during their stay at chamouni. they did, indeed, shift their position as regarded the table, according to the arrival or departure of travellers, but not in regard to each other. now it is an interesting, but by no means surprising fact, that cupid planted himself in the midst of this party, and, with his fat little legs, in imminent danger of capsizing the dishes, began to draw his bow and let fly his arrows right and left. being an airy sprite, though fat, and not at any time particularly visible, a careless observer might have missed seeing him; but to any one with moderate powers of observation, he was there, straddling across a dish of salad as plain as the salt-cellar before captain wopper's nose. his deadly shafts, too, were visibly quivering in the breasts of lewis stoutley, george lawrence, and the mad artist. particularly obvious were these shafts in the case of the last, who was addicted to gazing somewhat presumptuously on "lovely woman" in general, from what he styled an artistic point of view--never from any other point of view; of course not. whether or not cupid had discharged his artillery at the young ladies, we cannot say, for they betrayed no evidence of having been wounded. in their case, he must either have missed his aim, or driven his shafts home with such vigour, that they were buried out of sight altogether in their tender hearts. it is probable that not one member of that miscellaneous company gave a thought at that time to the wounded men, except the wounded men themselves, so absorbing is the love of food! the wounded were, however, sharp-set in all respects. they at once descried each other's condition, and, instead of manifesting sympathy with each other, were, strange to say, filled with intense jealousy. this at least is true of the younger men. lawrence, being somewhat older, was more secretive and self-possessed. at first captain wopper, having declined a dish of cauliflower because it was presented _alone_, and having afterwards accepted a mutton chop _alone_, with feelings of poignant regret that he had let the cauliflower go by, was too busy to observe what the heathen-mythological youngster was doing. indeed, at most times, the said youngster might have discharged a whole quiver of arrows into the captain's eyes without his being aware of the attack; but, at the present time, the captain, as the reader is aware, was up to the eyes in a plot in which cupid's aid was necessary; he had, as it were, invoked the fat child's presence. when, therefore, he had got over the regrets about the cauliflower, and had swallowed the mutton-chop, he began to look about him--to note the converse that passed between the young men, and the frequent glances they cast at the young women. it was not the first time that the captain had, so to speak, kept his weather-eye open in regard to the affection which he had made up his mind must now have been awakened in the breasts of george lawrence and emma gray; but hitherto his hopes, although sanguine, had not received encouragement. though polite and respectful to each other, they were by no means tender; altogether, they acted quite differently from what the captain felt that he would have done in similar circumstances. a suspicion had even crossed the poor seaman's mind that emma was in love with her handsome and rattling cousin lewis; but anxiety on this head was somewhat allayed by other and conflicting circumstances, such as occasional remarks by lewis, to the effect that emma was a goose, or a pert little monkey, or that she knew nothing beyond house-keeping and crochet, and similar compliments. now, however, in a certain animated conversation between lawrence and emma, the designing seaman thought he saw the budding of his deep-laid plans, and fondly hoped ere long to behold the bud developed into the flower of matrimony. under this conviction he secretly hugged himself, but in the salon, that evening, he opened his arms and released himself on beholding the apparently fickle lawrence deeply engaged in converse with the count horetzki, to whose pretty daughter, however, he addressed the most of his remarks. the captain, being a blunt honest, straightforward man, could not understand this state of matters, and fell into a fit of abstracted perplexity on the sofa beside mrs stoutley, who listened listlessly to the russian professor as he attempted to explain to her and emma the nature of a glacier. "well, i don't understand it at all," said mrs stoutley, at the end of one of the professor's most lucid expositions. we may remark, in passing, that the professor, like many of his countrymen, was a good linguist and spoke english well. "not understand it!" he exclaimed, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. "my dear madam, it is most plain, but i fear my want of good english does render me not quite intelligible." "your english is excellent," replied mrs stoutley, with a smile, "but i fear that my brain is not a sufficiently clear one on such matters, for i confess that i cannot understand it. can you, captain wopper?" "certainly not, ma'am," answered the captain, thinking of the fickle lawrence; "it takes the wind out of my sails entirely." "indeed!" said the professor. "well, do permit me to try again. you understand that all the mountain-tops and elevated plateaus, for many miles around here, are covered with ice and snow." "oh!" exclaimed the captain, awaking to the fact that his answer was not relevant; "may i ax what is the particular pint that puzzles you, ma'am?" emma laughed aloud at this, and coughed a little to conceal the fact. she was rather easily taken by surprise with passing touches of the ludicrous, and had not yet acquired the habit of effectually suppressing little explosions of undertoned mirth. "the thing that puzzles me," said mrs stoutley, "is, that glaciers should _flow_, as i am told they do, and yet that they should be as hard and brittle as glass." "ah, well, yes, just so, h'm!" said the captain, looking very wise; "that is exactly the pint that i want to know myself; for no man who looks at the great tongue of that glacier day bossung--" "des bossons," said the professor, with a bland smile. "day bossong," repeated the captain, "can deny that it is marked with all the lines, and waves, an eddies of a rollin' river, an' yet as little can they deny that it seems as hard-and-fast as the rock of gibraltar." the professor nodded approvingly. "you are right, captain whipper--" "wopper," said the captain, with a grave nod. "wopper," repeated the professor, "the glacier des bossons, like all the other glaciers, seems to remain immovable, though in reality it flows-- ever flows--downward; but its motion is so slow, that it is not perceptible to the naked eye. similarly, the hour-hand of a watch is to appearance motionless. do you want proof? mark it just now; look again in quarter of an hour, and you see that it has moved. you are convinced. it is so with the glacier. mark him to-day, go back to-morrow--the mark has changed. some glaciers flow at the rate of two and three feet in the twenty-four hours." "yes, but _how_ do they flow, being so brittle?" demanded mrs stoutley. "ay, that's the pint, professor," said the captain, nodding, "_how_ do they flow, bein' made of hard and brittle ice?" "why, by rolling higgledy-piggledy over itself of course," said lewis, flippantly, as he came up and sat down on the end of the sofa, being out of humour with himself and everybody in consequence of having utterly failed to gain the attention of nita horetzki, although he had made unusually earnest efforts to join in conversation with her father. owing to somewhat similar feelings, the artist had flung himself into a chair, and sat glaring at the black fireplace with a degree of concentration that ought to have lighted the firewood therein. "the cause of a glacier flowing," said the professor, "has long been a disputed point. some men of science have held that it is the pressure of ice and snow behind it which causes it to flow. they do not think that it flows like water, but say it is forced from behind, and crushed through gorges and down valleys, as it were, unwillingly. they say that, if left alone, as they now are, without additions, from this time forward, glaciers would no longer move; they would rest, and slowly melt away; that their motion is due to the fact that there are miles and miles of snow-fields, thousands of feet deep, on the mountain-tops and in the gorges, to which fresh snows are added every winter, so that the weight of what is behind, slipping off the slopes and falling from the cliffs, crushes down and forward that which is below; thus glaciers cannot choose but advance." "ay, ay," said the captain, "no doubt no doubt that may be so; but why is it that, bein' as brittle as glass, a glacier don't come rumblin' and clatterin' down the valleys in small hard bits, like ten thousand millions of smashed-up chandeliers?" "ay, there's the rub," exclaimed lewis; "what say you to that?" "ha!" exclaimed the professor, again smiling blandly, "there you have touched what once was, and, to some philosophers it seems, still is, the great difficulty. by some great men it has been held that glacier ice is always in a partially soft, viscid, or semi-fluid condition, somewhat like pitch, so that, although _apparently_ a solid, brittle, and rigid body, it flows sluggishly in reality. other philosophers have denied this theory, insisting that the ice of glaciers is _not_ like pitch, but like glass, and that it cannot be squeezed without being broken, nor drawn without being cracked. these philosophers have discovered that when ice is subjected to great pressure it melts, and that, when the pressure is removed, the part so melted immediately freezes again--hence the name regelation, or re-freezing, is given to the process. thus a glacier, they say, is in many places being continually melted and continually and instantaneously re-frozen, so that it is made to pass through narrow gorges, and to open out again when the enormous pressure has been removed. but this theory of regelation, although unquestionably true, and although it exercises _some_ influence on glacier motion, does not, in my opinion, alone account for it. the opinion which seems to be most in favour among learned men--and that which i myself hold firmly--is, the theory of the scottish professor forbes, namely, that a glacier is a semi-fluid body, it is largely impregnated throughout its extent with water, its particles move round and past each other--in other words, it flows in precisely the same manner as water, the only difference being that it is not quite so fluid; it is sluggish in its flow, but it certainly models itself to the ground over which it is forced by its own gravity, and it is only rent or broken into fragments when it is compelled to turn sharp angles, or to pass over steep convex slopes. forbes, by his careful measurements and investigations, proved incontestably that in some glaciers the central portion travelled down its valley at double or treble the rate of its sides, without the continuity of the mass being broken. in small masses, indeed, glacier-ice is to all appearance rigid, but on a large scale it is unquestionably ductile." "has the theory of regelation been put to the proof?" asked lewis, with a degree of interest in glaciers which he had never before felt. "it has," answered the professor. "an experimentalist once cut a bar of solid ice, like to a bar of soap in form and size, from a glacier. to this an iron weight of several pounds was suspended by means of a very fine wire, which was tied round the bar. the pressure of the wire melted the ice under it; as the water escaped it instantly re-froze above the wire; thus the wire went on cutting its way through the bar, and the water went on freezing, until at last the weight fell to the ground, and left the bar as solid and entire as if it had never been cut." "well, now," said captain wopper, bringing his hand down on his thigh with a slap that did more to arouse mrs stoutley out of her languor than the professor's lecture on glacier ice, "i've sailed round the world, i have, an' seen many a strange sight, and what i've got to say is that i'll believe that when i _see_ it." "you shall see it soon then, i hope," said the professor, more blandly than ever, "for i intend to verify this experiment along with several others. i go to the mer de glace, perhaps as far as the jardin, to-morrow. will you come?" "what may the jardang be?" asked the captain. "hallo! monkey, what's wrong?" said lewis to emma, referring to one of the undertoned safety-valves before mentioned. "nothing," replied emma, pursing her little lips till they resembled a cherry. "the jardin, or garden," said the professor, "is a little spot of exquisite beauty in the midst of the glaciers, where a knoll of green grass and flowers peeps up in the surrounding sterility. it is one of the regular excursions from chamouni." "can ladies go?" asked lewis. "young and active ladies can," said the professor, with his blandest possible smile, as he bowed to emma. "then, we'll all go together," cried lewis, with energy. "not all," said mrs stoutley, with a sigh, "i am neither young nor active." "nonsense, mother, you're quite young yet, you know, and as active as a kitten when you've a mind to be. come, we'll have a couple of porters and a chair to have you carried when you knock up." notwithstanding the glowing prospects of ease and felicity thus opened up to her, mrs stoutley resolutely refused to go on this excursion, but she generously allowed emma to go if so disposed. emma, being disposed, it was finally arranged that, on the following day, she, the captain, lewis, and lawrence, with gillie white as her page, should proceed up the sides of mont blanc with the man of science, and over the mer de glace to the jardin. chapter nine. a solid stream. there is a river of ice in switzerland, which, taking its rise on the hoary summit of mont blanc, flows through a sinuous mountain-channel, and terminates its grand career by liquefaction in the vale of chamouni. a mighty river it is in all respects, and a wonderful one--full of interest and mystery and apparent contradiction. it has a grand volume and sweep, varying from one to four miles in width, and is about twelve miles long, with a depth of many hundreds of feet. it is motionless to the eye, yet it descends into the plain continually. it is hard and unyielding in its nature, yet it flows as really and steadily, if not with as lithe a motion, as a liquid river. it is _not_ a half solid mass like mud, which might roll slowly down an incline; it is solid, clear, transparent, brittle ice, which refuses to bend, and cracks sharply under a strain; nevertheless, it has its waves and rapids, cross-currents, eddies, and cascades, which, seen from a moderate distance, display all the grace and beauty of flowing water--as if a grand river in all its varied parts, calm and turbulent, had been actually and suddenly arrested in its course and frozen to the bottom. it is being melted perpetually too. the fierce sun of summer sends millions of tiny streamlets down into its interior, which collect, augment, cut channels for themselves through the ice, and finally gush into the plain from its lower end in the form of a muddy river. even in winter this process goes on, yet the ice-river never melts entirely away, but holds on its cold, stately, solemn course from year to year-- has done so for unknown ages, and will probably do so to the end of time. it is picturesque in its surroundings, majestic in its motion, tremendous in its action, awful in its sterility, and, altogether, one of the most impressive and sublime works of god. this gigantic glacier, or stream of ice, springing, as it does, from the giant-mountain of europe, is appropriately hemmed in, and its mighty force restrained, by a group of titans, whose sharp aiguilles, or needle-like peaks, shoot upward to a height little short of their rounded and white-headed superior, and from whose wild gorges and riven sides tributary ice-rivers flow, and avalanches thunder incessantly. leaving its cradle on the top of mont blanc, the great river sweeps round the aiguille du geant; and, after receiving its first name of glacier du geant from that mighty obelisk of rock, which rises , feet above the sea, it passes onward to welcome two grand tributaries, the glacier de lechaud, from the rugged heights of the grandes jorasses, and the glacier du talefre from the breast of the aiguille du talefre and the surrounding heights. thus augmented, the river is named the mer de glace, or sea of ice, and continues its downward course; but here it encounters what may be styled "the narrows," between the crags at the base of the aiguille charmoz and aiguille du moine, through which it steadily forces its way, though compressed to much less than half its width by the process. in one place the glacier du geant is above eleven hundred yards wide; that of the lechaud is above eight hundred; that of talefre above six hundred--the total, when joined, two thousand five hundred yards; and this enormous mass of solid ice is forced through a narrow neck of the valley, which is, in round numbers, only _nine hundred_ yards wide! of course the ice-river must gain in depth what it loses in breadth in this gorge, through which it travels at the rate of twenty inches a day. thereafter, it tumbles ruggedly to its termination in the vale of chamouni, under the name of the glacier des bois. the explanation of the causes of the rise and flow of this ice-river we will leave to the genial and enthusiastic professor, who glories in dilating on such matters to captain wopper, who never tires of the dilations. huge, however, though this glacier of the mer de glace be, it is only one of a series of similar glaciers which constitute the outlets to that vast reservoir of ice formed by the wide range of mont blanc, where the snows of successive winters are stored, packed, solidified, and rendered, as it were, self-regulating in their supplies of water to the plains. and the mont blanc range itself is but a portion of the great glacial world of switzerland, the area occupied by which is computed at square miles. two-thirds of these send their waters to the sea through the channel of the rhine. the most extensive of these glaciers is the aletsch glacier, which is fifteen miles in length. it is said that above six hundred distinct glaciers have been reckoned in switzerland. this, good reader, is but a brief reference to the wonders of the glacial world. it is but a scratching of the surface. there is a very mine of interesting, curious, and astonishing facts below the surface. nature is prodigal of her information to those who question her closely, correctly, and perseveringly. even to those who observe her carelessly, she is not altogether dumb. she is generous; and the god of nature has caused it to be written for our instruction that, "his works are wonderful, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein." we may not, however, prolong our remarks on the subject of ice-rivers at this time. our travellers at chamouni are getting ready to start, and it is our duty at present to follow them. chapter ten. the first excursion. "a splendid morning!" exclaimed dr george lawrence, as he entered the _salle a manger_ with an obviously new alpenstock in his hand. "jolly!" replied lewis stoutley, who was stooping at the moment to button one of his gaiters. lewis was addicted to slang, not by any means an uncommon characteristic of youth! "the man," he said, with some bitterness, "who invented big buttons and little button-holes should have had his nose skewered with a button-hook. he was an ass!" in order to relieve his feelings and accomplish his ends, lewis summarily enlarged the holes with his penknife. "and _round_ buttons, too," he said, indignantly; "what on earth was the use of making round buttons when flat ones had been invented? a big hole and a flat button will hold against anything--even against scotch whins and heather. there, now, that abominable job is done." "you are fond of strong language, lewie," said lawrence, as he examined the spike at the end of his alpenstock. "i am. it relieves my feelings." "but don't you think it weakens your influence on occasions when nothing but strong language will serve? you rob yourself of the power, you know, to increase the force of it." "oh bother! don't moralise, man, but let's have your opinion of the weather, which is an all-important subject just now." "i have already given my opinion as to that," said lawrence, "but here comes one who will give us an opinion of value.--he is in capital time." "good morning, antoine." their guide for the day, antoine grennon, a fine stalwart specimen of his class, returned the salutation, and added that it was a very fine morning. "capital, isn't it?" cried lewis, cheerfully, for he had got over the irritation caused by the buttons. "couldn't be better; could it?" the guide did not admit that the weather could not be better. "you look doubtful, antoine," said lawrence. "don't you think the day will keep up?" "keep up!" exclaimed lewis; "why, the sky is perfectly clear. of course it will. i never saw a finer day, even in england. why do you doubt it, antoine?" the guide pointed to a small cloud that hung over the brow of one of the higher peaks. "appearances are sometimes deceitful in this country," he said. "i don't doubt the fineness of the day at present, but--" he was interrupted here by the sudden and noisy entrance of captain wopper and the professor, followed by the mad artist, whose name, by the way, was slingsby. "no, no," said the captain to the professor, with whom he had already become very intimate, "it won't do to part company. if the jardang is too far for the ladies, we will steer for the mairdyglass, an' cross over to the what's-'is-name--" "chapeau," said the professor. "ah! the shappo," continued the captain, "and so down by the glacier dez boys--" "the what?" asked lewis, with a half-suppressed smile. "the glacier dez boys, youngster," repeated the captain, stoutly. "oh, i see; you mean the glacier des bois?" said lewis, suppressing the smile no longer. "what i mean, young man," said the captain, sternly, "is best known to myself. you and other college-bred coxcombs may call it day bwa, if you like, but i have overhauled the chart, and there it's spelt d-e-s, which sounds dez, and b-o-i-s, which seafarin' men pronounce boys, so don't go for to cross my hawse again, but rather join me in tryin' to indooce the professor to putt off his trip to the jardang, an' sail in company with us for the day." "i will join you heartily in that," said lewis, turning to the man of science, who stood regarding the captain with an amiable smile, as a huge newfoundland dog might regard a large mastiff; "but why is our proposed excursion to the jardin to be altered?" "because," said the professor, "your amiable sister--i beg pardon, cousin--with that irresistible power of suasion which seems inherent in her nature, has prevailed on mademoiselle horetzki to join the party, and mademoiselle is too delicate--sylph-like--to endure the fatigues of so long an excursion over the ice. our worthy guide suggests that it would afford more pleasure to the ladies--and of course, therefore, to the gentlemen--if you were to make your first expedition only to the montanvert which is but a two hours' climb from chamouni, picnic there, cross the mer de glace, which is narrow at that point, and descend again to chamouni by the side of the glacier des bois, where you can behold the great moraines, and also the source of the river arveiron. this would be a pleasant and not too fatiguing round, and i, who might perhaps be an encumbrance to you, will prosecute my inquiries at the jardin alone." "impossible," exclaimed lewis, "the captain is right when he observes that we must not part company. as my mother says, we are a giddy crew, and will be the better of a little scientific ballast to keep us from capsizing into a crevasse. do come, my dear sir, if it were only out of charity, to keep us in order." to this entreaty lawrence and the artist added their persuasions, which were further backed by the eloquence of emma gray and nita horetzki, who entered at the moment radiant with the flush of life's dawning day, and irresistible in picturesque mountain attire, the chief characteristics of which consisted in an extensive looping up of drapery, and an ostentatious display of those staffs called alpenstocks, five feet long, tipped with chamois horn, which are an indispensable requisite in alpine work. "oh! you _muss_ go," said nita, in silvery tones and disjointed english. "if you go not, monsieur, _i_ go not!" "that of course decides the question, mademoiselle," said the gallant professor, with one of his blandest smiles, "i shall accompany you with pleasure. but i have one little request to make. my time at chamouni is short; will you permit me, on arriving at the mer de glace, to prosecute my inquiries? i am here to ask questions of nature, and must do so with perseverance and patience. will you allow me to devote more of my attention to _her_ than to yourself?" "h'm! well--what you say, mademoiselle gray?" demanded nita, with an arch look at her companion. "is the professor's request reasonable?" to this emma replied that as nature was, upon the whole, a more important lady than either of them, she thought it _was_ reasonable; whereupon the professor agreed to postpone his visit to the jardin, and devote his day to fixing stakes and making observations on the mer de glace, with a view to ascertaining the diurnal rate of speed at which the glacier flowed. "you spoke of putting certain questions to nature, professor," said lawrence, when the party were slowly toiling up the mountain-side. "have they not already been put to her, and satisfactorily answered some time ago?" "they have been put," replied the professor, "by such learned men as saussure, agassiz, rendu, charpentier, and by your own countryman forbes, and others, and undoubtedly their questions have received distinct answers, insomuch that our knowledge of the nature and action of glacial ice is now very considerable. but, my dear sir, learned men have not been agreed as to what nature's replies mean, nor have they exhausted the subject; besides, no true man of science is quite satisfied with merely hearing the reports of others, he is not content until he has met and conversed with nature face to face. i wish, therefore, to have a personal interview with her in these alps, or rather," continued the professor, in a more earnest tone, "i do wish to see the works of my maker with my own eyes, and to hear his voice with the ears of my own understanding." "your object, then, is to verify, not to discover?" said lawrence. "it is both. primarily to verify; but the man of science always goes forth with the happy consciousness that the mine in which he proposes to dig is rich in gems, and that, while seeking for one sort, he may light upon another unexpectedly." "when captain wopper turned up yonder gem, he lit on one which, if not of the purest water, is unquestionably a brilliant specimen of the class to which it belongs," said lewis, coming up at that moment, and pointing to a projection in the somewhat steep part of the path up which they were winding. the gem referred to was no other than our friend gillie white. that hilarious youth, although regenerated outwardly as regards blue cloth and buttons, had not by any means changed his spirit since fortune began to smile on him. finding that his mistress, being engaged with her dark-eyed friend, did not require his services, and observing that his patron, captain wopper, held intercourse with the guide--in broken english, because he, the guide, also spoke broken english--that lawrence and the professor seemed capable of entertaining each other, that lewis and the artist, although dreadfully jealous of each other, were fain to hold social intercourse, the ladies being inseparable, and that he, gillie, was therefore left to entertain himself he set about amusing himself to the best of his power by keeping well in rear of the party and scrambling up dangerous precipices, throwing stones at little birds, charging shrubs and stabbing the earth with emma's alpenstock, immolating snails, rolling rocks down precipitous parts of the hill, and otherwise exhibiting a tendency to sport with nature--all of which he did to music whistled by himself, and in happy forgetfulness of everything save the business in hand. he was engaged in some apparently difficult piece of fancy work, involving large boulders, when lewis drew attention to him. "what can the imp be up to?" he said. "most likely worrying some poor reptile to death," said the artist, removing his conical wideawake and fanning himself therewith. (mr slingsby was very warm, his slender frame not being equal to his indomitable spirit.) "i think he is trying to break your alpenstock, emma," observed lewis. there seemed to be truth in this, for gillie, having fixed the staff as a lever, was pulling at it with all his might. the projection of rock on which he stood, and which overhung the zigzag road, was partially concealed by bushes, so that the precise intention of his efforts could not be discovered. at that moment antoine, the guide, turned to see what detained the party, and instantly uttered a loud shout of alarm as he ran back to them. the warning or remonstrance came too late. gillie had loosened an enormous rock which had been on the point of falling, and with a throb of exultation, which found vent in a suppressed squeal, he hurled a mass, something about the size and weight of a cart of coals, down the precipice. but the current of gillie's feelings was rudely changed when a shriek from the ladies, and something between a roar and a yell from the gentlemen, told that they had observed a man with a mule, who, in ascending from the valley, had reached a spot which lay in the direct line of the miniature avalanche; and when the muleteer, also observing the missile, added a hideous howl to the chorus, the poor urchin shrank back appalled. the rock struck the track directly behind the mule with a force which, had it been expended only six inches more to the right, would have driven that creature's hind legs into the earth as if they had been tenpenny nails; it then bounded clear over the next turning of the track, crashed madly through several bushes, overturned five or six trees, knocked into atoms a sister rock which had taken the same leap some ages before, and finally, leaving behind it a grand tail of dust and _debris_, rolled to its rest upon the plain. at the first symptom of the danger, captain wopper had rushed towards the culprit. "rascal!" he growled between his teeth, as he seized gillie by the nape of the neck, lifted him almost off his legs, and shook him, "d'ee see what you've done?" he thrust the urchin partially over the precipice, and pointed to the man and the mule. "please, i _haven't_ done it," pleaded gillie. "but you did your best to--you--you small--there!" he finished off the sentence with an open-handed whack that aroused the echoes of mont blanc, and cast the culprit adrift. "now, look 'ee, lad," said the captain, with impressive solemnity, "if you ever go to chuck stones like that over the precipices of this here mountain again, i'll chuck you over after 'em. d'ee hear?" "yes, cappen," grumbled gillie, rubbing himself, "but if you do, it's murder. no jury of englishmen would think of recommendin' you to mercy in the succumstances. you'd be sure to swing--an' i--i could wish you a better fate." the captain did not wait to hear the boy's good wishes, but hastened to rejoin his friends, while gillie followed in rear, commenting audibly on the recent incident. "well, well," he said, thrusting both hands deep into bush trouser-pockets, according to custom when in a moralising frame of mind, "who'd a thought it, gillie white, that you'd 'ave bin brought all the way from london to the halps to make such a close shave o' committin' man-slaughter to say nothin' of mule-slaughter, and to git whacked by your best friend? oh! cappen, cappen, i couldn't 'ave believed it of you if i 'adn't felt it. but, i say, gillie, _wasn't_ it a big 'un? ha! ha! the cappen threatened to chuck me over the precipice, but i've chucked over a wopper that beats _him_ all to sticks. hallo! i say that's worthy of _punch_. p'r'aps i'll be a contributor to it w'en i gets back from zwizzerland, if i ever does get back, vich is by no means certain. susan, my girl, i'll 'ave summat to enliven you with this evenin'." we need scarcely say that this last remark had reference to mrs stoutley's maid, with whom the boy had become a great favourite. indeed the regard was mutual, though there was this difference about it, that susan, being two years older than gillie, and tall as well as womanly for her age, looked upon the boy as a precocious little oddity, whereas gillie, esteeming himself a man--"all but"--regarded susan with the powerful feelings of a first affection. from this, and what has been already said, it will be apparent to our fair readers that cupid had accompanied mrs stoutley's party to chamouni, with the intention apparently of amusing himself as well as interfering with captain wopper's matrimonial designs. the road to the montanvert is a broad and easy bridle-path, which, after leaving the valley, traverses a pine-forest in its ascent and becomes in places somewhat steep. here and there a zigzag is found necessary, and in several places there are tracks of avalanches. about half-way up there is a spring named the caillet which was shaded by trees in days of yore, but the avalanches have swept these away. beside the spring of pure water there was a spring of "fire-water," in a hut where so-called "refreshments" might also be obtained. as none of our party deemed it necessary to stimulate powers, which, at that time of the day, were fresh and vigorous, they passed this point of temptation without halting. other temptations, however, were not so easily resisted. the professor was stopped by rocky stratifications, the ladies were stopped by flowers and views, the younger gentlemen were of course stopped by the ladies, and the mad artist was stopped by everything. poor mr slingsby, who had been asked to join the party, in virtue of his being a friend of the count, and, therefore, of nita, was so torn by the conflict resulting from his desire to cultivate nita, and cut out lewis and lawrence, and his desire to prosecute his beloved art, that he became madder than usual. "splendid foregrounds" met him at every turn; "lovely middle-distances" chained him in everywhere; "enchanting backgrounds" beset him on all sides; gorgeous colours dazzled him above and below; and nita's black eyes pierced him continually through and through. it was terrible! he was constantly getting into positions of danger--going out on ledges to obtain particular views, rolling his large eyes, pulling off his hat and tossing back his long hair, so as to drink in more thoroughly the beauties around him, and clambering up precipices to fetch down bunches of wild flowers when nita chanced to express the most distant allusion to, or admiration of, them. "he will leave his bones in one crevasse!" growled antoine, on seeing him rush to a point of vantage, and, for the fiftieth time, squat down to make a rapid sketch of some "exquisite bit" that had taken his fancy. "'tis of no use," he said, on returning to his friends, "i cannot sketch. the beauties around me are too much for me." he glanced timidly at nita, who looked at him boldly, laughed, and advised him to shut his eyes, so as not to be distracted with such beauties. "impossible; i cannot choose but look. see," he said, pointing backward to their track, "see what a lovely effect of tender blue and yellow through yonder opening--" "d'you mean gillie?" asked lewis, with a quiet grin, as that reckless youth suddenly presented his blue coat and yellow buttons in the very opening referred to. the laugh called forth by this was checked by the voice of captain wopper, who was far in advance shouting to them to come on. a few minutes more, and the whole party stood on the montanvert beside the small inn which has been erected there for the use of summer tourists, and from which point the great glacier broke for the first time in all its grandeur, on their view. well might emma and nita stand entranced for some time, unable to find utterance to their feelings, save in the one word--wonderful! even slingsby's mercurial spirit was awed into silence, for, straight before them, the white and frozen billows of the mer de glace stretched for miles away up into the gorges of the giant hills until lost in and mingled with the clouds of heaven. chapter eleven. the pursuit of science under difficulties. after the first burst of enthusiasm and interest had abated, the attention of the party became engrossed in the proceedings of the professor, who, with his assistants, began at once to adjust his theodolite, and fix stakes in the ice. while he was thus engaged, captain wopper regarded the mer de glace with a gaze of fixedness so intense as to draw on him the attention and arouse the curiosity of his friends. "d'you see anything curious, captain?" asked emma, who chanced to stand beside him. "coorious--eh?" repeated the captain slowly, without altering his gaze or adding to his reply. "monsieur le capitaine is lost in consternation," said nita, with a smile. "i think, miss horetzki," said lewis, "that you probably mean _admiration_." "how you knows w'at i mean?" demanded nita, quickly. "ha! a very proper and pertinent question," observed slingsby, in an audible though under tone. "i nevair do put _pertinent_ questions, sir," said nita, turning her black eyes sharply, though with something of a twinkle in them, on the mad artist. poor slingsby began to explain, but nita cut him short by turning to lewis and again demanding, "how you knows w'at i mean?" "the uniform propriety of your thoughts, mademoiselle," replied lewis, with a continental bow, and an air of pretended respect, "induces me to suppose that your words misinterpret them." nita's knowledge of english was such that this remark gave her only a hazy idea of the youth's meaning; she accepted it, however, as an apologetic explanation, and ordered him to awaken the captain and find out from him what it was that so riveted his attention. "you hear my orders," said lewis, laying his hand with a slap on the captain's shoulder. "what are you staring at?" "move!" murmured the captain, returning as it were to consciousness with a long deep sigh, "it don't move an inch." "_what_ does not move?" said lawrence, who had been assisting to adjust the theodolite, and came forward at the moment. "the ice, to be sure," answered the captain. "i say, professor, do 'ee mean to tell me that the whole of that there mairdy-glass is movin'?" "i do," answered the professor, pausing for a minute in his arrangements, and looking over his spectacles at the captain with an amused expression. "then," returned the captain, with emphasis, "i think you'll find that you're mistaken." "ha! captain weeper--" "wopper," said the captain. "wopper," repeated the professor, "you are not the first who has expressed disbelief in what he cannot see, and you will assuredly not be the last; but if you will wait i will convince you." "very good," replied the captain, "i'm open to conviction." "which means," said lewis, "that you have nailed your colours to the mast, and mean to die rather than give in." "no doubt," said the captain, paying no attention to the last remark, "i see, _and_ believe, that at some time or other the ice here must have been in a flowin' state. i'm too well aware o' the shape of waves an' eddies, cross-currents and ripples, to doubt or deny that but any man with half an eye can see that it's anchored hard and fast _now_. i've looked at it without flinchin' for good ten minutes, and not the smallest sign of motion can i detect." "so might you say of the hour-hand of a watch," observed lawrence. "not at all," retorted the captain, becoming argumentative. "i look at the hour-hand of a watch for ten minutes and don't see it move, but i _do_ see that it has in reality passed over a very small but appreciable space in that time." "just so," said the professor, "i will ere long show you the same thing in regard to the ice." "i'll bet you ten thousand pounds you don't," returned the captain, with an assured nod. "colours nailed!" said lewis; "but i say, captain," he added, remonstratively, "i thought you were a sworn enemy to gambling. isn't betting gambling?" "it is, young man," answered the captain, "but i always bet ten thousand pounds sterling, which i never mean to pay if i lose, nor to accept if i win--and that is _not_ gambling. put that in your pipe and smoke it; and if you'll take my advice, you'll go look after your friend slingsby, who is gambolling up yonder in another fashion that will soon bring him to grief if he's not stopped." all eyes were turned towards the mad artist, who, finding that his advances to mademoiselle nita were not well received, had for the time forsaken her, and returned to his first (and professional) love. in wooing her, he had clambered to an almost inaccessible cliff from which he hoped to obtain a very sketchable view of the mer de glace, and, when captain wopper drew attention to him, was making frantic efforts to swing himself by the branch of a tree to a projecting rock, which was so slightly attached to its parent cliff that his weight would in all probability have hurled it and himself down the precipice. the remonstrative shouts of his friends, however, induced him to desist, and he sat down to work in a less perilous position. meanwhile the professor, having completed his preliminary preparations, ordered his assistants to go and "fix the stakes in the ice." it had been arranged that while the scientific experiments were in progress, the young ladies should ramble about the neighbourhood in search of flowers and plants, under the care of lewis, until two o'clock, at which hour all were to assemble at the montanvert hotel for luncheon, captain wopper and lawrence resolving to remain and assist, or at least observe, the professor. the former, indeed, bearing in mind his great and ruling wish even in the midst of scientific doubt and inquiries, had suggested that the latter should also accompany the ladies, the country being somewhat rugged, and the ladies--especially miss emma--not being very sure-footed; but lawrence, to his disappointment, had declined, saying that the ladies had a sufficient protector in the gallant lewis, and that miss emma was unquestionably the surest-footed of the whole party. lawrence therefore remained, and, at the professor's request, accompanied the party who were to fix the stakes on the ice. as this operation was attended with considerable difficulty and some danger, we will describe the process. finding that the spot which he had first chosen for his observations was not a very good one, the professor changed his position to a point farther down on the steep sloping rocks that form the left bank of the glacier des bois. here the theodolite was fixed. this instrument as even our young readers may probably know, is a small telescope attached to a stand with three long legs, and having spirit-levels, by means of which it can be fixed in a position, if we may say so, of exact flatness with reference to the centre of the earth. within the telescope are two crossed hairs of a spider's-web, so fine as to be scarcely visible to the naked eye, and so arranged that their crossing-point is exactly in the centre of the tube. by means of pivots and screws the telescope can be moved up or down, right or left, without in the smallest degree altering the flatness or position of its stand. on looking through the telescope the delicate threads can be distinctly seen, and the point where they cross can be brought to bear on any distant object. having fixed the instrument on the rocks quite clear of the ice, the professor determined the direction of a supposed line perpendicular to the axis of the glacier. he then sought for a conspicuous and well-defined object on the opposite side of the valley, as near as possible to that direction. in this he was greatly helped by captain wopper, who, having been long accustomed to look-out with precision at sea, found it not very difficult to apply his powers on land. "there's a good land-mark, professor," he said, pointing towards a sharply-cut rock, "as like the dook of wellington's nose as two peas." "i see it," said the professor, whose solid and masculine countenance was just the smallest possible degree flushed by the strong under-current of enthusiasm with which he prosecuted his experiments. "you couldn't have a better object than the pint o' that," observed the captain, whose enthusiasm was quite as great as, and his excitement much greater than, that of the professor. having carefully directed the telescope to the extreme point of the "dook's" nose, the professor now ordered one of his assistants to go on the glacier with a stake. lawrence descended with him, and thus planted his foot on glacier-ice for the first time, as lewis afterwards remarked, in the pursuit scientific knowledge. while they were clambering slowly down among the loose boulders and _debris_ which had been left by the glacier in previous years, the professor carefully sketched the duke of wellington's nose with the rocks, etcetera, immediately around it, in his notebook, so that it might be easily recognised again on returning to the spot on a future day. the assistant who had been sent out with the first stake proved to be rather stupid, so that it was fortunate he had been accompanied by lawrence, and by the guide, antoine grennon, who stirred up his perceptions. by rough signalling he was made to stand near the place where the first stake was to be driven in. the telescope was then lowered, and the man was made, by signals, to move about and plant his stake here and there in an upright position until the point of intersection of the spider's threads fell exactly on the bottom of the stake. a pre-arranged signal was then made, and at that point an auger hole was bored deep into the ice and the stake driven home. "so much for number one," said captain wopper, with a look of satisfaction. "they won't fix the other ones so easily," observed the professor, re-examining the stake through the telescope with great care. he was right in this. the first stake had been planted not far from the shore, but now lawrence and his party had to proceed in a straight line over the glacier, which, at this steep portion of its descent into the vale of chamouni, was rent, dislocated, and tortured, to such an extent that it was covered with huge blocks and pinnacles of ice, and seamed with yawning crevasses. to clamber over some of the ice-ridges was almost impossible, and, in order to avoid pinnacles and crevasses, which were quite impassable, frequent _detours_ had to be made. if the object of the ice-party had merely been to cross the glacier, the difficulties would not have been great; but the necessity of always returning to the straight line pointed out by the inexorable theodolite, led them into positions of considerable difficulty. to the inexperienced lawrence they also appeared to be positions of great danger, much to the amusement of antoine, who, accustomed as he was to the fearful ice-slopes and abysses of the higher regions, looked upon this work as mere child's play. "you'll come to have a different notion of crevasses, sir," he said, with a quiet smile, "after you've bin among the seracs of the grand mulet, and up some of the couloirs of monte rosa." "i doubt it not, antoine," said lawrence, gazing with feelings of awe into a terrible split in the ice, whose beautiful light-blue sides deepened into intense blackness as they were lost to vision in an abyss, out of which arose the deep-toned gurgling of sub-glacial streams; "but you must not forget that this is quite new to me, and my feet are not yet aware of the precise grip with which they must hold on to so slippery a foundation." it was in truth no discredit to lawrence that he felt a tendency to shrink from edges of chasms which appeared ready to break off, or walked with caution on ice-slopes which led to unfathomable holes, for the said slopes, although not steep, were undoubtedly slippery. after much clambering, a ridge was at length gained, on which the second stake was set up, and then the party proceeded onwards to fix the third; but now the difficulties proved to be greater than before. a huge block of ice was fixed upon as that which would suit their purpose, but it stood like a peninsula in the very midst of a crevasse, and connected with the main body of ice by a neck which looked as sharp as a knife on its upper edge, so that none but tight-rope or slack-wire dancers could have proceeded along it; and even such performers would have found the edge too brittle to sustain them. "you'll have to show, monsieur, some of your mountaineer skill here?" said the man who carried the stakes to antoine. he spoke in french, which lawrence understood perfectly. we render it as nearly as possible into the counterpart english. antoine at once stepped forward with his alpine axe, and, swinging it vigorously over his head, cut a deep notch on the sloping side of the neck of ice. beyond it he cut a second notch. no man--not even a monkey--could have stood on the glassy slope which descended into the abyss at their side; but antoine, putting one foot in the first notch, and the other in the second, stood as secure as if he had been on a flat rock. again he swung his axe, and planted his foot in a third notch, swinging his axe the instant it was fixed for the purpose of cutting the fourth. thus, cut by cut and step by step, he passed over to the block of ice aimed at. it was but a short neck. a few notches were sufficient, yet without an axe to cut these notches, the place had been absolutely impassable. it was by no means a "dangerous" place, according to the ideas of alpine mountaineers, nevertheless a slip, or the loss of balance, would have been followed by contain death. antoine knew this, and, like a wise guide, took proper precautions. "stay, sir," he said, as lawrence was screwing up his courage to follow him, "i will show you another piece of alpine practice." he returned as he spoke, and, unwinding a coil of rope which he carried, fastened one end thereof round his waist. allowing a few feet of interval, he then fastened the rope round lawrence's waist, and the assistants with the stakes--of whom there were two besides the man already referred to--also attached themselves to the rope in like manner. by this means they all passed over with comparative security, because if any one of them had chanced to slip, the others would have fixed the points of their axes and alpenstocks in the ice and held on until their overbalanced comrade should have been restored to his position. on gaining the block, however, it was found that the line communicating with the theodolite on the one hand, and the dook's nose on the other, just missed it. the professor's signals continued to indicate "more to the left," (_his_ left, that is) until the stake-driver stood on the extreme edge of the crevasse, and his comrades held on tight by the rope to prevent him from falling over. still the professor indicated "more to the left!" as "more to the left" implied the planting of the stake in atmospheric air, they were fain to search for a suitable spot farther on. this they found, after some scrambling, on a serrated ridge whose edge was just wide and strong enough to sustain them. here the exact line was marked, but while the hole was being bored, an ominous crack was heard ascending as if from the heart of the glacier. "what was that?" said lawrence, turning to the guide with a quick surprised look. "only a split in the ice somewhere. it's a common sound enough, as you might expect in a mass that is constantly moving," replied antoine, looking gravely round him, "but i can't help thinking that this lump of ice, with crevasses on each side, is not the best of all spots for fixing a stake. it isn't solid enough." as he spoke, another crash was heard, not quite so loud as the last and at the same moment the whole mass on which the party stood slid forward a few inches. it seemed as if it were about to tumble into the very jaws of the crevasse. with the natural instinct of self-preservation strong upon him, lawrence darted across the narrow ridge to the firm ice in rear, dispensing entirely with that extreme caution which had marked his first passage over it. indeed the tight-rope and slack-wire dancers formerly referred to could not have performed the feat with greater lightness, rapidity, and precision. the stake-drivers followed him with almost similar alacrity. even the guide retraced his steps without further delay than was necessary to permit of his picking up the stakes which their proper custodians had left behind in their alarm--for they were not guides, merely young and inexperienced porters. "for shame, lads," said antoine, laughing and shaking his head, "you'll be but bad specimens of the men of chamouni if you don't learn more coolness on the ice." one would have thought that coolness on the ice was an almost unavoidable consequence of the surrounding conditions, yet lawrence seemed to contradict the idea, for his face appeared unusually warm as he laughed and said:-- "the shame lies with me, antoine, for i set them the example, and all history goes to prove that even brave men are swept away under the influence of a panic which the act of one cowardly man may produce." as lawrence spoke in french, the porters understood and appreciated his defence of them, but antoine would by no means encourage the fallacy. "it is not cowardly, sir," he said, "to spring quickly out of a danger that one don't understand the nature of, but the young men of chamouni have, or ought to have, a good understanding of the nature of ice, and the danger should be great indeed that would necessitate the leaving of their tools behind them." a roar like that of a bull of bashan, or a boatswain, here interrupted the conversation. "don't plant your post the-r-r-re," shouted captain wopper from the banks of the ice-river, "the professor says the ice ain't firm enough. heave ahead--to where its ha-a-ard an' fa-a-ast." "ay, ay, sir," shouted lawrence, with nautical brevity, in reply. the next stake was accordingly fixed on a part of the ice which was obviously incapable of what might be called a local slip, and which must, if it moved at all, do so in accordance with the movements of the entire glacier. thus one by one the stakes were planted in a perfectly straight line, so that when captain wopper was requested by the professor to look through the telescope--which he did with a seaman's readiness and precision--he observed that all the stakes together appeared to form but one stake, the bottom of which was touched on one side of the mer de glace by the centre-point of the crossed threads, and, on the other, by the extreme point of the "dook" of wellington's nose. the last stake had been fixed not many yards distant from the opposite bank of the glacier. "now," said the professor, with a deep sigh of satisfaction when all this was accomplished and noted, "we will go have our luncheon and return hither to-morrow to observe the result of our experiments. but first we must fix the exact position of our theodolite, for unless it occupies to a hair's-breadth to-morrow the same position which it occupies to-day, the result will be quite inconclusive." so saying, the man of science took a little line and plummet from his pocket, which he hung under the theodolite, and the spot where the plummet touched the ground was carefully marked by a small stake driven quite down to its head. thereafter an attempt was made to gather together the scattered party, but this was difficult. owing to various causes several members of it had become oblivious of time. emma had forgotten time in the pursuit of wild-flowers, of which she was excessively fond, partly because she had learned to press and classify and write their proper names under them, but chiefly because they were intrinsically lovely, and usually grew in the midst of beautiful scenery. nita had forgotten it in the pursuit of emma, of whom she had become suddenly and passionately fond, partly because she possessed a loving nature, but chiefly because emma was her counterpart. lewis had forgotten it in pursuit of nita, of whom he had become extremely fond, partly because she was pretty and pert, but chiefly because he--he--well, we cannot say precisely why, seeing that he did not inform us, and did not himself appear clearly to know. slingsby had forgotten it in the ardent effort to reproduce on paper and with pencil, a scene so magnificent that a brush dipped in the rainbow and applied by claude or turner would have utterly failed to do it justice; and last, as well as least, gillie white had forgotten it in the pursuit of general knowledge, in which pursuit he had used his alpenstock effectively in opening up everything, stabbing, knocking down, uprooting, overturning, and generally shattering everything that was capable of being in any degree affected by the physical powers and forces at his command. there can be no doubt whatever that if gillie white had been big and strong enough, mont blanc itself would have succumbed that day to his inquiring mind, and the greatest ice-reservoir of europe would have been levelled with the plain. as it was, he merely levelled himself, after reaching the point of exhaustion, and went to sleep on the sunny side of a rock, where he was nearly roasted alive before being aroused by the shouts of captain wopper. at last, however, the party assembled at the montanvert, where, amid interjectional accounts of the various incidents and adventures of the forenoon, strength was recruited for the subsequent operations of the day. these, however, were only matters of amusement. the professor, remarking jocosely that he now cast science to the dogs and cats (which latter he pronounced cawts), sent his instruments back to chamouni, and, with the zest of a big boy let loose from school, crossed the mer de glace to the chapeau. this feat was by no means so difficult as that which had been accomplished by lawrence. it will be remembered that the spot selected for measurement had been at the steep and rugged part of the ice-river styled the glacier des bois, below the montanvert. the ordinary crossing-place lay considerably higher up, just opposite to the inn. the track had been marked out over the easiest and flattest part of the ice, and levelled here and there where necessary for the special benefit of tourists. still man--even when doing his worst in the way of making rough places plain, and robbing nature of some of her romance--could not do much to damage the grandeur of that impressive spot. his axe only chipped a little of the surface and made the footing secure. it could not mar the beauty of the picturesque surroundings, or dim the sun's glitter on the ice-pinnacles, or taint the purity of these delicate blue depths into which emma and nita gazed for the first time with admiration and surprise while they listened to the mysterious murmurings of sub-glacial waters with mingled feelings of curiosity and awe. full of interest they traversed the grand unfathomable river of ice,-- the product of the compressed snows of innumerable winters,--and, reaching the other side in less than an hour, descended the chapeau through the terminal moraine. those who have not seen it can form but a faint conception of the stupendous mass of _debris_ which is cut, torn, wrenched, carried, swept, hurled, rolled, crushed, and ground down by a glacier from the mountain-heights into the plain below. the terminal moraine of the mer de glace is a whole valley whose floor and sides are not only quite, but deeply, covered with rocks of every shape and size, from a pebble the size of a pea, to a boulder as large as a cottage, all strewn, piled, and heaped together in a wild confusion that is eminently suggestive of the mighty force which cast them there. "to me there do seem something dreadful as well as grand in it," said nita, as she sat down on a boulder beside emma, near the lower end of the chaotic valley. "it is, indeed, terrible," answered emma, "and fills me with wonder when i think that frozen water possesses power so stupendous." "and yet the same element," said the professor, "which, when frozen, thus rends the mountains with force irresistible, when melted flows through the land in gentle fertilising streams. in both forms its power is most wonderful." "like that of him who created it," said emma, in a low tone. the party stood on the margin of a little pond or lakelet that had collected in the midst of the _debris_, and which, by reflecting the clear sky and their figures, with several large boulders on its margin, gave point and a measure of softness to the otherwise confused and rugged scene. while they stood and sat rapt in silent contemplation of the tongue of the mer de glace, at whose tip was the blue ice-cave whence issued the arveiron, a lordly eagle rose from a neighbouring cliff and soared grandly over their heads, while a bright gleam of the sinking sun shot over the white shoulders of mont blanc and lit up the higher end of the valley, throwing the lower part into deeper shade by contrast. "there is a warning to us," said lewis, whose chief interest in the scene lay in the reflection of it that gleamed from nita horetzki's eyes. "which is the warning," asked slingsby, "the gleam of sunshine or the eagle?" "both, for while the sun is going to bed behind the snow, the eagle is doubtless going home to her eyrie, and antoine tells me that it is full three miles from this spot to our hotel in chamouni." it did not take them long to traverse that space, and ere long, like the eagle and the sun, the whole party had retired to rest--the younger members, doubtless, to dreamless slumber; the professor and the captain, probably, to visions of theodolites and ice. although, however, these worthies must needs await the coming day to have their scientific hopes realised, it would be cruel to keep our patient reader in suspense. we may therefore note here that when, on the following day, the theodolite was re-fixed, and the man of science and his amateur friend had applied their respective eyes to the telescope, they were assured beyond a doubt that the stakes _had moved_, some more and some less, while the "dook's nose," of course, remained hard and fast as the rock of which it was composed. the stakes had descended from about one to three feet during the twenty-four hours-- those near the edge having moved least and those near the centre of the ice-river's flow having moved farthest. of course there was a great deal of observing with the theodolite, and careful measuring as well as scrambling on the ice, similar to that of the previous day; but the end of the whole was that the glacier was ascertained to have flowed, definitely and observably down its channel, there could be no doubt whatever about that; the thing had been clearly proved, therefore the professor was triumphant and the captain, being a reasonable man, was convinced. chapter twelve. in which gillie is sagacious, an excursion is undertaken, wondrous sights are seen, and avalanches of more kinds than one are encountered. "susan," said gillie, one morning, entering the private apartment of mrs stoutley's maid with the confidence of a privileged friend, flinging himself languidly into a chair and stretching out his little legs with the air of a rather used-up, though by no means discontented, man, "susan, this is a coorious world--wery coorious--the most coorious i may say that i ever come across." "i won't speak a word to you, gillie," said susan, firmly, "unless you throw that cigar out of the window." "ah, susan, you would not rob me of my mornin' weed, would you?" remonstrated gillie, puffing a long cloud of smoke from his lips as he took from between them the end of a cigar that had been thrown away by some one the night before. "yes, i would, child, you are too young to smoke." "child!" repeated gillie, in a tone of reproach, "too young! why, susan, there's only two years between you an' me--that ain't much, you know, at _our_ time of life." "well, what then? _i_ don't smoke," said susan. "true," returned gillie, with an approving nod, "and, to say truth, i'm pleased to find that you don't. it's a nasty habit in women." "it's an equally nasty habit in boys. now, do as i bid you directly." "when a man is told by the girl he loves to do anythink, he is bound to do it--even if it wor the sheddin' of his blood. susan, your word is law." he turned and tossed the cigar-end out of the window. susan laughingly stooped, kissed the urchin's forehead, and called him a good boy. "now," said she, "what do you mean by sayin' that this is a curious world? do you refer to this part of it, or to the whole of it?" "well, for the matter of that," replied gillie, crossing his legs, and folding his hands over his knee, as he looked gravely up in susan's pretty face, "i means the whole of it, _this_ part included, and the people in it likewise. don't suppose that i go for to exclude myself. we're all coorious, every one on us." "what! me too?" "you? w'y, you are the cooriousest of us all, susan, seeing that you're only a lady's-maid when you're pretty enough to have been a lady--a dutchess, in fact, or somethin' o' that sort." "you are an impudent little thing," retorted susan, with a laugh; "but tell me, what do you find so curious about the people up-stairs?" "why, for one thing, they seem all to have falled in love." "that's not very curious is it?" said susan, quietly; "it's common enough, anyhow." "ah, some kinds of it, yes," returned gillie, with the air of a philosopher, "but at chamouni the disease appears to have become viroolent an' pecoolier. there's the capp'n, _he's_ falled in love wi' the professor, an' it seems to me that the attachment is mootooal. then mister lewis has falled in love with madmysell nita hooray-tskie (that's a sneezer, ain't it), an' the mad artist, as mister lewis call him, has falled in love with her too, poor feller, an' miss nita has falled in love with miss emma, an miss emma, besides reciprocatin' that passion, has falled in love with the flowers and the scenery--gone in for it wholesale, so to speak--and dr lawrence, _he_ seems to have falled in love with everybody all round; anyhow everybody has falled in love with _him_, for he's continually goin' about doin' little good turns wherever he gits the chance, without seemin' to intend it, or shovin' hisself to the front. in fact i do think he _don't_ intend it, but only can't help it; just the way he used to be to my old mother and the rest of us in grubb's court. and i say, susan," here gillie looked very mysterious, and dropped his voice to a whisper, "miss emma has falled in love with _him_." "nonsense, child! how is it possible that _you_ can tell that?" said susan. the boy nodded his head with a look of preternatural wisdom, and put his forefinger to the side of his nose. "ah," said he, "yes, i can't explain _how_ it is that i knows it, but i _do_ know it. bless you, susan, i can see through a four-inch plank in thick weather without the aid of a gimlet hole. you may believe it or not, but i know that miss emma has falled in love with dr lawrence, but whether dr lawrence has failed in love with miss emma is more than i can tell. that plank is at least a six-inch one, an' too much for my wision. but have a care, susan, don't mention wot i've said to a single soul--livin' or dead. miss emma is a modest young woman, she is, an' would rather eat her fingers off, rings and all, than let her feelin's be known. i see that 'cause she fights shy o' dr lawrence, rather too shy of 'im, i fear, for secrecy. why he doesn't make up to _her_ is a puzzle that _i_ don't understand, for she'd make a good wife, would miss emma, an' dr lawrence may live to repent of it, if he don't go in and win." susan looked with mingled surprise and indignation at the precocious little creature who sat before her giving vent to his opinions as coolly as if he were a middle-aged man. after contemplating him for a few moments in silence, she expressed her belief that he was a conceited little imp, to venture to speak of his young mistress in that way. "i wouldn't do it to any one but yourself, susan," he said, in no wise abashed, "an' i hope you appreciate my confidence." "don't talk such nonsense, child, but go on with what you were speaking about," rejoined susan, with a smile, to conceal which she bent down her head as she plied her needle briskly on one of emma's mountain-torn dresses. "well, where was i?" continued gillie, "ah, yes. then, lord what's-'is-name, _he's_ falled in love with the mountain-tops, an' is for ever tryin' to get at 'em, in which he would succeed, for he's a plucky young feller, if it worn't for that snob--who's got charge of 'im--mister lumbard--whose pecooliarity lies in preferrin' every wrong road to the right one. as i heard mr lewis say the other day, w'en i chanced to be passin' the keyhole of the sallymanjay, `he'd raither go up to the roof of a 'ouse by the waterspout than the staircase,' just for the sake of boastin' of it." "and is mr lumbard in love with any one?" asked susan. "of course he is," answered gillie, "he's in love with hisself. he's always talkin' of hisself, an' praisin' hisself, an' boastin' of hisself an' what he's done and agoin' to do. he's plucky enough, no doubt, and if there wor a lightnin'-conductor runnin' to top of mount blang, i do b'lieve he'd try to--to--lead his lordship up _that_; but he's too fond of talkin' an' swaggerin' about with his big axe, an' wearin' a coil of rope on his shoulder when he ain't goin' nowhere. bah! i don't like him. what do you think, susan, i met him on the road the other evenin' w'en takin' a stroll by myself down near the glassyer day bossong, an' i says to him, quite in a friendly way, `bong joor,' says i, which is french, you know, an' what the natives here says when they're in good humour an' want to say `good-day,' `all serene,' `how are you off for soap?' an' suchlike purlitenesses. well, would you believe it, he went past without takin' no notice of me whatsumdever." "how _very_ impolite," said susan, "and what did you do?" "do," cried gillie, drawing himself up, "why, i cocked my nose in the air and walked on without disdainin' to say another word--treated 'im with suvrin contempt. but enough of _him_--an' more than enough. well, to continue, then there's missis stoutley, she's falled in love too." "indeed?" "yes, with wittles. the count hur--what's-'is-name, who's always doin' the purlite when he's not mopin', says it's the mountain hair as is agreein' with her, but i think its the hair-soup. anyhow she's more friendly with her wittles here than she ever was in england. after comin' in from that excursion where them two stout fellers carried her up the mountains, an' all but capsized her and themselves, incloodin' the chair, down a precipice, while passin' a string o' mules on a track no broader than the brim of mister slingsby's wide-awake, she took to her wittles with a sort of lovin' awidity that an't describable. the way she shovelled in the soup, an' stowed away the mutton chops, an' pitched into the pease and taters, to say nothing of cauliflower and cutlets, was a caution to the billions. it made my mouth water to look at her, an' my eyes too--only that may have had somethin' to do with the keyhole, for them 'otels of chamouni are oncommon draughty. yes," continued gillie, slowly, as if he were musing, "she's failed in love with wittles, an' it's by no means a misplaced affection. it would be well for the count if he could fall in the same direction. did you ever look steadily at the count, susan?" "i can't say i ever did; at least not more so than at other people. why?" "because, if you ever do look at him steadily, you'll see care a-sittin' wery heavy on his long yeller face. there's somethin' the matter with that count, either in 'is head or 'is stummick, i ain't sure which; but, whichever it is, it has descended to his darter, for that gal's face is too anxious by half for such a young and pretty one. i have quite a sympathy, a sort o' feller-feelin', for that count. he seems to me the wictim of a secret sorrow." susan looked at her small admirer with surprise, and then burst into a hearty laugh. "you're a queer boy, gillie." to an unsophisticated country girl like susan quick, the london street-boy must indeed have seemed a remarkable being. he was not indeed an absolute "arab," being the son of an honest hardworking mother, but being also the son of a drunken, ill-doing father, he had, in the course of an extensive experience of bringing his paternal parent home from gin-palaces and low theatres, imbibed a good deal of the superficial part of the "waif" character, and, but for the powerful and benign influence of his mother, might have long ago entered the ranks of our criminal population. as it was, he had acquired a knowledge of "the world" of london--its thoughts, feelings, and manners--which rendered him in susan's eyes a perfect miracle of intelligence; and she listened to his drolleries and precocious wisdom with open-mouthed admiration. of course the urchin was quite aware of this, and plumed himself not a little on his powers of attraction. "yes," continued gillie, without remarking on susan's observation that he was a "queer boy," for he esteemed that a compliment "the count is the only man among 'em who hasn't falled in love with nothink or nobody. but tell me, susan, is _your_ fair buzzum free from the--the tender-- you know what?" "oh! yes," laughed the maid, "quite free." "ah!" said gillie, with a sigh of satisfaction, "then there's hope for _me_." "of course there is plenty of hope," said susan, laughing still more heartily as she looked at the thing in blue and buttons which thus addressed her. "but now, tell me, where are they talking of going to-day?" "to the jardang," replied gillie. "it was putt off to please the young ladies t'other day, and now it's putt on to please the professor. it seems to me that the professor has got well to wind'ard of 'em all--as the cappen would say; he can twirl the whole bilin' of 'em round his little finger with his outlandish talk, which i believe is more than half nonsense. hows'ever, he's goin' to take 'em all to the jardang, to lunch there, an' make some more obserwations and measurements of the ice. why he takes so much trouble about sitch a trifle, beats _my_ understandin'. if the ice is six feet, or six hundred feet thick, what then? if it moves, or if it don't move, wot's the odds, so long as yer 'appy? if it _won't_ move, w'y don't they send for a company of london bobbies and make 'em tell it to `move on,' it couldn't refuse, you know, for nothin' can resist that. hows'ever, they are all goin' to foller the lead of the professor again to-day--them that was with 'em last time--not the count though, for i heard him say (much to the distress apperiently of his darter) that he was goin' on business to marteeny, over the tait nwar, though what that is _i_ don't know--a mountain, i suppose. they're all keen for goin' _over_ things in this country, an' some of 'em goes _under_ altogether in the doin' of it. if i ain't mistaken, that pleasant fate awaits lord what's-'is-name an' mr lumbard, for i heard the cappen sayin', just afore i come to see you, that he was goin' to take his lordship to the main truck of mount blang by way of the signal halliards, in preference to the regular road." "are the young ladies going?" asked susan. "of course they are, from w'ich it follers that mr lewis an' the mad artist are goin' too." "and mrs stoutley?" asked susan. "_no_; it's much too far and difficult for her." "gillie, gillie!" shouted a stentorian voice at this point in the conversation. "ay, ay, cappen," yelled gillie, in reply. rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he sauntered leisurely from the room, recommending the captain, in an undertone, to save his wind for the mountainside. not long afterwards, the same parties that had accompanied the professor to the montanvert were toiling up the mer de glace, at a considerable distance above the scene of their former exploits, on their way to the jardin. the day was all that could be desired. there were a few clouds, but these were light and feathery; clear blue predominated all over the sky. over the masses of the jorasses and the peaks of the geant, the aiguille du dru, the slopes of mont mallet, the pinnacles of charmoz, and the rounded white summit of mont blanc--everywhere--the heavens were serene and beautiful. the jardin, towards which they ascended, lies like an island in the midst of the glacier du talefre. it is a favourite expedition of travellers, being a verdant gem on a field of white--a true oasis in the desert of ice and snow--and within a five hours' walk of chamouni. their route lay partly on the moraines and partly over the surface of the glacier. on their previous visit to the mer de glace, those of the party to whom the sight was new imagined that they had seen all the wonders of the glacier world. they were soon undeceived. while at the montanvert on their first excursion, they could turn their eyes from the sea of ice to the tree-clad slopes behind them, and at the chapeau could gaze on a splendid stretch of the vale of chamouni to refresh their eyes when wearied with the rugged cataract of the glacier des bois; but as they advanced slowly up into the icy solitudes, all traces of the softer world were lost to view. only ice and snow lay around them. ice under foot, ice on the cliffs, ice in the mountain valleys, ice in the higher gorges, and snow on the summits,--except where these latter were so sharp and steep that snow could not find a lodgment. there was nothing in all the field of vision to remind them of the vegetable world from which they had passed as if by magic. as lewis remarked, they seemed to have been suddenly transported to within the arctic circle, and got lost among the ice-mountains of spitzbergen or nova zembla. "it is magnificent!" exclaimed nita horetzki with enthusiasm, as she paused on the summit of an ice-ridge, up the slippery sides of which she had been assisted by antoine grennon, who still held her little hand in his. ah, thoughtless man! he little knew what daggers of envy were lacerating the heart of the mad artist who would have given all that he possessed-- colour-box and camp-stool included--to have been allowed to hold that little hand even for a few seconds! indeed he had, in a fit of desperation, offered to aid her by taking the other hand when half-way up that very slope, but had slipped at the moment of making the offer and rolled to the bottom. lewis, seeing the fate of his rival, wisely refrained from putting himself in a false position by offering any assistance, excusing his apparent want of gallantry by remarking that if he were doomed to slip into a crevasse he should prefer not to drag another along with him. antoine, therefore, had the little hand all to himself. the professor, being a somewhat experienced ice-man, assisted emma in all cases of difficulty. as for the captain, gillie, and lawrence, they had quite enough to do to look after themselves. "how different from what i had expected," said emma, resting a hand on the shoulder of nita; "it is a very landscape of ice." emma's simile was not far-fetched. they had reached a part of the glacier where the slope and the configuration of the valley had caused severe strains on the ice in various directions, so that there were not only transverse crevasses but longitudinal cracks, which unitedly had cut up the ice into blocks of all shapes and sizes. these, as their position shifted, had become isolated, more or less,--and being partially melted by the sun, had assumed all sorts of fantastic shapes. there were ice-bridges, ice-caves, and ice obelisks and spires, some of which latter towered to a height of fifty feet or more; there were also forms suggestive of cottages and trees, with here and there real rivulets rippling down their icy beds, or leaping over pale blue ledges, or gliding into blue-green lakes, or plunging into black-blue chasms. the sun-light playing among these silvery realms--glinting over edges and peaks, blazing on broad masses, shimmering through semi-transparent cliffs, and casting soft grey shadows everywhere--was inexpressibly beautiful, while the whole, looming through a thin golden haze, seemed to be of gigantic proportions. it seemed as if the region of ice around them must at one time have been in tremendous convulsions, but the professor assured them that this was not the case, that the formation of crevasses and those confused heaps of ice called _seracs_ was a slow and prolonged process. "doubtless," he said, "you have here and there the wild rush of avalanches, and suchlike convulsions, but the rupture of the great body of the ice is gradual. a crevasse is an almost invisible crack at first. it yawns slowly and takes a long time to open out to the dimensions and confusion which you see around." "what are those curious things?" asked nita, pointing to some forms before her. "they look like giant mushrooms," said captain wopper. "they are ice-tables," answered antoine. "blocks of stone on the top of cones of ice," said the professor. "come, we will go near and examine one." the object in question was well suited to cause surprise, for it was found to be an enormous flat mass of rock, many tons in weight, perched on a pillar of ice and bearing some resemblance to a table with a central leg. "now," said captain wopper emphatically, "that _is_ a puzzler. how did it ever get up there?" "i have read of such tables," said lawrence. "they are the result of the sun's action, i believe." "oh, it's all very well, lawrence," said lewis, with a touch of sarcasm, "to talk in a vague way about the sun's action, but it's quite plain, even to an unphilosophical mind like mine, that the sun can't lift a block of stone some tons in weight and clap it on the top of a pillar of ice about ten feet high." "nevertheless the sun has done it," returned lawrence. "am i not right professor?" the man of science, who had listened with a bland smile on his broad countenance, admitted that lawrence was right. "at first," he said, "that big stone fell from the cliffs higher up the valley, and it has now been carried down thus far by the ice. during its progress the sun has been shining day by day and melting the surface of the ice all round, with the exception of that part which was covered by the rock. thus the general level of the ice has been lowered and the protected portion left prominent with its protector on the top. the sides of the block of ice on which the rock has rested have also melted slowly, reducing it to the stalk or pillar which you now see. in time it will melt so much that the rock will slide off, fall on another part of the ice, which it will protect from the sun as before until another stem shall support it, and thus it will go on until it tumbles into a crevasse, reaches the under part of the glacier, perhaps there gets rolled and rounded into a boulder, and finally is discharged, many years hence, it may be, into the terminal moraine; or, perchance, it may get stranded on the sides of the valley among the _debris_ or rubbish which we call the lateral moraine." as the party advanced, new, and, if possible; still more striking objects met the eye, while mysterious sounds struck the ear. low grumbling noises and gurglings were heard underfoot, as if great boulders were dropping into buried lakes from the roofs of sub-glacial caverns, while, on the surface, the glacier was strewn here and there with _debris_ which had fallen from steep parts of the mountains that rose beside them into the clouds. sudden rushing sounds--as if of short-lived squalls, in the midst of which were crashes like the thunder of distant artillery--began now to attract attention, and a feeling of awe crept into the hearts of those of the party who were strangers to the ice-world. sounds of unseen avalanches, muffled more or less according to distance, were mingled with what may be called the shots of the boulders, which fell almost every five minutes from the aiguille verte and other mountains, and there was something deeply impressive in the solemn echoes that followed each deep-toned growl, and were repeated until they died out in soft murmurs. as the party crossed an ice-plain, whose surface was thickly strewn with the wreck of mountains, a sense of insecurity crept into the feelings of more than one member of it but not a word was said until a sudden and tremendous crash, followed by a continuous roar, was heard close at hand. "an avalanche!" shouted slingsby, pointing upwards, and turning back with the evident intention to fly. it did indeed seem the wisest thing that man or woman could do in the circumstances, for, high up among the wild cliffs, huge masses of rock, mingled with ice, dirt, water, and snow, were seen rushing down a "couloir," or steep gully, straight towards them. "rest tranquil where you are," said the guide, laying his hand on the artist's arm; "the couloir takes a bend, you see, near the bottom. there is no danger." thus assured, the whole of the party stood still and gazed upward. owing to the great height from which the descending mass was pouring, the inexperienced were deceived as to the dimensions of the avalanche. it seemed at first as if the boulders were too small to account for the sounds created, but in a few seconds their real proportions became more apparent, especially when the whole rush came straight towards the spot on which the travellers stood with such an aspect of being fraught with inevitable destruction, that all of them except the guide shrank involuntarily backwards. at this crisis the chaotic mass was driven with terrible violence against the cliffs to the left of the couloir, and bounding, we might almost say fiercely, to the right, rushed out upon the frozen plain about two hundred yards in advance of the spot on which they stood. "is there not danger in being so close to such places?" asked lewis, glancing uneasily at nita, whose flashing eyes and heightened colour told eloquently of the excitement which the sight had aroused in her breast. "not much," answered the professor, "no doubt we cannot be said to be in a place of absolute safety, nevertheless the danger is not great, because we can generally observe the avalanches in time to get out of the way of spent shots; and, besides, if we run under the lea of such boulders as _that_, we are quite safe, unless it were to be hit by one pretty nearly as large as itself." he pointed as he spoke to a mass of granite about the size of an omnibus, which lay just in front of them. "but i see," he added, laughing, "that antoine thinks this is not a suitable place for the delivery of lectures; we must hasten forward." soon they surmounted the steeps of the glacier du talefre, and reached the object of their desire, the jardin. it is well named. a wonderful spot of earth and rock which rises out of the midst of a great basin of half-formed ice, the lower part being covered with green sward and spangled with flowers, while the summit of the rock forms a splendid out-look from which to view the surrounding scene. here, seated on the soft grass--the green of which was absolutely delicious to the eyes after the long walk over the glaring ice--the jovial professor, with a sandwich in one hand and a flask of _vin ordinaire_ in the other, descanted on the world of ice. he had a willing audience, for they were all too busy with food to use their tongues in speech, except in making an occasional brief demand or comment. "glorious!" exclaimed the professor. "which, the view or the victuals?" asked lewis. "both," cried the professor, helping himself to another half-dozen sandwiches. "thank you--no more at present," said nita to the disappointed slingsby, who placed the rejected limb of a fowl on his own plate with a deep sigh. "professor," said nita, half-turning her back on the afflicted artist, "how, when, and where be all this ice formed?" "a comprehensive question!" cried the professor. "thank you--yes, a wing and a leg; also, if you can spare it, a piece of the--ah! so, you are right. the whole fowl is best. i can then help myself. miss gray, shall i assist you to a--no? well, as i was about to remark, in reply to your comprehensive question, mademoiselle, this basin, in which our jardin lies, may be styled a mighty collector of the material which forms that great tributary of the mer de glace, named the glacier du talefre. this material is called neve." "an' what's nevy?" asked captain wopper, as well as a full mouth would allow him. "neve," replied the professor, "is snow altered by partial melting, and freezing, and compression--snow in the process of being squeezed into ice. you must know that there is a line on all high mountains which is called the snow-line. above this line, the snow that falls each year _never_ disappears; below it the snow, and ice too, undergoes the melting process continually. the portion below the snow-line is always being diminished; that above it is always augmenting; thus the loss of the one is counterbalanced by the gain of the other; and thus the continuity of glaciers is maintained. that part of a glacier which lies above the snow-line is styled neve; it is the fountain-head and source of supply to the glacier proper, which is the part that lies below the snow-line. sometimes, for a series of years, perhaps, the supply from above is greater than the diminution below, the result being that the snout of a glacier advances into its valley, ploughs up the land, and sometimes overturns the cottages. [see note .] on the other hand the reverse process goes on, it may be for years, and a glacier recedes somewhat, leaving a whole valley of _debris_, or terminal moraine, which is sometimes, after centuries perhaps, clothed with vegetation and dotted with cottages." "this basin, or collector of neve, on whose beautiful oasis i have the felicity to lunch in such charming society (the jovial professor bowed to the ladies), is, according to your talented professor forbes (he bowed to lawrence), about four thousand two hundred yards wide, and all the ice it contains is, farther down, squeezed through a gorge not more than seven hundred yards wide, thus forming that grand ice-cascade of the talefre which you have seen on the way hither. it is a splendid, as well as interesting amphitheatre, for it is bounded, as you see, on one side by the grandes jorasses, on the other by mont mallet, while elsewhere you have the vast plateau whence the glacier du geant is fed; the aiguille du geant, the aiguille noire, the montagnes mandites, and mont blanc. another wing, if you please--ah, finished? no matter, pass the loaf. it will do as well." the professor devoted himself for some minutes in silence to the loaf, which was much shorn of its proportions on leaving his hand. like many great men, he was a great eater. the fires of intellect that burned within him seemed to require a more than ordinary supply of fuel. he slept, too, like an infant hercules, and, as a natural consequence, toiled like a giant when awake. little gillie white regarded him with feelings of undisguised awe, astonishment and delight, and was often sorely perplexed within himself as to whether he or captain wopper was the greater man. both were colossal in size and energetic in body, and both were free and easy in manners, as well as good-humoured. no doubt, as gillie argued with himself (and sometimes with susan), the professor was uncommon larned an' deep, but then the captain had a humorous vein, which fully counterbalanced that in gillie's estimation. the philosophic urchin was deeply engaged in debating this point with himself, and gazing open-mouthed at the professor, when there suddenly occurred an avalanche so peculiar and destructive that it threw the whole party into the utmost consternation. while removing a pile of plates, gillie, in his abstraction, tripped on a stone, tumbled over the artist, crushed that gentleman's head into nita's lap, and, descending head foremost, plates and all, into the midst of the feast, scattered very moraine of crockery and bottles all round. it was an appalling smash, and when the captain seized gillie by the back of his trousers with one hand and lifted him tenderly out of the midst of the _debris_, the limp way in which he hung suggested the idea that a broken bottle must have penetrated his vitals and finished him. it was not so, however. gillie's sagacity told him that he would probably be wounded if he were to move. he wisely, therefore, remained quite passive, and allowed himself to be lifted out of danger. "nobody hurt, i 'ope," he said, on being set on his legs; "it was a awk'ard plunge." "awk'ard? you blue spider," cried the captain; "you deserve to be keel-hauled, or pitched into a crevasse. look alive now, an' clear up the mess you've made." fortunately the feast was about concluded when this _contretemps_ occurred, so that no serious loss was sustained. some of the gentlemen lighted their pipes and cigars, to solace themselves before commencing the return journey. the ladies went off to saunter and to botanise, and slingsby attempted to sketch the scenery. and here again, as on the previous excursion, captain wopper received a chill in regard to his matrimonial hopes. when the ladies rose, lewis managed to engage nita in an interesting conversation on what he styled the flora of central europe, and led her away. emma was thus left without her companion. now, thought the captain, there's your chance, dr lawrence, go in and win! but lawrence did not avail himself of the chance. he suffered emma to follow her friend, and remained behind talking with the professor on the vexed subject of the cause of glacial motion. "most extraor'nary," thought the captain, somewhat nettled, as well as disappointed. "what can the youngster mean? she's as sweet a gal as a fellow would wish to see, an' yet he don't pay no more attention to her than if she was an old bumboat 'ooman. very odd. can't make it out nohow!" captain wopper was not the first, and will _certainly_ not be the last, to experience difficulty in accounting for the conduct of young men and maidens in this world of cross-currents and queer fancies. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . such is actually true at the present time of the gorner glacier, which has for a long time been advancing, and, during the last sixty years or so, has overturned between forty and fifty chalets. chapter thirteen. shows what dangers may be encountered in the pursuit of art and science. who has not experienced the almost unqualified pleasure of a walk, on a bright beautiful morning, before breakfast? how amply it repays one for the self-denying misery of getting up! we say misery advisedly, for it is an undoubted, though short-lived, agony, that of arousing one's inert, contented, and peaceful frame into a state of activity. there is a moment in the daily life of man--of some men, at least--when heroism of a very high stamp is displayed; that moment when, the appointed hour of morning having arrived, he thrusts one lethargic toe from under the warm bed-clothes into the relatively cold atmosphere of his chamber. if the toe is drawn back, the man is nobody. if it is thrust further out, and followed up by the unwilling body, the man is a hero! the agony, however, like that of tooth-drawing, is soon over, and the delightful commendations of an approving conscience are superadded to the pleasures of an early morning walk. such pleasures were enjoyed one morning by emma gray and nita horetzki and lewis stoutley, when, at an early hour, they issued from their hotel, and walked away briskly up the vale of chamouni. "i say, emma, isn't it a charming, delicious, and outrageously delightful day!" exclaimed lewis. although the young man addressed himself to his cousin, who walked on his left, he glanced at nita, who walked on his right, and thus, with a sense of justice peculiarly his own, divided his attentions equally between them. "you are unusually enthusiastic, cousin," said emma, with a laugh. "i thought you said last night that weather never affected you?" "true, but there is more than weather here, there is scenery, and--and sunshine." "sunshine?" repeated nita, lifting her large orbs to his face with a look of surprise, for although the sun may be said to have risen as regards the world at large, it had not yet surmounted the range of mont blanc, or risen to the inhabitants of chamouni. "i not see it; where is the sunshine?" "there!" exclaimed lewis, mentally, as he gazed straight down into her wondering orbs, and then added aloud, as he swept his arm aloft with a mock-heroic air, "behold it gleaming on the mountain-ridges." there is no doubt that the enthusiasm of lewis as to the weather, scenery, and sunshine would have been much reduced, perhaps quenched altogether, if nita had not been there, for the youth was steeped in that exquisite condition termed first love,--the very torments incident to which are moderated joys,--but it must not be supposed that he conducted himself with the maudlin sentimentality not unfrequently allied to that condition. although a mischievous and, we are bound to admit, a reckless youth, he was masculine in his temperament, and capable of being deeply, though not easily, stirred into enthusiasm. it was quite in accordance with this nature that his jesting tone and manner suddenly vanished as his gaze became riveted on the ridge to which he had carelessly directed attention. even nita was for a moment forgotten in the sight that met his eyes, for the trees and bushes which crowned the ridge were to all appearance composed of solid fire! "did you ever see anything like that before emma?" he asked, eagerly. "never; i have seen sunrises and sunsets in many parts of our own land, but nothing at all like that; what _can_ be the cause of it?" there was good reason for the wonder thus called forth, for the light was not on the trees but _behind_ them. the sun had not quite risen, but was very near the summit of the ridge, so that these trees and bushes were pictured, as it were, against the brightest part of the glowing sky. in such circumstances we are taught by ordinary experience that objects will be unusually dark, but these trees were incomparably brighter than the glowing sky itself. it was not that their mere edges were tipped with fire, but their entire substance, even to the central core of the pine-stems, was to all appearance made of pure light, as if each tree and shrub had been made of steel raised to a condition of intense white heat. no shining of the sun through or upon trees can convey the slightest idea of the sight. it was something absolutely new to our travellers, and roused their astonishment as well as wonder to the highest pitch. "oh!" exclaimed nita, clasping her hands with a force peculiar to her demonstrative nature, "how wonderful! how i do wish the professor was here to tell us how and what it be." that evening the professor, who had observed the phenomenon more than once, told them all he knew about it. there were differences of opinion, he said, as to the cause, for men of physical science, not less than doctors, were prone to differ. for himself, he had only noted the facts and knew not the cause. the luminous trees appeared only at that part of the ridge where the sun was _just going_ to rise--elsewhere the trees were projected as dark objects, in the usual way, against the bright sky. not only were the trees thus apparently self-luminous, but when birds chanced to be flying amongst them, they had the appearance of sparks of molten silver flitting to and fro. see note . "but you have not yet told me, ladies," said lewis, as they resumed their walk, "what has induced you to indulge in so early a ramble to-day?" "can you not imagine," said nita, "that it is the love of nature?" "undoubtedly i can; but as this is the first time since we came that you have chosen to display a love for nature before breakfast, i may be forgiven for supposing there is another and no doubt secondary cause." "you are right," said emma; "were you not present last night when we discussed our plans for to-day?" "no, he was in the verandah," interposed nita, with an arch smile, "indulging that savage and unintellectual taste you call smoking." "ah, mademoiselle, be not too severe. it may not, indeed, be styled an intellectual pursuit, but neither, surely, can it be called savage, seeing that it softens and ameliorates the rugged spirit of man." "it is savage," returned nita, "because you do not encourage ladies to join you in it." "pardon me, mademoiselle," cried lewis, pulling out his cigar-case, "nothing would gratify me more than your acceptance of--" "insult me not, monsieur," said nita, with a toss of her pretty little head, "but reply to your cousin's question." "ah, to be sure, well--let me see, what was it? was i present when the plans for the day were arranged? yes i was, but i missed the first part of the conversation, having been, as mademoiselle horetzki truly observes, occupied with that--a--" "savage habit," interposed nita. "savage habit," said lewis, "the savage element of which i am willing to do away with at a moment's notice when desired. i merely heard that the professor had fixed to go on the glacier for the purpose of measuring it, as though it were a badly clad giant, and he a scientific tailor who had undertaken to make a top-coat for it. i also heard that you two had decided on a walk before breakfast, and, not caring to do tailoring on the ice, i begged leave to join you--therefore i am here." "ah, you prefer woman's society and safety to manly exercise and danger!" said nita. although lewis was, as we have said, by no means an effeminate youth, he was at that age when the male creature shrinks from the slightest imputation of a lack of manliness. he coloured, therefore, as he laughingly replied that in his humble opinion his present walk involved the manly exercise of moral courage in withstanding shafts of sarcasm, which were far more dangerous in his eyes than hidden crevasses or flying boulders. "but you both forget," interposed emma, "that i have not yet explained the object of our morning walk." "true, cousin, let us have it." "well," continued emma, "when you were engages in your `savage' indulgence, a difficulty stood in the way of the professor's plans, inasmuch as our guide antoine had asked and obtained leave to absent himself a couple of days for the purpose of taking his wife and child over the country to pay a short visit to a relative in some valley, the name of which i forget. antoine had said that he would be quite willing to give up his leave of absence if a messenger were sent to inform his wife of his change of plan, and to ask a certain baptist le croix, who lives close beside her, to be her guide. as we two did not mean to join the ice-party, we at once offered to be the messengers. hence our present expedition at so early an hour. after seeing madame antoine grennon and having breakfast we mean to spend the day in sketching." "may i join you in this after-portion of the day's work?" asked lewis. "i may not, indeed, claim to use the pencil with the facility of our friend slingsby, but i am not altogether destitute of a little native talent in that way. i will promise to give you both as many cigars as you choose, and will submit my sketches to mademoiselle's criticism, which will be incurring extreme danger." "well, you may come," said nita, with a condescending nod, "but pray fulfil the first part of your promise, give me the cigars." lewis drew them out with alacrity, and laughingly asked, "how many?" "all of them; the case also." in some surprise the youth put the cigar-case into her hand, and she immediately flung it into a neighbouring pool. "ah, how cruel," said lewis, putting on a most forlorn look, while emma gave vent to one of her subdued little explosions of laughter. "what! is our society not enough for monsieur?" asked nita, in affected surprise. "_more_ than enough," replied lewis, with affected enthusiasm. "then you can be happy without your cigars," returned nita. "perfectly happy," replied lewis, taking a small case from his pocket, from which he extracted a neat little meerschaum pipe, and began to fill it with tobacco. again emma had occasion to open the safety-valve of another little explosive laugh; but before anything further could be said, they came in sight of antoine grennon's cottage. it was prettily situated beneath a clump of pines. a small stream, spanned by a rustic bridge, danced past it. under the shadow of the bridge they saw madame engaged in washing linen. she had a washing-tub, of course, but instead of putting the linen into this she put herself in it, after having made an island of it by placing it a few inches deep in the stream. thus she could kneel and get at the water conveniently without wetting her knees or skirts. on a sloping slab of wood she manipulated the linen with such instrumentality as cold water, soap, a wooden mallet and a hard brush. beside her, in a miniature tub, her little daughter conducted a miniature washing. the three travellers, looking over the bridge, could witness the operation without being themselves observed. "it is a lively process," remarked lewis, as madame seized a mass of linen with great vigour, and caused it to fall on the sloping plank with a sounding slap. madame was an exceedingly handsome and well-made woman, turned thirty, and much inclined to _embonpoint_. her daughter was turned three, and still more inclined to the same condition. their rounded, well-shaped, and muscular arms, acted very much in the same way, only madame's vigour was a good deal more intense and persistent--too much so, perhaps, for the fabrics with which she had to deal; but if the said fabrics possessed the smallest degree of consciousness, they could not have had the heart to complain of rough treatment from such neat though strong hands, while being smiled upon by such a pretty, though decisive countenance. "it is dreadfully rough treatment," said emma, whose domestic-economical spirit was rather shocked. "terrible!" exclaimed nita, as madame gripped another article of apparel and beat it with her mallet as though it had been the skull of her bitterest enemy, while soap-suds and water spurted from it as if they had been that enemy's brains. "and she washes, i believe, for our hotel," said emma, with a slightly troubled expression. perhaps a thought of her work-box and buttons flashed across her mind at the moment. "you are right," said lewis, with a pleased smile. "i heard antoine say to gillie, the other day, that his wife washed a large portion of the hotel linen. no doubt some of ours is amongst it. indeed i am sure of it," he added, with a look of quiet gravity, as madame grennon seized another article, swished it through the water, caused it to resound on the plank, and scrubbed it powerfully with soap; "that a what's-'is-name, belongs to me. i know it by the cut of its collar. formerly, i used to know it chiefly by its fair and fragile texture. i shall know it hereafter as an amazing illustration of the truth of the proverb, that no one knows what he can stand till he is tried. the blows which she is at present delivering to it with her mallet, are fast driving all preconceived notions in regard to linen out of my head. scrubbing it, as she does now, with a hard brush, against the asperities of the rough plank, and then twisting it up like a roly-poly prior to swishing it through the water a second time, would once have induced me to doubt the strength of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons and fine white thread. i shall doubt no longer." as he said so, madame grennon chanced to look up, and caught sight of the strangers. she rose at once, and, forsaking her tub, advanced to meet them, the curly-haired daughter following close at her heels, for, wherever her mother went she followed, and whatever her mother did she imitated. the object of the visit was soon explained, and the good woman led the visitors into her hut where baptist le croix chanced to be at the time. there was something very striking in the appearance of this man. he was a tall fine-looking fellow, a little past the prime of life, but with a frame whose great muscular power was in no degree abated. his face was grave, good-natured, and deeply sunburnt; but there was a peculiarly anxious look about the eyes, and a restless motion in them, as if he were constantly searching for something which he could not find. he willingly undertook to conduct his friend's wife and child to the residence of their relative. on leaving the hut to return to chamouni, madame grennon accompanied her visitors a short way, and nita took occasion, while expressing admiration of baptist's appearance, to comment on his curiously anxious look. "ah! mademoiselle," said madame, with a half sad look, "the poor man is taken up with a strange notion--some people call it a delusion--that gold is to be found somewhere here in the mountains." "gold?" cried nita, with such energy that her companions looked at her in surprise. "why, nita," exclaimed emma, "your looks are almost as troubled and anxious as those of le croix himself." "how strange!" said nita, musing and paying no attention to emma's remark. "why does he think so?" "indeed, mademoiselle, i cannot tell; but he seems quite sure of it, and spends nearly all his time in the mountains searching for gold, and hunting the chamois." they parted here, and for a time lewis tried to rally nita about what he styled her sympathy with the chamois-hunter, but nita did not retort with her wonted sprightliness; the flow of her spirits was obviously checked, and did not return during their walk back to the hotel. while this little incident was enacting in the valley, events of a far different nature were taking place among the mountains, into the solitudes of which the professor, accompanied by captain wopper, lawrence, slingsby, and gillie, and led by antoine, had penetrated for the purpose of ascertaining the motion of a huge precipice of ice. "you are not a nervous man, i think," said the professor to antoine as they plodded over the ice together. "no, monsieur, not very," answered the guide, with a smile and a sly glance out of the corners of his eyes. captain wopper laughed aloud at the question, and gillie grinned. gillie's countenance was frequently the residence of a broad grin. nature had furnished him with a keen sense of the ludicrous, and a remarkably open countenance. human beings are said to be blind to their own peculiarities. if gillie had been an exception to this rule and if he could have, by some magical power, been enabled to stand aside and look at his own spider-like little frame, as others saw it, clad in blue tights and buttons, it is highly probable that he would have expired in laughing at himself. "i ask the question," continued the professor, "because i mean to request your assistance in taking measurements in a somewhat dangerous place, namely, the ice-precipice of the tacul." "it is well, monsieur," returned the guide, with another smile, "i am a little used to dangerous places." gillie pulled his small hands out of the trouser-pockets in which he usually carried them, and rubbed them by way of expressing his gleeful feelings. had the sentiment which predominated in his little mind been audibly expressed, it would probably have found vent in some such phrase as, "won't there be fun, neither--oh dear no, not by no means." to him the height of happiness was the practice of mischief. danger in his estimation meant an extremely delicious form of mischief. "is the place picturesque as well as dangerous?" asked slingsby, with a wild look in his large eyes as he walked nearer to the professor. "it is; you will find many aspects of ice-formation well worthy of your pencil." it is due to the artist to say that his wildness that morning was not the result only of despair at the obvious indifference with which nita regarded him. it was the combination of that wretched condition with a heroic resolve to forsake the coy maiden and return to his first love-- his beloved art--that excited him; and the idea of renewing his devotion to her in dangerous circumstances was rather congenial to his savage state of mind. it may be here remarked that mr slingsby, besides being an enthusiastic painter, was an original genius in a variety of ways. among other qualities he possessed an inventive mind, and, besides having had an ice-axe made after a pattern of his own,--which was entirely new and nearly useless,--he had designed a new style of belt with a powerful rope having a hook attached to it, with which he proposed, and actually managed, to clamber up and down difficult places, and thus attain points of vantage for sketching. several times had he been rescued by guides from positions of extreme peril, but his daring and altogether unteachable spirit had thrown him again and again into new conditions of danger. he was armed with his formidable belt and rope on the present excursion, and his aspect was such that his friends felt rather uneasy about him, and would not have been surprised if he had put the belt round his neck instead of his waist, and attempted to hang himself. "do you expect to complete your measurements to-day?" asked lawrence, who accompanied the professor as his assistant. "oh no. that were impossible. i can merely fix my stakes to-day and leave them. to-morrow or next day i will return to observe the result." the eastern side of the glacier du geant, near the tacul, at which they soon arrived, showed an almost perpendicular precipice about feet high. as they collected in a group in front of that mighty pale-blue wall, the danger to which the professor had alluded became apparent, even to the most inexperienced eye among them. high on the summit of the precipice, where its edge cut sharply against the blue sky, could be seen the black boulders and _debris_ of the lateral moraine of the glacier. the day was unusually warm, and the ice melted so rapidly that parts of this moraine were being sent down in frequent avalanches. the rustle of _debris_ was almost incessant, and, ever and anon, the rustle rose into a roar as great boulders bounded over the edge, and, after dashing portions of the ice-cliffs into atoms, went smoking down into the chaos below. it was just beyond this chaos that the party stood. "now, antoine," said the professor, "i want you to go to the foot of that precipice and fix a stake in the ice there." "well, monsieur, it shall be done," returned the guide, divesting himself of his knapsack and shouldering his axe and a stake. "meanwhile," continued the professor, "i will watch the falling _debris_ to warn you of danger in time, and the direction in which you must run to avoid it. my friend lawrence, with the aid of captain wopper, will fix the theodolite on yonder rocky knoll to our left." "nothin' for you an' me to do," said gillie to the artist; "p'r'aps we'd better go and draw--eh?" slingsby looked at the blue spider before him with an amused smile, and agreed that his suggestion was not a bad one, so they went off together. while antoine was proceeding to the foot of the ice-cliffs on his dangerous mission, the professor observed that the first direction of a falling stone's bound was no sure index of its subsequent motion, as it was sent hither and thither by the obstructions with which it met. he therefore recalled the guide. "it won't do, antoine, the danger is too great." "but, monsieur, if it is necessary--" "but it is not necessary that _you_ should risk your life in the pursuit of knowledge. besides, i must have a stake fixed half-way up the face of that precipice." "ah, monsieur," said antoine, with an incredulous smile, "that is not possible!" to this the professor made no reply, but ordered his guide to make a detour and ascend to the upper edge of the ice-precipice for the purpose of dislodging the larger and more dangerous blocks of stone there, and, after that, to plant a stake on the summit. this operation was not quickly performed. antoine had to make a long detour to get on the glacier, and when he did reach the moraine on the top, he found that many of the most dangerous blocks lay beyond the reach of his axe. however, he sent the smaller _debris_ in copious showers down the precipice, and by cleverly rolling some comparatively small boulders down upon those larger ones which lay out of reach, he succeeded in dislodging many of them. this accomplished, he proceeded to fix the stake on the upper surface of the glacier. while he was thus occupied, the professor assisted lawrence in fixing the theodolite, and then, leaving him, went to a neighbouring heap of _debris_ followed by the captain, whom he stationed there. "i want you," he said, "to keep a good look-out and warn me as to which way i must run to avoid falling rocks. antoine has dislodged many of them, but some he cannot reach. these enemies must be watched." so saying, the professor placed a stake and an auger against his breast, buttoned his coat over them, and shouldered his axe. "you don't mean to say that you're agoing to go under that cliff?" exclaimed the captain, in great surprise, laying his hand on the professor's arm and detaining him. "my friend," returned the man of science, "do not detain me. time is precious just now. you have placed yourself under my orders for the day, and, being a seaman, must understand the value of prompt obedience. do as i bid you." he turned and went off at a swinging pace towards the foot of the ice-cliff, while the captain, in a state of anxiety, amounting almost to consternation, sat down on a boulder, took off his hat, wiped his heated brow, pronounced the professor as mad as a march hare, and prepared to discharge his duties as "the look-out." although cool as a cucumber in all circumstances at sea, where he knew every danger and how to meet or avoid it, the worthy captain now almost lost self-control and became intensely agitated and anxious, insomuch that he gave frequent and hurried false alarms, which he no less hurriedly attempted to correct, sometimes in nautical terms, much to the confusion of the professor. "hallo! hi! look out--starboard--sta-a-arboard!" he shouted wildly, on beholding a rock about the size of a chest of drawers spring from the heights above and rush downward, with a smoke of ice-dust and _debris_ following, "quick! there! no! _port_! port! i say it's--" before he could finish the sentence, the mass had fallen a long way to the right of the professor, and lay quiet on the ice not far from where the captain stood. in spite of the interruptions thus caused, the lower stake was fixed in a few minutes. the professor then swung his axe vigorously, and began to cut an oblique stair-case in the ice up the sheer face of the precipice. in some respects the danger to the bold adventurer was now not so great because, being, as it were, flat against the ice-cliffs, falling rocks were more likely, by striking some projection, to bound beyond him. still there was the danger of deflected shots, and when, by cutting a succession of notches in which to place one foot at a time, he had ascended to the height of an average three-storey house, the danger of losing his balance or slipping a foot became very great indeed. but the man of science persevered in doing what he conceived to be his duty with as much coolness as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope. following the example of experienced ice-men on steep places, he took good care to make the notches or steps slope a little inwards, never lifted his foot from one step until the next was ready, and never swung his axe until his balance was perfectly secured. having gained a height of about thirty feet, he pierced a hole with his auger, fastened a stake in it, and descended amid a heavy cannonade of boulders and a smart fire of smaller _debris_. during the whole proceeding lawrence directed his friend as to the placing of the stake, and watched with surprise as well as anxiety, while captain wopper kept on shouting unintelligible words of warning in a state of extreme agitation. the guide returned just in time to see this part of the work completed, and to remonstrate gravely with the professor on his reckless conduct. "`all's well that ends well,' antoine, as a great poet says," replied the professor, with one of his most genial smiles. "we must run some risk in the pursuit of scientific investigation. now then, lawrence, i hope you have got the three stakes in the same line--let me see." applying his eye to the theodolite, he found that the stakes were in an exactly perpendicular line, one above another. he then carefully marked the spot occupied by the instrument and thus completed his labours for that time. we may add here in passing that next day he returned to the same place, and found that in twenty-four hours the bottom stake had moved downwards a little more than two inches, the middle stake had descended a little more than three, and the upper stake exactly six inches. thus he was enabled to corroborate the fact which had been ascertained by other men of science before him, that glacier-motion is more rapid at the top than at the bottom, where the friction against its bed tends to hinder its advance, and that the rate of flow increases gradually from the bottom upwards. while these points of interest were being established, our artist was not less earnestly engaged in prosecuting his own peculiar work, to the intense interest of gillie, who, although he had seen and admired many a picture in the london shop-windows, had never before witnessed the actual process by which such things are created. wandering away on the glacier among some fantastically formed and towering blocks or obelisks of ice, mr slingsby expressed to gillie his admiration of their picturesque shapes and delicate blue colour, in language which his small companion did not clearly understand, but which he highly approved of notwithstanding. "i think this one is worth painting," cried slingsby, pausing and throwing himself into an observant attitude before a natural arch, from the roof of which depended some large icicles; "it is extremely picturesque." "i think," said gillie, with earnest gravity, "that yonder's one as is more picturesker." he had carefully watched the artist's various observant attitudes, and now threw himself into one of these as he pointed to a sloping obelisk, the size of an average church-steeple, which bore some resemblance to the leaning-tower of pisa. "you are right, boy; that is a better mass. come, let us go paint it." while walking towards it, gillie asked how such wild masses came to be made. "i am told by the professor," said slingsby, "that when the ice cracks across, and afterwards lengthwise, the square blocks thus formed get detached as they descend the valley, and assume these fantastic forms." "ah! jis so. they descends the walley, does they?" "so it is said." gillie made no reply, though he said in his heart, "you won't git me to swaller _that_, by no manner of means." his unbelief was, however, rebuked by the leaning-tower of pisa giving a terrible rend at that moment, and slowly bending forward. it was an alarming as well as grand sight, for they were pretty near to it. some smaller blocks of ice that lay below prevented the tower from being broken in its fall. these were crushed to powder by it, and then, as if they formed a convenient carriage for it, the mighty mass slid slowly down the slope for a few feet. it was checked for a moment by another block, which, however, gave way before the great pressure, fell aside and let it pass. the slope was slight at the spot so that the obelisk moved slowly, and once or twice seemed on the point of stopping, but as if it had become endowed with life, it made a sudden thrust, squeezed two or three obstacles flat, turned others aside, and thus wound its way among its fellows with a low groaning sound like some sluggish monster of the antediluvian world. reaching a steeper part of the glacier, on the ridge of which it hung for a moment, as if unwilling to exert itself, it seemed to awake to the reality of its position. making a lively rush, that seemed tremendously inconsistent with its weight, it shot over the edge of a yawning crevasse, burst with a thunderclap on the opposite ice-cliff, and went roaring into the dark bowels of the glacier, whence the echoes of its tumbling masses, subdued by distance, came up like the mutterings of evil spirits. gillie viewed this wondrous spectacle with an awe-stricken heart, and then vented his feelings in a prolonged yell of ecstasy. "ain't it splendid, sir?" he cried, turning his glowing eyes on slingsby. "majestic!" exclaimed the artist, whose enthusiasm was equal to that of his companion, though not quite so demonstrative. "raither spoiled your drawin', though, ain't it, sir?" "yonder is something quite as good, if not better," said slingsby. he pointed, as he spoke, to a part of the crevasse higher up on the glacier, where a projecting cave of snow overhung the abyss. from the under-surface of this a number of gigantic icicles hung, the lower points of the longer ones almost lost in the blue depths. a good position from which to sketch it, however, was not easily reached, and it was only by getting close to the edge of the crevasse that the persevering artist at length attained his object. here he sat down on his top-coat, folded several times to guard him from the cold ice, spread out his colour-box and sketching-block, and otherwise made himself comfortable, while gillie sat down beside him on his own cap, for want of a better protector. had these two enthusiasts known the nature of their position, they would have retired from it precipitately with horror, for, ignorant of almost everything connected with glaciers, they had walked right off the solid ice and seated themselves on a comparatively thin projecting ledge of snow which overhung the crevasse. thus they remained for some time enjoying themselves, with death, as it were, waiting for them underneath! what rendered their position more critical was the great heat of the day, which, whatever might be the strength of the sustaining ledge, was reducing its bulk continually. after having sketched for some time, the artist thought it advisable to see as far down into the crevasse as possible, in order to put in the point of the longest icicle. the better to do this, he unwound his rope from his waist and flung it on the ice by his side, while he lay down on his breast and looked over the edge. still he did not perceive the danger of his position, and went on sketching diligently in this awkward attitude. now it was a melancholy fact that master gillie's interest in art or science was short-lived, though keen. he soon tired of watching his companion, and began to look about him with a view to mischief. not seeing anything specially suggestive, he thought of aiding the operations of nature by expediting the descent of some neighbouring boulders from their positions on ice-blocks. he intimated his intention to slingsby, but the artist was too much engrossed to give heed to him. just as he was rising, gillie's eye fell on the rope, and a happy thought struck him. to carry striking thoughts into immediate execution was a marked feature of the boy's character. he observed that one end of the rope was attached to mr slingsby's belt. taking up the hook at the other end, he went with it towards a large boulder, drawing the rope after him with extreme care, for fear of arousing his companion by a tug. he found that, when fully stretched, it was just long enough to pass round the rock. quickly fastening it, therefore, by means of the hook, he walked quietly away. he did not exhibit much excitement while doing this. it was, after all, but a trifling jest in his esteem, as the only result to be hoped for would be the giving of a surprise by the little tug which might perhaps be experienced by the artist on rising. thereafter, gillie sent innumerable ice-blocks to premature destruction, and enjoyed the work immensely for a time, but, having exploratory tendencies, he soon wandered about among obelisks and caverns until he found himself underneath the ice-cliff on which his friend was seated. then, as he looked up at the overhanging ledge from which gigantic icicles were hanging, a shock of alarm thrilled his little breast. this was increased by the falling of one of the icicles, which went like a blue javelin into the crevasse beside him. gillie thought of shouting to warn mr slingsby of his danger, but before he could do so he was startled by an appalling yell. at the same moment part of the ice overhead gave way, and he beheld the artist descending. he was stopped with a sudden jerk, as the rope tightened, and remained suspended in the air, while his coat and colour-box accompanied icicles and snow-blocks into the abyss below. a second later and the struggling artist's head appeared to fall off, but it was only his hat. gillie had by this time recovered himself so far as to be able to add his piercing shrieks for help to the cries of the artist, and well was it that day for mr slingsby that gillie had, since the years of infancy, practised his lungs to some purpose in terrifying cats and defying "bobbies" in the streets of london. "oh, sir! sir!--i say--hi!" he cried, panting and glaring up. "eh? what? hah!" gasped slingsby, panting and glaring down. "don't kick like that sir; pray don't," cried gillie in agonised tones, "you'll start the boulder wot yer fast to, if you don't keep still." "oh!" groaned the artist and instantly hung limp and motionless, in which condition he remained while gillie ran towards the place where he had left the rest of the party, jumping and slipping and falling and yelling over the ice like a maniac in blue and buttons! "d'ee hear that?" exclaimed captain wopper with a startled look, as he and his companions busied themselves packing up their instruments. antoine grennon heard it but made no reply. he was familiar with cries of alarm. turning abruptly he dashed off at full speed in the direction whence the cries came. the captain and professor instantly followed; lawrence overtook and passed them. in a few minutes they met the terrified boy, who, instead of waiting for them and wasting time by telling what was wrong, turned sharp round, gave one wild wave of his hand, and ran straight back to the ledge from which poor slingsby hung. stout willing arms were soon pulling cautiously on the rope, and in a few minutes more the artist lay upon the safe ice, almost speechless from terror, and with a deadly pallor on his brow. strange to say the indomitable artist had held on tight to his sketch-book, possibly because it was almost as dear to him as life, but more probably because of that feeling which induces a drowning man to clutch at a straw. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . we ourselves had the satisfaction of witnessing this wonderful and beautiful phenomenon before having read or heard of it, while on a trip from chamouni to martigny over the tete noire. chapter fourteen. the grand ascent begun. mrs stoutley, reposing at full length on a sofa in the salon one evening, observed to the count horetzki that she really could not understand it at all; that it seemed to her a tempting of providence to risk one's life for nothing, and that upon the whole she thought these excursions on glaciers were very useless and foolish. the salon was full of people grouped in little knots, fighting the battles of the day o'er again, playing backgammon and chess, or poring over maps and guide-books. "it does indeed seem foolish," answered the count whose native politeness induced him always to agree with ladies when possible, "and as far as any practical purpose is served i should think it useless. nevertheless it seems to afford amusement to many people, and amusement, in some form or other, would appear to be almost necessary to our happy existence." "true," replied mrs stoutley, languidly, "but people ought to content themselves with quiet and safe amusements. how ridiculous it is to find pleasure in climbing ice-precipices, and leaping over crevasses, and sitting under shower-baths of boulder-stones. i'm sure that _i_ could not find pleasure in such pranks even if i were to make the effort. how much better to seek and find enjoyment in wandering with a book through shady forests and gathering wild-flowers! don't you agree with me, count?" the count's usually grave and anxious visage relaxed into a smile as he protested that he agreed with her entirely. "at the same time," he added, "there does appear to be some sort of aspiring tendency in the young and strong, to attempt the repression of which would seem to be useless, even if desirable. do you know, madame, while on a voyage some years ago i saw a boy who used to dive off the fore-yard-arm into the sea, and who went regularly every morning before breakfast to the main-mast-head and sat on that button-like piece of wood called the truck?" "how very reckless," said mrs stoutley, "and how shamefully regardless of the feelings of his mother, for of course if he had a mother, and if she were a woman of right feeling, she must have been horrified!" "i am afraid, madame, that you would have esteemed her a lady of wrong feeling, for she applauded her boy, and used to say that if he only took care to acquire as much moral as he had physical courage, so as to become as brave and bold a soldier of the cross as he was sure to be of the crown, he would resemble his own father, who was the best and bravest man that ever lived." "how strange!" murmured mrs stoutley, "such inconsistencies! but there does seem to be a considerable number of masculine women in the world, who encourage what we call muscular christianity." "yes, there are indeed strange inconsistencies around us," returned the count. "you have, however, mistaken the character of this particular mother, for she was the reverse of masculine, being delicate, and tender-hearted, and refined, and ladylike, while her boy was bold as a lion--yet obedient and gentle to her as a lamb. he afterwards became a soldier, and on the occasion of a wild storm on the east coast of england he swam off to a wreck with a rope, when no man in the place could be got to do it for love or money, and was the means of rescuing four women and six men, in accomplishing which, however, he lost his life." "oh, how shocking! how _very_ sad!" said mrs stoutley, startled into animation by the suddenness of the revelation, "and how different it might have been if the youth had been trained to gentler amusements. he might have been alive now." "yes," returned the count, "and the four women and six men might have been dead! but here come two friends who are better able to give an opinion on the point than i am." "what may the pint be?" asked captain wopper, with a genial smile, as if he were ready to tackle anything from a pint of beer to a "pint" of the compass. "only state your case, mrs stoutley, an' the professor here, he'll act the judge, an' i'll be the jury." "the jury is too small," said lewis, coming up at that moment. "small, young man!" repeated the captain, with feigned surprise, as he drew himself up to his full height and squared his broad shoulders. "not physically, but numerically," retorted lewis, with a laugh--"ho! emma, miss horetzki, lawrence, slingsby," he called to the quartette, who sat chatting in a bay window, "you are hereby summoned to act on a jury. come along and have yourselves impaled--i mean to say impannelled. a most important case, just going on for trial." "what is the nature of the case?" asked lawrence, as they all came forward and sat down in a semicircle before mrs stoutley. "it han't got no natur--it's unnateral altogether," said the captain, who had just heard it briefly stated by the count. "hallo! are you appointed public prosecutor?" demanded lewis. "yes, i am," retorted the captain, "i've appinted myself public persecuter, lord advocate, lord high commissioner to the woolsack, an' any other legal an' illegal character ye choose to name. so you clap a stopper on yer muzzle, youngster, while i state the case. here is mrs stoutley, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, who says that climbin', an' gaugin', and glaciers is foolish and useless. that's two counts which the count here (nothin' personal meant) says the prisoner was guilty of. we'll go in an' win on the last count, for if these things ain't useless, d'ee see, they can't be foolish. well, the question is, `guilty or not guilty?'" "guilty!" replied mrs stoutley, with an amused smile. "hear! hear!" from slingsby. "silence in the court!" from lewis. "i'm afraid," said the professor, "that our forms of legal procedure are somewhat irregular." "never mind that, professor," said the captain, "you go ahead an' prove the prisoner wrong. take the wind out of her sails if 'ee can." the professor smiled blandly, and began in jest; but his enthusiastic spirit and love of abstract truth soon made him argue in earnest. "oh, that's all very well," said mrs stoutley, interrupting him, "but what possible use can there be in knowing the rate of speed at which a glacier flows? what does it matter whether it flows six, or sixty, or six hundred feet in a day?" "matter!" cried lewis, before the professor could reply, "why, it matters very much indeed. i can prove it. our excellent guide antoine told me of a man who fell into a crevasse high up on the glacier des bossons, and was of course lost; but about forty years afterwards the part of the glacier into which he fell had descended into the valley, and the body of the man was found--at least portions of it were found here and there. this, as you are all aware, is a well-known fact. bear in mind, in connection with this, that all glaciers do not travel at the same rate, nor all parts of a glacier at an equal rate. now, suppose that you were to lose a gold watch or a diamond ring in a crevasse, the value of which might be incalculable in consequence of being a gift from some beloved one, would it not be a matter of the last importance to know exactly the rate at which the said crevasse travelled, so that you or your grandchildren might return at the precise time and claim the property?" "don't talk nonsense, lewie," said his mother. "no doubt," said the professor, laughing, "my young friend's illustration is to the point, and i fear that i cannot give you anything more definite to prove the value of glacial measurements and observations. i must rest my proof on the abstract truth that _all_ knowledge is desirable, and ought to be sought after for its own sake, as being the means whereby we shall come better to know the good and wise creator, `whom to know,' as his own word says, `is life eternal' but i can give you distinct proof, in a somewhat analogous case, of good resulting from knowledge which was eagerly pursued and acquired without the searcher having the slightest idea as to the use to which his knowledge would be ultimately put. you have doubtless heard of captain maury, of the united states navy?" "oh yes," replied mrs stoutley, "he who writes that charming book, the physical geography of the sea, or some such title. my son is a great admirer of that work. i tried to read it to please him, but i must confess that i could not go far into it. it seemed to me an endless and useless search after currents of wind and water." "i see you must have missed the very illustrations which i am about to cite, for they are given in his book--one of the most interesting i ever read, and not the less interesting that its author distinguishes a connection between the creator's word and his works. you know that captain maury's investigations of currents of wind and water were conducted wisely, and on a vast scale. nautical men of many nations sent in their `logs' to him, and he patiently collected and collated all the facts observed in all parts of the ocean." "yes, and quite useless knowledge, it appears to me," said mrs stoutley. "well, we shall see," returned the professor. "there was once a terrible storm on the atlantic, and a vessel with troops on board was so disabled as to be left at last a helpless log upon the sea. she was passed by other vessels, but these could render no assistance, owing to the raging storm. they, however, took note of the latitude and longitude of the wreck, and reported her on arriving at new york. a rescue-ship was at once ordered to search for her, but, before sailing, captain maury was applied to for instructions how they should proceed. the man of science was seated in his study, had probably scarce observed the storm, and knew nothing about the wreck save her position, as observed at a certain date. why, therefore, we might ask; apply to him? just because he sat at the fountain-head of such knowledge as was needed. he had long studied, and well knew, the currents of the ocean, their direction and their rate of progress at specified times and particular places. he prepared a chart and marked a spot at, or near which, the wreck, he said, would probably be found. the wreck _was_ found--not indeed by the rescue-ship, but by another vessel, _at the very spot indicated_--and the surviving crew and troops were saved. so, in like manner, the study of truth regarding currents of air has led us to knowledge which enables mariners to escape the atlantic sargasso-sea--" "ha! the doldrums," growled captain wopper, as if he had a special and bitter hatred of that sea. "yes, the doldrums, or sargasso-sea, where ships used to be detained by long, vexatious calms, and islands of floating sea-weed, but which now we escape, because studious men have pointed out, that by sailing to one side of that sea you can get into favourable breezes, avoid the calm regions, and thus save much time." "now, madame," said captain wopper, "are you convinced?" "not quite," replied mrs stoutley, with a baffled look; "but, i suppose, on the strength of this, and similar reasons, you intend to ascend mont blanc to-morrow?" "we do," said the professor. "i intend to go for the purpose of attempting to fix a thermometer on the summit, in order to ascertain, if possible, the winter temperature." "and pray, for what purpose?" said mrs stoutley with a touch of sarcasm, "does dr lawrence intend to go?" "for the purpose of seeing the magnificent view, and of testing the lungs and muscles, which are now, i think, sufficiently trained to enable me to make the ascent with ease," replied the doctor, promptly. "_i_ go to assist the professor," said captain wopper. "and i," said lewis, "intend to go for fun; so you see, mother, as our reasons are all good, you had better go to bed, for it's getting late." mrs stoutley accepted the suggestion, delivered a yawn into her pocket-handkerchief, and retired, as she remarked, to ascend mont blanc in dreams, and thus have all the pleasure without the bodily fatigue. we are on the sides of the mountain monarch now, slowly wending our way through the sable fringe of pines that ornaments the skirt of his white mantle. we tramp along very slowly, for antoine grennon is in front and won't allow us to go faster. to the impatient and youthful spirits of lawrence and lewis, the pace appears ridiculously slow, and the latter does not hesitate to make audible reference in his best french to the progress of snails, but antoine is deaf to such references. one might fancy that he did not understand bad french, but for the momentary twinkle in his earnest eyes. but nothing will induce him to mend his pace, for well does he know that the ascent of mont blanc is no trifle; that even trained lungs and muscles are pretty severely taxed before the fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty feet of perpendicular height above the sea-level is placed below the soles of the feet. he knows, also, from long experience, that he who would climb a mountain well, and use his strength to advantage, must begin with a slow, leisurely pace, as if he were merely out for a saunter, yet must progress with steady, persevering regularity. he knows, too, that young blood is prone to breast a mountain with head erect and spanking action, and to descend with woeful countenance and limp limbs. it must be restrained, and antoine does his duty. the ascent of mont blanc cannot be accomplished in one day. it is therefore necessary to sleep at a place named the grands mulets, from which a fresh start is made for the summit at the earliest hours of morning on the second day. towards this resting-place our travellers now directed their steps. the party consisted of the professor, captain wopper, lewis, lawrence, and slingsby, headed by their trusty guide, besides three porters with knapsacks containing food, wine, etcetera. one of these latter was the chamois-hunter, baptist le croix. he brought up the rear of the party, and all proceeded in single file, each, like the north american indian, treading in his predecessor's footsteps. passing from the dark fringe of pines they emerged upon a more open country where the royal robe was wrought with larch and hazel, bilberry, and varied underwood, and speckled with rhododendrons and other flowers on a ground of rich brown, green, and grey. steadily upwards, over the glacier des bossons, they went, with airy cloudlets floating around them, with the summit at which they aimed, the dome du gouter, and the aiguille du gouter in front, luring them on, and other giant aiguilles around watching them. several hours of steady climbing brought them to the pierre l'echelle, where they were furnished with woollen leggings to protect their legs from the snow. here also they procured a ladder and began the tedious work of traversing the glaciers. hitherto their route had lain chiefly on solid ground--over grassy slopes and along rocky paths. it was now to be confined almost entirely to the ice, which they found to be cut up in all directions with fissures, so that great caution was needed in crossing crevasses and creeping round slippery ridges, and progress was for some time very slow. coming to one of the crevasses which was too wide to leap, the ladder was put in requisition. the iron spikes with which one end of it was shod were driven firmly into the ice at one side of the chasm and the other end rested on the opposite side. antoine crossed first and then held out his hand to the professor, who followed, but the man of science was an expert ice-man, and in another moment stood at the guide's side without having required assistance. not so captain wopper. "i'm not exactly a feather," he said, looking with a doubtful expression at the frail bridge. "it bore me well enough, captain," said the professor with a smile. "that's just what it didn't," replied the captain, "it seemed to me to bend too much under you; besides, although i'm bound to admit that you're a good lump of a man, professor, i suspect there's a couple of stones more on me than on you. if it was only a rope, now, such as i've bin used to, i'd go at it at once, but--" "it is quite strong enough," said the guide confidently. "well, here goes," returned the mariner, "but if it gives way, antoine, i'll have you hanged for murder." uttering this threat he crossed in safety, the others followed, and the party advanced over a part of the glacier which was rugged with mounds, towers, obelisks, and pyramids of ice. for some time nothing serious interrupted their progress until they came to another wide crevasse, when it was found, to the guide's indignation, that the ladder had been purposely left behind by the porter to whom it had been intrusted, he being under the impression that it would not be further required. "blockhead!" cried the professor, whose enthusiastic spirit was easily roused to indignation, "it was your duty to carry it till ordered to lay it down. you were hired to act, sir, not to think. obedience is the highest virtue of a servant! shall we send him back for it?" he said, turning to antoine with a flushed countenance. "not now, monsieur," answered the guide, "it would create needless delay. we shall try to work round the crevasse." this they did by following its edge until they found a part where crossing was possible, though attended with considerable danger in consequence of the wedge-like and crumbling nature of the ice. hoping that such a difficulty would not occur again they pushed on, but had not gone far when another, and still more impassable, fissure presented itself. "how provoking, couldn't we jump it?" said lewis, looking inquiringly into the dark-blue depths. "pr'aps _you_ might, youngster, with your half fledged spider-legs," said the captain, "but you'll not catch fourteen-stun-six goin' over _that_ with its own free will. what's to be done now, antoine?" the guide, after looking at the crevasse for a few minutes, said that the next thing to be done was to look for a snow-bridge, which he had no doubt would be found somewhere. in search of this he scattered the whole party, and in a few minutes a loud shout from the chamois-hunter told that he had been successful. the members of the party at once converged towards him, but found that the success was only partial. he had indeed found a part of the crevasse, which, during some of the wild storms so frequent on the mountain, had been bridged over by a snow-wreath, but the central part of the bridge had given way, and it was thus divided by a gap of about a foot wide. this would have been but a small and insignificant step to take had the substance been solid, but although the ice on one side was strong the opposite edge was comparatively soft snow, and not much more than a foot thick. the chamois-hunter, being the lightest of the party, was called to the front and ordered to test the strength of the frail bridge, if bridge it could be called. "why, he might as well try to step on a bit of sea-foam," said the captain in surprise. lawrence, lewis, and slingsby, having as yet had no experience of such places, expressed, or held a similar opinion, but the professor bade them wait and see. baptist, throwing off his pack, and fastening a rope round his waist, which his comrades held, advanced to the extreme edge of the ice, and with his long-handled axe, gently patted the snow on the opposite side. the surface yielded, and it seemed as if even that small weight would break the lump _off_, but the operation consolidated the mass in a few minutes, by reason of what the professor termed "regelation." he then stepped tenderly on it, crossed over, and drew the rope after him. antoine followed next, and in a few minutes the whole party was safe on the other side. "dr lawrence," said slingsby, in a low grave tone, as they walked along after this, "if we ever see chamouni again i shall be surprised." "indeed?" returned lawrence, with a short laugh, "i don't take quite so gloomy a view of our case. don't you think that the free and easy, quiet look of our guide and porters indicates that such work looks more dangerous than it really is?" "i don't know that," said the artist, shaking his head, "when men get thoroughly accustomed to danger they become foolhardy, and don't realise it. i think it sheer madness to cross such places." lewis, who overheard the conversation, could scarce refrain from a burst of laughter. "upon my word, slingsby," said he, "such observations come strangely from the lips of a man, who only a day or two ago was caught sketching on a snow-wreath over the edge of a crevasse." "ah, but i didn't know it," retorted the other, "and even if i _had_ known it, the ledge of snow was immensely stronger than that on which we have just stood." at this point the conversation was interrupted by the guide stopping and saying that it was now necessary to tie the party together. they had reached those higher parts of the glacier where snow frequently falls and covers, to some extent the narrower crevasses, thus, by concealing them, rendering them extremely dangerous traps. it therefore became necessary to attach the various members of the party together by means of a rope, which, passing round their waists, with a few feet between each, enabled them to rescue any one who should chance to break through. thus, in a string, they advanced, and had scarcely proceeded a hundred yards when a surprised "hallo!" from captain wopper arrested them. he had sunk up to the knees in snow. a "hallo!" of alarm instantly succeeded. he was waist deep. a stentorian yell followed: "ho! hallo! hi!--avast! hold on there abaft! my legs are waublin' in nothin'!" his great weight had indeed nearly plunged him into a hidden crevasse, over which those who preceded him had passed in safety. if the captain had stood alone that crevasse would certainly have been his grave, but his friends held him tight, and in a few seconds he was dragged out of danger. "well, well," he said, wiping some large drops of perspiration from his brow, as he stood on the other side of the chasm, "land-lubbers talk about seafarin' men havin' nothin' but a plank between them an' death, but to my thinkin' the rottenest plank that ever was launched is absolute safety compared to `a snow-wreath.'" "ah! captain," said the professor, laughing, "you think so just now because you're not used to it. in a few weeks you'll hold a different opinion." "may be so," replied the captain quietly, "but it don't feel so--heave ahead, my hearties!" thus encouraged the party proceeded with caution, the guide sounding the snow at each step with his long axe-handle as he moved in advance. slowly they mounted higher and higher, occasionally meeting with, but always overcoming, difficulties, until towards evening they reached the little log cabin on the grands mulets, not sorry to find in it a sufficient though humble resting-place for the night. here they proceeded to make themselves comfortable. some firewood had been carried up by the porters, with which a fire was kindled, wet garments were hung up to dry, and hot coffee was prepared, while the sun sank in a gorgeous world of amber and crimson fire. one by one the stars came out and gradually twinkled into brilliancy, until at last the glorious host of heaven shone in the deepening sky with an intensity of lustre that cannot be described, contrasting strangely with the pallid ghostly aspect of the surrounding snow-fields. these were the only trace of earth that now remained to greet the eyes of our travellers when they looked forth from the door of the little hut. besides being calm and beautiful, the night was intensely cold. there is this peculiarity, on alpine mountain tops, that when the sun's last rays desert them the temperature falls abruptly, there being little or nothing of earth or rock to conserve the heat poured out during the day. the mountaineers, therefore, soon after night closed in, found it necessary to shut the door of their cabin, where they roused up the fire, quaffed their steaming coffee, and smoked their pipes, in joyful anticipation of the coming day. chapter fifteen. the grand ascent continued and completed. need we say that the younger of our adventurers--for such they may truly be styled--felt a tendency to "spin yarns," as captain wopper expressed it, till a late hour that night, as they sat round the fire at the grands mulets? during this enjoyable period, lawrence and lewis made themselves better acquainted with baptist le croix, the chamois-hunter, whose quiet, gentle, and unobtrusive manner was very attractive to them. many an anecdote did he relate of adventures among the alpine peaks and passes while pursuing the chamois, or guiding travellers on their way, and it is probable that he might have roamed in spirit among his beloved haunts--eagerly followed in spirit by the young men--if he had not been called to order by the guide, who, remembering the hard work that lay before them on the morrow, suggested repose. the profound silence that soon reigned in the hut was broken only by an occasional long-drawn sigh. even captain wopper was quiet, having been so powerfully influenced by fresh mountain air and exercise as to have forgotten or foregone his ordinary and inveterate snore. there is something peculiarly disagreeable in being awakened, when one is very tired and sleepy, about two minutes after one has dropped into a profound refreshing slumber; and the annoyance is severely aggravated when it is caused by the wanton act of one of whom we had expected better things. so, in a hazy way, thought lewis stoutley when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and heard the voice of antoine grennon. "monsieur! monsieur!" said the guide. "g-t--long. d-n borer me," murmured lewis, in tones so sleepy that the dash of crossness was barely perceptible. "it is time to rise, sir," persisted antoine. "'mposs'ble--'v jus' b'n two min'ts sl-e--" a profound sigh formed an eloquent peroration to the sentence. a loud laugh from his companions, who were already up and getting ready, did more than the guide's powers of suasion to arouse the heavy sleeper. he started to a sitting posture, stared with imbecile surprise at the candle which dimly lighted the cabin, and yawned vociferously. "what a sleeper you are, lewie!" said lawrence, with a laugh, as, on his knees before the fire, he busied himself in preparing coffee for the party. "and such a growler, too, when any one touches you," observed slingsby, buttoning on his leggings. "sleeper! growler!" groaned lewis, "you've only given me five minutes in which to sleep or growl." "ah, the happy obliviousness of youth!" said the professor, assisting one of the porters to strap up the scientific instruments, "you have been asleep four hours at least. it is now past one. we must start in less than an hour, so bestir yourself--and pray, dr lawrence, make haste with that coffee." the doctor was by no means slow in his operations, but the difficulties in his way delayed him. at such a height, and in such a frozen region, the only mode of procuring water was to place a panful of snow on the fire; and, no matter how full the pan might be stuffed with it, this snow, when melted, was reduced to only a very small quantity of water; more snow had, therefore, to be added and melted, so that much time was spent before the boiling point was reached. patience, however, was at last rewarded with a steaming draught, which, with bread and ham, did more than fire towards warming their chill bodies. outside, the scene was still exquisitely calm and beautiful. the stars appeared to have gathered fresh brilliancy and to have increased in number during the night. those of them near the horizon, as the professor pointed out, twinkled energetically, as if they had just risen, and, like lewis, were sleepy, while those in the zenith shone with steady lustre, as if particularly wide awake to the doings of the presumptuous men who were climbing so much nearer than usual to their habitation in the sky. one star in particular gleamed with a sheen that was pre-eminently glorious--now it was ruby red, now metallic blue, anon emerald green. of course, no sunlight would tinge the horizon for several hours, but the bright moon, which had just risen, rolled floods of silver over the snowy wastes, rendering unnecessary the lantern which had been provided to illumine their upward path. the party, having been tied together with a rope as on the previous day, set forth in line over the snow, each following the other, and soon they were doing battle with the deep crevasses. the nature of the ice varied, of course, with the form of the mountain, sometimes presenting rugged and difficult places, in which, as the captain put it, they got among breakers and had to steer with caution, at other times presenting comparatively level plains of snow over which all was "plain sailing," but the movement was upwards--ever upwards--and, as the day advanced, felt so prolonged that, at last, as slingsby said, the climbing motion grew into a confirmed habit. meanwhile the old world sank steadily below them, and, seen from such an elevation in the pale moonlight, lost much of its familiar look. even sounds appeared gradually to die out of that mysterious region, for when they chanced to pause for a moment to recover breath, or to gaze downward, each appeared unwilling to break the excessive stillness, and all seemed to listen intently, as it were, to the soundlessness around-- hearing nought, however, save the beating of their own pulsations. in such a spot, if unaccompanied by guide or friend, one might perhaps realise, more than in other parts of earth, the significance of the phrase, "alone with god." as dawn approached, lewis, who had taken care to have himself placed next to baptist le croix, renewed his converse in reference to chamois-hunting, and made arrangements to accompany the hunter on one of his expeditions. "is that your sole occupation?" he asked, as the party entered upon a somewhat level snow-field. "that and assisting travellers," answered baptist. "by the way," said lewis, in a careless tone, "they tell me that gold is to be found in some parts of these mountains. is that true?" if the youth's back had not been towards the hunter, who walked behind him, he might have seen that this question was received with a startled look, and that a strange gleam shot from the man's eyes. the question was repeated before he answered it. "yes," said he, in a low voice, "they say it is to be found--but i have never found it." "have you sought much for it?" "i have sought for it." the answer was not given promptly, and lewis found, with some surprise, that the subject appeared to be distasteful to the hunter. he therefore dropped it and walked on in silence. walking at the time was comparatively easy, for a sharp frost had hardened the surface of the snow, and the gem-like lights of heaven enabled them to traverse valleys of ice, clamber up snow-slopes and cross crevasses without danger, except in one or two places, where the natural snow-bridges were frail and the chasms unusually wide. at one of these crevasses they were brought to a complete standstill. it was too wide to be leaped, and no bridge was to be found. the movements of a glacier cause the continual shifting of its parts, so that, although rugged or smooth spots are always sure to be found at the same parts of the glacier each year, there is, nevertheless, annual variety in minute detail. hence the most expert guides are sometimes puzzled as to routes. the crevasse in question was a new one, and it was antoine's first ascent of mont blanc for that year, so that he had to explore for a passage just as if he had never been there before. the party turned to the left and marched along the edge of the chasm some distance, but no bridge could be found. the ice became more broken up, smaller crevasses intersected the large one, and at last a place was reached where the chaos of dislocation rendered further advance impossible. "lost your bearin's, antoine?" asked captain wopper. "no; i have only got into difficulties," replied the guide, with a quiet smile. "just so--breakers ahead. well, i suppose you'll 'bout ship an' run along the coast till we find a channel." this was precisely what antoine meant to do, and did, but it was not until more than an hour had been lost that a safe bridge was found. when they had crossed, the configuration of the ice forced them to adopt a route which they would willingly have avoided. a steep incline of snow rose on their right, on the heights above which loose ice-grags were poised as if on the point of falling. indeed, two or three tracks were passed, down which, probably at no distant period, some of these avalanches had shot. it was nervous work passing under them. even antoine looked up at them with a grave, inquiring glance, and hastened his pace as much as was consistent with comfort and dignity. soon after this the sun began to rise, and the upper portions of the snow were irradiated with pink splendour, but to our travellers he had not yet risen, owing to the intervening peaks of the aiguille du midi. in the brightening light they emerged upon a plain named the petit plateau, which forms a reservoir for the avalanches of the dome du goute. above them rose the mountain-crest in three grand masses, divided from each other by rents, which exposed that peculiar stratified form of the glacier caused by the annual bedding of the snow. from the heights, innumerable avalanches had descended, strewing the spot where they stood with huge blocks of ice and masses of rock. threading their way through these impediments was a matter not only of time, but of difficulty, for in some parts the spaces between the boulders and blocks were hollow, and covered with thin crusts of snow, which gave way the instant a foot was set on them, plunging up to their waists the unfortunates who trod there, with a shock which usually called forth shouts of astonishment not unmingled with consternation. "here, then, we draw near to the grand summit," said the professor, pointing to the snow-cliffs on the right, "whence originates the ice-fountain that supplies such mighty ice-rivers as the glacier des bossons and the mer de glace." "oui, monsieur," replied antoine, smiling, "we _draw_ near, but we are not yet near." "we are nearer to the summit however, than we are to the plain," retorted the professor. "truly, yes," assented the guide. "i should think no one could doubt that," observed slingsby, looking upwards. "it looks quite near now," said lewis. "not so near, however, as you think, and as you shall find," rejoined the guide, as they resumed their upward march. this was indeed true. nothing is more deceptive to an inexperienced eye than the apparent distance of a high mountain-top. when you imagine that the plain below is miles and miles away, and the peak above close at hand, you find, perhaps, on consulting your watch, that the plain cannot be very far distant, and that the greater part of your work still lies before you. it requires no small amount of resolution to bear up against the depression of spirit caused by frequent mistakes in this matter. owing to the increasing height and power of the sun, the snow beyond the petit plateau soon became soft, and the steepness of the ascent increasing, their advance became slower, and their work much more laborious. a pleasant break was, however, at hand, for, on reaching the grand plateau, they were cheered by the sun's rays beaming directly on them, and by the information that they had at length reached their breakfast-point. it may not be a very romantic, but it is an interesting fact, that the joys connected with intellectual and material food are intimately blended. man, without intellectual food, becomes a "lower animal." what intellectual man is without material food, even for part of a day, let those testify who have had the misfortune to go on a pic-nic, and discover that an essential element of diet had been forgotten. it is not merely that food is necessary to maintain our strength; were that so, a five minutes' pause, or ten at the outside, would suffice, in captain wopper's phraseology, to take in cargo, or coal the human engine; but we "_rejoice_ in food," and we believe that none enjoy it so much as those whose intellectual appetite is strong. if any doubters of these truths had witnessed the professor and his friends at breakfast that morning on the grand plateau, they must have infallibly been convinced. "what a gourmand he is!" whispered lewis to the captain, in reference to the man of science, "and such a genial outflow of wit to correspond with his amazing indraught of wittles." the captain's teeth were at the moment fixed with almost tigerish ferocity in a chicken drumstick, but the humour and the amazing novelty--to say nothing of the truth--of lewis's remark made him remove the drumstick, and give vent to a roar of laughter that shook the very summit of mont blanc--at all events the professor said it did, and he was a man who weighed his words and considered well his sentiments. "do not imagine that i exaggerate," he said, as distinctly as was compatible with a very large mouthful of ham and bread, "sound is a motion of vibration, not of translation. that delightfully sonorous laugh emitted by captain wopper (pass the wine, slingsby--thanks) was an impulse or push delivered by his organs of respiration to the particles of air in immediate contact with his magnificent beard. the impulse thus given to the air was re-delivered or passed on, not as i pass the mutton to dr lawrence (whose plate is almost empty), but by each particle of air passing the impulse to its neighbour; thus creating an aerial wave, or multitude of waves, which rolled away into space. those of the waves which rolled in the direction of mont blanc communicated their vibrations to the more solid atoms of the mountain, these passed the motion on to each other, of course with slight--inconceivably slight--but actual force, and thus the tremor passed entirely through the mountain, out on the other side, greatly diminished in power no doubt, and right on throughout space.--hand me the bread, lewis, and don't sit grinning there like a cheshire cat with tic-douloureux in its tail." at this slingsby laughed and shook the mountain again, besides overturning a bottle of water, and upsetting the gravity of antoine grennon, who chanced to be looking at him; for the artist's mouth, being large, and also queerly shaped, appeared to the guide somewhat ludicrous. sympathy, like waves of sound, is easily transmitted. thus, on the captain making to antoine the very simple remark that the "mootong was mannyfeek," there was a general roar that ought to have brought mont blanc down about their ears. but it didn't--it only shook him. laughter and sympathy combined improve digestion and strengthen appetite. thus the professor's brilliant coruscations, and the appreciative condition of his audience, created an enjoyment of that morning's meal which was remembered with pleasure long after the event, and induced an excessive consumption of food, which called forth the remonstrances of the guide, who had to remind his uproarious flock that a portion must be reserved for the descent. to the propriety of this lewis not only assented, but said that he meant to continue the ascent, and rose for that purpose, whereupon the doctor said that he dissented entirely from the notion that bad puns increased the hilarity of a party, and the captain, giving an impulse to the atmosphere with his respiratory organs, produced the sound "avast!" and advised them to clap a stopper in their potato-traps. even at these sallies they all laughed--proving, among other things, that mountain air and exercise, combined with intellectual and physical food, are conducive to easy-going good humour. it is not impossible that the tremors to which mont blanc had been subjected that morning had put him a little out of humour, for our mountaineers had scarcely recommenced their upward toil when he shrouded his summit in a few fleecy clouds. the guide shook his head at this. "i fear the weather won't hold," he said. "won't hold!" exclaimed the captain, "why, it's holdin' now as hard as it can grip." "true," observed the professor; "but weather in these regions is apt to change its mood rather suddenly." "yet there seems to me no sign of an unfavourable change," said lawrence, looking up at the blue and almost cloudless sky. "fleecy clouds are fleeting at times," returned the professor, pointing to the summit which again showed its cap of clear dazzling white, "but at other times they are indicative of conditions that tend to storm. however, we must push on and hope for the best." they did push on accordingly, and all, except the guide, had no difficulty in "hoping." as they passed over the plateau the sun poured floods of light on the snow, from the little crystals of which it shone with prismatic colours, as though the place had been strewn with diamonds. the spirit of levity was put to flight by this splendid spectacle, and the feelings of the travellers were deepened to solemnity when the guide pointed to a yawning crevasse into which, he said, three guides were hurled by an avalanche in the year . he also related how, on one occasion, a party of eleven tourists perished, not far from where they then stood, during a terrible storm, and how an english lady and her guide were, at another time, lost in a neighbouring crevasse. by this time all except the chief among the surrounding heights were beginning to look insignificant by comparison, and the country assumed a sort of rugged flatness in consequence of being looked down upon from such an elevation. passing the grand plateau they reached a steep incline, which rose towards a tremendous ice-precipice. from the upper edge of this there hung gigantic icicles. up the incline they went slowly, for the crust of the snow broke down at every step, and the captain, being heavy, began to show symptoms of excessive heat and labouring breath, but he grew comparatively cool on coming to a snow-bridge which had to be passed in order to get over a crevasse. "it'll never bear my weight," he said, looking doubtfully at the frail bridge, and at the blue gulf, which appeared to be a bottomless pit. antoine, however, thought it might prove strong enough. he patted the snow gently, as on previous occasions of a similar kind, and advanced with caution, while his followers fixed their heels in the snow, and held tight to the rope to save him if he should break through. he passed in safety, and the others followed, but new difficulties awaited them on the other side. just beyond this bridge they came to a slope from which the snow had been completely swept, leaving the surface of hard ice exposed. it was so steep that walking on it was impossible. antoine, therefore, proceeded to cut steps along its face. two swings of his ponderous mountain-axe were sufficient to cut each step in the brittle ice, and in a few minutes the whole party were on the slope, every man having a coil of the rope round his waist, while, with the spike of his alpenstock driven firmly into the ice, he steadied himself before taking each successive step. there would have been no difficulty in crossing such a slope if its base had terminated in snow, but as it went straight down to the brow of an ice-precipice, and then abruptly terminated in a cornice, from which the giant icicles, before mentioned, hung down into an unfathomable abyss, each man knew that a false step, a slip, or the loss of balance, might result in the instant destruction of the whole party. they moved therefore very slowly, keeping their eyes steadily fixed on their feet. the mercurial temperament of mr slingsby was severely tried at this point. his desire to look up and revel in the beauties of nature around him proved too strong a temptation. while gazing with feelings of awe at the terrible edge or cornice below he became, for the first time, fully alive to his situation,--the smallness of the step of ice on which he stood, the exceeding steepness of the glassy slope below, the dread abyss beyond! he shut his eyes; a giddy feeling came over him--a rush of horror. "take care, monsieur!" was uttered in a quick, deep tone, behind him. it was the warning voice of le croix, who observed his condition. the warning came too late. slingsby wavered, threw up his arms, slipped, and fell with an appalling shriek. le croix, however, was prepared. in an instant he had fixed his staff and heels firmly, and had leaned well back to resist the pull. the porter in front was not less prompt; the stout rope stood the strain; and in another moment the artist was restored to his position, panting, pale, and humbled. a few minutes sufficed to restore his confidence sufficiently to admit of his proceeding, and, with many warnings to be more cautious, the advance was continued. up to this point the weather had favoured them, but now mont blanc seemed as if inclined to resent the free and easy way in which these men of mingled muscle and science had attacked his crown. he drew several ominous clouds around him, and shook out a flood of hoary locks from his white head, which, caught up by a blast, created apparently for the purpose, were whirled aloft in wild confusion, and swooped down upon the mountaineers with bitter emphasis, in the form of snow-drift, as if they had come direct from captain wopper's favourite place of reference,-- nova zembla. coats, which had hitherto been carried on the arm or thrown open, were put on and buttoned, and heads were bent to meet the blast and repel the snow-drift. little was said, save a murmured doubt by antoine as to the possibility of gaining the summit, even although they were now so near it, for the day was far spent by that time, and the rugged nature of the route over they had passed, precluded the possibility of a rapid return to the hut at the grands mulets. they pushed steadily on, however, for the professor was anxious to bury his thermometer in the snow at the top; the guide was anxious to maintain his credit for perseverance; and the others were anxious to be able to say they had reached the highest height in europe. in any weather the ascent of mont blanc requires somewhat more than the average share of physical vigour and perseverance; in bad weather it demands unusual strength and resolution. when, therefore, a severe storm of wind arose, most of the party began to show symptoms of distress. the labour of ascending, being coupled with that of forcing way against the blast, was very exhausting to the muscles, while the extreme cold reduced the physical energy and cooled the most sanguine spirit. antoine alone seemed to be proof against all influences, but the responsibility lying on him clouded his usually open countenance with a careworn expression. prudence counselled immediate return. ambition, as they were now so near the top, urged prolonged effort. the guide expressed his anxieties, but meeting with no response, followed the dictates of his feelings, and pushed on. like pillars of living snow they toiled patiently upwards. breath became too precious to waste in words. they advanced in silence. the wind howled around them, and the snow circled in mad evolutions, as if the demon of wintry storms dwelt there, and meant to defend his citadel to the "bitter end." there are two rocks near the summit, which crop through the ice like rugged jewels in the monarch's diadem. the lower is named the petits mulets, the upper the derniers roches. on reaching the latter of these they paused a few moments to rest. a feeling of certainty that the end would be gained now began to prevail, but the guide was a little alarmed, and the professor horrified, on looking at their companions' faces, to observe that they were pinched, haggard, and old-looking, as if they all had aged somewhat during the last few hours! captain wopper's rubicund visage was pale, and his nose blue; the face of lewis was white all over, and drawn, as if he were suffering pain; dr lawrence's countenance was yellow, and slingsby's was green. the professor himself was as bad as his comrades, and the porters were no better. "we shan't be beaten now," said the man of science, with a ghastly smile. "go 'head! nev'r s'die s'l'ng's th'r's shot 'n th' locker!" replied the captain, in the tone of a man who would rather avoid speaking, if possible. "what a face you've got, stoutley!" said the artist. "you're another!" replied lewis, with a horrible grin. "allons!" exclaimed the guide, bending once more against the storm. once, for a few minutes, the wind ceased and the clouds lifted. captain wopper uttered a cheer, and rushed forward in advance of the guide, took off his hat and threw it into the air. they had reached the round summit without being aware of it. they stood , feet above the sea-level! no envious peak rose above their heads. the whole world lay below them, bathed, too, in bright sunshine, for the storm, which had so suddenly swooped upon them, was confined, like an elemental body-guard, to the head of the mountain-king. but, clear though it was at the moment, they were too high in the air to see anything quite distinctly, yet this hazy aspect had a charm of its own, for it increased the feeling and idea of vastness in connection with surrounding space. around, and now beneath, stood the mountain nobility of the land, looking, however, somewhat reduced in size and majesty, as seen from the royal presence. scarcely had the mountaineers assembled and glanced at the wondrous panorama, when the envious clouds swooped down again and mingled with the snow-drift which once more rose to meet them. "we must be quick, monsieur," said antoine, taking a shovel from one of the porters, while le croix grasped another. "where shall we dig?" the professor fixed on a spot, and, while the grave of the thermometer was being dug, a plaid was set up on a couple of alpenstocks, in the shelter of which the others consumed the bread and wine that had been saved from breakfast. it did them little good, however; the cold was too intense. the captain's beard was already fringed with icicles, and the whiskers of those who had them were covered with hoar-frost, while the breath issued from their mouths like steam. before the thermometer was buried all had risen, and were endeavouring to recover heat by rubbing their hands, beating their arms across their breasts, and stamping violently. "come," said the professor, quickly, when the work was done, "we must start at once." "oui, monsieur," assented the guide, and, without more words, the whole party began to descend the mountain at a run. there was cause for haste. not only did the storm increase in violence, but evening drew on apace, and all of them were more or less exhausted by prolonged muscular exertion and exposure to severe cold. suddenly, having gone a considerable way down the mountain, they emerged from fog and snow-drift into blazing sunshine! the strife of elements was confined entirely to the summit. the inferior ice-slopes and the valleys far below were bathed in the golden glories of a magnificent sunset and, before they reached the huts at the grands mulets, they had passed from a condition of excessive cold to one of extreme heat, insomuch that the captain and professor were compelled to walk with their coats slung over their shoulders, while perspiration streamed from their bare brows. that night the party slept again at the grands mulets, and next day they reached chamouni, fagged, no doubt, and bearing marks of mountaineering in the shape of sun-burnt cheeks and peeled noses, but hearty, nevertheless, and not a little elated with their success in having scaled the mighty sides and the hoary summit of mont blanc. chapter sixteen. tells how lewis distinguished himself. seated one morning on an easy chair in susan quick's apartment and swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent manner, gillie white announced it as his opinion that mister lewis had gone, or was fast going, mad. "why do you think so?" asked susan, with a smile, looking up for a moment from some portion of lewis's nether integuments, which mont blanc had riven almost to shreds. "w'y do i think so?" repeated gillie; "w'y, cos he's not content with havin' busted his boots an' his clo'se, an' all but busted hisself, in goin' to the top o' mont blang an' monty rosa, an' all the other monty-thingumbobs about but he's agoin' off to day with that queer fish laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds--in among the stars, i fancy--for shamwas." "indeed!" said susan, with a neat little laugh. "yes, indeed. he's mountain-mad--mad as a swiss march hare, if not madder--by the way, susan, wot d'ee think o' the french?" gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher. "d'you mean french people?" "no; i means the french lingo, as my friend cappen wopper calls it." "well, i can't say that i have thought much about it yet. missis keeps me so busy that i haven't time." "ah!" said gillie, "you're wastin' of precious opportoonities, susan. i've bin a-studdyin' of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks--off and on." "indeed!" exclaimed susan, with an amused glance, "and what do _you_ think of it?" "think of it! i think it's the most outrageous stuff as ever was. the man who first inwented it must 'ave 'ad p'ralersis o' the brain, besides a bad cold in 'is 'ead, for most o' the enns an' gees come tumblin' through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let 'em go, lest he shouldn't git hold of 'em again. there's that there mountain, now. they can't call it mont blang, with a good strong out-an'-out bang, like a briton would do, but they catches hold o' the gee when it's got about as far as the bridge o' the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. an' the best joke is, there ain't no gee in the word at all!" "no?" said susan, in surprise. "no," repeated gillie. "i've bin studdyin' the spellin' o' the words in shop-winders an' posters, an', would you b'lieve it, they end the word blang with a _c_." "you don't say so!" "yes i do; an' how d'ee think they spell the name o' that feller laycrwa?" "i'm sure i don't know," answered susan. "they spells it," returned gillie, with a solemn look, "l-e-c-r-o-i-x. now, if _i_ had spelt it that way, i'd have pronounced it laycroiks. wouldn't you?" "well, yes, i think i should," said susan. "it seems to me," continued gillie, "that they goes on the plan of spellin' one way an' purnouncin' another--always takin' care to choose the most difficult way, an' the most unnatt'ral, so that a feller has no chance to come near it except by corkin' up one nostril tight, an' borin' a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. if you was to mix a sneeze with what you said, an' paid little or no attention to the sense, p'raps it would be french--but i ain't sure. i only wish you heard cappen wopper hoistin' french out of hisself as if he was a wessel short-handed, an' every word was a heavy bale. he's werry shy about it, is the cappen, an' wouldn't for the world say a word if he thought any one was near; but when he thinks he's alone with antoine--that's our guide, you know--he sometimes lets fly a broadside o' french that well-nigh takes my breath away." the urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the captain's efforts to master what he styled a furrin' tongue, but susan checked him by saying slily, "how could you know, gillie, if the captain was _alone_ with antoine?" "oh, don't you know," replied gillie, trying to recover his gravity, "the cappen he's wery fond o' me, and i like to gratify his feelin's by keepin' near him. sometimes i keep so near--under the shadow of his huge calf d'ee see--that he don't observe me on lookin' round; an', thinkin' he's all alone, lets fly his french broadsides in a way that a'most sends antoine on his beam-ends. but antoine is tough, he is. he gin'rally says, `i not un'r'stan' english ver' well,' shakes his head an' grins, but the cappen never listens to his answers, bein' too busy loadin' and primin' for another broadside." the man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by shouting down the stair:-- "hallo! gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?" "here they are, cappen, all ready; fit to do dooty as a lookin'-glass to shave yerself," cried the "powder-monkey," leaping up and leaving the room abruptly. gillie's opinion in regard to the madness of lewis was shared by several of his friends above stairs. doctor lawrence, especially, felt much anxiety about him, having overheard one or two conversations held by the guides on the subject of the young englishman's recklessness. "really, lewis," said the doctor, on one occasion, "you _must_ listen to a lecture from me, because you are in a measure under my charge." "i'm all attention, sir," said lewis meekly, as he sat down on the edge of his bed and folded his hands in his lap. "well then, to begin," said the doctor, with a half-serious smile, "i won't trouble you with my own opinion, to which you attach no weight--" "pardon me, lawrence, i attach great weight to it--or, rather, it has so much weight that i can scarcely bear it." "just so, and therefore you shan't have it. but you must admit that the opinion of a good guide is worth something. now, i heard antoine grennon the other day laying down some unquestionable principles to the professor--" "what! lecturing the professor?" interrupted lewis, "how very presumptuous." "he said," continued the doctor, "that the dangers connected with the ascent of these swiss mountains are _real_, and, unless properly provided against, may become terrible, if not fatal. he instanced your own tendency to go roving about among the glaciers _alone_. with a comrade or a guide attached to you by a rope there is no danger worth speaking of, but it must be as clear to you as it is to me that it when out on the mountains alone, you step on a snow-covered crevasse and break through, your instant death is inevitable." "yes, but," objected lewis, with that unwillingness to be convinced which is one of the chief characteristics of youth, "i always walk, when _alone_ on the glaciers, with the utmost caution, sounding the snow in front of me with the long handle of my axe at every step as i go." "if the guides do not find this always a sufficient protection for themselves, by what amazing power of self-sufficiency do you persuade yourself that it is sufficient for _you_?" demanded lawrence. "your question suffices, doctor," said lewis, laughing; "go on with your lecture, i'm all attention and, and humility." "not my lecture," retorted lawrence, "the guide's. he was very strong, i assure you, on the subject of men going on the high glaciers _without a rope_, or, which comes to the same thing, _alone_, and he was not less severe on those who are so foolhardy, or so ignorant, as to cross steep slopes of ice on new-fallen snow. nothing is easier, the new snow affording such good foothold, as you told us the other day when describing your adventures under the cliffs of monte rosa, and yet nothing is more dangerous, says antoine, for if the snow were to slip, as it is very apt to do, you would be smothered in it, or swept into a crevasse by it. lives are lost in the alps _every year_, i am told, owing to indifference to these two points. the guides say--and their opinions are corroborated by men of science and alpine experience--that it is dangerous to meddle with any slope exceeding degrees for several days after a heavy fall, and yet it is certain that slopes exceeding this angle are traversed annually by travellers who are ignorant, or reckless, or both. did you not say that the slope which you crossed the other day was a steeper angle than this, and the snow on it not more than twenty-four hours' old?" "guilty!" exclaimed lewis, with a sigh. "i condemn you, then," said lawrence, with a smile, "to a continuation of this lecture, and, be assured, the punishment is much lighter than you deserve. listen:--there are three unavoidable dangers in alpine climbing--" "please don't be long on each head," pleaded lewis, throwing himself back in his bed, while his friend placed the point of each finger of his right hand on a corresponding point of the left, and crossed his legs. "i won't. i shall be brief--brief as your life is likely to be if you don't attend to me. the three dangers are, as i have said, unavoidable; but two of them may be guarded against; the other cannot. first, there is danger from _falling rocks_. this danger may be styled positive. it hangs over the head like the sword of damocles. there is no avoiding it except by not climbing at all, for boulders and ice-blocks are perched here, and there, and everywhere, and no one can tell the moment when they shall fall. secondly, there is danger from crevasses--the danger of tumbling into one when crossing a bridge of snow, and the danger of breaking through a crust of snow which conceals one. this may be called a negative danger. it is reduced to almost nothing if you are tied to your comrade by a rope, and if the leader sounds with his staff as he walks along; but it changes from a negative to a positive danger to the man who is so mad as to go out _alone_. thirdly, there is danger from new snow on steep slopes, which is positive if you step on it when recently fallen, and when the slope is very steep; but is negative when you allow sufficient time for it to harden. while, however, it is certain that many deaths occur from these three dangers being neglected, it is equally true that the largest number of accidents which occur in the alps arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, from false steps, the result of carelessness or self-confidence, and from men attempting to do what is beyond their powers. men who are too old for such fatigue, and men who, though young, are not sufficiently strong, usually come to grief. i close my lecture with a quotation from the writings of a celebrated mountaineer--`in all cases the man rather than the mountain is at fault.'" "there is truth in what you say," observed lewis, rising, with a yawn. "nay, but," returned his friend, seriously, "your mother, who is made very anxious by your reckless expeditions, begged me to impress these truths on you. will you promise me, like a good fellow, to consider them?" "i promise," said lewis, becoming serious in his turn, and taking his friend's hand; "but you must not expect sudden perfection to be exemplified in me.--come, let's go have a talk with le croix about his projected expedition after the chamois." up in the mountains now,--above some of the clouds undoubtedly, almost 'mong the stars, as gillie put it,--lewis wanders in company with baptist le croix, half-forgetful of his promise to lawrence. below them lies a world of hills and valleys; above towers a fairy-land of ice, cliff, and cloud. no human habitation is near. the only indications of man's existence are so faint, and so far off in the plains below, that houses are barely visible, and villages look like toys. a sea of cloud floats beneath them, and it is only through gaps in this sea that the terrestrial world is seen. piercing through it are the more prominent of the alpine peaks--the dark tremendous obelisk of the matterhorn towering in one direction, the not less tremendous and far grander head of mont blanc looming in another. the sun shines brightly over all, piercing and rendering semi-transparent some of the clouds, gilding the edges and deepening the shadows of others. "do you see anything, le croix?" asked lewis, as he reclined on a narrow ledge of rock recovering breath after a fatiguing climb, while his comrade peered intently through a telescope into the recesses of a dark mountain gorge that lay a little below them. for some moments the hunter made no reply. presently he closed the glass, and, with an air of satisfaction, said, "chamois!" "where?" asked lewis, rising eagerly and taking the glass. le croix carefully pointed out the spot but no effort on the part of the inexperienced youth could bring anything resembling the light and graceful form of a chamois into the field of vision. "never mind, le croix," he said, quickly returning the glass and picking up his rifle; "come along, let's have at them." "softly," returned the hunter; "we must get well to leeward of them before we can venture to approach." "lead where you will; you'll find me a quiet and unquestioning follower." the hunter at once turned, and, descending the mountain by a precipice which was so steep that they had in some places to drop from ledge to ledge, at last gained a position where the light air, that floated but scarce moved the clouds, came direct from the spot where the chamois lay. he then turned and made straight towards them. as they advanced the ground became more rugged and precipitous, so that their progress was unavoidably slow, and rendered more so by the necessity that lay on them of approaching their game without noise. when they had reached a spot where a sheer precipice appeared to render further progress impossible, the hunter stopped and said in a low tone, "look, they are too far off; a bullet could not reach them." lewis craned his neck over the cliff, and saw the chamois grazing quietly on a small patch of green that lay among brown rocks below. "what's to be done?" he asked anxiously. "couldn't we try a long shot?" "useless. your eyes are inexperienced. the distance is greater than you think." "what, then, shall we do?" le croix did not answer. he appeared to be revolving some plan in his mind. turning at last to his companion, he said-- "i counsel that you remain here. it is a place near to which they must pass if driven by some one from below. i will descend." "but how descend?" asked lewis. "i see no path by which even a goat could get down." "leave that to me," replied the hunter. "keep perfectly still till you see them within range. have your rifle ready; do not fire in haste; there will be time for a slow and sure aim. most bad hunters owe their ill-luck to haste." with this advice le croix crept quietly round a projecting rock, and, dropping apparently over the precipice, disappeared. solitude is suggestive. as long as his companion was with him, lewis felt careless and easy in mind, but now that he was left alone in one of the wildest and grandest scenes he had yet beheld, he became solemnised, and could not help feeling, that without his guide he would be very helpless in such a place. being alone in the mountains was not indeed new to him. as we have already said, he had acquired the character of being much too reckless in wandering about by himself; but there was a vast difference between going alone over ground which he had traversed several times with guides in the immediate neighbourhood of chamouni, and being left in a region to which he had been conducted by paths so intricate, tortuous, and difficult, that the mere effort to trace back in memory even the last few miles of the route confused him. there was a mysterious stillness, too, about everything around him; and the fogs, which floated in heavy masses above and below, gave a character of changeful wildness to the scenery. "what a place to get lost in and benighted!" he thought. then his mind, with that curious capacity for sudden flight, which is one of the chief characteristics of thought, leaped down the precipices, up which he had toiled so slowly, sped away over hill and dale, and landed him in chamouni at the feet of nita horetzki. once there, he had no desire to move. he kept looking steadily in her pretty face, speculated as to the nature of the charm that rendered it so sweet, wondered what was the cause of the lines of care that at times rippled her smooth white brow, longed to become the sharer of her grief, and her comforter, and pondered the improbability of his ever being in a position to call her nita--darling nita--sweetest nita--exquisite nita! he was still engaged in creating adjectives at chamouni when he was brought suddenly back to the alpine heights by the sound of a shot. it was repeated in a hundred echoes by the surrounding cliffs, as he seized his rifle and gazed over the precipice. a puff of smoke, hanging like a cloudlet, guided his eyes. not far in front of it he saw the fawn-like form of a chamois stretched in death upon the ground, while two others were seen bounding with amazing precision and elasticity over the rocks towards him. he turned at once to an opening among the rocks at his right, for, even to his unpractised eye, it was obviously impossible that anything without wings could approach him in front or at his left. coolness and promptitude were characteristics of the youth; so that he sat crouching with the rifle, resting in the palm of his left hand, over one knee, as motionless as if he had been chiselled from the rock against which he leaned; but his natural coolness of deportment could not prevent, though it concealed, a throbbing of anxiety lest the game should pass out of reach, or behind rocks, which would prevent his seeing it. for an instant he half-rose, intending to rush to some more commanding elevation, but remembering the parting advice of le croix, he sank down again and remained steady. scarcely had he done so when the clatter of bounding hoofs was heard. he knew well that the open space, across which he now felt sure the chamois must pass, was only broad enough to afford the briefest possible time for an aim. he raised the rifle more than half-way to the shoulder. another instant and a chamois appeared like an arrow shooting athwart the hill-side before him. he fired, and missed! the bullet, however, which had been destined for the heart of the first animal, was caught in the brain of that which followed. it sprang high into the air, and, rolling over several times, lay stretched at full length on the rocks. we need not pause to describe the rejoicing of the young sportsman over his first chamois, or to detail lecroix's complimentary observations thereon. having deposited their game in a place of safety, the hunter suggested that, as there was no chance of their seeing any more in that locality, it would be well to devote the remainder of the day to exploring the higher slopes of a neighbouring glacier, for, familiar as he was with all the grander features of the region, there were some of the minuter details, he said, with which he was unacquainted. lewis was a little surprised at the proposal, but, being quite satisfied with his success, and not unwilling to join in anything that smacked of exploration, he readily assented; and, ere long, the two aspiring spirits were high above the spot where the chamois had fallen, and struggling with the difficulties of couloir and crevasse. before quitting the lower ground, they had deposited their game and rifles in a cave well known to le croix, in which they intended to pass the night, and they now advanced armed only with their long-handled alpine hatchets, without which implements it is impossible to travel over glaciers. being both of them strong in wind and limb, they did not pause often to rest, though lewis occasionally called a momentary halt to enjoy the magnificent prospect. during one of these pauses a dark object was seen moving over the ice far below them. le croix pointed to it, and said that it approached them. "what is it--a crow?" asked lewis. "more like a man; but it is neither," returned the hunter, adjusting his telescope; "yes, it is, as i fancied, a chamois." "then it cannot have seen us," said lewis, "else it would not approach." "nay, it approaches because it has seen us. it mistakes us for relatives. let us sit down to deceive it a little." they crouched beside a piece of ice, and the chamois advanced, until its pretty form became recognisable by the naked eye. its motions, however, were irregular. it was evidently timid. sometimes it came on at full gallop, then paused to look, and uttered a loud piping sound, advancing a few paces with caution, and pausing to gaze again. le croix replied with an imitative whistle to its call. it immediately bounded forward with pleasure, but soon again hesitated, and stopped. at last it seemed to become aware of its mistake, for, turning at a tangent, it scoured away over the ice like wind swooping down from the mountain-summits, bounded over the crevasses like an india-rubber ball, and was quickly out of sight. while gazing with profound interest at this graceful creature, the explorers were not at first aware that a dark mass of inky cloud was rapidly bearing down on them, and that one of those wild storms which sweep frequently over the high alps seemed to be gathering. "we must make haste, if we would gain the shelter of our cave," said le croix, rising. as he spoke, a low rumbling sound was heard behind them. they turned just in time to see a small avalanche of rocks hopping down the cliffs towards them. it was so far off, and looked such an innocent rolling of pebbles, that lewis regarded it as an insignificant phenomenon. his companion formed a better estimate of its character, but being at least five hundred yards to one side of the couloir or snow-slope, down which it rushed, he judged that they were safe. he was mistaken. some of the largest stones flew past quite near them, several striking the glacier as they passed, and sending clouds of ice-dust over them, and one, as large as a hogshead, bounding, with awful force, straight over their heads. they turned instantly to hasten from so dangerous a spot, but were arrested by another and much louder rumbling sound. "quick, fly, monsieur!" exclaimed le croix, setting his young companion the example. truly there was cause for haste. a sub-glacial lake among the heights above had burst its icy barriers, and, down the same couloir from which the smaller avalanche had sprung, a very ocean of boulders, mud, ice, and _debris_ came crashing and roaring with a noise like the loudest thunder, with this difference, that there was no intermission of the roar for full quarter of an hour; only, at frequent intervals, a series of pre-eminent peals were heard, when boulders, from six to ten feet in diameter, met with obstacles, and dashed them aside, or broke themselves into atoms. our hunters fled for their lives, and barely gained the shelter of a giant boulder, when the skirts of the hideous torrent roared past leaped over an ice-cliff, and was swallowed up by the insatiable crevasses of the glacier below. for several minutes after they had reached, and stood panting in, a position of safety, they listened to the thunderous roar of alpine artillery, until it died slowly away--as if unwillingly-- in the light pattering of pebbles. gratitude to the almighty for deliverance from a great danger was the strongest feeling in the heart of the chamois-hunter. profound astonishment and joy at having witnessed such an amazing sight, quickened the pulse of lewis. "that was a narrow escape, le croix?" "it was. i never see such a sight without a shudder, because i lost a brother in such an avalanche. it was on the slopes of the jungfrau. he was literally broken to fragments by it." lewis expressed sympathy, and his feelings were somewhat solemnised by the graphic recital of the details of the sad incident with which the hunter entertained him, as they descended the mountain rapidly. in order to escape an impending storm, which was evidently brewing in the clouds above, lewis suggested that they should diverge from the route by which they had ascended, and attempt a short cut by a steeper part of the mountains. le croix looked round and pondered. "i don't like diverging into unknown parts when in a hurry, and with the day far spent," he said. "one never knows when a sheer precipice will shut up the way in places like this." the youth, however, was confident, and the man of experience was too amiable and yielding. there was also urgent reason for haste. it was therefore decided that the steeper slopes should be attempted. they began with a glissade. a very steep snow-slope happened to be close at hand. it stretched uninterruptedly down several hundred feet to one of the terraces, into which the precipitous mountainside at that place was cut. "will you try?" asked le croix, looking doubtfully at his companion. "of course i will," replied lewis, shortly. "where you choose to go i will follow." "have you ever done such work before?" "yes, often, though never on quite so steep or long a slope." le croix was apparently satisfied. he sat down on the summit of the slope, fixed the spiked end of his axe in the snow, resting heavily on the handle, in order to check his descent, and hitched himself forward. "keep steady and don't roll over," he cried, as he shot away. the snow rose and trailed like a white tail behind him. his speed increased almost to that of an avalanche, and in a few seconds he was at the bottom. lewis seated himself in precisely the same manner, but overbalanced himself when halfway down, swung round, lost self-command, let slip his axe, and finally went head over heels, with legs and arms flying wildly. le croix, half-expecting something of the kind, was prepared. he had re-ascended the slope a short way, and received the human avalanche on his right shoulder, was knocked down violently as a matter of course, and the two went spinning in a heap together to the bottom. "not hurt, i hope?" cried lewis, jumping up and looking at his comrade with some anxiety. "no, monsieur," replied le croix, quietly, as he shook the snow from his garments--"and you?" "oh! i'm all right. that was a splendid beginning. we shall get down to our cave in no time at this rate." the hunter shook his head. "it is not all glissading," he said, as they continued the descent by clambering down the face of a precipice. some thousands of feet below them lay the tortuous surface of a glacier, on which they hoped to be able to walk towards their intended night-bivouac, but the cliffs leading to this grew steeper as they proceeded. some hours' work was before them ere the glacier could be reached, and the day was already drawing towards its close. a feeling of anxiety kept them both silent as they pushed on with the utmost possible speed, save when it was necessary for one to direct the other as to his foothold. on gaining each successive ledge of the terraced hill-side, they walked along it in the hope of reaching better ground, or another snow-slope; but each ledge ended in a precipice, so that there was no resource left but to scramble down to the ledge below to find a similar disappointment. the slopes also increased, rather than decreased, in steepness, yet so gradually, that the mountaineers at last went dropping from point to point down the sheer cliffs without fully realising the danger of their position. at a certain point they came to the head of a slope so steep, that the snow had been unable to lie on it, and it was impossible to glissade on the pure ice. it was quite possible, however, to cut foot-holes down. le croix had with him a stout manilla rope of about three hundred feet in length. with this tied round his waist, and lewis, firmly planted, holding on to it, he commenced the staircase. two blows sufficed for each step, yet two hours were consumed before the work was finished. re-ascending, he tied the rope round lewis, and thus enabled him to descend with a degree of confidence which he could not have felt if unattached. le croix himself descended without this moral support, but, being as sure-footed as a chamois, it mattered little. pretty well exhausted by their exertions, they now found themselves at the summit of a precipice so perpendicular and unbroken, that a single glance sufficed to convince them of the utter impossibility of further descent in that quarter. the ledge on which they stood was not more than three feet broad. below them the glacier appeared in the fading light to be as far off as ever. above, the cliffs frowned like inaccessible battlements. they were indeed like flies clinging to a wall, and, to add to their difficulties, the storm which had threatened now began in earnest. a cloud as black as pitch hung in front of them. suddenly, from its heart, there gushed a blinding flash of lightning, followed, almost without interval, by a crash of thunder. the echoes took up the sounds, hurling them back and forward among the cliffs as if cyclopean mountain spirits were playing tennis with boulders. rain also descended in torrents, and for some time the whole scene became as dark as if overspread with the wing of night. crouching under a slight projection of rock, the explorers remained until the first fury of the squall was over. fortunately, it was as short-lived as violent, but its effects were disagreeable, for cataracts now poured on them as they hurried along the top of the precipice vainly looking for a way of escape. at last, on coming to one of those checks which had so often met them that day, le croix turned and said-- "there is no help for it, monsieur, we must spend the night here." "here!" exclaimed lewis, glancing at the cliffs above and the gulf below. "it is not a pleasant resting-place," replied the hunter, with a sad smile, "but we cannot go on. it will be quite dark in half an hour, when an effort to advance would insure our destruction. the little light that remains must be spent in seeking out a place to lie on." the two men, who were thrown thus together in such perilous circumstances, were possessed of more than average courage, yet it would be false to say that fear found no place in their breasts. on the contrary, each confessed to the other the following day that his heart had sunk within him as he thought of the tremendous cliffs against which they were stuck, with descent and ascent equally impossible, a narrow ledge on the precipice-edge for their bed, and a long, wild night before them. cowardice does not consist in simple fear. it consists in the fear of trifles; in unreasonable fear, and in such fear as incapacitates a man for action. the situation of our explorers was not one of slight danger. they had the best of reason for anxiety, because they knew not whether escape, even in daylight, were possible. as to incapacity for action, the best proof that fear had not brought them to that condition lay in the fact, that they set about preparations for spending the night with a degree of vigour amounting almost to cheerfulness. after the most careful survey, only one spot was found wider than the rest of the ledge, and it was not more than four feet wide, the difference being caused by a slight hollow under the rock, which thus might overhang them--one of them at least--and form a sensation of canopy. at its best, a bed only four feet wide is esteemed narrow enough for one, and quite inadequate for two, but when it is considered that the bed now selected was of hard granite, rather round-backed than flat, with a sheer precipice descending a thousand feet, more or less, on one side of it, and a slope in that direction, there will be no difficulty in conceiving something of the state of mind in which lewis stoutley and baptist le croix lay down to repose till morning in wet garments, with the thermometer somewhere between thirty-two and zero, fahrenheit. to prevent their rolling off the ledge when asleep, they built on the edge of the cliff a wall of the largest loose stones they could find. it was but an imaginary protection at best, for the slightest push sent some of the stones toppling over, and it necessarily curtailed the available space. no provisions, save one small piece of bread, had been brought, as they had intended returning to their cave to feast luxuriously. having eaten the bread, they prepared to lie down. it was agreed that only one at a time should sleep; the other was to remain awake, to prevent the sleeper from inadvertently moving. it was also arranged, that he whose turn it was to sleep should lie on the inner side. but here arose a difference. le croix insisted that lewis should have the first sleep. lewis, on the other hand, declared that he was not sleepy; that the attempt to sleep would only waste the time of both, and that therefore le croix should have the first. the contention was pretty sharp for a time, but the obstinacy of the englishman prevailed. the hunter gave in, and at once lay down straight out with his face to the cliff, and as close to it as he could squeeze. lewis immediately lay down outside of him, and, throwing one arm over his lecroix's broad chest gave him a half-jocular hug that a bear might have enjoyed, and told him to go to sleep. in doing this he dislodged a stone from the outer wall, which went clattering down into the dark gulf. almost immediately the deep, regular breathing of the wearied hunter told that he was already in the land of nod. it was a strange, romantic position; and lewis rejoiced, in the midst of his anxieties, as he lay there wakefully guarding the chamois-hunter while he slept. it appeared to lewis that his companion felt the need of a guardian, for he grasped with both hands the arm which he had thrown round him. how greatly he wished that his friends at chamouni could have even a faint conception of his position that night! what would lawrence have thought of it? and the captain,--how would _he_ have conducted himself in the circumstances? his mother, emma, the count, antoine, gillie, susan--every one had a share in his thoughts, as he lay wakeful and watching on the giddy ledge--and nita, as a great under-current like the sub-glacial rivers, kept flowing continually, and twining herself through all. mingled with these thoughts was the sound of avalanches, which ever and anon broke in upon the still night with a muttering like distant thunder, or with a startling roar as masses of ice tottered over the brinks of the cascades, or boulders loosened by the recent rain lost their hold and involved a host of smaller fry in their fall. twining and tying these thoughts together into a wild entanglement quite in keeping with the place, the youth never for one moment lost the sense of an ever present and imminent danger--he scarce knew what--and the necessity for watchfulness. this feeling culminated when he beheld nita horetzki suddenly appear standing close above him on a most dangerous-looking ledge of rock! uttering a loud cry of alarm he sought to start up, and in so doing sent three-quarters of the protecting wall down the precipice with an appalling rush and rumble. unquestionably he would have followed it if he had not been held by the wrist as if by a vice! "hallo! take care, monsieur," cried le croix, in a quick anxious tone, still holding tightly to his companion's arm. "why! what? le croix--i saw--i--i--saw--well, well--i do really believe i have been--i'm ashamed to say--" "yes, monsieur, you've been asleep," said the hunter, with a quiet laugh, gently letting go his hold of the arm as he became fully persuaded that lewis was by that time quite awake and able to take care of himself. "have you been asleep too?" asked lewis. "truly, no!" replied the hunter, rising with care, "but you have had full three hours of it, so it's my turn now." "you don't say so!" exclaimed lewis. "indeed i do; and now, please, get next the cliff and let me lie outside, so that i may rest with an easy mind." lewis opposed him no longer. he rose, and they both stood up to stamp their feet and belabour their chests for some time--the cold at such a height being intense, while their wet garments and want of covering rendered them peculiarly unfitted to withstand it. the effort was not very successful. the darkness of the night, the narrowness of their ledge, and the sleepiness of their spirits rendering extreme caution necessary. at last the languid blood began to flow; a moderate degree of warmth was restored, and, lying down again side by side in the new position, the hunter and the student sought and found repose. chapter seventeen. danger and death on the glacier. daylight--blessed daylight! how often longed for by the sick and weary! how imperfectly appreciated by those whose chief thoughts and experiences of night are fitly expressed by the couplet:-- "bed, bed, delicious bed, haven of rest for the weary head." daylight came at last, to the intense relief of poor lewis, who had become restless as the interminable night wore on, and the cold seemed to penetrate to his very marrow. although unable to sleep, however, he lay perfectly still, being anxious not to interrupt the rest of his companion. but le croix, like the other, did not sleep soundly; he awoke several times, and, towards morning, began to dream and mutter short sentences. at first lewis paid no attention to this, but at length, becoming weary of his own thoughts, he set himself with a half-amused feeling to listen. the amusement gave place to surprise and to a touch of sadness when he found that the word `gold' frequently dropped from the sleeper's lips. "can it be," he thought, "that this poor fellow is really what they say, a half-crazed gold-hunter? i hope not. it seems nonsensical. i never heard of there being gold in these mountains. yet it may be so, and too much longing after gold is said to turn people crazy. i shouldn't wonder if it did." thoughts are proverbial wanderers, and of a wayward spirit, and not easy of restraint. they are often very honest too, and refuse to flatter. as the youth lay on his back gazing dreamily from that giddy height on the first faint tinge of light that suffused the eastern sky, his thoughts rambled on in the same channel. "strange, that a chamois-hunter should become a gold-hunter. how much more respectable the former occupation, and yet how many gold-hunters there are in the world! gamblers are gold-hunters; and i was a gambler once! aha! mr lewis, the cap once fitted you! fitted, did i say? it fits still. have i not been playing billiards every night nearly since i came here, despite captain wopper's warnings and the lesson i got from poor leven? poor leven indeed! it's little gold that he has, and _i_ robbed him. however, i paid him back, that's one comfort, and my stakes now are mere trifles--just enough to give interest to the game. yet, shame on you, lewie; can't you take interest in a game for its own sake? the smallest coin staked involves the spirit of gambling. you shouldn't do it, my boy, you know that well enough, if you'd only let your conscience speak out. and nita seems not to like it too--ah, nita! she's as good as gold--as good! ten million times better than the finest gold. i wonder why that queer careworn look comes over her angel face when she hears me say that i've been having a game of billiards? i might whisper some flattering things to myself in reference to this, were it not that she seems just as much put out when any one else talks about it. ah, nita!" it is unnecessary to follow the youth's thoughts further, for, having got upon nita, they immediately ceased their wayward wandering practices and remained fixed on that theme. soon afterwards, the light being sufficient the mountaineers rose and continued their descent which was accomplished after much toil and trouble, and they proceeded at a quick pace over the glacier towards the place where the chamois had been left the previous day. "why are you so fond of gold, le croix?" said lewis, abruptly, and in a half-jesting tone, as they walked along. the hunter's countenance flushed deeply, and he turned with a look of severity towards his companion. "who said that i was fond of it?" "a very good friend of mine," replied lewis, with a light laugh. "he can be no friend of mine," returned the hunter, with contracted brows. "i'm not so sure of that," said the other; "at least if you count _yourself_ a friend. you whispered so much about gold in your dreams this morning that i came to the conclusion you were rather fond of it." the expression of the hunter changed completely. there seemed to be a struggle between indignation and sorrow in his breast as he stopped, and, facing his companion, said, with vehemence-- "monsieur, i do not count _myself_ a friend. i have ever found _self_ to be my greatest enemy. the good god knows how hard i have fought against self for years, and how often--oh, how often--i have been beaten down and overcome. god help me. it is a weary struggle." lecroix's countenance and tones changed as rapidly as the cloud-forms on his own mountain peaks. his last words were uttered with the deepest pathos, and his now pale face was turned upward, as if he sought for hope from a source higher than the "everlasting hills." lewis was amazed at the sudden burst of feeling in one who was unusually quiet and sedate, and stood looking at him in silence. "young man," resumed the hunter, in a calmer tone, laying his large brown hand impressively on the youth's shoulder, "you have heard aright. i have loved gold too much. if i had resisted the temptation at the first i might have escaped, but i _shall_ yet be saved, ay, despite of self, for there is a saviour! for years i have sought for gold among these mountains. they tell me it is to be found there, but i have never found it. to-day i intended to have visited yonder yellow cliffs high up on the shoulder of the pass. do you see them?" he pointed eagerly, and a strange gleam was in his blue eyes as he went on to say rapidly, and without waiting for an answer-- "i have not yet been up there. it looks a likely place--a very likely place--but your words have turned me from my purpose. the evil spirit is gone for to-day--perhaps for ever. come," he added, in a tone of firm determination, "we will cross this crevasse and hasten down to the cave." he wrenched himself round while he spoke, as if the hand of some invisible spirit had been holding him, and hurried quickly towards a wide crevasse which crossed their path at that place. "had we not better tie ourselves together before attempting it?" suggested lewis, hastening after him. le croix did not answer, but quickened his pace to a run. "not there!" exclaimed lewis, in sudden alarm. "it is almost too wide for a leap, and the snow on the other side overhangs. stop! for god's sake--not there!" he rushed forward, but was too late. le croix was already on the brink of the chasm; next moment, with a tremendous bound, he cleared it, and alighted on the snow beyond. his weight snapped off the mass, his arms were thrown wildly aloft, and, with a shout, rather than a cry, he fell headlong into the dark abyss! horror-stricken, unable to move or cry out lewis stood on the edge. from far down in the blue depths of the crevasse there arose a terrible sound, as if of a heavy blow. it was followed by the familiar rattling of masses of falling ice, which seemed to die away in the profound heart of the glacier. the "weary struggle" had come to an end at last. the chamois-hunter had found a tomb, like too many, alas! of his bold-hearted countrymen, among those great fields of ice, over which he had so often sped with sure foot and cool head in days gone by. lewis was as thoroughly convinced that his late comrade was dead, as if he had seen his mangled corpse before him, but with a sort of passionate unbelief he refused to admit the fact. he stood perfectly motionless, as if transfixed and frozen, in the act of bending over the crevasse. he listened intently and long for a sound which yet he knew could never come. an oppressive, sickening silence reigned around him, which he suddenly broke with a great and terrible cry, as, recovering from his stupor, he hurried wildly to and fro, seeking for some slope by which he might descend to the rescue of his friend. vainly he sought. both walls of the crevasse were sheer precipices of clear ice. at one spot, indeed, he found a short slope, and, madly seizing his axe, he cut foot-holds down it, descending, quite regardless of danger, until the slope became too perpendicular to admit of farther progress. struck then with alarm for himself, he returned cautiously to the top, while beads of cold perspiration stood on his pale brow. a few minutes more, and he became sufficiently calm to realise the fact that poor le croix was indeed beyond all hope. as the truth was forced into his heart he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. it was long ere the passionate burst of feeling subsided. lewis was very impressionable, and his young heart recoiled in agony from such a shock. although the hunter had been to him nothing but a pleasant guide, he now felt as if he had lost a friend. when his mind was capable of connected thought he dwelt on the unfortunate man's kindly, modest, and bold disposition, and especially on the incidents of the previous night, when they two had lain side by side like brothers on their hard couch. at last he rose, and, with a feeling of dead weight crushing his spirit began to think of continuing his descent. he felt that, although there was no hope of rescuing life, still no time should be lost in rousing the guides of chamouni and recovering, if possible, the remains. other thoughts now came upon him with a rush. he was still high up among the great cliffs, and alone! the vale of chamouni was still far distant, and he was bewildered as to his route, for, in whatever direction he turned, nothing met his eye save wildly-riven glaciers or jagged cliffs and peaks. he stood in the midst of a scene of savage grandeur, which corresponded somewhat with his feelings. his knowledge of ice-craft, if we may use the expression, was by that time considerable, but he felt that it was not sufficient for the work that lay before him; besides, what knowledge he possessed could not make up for the want of a companion and a rope, while, to add to his distress, weakness, resulting partly from hunger, began to tell on him. perhaps it was well that such thoughts interfered with those that unmanned him, for they served to rouse his spirit and nerve him to exertion. feeling that his life, under god, depended on the wisdom, vigour, and promptitude of his actions during the next few hours, he raised his eyes upward for a moment, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, asked help and guidance of his creator, with the feeling strong upon him that help and guidance were sorely needed. almost at the commencement of his descent an event occurred which taught him the necessity of extreme caution. this was the slipping of his axe. he had left the fatal crevasse only a few hundred yards behind him, when he came to a fracture in the ice that rendered it impossible to advance in that direction any longer; he therefore turned aside, but was met by a snow slope which terminated in another yawning crevasse. while standing on the top of this, endeavouring to make up his mind as to the best route to be followed, he chanced to swing his axe carelessly and let it fall. instantly it turned over the edge, and shot like an arrow down the slope. he was ice-man enough to know that the loss of his axe in such circumstances was equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant and his face flushed with the gush of feeling that resulted from the accident. fortunately, the head of the weapon caught on a lamp of ice just at the edge of the crevasse, and the handle hung over it. something akin to desperation now took possession of the youth. the slope _was_ far too steep to slide down. not having his axe, it was impossible to cut the necessary steps. in any case it was excessively dangerous, for, although the snow was not new, it lay on such an incline that the least weight on it might set it in motion, in which case inevitable death would have been the result. the case was too critical to admit of delay or thought. at all hazards the axe must be recovered. he therefore lay down with his face to the slope, and began to kick foot-holds with the toe of his boots. it was exceedingly slow and laborious work, for he dared not to kick with all his force, lest he should lose his balance, and, indeed, he only retained it by thrusting both arms firmly into the upper holes and fixing one foot deep in a lower hole, while with the other he cautiously kicked each new step in succession. at last, after toiling steadily thus for two hours, he regained his axe. the grip with which he seized the handle, and the tender feeling with which he afterwards laid it on his shoulder, created in him a new idea as to the strange affection with which man can be brought to regard inanimate objects, and the fervency with which he condemned his former flippancy, and vowed never more to go out on the high alps alone, formed a striking commentary on the adage, "experience teaches fools!" for some time after this lewis advanced with both speed and caution. at each point of vantage that he reached he made a rapid and careful survey of all the ground before him, decided on the exact route which he should take, as far as the eye could range, and then refused every temptation to deviate from it save when insurmountable obstacles presented themselves in the shape of unbridged crevasses or sheer ice-precipices. such obstacles were painfully numerous, but by indomitable perseverance, and sometimes by a desperate venture, he overcame them. once he got involved in a succession of crevasses which ran into each other, so that he found himself at last walking on the edge of a wedge of ice not a foot broad, with unfathomable abysses on either side. the wedge terminated at last in a thin edge with a deep crevasse beyond. he was about to retrace his steps--for the tenth time in that place--when it struck him that if he could only reach the other side of the crevasse on his right, he might gain a level patch of ice that appeared to communicate with the sounder part of the glacier beyond. he paused and drew his breath. it was not much of a leap. in ordinary circumstances he could have bounded over it like a chamois, but he was weak now from hunger and fatigue; besides which, the wedge on which he stood was rotten, and might yield to his bound, while the opposite edge seemed insecure and might fail him, like the mass that had proved fatal to le croix. he felt the venture to be desperate, but the way before him was yet very long, and the day was declining. screwing up his courage he sprang over, and a powerful shudder shook his frame when he alighted safe on the other side. farther down the glacier he came to a level stretch, and began to walk with greater speed, neglecting for a little the precaution of driving the end of his axe-handle into the snow in front at each step. the result was, that he stepped suddenly on the snow that concealed a narrow crevasse. it sank at once, sending something like a galvanic shock through his frame. the shock effected what his tired muscles might have failed to accomplish. it caused him to fling himself backward with cat-like agility, and thus he escaped narrowly. it is needless to say that thereafter he proceeded with a degree of care and caution that might have done credit even to a trained mountaineer. at last lewis found it necessary to quit the glacier and scale the mountains by way of a pass which led into the gorge from which he hoped to reach the vale of chamouni. he was in great perplexity here, for, the aspect of the country being unfamiliar to his eye, he feared that he must have lost his way. nothing but decision, however, and prompt action could serve him now. to have vacillated or retraced part of his steps, would have involved his spending a second night among the icy solitudes without shelter; and this he felt, fatigued and fasting as he was, would have been quite beyond his powers of endurance. he therefore crossed the bergschrund, or crevasse between the glacier and the cliffs, on a snow-bridge, faced the mountain-side once more, and, toiling upwards, reached the summit of the pass a little before sunset. fortunately the weather continued fine, and the country below appeared much less rugged than that over which he had passed, but he had not yet got clear of difficulties. just below him lay the longest ice-slope, or couloir, he had hitherto encountered. the snow had been completely swept off its surface, and it bore evidence of being the channel down which rushed the boulders and obelisks of ice that strewed the plain below. to reach that plain by any other route would have involved a circuit of unknown extent. the risk was great but the danger of delay was greater. he swung the heavy axe round his head, and began at once the tedious process of cutting steps. being an apt scholar, he had profited well from the lessons taught by le croix and others. quick, yet measured and firm, was each stroke. a forced calmness rested on his face, for, while the ice-blocks above, apparently nodding to their fall, warned him to make haste, the fear of slipping a foot, or losing balance, compelled him to be very cautious. in such a case, a rope round the waist and a friend above would have been of inestimable value. when about two-thirds of the way down, the exhausted youth was forced to stop for a few seconds to rest. just then several pieces of ice, the size of a man's head, rushed down the couloir and dashed close past him. they served to show the usual direction of an avalanche. fearing they were the prelude to something worse, he quickly cut his way to the side of the couloir. he was not a moment too soon. glancing up in alarm, he saw the foundations of one of the largest ice-masses give way. the top bent over slowly at first, then fell forward with a crash and broke into smaller fragments, which dashed like lightning down the slope, leaping from side to side, and carrying huge rocks and masses of _debris_ to the plain with horrible din. poor lewis felt his spirit and his body shrink. he had, however, chosen his position well. nothing save a cloud of dust and snow reached him, but the part of the slope down which he had passed was swept clean as with the besom of destruction. it was an awful ordeal for one so young and inexperienced, for the risk had to be encountered again. "the sooner the better," thought he, and immediately swayed aloft his axe again, lifting, as he did so, his heart to his maker for the second time that day. a few minutes more, and he stood at the foot of the couloir. without a moment's pause he hurried on, and finally reached the lower slopes of the mountains. here, to his inexpressible joy and thankfulness, he fell in with a sheep-track, and, following it up, was soon on the high-road of the valley. but it was not till far on in the night that he reached chamouni, scarce able to drag himself along. he went straight to the bureau of guides, where a profound sensation was created by the sad tidings which he brought. antoine grennon happened to be there, and to him lewis told his sad tale, at the same time eagerly suggesting that an immediate search should be made for the body, and offering to go back at once to guide them to the scene of the accident. antoine looked earnestly in the youth's face. "ah, monsieur," he said, shaking his head, "you are not fit to guide any one to-night. besides, i know the place well. if poor le croix has fallen into that crevasse, he is now past all human aid." "but why not start at once?" said lewis, anxiously, "if there is but the merest vestige of a chance--" "there is no chance, monsieur, if your description is correct; besides, no man could find the spot in a dark night. but rest assured that we will not fail to do our duty to our comrade. a party will start off within an hour, proceed as far as is possible during the night, and, at the first gleam of day, we will push up the mountains. we need no one to guide us, but you need rest. go, in the morning you may be able to follow us." we need scarcely say that the search was unavailing. the body of the unfortunate hunter was never recovered. in all probability it still lies entombed in the ice of the great glacier. chapter eighteen. a mystery cleared up. "is nita unwell, emma?" asked lewis early one morning, not long after the sad event narrated in the last chapter. "i think not. she is merely depressed, as we all are, by the melancholy death of poor le croix." "i can well believe it," returned lewis. "nevertheless, it seems to me that her careworn expression and deep despondency cannot be accounted for by that event." "you know that her father left last week very suddenly," said emma. "perhaps there may be domestic affairs that weigh heavily on her. i know not, for she never refers to her family or kindred. the only time i ventured to do so she appeared unhappy, and quickly changed the subject." the cousins were sauntering near their hotel and observed dr lawrence hurry from the front door. "hallo! lawrence," called out lewis. "ah! the very man i want," exclaimed the doctor, hastening to join them, "do you know that miss horetzki is ill?" "how strange that we should just this moment have referred to her looking ill! not seriously ill, i trust," said emma, with a troubled look in her sympathetic eyes. "i hope not, but her case puzzles me more than any that i have yet met with. i fancy it may be the result of an overstrained nervous system, but there appears no present cause for that. she evidently possesses a vigorous constitution, and every one here is kind to her--her father particularly so. even if she were in love, which she doesn't seem to be (a faint twinkle in the doctor's eye here), that would not account for her condition." "i can't help thinking," observed lewis, with a troubled look, "that her father is somehow the cause of her careworn looks. no doubt he is very kind to her in public, but may there not be a very different state of things behind the scenes?" "i think not. the count's temper is gentle, and his sentiments are good. if he were irascible there might be something behind the scenes, for when restraint is removed and temper gets headway, good principles may check but cannot always prevent unkindness. now, emma, i have sought you and lewis to ask for counsel. i do not say that nita is seriously ill, but she is ill enough to cause those who love her--as i know you do--some anxiety. it is very evident to me, from what she says, that she eagerly desires her father to be with her, and yet when i suggest that he should be sent for, she nervously declines to entertain the proposal. if this strange state of mind is allowed to go on, it will aggravate the feverish attack from which she now suffers. i wish, therefore, to send for the count without letting her know. do you think this a wise step?" "undoubtedly; but why ask such a question of me?" said emma, with a look of surprise. "first, because you are nita's friend--not perhaps, a friend of long standing, but, if i mistake not, a very loving one; and, secondly, as well as chiefly, because i want you to find out from her where her father is at present, and let me know." "there is something disagreeably underhand in such a proceeding," objected emma. "you know that a doctor is, or ought to be, considered a sort of pope," returned lawrence. "i absolve you from all guilt by assuring you that there is urgent need for pursuing the course i suggest." "well, i will at all events do what i can to help you," said emma. "shall i find her in her own room?" "yes, in bed, attended, with mrs stoutley's permission, by susan quick. get rid of the maid before entering on the subject." in a few minutes emma returned to the doctor, who still walked up and down in earnest conversation with lewis. she had succeeded, she said, in persuading nita to let her father be sent for, and the place to which he had gone for a few days was saxon, in the rhone valley. the count's address had also been obtained, but nita had stipulated that the messenger should on no account disturb her father by entering the house, but should send for him and wait outside. "strange prohibition!" exclaimed lawrence. "however, we must send off a messenger without delay." "stay," said lewis, detaining his friend; "there seems to be delicacy as well as mystery connected with this matter, you must therefore allow me to be the messenger." lawrence had no objection to the proposal, and in less than an hour lewis, guided by antoine grennon, was on the road to martigny by way of the celebrated pass of the tete-noire. the guide was one of nature's gentlemen. although low in the social scale, and trained in a rugged school, he possessed that innate refinement of sentiment and feeling--a gift of god sometimes transmitted through a gentle mother--which makes a true gentleman. among men of the upper ranks this refinement of soul may be counterfeited by the superficial polish of manners; among those who stand lower in the social scale it cannot be counterfeited at all, but still less can it be concealed. as broadcloth can neither make nor mar a true gentleman, so fustian cannot hide one. if antoine grennon had been bred "at court," and arrayed in sumptuous apparel, he could not have been more considerate than he was of the feelings and wishes of others, or more gentle, yet manly, in his demeanour. if, on an excursion, you wished to proceed in a certain direction, antoine never suggested that you should go in another, unless there were insurmountable difficulties in the way. if you chanced to grow weary, you could not have asked antoine to carry your top-coat, because he would have observed your condition and anticipated your wishes. if you had been inclined to talk he would have chatted away by the hour on every subject that came within the range of his knowledge, and if you had taken him beyond his depth, he would have listened by the hour with profound respect, obviously pleased, and attempting to understand you. yet he would not have "bored" you. he possessed great tact. he would have allowed you to lead the conversation, and when you ceased to do so he would have stopped. he never looked sulky or displeased. he never said unkind things, though he often said and did kind ones, and, with all that, was as independent in his opinions as the whistling wind among his native glaciers. in fact he was a prince among guides, and a pre-eminently unselfish man. heigho! if all the world--you and i, reader, included--bore a stronger resemblance to antoine grennon, we should have happy times of it. well, well, don't let us sigh despairingly because of our inability to come up to the mark. it is some comfort that there are not a few such men about us to look up to as exemplars. we know several such, both men and women, among our own friends. let's be thankful for them. it does us good to think of them! from what we have said, the reader will not be surprised to hear that, after the first words of morning salutation, lewis stoutley walked smartly along the high road leading up the valley of chamouni in perfect silence, with antoine trudging like a mute by his side. lewis was too busy with his thoughts to speak at first. nita's illness, and the mystery connected somehow with the count, afforded food not only for meditation, but anxiety, and it was not until the town lay far behind them that he looked at his guide, and said:-- "the route over the tete-noire is very grand, i am told?" "very grand, monsieur--magnificent!" "you are well acquainted with it, doubtless?" "yes; i have passed over it hundreds of times. does monsieur intend to make a divergence to the col de balme?" "no; i have urgent business on hand, and must push on to catch the railway. would the divergence you speak of take up much time? is the col de balme worth going out of one's way to see?" "it is well worthy of a visit," said the guide, replying to the last query first, "as you can there have a completely uninterrupted view--one of the very finest views of mont blanc, and all its surroundings. the time required for the divergence is little more than two hours; with monsieur's walking powers perhaps not so much; besides, there is plenty of time, as we shall reach martigny much too soon for the train." "in that case we shall make the detour," said lewis. "are the roads difficult?" "no; quite easy. it is well that monsieur dispensed with a mule, as we shall be more independent; and a mule is not so quick in its progress as an active man." while they chatted thus, walking at a quick pace up the valley, antoine, observing that his young charge was now in a conversational frame of mind, commented on the magnificent scenery, and drew attention to points of interest as they came into view. their route at first lay in the low ground by the banks of the river arve, which rushed along, wild and muddy, as if rejoicing in its escape from the superincumbent glaciers that gave it birth. the great peaks of the mont blanc range hemmed them in on the right, the slopes of the brevent on the left. passing the village of argentiere with rapid strides, and pausing but a few moments to look at the vast glacier of the same name which pours into the valley the ice-floods gendered among the heights around the aiguille verte and the aiguille du chardonnet, which rise respectively to a height of above , and , feet they reached the point where the tete-noire route diverged to the left at that time, in the form of a mere bridle-path, and pushed forward towards the col, or pass. on the way, antoine pointed out heaps of slabs of black slate. these, he said, were collected by the peasants, who, in spring, covered their snow-clad fields with them; the sun, heating the slabs, caused the snow beneath to melt rapidly; and thus, by a very simple touch of art, they managed to wrest from nature several weeks that would otherwise have been lost! as they rose into the higher grounds, heaps and rude pillars of stone were observed. these were the landmarks which guided travellers through that region when it was clad in its wintry robe of deep snow, and all paths obliterated. at last they stood on the col de balme. there was a solitary inn there, but antoine turned aside from it and led his companion a mile or so to one side, to a white stone, which marked the boundary between switzerland and france. it is vain to attempt in words a description of scenes of grandeur. ink, at the best, is impotent in such matters; even paint fails to give an adequate idea. we can do no more than run over a list of names. from this commanding point of view mont blanc is visible in all his majesty--vast, boundless, solemn, incomprehensible--with his aiguilles de tour, d'argentiere, verte, du dru, de charmoz, du midi, etcetera, around him; his white head in the clouds, his glacial drapery rolling into the vale of chamouni, his rocks and his pine-clad slopes toned down by distance into fine shadows. on the other side of the vale rise the steeps of the aiguilles rouges and the brevent. to the north towers the croix de fer, and to the north-east is seen the entire chain of the bernese alps, rising like a mighty white leviathan, with a bristling back of pinnacles. splendid though the view was, however, lewis did not for a moment forget his mission. allowing himself only a few minutes to drink it in, he hastened back to the tete-noire path, and soon found himself traversing a widely different scene. on the col he had, as it were, stood aloof, and looked abroad on a vast and glorious region; now, he was involved in its rocky, ridgy, woody details. here and there long vistas opened up to view, but, for the most part, his vision was circumscribed by towering cliffs and deep ravines. sometimes he was down in the bottom of mountain valleys, at other times walking on ledges so high on the precipice-faces, that cottages in the vales below seemed little bigger than sheep. now the country was wooded and soft; anon it was barren and rocky, but never tame or uninteresting. at one place, where the narrow gorge was strewn with huge boulders, antoine pointed out a spot where two swiss youths had been overwhelmed by an avalanche. it had come down from the red gorges of the aiguilles rouges, at a spot where the vale, or pass, was comparatively wide. perhaps its width had induced the hapless lads to believe themselves quite safe from anything descending on the other side of the valley. if so, they were mistaken; the dreadful rush of rock and wrack swept the entire plain, and buried them in the ruin. towards evening the travellers reached martigny in good time for the train, which speedily conveyed them to saxon. this town is the only one in switzerland--the only one, indeed, in europe with the exception of monaco--which possesses that great blight on civilisation, a public gambling-table. that the blight is an unusually terrible one may be assumed from the fact that every civilised european nation has found it absolutely necessary to put such places down with a strong hand. at the time lewis stoutley visited the town, however, it was not so singular in its infamy as it now is. he was ignorant of everything about the place save its name. going straight to the first hotel that presented itself, he inquired for the count horetzki. the count he was told, did not reside there; perhaps he was at the casino. to the casino lewis went at once. it was an elegant swiss building, the promenade of which was crowded with visitors. the strains of music fell sweetly on the youth's ear as he approached. leaving antoine outside, he entered, and repeated his inquiries for the count. they did not know the count, was the reply, but if monsieur would enter the rooms perhaps he might find him. lewis, remembering the expressed desire of nita, hesitated, but as no one seemed inclined to attend to his inquiries, beyond a civil reply that nothing was known about the count he entered, not a little surprised at the difficulty thrown in his way. the appearance of the salon into which he was ushered at once explained the difficulty, and at the same time sent a sudden gleam of light into his mind. crowds of ladies and gentlemen--some eager, some anxious, others flippant or dogged, and a good many quite calm and cool-- surrounded the brilliantly-lighted gaming tables. every one seemed to mind only his own business, and each man's business may be said to have been the fleecing of his neighbour to the utmost of his power--not by means of skill or wisdom, but by means of mere chance, and through the medium of professional gamblers and rouge-et-noir. with a strange fluttering at his heart, for he remembered his own weakness, lewis hurried forward and glanced quickly at the players. almost the first face he saw was that of the count. but what a changed countenance! instead of the usual placid smile, and good-humoured though sad expression about the eyes, there was a terrible look of intense fixed anxiety, with deep-knotted lines on his brow, and a horribly drawn look about the mouth. "make your play, gentlemen," said the presiding genius of the tables, as he spun round the board on the action of which so much depended. the count had already laid his stake on the table, and clutched his rake with such violence as almost to snap the handle. other players had also placed their stakes, some with cool calculating precision, a few with nervous uncertainty, many with apparent indifference. with the exception of the count and a lady near him, however, there was little of what might indicate very strong feeling on any countenance. one young and pretty girl, after placing her little pile of silver, stood awaiting the result with calm indifference-- possibly assumed. whatever might be the thoughts or feelings of the players, there was nothing but business-like gravity stamped on the countenances of the four men who presided over the revolving board, each with neatly-arranged rows of silver five-franc pieces in front of him, and a wooden rake lying ready to hand. each player also had a rake, with which he or she pushed the coins staked upon a certain space of the table, or on one of the dividing lines, which gave at least a varied, if not a better, chance. the process of play was short and sharp. for a few seconds the board spun, the players continuing to place, or increase, or modify the arrangement of the stakes up to nearly the last moment. as the board revolved more slowly a pea fell into a hole--red or black--and upon this the fate of each hung. a notable event, truly, on which untold millions of money have changed hands, innumerable lives have been sacrificed, and unspeakable misery and crime produced in days gone by! the decision of the pea--if we may so express it--was quietly stated, and to an ignorant spectator it seemed as if the guardians of the table raked all the stakes into their own maws. but here and there, like white rocks in a dark sea, several little piles were left untouched. to the owners of these a number of silver pieces were tossed--tossed so deftly that we might almost say it rained silver on those regions of the table. no wizard of legerdemain ever equalled the sleight of hand with which these men pitched, reckoned, manipulated, and raked in silver pieces! the count's pile remained untouched, and a bright flush suffused his hitherto pale cheeks while the silver rain was falling on his square, but to the surprise of lewis, he did not rake it towards him as did the others. he left the increased amount on exactly the same spot, merely drawing it gently together with his rake. as he did so the knotted haggard look returned to his once again bloodless brow and face. not less precise and silent were his companions. the board again spun round; the inexorable pea fell; the raking and raining were repeated, and again the count's stake lay glittering before him. his eyes glittered even more brightly than the silver. lewis concluded that he must have been brought down to desperate poverty, and meant to recover himself by desperate means, for he left the whole stake again on the same spot. this time the pea fell into black. the colour was symbolic of the count's feelings, for next moment the silver heap was raked from before him, along with other heaps, as if nothing unusual had happened; and, in truth, nothing had. wholesale ruin and robbery was the daily occupation there! for a few seconds the count gazed at the blank space before him with an expression of stony unbelief; then springing suddenly to his feet, he spurned his chair from him and rushed from the room. so quick was the movement, that he had reached the door and passed out before lewis could stop him. springing after him with a feeling of great alarm, the youth dashed across the entrance-hall, but turned in the wrong direction. being put right by a porter, he leaped through the doorway and looked for antoine, who, he knew, must have seen the count pass, but antoine was not there. as he quickly questioned one who stood near, he thought he saw a man running among the adjacent shrubbery. he could not be sure, the night being dark, but he promptly ran after him. on dashing round a turn in the gravel-walk, he found two men engaged in what appeared to be a deadly struggle. suddenly the place was illumined by a red flash, a loud report followed, and one of the two fell. "ah! monsieur," exclaimed antoine, as lewis came forward, "aid me here; he is not hurt, i think." "hurt! do you mean that he tried to shoot himself?" "he had not time to try, but i'm quite sure that he meant to," said antoine; "so i ran after him and caught his hand. the pistol exploded in the struggle." as the guide spoke, the count rose slowly. the star-light was faint, but it sufficed to show that the stony look of despair was gone, and that the gentle expression, natural to him, had returned. he was deadly pale, and bowed his head as one overwhelmed with shame. "oh pardon, monsieur!" exclaimed poor antoine, as he thought of the roughness with which he had been compelled to treat him. "i did not mean to throw you." "you did not throw me, friend. i tripped and fell," replied the count, in a low, husky voice. "mr stoutley," he added, turning to lewis, "by what mischance you came here i know not but i trust that you were not-- were not--present. i mean--do you know the cause of my conduct--this--" he stopped abruptly. "my dear sir," said lewis, in a low, kind voice, at the same time grasping the count's hand, and leading him aside, "i was in the rooms; i saw you there; but believe me when i assure you, that no feeling but that of sympathy can touch the heart of one who has been involved in the meshes of the same net." the count's manner changed instantly. he returned the grasp of the young man, and looked eagerly in his face, as he repeated-- "_has_ been involved! how, then, did you escape?" "i'm not sure that i _have_ escaped," answered lewis, sadly. "not sure! oh, young man, _make_ sure. give no rest to your soul till you are quite sure. it is a dreadful net--terrible! when once wrapped tightly round one there is no escape--no escape. in this it resembles its sister passion--the love of strong drink." the count spoke with such deep pathos, and in tones so utterly hopeless, that lewis's ready sympathies were touched, and he would have given anything to be able to comfort his friend, but never before having been called upon to act as a comforter, he felt sorely perplexed. "call it not a passion," he said. "the love of gaming, as of drink, is a disease; and a disease may be cured--has been cured, even when desperate." the count shook his head. "you speak in ignorance, mr stoutley. you know nothing of the struggles i have made. it is impossible." "with god _all_ things are possible," replied lewis, quoting, almost to his own surprise, a text of scripture. "but forgive my delay," he added; "i came here on purpose to look for you. your daughter nita is ill--not seriously ill, i believe," he said, on observing the count's startled look, "but ill enough to warrant your being sent for." "i know--i know," cried the count, with a troubled look, as he passed his hand across his brow. "i might have expected it. she cannot sustain the misery i have brought on her. oh! why was i prevented from freeing her from such a father. is she very ill? did she send for me? did she tell you what i am?" the excited manner and wild aspect of the gambler, more than the words, told of a mind almost, if not altogether, unhinged. observing this with some anxiety, lewis tried to soothe him. while leading him to an hotel, he explained the nature of nita's attack as well as he could, and said that she had not only refrained from saying anything about her father, but that she seemed excessively unwilling to reveal the name of the place to which he had gone, or to send for him. "no one knows anything unfavourable about count horetzki," said lewis, in a gentle tone, "save his fellow-sinner, who now assures him of his sincere regard. as for antoine grennon, he is a wise, and can be a silent, man. no brother could be more tender of the feelings of others than he. come, you will consent to be my guest to-night. you are unwell; i shall be your amateur physician. my treatment and a night of rest will put you all right, and to-morrow, by break of day, we will hie back to chamouni over the tete-noire." chapter nineteen. mountaineering in general. a week passed away, during which nita was confined to bed, and the count waited on her with the most tender solicitude. as their meals were sent to their rooms, it was not necessary for the latter to appear in the _salle-a-manger_ or the _salon_. he kept himself carefully out of sight, and intelligence of the invalid's progress was carried to their friends by susan quick, who was allowed to remain as sick-nurse, and who rejoiced in filling that office to one so amiable and uncomplaining as nita. of course, lewis was almost irresistibly tempted to talk with susan about her charge, but he felt the impropriety of such a proceeding, and refrained. not so gillie white. that sapient blue spider, sitting in his wonted chair, resplendent with brass buttons and brazen impudence, availed himself of every opportunity to perform an operation which he styled "pumping;" but susan, although ready enough to converse freely on things in general, was judicious in regard to things particular. whatever might have passed in the sick-room, the pumping only brought up such facts as that the count was a splendid nurse as well as a loving father, and that he and his daughter were tenderly attached to each other. "well, susan," observed gillie, with an approving nod, "i'm glad to hear wot you say, for it's my b'lief that tender attachments is the right sort o' thing. i've got one or two myself." "indeed!" said susan, "who for, i wonder?" "w'y, for one," replied the spider, "i've had a wery tender attachment to my mother ever since that blessed time w'en i was attached to her buzzum in the rampagin' hunger of infancy. then i've got another attachment--not quite so old, but wery strong, oh uncommon powerful--for a young lady named susan quick. d'you happen to know her?" "oh, gillie, you're a sad boy," said susan. "well, i make a pint never to contradict a 'ooman, believin' it to be dangerous," returned gillie, "but i can't say that i _feel_ sad. i'm raither jolly than otherwise." a summons from the sick-room cut short the conversation. during the week in question it had rained a good deal, compelling the visitors at chamouni to pass the time in-doors with books, billiards, draughts, and chess. towards the end of the week lewis met the count and discovered that he was absolutely destitute of funds--did not, in fact possess enough to defray the hotel expenses. "mother," said lewis, during a private audience in her bed-chamber the same evening, "i want twenty pounds from you." "certainly, my boy; but why do you come to me? you know that dr lawrence has charge of and manages my money. how i wish there were no such thing as money, and no need for it!" mrs stoutley finished her remark with her usual languid smile and pathetic sigh, but if her physician, dr tough, had been there, he would probably have noted that mountain-air had robbed the smile of half its languor, and the sigh of nearly all its pathos. there was something like seriousness, too, in the good lady's eye. she had been impressed more than she chose to admit by the sudden death of le croix, whom she had frequently seen, and whose stalwart frame and grave countenance she had greatly admired. besides this, one or two accidents had occurred since her arrival in the swiss valley; for there never passes a season without the occurrence of accidents more or less serious in the alps. on one occasion the news had been brought that a young lady, recently married, whose good looks had been the subject of remark more than once, was killed by falling rocks before her husband's eyes. on another occasion the spirits of the tourists were clouded by the report that a guide had fallen into a crevasse, and, though not killed, was much injured. mrs stoutley chanced to meet the rescue-party returning slowly to the village, with the poor shattered frame of the fine young fellow on a stretcher. it is one thing to read of such events in the newspapers. it is another and a very different thing to be near or to witness them--to be in the actual presence of physical and mental agony. antoine grennon, too, had made a favourable impression on mrs stoutley; and when, in passing one day his extremely humble cottage, she was invited by antoine's exceedingly pretty wife to enter and partake of bread and milk largely impregnated with cream, which was handed to her by antoine's excessively sweet blue-eyed daughter, the lady who had hitherto spent her life among the bright ice-pinnacles of society, was forced to admit to emma gray that dr tough was right when he said there were some beautiful and precious stones to be found among the moraines of social life. "i know that lawrence keeps the purse," said lewis, "but i want your special permission to take this money, because i intend to give it away." "twenty pounds is a pretty large gift, lewis," said his mother, raising her eyebrows. "who is it that has touched the springs of your liberality? not the family of poor le croix?" "no; le croix happily leaves no family. he was an unmarried man. i must not tell you, just yet, mother. trust me, it shall be well bestowed; besides, i ask it as a loan. it shall be refunded." "don't talk of refunding money to your mother, foolish boy. go; you may have it." lewis kissed his mother's cheek and thanked her. he quickly found the count, but experienced considerable difficulty in persuading him to accept the money. however, by delicacy of management and by assuming, as a matter of course, that it was a loan, to be repaid when convenient, he prevailed. the count made an entry of the loan in his notebook, with lewis's london address, and they parted with a kindly shake of the hand, little imagining that they had seen each other on earth for the last time. on the monday following, a superb day opened on the vale of chamouni, such a day as, through the medium of sight and scent, is calculated to gladden the heart of man and beast. that the beasts enjoyed it was manifest from the pleasant sounds that they sent, gushing, like a hymn of thanksgiving--and who shall say it was not!--into the bright blue sky. birds carolled on the shrubs and in the air; cats ventured abroad with hair erect and backs curved, to exchange greetings with each other in wary defiance of dogs; kittens sprawled in the sunshine, and made frantic efforts to achieve the impossible feat of catching their own shadows, varying the pastime with more successful, though arduous, attempts at their own tails; dogs bounded and danced, chiefly on their hind legs, round their loved companion man (including woman); juvenile dogs chased, tumbled over, barked at, and gnawed each other with amiable fury, wagging their various tails with a vigour that suggested a desire to shake them off; tourist men and boys moved about with a decision that indicated the having of particular business on hand; tourist women and girls were busily engaged with baskets and botanical boxes, or flitted hither and thither in climbing costume with obtrusive alpenstocks, as though a general attack on mont blanc and all his satellite aiguilles were meditated. among these were our friends the professor, captain wopper, emma gray, slingsby, lewis, and lawrence, under the guidance of antoine grennon. strange to say they were all a little dull, notwithstanding the beauty of the weather, and the pleasant anticipation of a day on the hills--not a hard, toilsome day, with some awful alpine summit as its aim, but what lewis termed a jolly day, a picnicky day, to be extended into night, and to include any place, or to be cut short or extended according to whim. the professor was dull, because, having to leave, this was to be his last excursion; captain wopper was dull, because his cherished matrimonial hopes were being gradually dissipated. he could not perceive that lawrence was falling in love with emma, or emma with lawrence. the utmost exertion of sly diplomacy of which he was capable, short of straightforward advice, had failed to accomplish anything towards the desirable end. emma was dull, because her friend nita, although recovering, was still far from well. slingsby was dull for the same reason, and also because he felt his passion to be hopeless. lewis was dull because he knew nita's circumstances to be so very sad; and lawrence was dull because--well, we are not quite sure why _he_ was dull. he was rather a self-contained fellow, and couldn't be easily understood. of the whole party, antoine alone was _not_ dull. nothing could put him in that condition, but, seeing that the others were so, he was grave, quiet attentive. some of the excursionists had left at a much earlier hour. four strapping youths, with guides, had set out for the summit of mont blanc; a mingled party of ladies, gentlemen, guides, and mules, were on the point of starting to visit the mer de glace; a delicate student, unable for long excursions, was preparing to visit with his sister, the glacier des bossons. others were going, or had gone, to the source of the arveiron, and to the brevent, while the british peer, having previously been conducted by a new and needlessly difficult path to the top of monte rosa, was led off by his persecutor to attempt, by an impossible route, to scale the matterhorn--to reach the main-truck, as captain wopper put it, by going down the stern-post along the keel, over the bobstay, up the flyin' jib, across the foretopmast-stay, and up the maintop-gallant halyards. this at least was lewis stoutley's report of the captain's remark. we cannot answer for its correctness. but nothing can withstand the sweet influences of fresh mountain-air and sunshine. in a short time "dull care" was put to flight and when our party--emma being on a mule--reached the neighbouring heights, past and future were largely forgotten in the enjoyment of the present. besides being sunny and bright, the day was rather cool, so that, after dismissing the mule, and taking to the glaciers and ice-slope, the air was found to be eminently suitable for walking. "it's a bad look-out," murmured captain wopper, when he observed that dr lawrence turned deliberately to converse with the professor, leaving lewis to assist emma to alight, even although he, the captain, had, by means of laboured contrivance and vast sagacity, brought the doctor and the mule into close juxtaposition at the right time. however, the captain's temperament was sanguine. he soon forgot his troubles in observing the curious position assumed by slingsby on the first steep slope of rocky ground they had to descend, for descents as well as ascents were frequent at first. the artist walked on all-fours, but with his back to the hill instead of his face, his feet thus being in advance. "what sort of an outside-in fashion is that, slingsby?" asked the captain, when they had reached the bottom. "it's a way i have of relieving my knees," said slingsby; "try it." "thank 'ee; no," returned the captain. "it don't suit my pecooliar build; it would throw too much of my weight amidships." "you've no idea," said slingsby, "what a comfort it is to a man whose knees suffer in descending. i'd rather go up twenty mountains than descend one. this plan answers only on steep places, and is but a temporary relief. still that is something at the end of a long day." the artist exemplified his plan at the next slope. the captain tried it, but, as he expressed it, broke in two at the waist and rolled down the slope, to the unspeakable delight of his friends. "i fear you will find this rather severe?" said the professor to emma, during a pause in a steep ascent. "oh no; i am remarkably strong," replied emma, smiling. "i was in switzerland two years ago, and am quite accustomed to mountaineering." "yes," remarked lawrence, "and miss gray on that occasion, i am told, ascended to the top of the dent du midi, which you know is between ten and eleven thousand feet high; and she also, during the same season, walked from champery to sixt which is a good day's journey, so we need have no anxiety on her account." although the doctor smiled as he spoke, he also glanced at emma with a look of admiration. captain wopper noted the glance and was comforted. at luncheon, however, the doctor seated himself so that the professor's bulky person came between him and emma. the captain noted that also, and was depressed. what between elation and depression, mingled with fatigue and victuals, the captain ultimately became recklessly jovial. "what are yonder curious things?" asked emma, pointing to so me gigantic objects which looked at a distance like rude pillars carved by man. "these," said the professor, "are nature's handiwork. you will observe that on each pillar rests a rugged capital. the capital is the cause of the pillar. it is a hard rock which originally rested on a softer bed of friable stone. the weather has worn away the soft bed, except where it has been protected by the hard stone, and thus a natural pillar has arisen--just like the ice-pillars, which are protected from the sun in the same way; only the latter are more evanescent." further on, the professor drew the attention of his friends to the beautiful blue colour of the holes which their alpenstocks made in the snow. "once," said he, "while walking on the heights of monte rosa, i observed this effect with great interest, and, while engaged in the investigation of the cause, got a surprise which was not altogether agreeable. some of the paths there are on very narrow ridges, and the snow on these ridges often overhangs them. i chanced to be walking in advance of my guide at the time to which i refer, and amused myself as i went along by driving my alpenstock deep into the snow, when suddenly, to my amazement i sent the end of the staff right through the snow, and, on withdrawing it, looked down into space! i had actually walked over the ridge altogether, and was standing above an abyss some thousands of feet deep!" "horrible!" exclaimed emma. "you jumped off pretty quickly, i dare say." "nay, i walked off with extreme caution; but i confess to having felt a sort of cold shudder with which my frame had not been acquainted previously." while they were thus conversing, a cloud passed overhead and sent down a slight shower of snow. to most of the party this was a matter of indifference, but the man of science soon changed their feelings by drawing attention to the form of the flakes. he carried a magnifying glass with him, which enabled him to show their wonders more distinctly. it was like a shower of frozen flowers of the most delicate and exquisite kind. each flake was a flower with six leaves. some of the leaves threw out lateral spines or points, like ferns, some were rounded, others arrowy, reticulated, and serrated; but, although varied in many respects, there was no variation in the number of leaves. "what amazin' beauty in a snowflake," exclaimed the captain, "many a one i've seen without knowin' how splendid it was." "the works of god are indeed wonderful," said the professor, "but they must be `sought out'--examined with care--to be fully understood and appreciated." "yet there are certain philosophers," observed lewis, "who hold that the evidence of design here and elsewhere does not at all prove the existence of god. they say that the crystals of these snow-flakes are drawn together and arrange themselves by means of natural forces." "they say truly," replied the professor, "but they seem to me to stop short in their reasoning. they appear to ignore the fact that this elemental original force of which they speak must have had a creator. however far they may go back into mysterious and incomprehensible elements, which they choose to call `blind forces,' they do not escape the fact that matter cannot have created itself; that behind their utmost conceptions there must still be one non-created, eternal, living being who created all, who upholds all, and whom we call god." descending again from the heights in order to cross a valley and gain the opposite mountain, our ramblers quitted the glacier, and, about noon, found themselves close to a lovely pine-clad knoll, the shaded slopes of which commanded an unusually fine view of rocky cliff and fringing wood, with a background of glacier and snow-flecked pinnacles. halting, accidentally in a row, before this spot they looked at it with interest. suddenly the professor stepped in front of the others, and, pointing to the knoll, said, with twinkling eyes-- "what does it suggest? come, dux (to slingsby, who happened to stand at the head of the line), tell me, sir, what does it suggest?" "_i_ know, sir!" exclaimed the captain, who stood at the dunce's extremity of the line, holding out his fist with true schoolboy eagerness. "it suggests," said the artist, rolling his eyes, "`a thing of beauty;' and--" "next!" interrupted the professor, pointing to lawrence. "_i_ know, sir," shouted the captain. "hold your tongue, sir!" "ay, ay, sir." "it is suggestive," said lawrence, "of an oasis in the desert." "very poor, sir," said the professor, severely. "next." "it suggests a cool shade on a hot day," said emma. "better, but not right. next." "please, sir, i'd rather not answer," said lewis, putting his forefinger in his mouth. "you must, sir." "_i_ know, sir," interrupted captain wopper, shaking his fist eagerly. "silence, you booby!--well, boy, what does it suggest to _you_?" "please, sir," answered lewis, "it suggests the mole on your professorial cheek." "sir," cried the professor, sternly, "remind me to give you a severe caning to-night." "yes, sir." "well, booby, what have _you_ got to say to it?" "wittles!" shouted the captain. "right," cried the professor, "only it would have been better expressed had you said--luncheon. go up, sir; put yourself at the head of the class, and lead it to a scene of glorious festivity." thus instructed, the captain put himself at the head of the line. "now, then, captain," said lewis, "let's have a true-blue nautical word of command--hoist yer main tops'l sky-scrapers abaft the cleat o' the spanker boom, heave the main deck overboard and let go the painter--or something o' that sort." "hold on to the painter, you mean," said slingsby. "you're both wrong," cried the captain, "my orders are those of the immortal nelson--`close action, my lads--england expects every man to'-- hooray!" with a wild cheer, and waving his hat, the seaman rushed up the side of the knoll, followed by his obedient and willing crew. in order to render the feast more complete, several members of the party had brought small private supplies to supplement the cold mutton, ham, bread, and light claret which antoine and two porters had carried in their knapsacks. captain wopper had brought a supply of variously coloured abominations known in england by the name of comfits, in scotland as sweeties. these, mixed with snow and water, he styled "iced-lemonade." emma tried the mixture and declared it excellent, which caused someone to remark that the expression of her face contradicted her tongue. lewis produced a small flask full of a rich dark port-winey liquid, which he said he had brought because it had formerly been one of the most delightful beverages of his childish years. it was tasted with interest and rejected with horror, being liquorice water! emma produced a bottle of milk, in the consumption of which she was ably assisted by the professor, who declared that his natural spirits required no artificial stimulants. the professor himself had not been forgetful of the general good. he had brought with him a complex copper implement, which his friends had supposed was a new species of theodolite, but which turned out to be a scientific coffee-pot, in the development of which and its purposes, as the man of science carefully explained, there was called into play some of the principles involved in the sciences of hydraulics and pneumatics, to which list lewis added, in an under-tone, those of aquatics, ecstatics, and rheumatics. the machine was perfect, but the professor's natural turn for practical mechanics not being equal to his knowledge of other branches of science, he failed properly to adjust a screw. this resulted in an explosion of the pot which blew its lid, as lewis expressed it, into the north of italy, and its contents into the fire. a second effort, using the remains of the scientific pot as an ordinary kettle, was more successful. "you see, my friends," said the professor, apologetically, "it is one of the prerogatives of science that her progress cannot be hindered. her resources and appliances are inexhaustible. when one style of experiment fails we turn at once to another and obtain our result, as i now prove to you by handing this cup of coffee to miss gray. you had better not sweeten it, mademoiselle. it is quite unnecessary to make the very trite observation that in your case no sugar is required. yes, the progress of science is slow, but it is sure. everything must fall before it in time." "ah, just so--`one down, another come on,'--that's your motto, ain't it?" said captain wopper, who invariably, during the meal, delivered his remarks from a cavern filled with a compound of mutton, bread, and ham. "but i say, professor, are you spliced?" "spliced?" echoed the man of science. "ay; married, i mean." "yes, i am wed," he replied, with enthusiasm. "i have a beautiful wife in russia, and she is good as beautiful." "in roosia--eh! well, it's a longish way off, but i'd advise you, as a friend, not to let her know that you pay such wallopin' compliments to young english ladies. it might disagree with her, d'ye see?" at this point the conversation and festivities were interrupted by slingsby, who, having gone off to sketch, had seated himself on a mound within sight of his friends, in a position so doubled up and ridiculous as to call forth the remark from lawrence, that few traits of character were more admirable and interesting than those which illustrated the utter disregard of personal appearance in true and enthusiastic devotees of art. to which captain wopper added that "he was a rum lot an' no mistake." the devotee was seen by the revellers to start once or twice and clap his hands to various pockets, as though he had forgotten his india-rubber or pen-knife. then he was observed to drop his sketching-book and hastily slap all his pockets, as if he had forgotten fifty pieces of india-rubber and innumerable pen-knives. finally, he sprang up and slapped himself all over wildly, yelling at the same time as if he had been a maniac. he had inadvertently selected an ant-hill as his seat, that was all; but that was sufficient to check his devotion to art, and necessitate his retirement to a rocky defile, where he devoted himself to the study of "the nude" in his own person, and whence he returned looking imbecile and hot. such _contretemps_, however, do not materially affect the health or spirits of the young and strong. ere long slingsby was following his companions with his wonted enthusiasm and devotee-like admiration of nature in all her varying aspects. his enthusiasm was, however, diverted from the study of vegetable and mineral, if we may so put it, to that of animal nature, for one of the porters, who had a tendency to go poking his staff into holes and crannies of the rocks, suddenly touched a marmot. he dropped his pack and began at once to dig up earth and stones as fast as possible, assisted by his comrades; but the little creature was too sagacious for them. they came to its bed at last, and found that, while they had been busy at one end of the hole, the marmot had quietly walked out at the other, and made off. having pushed over the valley, and once more ascended to the regions of perpetual ice, the ramblers determined to "attack"--as the phrase goes among alpine climbers--a neighbouring summit. it was not a very high one, and emma declared that she was not only quite able, but very anxious, to attempt it. the attempt was, therefore, made, and, after a couple of hours of pretty laborious work, accomplished. they found themselves on a pinnacle which overlooked a large portion of the ice-world around mont blanc. while standing there, one or two avalanches were observed, and the professor pointed out that avalanches were not all of one character. some, he said, were composed of rock, mud, and water; others entirely of ice; many of them were composed of these elements mixed, and others were entirely of snow. "true, monsieur," observed the guide, "and the last kind is sometimes very fatal. there was one from which my wife and child had a narrow escape. they were visiting at the time a near relation who dwelt in a village in a valley not far distant from this spot. behind the village there is a steep slope covered with pines; behind that the mountain rises still more steeply. the little forest stands between that village and destruction. but for it, avalanches would soon sweep the village away; but wood is not always a sure protector. sometimes, when frost renders the snow crisp and dry, the trees fail to check its descent. it was so on the last night of my wife's visit. a brother was about to set off with her from the door of our relative's house, when the snow began to descend through the trees like water. it was like dry flour. there was not much noise, merely a hissing sound, but it came down in a deluge, filled all the houses, and suffocated nearly all the people in them. my brother-in-law saw it in time. he put his horse to full speed, and brought my dear wife and child away in safety, but his own father, mother, and sister were lost. we tried to reach their house the next day, but could advance through the soft snow only by taking two planks with us, and placing one before the other as we went along." soon after the ramblers had begun their return journey, they came to a slope which they thought might be descended by sliding or "glissading." it was the first time that emma had seen such work, and she felt much inclined to try it, but was dissuaded by antoine, who led her round by an easier way. at the foot of the slope they came to a couloir, or sloping gorge, so steep that snow could not lie on it. its surface was, therefore, hard ice. although passable, antoine deemed it prudent not to cross, the more so that he observed some ominous obelisks of ice impending at the top of the slope. "why not cross and let emma see how we manage by cutting steps in the ice?" said lewis. he received a conclusive though unexpected answer from one of the obelisks above-mentioned, which fell at the moment, broke into fragments, and swept the couloir from top to bottom with incredible violence. it is wonderful what a deal of experience is required to make foolish people wise! winthin the next ten minutes this warning was forgotten, and lewis led his cousin into a danger which almost cost the lives of three of the party. chapter twenty. records a serious event. our ramblers had now reached a place where a great expanse of rock surface was exposed, and the temptation to dilate on the action of glaciers proved too strong for the professor. he therefore led those who were willing to follow to a suitable spot and pointed out the striations, flutings, and polishings of the granite, which showed that in former ages the glacier had passed there, although at that time it was far below in the valley. the polishings, he said, were caused by the ice slowly grinding over the surface of the rock, and the flutings and groovings were caused, not by the ice itself, but by stones which were embedded in its under surface, and which cut the solid granite as if with chisels. meanwhile, lewis and emma, having taken the opportunity to search for plants, had wandered on a little in advance, and had come to another steep slope, which was, however, covered with snow at its upper part. below, where it became steeper, there was no snow, only pure ice, which extended downwards to an immense distance, broken only here and there by a few rocks that cropped through its surface. it terminated in a rocky gorge, which was strewn thickly with _debris_ from above. "let us cross this," said emma, with a look of glee, for she possessed an adventurous spirit. "we'd better not," answered lewis. "the slope is very steep." "true, o cautious cousin," retorted emma, with a laugh, "but it is covered here with snow that is soft and probably knee-deep. go on it, sir, and try." thus commanded, lewis obeyed, and found that the snow was indeed knee-deep, and that there was no possibility of their either slipping or falling, unless one were unusually careless, and even in that case the soft snow would have checked anything like an involuntary glissade. "let me go first," said lewis. "nay, i will go first," returned emma, "you will follow and pick me up if i should fall." so saying, she stepped lightly into the snow and advanced, while her companion stood looking at her with a half-amused, half-anxious smile. she had not made six steps, and lewis was on the point of following, when he observed that there was a crack across the snow just above where he stood, and the whole mass began to slide. for a moment he was transfixed with horror. the next he had sprung to his cousin's side and seized her arm, shouting-- "emma! emma! come back. quick! it moves." but poor emma could not obey. she would as soon have expected the mountain itself to give way as the huge mass of snow on which she stood. at first its motion was slow, and lewis struggled wildly to extricate her, but in vain, for the snow avalanche gathered speed as it advanced, and in its motion not only sank them to their waists, but turned them helplessly round, thus placing lewis farthest from the firm land. he shouted now with all the power of his lungs for help, while emma screamed from terror. lawrence chanced to be nearest to them. he saw at a glance what had occurred, and dashed down the hill-side at headlong speed. a wave was driving in front of the couple, who were now embedded nearly to their armpits, while streams of snow were hissing all round them, and the mass was beginning to rush. one look sufficed to show lawrence that rescue from the side was impossible, but, with that swift power of perception which is aroused in some natures by the urgent call to act, he observed that some yards lower down--near the place where the ice-slope began-- there was a rock near to the side in the track of the avalanche, which it divided. leaping down to this, he sprang into the sliding flood a little above it, and, with a powerful effort, caught the rock and drew himself upon it. next moment emma was borne past out of reach of his hand. lawrence rushed deep into the snow and held out his alpenstock. emma caught it. he felt himself turned irresistibly round, and a sick feeling of despair chilled his life-blood. at the same moment a powerful hand grasped his collar. "hold on, monsieur," cried antoine, in a deep, yet encouraging voice, "i've got you safe." as he spoke, emma shrieked, "i cannot hold on!" no wonder! she had not only to resist the rushing snow, but to sustain the drag of lewis, who, as we have said, had been carried beyond his cousin, and whose only chance now lay in his retaining hold of her arm. ere the words had quite left her lips, lewis was seen deliberately to let go his hold and throw up his arm--it seemed as if waving it. next moment emma was dragged on the rock, where she and her companions stood gazing in horror as their companion was swept upon the ice-slope and carried down headlong. the snow was by this time whirled onward in a sort of mist or spray, in the midst of which lewis was seen to strike a rock with his shoulder and swing violently round, while parts of his clothing were plainly rent from his body, but the painful sight did not last long. a few seconds more and he was hurled, apparently a lifeless form, among the _debris_ and rocks far below. death, in such a case, might have been expected to be instantaneous, but the very element that caused the poor youth's fall, helped to save him. during the struggle for life while clinging to emma's arm, the check, brief though it was, sufficed to allow most of the snow to pass down before him, so that he finally fell on a comparatively soft bed; but it was clear that he had been terribly injured, and, what made matters worse, he had fallen into a deep gorge surrounded by precipices, which seemed to some of the party to render it quite impossible to reach him. "what is to be done?" exclaimed lawrence, with intense anxiety. "he must be got at immediately. delay of treatment in his case, even for a short time, may prove fatal." "i know it, monsieur," said antoine, who had been quietly but quickly uncoiling his rope. "one of the porters and i will descend by the precipices. they are too steep for any but well-accustomed hands and feet. you, monsieur, understand pretty well the use of the axe and rope. cut your way down the ice-slope with jacques. he is a steady man, and may be trusted. run, rollo (to the third porter), and fetch aid from gaspard's chalet. it is the nearest. i need not say make haste." these orders were delivered in a low, rapid voice. the men proceeded at once to obey them. at the same time antoine and his comrade swung themselves down the cliffs, and were instantly lost to view. the young porter, whom he had named rollo, was already going down the mountain at a smart run, and jacques was on the ice-slope wielding his axe with ceaseless energy and effect, while lawrence held the rope to which he was attached, and descended the rude and giddy staircase behind him. it was a terrible time for those who were left above in a state of inaction and deep anxiety, but there was no help for it. they had to content themselves with watching the rescue, and praying for success. it was not long before the guide and porter reached the spot where poor lewis lay. he was not insensible, but a deadly pallor overspread his scarred face, and the position in which he lay betokened utter helplessness. he could scarcely speak, but whispered that he fancied he was not so much hurt as might have been expected, and expressed wonder at their having been so long in reaching him. the guide spoke to him with the tenderness of a woman. he knew well how severely the poor youth was injured, and handled him very delicately while making such preliminary arrangements as were in his power. a few drops of brandy and water were administered, the poor limbs were arranged in a position of greater comfort, and the torn rags of clothing wrapped round him. soon they were joined by lawrence, who merely whispered a few kind words, and proceeded at once to examine him. his chief anxiety was as to the amount of skin that had been destroyed. the examination revealed a terrible and bloody spectacle; over which we will draw a veil; yet there was reason to believe that the amount of skin torn off and abraded was not sufficient to cause death. lawrence was comforted also by finding that no bones appeared to have been broken. nothing could be done in the way of attempting a removal until the return of rollo with a litter. fortunately this was not long of being brought, for the young porter was active and willing, and gaspard had promptly accompanied him with men and materials for the rescue. but it was a sad, slow, and painful process, to bear the poor youth's frame from that savage gorge, and convey him on a litter, carried by four men, over glaciers and down rugged mountain sides, even although done by tender hearts and strong hands. everything that ingenuity could contrive was done to relieve the sufferer, and when at last, after weary hours, they reached the high-road of the valley, a carriage was found waiting. a messenger had been sent in advance to fetch it, and mrs stoutley was in it. there was something quite touching in the quiet, firm air of self-restraint with which she met the procession, and afterwards tended her poor boy; it was so unlike her old character! the sun was setting in a field of golden glory when they carried lewis into the hotel at chamouni, and laid him on his bed--a mere wreck of his former self. chapter twenty one. down in the moraine at last. as the reader may suppose, the terrible accident to lewis stoutley put an end to further merry-making among our friends at chamouni. mrs stoutley would have left for england at once if that had been possible, but lewis could not be moved for several weeks. at first indeed, fears were entertained for his life, but his constitution being good, and not having been damaged by dissipation, he rallied sooner than might have been expected, although it was evident from the beginning that complete restoration could not be looked for until many months, perhaps years, had passed away. we need scarcely say, that the rapid improvement of his health was largely due to the tender watchful care of his mother. since visiting switzerland, that excellent lady's spirit had undergone a considerable change. without going minutely into particulars, we may say that the startling events which had occurred had been made the means of opening her spiritual eyes. it had occurred to her--she scarce knew how or why--that her creator had a claim on her for more consideration than she had been in the habit, heretofore, of testifying by a few formalities on sundays; that there must be some higher end and aim in life than the mere obtaining and maintaining of health, and the pursuit of pleasure; and that as there was a saviour, whom she professed on sundays to follow, there must be something real from which she had to be saved, as well as something real that had to be done. sin, she knew, of course, was the evil from which everybody had to be saved; but, being a good-natured and easy-going woman, she really did not feel much troubled by sin. little weaknesses she had, no doubt, but not half so many as other people she knew of. as to anything seriously worthy the name of sin, she did not believe she had any at all. it had never, until now, occurred to her that the treating of her best friend, during a lifetime, with cool and systematic indifference, or with mere protestations, on sundays, of adoration, was probably as great a sin as she could commit. her thoughts on these points she did not at first mention to any one, but she received great help and enlightenment, as well as comfort, from the quiet sensible talk of dr lawrence, as he sat day after day, and hour after hour, at the bedside of his friend, endeavouring to cheer his spirits as well as to relieve his physical pain--for lawrence was well fitted to do both. he was not by any means what is styled a sermoniser. he made no apparent effort to turn conversation into religious channels. indeed we believe that when men talk with the unrestrained freedom of true friendship, conversation needs no directing. it will naturally flow along all channels, and into all the zigzags and crevices of human thought--religion included. lewis was in great pain and serious danger. lawrence was a man full of the holy spirit and love to jesus. out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spoke when his friend appeared to desire such converse; but he never bored him with _any_ subject--for it is possible to be a profane, as well as a religious, bore! as soon as lewis could turn his mind to anything, after his being brought back to the hotel, he asked earnestly after nita horetzki. "she has left," said mrs stoutley. "left! d'you mean gone from chamouni, mother?" exclaimed lewis, with a start and a look of anxiety which he did not care to conceal. "yes, they went yesterday. nita had recovered sufficiently to travel, and the medical man who has been attending her urged her removal without delay. she and her father seemed both very sorry to leave us, and left kind messages for you. the count wanted much to see you, but we would not allow it." "kind messages for me," repeated lewis, in a tone of bitterness, "what sort of messages?" "well, really, i cannot exactly remember," returned mrs stoutley, with a slight smile, "the kind of messages that amiable people might be expected to leave in the circumstances, you know--regret that they should have to leave us in such a sad condition, and sincere hope that you might soon recover, etcetera. yes, by the way, nita also, just at parting, expressed a hope--an earnest hope--that we might meet again. poor dear thing, she is an extremely affectionate girl, and quite broke down when saying good-bye." "d'you know where they have gone to, mother?" "no. they mean to move about from place to place, i believe." "nita said nothing about writing to you, did she?" "did they leave any address--a _poste restante_--anywhere, or any clew whatever as to their whereabouts?" "none whatever." so then, during the weary days of suffering that he knew full well lay before him, poor lewis had no consolatory thought in regard to nita save in her expressed "earnest hope" that they might meet again. it was not much, but it was better than nothing. being an ingenious as well as daring architect, lewis built amazing structures on that slight foundation--structures which charmed his mental eyes to look upon, and which, we verily believe, tended to facilitate his recovery--so potent is the power of true love! "captain wopper," said mrs stoutley one morning, towards the end of their stay in switzerland, lewis having been pronounced sufficiently restored to travel homeward by easy stages, "i have sent for you to ask you to do me a favour--to give me your advice--your--" here, to the captain's amazement, not to say consternation, mrs stoutley's voice trembled, and she burst into tears. if she had suddenly caught him by the nose, pulled his rugged face down and kissed it, he could not have been more taken aback. "my dear madam," he stammered, sitting down inadvertently on mrs stoutley's bonnet--for it was to the good lady's private dressing-room that he had been summoned by gillie white--"hold on! don't now, please! what ever have i done to--" "you've done nothing, my dear captain," said mrs stoutley, endeavouring to check her tears. "there, i'm very foolish, but i can't help it. indeed i can't." in proof of the truth of this assertion she broke down again, and the captain, moving uneasily on his chair, ground the bonnet almost to powder--it was a straw one. "you have been a kind friend, captain wopper," said mrs stoutley, drying her eyes, "a very kind friend." "i'm glad you think so, ma'am; i've meant to be--anyhow." "you have, you have," cried mrs stoutley, earnestly, as she looked through her tears into the seaman's rugged countenance, "and that is my reason for venturing to ask you now to trouble yourself with--with--" there was an alarming symptom here of a recurrence of "squally weather," which caused the captain to give the bonnet an "extra turn," but she recovered herself and went on-- "with my affairs. i would not have thought of troubling you, but with poor lewie so ill, and dr lawrence being so young, and probably inexperienced in the ways of life, and emma so innocent and helpless, and--in short i'm--hee!--that is to say--ho dear! i _am_ so silly, but i can't--indeed i can't--hoo-o-o!" it blew a regular gale now, and a very rain of straw _debris_ fell through the cane-bottomed chair on which the captain sat, as he vainly essayed to sooth his friend by earnest, pathetic, and even tender adjurations to "clap a stopper upon that," to "hold hard," to "belay", to "shut down the dead-lights of her peepers," and such-like expressive phrases. at length, amid many sobs, the poor lady revealed the overwhelming fact that she was a beggar; that she had actually come down to her last franc; that her man of business had flatly declined to advance her another sovereign, informing her that the gorong mine had declared "no dividend;" that the wreck of her shattered fortune had been swallowed up by the expenses of their ill-advised trip to switzerland, and that she had not even funds enough to pay their travelling expenses home; in short that she was a miserable boulder, at the lowest level of the terminal moraine! to all this captain wopper listened in perfect silence, with a blank expression on his face that revealed nothing of the state of feeling within. "oh! captain wopper," exclaimed the poor lady anxiously, "surely-- surely _you_ won't forsake me! i know that i have no claim on you beyond friendship, but you have always given us to understand that you were well off, and i merely wish to _borrow_ a small sum. just enough, and no more. perhaps i may not be able to repay you just immediately, but i hope soon; and even if it came to the worst, there is the furniture in euston square, and the carriage and horses." poor mrs stoutley! she was not aware that her man of business had already had these resources appraised, and that they no more belonged to her at that moment than if they had been part of the personal estate of the celebrated man in the moon. still the captain gazed at her in stolid silence. "even my personal wardrobe," proceeded mrs stoutley, beginning again to weep, "i will gladly dis--" "avast! madam," cried the captain, suddenly, thrusting his right hand into his breeches-pocket, and endeavouring to drag something therefrom with a series of wrenches that would have been terribly trying to the bonnet, had its ruin not been already complete, "don't talk to me of repayment. ain't i your--your--husband's brother's buzzum friend-- willum's old chum an' messmate? see here." he jerked the chair (without rising) close to a table which stood at his elbow, and placed thereon a large canvas bag, much soiled, and tied round the neck with a piece of rope-yarn, which smelt of tar even at a distance. this was the captain's purse. he carried it always in his right trouser-pocket, and it contained his gold. as for such trifling metal as silver, he carried that loose, mixed with coppers, bits of tobacco, broken pipes, and a clasp-knife, in the other pocket. he was very fond of his purse. in california he had been wont to carry nuggets in it, that simple species of exchange being the chief currency of the country at the time he was there. some of the californian _debris_ had stuck to it when he had filled it, at a place of exchange in london, with napoleons. emptying its glittering contents upon the table, he spread it out. "there, madam," he said, with a hearty smile, "you're welcome to all i've got about me just at this moment, and you shall have more when that's done. don't say `not so much,' cause it ain't much, fifty pound, more or less, barrin' the nuggets, which i'll keep, as i dessay they would only worry you, and there's plenty more shot in the locker where that come from; an' don't talk about payin' back or thankin' me. you've no occasion to thank me. it's only a loan, an' i'll hold willum, your brother-in-law, responsible. you wouldn't decline to take it from willum, would you?" "indeed no; william stout has always been so kind to us--kinder than i have deserved." "well, then, i'll write to willum. i'll say to him, `willum, my boy, here's your brother's widdy bin caught in a squall, had her sails blown to ribbons, bin throw'd on her beam-ends, and every stick torn out of her. you've got more cash, willum, than you knows what to do with, so, hand over, send me a power of attorney (is that the thing?) or an affydavy--whatever lawyer's dockiments is required--an' i'll stand by and do the needful.' an' willum 'll write back, with that power an' brevity for which he is celebrated,--`wopper, my lad, all right; fire away. anything short o' ten thousand, more or less. do yer w'ust. yours to command, "`willum.'" there was no resisting such arguments. mrs stoutley smiled through her tears as she accepted the money. captain wopper rose, crammed the empty canvas bag into his pocket, and hastily retired, with portions of the bonnet attached to him. "susan," said mrs stoutley, on the maid answering her summons, "we shall start for london tomorrow, or the day after, so, pray, set about packing up without delay." "very well, ma'am," replied susan, whose eyes were riveted with an expression of surprised curiosity on the cane-bottomed chair. "it is my bonnet susan," said the lady, looking in the same direction with a sad smile. "captain wopper sat down on it by mistake. you had better remove it." to remove it was a feat which even susan, with all her ready wit and neatness of hand, could not have accomplished without the aid of brush and shovel. she, therefore, carried it off chair and all, to the regions below, where she and gillie went into convulsions over it. "oh! susan," exclaimed the blue spider, "wot would i not have given to have seed him a-doin' of it! only think! the ribbons, flowers, and straw in one uniwarsal mush! _wot_ a grindin' there must ave bin! i heer'd the purfesser the other day talkin' of wot he calls glacier-haction--how they flutes the rocks an' grinds in a most musical way over the boulders with crushin' wiolence; but wot's glacier haction to _that_?" susan admitted that it was nothing; and they both returned at intervals in the packing, during the remainder of that day, to have another look at the bonnet-debris, and enjoy a fresh explosion over it. chapter twenty two. mysterious proceedings of the captain and gillie. we are back again in london--in mrs roby's little cabin at the top of the old tenement in grubb's court. captain wopper is there, of course. so is mrs roby. gillie white is there also, and susan quick. the captain is at home. the two latter are on a visit--a social tea-party. little netta white, having deposited baby white in the mud at the lowest corner of the court for greater security, is waiting upon them--a temporary handmaiden, relieving, by means of variety, the cares of permanent nursehood. mrs white is up to the elbows in soap-suds, taking at least ocular and vocal charge of the babe in the mud, and her husband is--"drunk, as usual?" no--there is a change there. good of some kind has been somewhere at work. either knowingly or unwittingly some one has been "overcoming evil with good," for mrs white's husband is down at the docks toiling hard to earn a few pence wherewith to increase the family funds. and who can tell what a terrible yet hopeful war is going on within that care-worn, sin-worn man? to toil hard with shattered health is burden enough. what must it be when, along with the outward toil, there is a constant fight with a raging watchful devil within? but the man has given that devil some desperate falls of late. oh, how often and how long he has fought with him, and been overcome, cast down, and his armoury of resolutions scattered to the winds! but he has been to see some one, or some one has been to see him, who has advised him to try another kind of armour--not his own. he knows the power of a "new affection" now. despair was his portion not long ago. he is now animated by hope, for the long uncared-for name of jesus is now growing sweet to his ear. but the change has taken place recently, and he looks very weary as he toils and fights. "well, mother," said captain wopper, "now that i've given you a full, true, an' partikler account of switzerland, what d'ee think of it?" "it is a strange place--very, but i don't approve of people risking their lives and breaking their limbs for the mere pleasure of getting to the top of a mountain of ice." "but we can't do anything in life without riskin' our lives an' breakin' our limbs more or less," said the captain. "an' think o' the interests of science," said gillie, quoting the professor. mrs roby shook her tall cap and remained unconvinced. to have expected the old nurse to take an enlightened view on that point would have been as unreasonable as to have looked for just views in gillie white on the subject of conic sections. "why, mother, a man may break a leg or an arm in going down stairs," said the captain, pursuing the subject; "by the way, that reminds me to ask for fred leven. didn't i hear that _he_ broke his arm coming up his own stair? is it true?" "true enough," replied mrs roby. "was he the worse of liquor at the time?" "no. it was dark, and he was carrying a heavy box of something or other for his mother. fred is a reformed man. i think the sight of your poor father, gillie, has had something to do with it, and that night when his mother nearly died. at all events he never touches drink now, and he has got a good situation in one of the warehouses at the docks." "that's well," returned the captain, with satisfaction. "i had hopes of that young feller from the night you mention. now, mother, i'm off. gillie and i have some business to transact up the water. very particular business--eh, lad?" "oh! wery partickler," said gillie, responding to his patron's glance with a powerful wink. expressing a hope that susan would keep mrs roby company till he returned, the captain left the room with his usual heavy roll, and the spider followed with imitative swagger. captain wopper was fond of mystery. although he had, to some extent made a confidant of the boy for whom he had taken so strong a fancy, he nevertheless usually maintained a dignified distance of demeanour towards him, and a certain amount of reticence, which, as a stern disciplinarian, he deemed to be essential. this, however, did not prevent him from indulging in occasional, not to say frequent, unbendings of disposition, which he condescended to exhibit by way of encouragement to his small _protege_; but these unbendings and confidences were always more or less shrouded in mystery. many of them, indeed, consisted of nothing more intelligible than nods, grins, and winks. "that'll be rather a nice cottage when it's launched," said the captain, pointing to a building in process of erection, which stood so close to the edge of the thames that its being launched seemed as much a literal allusion as a metaphor. "raither bobbish," assented the spider. "clean run fore and aft with bluff bows, like a good sea-boat," said the captain. "come, let's have a look at it." asking permission to enter of a workman who granted the same with, what appeared to gillie, an unnecessarily broad grin, the captain led the way up a spiral staircase. it bore such a strong resemblance to the familiar one of grubb's court that gillie's eyes enlarged with surprise, and he looked involuntarily back for his soapy mother and the babe in the mud. there were, however, strong points of dissimilarity, inasmuch as there was no mud or filth of any kind near the new building except lime; and the stair, instead of leading like that of the tower of babel an interminable distance upwards, ended abruptly at the second floor. here, however, there was a passage exactly similar to the passage leading to mrs roby's cabin, save that it was well lighted, and at the end thereof was an almost exact counterpart of the cabin itself. there was the same low roof, the same little fireplace, with the space above for ornaments, and the same couple of little windows looking out upon a stretch of the noble river, from which you might have fished. there was the same colour of paint on the walls, which had been so managed as to represent the dinginess of antiquity. there was also, to all appearance, mrs roby's own identical bed, with its chintz curtains. here, however, resemblance ended, for there was none of the grubb's court dirt. the craft on the river were not so large or numerous, the reach being above the bridges. if you had fished you not have hooked rats or dead cats, and if you had put your head out and looked round, you would have encountered altogether a clean, airy, and respectable neighbourhood, populous enough to be quite cheery, with occasional gardens instead of mud-banks, and without interminable rows of tall chimney-pots excluding the light of heaven. gillie, not yet having been quite cured of his objectionable qualities, at once apostrophised his eye and elizabeth martin. "as like as two peas, barrin' the dirt!" the captain evidently enjoyed the lad's astonishment. "a ship-shape sort o' craft, ain't it? it wouldn't be a bad joke to buy it--eh?" gillie, who was rather perplexed, but too much a man of the world to disclose much of his state of mind, said that it wouldn't be a bad move for any feller who had got the blunt. "how much would it cost now?" "a thousand pounds, more or less," said the captain, with discreet allowance for latitude. "ha! a goodish lump, no doubt." "i've half a mind to buy it," continued the captain, looking round with a satisfied smile. "it would be an amoosin' sort o' thing, now, to bring old mrs roby here. the air would be fresher for her old lungs, wouldn't it?" gillie nodded, but was otherwise reticent. "the stair, too, wouldn't be too high to get her down now and again, and a boat could be handy to shove her into without much exertion. for the matter of that," said the captain, looking out, "we might have a slide made, like a swiss couloir, you know, and she could glissade comfortably into the boat out o' the winder. then, there's a beam to hang her ship an' chinee lanterns from, an' a place over the fireplace to stick her knick-knacks. what d'ee think, my lad?" gillie, who had begun to allow a ray of light to enter his mind, gave, as his answer, an emphatic nod and a broad grin. the captain replied with a nod and a wink, whereupon the other retired behind his patron, for the purpose of giving himself a quiet hug of delight, in which act, however, he was caught; the captain being one who always, according to his own showing, kept his weather-eye open. "w'y, what's the matter with you, boy?" "pains in the stummick is aggrawatin' sometimes," answered gillie. "you haven't got 'em, have you?" "well, i can't exactly go for to say as i has," answered gillie, with another grin. "now, look 'ee here, youngster," said the captain, suddenly seizing the spider by his collar and trousers, and swinging him as though about to hurl him through the window into the river, "if you go an' let your tongue wag in regard to this matter, out you go, right through the port-hole--d'ee see?" he set the spider quietly on his legs again, who replied, with unruffled coolness-- "mum's the word, cappen." gillie had been shorn of his blue tights and brass buttons, poor mrs stoutley having found it absolutely necessary, on her return home, to dismiss all her servants, dispose of all her belongings, and retire into the privacy of a poor lodging in a back street. thus the spider had come to be suddenly thrown on the world again, but captain wopper had retained him, he said, as a mixture of errand-boy, cabin-boy, and powder-monkey, in which capacity he dwelt with his mother during the night and revolved like a satellite round the captain during the day. a suit of much more appropriate pepper-and-salt had replaced the blue tights and buttons. altogether, his _tout-ensemble_ was what the captain styled "more ship-shape." we have said that mrs stoutley and her family had made a descent in life. as poor lewis remarked, with a sad smile, they had quitted the gay and glittering heights, and gone, like a magnificent avalanche, down into the moraine. social, not less than physical, avalanches multiply their parts and widen their course during descent. the stoutleys did not fall alone. a green-grocer, a shoemaker, and a baker, who had long been trembling, like human boulders, on the precipice of bankruptcy, went tumbling down along with them, and found rest in a lower part of the moraine than they had previously occupied. "it's a sad business," said lewis to dr lawrence one morning; "and if you continue to attend me, you must do so without the most distant prospect of a fee." "my dear fellow," returned lawrence, "have you no such thing as gratitude in your composition?" "not much, and, if i had ever so much, it would be poor pay." "poor, indeed, if regarded as one's only source of livelihood," rejoined lawrence, "but it is ample remuneration from a friend, whether rich or poor, and, happily, capable of being mixed with pounds, shillings and pence without deterioration. in the present case, i shall be more than rejoiced to take the fee unmixed, but, whether fee'd or not fee'd, i insist on continuing attendance on a case which i have a right to consider peculiarly my own." "it would have been a bad case, indeed, but for you," returned lewis, a flush for a moment suffusing his pale cheek as he took his friend's hand and squeezed it. "i am thoroughly convinced, lawrence, that god's blessing on your skill and unwearied care of me at the time of the accident is the cause of my being alive to thank you to-day. but sit down, my dear fellow, and pray postpone your professional inquiries for a little, as i have something on my mind which i wish to ask you about." lawrence shook his head. "business first, pleasure afterwards," he said; "professional duties must not be postponed." "now," said lewis when he had finished, "are you satisfied? do you admit that even an unprofessional man might have seen at a glance that i am much better, and that your present draft on my gratitude is a mere swindle?" "i admit nothing," retorted the other; "but now, what have you got to say to me?" "i am going to make a confidant of you. are you to be trusted?" "perhaps; i dare not say yes unconditionally, because i'm rather sociable and communicative, and apt to talk in my sleep." "that will do. your answer is sufficiently modest. i will venture. you know captain wopper, i mean, you are well acquainted with his character; well, that kind and eccentric man has made a proposal to my dear mother, which we do not like to accept, and which at the same time we do not quite see our way to refuse. my mother, when in great distress in switzerland, was forced to borrow a small sum of money from him, and thought it right to justify her doing so by letting him know-- what everybody, alas! may know now--that we were ruined. with that ready kindness which is his chief characteristic he at once complied. since our return home he has, with great delicacy but much determination, insisted that we shall accept from him a regular weekly allowance until we have had time to correspond with our uncle stout in california. `you mustn't starve,' he said to my mother--i give you his own words--`and you'd be sure to starve if you was to try to wegitate for six months or so on atmospheric air. it'll take that time before you could get a letter from willum, an' though your son lewis could an' would, work like a nigger to keep your pot bilin' if he was well an' hearty, it's as plain as the nose on your own face, ma'am, that he can't work while he's as thin as a fathom of pump-water an' as weak as a babby. now, you know-at least i can tell 'ee--that my old chum willum is as rich as a east injin nabob. you wouldn't believe, madam, what fortins some gold-diggers have made. w'y, i've seed men light their pipes with fi'-pun' notes for a mere brag out there. i've made a goodish lump o' money myself too,--a'most more than i know what to do with, an' as to willum, i may say he's actooally rollin' in gold. he's also chockfull of regard for you and yours, ma'am. that bein' so, he's sure to send you somethin' to tide you over yer difficulties, an' he's also sure to send somethin' to lewis to help him start fair when he gits well, and he's surest of all to send somethin' to miss emma for all the kind letters she's writ to him doorin' the last five or six years. well, then, i'm willum's buzzum friend, and, knowin' exactly what he'll say an' do in the circumstances, what more nat'ral an' proper than that willum's chum should anticipate willum's wishes, and advance the money-- some of it at least--say three thousand pounds to start with.' now, lawrence," continued lewis, "what should we do? should we accept this offer? the good fellow has evidently made a great deal of money at the gold-fields, and no doubt speaks truly when he says he can afford to advance that sum. and we know our uncle william's character well enough, though we have never seen him, to be quite sure that he will assist my dear mother until i am able to support her. what say you?" "accept the offer at once," said lawrence. "from what i have seen of the captain, i am convinced that he is a warm friend and a genuine man. no doubt he can well afford to do what he proposes, and his opinion of william stout's character is just, for, from what i know of him through mrs roby, who knew him when he was a lad, when his life was saved by my father, he must have a kind heart." "i have no doubt of it, lawrence, and a grateful heart too, if i may judge from a few words that fell from captain wopper about your father and yourself." "indeed! what did he say about us?" "i have no right to repeat observations dropped inadvertently," said lewis, with a laugh. "nor to raise curiosity which you don't mean to satisfy," retorted his friend; "however, my advice is, that you accept the captain's offer, and trust to your uncle's generosity." chapter twenty three. the captain surprises his friends in various ways, and is himself baffled. time and tide passed on--as they are proverbially said to do--without waiting for any one. some people in the great city, aware of this cavalier style of proceeding on the part of time and tide, took advantage of both, and scaled the pinnacled heights of society. others, neglecting their opportunities, or misusing them, produced a series of avalanches more or less noteworthy, and added a few more boulders to the vast accumulations in the great social moraine. several of the actors in this tale were among those who, having learnt a few sharp lessons in the avalanche school, began to note and avail themselves of time and tide--notably, mrs stoutley and her son and niece. a decided change had come over the spirit of mrs stoutley's dream of life. she had at last visited the great london moraine, especially that part of it called grubb's court, and had already dug up a few nuggets and diamonds, one of which latter she brought to her humble home in the back street, with the design of polishing it into a good servant-maid. its name was netta white. mrs stoutley had formerly been a spendthrift; now she was become covetous. she coveted the male diamond belonging to the same part of the moraine--once named the spider, _alias_ the imp--but captain wopper had dug up that one for himself and would not part with it. gradually the good lady conceived and carried out the idea of digging out and rescuing a number of diamonds, considerably lower in the scale than the netta type, training them for service, and taking pains to get them into good situations. it was hard work no doubt, but mrs stoutley persevered, and was well repaid--for the master of such labourers esteems them "worthy of their hire." emma assisted in the work most heartily. it was by no means new to her. she might have directed if she had chosen, but she preferred to follow. lewis recovered rapidly--so rapidly that he was soon able to resume his medical studies and prosecute them with vigour. no bad effects of the accident remained, yet he was an altered man--not altered in appearance or in character, but in spirit. he was still off-hand in manner, handsome in face and figure, hearty in society, but earnest and grave-- very grave--in private. he pored over his books, and strove, successfully too, to master the difficulties of the healing art; but do what he would, and fight against it as he might, he was constantly distracted by a pretty face with bright sparkling eyes and a strangely sad expression coming between him and the page. he made continual inquiries after the owner of the sparkling eyes in every direction without success, and at last got into the habit when walking, of looking earnestly at people as if he expected to meet with some one. "if i had got into this state," he sometimes said to himself, "because of being merely in love with a pretty face, i should consider myself a silly nincompoop; but it is such a terrible thing for so sweet and young a creature to be chained to a man who must in the nature of things, land her in beggary and break her heart." thus he deceived himself as to his main motive. poor lewis! one morning captain wopper got up a little earlier than usual, and began a series of performances which mrs roby had long ago styled "rampadgin" round his garret. the reader may have discovered by this time that the captain was no ordinary man. whatever he did in connection with himself was done with almost superhuman energy and noise. since the commencement of his residence in the garret he had unwittingly subjected the nerves of poor mrs roby to such a variety of shocks, that the mere fact of her reason remaining on its throne was an unquestionable proof of a more than usually powerful constitution. it could not well be otherwise. the captain's limbs resembled the limbs of oaks in regard to size and toughness. his spirits were far above "proof." his organs were cathedral organs compared with the mere barrel-organs of ordinary men. on the other hand, the "cabin" in grubb's court was but a flimsy tenement; its plank floorings were thin, and its beams and rafters slim and somewhat loose owing to age, so that when the captain snored, which he did regularly and continuously, it was as if a mastiff had got inside a double-bass and were growling hideously. but mrs roby had now got pretty well accustomed to her lodger's ways. her nerves had become strung to the ordeal, and she even came to like the galvanic battery in which she dwelt, because of its being worked by the intimate friend of her dear william; such is the power of love--we might almost say, in this case, of reflected love! the good old lady had even become so acute in her perceptions, that, without seeing the "rampadger," she knew precisely the part of his daily programme with which he happened to be engaged. of course the snoring told its own tale with brazen-tongued clamour, and the whole tenement trembled all night long from top to bottom. nothing but the regardless nature of the surrounding population prevented the captain from being indicted as a nuisance; but there were other sounds that were not so easily recognised. on the morning in question, mrs roby, lying placidly in her neat white little bed, and gazing with a sweet contented face through one of her cabin windows at the bright blue sky, heard a sound as though a compound animal--hog and whale--had aroused itself and rolled over on its other side. a low whistling followed. mrs roby knew that the captain was pleasantly engaged with his thoughts--planning out the proceedings of the day. suddenly the whistling ceased and was followed by a sonorous "how-ho!" terminating in a gasp worthy of an express locomotive. the captain had stretched himself and mrs roby smiled at her own thoughts, as well she might for they embraced the idea that a twentieth part of the force employed in that stretch would have rent in twain every tendon, muscle, sinew, and filament in her, mrs roby's, body. next, there descended on the floor overhead a sixteen-stone cannon ball, which caused--not the neighbours, but the boards and rafters to complain. the captain was up! and succeeding sounds proved that he had had another stretch, for there was a bump in the middle of it which showed that, forgetting his stature, the careless man had hit the ceiling with his head. that was evidently a matter of no consequence. from this point the boards and rafters continued to make unceasing complaint, now creaking uneasily as if under great provocation, anon groaning or yelling as though under insufferable torment. from the ceiling of mrs roby's room numerous small bits of plaster, unable to stand it longer, fell and powdered mrs roby's floor. the curtains of her little bed saved her face. there was a slushing and swishing and gasping and blowing now, which might have done credit to a school of porpoises. the captain was washing. something between the flapping of a main top-sail in a shifting squall and the currying of a hippopotamus indicated that the captain was drying himself. the process was interrupted by an unusual, though not quite unknown, crash and a howl; he had overturned the wash-hand basin, and a double thump, followed by heavy dabs, told that the captain was on his knees swabbing it up. next instant the captain's head, with beard and hair in a tremendously rubbed-up condition, appeared upside down at the hatchway. "hallo! old girl, has she sprung a leak anywhere?" "nowhere," replied mrs roby, with a quiet smile. she felt the question to be unnecessary. "she," that is, the roof above her, never did leak in such circumstances. if the thames had suddenly flooded the garret, the captain's energy was sufficient to have swabbed it up in time to prevent a drop reaching "the lower deck." soon after this catastrophe there was a prolonged silence. the captain was reading. mrs roby shut her eyes and joined him in spirit. thereafter the captain's feet appeared at the trap where his head had been, and he descended with a final and tremendous crash to the floor. "see here, mother," he cried, with a look of delight, holding up a very soiled and crumpled letter, "that's from willum." "from william," exclaimed the old woman, eagerly; "why, when did you get it? the postman can't have been here this morning." "of course he hasn't; i got it last night from the limb-o'-the-law that looks after my little matters. i came in late, and you were asleep, so i kep' it to whet yer appetite for breakfast. now listen, you must take it first; i'll get you breakfast afterwards." the captain had by this time got into the way of giving the old woman her breakfast in bed every morning. "go on," said the old woman, nodding. the captain spread out the letter on his knee with great care, and read aloud:-- "my dear wopper, got yer letter all right. "my blissin' to the poor widdy. help her? ov coorse i'll help her. you did right in advancin' the money, though you fell short, by a long way, when you advanced so little. hows'ever, no matter. i gave you my last will an' testimony w'en we parted. here's a noo un. inside o' this, if i don't forget it before i've done, you'll find a cheque for thirteen thousand pounds sterling. give three to the widdy, with my respects; give four to dear emma gray, with my best love and blissin'; give two to mister lewis, with my compliments; an' give four to young lawrence, with my benediction, for his father's sake. as for the old 'ooman roby, you don't need to give nothin' to her. she and i understand each other. _i'll_ look after her myself. i'll make her my residooary legatee, an' wotever else is needful; but, in the meantime, you may as well see that she's got all that she wants. build her a noo house too. i'm told that grubb's court ain't exactly aristocratic or clean; see to that. wotever you advance out o' yer own pocket, i'll pay back with interest. that's to begin with, tell 'em. there's more comin'. there--i'm used up wi' writin' such a long screed. i'd raither dig a twenty-futt hole in clay sile any day.-- yours to command, willum. "p.s.--you ain't comin' back soon--are you?" "now, mother, what d'ee think o' that?" said the captain, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket. "it's a good, kind letter--just like william," answered the old woman. "well, so i'm inclined to think," rejoined the captain, busying himself about breakfast while he spoke; "it provides for everybody in a sort o' way, and encourages 'em to go on hopeful like--don't it strike you so? then, you see, that's four to miss emma, and four to dr lawrence, which would be eight, equal to four hundred a year; and that, with the practice he's gettin' into, would make it six, or thereabouts--not bad to begin with, eh?" the captain followed his remark with a sigh. "what's the matter?" asked mrs roby. "why, you remember, mother, before goin' abroad i set my heart on these two gettin' spliced; but i fear it's no go. sometimes i think they looks fond o' one another, at other times i don't. it's a puzzler. they're both young an' good-lookin' an' good. what more would they have?" "perhaps they want money," suggested the old woman. "you say dr lawrence's income just now is about two hundred; well, gentlefolks find it summat difficult to keep house on that, though it's plenty for the likes of you an' me." "that's true. p'r'aps the doctor is sheerin' off for fear o' draggin' a young creeter into poverty. it never struck me in that light before." beaming under the influence of this hopeful view of the case, the captain proceeded to make another move in the complicated game which he had resolved to play out and win; but this move, which he had considered one of the easiest of all, proved to be the most unfortunate, or rather unmanageable. "now, mother," said he, "i mean to make a proposal to 'ee, before going out for the day, so that you may have time to think over it. this cabin o' yours ain't just the thing, you know,--raither dirty, and too high in the clouds by a long way, so i've bin an' seen a noo house on the river, not unlike this one, an' i wants you to shift your berth. what say 'ee--eh?" to the captain's surprise and dismay, the old woman shook her head decidedly, and no argument which he could bring to bear had the least effect on her. she had, in fact, got used to her humble old home, and attached to it, and could not bear the thought of leaving it. having exhausted his powers of suasion in vain, he left her to think over it, and sallied forth crestfallen. however, he consoled himself with the hope that time and consideration would bring her to a right state of mind. meanwhile he would go to the parties interested, and communicate the contents of willum's letter. he went first to doctor lawrence, who was delighted as well as pleased at what it contained. the captain at first read only the clauses which affected his friends the stoutleys, and said nothing about that which referred to the doctor himself. "so you see, doctor, i'm off to let the stoutleys know about this little matter, and just looked in on you in passing." "it was very kind of you, captain." "not at all, by no means," returned the captain, pulling out a large clasp-knife, with which he proceeded carefully to pare his left thumb nail. "by the way, doctor," he said carelessly, "were you ever in love?" lawrence flushed, and cast a quick glance at his interrogator, who, however, was deeply engaged with the thumb nail. "well, i suppose men at my time of life," he replied, with a laugh, "have had some--" "of course--of course," interrupted the other, "but i mean that i wonder a strapping young fellow like you, with such a good practice, don't get married." the doctor, who had recovered himself, laughed, and said that his good practice was chiefly among the poor, and that even if he wished to marry--or rather, if any one would have him--he would never attempt to win a girl while he had nothing better than two hundred a year and prospects to offer her. "then i suppose you _would_ marry if you had something better to offer," said the captain, finishing off the nail and shutting the clasp-knife with a snap. again the doctor laughed, wondered why the captain had touched on such a theme, and said that he couldn't exactly say what he might or might not do if circumstances were altered. the captain was baffled. however, he said that circumstances _were_ altered, and, after reading over the latter part of willum's letter, left lawrence to digest it at his leisure. we need not follow him on his mission. suffice it to say that he carried no small amount of relief to the minds of mrs stoutley and her household; and, thereafter, met gillie by appointment at charing cross, whence he went to kensington to see a villa, with a view to purchasing it. at night he again essayed to move mrs roby's resolution, and many a time afterwards attacked her, but always with the same result. although, as he said, he fought like a true-blue british seaman, and gave her broadside after broadside as fast as he could load and fire, he made no impression on her whatever. she had nailed her colours to the mast and would never give in. chapter twenty four. in which tremendous forces come to the captain's aid. it is probable that most people can recall occasions when "circumstances" have done for them that which they have utterly failed to effect for themselves. some time after the failure of captain wopper's little plots and plans in regard to mrs roby, "circumstances" favoured him--the wind shifted round, so to speak, and blew right astern. to continue our metaphor, it blew a tremendous gale, and the captain's ends were gained at last only by the sinking of the ship! this is how it happened. one afternoon the captain was walking rather disconsolately down the strand in company with his satellite--we might almost say, his confidant. the street was very crowded, insomuch that at one or two crossings they were obliged to stand a few minutes before venturing over,--not that the difficulty was great, many active men being seen to dodge among the carts, drays, vans, and busses with marvellous ease and safety, but the captain was cautious. he was wont to say that he warn't used to sail in such crowded waters--there warn't enough o' sea room for him--he'd rather lay-to, or stand--off-an'-on for half a day than risk being run down by them shore-goin' crafts. "everything in life seems to go wrong at times," muttered the captain, as he and the satellite lay-to at one of these crossings. "yes, it's coorious, ain't it, sir," said gillie, "an' at other times everything seems to go right--don't it, sir?" "true, my lad, that's a better view to take of it," returned the captain, cheerfully, "come, we'll heave ahead." as they were "heaving" along in silence, the rattle and noise around them being unsuited to conversation, they suddenly became aware that the ordinary din of the strand swelled into a furious roar. gillie was half way up a lamp-post in an instant! from which elevated position he looked down on the captain, and said-- "a ingine!" "what sort of a ingine, my lad?" "a fire! hooray!" shouted gillie, with glittering eyes and flushed countenance, "look out, cappen, keep close 'longside o' me, under the lee o' the lamp-post. it's not a bad buffer, though never quite a sure one, bein' carried clean away sometimes by the wheels w'en there's a bad driver." as he spoke, the most intense excitement was manifested in the crowded thoroughfare. whips were flourished, cabmen shouted, horses reared, vehicles of all kinds scattered right and left even although there had seemed almost a "block" two seconds before. timid foot passengers rushed into shops, bold ones mounted steps and kerb-stones, or stood on tip-toe, and the captain, towering over the crowd, saw the gleam of brass helmets as the charioteer clove his way through the swaying mass. there is something powerfully exciting to most minds in the sight of men rushing into violent action, especially when the action may possibly involve life and death. the natural excitement aroused in the captain's breast was increased by the deep bass nautical roar that met his ear. every man in the london fire-brigade is, or used to be, a picked man-of-war's-man, and the shouting necessary in such a thoroughfare to make people get out of the way was not only tremendous but unceasing. it was as though a dozen mad "bo's'ns," capped with brazen war-helmets, had been let loose on london society, through which they tore at full gallop behind three powerful horses on a hissing and smoking monster of brass and iron. a bomb shell from a twenty-five-ton gun could scarce have cut a lane more effectually. the captain took off his hat and cheered in sympathy. the satellite almost dropped from the lamp-post with excess of feeling. the crash and roar increased, culminated, rushed past and gone in a moment. gillie dropped to the ground as if he had been shot, seized the captain's hand, and attempted to drag him along. he might as well have tried to drag vesuvius from its base, but the captain was willing. a hansom-cab chanced to be in front of them as they dashed into the road, the driver smoking and cool as a cucumber, being used to such incidents. he held up a finger. "quick, in with you, cappen!" gillie got behind his patron, and in attempting to expedite his movements with a push, almost sent him out at the other side. "after the ingine--slap!" yelled gillie to the face which looked down through the conversation-hole in the roof, "double extra fare if you look sharp." the cabman was evidently a sympathetic soul. he followed in the wake of the fire-engine as well as he could; but it was a difficult process, for, while the world at large made way for _it_, nobody cared a straw for _him_! "ain't it fun?" said gillie, as he settled his panting little body on the cushion beside his friend and master. "not bad," responded the captain, who half laughed at the thought of being so led away by excitement and a small boy. "i'd give up all my bright prospects of advancement in life," continued gillie, "to be a fireman. there's no fun goin' equal to a fire." "p'r'aps it don't seem quite so funny to them as is bein' burnt out," suggested the captain. "of course it don't, but that can't be helped, you know--can it, sir? what can't be cured must be endoored, as the proverb says. get along, old fellow, don't spare his ribs--double fare, you know; we'll lose 'em if you don't." the latter part of the remark was shouted through the hole to the cabman, who however, pulled up instead of complying. "it's of no use, sir," he said, looking down at the captain, "i've lost sight of 'em." gillie was on the pavement in a moment. "never mind, cappen, give him five bob, an' decline the change; come along. _i_ see 'em go past the bridge, so ten to one it's down about the docks somewheres--the wust place in london for a fire w'ich, of course, means the best." the idea of its being so afforded such unalloyed pleasure to gillie, that he found it hard to restrain himself and accommodate his pace to that of his friend. it soon became very evident that the fire was in truth somewhere about the docks, for not only was a dense cloud of smoke seen rising in that direction, but fire-engines began to dash from side streets everywhere, and to rush towards the smoke as if they were sentient things impatient for the fray. the cause of such unusual vigour and accumulation of power was, that a fire anywhere about the docks is deemed pre-eminently dangerous, owing to the great and crowded warehouses being stuffed from cellars to roof-trees with combustibles. the docks, in regard to fire, form the citadel of london. if the enemy gets a footing there, he must be expelled at all hazards and at any cost. as the captain and his _protege_ hurried along, they were naturally led in the direction of their home. a vague undefined fear at the same instant took possession of both, for they glanced gravely at each other without speaking, and, as if by mutual consent, began to run. gillie had no need now to complain of his companion's pace. he had enough to do to keep up with it. there were many runners besides themselves now, for the fire was obviously near at hand, and the entire population of the streets seemed to be pressing towards it. a few steps more brought them in sight of the head of grubb's court. here several fire-engines were standing in full play surrounded by a swaying mass of human beings. still there was no sign of the precise locality of the fires for the tall houses hid everything from view save the dense cloud which overshadowed them all. even captain wopper's great strength would have been neutralised in such a crowd if it had not now been seconded by an excitement and anxiety that nothing could resist. he crushed his way through as if he had been one of the steam fire-engines, gillie holding tight to the stout tails of his monkey jacket. several powerful roughs came in his way, and sought to check him. the captain had hitherto merely used his shoulders and his weight. to the roughs he applied a fist--right and left--and two went down. a few seconds brought him to the cordon of policemen. they had seen him approaching, and one placed himself in front of the captain with the quiet air of a man who is accustomed _never_ to give way to physical force! "i live down grubb's court, my man," said the captain, with an eager respectful air, for he was of a law-abiding spirit. the constable stepped aside, and nodded gravely. the captain passed the line, but gillie was pounced upon as if he had been a mouse and the constable a cat. "_he_ belongs to me," cried the captain, turning back on hearing gillie's yell of despair. the boy was released, and both flew down the court, on the pavement of which the snake-like water-hose lay spirting at its seams. "it's in the cabin," said the captain, in a low deep voice, as he dashed into the court, where a crowd of firemen were toiling with cool, quiet, yet tremendous energy. no crowd interrupted them here, save the few frantic inhabitants of the court, who were screaming advice and doing nothing; but no attention whatever was paid to them. a foreman of the brigade stood looking calmly upwards engaged in low-toned conversation with a brother fireman, as if they were discussing theories of the picturesque and beautiful with special application to chimney-cans, clouds of smoke, and leaping tongues of fire. immense engine power had been brought to bear, and one of the gigantic floating-engines of the thames had got near enough to shower tons of water over the buildings, still it was a matter of uncertainty whether the fire could be confined to the court where it had originated. the result of the foreman's quiet talk was that the brother-fireman suddenly seized a nozzle from a comrade, and made a dash at the door leading up to "the cabin." flames and smoke drove him back instantly. it was at this moment that captain wopper came on the scene. without a moment's hesitation he rushed towards the same door. the foreman seized his arm. "it's of no use, sir, you can't do it." the captain shook him off and sprang in. a few seconds and he rushed out choking, scorched, and with his eyes starting almost out of their sockets. "it is of no use, sir," remonstrated the foreman, "besides, the people have all bin got out, i'm told." "no, they 'aven't," cried mrs white, coming up at the moment, frantically wringing the last article of linen on which she had been professionally engaged, "mrs roby's there yet." "all right, sir," said the foreman, with that quiet comforting intonation which is peculiar to men of power, resource, and self-reliance, "come to the back. the escape will be up immediately. it couldn't get down the court, owin' to some masonry that was piled there, and had to be sent round." quick to understand, the captain followed the fireman, and reached the back of the house, on the riverside, just as the towering head of the escape emerged from a flanking alley. "this way. the small window on the right at the top--so." the ladder was barely placed when the captain sprang upon it and ran up as, many a time before, he had run up the shrouds of his own vessel. a cheer from the crowd below greeted this display of activity, but it was changed into a laugh when the captain, finding the window shut and bolted, want into the room head first, carrying frame and glass along with him! divesting himself of the uncomfortable necklace, he looked hastily round. the smoke was pretty thick, but not sufficiently so to prevent his seeing poor mrs roby lying on the floor as if she had fallen down suffocated. "cheer up, old lass," he cried, kneeling and raising her head tenderly. "is that you, cappen?" said the old woman, in a weak voice. "come, we've no time to lose. let me lift you; the place is all alight. i thought you was choked." "choked! oh dear, no," replied the old woman, "but i've always heard that in a fire you should keep your face close to the ground for air-- ah! gently, cappen, dear!" while she was speaking, the captain was getting her tucked under his strong right arm. he could have whisked her on his shoulder in a moment, but was afraid of her poor old bones, and treated her as if she had been a fragile china tea-cup of great value. next moment he was out on the escape, and reached the ground amid ringing cheers. he carried her at once to the nearest place of safety, and, committing her to the care of mrs white, rushed back to the scene of conflagration just as they were about to remove the escape. "stop!" shouted the captain, springing on it. "there's nobody else up, is there?" cried a fireman, as the captain ran up. "no, nobody." "come down then, directly," roared the fireman, "the escape is wanted elsewhere. come down, i say, or we'll leave you." "you're welcome to leave me," roared the captain, as he stepped into the window, "only hold your noise, an' mind your own business." with a mingled feeling of amusement and indignation they hurried away with the escape. it had been urgently wanted to reach a commanding position whence to assail the fire. the order to send it was peremptory, so the captain was left in his uncomfortable situation, with the smoke increasing around him, and the fire roaring underneath. the actions of our seaman were now curious as well as prompt. taking a blanket from his old friend's bed, he spread it below the chimney-piece, and in a remarkably short time pulled down, without damaging, every object on the wall and threw it into the blanket. he then added to the heap the chinese lantern, the turkish scimitar, the new zealand club, the eastern shield, the ornamented dagger, the worsted work sampler, the sou'-wester, the oiled coat, the telescope, the framed sheet of the flags of all nations, and the small portrait of the sea-captain in his "go-to-meetin'" clothes; also the big bible and a very small box, which latter contained mrs roby's limited wardrobe. he tied all up in a tight bundle. a coil of rope hung on a peg on the wall. the bundle was fastened to the end of it and lowered to the ground, amid a fire of remarks from the crowd, which were rather caustic and humorous than complimentary. "gillie," shouted the captain, "cast off the rope, lad, and look well after the property." "ay, ay, cappen," replied the youth, taking up a thick cart-pin, or something of the sort, that lay near, and mounting guard. there was another laugh, from crowd and firemen, at the nautical brevity and promptitude of gillie. at every large fire in london there may be seen a few firemen standing about in what an ignorant spectator might imagine to be easy indifference and idleness, but these men are not idlers. they are resting. the men who first arrive at a fire go into action with the utmost vigour, and toil until their powers are nearly--sometimes quite-- exhausted. as time passes fresh men are continually arriving from the more distant stations. these go into action as they come up, thus relieving the others, who stand aloof for a time looking on, or doing easy work, and recruiting their energies. it was these men who watched the captain's proceedings with much amusement while their comrades were doing battle with the foe. presently the captain reappeared at the window and lowered a huge sea-chest. a third time he appeared with the model of a full-rigged ship in his hand. this time he let the end of the rope down, and then getting over the window, slid easily to the ground. "you're uncommon careful o' your property," exclaimed one of the onlookers, with a broad grin. "'taint all _my_ property, lad," replied the captain, with a good-humoured nod, "most of it is a poor old 'ooman's belongings." so saying, he got a man to carry his sea-chest, himself shouldered the bundle, gillie was intrusted with the full-rigged model, and thus laden they left the scene followed by another laugh and a hearty cheer. but our bluff seaman was not content with rescuing mrs roby and her property. he afterwards proceeded to lend his effective aid to all who desired his assistance, and did not cease his exertions until evening, by which time the fire was happily subdued. "she must not be moved to-night captain," said dr lawrence, for whom gillie had been sent; "the place where she lies is doubtless far from comfortable, but i have got her to sleep, and it would be a pity to awake her. to-morrow we shall get her into more comfortable quarters." "could she bear movin' to-morrow, a mile or so?" asked the captain. "certainly, but there is no occasion to go so far. lodgings are to be had--" "all right, doctor; i've got a lodging ready for her, and will ask you to come an' have pot-luck with us before long. gillie, my lad, you go hail a cab, and then come back to lend a hand wi' the cargo." in a few minutes the pair were whirling towards the west end of london, and were finally landed with their "cargo" on the banks of the thames above the bridges, near the new building which captain wopper had named, after its prototype, "the cabin." to fit this up after the fashion of the old place was a comparatively short and easy work for two such handy labourers. before they left that night it was so like its predecessor in all respects, except dirt, that both declared it to be the "identical same craft, in shape and rig, even to the little bed and curtains." next afternoon mrs roby was brought to it by captain wopper, in a specially easy carriage hired for the purpose. the poor old woman had received more of a shock than she was willing to admit, and did exactly as she was bid, with many a sigh, however, at the thought of having been burnt out of the old home. she was carried up the stair in a chair by two porters, and permitted the captain to draw a thick veil over her head to conceal, as he said, her blushes from the men. he also took particular care to draw the curtains of the bed close round her after she had been laid in it and then retired to allow her to be disrobed by netta, who had been obtained from mrs stoutley on loan expressly for the occasion. much of this care to prevent her seeing the place that day, however, was unnecessary. the poor old creature was too much wearied by the short journey to look at anything. after partaking of a little tea and toast she fell into a quiet sleep, which was not broken till late on the following morning. her first thought on waking was the fire. her second, the captain. he was in the room, she knew, because he was whistling in his usual low tone while moving about the fireplace preparing breakfast. she glanced at the curtains; her own curtains certainly,--and the bed too! much surprised, she quietly put out her thin hand and drew the curtain slightly aside. the captain in his shirt sleeves, as usual, preparing buttered toast, the fireplace, the old kettle with the defiant spout singing away as defiantly as ever, the various photographs, pot-lids, and other ornaments above the fireplace, the two little windows commanding an extensive prospect of the sky from the spot where she lay, the full-rigged ship, the chinese lantern hanging from the beam-- everything just as it should be! "well, well," thought mrs roby, with a sigh of relief; "the fire must have been a dream after all! but what a vivid one!" she coughed. the captain was at her side instantly. "slept well, old girl?" "very well, thank you. i've had such a queer dream, d'you know?" "have you? take your breakfast, mother, before tellin' it. it's all ready--there, fire away." "it _was_ such a vivid one," she resumed, when half through her third cup, "all about a fire, and you were in it too." here she proceeded to relate her dream with the most circumstantial care. the captain listened with patient attention till she had finished, and then said-- "it was no dream, mother. it's said that the great fire of london was a real blessin' to the city. the last fire in london will, i hope, be a blessin' to you an' me. it was real enough and terrible too, but through god's mercy you have been saved from it. i managed to save your little odds and ends too. this is the noo `cabin,' mother, that you wouldn't consent to come to. something like the old one, ain't it?" mrs roby spoke never a word, but looked round the room in bewilderment. taking the captain's hand she kissed it, and gazed at him and the room until she fell asleep. awaking again in half an hour, she finished her breakfast, asked for the old bible, and, declaring herself content, fell straightway into her old ways and habits. chapter twenty five. an unexpected gem found. although lewis stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady resolution which might be almost styled heroic. to tear out the illustrations was impossible, for nita's portrait was stamped on every page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. success, however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the "moraine" which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and emma, who ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their souls to the good physician. this professional work he did as a sort of amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend lawrence, whose extending practice included that district. it happened also to be the district in which mrs roby's new "cabin" was situated. these labourers, in what dr tough had styled the london gold fields, not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a diamond, which was quite a prize. one such was found by lewis about this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered, proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear it himself. he and emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they found old mrs roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about the peculiarities of the captain and his boy. "by the way," said mrs roby to lewis, when they rose to go, "a poor woman was here just before you came, askin' if i knew where she could find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. the two have come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they appear to be very poor. i could not give her dr lawrence's new address, for i don't know it, so i advised her to apply to the nearest chemist. perhaps, mr lewis, you'll go yourself and see the poor man?" "willingly, and i shall myself call for lawrence on my way home and send him, if necessary. come, emma. perhaps this may be a case for the exercise of your philanthropy." they soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor. "ah, sir, you're too late, he's dead," said the woman, in reply to lewis's inquiry. "o how sad!" broke from emma's sympathetic spirit, "i am _so_ sorry we are too late. did you find a doctor?" "no, ma'am, i didn't, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so i ran back to tell the poor young thing that i'd go fetch one as quick as i could, and i found him just dying in her arms." "in whose arms? are not you the daughter--" said emma. "me, miss! oh dear, no. i'm only a neighbour." "has she any friends?" asked lewis. "none as i knows of. they are strangers here--only just came to the room. there it is," she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner door. lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. he knocked again. still no answer. he therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter. it was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. abject poverty was stamped on the whole place. on the bed lay the dead man, covered with a sheet. beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a woman. her dress was a soiled and rusty black. her hair, fallen from its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. her arms clasped the dead form. "my poor woman," whispered emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand timidly on her shoulder. but the woman made no answer. "she has fainted, i think," exclaimed emma, rising quickly and trying to raise the woman's head. suddenly lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face. "nita!" he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering the poor faded face with kisses; but nita heard not. it seemed as if the silver chord had already snapped. becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, lewis hastily bore the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while emma aided him to restore consciousness. they were soon successful. nita heaved a sigh. "now, emma," said lewis, rising, "this is _your_ place just now, i will go and fetch something to revive her." he stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet. there was no mistaking the handsome face of the count even in death. it was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance. on returning, lewis found that nita had thrown her arms round emma's neck and was sobbing violently. she looked up as he entered, and held out her hand. "god has sent you," she said, looking at emma, "to save my heart from breaking." lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no power to utter a word. presently, as the poor girl's eye fell on the bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. "oh, how he loved me!--and how nobly he fought!--and how gloriously he conquered!--god be praised for that!" she spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. to distract her mind, if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, emma ventured to ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar questions. little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking words and tears, the sad story came out. ever since the night when her father met with lewis at saxon, he had firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. god had opened his ear to listen to, and his heart to receive, the saviour. arriving in london with the money so generously lent to them by lewis, they took a small lodging and sought for work. god was faithful to his promises, she said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. her father taught music, she obtained needlework. all was going well when her father became suddenly ill. slowly but steadily he sank. the teaching had to be given up, the hours of labour with the needle increased. this, coupled with constant nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work. then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they had begun to accumulate about them. "thus," she said, in conclusion, "we were nearly reduced to a state of destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, god mercifully took my darling father home--and--and--i shall soon join him." "say not so, darling," said emma, twining her arms round the poor stricken girl. "it may be that he has much work for you to do for jesus _here_ before he takes you home. meanwhile, he has sent us to claim you as our very dear friend--as our sister. you must come and stay with mamma and me. we, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity, which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor nita, but we are comparatively well off now. mamma will be so glad to have you. say you will come. won't you, dearest?" nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow. chapter twenty six. the denouement. being naturally a straightforward man, and not gifted with much power in the way of plotting and scheming, captain wopper began in time to discover that he had plunged his mental faculties into a disagreeable state of confusion. "gillie, my lad," he said, looking earnestly at his satellite while they walked one afternoon along the bayswater road in the direction of kensington, "it's a bad business altogether." gillie, not having the smallest idea what the captain referred to, admitted that it was "wery bad indeed," but suggested that "it might be wuss." "it's such a perplexin' state o' things," pursued the captain, "to be always bouncin' up an' down wi' hopes, an' fears, an' disappointments, like a mad barometer, not knowin' rightly what's what or who's who." "uncommon perplexin'," assented gillie. "if i was you, cappen, i'd heave the barometer overboard along wi' the main-deck, nail yer colours to the mast, cram the rudder into the lee-scuppers, kick up your flyin'-jib-boom into the new moon, an' go down stern foremost like a man!" "ha!" said the captain, with a twinkle in the corner of his "weather-eye," "not a bad notion." "now, my lad, i'm goin' out to my villa at kensington to dine. there's to be company, too, an' you're to be waiter--" "stooard, you mean?" "well, yes--stooard. now, stooard, you'll keep a good look-out, an' clap as tight a stopper on yer tongue as may be. i've got a little plot in hand, d'ee see, an' i want you to help me with it. keep your eye in a quiet way on dr lawrence and miss gray. i've taken a fancy that perhaps they may be in love with each other. you just let me have your opinion on that pint after dinner, but have a care that you don't show what you're up to, and, whatever you do, don't be cheeky." "all right," said the stooard, thrusting both hands into his trouser-pockets; "i'll do my best." while these two were slowly wending their way through kensington gardens, emma gray arrived at the captain's villa--california cottage, he called it--and rang the bell. the gate was opened by netta white, who, although not much bigger than when first introduced to the reader, was incomparably more beautiful and smart. mrs stoutley had reason to be proud of her. "i did not know that _you_ were to be here, netta?" said emma, in surprise, as she entered. "it was a very sudden call, miss," said netta, with a smile. "captain wopper wrote a note to me, begging me to ask mrs stoutley to be so good as lend me to him for a day to help at his house-warming. here is the letter, miss." emma laughed as she glanced carelessly at the epistle, but became suddenly grave, turned white, then red, and, snatching the letter from the girl's hand, gazed at it intently. "la! miss, is anything wrong?" "may i keep this?" asked emma. "certainly, miss, if you wish it." before she could say anything more, they were interrupted by the entrance of dr lawrence. with a surprised look and smile he said-- "i have been invited to dine with our friend captain wopper, but did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting miss gray here." emma explained that she also had been invited to dine with the captain, along with her mother and brother, but had supposed that that was all the party, as he, the captain, had mentioned no one else, and had been particular in begging her to come an hour before the time, for the purpose of going over his new villa with him, and giving him her private opinion of it. "i am punctual," she added, consulting her watch; "it is just four o'clock." "four! then what is the dinner hour?" "five," answered emma. "the captain's wits must have been wool-gathering," rejoined lawrence, with a laugh. "he told me to come punctually at four. however, i rejoice in the mistake, as it gives me the great pleasure of assisting you to form an unprejudiced opinion of the merits of the new villa. shall we begin with an exploration of the garden?" emma had no cause to blush at such an innocent proposal, nevertheless a richer colour than usual mantled on her modest little face as she fell in with the doctor's humour and stepped out into the small piece of ground behind the house. it was of very limited extent and, although not surrounded too closely by other villas, was nevertheless thoroughly overlooked by them, so that seclusion in that garden was impossible. recognising this fact, a former proprietor had erected at the lower end of the garden a bower so contrived that its interior was invisible from all points except one, and that was a side door to the garden which opened on a little passage by which coals, milk, meat, and similar substances were conveyed from the front to the rear of the house. dr lawrence and emma walked round and round the garden very slowly, conversing earnestly. strange to say, they quite forgot the object which had taken them there. their talk was solely of switzerland. as it continued, the doctor's voice deepened in tones and interest, and his fair companion's cheek deepened in colour. suddenly they turned into the bower. as they did so, gillie white chanced to appear at the garden door above referred to, which stood ajar. the spider's countenance was a speaking one. during the five minutes which it appeared in the doorway, it, and the body belonging to it, became powerfully eloquent. it might have conveyed to one's mind, as it were, a series of _tableaux vivants_. gillie's first look was as if he had been struck dumb with amazement (that was lawrence suddenly seizing one of emma's hands in both of his and looking intently into her face). then gillie's look of amazement gave place to one of intense, quite touching--we might almost say sympathetic--anxiety as he placed a hand on each knee and stooped (that was the doctor's right hand stealing round emma's waist, and emma shrinking from him with averted face). the urchin's visage suddenly lighted up with a blaze of triumph, and he seized his cap as if about to cheer (that was the doctor's superior strength prevailing, and emma's head, now turned the other way, laid on his shoulder). all at once gillie went into quiet convulsions, grinned from ear to ear, doubled himself up, slapped his thigh inaudibly--_a la_ captain wopper--and otherwise behaved like an outrageous, yet self-restrained, maniac (that was--well, we have no right to say what _that_ was). as a faithful chronicler, however, we must report that one-half minute later the stooard found captain wopper in the villa drawing-room, and there stated to him that it was "hall right; that he didn't need for to perplex hisself about doctor lawrence and miss hemma gray, for that they was as good as spliced already, having been seen by him, gillie, in the bower at the end of the garding a-blushin' and a--" here the spider stopped short and went into another fit of convulsions--this time unrestrained. is it necessary to say that captain wopper sat at the foot of his own table that day--mrs stoutley being at the head--with his rugged visage radiant and his powerful voice explosive; that he told innumerable sea-stories without point, and laughed at them without propriety; that, in the excess of his hilarity, he drank a mysterious toast to the success of all sorts of engagements, present and future; that he called mrs stoutley (in joke) sister, and emma and lewis (also in joke) niece and neffy; that he called doctor lawrence neffy, too, with a pointedness and a sense of its being the richest possible joke, that covered with confusion the affianced pair; and with surprise the rest of the company; that he kicked the stooard amicably out of the room for indulging in explosions of laughter behind his chair, and recommending him, the captain, to go it strong, and to clap on sail till he should tear the mast out of 'er, or git blowed on his beam-ends; that the stooard returned unabashed to repeat the offence unreproved; that towards the end, the captain began a long-winded graphic story which served to show how his good friend and chum willum stout in callyforny had commissioned him to buy and furnish a villa for the purpose of presenting it to a certain young lady in token of his gratitood to her for bein' such a good and faithful correspondent to him, willum, while he was in furrin' parts; also, how he was commissioned to buy and furnish another villa and present it to a certain doctor whose father had saved him from drownin' long long ago, he would not say _how_ long ago; and how that this villa, in which they was feedin', was one of the said villas, and that he found it quite unnecessary to spend any more of willum's hard-earned gains in the purchase of the other villa, owing to circumstances which had took place in a certain bower that very day! is it necessary, we again ask, to detail all this? we think not; therefore, we won't. when reference was made to the bower, emma could stand, or sit, it no longer. she rose hastily and ran blushing into the garden. captain wopper uttered a thunderous laugh, rose and ran after her. he found her in the bower with her face in her hands, and sat down beside her. "captain wopper," she suddenly exclaimed, looking up and drawing a note from her pocket, "do you know this?" "yes, duckie," (the captain was quite reckless now), "it's my last billy-doo to netta white. i never was good at pot-hooks and hangers." "and do you know _this_ letter?" said emma, holding up to the seaman's eyes her uncle william's last letter to herself. the captain looked surprised, then became suddenly red and confused. "w'y--ye-es, it's willum's, ain't it?" "the same pot-hooks and hangers _precisely_!" said emma, "are they not? oh!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round the captain's neck and kissing him, "uncle william, how _could_ you deceive us so?" the captain, to use his own expressions, was taken aback--fairly brought up all standin'. it had never occurred to his innocent mind that he should commit himself so simply. he felt an unconquerable objection to expressions of gratitude, and perceiving, with deep foresight that such were impending, his first impulse was to rise and fly, but emma's kiss made him change his mind. he returned it in kind but not in degree, for it caused the bower to resound as with a pistol shot. "oh! wot a cracker, ain't it just? you're a nice man, ain't you, to go poachin' on other fellers--" the captain seized his opportunity, he broke from emma and dashed wildly at the spider, who incontinently fled down the conduit for coals, cheering with the fury of a victorious ashantee chief! chapter twenty seven. the last. humbly confessing to emma gray that he had no talent whatever for plotting, captain wopper went off with a deprecatory expression of countenance to reveal himself to mrs roby. great was his anxiety. he entered her presence like a guilty thing. if, however, his anxiety was great, his surprise and consternation were greater when she received his revelation with tears, and for some time refused to be comforted! the workings of the human mind are wonderful. sometimes they are, as the captain said, bamboozling. if analysed it might have been discovered that, apart altogether from the shock of unexpectedness and the strain on her credulity, poor mrs roby suffered--without clearly understanding it--from a double loss. she had learned to love captain wopper for his own sake, and now captain wopper was lost to her in william stout! on the other hand william, her darling, her smooth-faced chubby boy, was lost to her for ever in the hairy savage captain wopper! it was perplexing as well as heart-rending. captain wopper was gone, because, properly, there was no such being in existence. william stout was gone because he would never write to her any more, and could never more return to her from california! it was of no use that the captain expressed the deepest contrition for the deception he had practised, urging that he had done it "for the best;" the old woman only wept the more; but when, in desperation, the captain hauled taut the sheets of his intellect, got well to wind'ard of the old 'ooman an' gave her a broadside of philosophy, he was more successful. "mother," he said, earnestly, "you don't feel easy under this breeze, 'cause why? you're entirely on the wrong tack. ready about now, an' see what a change it'll make. look 'ee here. you've _gained_ us both instead of lost us both. here am i, willum stout yours to command, a trifle stouter, it may be, and hairier than i once was, not to say older, but by a long chalk better able to love the old girl who took me in, an' befriended me when i was a reg'lar castaway, with dirty weather brewin', an' the rocks o' destitootion close under my lee; and who'll never forget your kindness, no never, so long as two timbers of the old hulk hold together. well then, that's the view over the starboard bulwarks. cast your eyes over to port now. here am i, captain wopper, also yours to command, strong as a horse, as fond o' you as if you was my own mother, an' resolved to stick by you through thick and thin to the last. so you see, you've got us both--willum an' me--me an' willum, both of us lovin' you like blazes an' lookin' arter you like dootiful sons. a double tide of affection, so to speak, flowin' like strong double-stout from the beer barrel out of which you originally drew me, if i may say so. ain't you convinced?" mrs roby _was_ convinced. she gave in, and lived for many years afterwards in the full enjoyment of the double blessing which had thus fallen to her lot in the evening of her days. and here, good reader, we might close our tale; but we cannot do so without a few parting words in reference to the various friends in whose company we have travelled so long. of course it is unnecessary to say, (especially to our lady readers, who were no doubt quite aware of it from the beginning), that lawrence and emma, lewis and nita, were, in the course of time, duly married. the love of their respective wives for each other induced the husbands not only to dwell in adjoining villas, but to enter into a medical co-partnery, in the prosecution of which they became professionally the deities, and, privately, the adored of a large population of invalids-- with their more or less healthy friends--in the salubrious neighbourhood of kensington. to go about "doing good" was the business, and became the second nature, of the young doctors. it was long a matter of great surprise to not a few of their friends that though lawrence and lewis neither smoked nor drank, they were uncommonly healthy and apparently happy! some caustic spirits asserted that they were sure budding wings were to be found on the shoulders of the two doctors, but we are warranted in asserting, on the best authority, that on a strict examination, nothing of the kind was discovered. need we say that emma and nita were pattern wives? of course not, therefore we won't say it. our reticence on this point will no doubt be acceptable to those who, being themselves naughty, don't believe in or admire "patterns," even though these be of "heavenly things." it is astonishing, though, what an effect their so-called "perfection" had in tightening the bonds of matrimony. furthermore, they had immense families of sons and daughters, insomuch that it became necessary to lengthen their cords and strengthen their stakes, and "calyforny villa" became a mere band-box compared to the mansions which they ultimately called "home." mrs stoutley having managed to get entirely out of _herself_--chiefly by means of the bible and the london gold-fields and moraines--became so amiable and so unlike her former self, and, withal, so healthy and cheery, that the two great families of stoutley and lawrence went to war for possession of her. the feud at last threatened to become chronic, and was usually carried to an excess of virulence about christmas and new year time. in order, therefore, to the establishment of peace, mrs stoutley agreed to live one-half of the year with lewis, and the other half with lawrence--lewis to have the larger half as a matter of course; but she retained her cottage in notting hill and her maid netta white, with the right to retire at any moment, when the exigencies of the gold-fields or the moraines demanded special attention; or when the excess of juvenile life in the mansions before mentioned became too much for her. on these occasions of retirement which, to say truth, were not very frequent, she was accompanied by netta white--for netta loved her mistress and clave to her as ruth to naomi. being a native of the "fields," she was an able and sympathetic guide and adviser at all times, and nothing pleased netta better than a visit to grubb's court, for there she saw the blessed fruit of diamond and gold digging illustrated in the person of her own reformed father and happy mother, who had removed from their former damp rooms on the ground floor to the more salubrious apartments among the chimney pots, which had been erected on the site of the "cabin" after "the fire." directly below them, in somewhat more pretentious apartments, shone another rescued diamond in the person of fred leven. he was now the support and comfort of his old mother as well as of a pretty little young woman who had loved him even while he was a drunkard, and who, had it been otherwise decreed, would have gone on loving him and mourning over him and praying for him till he was dead. in her case, however, the mourning had been turned into joy. in process of time gillie white, _alias_ the spider, became a sturdy, square-set, active little man, and was promoted to the position of coachman in the family of lewis stoutley. susan quick served in the same family in the capacity of nurse for many years, and, being naturally thrown much into the society of the young coachman, was finally induced to cement the friendship which had begun in switzerland by a wedding. this wedding, gillie often declared to susan, with much earnestness, was the "stunninest ewent that had ever occurred to him in his private capacity as a man." there is a proverb which asserts that "it never rains but it pours." this proverb was verified in the experience of the various personages of our tale, for soon after the tide of fortune had turned in their favour, the first showers of success swelled into absolute cataracts of prosperity. among other things, the gowrong mines suddenly went right. mrs stoutley's former man of business, mr temple, called one day, and informed her that her shares in that splendid undertaking had been purchased, on her behalf, by a friend who had faith in the ultimate success of the mines; that the friend forbade the mention of his name; and that he, mr temple, had called to pay her her dividends, and to congratulate her on her recovery of health and fortune. dr tough--who, when his services were no longer required, owing to the absence of illness, had continued his visits as a jovial friend--chanced to call at the same time with mr temple, and added his congratulations to those of the man of business, observing, with enthusiasm, that the air of the swiss mountains, mixed in equal parts with that of the london diamond-fields, would cure any disease under the sun. his former patient heartily agreed with him, but said that the medicine in question was not a mere mixture but a chemical compound, containing an element higher than the mountains and deeper than the diamond-fields, without which the cure would certainly not have been effected. need we say that captain wopper stuck to mrs roby and the "new cabin" to the last? many and powerful efforts were made to induce him to bring his "mother" to dwell in kensington, but mrs roby flatly refused to move again under any suasion less powerful than that of a fire. the eldest of lewis stoutley's boys therefore hit on a plan for frequent and easy inter-communication. he one day suggested the idea of a boating-club to his brothers and companions. the proposal was received with wild enthusiasm. the club was established, and a boathouse, with all its nautical appurtenances, was built under the very shadow of mrs roby's dwelling. a trusty "diamond" from grubb's court was made boat-cleaner and repairer and guardian of the keys, and captain wopper was created superintendent general director, chairman, honorary member, and perpetual grand master of the club, in which varied offices he continued to give unlimited satisfaction to the end of his days. as for slingsby, he became an aspirant to the honours of the royal academy, and even dreamt of the president's chair! not being a madman, he recovered from the disease of blighted hopes, and discovered that there were other beings as well as nita worth living for! he also became an intimate and welcome visitor at the two kensington mansions, the walls of which were largely decorated with his productions. whether he succeeded in life to the full extent of his hopes we cannot say, but we have good reason to believe that he did not entirely fail. from time to time lewis heard of his old guide antoine grennon from friends who at various periods paid a visit to the glaciers of switzerland, and more than once, in after years, he and his family were led by that prince of guides over the old romantic and familiar ground, where things were not so much given to change as in other regions; where the ice-rivers flowed with the same aspects, the same frozen currents, eddies, and cataracts as in days gone by; where the elderly guides were replaced by youthful guides of the same type and metal--ready to breast the mountain slopes and scale the highest peaks at a moment's notice; and where antoine's cottage stood unchanged, with a pretty and rather stout young woman usually kneeling in a tub, engaged in the destruction of linen, and a pretty little girl, who called her "mother," busy with a miniature washing of her own. the only difference being that the child called antoine "grandfather," and appeared to regard a strapping youth who dwelt there as her sire, and a remarkably stout but handsome middle-aged woman as her grandmother. last, but not least, the professor claims a parting word. little, however, is known as to the future career of the genial man of science, one of whose chief characteristics was his reverent recognition of god in conversing about his works. after returning to his home in the cold north he corresponded for some years with dr lawrence, and never failed to express his warmest regard for the friends with whom he had the good fortune to meet while in switzerland. he was particularly emphatic--we might almost say enthusiastic--in his expressions of regard for captain wopper, expressions and sentiments which the bold mariner heartily reciprocated, and he often stated to mrs roby, over an afternoon cup of tea, his conviction that that roosian professor was out o' sight one of the best fellows he had ever met with, and that the remembrance of him warmed his heart to furriners in general and roosians in particular. this remark usually had the effect of inducing mrs roby to ask some question about his, the captain's, intercourse with the professor, which question invariably opened the flood-gates of the captain's memory, and drew from him prolonged and innumerable "yarns" about his visit to the continent--yarns which are too long to be set down here, for the captain never tired of relating, and old mrs roby never wearied of listening, to his memorable rambles on the snow-capped mountains, and his strange adventures among the--rivers of ice. the end. lovey mary by alice hegan rice author of "mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch" to cale young rice who taught me the secret of plucking roses from a cabbage patch contents chapter i a cactus-plant ii a runaway couple iii the hazy household iv an accident and an incident v the dawn of a romance vi the losing of mr. stubbins vii neighborly advice viii a denominational garden ix labor day x a timely visit xi the christmas play xii reaction xiii an honorable retreat xiv the cactus blooms list of illustrations "they met at the pump." ..... frontispiece "'now the lord meant you to be plain.'" "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'" "''t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'" "she puffed her hair at the top and sides." "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'" "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable." "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy." "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand." "'stick out yer tongue.'" "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts." "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms." "'have you ever acted any?' he asked." "europena stepped forward." "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour.'" "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'" susie smithers at the keyhole "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve." lovey mary chapter i a cactus-plant for life, with all it yields of joy and woe, and hope and fear,... is just our chance o' the prize of learning love,-- how love might be, hath been indeed, and is. browning's "a death in the desert." everything about lovey mary was a contradiction, from her hands and feet, which seemed to have been meant for a big girl, to her high ideals and aspirations, that ought to have belonged to an amiable one. the only ingredient which might have reconciled all the conflicting elements in her chaotic little bosom was one which no one had ever taken the trouble to supply. when miss bell, the matron of the home, came to receive lovey mary's confession of repentance, she found her at an up-stairs window making hideous faces and kicking the furniture. the depth of her repentance could always be gaged by the violence of her conduct. miss bell looked at her as she would have looked at one of the hieroglyphs on the obelisk. she had been trying to decipher her for thirteen years. miss bell was stout and prim, a combination which was surely never intended by nature. her gray dress and tight linen collar and cuffs gave the uncomfortable impression of being sewed on, while her rigid black water-waves seemed irrevocably painted upon her high forehead. she was a routinist; she believed in system, she believed in order, and she believed that godliness was akin to cleanliness. when she found an exception to a rule she regarded the exception in the light of an error. as she stood, brush in hand, before lovey mary, she thought for the hundredth time that the child was an exception. "stand up," she said firmly but not unkindly. "i thought you had too much sense to do your hair that way. come back to the bath-room, and i will arrange it properly." lovey mary gave a farewell kick at the wall before she followed miss bell. one side of her head was covered with tight black ringlets, and the other bristled with curl-papers. "when i was a little girl," said miss bell, running the wet comb ruthlessly through the treasured curls, "the smoother my hair was the better i liked it. i used to brush it down with soap and water to make it stay." lovey mary looked at the water-waves and sighed. "if you're ugly you never can get married with anybody, can you, miss bell?" she asked in a spirit of earnest inquiry. miss bell's back became stiffer, if possible, than before. "marriage isn't the only thing in the world. the homelier you are the better chance you have of being good. now the lord meant you to be plain"--assisting providence by drawing the braids so tight that the girl's eyebrows were elevated with the strain. "if he had meant you to have curls he would have given them to you." [illustration: "'now the lord meant you to be plain'"] "well, didn't he want me to have a mother and father?" burst forth lovey mary, indignantly, "or clothes, or money, or nothing? can't i ever get nothing at all 'cause i wasn't started out with nothing?" miss bell was too shocked to reply. she gave a final brush to the sleek, wet head and turned sorrowfully away. lovey mary ran after her and caught her hand. "i'm sorry," she cried impulsively. "i want to be good. please-- please--" miss bell drew her hand away coldly. "you needn't go to sabbath-school this morning," she said in an injured tone; "you can stay here and think over what you have said. i am not angry with you. i never allow myself to get angry. i don't understand, that's all. you are such a good girl about some things and so unreasonable about others. with a good home, good clothes, and kind treatment, what else could a girl want?" receiving no answer to this inquiry, miss bell adjusted her cuffs and departed with the conviction that she had done all that was possible to throw light upon a dark subject. lovey mary, left alone, shed bitter tears on her clean gingham dress. thirteen years ought to reconcile a person even to gingham dresses with white china buttons down the back, and round straw hats bought at wholesale. but lovey mary's rebellion of spirit was something that time only served to increase. it had started with kate rider, who used to pinch her, and laugh at her, and tell the other girls to "get on to her curves." curves had signified something dreadful to lovey mary; she would have experienced real relief could she have known that she did not possess any. it was not kate rider, however, who was causing the present tears; she had left the home two years before, and her name was not allowed to be mentioned even in whispers. neither was it rebellion against the work that had cast lovey mary into such depths of gloom; fourteen beds had been made, fourteen heads had been combed, and fourteen wriggling little bodies had been cheerfully buttoned into starchy blue ginghams exactly like her own. something deeper and more mysterious was fermenting in her soul-- something that made her long passionately for the beautiful things of life, for love and sympathy and happiness; something that made her want to be good, yet tempted her constantly to rebel against her environs. it was just the world-old spirit that makes the veriest little weed struggle through a chink in the rock and reach upward toward the sun. "what's the matter with your hair, lovey mary? it looks so funny," asked a small girl, coming up the steps. "if anybody asts you, tell 'em you don't know," snapped lovey mary. "well, miss bell says for you to come down to the office," said the other, unabashed. "there's a lady down there--a lady and a baby. me and susie peeked in. miss bell made the lady cry; she made her wipe the powders off her compleshun." "and she sent for me?" asked lovey mary, incredulously. such a ripple in the still waters of the home was sufficient to interest the most disconsolate. "yes; and me and susie's going to peek some more." lovey mary dried her tears and hurried down to the office. as she stood at the door she heard a girl's excited voice protesting and begging, and miss bell's placid tones attempting to calm her. they paused as she entered. "mary," said miss bell, "you remember kate rider. she has brought her child for us to take care of for a while. have you room for him in your division?" as lovey mary looked at the gaily dressed girl on the sofa, her animosity rekindled. it was not kate's bold black eyes that stirred her wrath, nor the hard red lips that recalled the taunts of other days: it was the sight of the auburn curls gathered in tantalizing profusion under the brim of the showy hat. "mary, answer my question!" said miss bell, sharply. with an involuntary shudder of repugnance lovey mary drew her gaze from kate and murmured, "yes, 'm." "then you can take the baby with you," continued miss bell, motioning to the sleeping child. "but wait a moment. i think i will put jennie at the head of your division and let you have entire charge of this little boy. he is only a year old, kate tells me, so will need constant attention." lovey mary was about to protest, when kate broke in: "oh, say, miss bell, please get some other girl! tommy never would like lovey. he's just like me: if people ain't pretty, he don't have no use for 'em." "that will do, kate," said miss bell, coldly. "it is only pity for the child that makes me take him at all. you have forfeited all claim upon our sympathy or patience. mary, take the baby up-stairs and care for him until i come." lovey mary, hot with rebellion, picked him up and went out of the room. at the door she stumbled against two little girls who were listening at the keyhole. up-stairs in the long dormitory it was very quiet. the children had been marched away to sunday-school, and only lovey mary and the sleeping baby were on the second floor. the girl sat beside the little white bed and hated the world as far as she knew it: she hated kate for adding this last insult to the old score; she hated miss bell for putting this new burden on her unwilling shoulders; she hated the burden itself, lying there before her so serene and unconcerned; and most of all she hated herself. "i wisht i was dead!" she cried passionately. "the harder i try to be good the meaner i get. ever'body blames me, and ever'body makes fun of me. ugly old face, and ugly old hands, and straight old rat-tail hair! it ain't no wonder that nobody loves me. i just wisht i was dead!" the sunshine came through the window and made a big white patch on the bare floor, but lovey mary sat in the shadow and disturbed the sunday quiet by her heavy sobbing. at noon, when the children returned, the noise of their arrival woke tommy. he opened his round eyes on a strange world, and began to cry lustily. one child after another tried to pacify him, but each friendly advance increased his terror. "leave him be!" cried lovey mary. "them hats is enough to skeer him into fits." she picked him up, and with the knack born of experience soothed and comforted him. the baby hid his face on her shoulder and held her tight. she could feel the sobs that still shook the small body, and his tears were on her cheek. "never mind," she said. "i ain't a-going to let 'em hurt you. i'm going to take care of you. don't cry any more. look!" she stretched forth her long, unshapely hand and made grotesque snatches at the sunshine that poured in through the window. tommy hesitated and was lost; a smile struggled to the surface, then broke through the tears. "look! he's laughing!" cried lovey mary, gleefully. "he's laughing 'cause i ketched a sunbeam for him!" then she bent impulsively and kissed the little red lips so close to her own. chapter ii a runaway couple "courage mounteth with occasion." for two years lovey mary cared for tommy: she bathed him and dressed him, taught him to walk, and kissed his bumps to make them well; she sewed for him and nursed him by day, and slept with him in her tired arms at night. and tommy, with the inscrutable philosophy of childhood, accepted his little foster-mother and gave her his all. one bright june afternoon the two were romping in the home yard under the beech-trees. lovey mary lay in the grass, while tommy threw handfuls of leaves in her face, laughing with delight at her grimaces. presently the gate clicked, and some one came toward them. "good land! is that my kid?" said a woman's voice. "come here, tom, and kiss your mother." lovey mary, sitting up, found kate rider, in frills and ribbons, looking with surprise at the sturdy child before her. tommy objected violently to this sudden overture and declined positively to acknowledge the relationship. in fact, when kate attempted to pull him to her, he fled for protection to lovey mary and cast belligerent glances at the intruder. kate laughed. "oh, you needn't be so scary; you might as well get used to me, for i am going to take you home with me. i bet he's a corker, ain't he, lovey? he used to bawl all night. sometimes i'd have to spank him two or three times." lovey mary clasped the child closer and looked up in dumb terror. was tommy to be taken from her? tommy to go away with kate? "great scott!" exclaimed kate, exasperated at the girl's manner. "you are just as ugly and foolish as you used to be. i'm going in to see miss bell." lovey mary waited until she was in the house, then she stole noiselessly around to the office window. the curtain blew out across her cheek, and the swaying lilacs seemed to be trying to count the china buttons on her back; but she stood there with staring eyes and parted lips, and held her breath to listen. [illustration with caption: "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'"] "of course," miss bell was saying, measuring her words with due precision, "if you feel that you can now support your child and that it is your duty to take him, we cannot object. there are many other children waiting to come into the home. and yet--" miss bell's voice sounded human and unnatural--"yet i wish he could stay. have you thought, kate, of your responsibility toward him, of--" "oh! ough!" shrieked tommy from the playground, in tones of distress. lovey mary left her point of vantage and rushed to the rescue. she found him emitting frenzied yells, while a tiny stream of blood trickled down his chin. "it was my little duck," he gasped as soon as he was able to speak. "i was tissin' him, an' he bited me." at thought of the base ingratitude on the part of the duck, tommy wailed anew. lovey mary led him to the hydrant and bathed the injured lip, while she soothed his feelings. suddenly a wave of tenderness swept over her. she held his chubby face up to hers and said fervently: "tommy, do you love me?" "yes," said tommy, with a reproachful eye on the duck. "yes; i yuv to yuv. i don't yuv to tiss, though!" "but me, tommy, me. do you love me?" "yes," he answered gravely, "dollar an' a half." "whose little boy are you?" "yuvey's 'e boy." satisfied with this catechism, she put tommy in care of another girl and went back to her post at the window. miss bell was talking again. "i will have him ready to-morrow afternoon when you come. his clothes are all in good condition. i only hope, kate, that you will care for him as tenderly as mary has. i am afraid he will miss her sadly." "if he's like me, he'll forget about her in two or three days," answered the other voice. "it always was 'out of sight, out of mind' with me." miss bell's answer was indistinct, and in a few minutes lovey mary heard the hall door close behind them. she shook her fists until the lilacs trembled. "she sha'n't have him!" she whispered fiercely. "she sha'n't let him grow up wicked like she is. i won't let him go. i'll hide him, i'll--" suddenly she grew very still, and for a long time crouched motionless behind the bushes. the problem that faced her had but one solution, and lovey mary had found it. the next morning when the sun climbed over the tree-tops and peered into the dormitory windows he found that somebody else had made an early rise. lovey mary was sitting by a wardrobe making her last will and testament. from the neatly folded pile of linen she selected a few garments and tied them into a bundle. then she took out a cigar-box and gravely contemplated the contents. there were two narrow hair- ribbons which had evidently been one wide ribbon, a bit of rock crystal, four paper dolls, a soiled picture-book with some other little girl's name scratched out on the cover, and two shining silver dollars. these composed lovey mary's worldly possessions. she tied the money in her handkerchief and put it in her pocket, then got up softly and slipped about among the little white beds, distributing her treasures. "i'm mad at susie," she whispered, pausing before a tousled head; "i hate to give her the nicest thing i've got. but she's just crazy 'bout picture-books." the curious sun climbed yet a little higher and saw lovey mary go back to her own bed, and, rolling tommy's clothes around her own bundle, gather the sleeping child in her arms and steal quietly out of the room. then the sun got too high up in the heavens to watch little runaway orphan girls. nobody saw her steal through the deserted playroom, down the clean bare steps, which she had helped to wear away, and out through the yard to the coal-shed. here she got the reluctant tommy into his clothes, and tied on his little round straw hat, so absurdly like her own. "is we playin' hie-spy, yuvey?" asked the mystified youngster. "yes, tommy," she whispered, "and we are going a long way to hide. you are my little boy now, and you must love me better than anything in the world. say it, tommy; say, 'i love you better 'n anybody in the whole world.'" "will i det on de rollin' honor?" asked tommy, thinking he was learning his golden text. but lovey mary had forgotten her question. she was taking a farewell look at the home, every nook and corner of which had suddenly grown dear. already she seemed a thing apart, one having no right to its shelter and protection. she turned to where tommy was playing with some sticks in the corner, and bidding him not to stir or speak until her return, she slipped back up the walk and into the kitchen. swiftly and quietly she made a fire in the stove and filled the kettle with water. then she looked about for something more she might do. on the table lay the grocery book with a pencil attached. she thought a moment, then wrote laboriously under the last order: "miss bell i will take kere tommy pleas don't be mad." then she softly closed the door behind her. a few minutes later she lifted tommy out of the low shed window, and hurried him down the alley and out into the early morning streets. at the corner they took a car, and tommy knelt by the window and absorbed the sights with rapt attention; to him the adventure was beginning brilliantly. even lovey mary experienced a sense of exhilaration when she paid their fare out of one of the silver dollars. she knew the conductor was impressed, because he said, "you better watch buddy's hat, ma'am." that "ma'am" pleased her profoundly; it caused her unconsciously to assume miss bell's tone and manner as she conversed with the back of tommy's head. "we'll go out on the avenue," she said. "we'll go from house to house till i get work. 'most anybody would be glad to get a handy girl that can cook and wash and sew, only--i ain't very big, and then there's you." "ain't that a big house?" shouted tommy, half way out of the window. "yes; don't talk so loud. that's the court-house." "where they make court-plaster at?" inquired tommy shrilly. lovey mary glanced around uneasily. she hoped the old man in the corner had not heard this benighted remark. all went well until the car reached the terminal station. here tommy refused to get off. in vain lovey mary coaxed and threatened. "it'll take us right back to the home," she pleaded. "be a good boy and come with lovey. i'll buy you something nice." tommy remained obdurate. he believed in letting well enough alone. the joys of a street-car ride were present and tangible; "something nice" was vague, unsatisfying. "don't yer little brother want to git off?" asked the conductor, sympathetically. "no, sir," said lovey mary, trying to maintain her dignity while she struggled with her charge. "if you please, sir, would you mind holding his feet while i loosen his hands?" tommy, shrieking indignant protests, was borne from the car and deposited on the sidewalk. "don't you dare get limber!" threatened lovey mary. "if you do i'll spank you right here on the street. stand up! straighten out your legs! tommy! do you hear me?" tommy might have remained limp indefinitely had not a hurdy-gurdy opportunely arrived on the scene. it is true that he would go only in the direction of the music, but lovey mary was delighted to have him go at all. when at last they were headed for the avenue, tommy caused another delay. "i want my ducky," he announced. the words brought consternation to lovey mary. she had fearfully anticipated them from the moment of leaving the home. "i'll buy you a 'tend-like duck," she said. "no; i want a sure-'nough ducky; i want mine." lovey mary was exasperated. "well, you can't have yours. i can't get it for you, and you might as well hush." his lips trembled, and two large tears rolled down his round cheeks. when he was injured he was irresistible. lovey mary promptly surrendered. "don't cry, baby boy! lovey'll get you one someway." for some time the quest of the duck was fruitless. the stores they entered were wholesale houses for the most part, where men were rolling barrels about or stacking skins and hides on the sidewalk. "do you know what sort of a store they sell ducks at?" asked lovey mary of a colored man who was sweeping out an office. "ducks!" repeated the negro, grinning at the queerly dressed children in their round straw hats. "name o' de lawd! what do you all want wif ducks?" lovey mary explained. "wouldn't a kitten do jes as well?" he asked kindly. "i want my ducky," whined tommy, showing signs of returning storm. "i don' see no way 'cept'n' gwine to de mahket. efen you tek de cah you kin ride plumb down dere." recent experience had taught lovey mary to be wary of street-cars, so they walked. at the market they found some ducks. the desired objects were hanging in a bunch with their limp heads tied together. further inquiry, however, discovered some live ones in a coop. "they're all mama ducks," objected tommy. "i want a baby ducky. i want my little ducky!" when he found he could do no better, he decided to take one of the large ones. then he said he was hungry, so he and mary took turn about holding it while the other ate "po' man's pickle" and wienerwurst. it was two o'clock by the time they reached the avenue, and by four they were foot-sore and weary, but they trudged bravely along from house to house asking for work. as dusk came on, the houses, which a few squares back had been tall and imposing, seemed to be getting smaller and more insignificant. lovey mary felt secure as long as she was on the avenue. she did not know that the avenue extended for many miles and that she had reached the frayed and ragged end of it. she and tommy passed under a bridge, and after that the houses all seemed to behave queerly. some faced one way, some another, and crisscross between them, in front of them, and behind them ran a network of railroad tracks. "what's the name of this street?" asked lovey mary of a small, bare- footed girl. "'t ain't no street," answered the little girl, gazing with undisguised amazement at the strange-looking couple; "this here is the cabbage patch." [illustration: "'t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'"] chapter iii the hazy household "here sovereign dirt erects her sable throne, the house, the host, the hostess all her own." miss hazy was the submerged tenth of the cabbage patch. the submersion was mainly one of dirt and disorder, but miss hazy was such a meek, inefficient little body that the cabbage patch withheld its blame and patiently tried to furnish a prop for the clinging vine. miss hazy, it is true, had chris; but chris was unstable, not only because he had lost one leg, but also because he was the wildest, noisiest, most thoughtless youngster that ever shied a rock at a lamp-post. miss hazy had "raised" chris, and the neighbors had raised miss hazy. when lovey mary stumbled over the hazy threshold with the sleeping tommy and the duck in her arms, miss hazy fluttered about in dismay. she pushed the flour-sifter farther over on the bed and made a place for tommy, then she got a chair for the exhausted girl and hovered about her with little chirps of consternation. "dear sakes! you're done tuckered out, ain't you? you an' the baby got losted? ain't that too bad! must i make you some tea? only there ain't no fire in the stove. dear me! what ever will i do? jes wait a minute; i'll have to go ast mis' wiggs." in a few minutes miss hazy returned. with her was a bright-faced little woman whose smile seemed to thaw out the frozen places in lovey mary's heart and make her burst into tears on the motherly bosom. "there now, there," said mrs. wiggs, hugging the girl up close and patting her on the back; "there ain't no hole so deep can't somebody pull you out. an' here's me an' miss hazy jes waitin' to give you a h'ist." there was something so heartsome in her manner that lovey mary dried her eyes and attempted to explain. "i'm tryin' to get a place," she began, "but nobody wants to take tommy too. i can't carry him any further, and i don't know where to go, and it's 'most night--" again the sobs choked her. "lawsee!" said mrs. wiggs, "don't you let that worry you! i can't take you home, 'cause asia an' australia an' europeny are sleepin' in one bed as it is; but you kin git right in here with miss hazy, can't she, miss hazy?" the hostess, to whom mrs. wiggs was an oracle, acquiesced heartily. "all right: that's fixed. now i'll go home an' send you all over some nice, hot supper by billy, an' to-morrow mornin' will be time enough to think things out." lovey mary, too exhausted to mind the dirt, ate her supper off a broken plate, then climbed over behind tommy and the flour-sifter, and was soon fast asleep. the business meeting next morning "to think things out" resulted satisfactorily. at first mrs. wiggs was inclined to ask questions and find out where the children came from, but when she saw lovey mary's evident distress and embarrassment, she accepted the statement that they were orphans and that the girl was seeking work in order to take care of herself and the boy. it had come to be an unwritten law in the cabbage patch that as few questions as possible should be asked of strangers. people had come there before who could not give clear accounts of themselves. "now i'll tell you what i think'll be best," said mrs. wiggs, who enjoyed untangling snarls. "asia kin take mary up to the fact'ry with her to-morrow, an' see if she kin git her a job. i 'spect she kin, 'cause she stands right in with the lady boss. miss hazy, me an' you kin keep a' eye on the baby between us. if mary gits a place she kin pay you so much a week, an' that'll help us all out, 'cause then we won't have to send in so many outside victuals. if she could make three dollars an' chris three, you all could git along right peart." lovey mary stayed in the house most of the day. she was almost afraid to look out of the little window, for fear she should see miss bell or kate rider coming. she sat in the only chair that had a bottom and diligently worked buttonholes for miss hazy. "looks like there ain't never no time to clean up," said miss hazy, apologetically, as she shoved chris's sunday clothes and a can of coal-oil behind the door. lovey mary looked about her and sighed deeply. the room was brimful and spilling over: trash, tin cans, and bottles overflowed the window- sills; a crippled rocking-chair, with a faded quilt over it, stood before the stove, in the open oven of which chris's shoe was drying; an old sewing-machine stood in the middle of the floor, with miss hazy's sewing on one end of it and the uncleared dinner-dishes on the other. mary could not see under the bed, but she knew from the day's experience that it was used as a combination store-room and wardrobe. she thought of the home with its bare, clean rooms and its spotless floors. she rose abruptly and went out to the rear of the house, where tommy was playing with europena wiggs. they were absorbed in trying to hitch the duck to a spool-box, and paid little attention to her. "tommy," she said, clutching his arm, "don't you want to go back?" but tommy had tasted freedom; he had had one blissful day unwashed, uncombed, and uncorrected. "no," he declared stoutly; "i'm doin' to stay to this house and play wiv you're-a-peanut." "then," said mary, with deep resignation, "the only thing for me to do is to try to clean things up." when she went back into the house she untied her bundle and took out the remaining dollar. "i'll be back soon," she said to miss hazy as she stepped over a basket of potatoes. "i'm just going over to mrs. wiggs's a minute." she found her neighbor alone, getting supper. "please, ma'am,"--she plunged into her subject at once,--"have any of your girls a dress for sale? i've got a dollar to buy it." mrs. wiggs turned the girl around and surveyed her critically. "well, i don't know as i blame you fer wantin' to git shut of that one. there ain't more 'n room enough fer one leg in that skirt, let alone two. an' what was the sense in them big shiny buttons?" "i don't know as it makes much difference," said lovey mary, disconsolately; "i'm so ugly, nothing could make me look nice." mrs. wiggs shook her by the shoulders good-naturedly. "now, here," she said, "don't you go an' git sorry fer yerself! that's one thing i can't stand in nobody. there's always lots of other folks you kin be sorry fer 'stid of yerself. ain't you proud you ain't got a harelip? why, that one thought is enough to keep me from ever gittin' sorry fer myself." mary laughed, and mrs. wiggs clapped her hands. "that's what yer face needs--smiles! i never see anything make such a difference. but now about the dress. yes, indeed, asia has got dresses to give 'way. she gits 'em from mrs. reddin'; her husband is mr. bob, billy's boss. he's a newspaper editress an' rich as cream. mrs. reddin' is a fallen angel, if there ever was one on this earth. she sends all sorts of clothes to asia, an' i warm 'em over an' boil 'em down till they're her size. "asia minor!" she called to a girl who was coming in the door, "this here is mary--lovey mary she calls herself, miss hazy's boarder. have you got a dress you could give her?" "i'm going to buy it," said mary, immediately on the defensive. she did not want them to think for a moment that she was begging. she would show them that she had money, that she was just as good as they were. "well, maw," the other girl was saying in a drawling voice as she looked earnestly at lovey mary, "seems to me she'd look purtiest in my red dress. her hair's so nice an' black an' her teeth so white, i 'low the red would look best." mrs. wiggs gazed at her daughter with adoring eyes. "ain't that the artis' stickin' out through her? couldn't you tell she handles paints? up at the fact'ry she's got a fine job, paints flowers an' wreaths on to bath-tubs. yes, indeed, this here red one is what you must have. keep your dollar, child; the dress never cost us a cent. here's a nubia, too, you kin have; it'll look better than that little hat you had on last night. that little hat worried me; it looked like the stopper was too little fer the bottle. there now, take the things right home with you, an' tomorrow you an' asia kin start off in style." lovey mary, flushed with the intoxication of her first compliment, went back and tried on the dress. miss hazy got so interested that she forgot to get supper. "you look so nice i never would 'a' knowed you in the world!" she declared. "you don't look picked, like you did in that other dress." "that wiggs girl said i looked nice in red," said lovey mary tentatively. "you do, too," said miss hazy; "it keeps you from lookin' so corpsey. i wisht you'd do somethin' with yer hair, though; it puts me in mind of snakes in them long black plaits." all lovey mary needed was encouragement. she puffed her hair at the top and sides and tucked it up in the latest fashion. tommy, coming in at the door, did not recognize her. she laughed delightedly. "do i look so different?" "i should say you do," said miss hazy, admiringly, as she spread a newspaper for a table-cloth. "i never seen no one answer to primpin' like you do." [illustration: "she puffed her hair at the top and sides."] when it was quite dark lovey mary rolled something in a bundle and crept out of the house. after glancing cautiously up and down the tracks she made her way to the pond on the commons and dropped her bundle into the shallow water. next day, when mrs. schultz's goat died of convulsions, nobody knew it was due to the china buttons on lovey mary's gingham dress. chapter iv an accident and an incident "our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are." through the assistance of asia wiggs, lovey mary secured pleasant and profitable work at the factory; but her mind was not at peace. of course it was a joy to wear the red dress and arrange her hair a different way each morning, but there was a queer, restless little feeling in her heart that spoiled even the satisfaction of looking like other girls and earning three dollars a week. the very fact that nobody took her to task, that nobody scolded or blamed her, caused her to ask herself disturbing questions. secret perplexity had the same effect upon her that it has upon many who are older and wiser: it made her cross. two days after she started to work, asia, coming down from the decorating-room for lunch, found her in fiery dispute with a red- haired girl. there had been an accident in front of the factory, and the details were under discussion. "well, i know all about it," declared the red-haired girl, excitedly, "'cause my sister was the first one that got to her." "is your sister a nigger named jim brown?" asked lovey mary, derisively. "ever'body says he was the first one got there." "was there blood on her head?" asked asia, trying to stem the tide of argument. "yes, indeed," said the first speaker; "on her head an' on her hands, too. i hanged on the steps when they was puttin' her in the ambalance- wagon, an' she never knowed a bloomin' thing!" "why didn't you go on with them to the hospital!" asked lovey mary. "i don't see how the doctors could get along without you." "oh, you're just mad 'cause you didn't see her. she was awful pretty! had on a black hat with a white feather in it, but it got in the mud. they say she had a letter in her pocket with her name on it." "i thought maybe she come to long enough to tell you her name," teased her tormentor. "well, i do know it, smarty," retorted the other, sharply: "it's miss kate rider." meanwhile in the cabbage patch miss hazy and mrs. wiggs were holding a consultation over the fence. "she come over to my house first," mrs. wiggs was saying, dramatically illustrating her remarks with two tin cans. "this is me here, an' i looks up an' seen the old lady standin' over there. she put me in mind of a graven image. she had on a sorter gray mournin', didn't she, miss hazy?" "yes, 'm; that was the way it struck me. bein' gray, i 'lowed it was fer some one she didn't keer fer pertickler." "an' gent's cuffs," continued mrs. wiggs; "i noticed them right off. ''scuse me,' says she, snappin' her mouth open an' shut like a trap-- ''scuse me, but have you seen anything of two strange children in this neighborhood?' i th'owed my apron over lovey mary's hat, that i was trimmin'. i wasn't goin' to tell till i found out what that widder woman was after. but before i was called upon to answer, tommy come tearin' round the house chasin' cusmoodle." "who?" "cusmoodle, the duck. i named it this mornin'. well, when the lady seen tommy she started up, then she set down ag'in, holdin' her skirts up all the time to keep 'em from techin' the floor. 'how'd they git here?' she ast, so relieved-like that i thought she must be kin to 'em. so i up an' told her all i knew. i told her if she wanted to find out anything about us she could ast mrs. reddin' over at terrace park. 'mrs. robert reddin'?' says she, lookin' dumfounded. 'yes,' says i, 'the finest lady, rich or poor, in kentucky, unless it's her husband.' then she went on an' ast me goin' on a hunderd questions 'bout all of us an' all of you all, an' 'bout the factory. she even ast me where we got our water at, an' if you kept yer house healthy. i told her lovey mary had made chris carry out more 'n a wheelbarrow full of dirt ever' night since she had been here, an' i guess it would be healthy by the time she got through." [illustration: "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'"] miss hazy moved uneasily. "i told her i couldn't clean up much 'count of the rheumatism, an' phthisic, an' these here dizzy spells--" "i bet she didn't git a chance to talk much if you got started on your symptims," interrupted mrs. wiggs. "didn't you think she was a' awful haughty talker?" 'no, indeed. she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'. when she riz to go, she says, real kind fer such a stern-faced woman, 'do the childern seem well an' happy?' 'yes, 'm; they're well, all right,' says i. 'tommy he's like a colt what's been stabled up all winter an' is let out fer the first time. as fer mary,' i says, 'she seems kinder low in her mind, looks awful pestered most of the time.' 'it won't hurt her,' says the lady. 'keep a' eye on 'em,' says she, puttin' some money in my hand,' an' if you need any more, i'll leave it with mrs. reddin'.' then she cautioned me pertickler not to say nothin' 'bout her havin' been here." "she told me not to tell, too," said miss hazy; "but i don't know what we're goin' to say to mrs. schultz. she 'most sprained her back tryin' to see who it was, an' mrs. eichorn come over twicet pertendin'-like she wanted to borrow a corkscrew driver." "tell 'em she was a newfangled agent," said mrs. wiggs, with unblushing mendacity--"a' agent fer shoestrings." chapter v the dawn of a romance "there is in the worst of fortunes the best of chances for a happy change." "good land! you all're so clean in here i'm feared of ketchin' the pneumony." mrs. wiggs stood in miss hazy's kitchen and smiled approval at the marvelous transformation. "well, now, i don't think it's right healthy," complained miss hazy, who was sitting at the machine, with her feet on a soap-box; "so much water sloppin' round is mighty apt to give a person a cold. but lovey mary says she can't stand it no other way. she's mighty set, mis' wiggs." "yes, an' that's jes what you need, miss hazy. you never was set 'bout nothin' in yer life. lovey mary's jes took you an' the house an' ever'thing in hand, an' in four weeks got you all to livin' like white folks. i ain't claimin' she ain't sharp-tongued; i 'low she's sassed 'bout ever'body in the patch but me by now. but she's good, an' she's smart, an' some of her sharp corners'll git pecked off afore her hair grows much longer." "oh, mercy me! here she comes now to git her lunch," said miss hazy, with chagrin. "i ain't got a thing fixed." "you go on an' sew; i'll mess up a little somethin' fer her. she'll stop, anyway, to talk to tommy. did you ever see anything to equal the way she takes on 'bout that child? she jes natchally analyzes him." lovey mary, however, did not stop as usual to play with tommy. she came straight to the kitchen and sat down on the door-step, looking worried and preoccupied. "how comes it you ain't singin'?" asked mrs. wiggs. "if i had a voice like yourn, folks would have to stop up their years with cotton. i jes find myself watchin' fer you to come home, so's i can hear you singin' them pretty duets round the house." lovey mary smiled faintly; for a month past she had been unconsciously striving to live up to mrs. wiggs's opinion of her, and the constant praise and commendation of that "courageous captain of compliment" had moved her to herculean effort. but a sudden catastrophe threatened her. she sat on the door-step, white and miserable. held tight in the hand that was thrust in her pocket was a letter; it was a blue letter addressed to miss hazy in large, dashing characters. lovey mary had got it from the postman as she went out in the morning; for five hours she had been racked with doubt concerning it. she felt that it could refer but to one subject, and that was herself. perhaps miss bell had discovered her hiding- place, or, worse still, perhaps kate rider had seen her at the factory and was writing for tommy. lovey mary crushed the letter in her hand; she would not give it to miss hazy. she would outwit kate again. "all right, honey," called mrs. wiggs; "here you are. 't ain't much of a lunch, but it'll fill up the gaps. me an' miss hazy jes been talkin' 'bout you." lovey mary glanced up furtively. could they have suspected anything? [illustration: "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable."] "didn't yer years sorter burn! we was speakin' of the way you'd slicked things up round here. i was a-sayin' even if you was a sorter repeatin'-rifle when it come to answerin' back, you was a good, nice girl." lovey mary smoothed out the crumpled letter in her pocket. "i'm 'fraid i ain't as good as you make me out," she said despondently. "oh, yes, she is," said miss hazy, with unusual animation; "she's a rale good girl, when she ain't sassy." this unexpected praise was too much for lovey mary. she snatched the letter from her pocket and threw it on the table, not daring to trust her good impulse to last beyond the minute. "'miss marietta hazy, south avenue and railroad crossing,'" read mrs. wiggs, in amazement. "oh, surely it ain't got me on the back of it!" cried miss hazy, rising hurriedly from the machine and peering over her glasses. "you open it, mis' wiggs; i ain't got the nerve to." with chattering teeth and trembling hands lovey mary sat before her untasted food. she could hear tommy's laughter through the open window, and the sound brought tears to her eyes. but mrs. wiggs's voice recalled her, and she nerved herself for the worst. _"miss hazy._ "dear miss [mrs. wiggs read from the large type-written sheet before her]: why not study the planets and the heavens therein? in casting your future, i find that thou wilt have an active and succesful year for business, but beware of the law. you are prudent and amiable and have a lively emagination. you will have many ennemies; but fear not, for in love you will be faitful and sincer, and are fitted well fer married life." "they surely ain't meanin' me?" asked miss hazy, in great perturbation. "_yes, ma'am_," said mrs. wiggs, emphatically; "it's you, plain as day. let's go on: "your star fortells you a great many lucky events. you are destined to a brilliant success, but you will have to earn it by good conduct. let wise men lead you. your mildness against the wretched will bring you the friendship of everbody. enclosed you will find a spirit picture of your future pardner. if you will send twenty-five cents with the enclosed card, which you will fill out, we will put you in direct correspondance with the gentleman, and the degree ordained by the planets will thus be fulfilled. please show this circuler to your friends, and oblige _"astrologer."_ as the reading proceeded, lovey mary's fears gradually diminished, and with a sigh of relief she applied herself to her lunch. but if the letter had proved of no consequence to her, such was not the case with the two women standing at the window. miss hazy was re-reading the letter, vainly trying to master the contents. "mary," she said, "git up an' see if you can find my other pair of lookin'-glasses. seems like i can't git the sense of it." mrs. wiggs meanwhile was excitedly commenting on the charms of the "spirit picture": "my, but he's siylish! looks fer all the world like a' insurance agent. looks like he might be a little tall to his size, but i like statute men better 'n dumpy ones. i bet he's got a lot of nice manners. ain't his smile pleasant!" miss hazy seized the small picture with trembling fingers. "i don't seem to git on to what it's all about, mis' wiggs. ain't they made a mistake or somethin'?" "no, indeed; there's no mistake at all," declared mrs. wiggs. "yer name's on the back, an' it's meant fer you. someway yer name's got out as bein' single an' needin' takin' keer of, an' i reckon this here 'strologer, or conjurer, or whatever he is, seen yer good fortune in the stars an' jes wanted to let you know 'bout it." "does he want to get married with her?" asked lovey mary, beginning to realize the grave importance of the subject under discussion. "well, it may lead to that," answered mrs. wiggs, hopefully. surely only a beneficent providence could have offered such an unexpected solution to the problem of miss hazy's future. miss hazy herself uttered faint protests and expostulations, but in spite of herself she was becoming influenced by mrs. wiggs's enthusiasm. "oh, shoo!" she repeated again and again. "i ain't never had no thought of marryin'." "course you ain't," said mrs. wiggs. "good enough reason: you ain't had a show before. seems to me you'd be flyin' straight in the face of providence to refuse a stylish, sweet-smilin' man like that." "he is fine-lookin'," acknowledged miss hazy, trying not to appear too pleased; "only i wisht his years didn't stick out so much." mrs. wiggs was exasperated. "lawsee! miss hazy, what do you think he'll think of yer figger? have you got so much to brag on, that you kin go to pickin' him to pieces? do you suppose i'd 'a' dared to judge mr. wiggs that away? why, mr. wiggs's nose was as long as a clothespin; but i would no more 'a' thought of his nose without him than i would 'a' thought of him without the nose." "well, what do you think i'd orter do 'bout it?" asked miss hazy. "i ain't quite made up my mind," said her mentor. "i'll talk it over with the neighbors. but i 'spect, if we kin skeer up a quarter, that you'll answer by the mornin's mail." that night lovey mary sat in her little attic room and held tommy close to her hungry heart. all day she worked with the thought of coming back to him at night; but with night came the dustman, and in spite of her games and stories tommy's blue eyes would get full of the sleep-dust. tonight, however, he was awake and talkative. "ain't i dot no muvver?" he asked. "no," said lovey mary, after a pause. "didn't i never had no muvver?" lovey mary sat him up in her lap and looked into his round, inquiring eyes. her very love for him hardened her heart against the one who had wronged him. "yes, darling, you had a mother once, but she was a bad mother, a mean, bad, wicked mother. i hate her--hate her!" lovey mary's voice broke in a sob. "ma--ry; aw, ma--ry!" called miss hazy up the stairs. "you'll have to come down here to chris. he's went to sleep with all his clothes on 'crost my bed, an' i can't git him up." lovey mary tucked tommy under the cover and went to miss hazy's assistance. "one night i had to set up all night 'cause he wouldn't git up," complained miss hazy, in hopelessly injured tones. lovey mary wasted no time in idle coaxing. she seized a broom and rapped the sleeper sharply on the legs. his peg-stick was insensible to this insult, but one leg kicked a feeble protest. in vain lovey mary tried violent measures; chris simply shifted his position and slumbered on. finally she resorted to strategy: "listen, miss hazy! ain't that the fire-engine?" in a moment chris was hanging half out of the window, demanding, "where at?" "you great big lazy boy!" scolded lovey mary, as she put miss hazy's bed in order. "i'll get you to behaving mighty different if i stay here long enough. what's this?" she added, pulling something from under miss hazy's pillow. "oh, it ain't nothin'," cried miss hazy, reaching for it eagerly. but lovey mary had recognized the "spirit picture." chapter vi the losing of mr. stubbins "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove." if the cabbage patch had pinned its faith upon the efficiency of the matrimonial agency in regard to the disposal of miss hazy, it was doomed to disappointment. the events that led up to the final catastrophe were unique in that they cast no shadows before. [illustration: "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy."] miss hazy's letters, dictated by mrs. wiggs and penned by lovey mary, were promptly and satisfactorily answered. the original of the spirit picture proved to be one mr. stubbins, "a prominent citizen of bagdad junction who desired to marry some one in the city. the lady must be of good character and without incumbrances." "that's all right," mrs. wiggs had declared; "you needn't have no incumbrances. if he'll take keer of you, we'll all look after chris." the wooing had been ideally simple. mr. stubbins, with the impetuosity of a new lover, demanded an early meeting. it was a critical time, and the cabbage patch realized the necessity of making the first impression a favorable one. mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy. old mrs. schultz, who was confined to her bed, sent over her black silk dress for miss hazy to wear. mrs. eichorn, with deep insight into the nature of man, gave a pound-cake and a pumpkin-pie. lovey mary scrubbed, and dusted, and cleaned, and superintended the toilet of the bride elect. the important day had arrived, and with it mr. stubbins. to the many eyes that surveyed him from behind shutters and half-open doors he was something of a disappointment. mrs. wiggs's rosy anticipations had invested him with the charms of an apollo, while mr. stubbins, in reality, was far from godlike. "my land! he's lanker 'n a bean-pole," exclaimed mrs. eichorn, in disgust. but then mrs. eichorn weighed two hundred, and her judgment was warped. taking everything into consideration, the prospects had been most flattering. mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand, and with miss hazy opposite arrayed in mrs. schultz's black silk, had declared himself ready to marry at once. and mrs. wiggs, believing that a groom in the hand is worth two in the bush, promptly precipitated the courtship into a wedding. [illustration: "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand"] the affair proved the sensation of the hour, and "miss hazy's husband" was the cynosure of all eyes. for one brief week the honeymoon shed its beguiling light on the neighborhood, then it suffered a sudden and ignominious eclipse. the groom got drunk. mary was clearing away the supper-dishes when she was startled by a cry from miss hazy: "my sakes! lovey mary! look at mr. stubbins a-comin' up the street! do you s'pose he's had a stroke?" lovey mary ran to the window and beheld the "prominent citizen of bagdad junction" in a state of unmistakable intoxication. he was bareheaded and hilarious, and used the fence as a life-preserver. miss hazy wrung her hands and wept. "oh, what'll i do?" she wailed. "i do b'lieve he's had somethin' to drink. i ain't goin' to stay an' meet him, mary; i'm goin' to hide. i always was skeered of drunken men." "i'm not," said mary, stoutly. "you go on up in my room and lock the door; i'm going to stay here and keep him from messing up this kitchen. i want to tell him what i think of him, anyhow. i just hate that man! i believe you do, too, miss hazy." miss hazy wept afresh. "well, he ain't my kind, mary. i know i'd hadn't orter marry him, but it 'pears like ever' woman sorter wants to try gittin' married oncet anyways. i never would 'a' done it, though, if mrs. wiggs hadn't 'a' sicked me on." by this time mr. stubbins had reached the yard, and miss hazy fled. lovey mary barricaded tommy in a corner with his playthings and met the delinquent at the door. her eyes blazed and her cheeks were aflame. this modern david had no stones and sling to slay her goliath; she had only a vocabulary full of stinging words which she hurled forth with indignation and scorn. mr. stubbins had evidently been abused before, for he paid no attention to the girl's wrath. he passed jauntily to the stove and tried to pour a cup of coffee; the hot liquid missed the cup and streamed over his wrist and hand. howling with pain and swearing vociferously, he flung the coffee-pot out of the window, kicked a chair across the room, then turned upon tommy, who was adding shrieks of terror to the general uproar. "stop that infernal yelling!" he cried savagely, as he struck the child full in the face with his heavy hand. lovey mary sprang forward and seized the poker. all the passion of her wild little nature was roused. she stole up behind him as he knelt before tommy, and lifted the poker to strike. a pair of terrified blue eyes arrested her. tommy forgot to cry, in sheer amazement at what she was about to do. ashamed of herself, she threw the poker aside, and taking advantage of mr. stubbins's crouching position, she thrust him suddenly backward into the closet. the manoeuver was a brilliant one, for while mr. stubbins was unsteadily separating himself from the debris into which he had been cast, lovey mary slammed the door and locked it. then she picked up tommy and fled out of the house and across the yard. mrs. wiggs was sitting on her back porch pretending to knit, but in truth absorbed in a wild game of tag which the children were having on the commons. "that's right," she was calling excitedly--"that's right, chris hazy! you kin ketch as good as any of 'em, even if you have got a peg-stick." but when she caught sight of mary's white, distressed face and tommy's streaming eyes, she dropped her work and held out her arms. when mary had finished her story mrs. wiggs burst forth: "an' to think i run her up ag'in' this! ain't men deceivin'? now i'd 'a' risked mr. stubbins myself fer the askin'. it's true he was a widower, an' ma uster allays say, 'don't fool with widowers, grass nor sod.' but mr. stubbins was so slick-tongued! he told me yesterday he had to take liquor sometime fer his war enjury." "but, mrs. wiggs, what must we do?" asked lovey mary, too absorbed in the present to be interested in the past. "do? why, we got to git miss hazy out of this here hole. it ain't no use consultin' her; i allays have said talkin' to miss hazy was like pullin' out bastin'-threads: you jes take out what you put in. me an' you has got to think out a plan right here an' now, then go to work an' carry it out." "couldn't we get the agency to take him back?" suggested mary. "no, indeed; they couldn't afford to do that. lemme see, lemme see--" for five minutes mrs. wiggs rocked meditatively, soothing tommy to sleep as she rocked. when she again spoke it was with inspiration: "i've got it! it looks sometime, lovey mary, 's if i'd sorter caught some of mr. wiggs's brains in thinkin' things out. they ain't but one thing to do with miss hazy's husband, an' we'll do it this very night." "what, mrs. wiggs? what is it?" asked lovey mary, eagerly. "why, to lose him, of course! we'll wait till mr. stubbins is dead asleep; you know men allays have to sleep off a jag like this. i've seen mr. wiggs--i mean i've heared 'em say so many a time. well, when mr. stubbins is sound asleep, you an' me an' billy will drag him out to the railroad." mrs. wiggs's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper, and her eyes looked fierce in the twilight. lovey mary shuddered. "you ain't going to let the train run over him, are you?" she asked. "lor', child, i ain't a 'sassinator! no; we'll wait till the midnight freight comes along, an' when it stops fer water, we'll h'ist mr. stubbins into one of them empty cars. the train goes 'way out west somewheres, an' by the time mr. stubbins wakes up, he'll be so far away from home he won't have no money to git back." "what'll miss hazy say?" asked mary, giggling in nervous excitement. "miss hazy ain't got a thing to do with it," replied mrs. wiggs conclusively. at midnight, by the dark of the moon, the unconscious groom was borne out of the hazy cottage. mrs. wiggs carried his head, while billy wiggs and mary and asia and chris officiated at his arms and legs. the bride surveyed the scene from the chinks of the upstairs shutters. silently the little group waited until the lumbering freight train slowed up to take water, then with a concerted effort they lifted the heavy burden into an empty car. as they shrank back into the shadow, billy whispered to lovey mary: "say, what was that you put 'longside of him?" mary looked shamefaced. "it was just a little lunch-dinner," she said apologetically; "it seemed sorter mean to send him off without anything to eat." "gee!" said billy. "you're a cur'us girl!" the engine whistled, and the train moved thunderously away, bearing an unconscious passenger, who, as far as the cabbage patch was concerned, was henceforth submerged in the darkness of oblivion. chapter vii neighborly advice "it's a poor business looking at the sun with a cloudy face." the long, hot summer days that followed were full of trials for lovey mary. day after day the great unwinking sun glared savagely down upon the cabbage patch, upon the stagnant pond, upon the gleaming rails, upon the puffing trains that pounded by hour after hour. each morning found lovey mary trudging away to the factory, where she stood all day counting and sorting and packing tiles. at night she climbed wearily to her little room under the roof, and tried to sleep with a wet cloth over her face to keep her from smelling the stifling car smoke. but it was not the heat and discomfort alone that made her cheeks thin and her eyes sad and listless: it was the burden on her conscience, which seemed to be growing heavier all the time. one morning mrs. wiggs took her to task for her gloomy countenance. they met at the pump, and, while the former's bucket was being filled, lovey mary leaned against a lamp-post and waited in a dejected attitude. "what's the matter with you?" asked mrs. wiggs. "what you lookin' so wilted about?" lovey mary dug her shoe into the ground and said nothing. many a time had she been tempted to pour forth her story to this friendly mentor, but the fear of discovery and her hatred of kate deterred her. mrs. wiggs eyed her keenly. "pesterin' about somethin'?" she asked. "yes, 'm," said lovey mary, in a low tone. "somethin' that's already did?" "yes, 'm"--still lower. "did you think you was actin' fer the best?" the girl lifted a pair of honest gray eyes. "yes, ma'am, i did." "i bet you did!" said mrs. wiggs, heartily. "you ain't got a deceivin' bone in yer body. now what you want to do is to brace up yer sperrits. the decidin'-time was the time fer worryin'. you've did what you thought was best; now you want to stop thinkin' 'bout it. you don't want to go round turnin' folks' thoughts sour jes to look at you. most girls that had white teeth like you would be smilin' to show 'em, if fer nothin' else." "i wisht i was like you," said lovey mary. "don't take it out in wishin'. if you want to be cheerful, jes set yer mind on it an' do it. can't none of us help what traits we start out in life with, but we kin help what we end up with. when things first got to goin' wrong with me, i says: 'o lord, whatever comes, keep me from gittin' sour!' it wasn't fer my own sake i ast it,--some people 'pears to enjoy bein' low-sperrited,--it was fer the childern an' mr. wiggs. since then i've made it a practice to put all my worries down in the bottom of my heart, then set on the lid an' smile." "but you think ever'body's nice and good," complained lovey mary. "you never see all the meanness i do." "don't i? i been watchin' old man rothchild fer goin' on eleven year', tryin' to see some good in him, an' i never found it till the other day when i seen him puttin' a splint on cusmoodle's broken leg. he's the savagest man i know, yit he keered fer that duck as tender as a woman. but it ain't jes seein' the good in folks an' sayin' nice things when you're feelin' good. the way to git cheerful is to smile when you feel bad, to think about somebody else's headache when yer own is 'most bustin', to keep on believin' the sun is a-shinin' when the clouds is thick enough to cut. nothin' helps you to it like thinkin' more 'bout other folks than about yerself." "i think 'bout tommy first," said lovey mary. "yes, you certainly do yer part by him. if my childern wore stockin's an' got as many holes in 'em as he does, i'd work buttonholes in 'em at the start fer the toes to come through. but even tommy wants somethin' besides darns. why don't you let him go barefoot on sundays, too, an' take the time you been mendin' fer him to play with him? i want to see them pretty smiles come back in yer face ag'in." in a subsequent conversation with miss hazy, mrs. wiggs took a more serious view of lovey mary's depression. "she jes makes me wanter cry, she's so subdued-like. i never see anybody change so in my life. it 'u'd jes be a relief to hear her sass some of us like she uster. she told me she never had nobody make over her like we all did, an' it sorter made her 'shamed. lawsee! if kindness is goin' to kill her, i think we'd better fuss at her some." "'pears to me like she's got nervous sensations," said miss hazy; "she jumps up in her sleep, an' talks 'bout folks an' things i never heared tell of." "that's exactly what ails her," agreed mrs. wiggs: "it's nerves, miss hazy. to my way of thinkin', nerves is worser than tumors an' cancers. look at old mrs. schultz. she's got the dropsy so bad you can't tell whether she's settin' down or standin' up, yet she ain't got a nerve in her body, an' has 'most as good a time as other folks. we can't let lovey mary go on with these here nerves; no tellin' where they'll land her at. if it was jes springtime, i'd give her sulphur an' molasses an' jes a leetle cream of tartar; that, used along with egg-shell tea, is the outbeatenest tonic i ever seen. but i never would run ag'in' the seasons. seems to me i've heared yallerroot spoke of fer killin' nerves." "i don't 'spect we could git no yallerroot round here." "what's the matter with miss viny? i bet it grows in her garden thick as hairs on a dog's back. let's send lovey mary out there to git some, an' we'll jes repeat the dose on her till it takes some hold." "i ain't puttin' much stock in miss viny," demurred miss hazy. "i've heared she was a novelist reader, an' she ain't even a church-member." "an' do you set up to jedge her?" asked mrs. wiggs, in fine scorn. "miss viny's got more sense in her little finger than me an' you has got in our whole heads. she can doctor better with them yarbs of hers than any physicianner i know. as to her not bein' a member, she lives right an' helps other folks, an' that's more than lots of members does. besides," she added conclusively, "mr. wiggs himself wasn't no church-member." chapter viii a denominational gardbn "oh, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities; for naught so vile that on the earth doth live but to the earth some special good doth give." the following sunday being decidedly cooler, lovey mary was started off to miss viny's in quest of yellowroot. she had protested that she was not sick, but miss hazy, backed by mrs. wiggs, had insisted. "if you git down sick, it would be a' orful drain on me," was miss hazy's final argument, and the point was effective. as lovey mary trudged along the railroad-tracks, she was unconscious of the pleasant changes of scenery. the cottages became less frequent, and the bare, dusty commons gave place to green fields. here and there a tree spread its branches to the breezes, and now and then a snatch of bird song broke the stillness. but lovey mary kept gloomily on her way, her eyes fixed on the cross-ties. the thoughts surging through her brain were dark enough to obscure even the sunshine. for three nights she had cried herself to sleep, and the "nervous sensations" were getting worse instead of better. "just two months since kate was hurt," she said to herself. "soon as she gets out the hospital she'll be trying to find us again. i believe she was coming to the factory looking for me when she got run over. she'd just like to take tommy away and send me to jail. oh, i hate her worse all the time! i wish she was--" the wish died on her lips, for she suddenly realized that it might already have been fulfilled. some one coughed near by, and she started guiltily. "you seem to be in a right deep steddy," said a voice on the other side of the fence. lovey mary glanced up and saw a queer-looking old woman smiling at her quizzically. a pair of keen eyes twinkled under bushy brows, and a fierce little beard bristled from her chin. when she smiled it made lovey mary think of a pebble dropped in a pool, for the wrinkles went rippling off from her mouth in ever-widening circles until they were lost in the gray hair under her broad-brimmed hat. "are you miss viny?" asked lovey mary, glancing at the old-fashioned flower-garden beyond. "well, i been that fer sixty year'; i ain't heared of no change," answered the old lady. "miss hazy sent me after some yellowroot," said lovey mary, listlessly. "who fer?" "me." miss viny took a pair of large spectacles from her pocket, put them on the tip of her nose, and looked over them critically at lovey mary. "stick out yer tongue." lovey mary obeyed. "uh-huh. it's a good thing i looked. you don't no more need yallerroot than a bumblebee. you come in here on the porch an' tell me what's ailin' you, an' i'll do my own prescriptin'." lovey mary followed her up the narrow path, that ran between a mass of flowers. snowy oleanders, yellow asters, and purple phlox crowded together in a space no larger than miss hazy's front yard. lovey mary forgot her troubles in sheer delight in seeing so many flowers together. "do you love 'em, too?" asked miss viny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "i guess i would if i had a chance. i never saw them growing out of doors like this. i always had to look at them through the store windows." "oh, law, don't talk to me 'bout caged-up flowers! i don't b'lieve in shuttin' a flower up in a greenhouse any more 'n i b'lieve in shuttin' myself up in one church." lovey mary remembered what miss hazy had told her of miss viny's pernicious religious views, and she tried to change the subject. but miss viny was started upon a favorite theme and was not to be diverted. "this here is a denominational garden, an' i got every congregation i ever heared of planted in it. i ain't got no faverite bed. i keer fer 'em all jes alike. when you come to think of it, the same rule holds good in startin' a garden as does in startin' a church. you first got to steddy what sort of soil you goin' to work with, then you have to sum up all the things you have to fight ag'inst. next you choose what flowers are goin' to hold the best places. that's a mighty important question in churches, too, ain't it? then you go to plantin', the thicker the better, fer in both you got to allow fer a mighty fallin' off. after that you must take good keer of what you got, an' be sure to plant something new each year. once in a while some of the old growths has to be thinned out, and the new upstarts an' suckers has to be pulled up. now, if you'll come out here i'll show you round." she started down the path, and lovey mary, somewhat overwhelmed by this oration, followed obediently. "these here are the baptists," said miss viny, waving her hand toward a bed of heliotrope and flags. "they want lots of water; like to be wet clean through. they sorter set off to theyselves an' tend to their own business; don't keer much 'bout minglin' with the other flowers." lovey mary did not understand very clearly what miss viny was talking about, but she was glad to follow her in the winding paths, where new beauties were waiting at every turn. "these is geraniums, ain't they? one of the girls had one, once, in a flower-pot when she was sick." "yes," said miss viny; "they're methodist. they fall from grace an' has to be revived; they like lots of encouragement in the way of sun an' water. these phlox are methodist, too; no set color, easy to grow, hardy an' vigorous. pinchin' an' cuttin' back the shoots makes it flower all the better; needs new soil every few years; now ain't that methodist down to the ground?" "are there any presbyterians?" asked lovey mary, beginning to grasp miss viny's meaning. "yes, indeed; they are a good, old, reliable bed. look at all these roses an' tiger-lilies an' dahlias; they all knew what they was goin' to be afore they started to grow. they was elected to it, an' they'll keep on bein' what they started out to be clean to the very end." "i know about predestination," cried lovey mary, eagerly. "miss bell used to tell us all those things." "who did?" lovey mary flushed crimson. "a lady i used to know," she said evasively. miss viny crossed the garden, and stopped before a bed of stately lilies and azaleas. "these are 'piscopals," she explained. "ain't they tony? jes look like they thought their bed was the only one in the garden. somebody said that a lily didn't have no pore kin among the flowers. it ain't no wonder they 'most die of dignity. they're like the 'piscopals in more ways 'n one; both hates to be disturbed, both likes some shade, an'"--confidentially--"both air pretty pernickity. but to tell you the truth, ain't nothin' kin touch 'em when it comes to beauty! i think all the other beds is proud of 'em, if you'd come to look into it. why, look at weddin's an' funerals! don't all the churches call in the 'piscopals an' the lilies on both them occasions?" lovey mary nodded vaguely. "an' here," continued miss viny, "are the unitarians. you may be s'prised at me fer havin' 'em in here, 'long with the orthodox churches; but if the sun an' the rain don't make no distinction, i don't see what right i got to put 'em on the other side of the fence. these first is sweet-william, as rich in bloom as the unitarian is in good works, a-sowin' theyselves constant, an' every little plant a- puttin' out a flower." "ain't there any catholics?" asked lovey mary. "don't you see them hollyhawks an' snowballs an' laylacs? all of them are catholics, takin' up lots of room an' needin' the prunin'-knife pretty often, but bringin' cheer and brightness to the whole garden when it needs it most. yes, i guess you'd have trouble thinkin' of any sect i ain't got planted. them ferns over in the corner is quakers. i ain't never seen no quakers, but they tell me that they don't b'lieve in flowerin' out; that they like coolness an' shade an' quiet, an' are jes the same the year round. these colea plants are the apes; they are all things to all men, take on any color that's round 'em, kin be the worst kind of baptists or presbyterians, but if left to theyselves they run back to good-fer-nothin's. this here everlastin' is one of these here christians that's so busy thinkin' 'bout dyin' that he fergits to live." miss viny chuckled as she crumbled the dry flower in her fingers. "see how different this is," she said, plucking a sprig of lemon- verbena. "this an' the mint an' the sage an' the lavender is all true christians; jes by bein' touched they give out a' influence that makes the whole world a sweeter place to live in. but, after all, they can't all be alike! there's all sorts of christians: some stands fer sunshine, some fer shade; some fer beauty, some fer use; some up high, some down low. there's jes one thing all the flowers has to unite in fightin' ag'inst--that's the canker-worm, hate. if it once gits in a plant, no matter how good an' strong that plant may be, it eats right down to its heart." "how do you get it out, miss viny?" asked lovey mary, earnestly. "prayer an' perseverance. if the christian'll do his part, god'll do his'n. you see, i'm tryin' to be to these flowers what god is to his churches. the sun, which answers to the sperrit, has to shine on 'em all, an' the rain, which answers to god's mercy, has to fall on 'em all. i jes watch 'em, an' plan fer 'em, an' shelter 'em, an' love 'em, an' if they do their part they're bound to grow. now i'm goin' to cut you a nice bo'quet to carry back to the cabbage patch." so engrossed were the two in selecting and arranging the flowers that neither thought of the yellowroot or its substitute. nevertheless, as lovey mary tramped briskly back over the railroad-ties with her burden of blossoms, she bore a new thought in her heart which was destined to bring about a surer cure than any of miss viny's most efficient herbs. chapter ix labor day "and cloudy the day, or stormy the night, the sky of her heart was always bright." "it wouldn't s'prise me none if we had cyclones an' tornadoes by evenin', it looks so thundery outdoors." it was inconsiderate of miss hazy to make the above observation in the very face of the most elaborate preparations for a picnic, but miss hazy's evil predictions were too frequent to be effective. "i'll scurry round an' git another loaf of bread," said mrs. wiggs, briskly, as she put a tin pail into the corner of the basket. "lovey mary, you put in the eggs an' git them cookies outen the stove. i promised them boys a picnic on labor day, an' we are goin' if it snows." "awful dangerous in the woods when it storms," continued miss hazy. "i heared of a man oncet that would go to a picnic in the rain, and he got struck so bad it burned his shoes plump off." "must have been the same man that got drownded, when he was little, fer goin' in swimmin' on sunday," answered mrs. wiggs, wiping her hands on her apron. "mebbe 't was," said miss hazy. lovey mary vibrated between the door and the window, alternating between hope and despair. she had set her heart on the picnic with the same intensity of desire that had characterized her yearning for goodness and affection and curly hair. "i believe there is a tiny speck more blue," she said, scanning the heavens for the hundredth time. "course there is!" cried mrs. wiggs, "an' even if there ain't, we'll have the picnic anyway. i b'lieve in havin' a good time when you start out to have it. if you git knocked out of one plan, you want to git yerself another right quick, before yer sperrits has a chance to fall. here comes jake an' chris with their baskets. suppose you rench off yer hands an' go gether up the rest of the childern. i 'spect billy's done hitched up by this time." at the last moment miss hazy was still trying to make up her mind whether or not she would go. "them wheels don't look none too stiddy fer sich a big load," she said cautiously. "them wheels is a heap sight stiddier than your legs," declared mrs. wiggs. "an' there ain't a meeker hoss in kentucky than cuby. he looks like he might 'a' belonged to a preacher 'stid of bein' a broken-down engine- hoss." an unforeseen delay was occasioned by a heated controversy between lovey mary and tommy concerning the advisability of taking cusmoodle. "there ain't more than room enough to squeeze you in, tommy," she said, "let alone that fat old duck." "'t ain't a fat old duck." "'t is, too! he sha'n't go. you'll have to stay at home yourself if you can't be good." "i feel like i was doin' to det limber," threatened tommy. mrs. wiggs recognized a real danger. she also knew that discretion was the better part of valor. "here's a nice little place up here by me, jes big enough fer you an' cusmoodle. you kin set on the basket; it won't mash nothin'. if we're packed in good an' tight, can't none of us fall out." when the last basket was stored away, the party started off in glee, leaving miss hazy still irresolute in the doorway, declaring that "she almost wisht she had 'a' went." the destination had not been decided upon, so it was discussed as the wagon jolted along over the cobblestones. "let's go out past miss viny's," suggested jake; "there's a bully woods out there." "aw, no! let's go to tick creek an' go in wadin'." mrs. wiggs, seated high above the party and slapping the reins on cuba's back, allowed the lively debate to continue until trouble threatened, then she interfered: "i think it would be nice to go over to the cemetery. we'd have to cross the city, but when you git out there there's plenty of grass an' trees, an' it runs right 'longside the river." the proximity of the river decided the matter. "i won't hardly take a swim!" said jake, going through the motions, to the discomfort of the two little girls who were hanging their feet from the back of the wagon. "i'm afraid it's going to rain so hard that you can take your swim before you get there," said lovey mary, as the big drops began to fall. the picnic party huddled on the floor of the wagon in a state of great merriment, while mrs. wiggs spread an old quilt over as many of them as it would cover. "'t ain't nothin' but a summer shower," she said, holding her head on one side to keep the rain from driving in her face. "i 'spect the sun is shinin' at the cemetery right now." as the rickety wagon, with its drenched and shivering load, rattled across main street, an ominous sound fell upon the air: _one--two--three! one--two!_ mrs. wiggs wrapped the lines about her wrists and braced herself for the struggle. but cuba had heard the summons, his heart had responded to the old call, and with one joyous bound he started for the fire. "hold on tight!" yelled mrs. wiggs. "don't none of you fall out. whoa, cuby! whoa! i'll stop him in a minute. hold tight!" cuba kicked the stiffness out of his legs, and laying his ears back, raced valiantly for five squares neck and neck with the engine-horses. but the odds were against him; mrs. wiggs and chris sawing on one line, and billy and jake pulling on the other, proved too heavy a handicap. within sight of the fire he came to a sudden halt. "it's the lumber-yards!" called chris, climbing over the wheels. "looks like the whole town's on fire." "let's unhitch cuby an' tie him, an' stand in the wagon an' watch it," cried mrs. wiggs, in great excitement. the boys were not content to be stationary, so they rushed away, leaving mrs. wiggs and the girls, with tommy and the duck, to view the conflagration at a safe distance. for two hours the fire raged, leaping from one stack of lumber to another, and threatening the adjacent buildings. every fire-engine in the department was called out, the commons were black with people, and the excitement was intense. "ain't you glad we come!" cried lovey mary, dancing up and down in the wagon. "we never come. we was brought," said asia. long before the fire was under control the sun had come through the clouds and was shining brightly. picnics, however, were not to be considered when an attraction like this was to be had. when the boys finally came straggling back the fire was nearly out, the crowd had dispersed, and only the picnic party was left on the commons. "it's too late to start to the cemetery," said mrs. wiggs, thoughtfully. "what do you all think of havin' the picnic right here an' now?" the suggestion was regarded as nothing short of an inspiration. "the only trouble," continued mrs. wiggs, "is 'bout the water. where we goin' to git any to drink? i know one of the firemen, pete jenkins; if i could see him i'd ast him to pour us some outen the hose." "gimme the pail; i'll go after him," cried jake. "naw, you don't; i'm a-goin'. it's my maw that knows him," said billy. "that ain't nothin'. my uncle knows the chief of police! can't i go, mrs. wiggs?" meanwhile chris had seized the hint and the bucket, and was off in search of mr. peter jenkins, whose name would prove an open sesame to that small boy's paradise--the engine side of the rope. the old quilt, still damp, was spread on the ground, and around it sat the picnic party, partaking ravenously of dry sandwiches and cheese and cheer. such laughing and crowding and romping as there was! jake gave correct imitations of everybody in the cabbage patch, chris did some marvelous stunts with his wooden leg, and lovey mary sang every funny song that she knew. mrs. wiggs stood in the wagon above them, and dispensed hospitality as long as it lasted. cuba, hitched to a fence near by, needed no material nourishment. he was contentedly sniffing the smoke-filled air, and living over again the days of his youth. when the party reached home, tired and grimy, they were still enthusiastic over the fine time they had had. "it's jes the way i said," proclaimed mrs. wiggs, as she drove up with a flourish; "you never kin tell which way pleasure is a-comin'. who ever would 'a' thought, when we aimed at the cemetery, that we'd land up at a first-class fire?" chapter x a timely visit "the love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart." weeks and months slipped by, and the cabbage patch ate breakfast and supper by lamplight. those who could afford it were laying in their winter coal, and those who could not were providently pasting brown paper over broken window-panes, and preparing to keep jack frost at bay as long as possible. one saturday, as lovey mary came home from the factory, she saw a well-dressed figure disappearing in the distance. "who is that lady?" she demanded suspiciously of europena wiggs, who was swinging violently on the gate. "'t ain't no lady," said europena. "it's my sunday-school teacher." "mrs. redding?" "uh-huh. she wants asia to come over to her house this evenin'." "wisht i could go," said lovey mary. "why can't you?" asked mrs. wiggs, coming to the open door. "asia would jes love to show mrs. reddin' how stylish you look in that red dress. i'll curl yer hair on the poker if you want me to." any diversion from the routine of work was acceptable, so late that afternoon the two girls, arrayed in their best garments, started forth to call on the reddings. "i wisht i had some gloves," said lovey mary, rubbing her blue fingers. "if i'd 'a' thought about it i'd 'a' made you some before we started. it don't take no time." asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts. "i make 'em outen billy's old socks after the feet's wore off." "i don't see how you know how to do so many things!" said lovey mary, admiringly. [illustration: "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts."] "'t ain't nothin'," disclaimed asia, modestly. "it's jes the way maw brought us up. whenever we started out to do a thing she made us finish it someway or 'nother. oncet when we was all little we lived in the country. she sent billy out on the hoss to git two watermelon, an' told him fer him not to come home without 'em. when billy got out to the field he found all the watermelon so big he couldn't carry one, let alone two. what do you think he done?" "come home without 'em?" "no, sir, he never! he jes set on the fence an' thought awhile, then he took off en his jeans pants an' put a watermelon in each leg an' hanged 'em 'crost old rollie's back an' come ridin' home barelegged." "i think he's the nicest boy in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, laughing over the incident. "he never does tease tommy." "that's 'cause he likes you. he says you've got grit. he likes the way you cleaned up miss hazy an' stood up to mr. stubbins." a deeper color than even the fresh air warranted came into lovey mary's cheeks, and she walked on for a few minutes in pleased silence. "don't you want to wear my gloves awhile?" asked asia. "no; my hands ain't cold any more," said lovey mary. as they turned into terrace park, with its beautiful grounds, its fountains and statuary, asia stopped to explain. "jes rich folks live over here. that there is the reddin's' house, the big white one where them curbstone ladies are in the yard. i wisht you could git a peek in the parlor; they've got chairs made outer real gold, an' strandaliers that look like icicles all hitched together." "do they set on the gold chairs?" "no, indeed; the legs is too wabbly fer that. i reckon they're jes to show how rich they are. this here is where the carriage drives in. their hired man wears a high-style hat, an' a fur cape jes like mrs. reddin's." "i 'spect they have turkey every day, don't they, asia?" before asia's veracity was tested to the limit, the girls were startled by the sudden appearance of an excited housemaid at the side door. "simmons! simmons!" she screamed. "oh, where is that man? i'll have to go for somebody myself." and without noticing the girls, she ran hastily down the driveway. asia, whose calmness was seldom ruffled, led the way into the entry. "that's the butter's pantry," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "don't they keep nothing in it but butter?" gasped lovey mary. "reckon not. they've got a great big box jes fer ice; not another thing goes in it." another maid ran down the steps, calling simmons. asia, a frequent visitor at the house, made her way unconcernedly up to the nursery. on the second floor there was great confusion; the telephone was ringing, servants were hurrying to and fro. "he'll choke to death before the doctor gets here!" they heard the nurse say as she ran through the hall. from the open nursery door they could hear the painful gasps and coughs of a child in great distress. asia paused on the landing, but lovey mary darted forward. the mother instinct, ever strong within her, had responded instantly to the need of the child. in the long, dainty room full of beautiful things, she only saw the terrified baby on his mother's lap, his face purple, his eyes distended, as he fought for his breath. [illustration: "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms."] without a word she sprang forward, and grasping the child by his feet, held him at arm's-length and shook him violently. mrs. redding screamed, and the nurse, who was rushing in with hot milk, dropped the cup in horror. but a tiny piece of hard candy lay on the floor, and master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms. after the excitement had subsided, and two doctors and mr. redding had arrived breathless upon the scene, mrs. redding, for the dozenth time, lavished her gratitude upon lovey mary: "and to think you saved my precious baby! the doctor said it was the only thing that could have saved him, yet we four helpless women had no idea what to do. how did you know, dear? where did you ever see it done!" lovey mary, greatly abashed, faced the radiant parents, the two portly doctors, and the servants in the background. "i learned on tommy," she said in a low voice. "he swallered a penny once that we was going to buy candy with. i didn't have another, so i had to shake it out." during the laugh that followed, she and asia escaped, but not before mr. redding had slipped a bill into her hand, and the beautiful mrs. redding had actually given her a kiss! chapter xi the christmas play "not failure, but low aim, is crime." as the holiday season approached, a rumor began to be circulated that the cabbage patch sunday-school would have an entertainment as well as a christmas tree. the instigator of this new movement was jake schultz, whose histrionic ambition had been fired during his apprenticeship as "super" at the opera-house. "i know a man what rents costumes, an' the promp'-books to go with 'em," he said to several of the boys one sunday afternoon. "if we all chip in we kin raise the price, an' git it back easy by chargin' admittance." "aw, shucks!" said chris. "we don't know nothin' 'bout play-actin'." "we kin learn all right," said billy wiggs. "i bid to be the feller that acts on the trapeze." the other boys approving of the plan, it was agreed that jake should call on the costumer at his earliest convenience. one night a week later lovey mary was getting supper when she heard an imperative rap on the door. it was jake schultz. he mysteriously beckoned her out on the steps, and closed the door behind them. "have you ever acted any?" he asked. "i used to say pieces at the home," said lovey mary, forgetting herself. "well, do you think you could take leadin' lady in the entertainment?" [illustration: "'have you ever acted any?' he asked."] lovey mary had no idea what the lady was expected to lead, but she knew that she was being honored, and she was thrilled at the prospect. "i know some arm-exercises, and i could sing for them," she offered. "oh, no," explained jake; "it's a play, a reg'lar theayter play. i got the book and the costumes down on market street. the man didn't have but this one set of costumes on hand, so i didn't have no choice. it's a bully play, all right, though! i seen it oncet, an' i know how it all ought to go. it's named 'forst,' er somethin' like that. i'm goin' to be the devil, an' wear a red suit, an' have my face all streaked up. billy he's goin' to be the other feller what's stuck on the girl. he tole me to ast you to be her. your dress is white with cords an' tassels on it, an' the sleeves ain't sewed up. reckon you could learn the part? we ain't goin' to give it all." "i can learn anything!" cried lovey mary, recklessly. "already know the alphabet and the lord's prayer backward. is the dress short- sleeve? and does it drag in the back when you walk?" "yep," said jake, "an' the man said you was to plait your hair in two parts an' let 'em hang over your shoulders. i don't see why it wouldn't be pretty for you to sing somethin', too. ever'body is so stuck on yer singin'." "all right," said lovey mary, enthusiastically; "you bring the book over and show me where my part's at. and, jake," she called as he started off, "you tell billy i'll be glad to." for the next ten days lovey mary dwelt in elysium. the prompt-book, the rehearsals, the consultations, filled the spare moments and threw a glamour over the busy ones. jake, with his vast experience and unlimited knowledge of stage-craft, appealed to her in everything. he sat on a barrel and told how they did things "up to the opery-house," and lovey mary, seizing his suggestions with burning zeal, refitted the costumes, constructed scenery, hammered her own nails as well as the iron ones, and finally succeeded in putting into practice his rather vague theories. for the first time in her life she was a person of importance. besides her numerous other duties she prepared an elaborate costume for tommy. this had caused her some trouble, for miss hazy, who was sent to buy the goods for the trousers, exercised unwise economy in buying two remnants which did not match in color or pattern. "why didn't you put your mind on it, miss hazy?" asked lovey mary, making a heroic effort to keep her temper. "you might have known i couldn't take tommy to the show with one blue leg and one brown one. what must i do?" miss hazy sat dejectedly in the corner, wiping her eyes on her apron. "you might go ast mis' wiggs," she suggested as a forlorn hope. when mrs. wiggs was told the trouble she smiled reassuringly. emergencies were to her the spice of life; they furnished opportunities for the expression of her genius. "hush cryin', miss hazy; there ain't a speck of harm did. mary kin make the front outen one piece an' the back outen the other. nobody won't never know the difference, 'cause tommy can't be goin' an' comin' at the same time." the result was highly satisfactory, that is, to everybody but tommy. he complained that there "wasn't no room to set down." on christmas night the aristocracy of the cabbage patch assembled in the school-house to enjoy the double attraction of a christmas tree and an entertainment. mr. rothchild, who had arranged the tree for the last ten years, refused to have it moved from its accustomed place, which was almost in the center of the platform. he had been earnestly remonstrated with, but he and the tree remained firm. mrs. rothchild and all the little rothchildren had climbed in by the window before the doors were open in order to secure the front seats. immediately behind them sat the hazys and the wiggses. "that there is the seminary student gittin' up now," whispered mrs. wiggs. "he's goin' to call out the pieces. my land! ain't he washed out? looks like he'd go into a trance fer fifty cents. hush, australia! don't you see he is goin' to pray?" after the opening prayer, the young preacher suggested that, as long as the speakers were not quite ready, the audience should "raise a hymn." "he's got a fine voice," whispered miss hazy; "i heared 'em say he was the gentleman soprano at a down-town church." when the religious exercises were completed, the audience settled into a state of pleasurable anticipation. "the first feature of the entertainment," announced the preacher, "will be a song by miss europena wiggs." [illustration: "europena stepped forward."] europena stepped forward and, with hands close to her sides and anguished eyes on the ceiling, gasped forth the agonized query: "can she make a cheery-pie, billy boy, billy boy? can she make a cheery-pie, charming billy?" notwithstanding the fact that there were eight verses, an encore was demanded. mrs. wiggs rose in her seat and beckoned vehemently to europena. "come on back!" she motioned violently with her lips. "they want you to come back." europena, in a state of utter bewilderment, returned to the stage. "say another speech!" whispered mrs. wiggs, leaning over so far that she knocked mrs. rothchild's bonnet awry. still europena stood there, an evident victim of lockjaw. "'i have a little finger,'" prompted her mother frantically from the second row front. a single ray of intelligence flickered for a moment over the child's face, and with a supreme effort she said: "i have a little finger, an' i have a little beau; when i get a little bigger i'll have a little toe." "well, she got it all in," said mrs. wiggs, in a relieved tone, as europena was lifted down. after this, other little girls came forward and made some unintelligible remarks concerning santa claus. it was with some difficulty that they went through their parts, for mr. rothchild kept getting in the way as he calmly and uncompromisingly continued to hang cornucopias on the tree. songs and recitations followed, but even the youngest spectator realized that these were only preliminary skirmishes. at last a bell rang. two bedspreads. which served as curtains were majestically withdrawn. a sigh of admiration swept the room. "ain't he cute!" whispered a girl in the rear, as billy rose resplendent in pink tights and crimson doublet, and folding his arms high on his breast, recited in a deep voice: "i have, alas! philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence too, and, to my cost, theology with ardent labor studied through." "i don't see no sense in what he's sayin' at all," whispered miss hazy. "it's jes what was in the book," answered mrs. wiggs, "'cause i heared him repeat it off before supper." the entrance of jake awakened the flagging interest. nobody understood what he said either, but he made horrible faces, and waved his red arms, and caused a pleasant diversion. "maw, what's john bagby a-handin' round in that little saucer?" asked australia. "fer the mercy sake! i don't know," answered her mother, craning her neck to see. john, with creaking footsteps, tiptoed to the front of the stage, and stooping down, began to mix a concoction in a plate. many stood up to see what he was doing, and conjecture was rife. _mephisto_ and _faust_ were forgotten until jake struck a heroic pose, and grasping billy's arm, said hoarsely: "gaze, faustis, gaze into pairdition!" john put a match to the powder, a bright red light filled the room, and the audience, following the index-finger of the impassioned _mephisto_, gazed into the placid, stupid faces of four meek little boys on the mourners' bench. [illustration: "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour'"] before the violent coughing caused by the calcium fumes had ceased, a vision in white squeezed past mr. rothchild and came slowly down to the edge of the platform. it was lovey mary as _marguerite_. her long dress swept about her feet, her heavy hair hung in thick braids over both shoulders, and a burning red spot glowed on each cheek. for a moment she stood as jake had directed, with head thrown back and eyes cast heavenward, then she began to recite. the words poured from her lips with a volubility that would have shamed an auctioneer. it was a long part, full of hard words, but she knew it perfectly and was determined to show how fast she could say it without making a mistake. it was only when she finished that she paused for breath. then she turned slowly, and stretching forth appealing arms to _faust_, sang in a high, sweet voice, "i need thee every hour." the effect was electrical. at last the cabbage patch understood what was going on. the roof rang with applause. even mr. rothchild held aside his strings of pop-corn to let _marguerite_ pass out. "s' more! s' more!" was the cry. "sing it ag'in!" jake stepped before the curtain. "if our friends is willin'," he said, "we'll repeat over the last ak." again lovey mary scored a triumph. john bagby burned the rest of the calcium powder during the last verse, and the entertainment concluded in a prolonged cheer. chapter xii reaction "our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." when the paint and powder had been washed off, and tommy had with difficulty been extracted from his new trousers and put to bed, lovey mary sat before the little stove and thought it all over. it had been the very happiest time of her whole life. how nice it was to be praised and made much of! mrs. wiggs had started it by calling everybody's attention to her good points; then mrs. redding had sought her out and shown her continued attention; to-night was the great climax. her name had been on every tongue, her praises sung on every side, and billy wiggs had given her everything he got off the christmas tree. "i wisht i deserved it all," she said, as she got up to pull the blanket closer about tommy. "i've tried to be good. i guess i am better in some ways, but not in all--not in all." she knelt by the bed and held tommy's hand to her cheek. "sometimes he looks like kate when he's asleep like this. i wonder if she's got well? i wonder if she ever misses him?" for a long time she knelt there, holding the warm little hand in hers. the play, the success, the applause, were all forgotten, and in their place was a shame, a humiliation, that brought the hot tears to her eyes. "i ain't what they think i am," she whispered brokenly. "i'm a mean, bad girl after all. the canker-worm's there. miss viny said there never would be a sure-'nough beautiful flower till the canker-worm was killed. but i want to be good; i want to be what they think i am!" again and again the old thoughts of kate rose to taunt and madden her. but a new power was at work; it brought new thoughts of kate, of kate sick and helpless, of kate without friends and lonely, calling for her baby. through the night the battle raged within her. when the first gray streaks showed through the shutters, lovey mary cleaned her room and put on her sunday dress. "i'll be a little late to the factory," she explained to miss hazy at breakfast, "for i've got to go on a' errand." it was an early hour for visitors at the city hospital, but when lovey mary stated her business she was shown to kate's ward. at the far end of the long room, with her bandaged head turned to the wall, lay kate. when the nurse spoke to her she turned her head painfully, and looked at them listlessly with great black eyes that stared forth from a face wasted and wan from suffering. "kate!" said lovey mary, leaning across the bed and touching her hand. "kate, don't you know me?" the pale lips tightened over the prominent white teeth. "well, i swan, lovey mary, where'd you come from?" not waiting for an answer, she continued querulously: "say, can't you get me out of this hole someway? but even if i had the strength to crawl, i wouldn't have no place to go. can't you take me away? anywhere would do." lovey mary's spirits fell; she had nerved herself for a great sacrifice, had decided to do her duty at any cost; but thinking of it beforehand in her little garret room, with tommy's hand in hers, and kate rider a mere abstraction, was very different from facing the real issue, with the old, selfish, heartless kate in flesh and blood before her. she let go of kate's hand. "don't you want to know about tommy?" she asked. "i've come to say i was sorry i run off with him." "it was mighty nervy in you. i knew you'd take good care of him, though. but say! you can get me away from this, can't you? i ain't got a friend in the world nor a cent of money. but i ain't going to stay here, where there ain't nothing to do, and i get so lonesome i 'most die. i'd rather set on a street corner and run a hand-organ. where are you and tommy at?" "we are in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, with the old repulsion strong upon her. "where?" "the cabbage patch. it ain't your sort of a place, kate. the folks are good and honest, but they are poor and plain. you'd laugh at 'em." kate turned her eyes to the window and was silent a moment before she said slowly: "i ain't got much right to laugh at nobody. i'd be sorter glad to get with good people again. the other sort's all right when you're out for fun, but when you're down on your luck they ain't there." lovey mary, perplexed and troubled, looked at her gravely. "haven't you got any place you could go to?" [illustration: "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'"] kate shook her head. "nobody would be willing to look after me and nurse me. lovey,"--she stretched her thin hand across to her entreatingly,--"take me home with you! i heard the doctor tell the nurse he couldn't do nothing more for me. i can't die here shut up with all these sick people. take me wherever you are at. i'll try not to be no trouble, and--i want to keep straight." tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled. there was a queer little spasm at lovey mary's heart. the canker-worm was dead. when a carriage drove up to miss hazy's door and the driver carried in a pale girl with a bandaged head, it caused untold commotion. "do you s'pose mary's a-bringin' home a smallpox patient?" asked miss hazy, who was ever prone to look upon the tragic side. "naw!" said chris, who was peeping under the window-curtain; "it looks more like she's busted her crust." in less than an hour every neighbor had been in to find out what was going on. mrs. wiggs constituted herself mistress of ceremonies. she had heard the whole story from the overburdened mary, and was now prepared to direct public opinion in the way it should go. "jes another boarder for miss hazy," she explained airily to mrs. eichorn. "lovey mary was so well pleased with her boardin'-house, she drummed it up among her friends. this here lady has been at the hospittal. she got knocked over by a wagon out there near the factory, an' it run into celebrated concussion. the nurse told lovey mary this mornin' it was somethin' like information of the brain. what we're all goin' to do is to try to get her well. i'm a-goin' home now to git her a nice dinner, an' i jes bet some of you'll see to it that she gits a good supper. you kin jes bank on us knowin' how to give a stranger a welcome!" it was easy to establish a precedent in the cabbage patch. when a certain course of action was once understood to be the proper thing, every resident promptly fell in line. the victim of "celebrated concussion" was overwhelmed with attention. she lay in a pink wrapper in miss hazy's kitchen, and received the homage of the neighborhood. meanwhile lovey mary worked extra hours at the factory and did sewing at night to pay for kate's board. in spite, however, of the kind treatment and the regular administration of miss viny's herbs and mrs. wiggs's yellowroot, kate grew weaker day by day. one stormy night when lovey mary came home from the factory she found her burning with fever and talking excitedly. miss hazy had gotten her up-stairs, and now stood helplessly wringing her hands in the doorway. "lor', lovey mary! she's cuttin' up scandalous," complained the old lady. "i done ever'thing i knowed how; i ironed the sheets to make 'em warm, an' i tried my best to git her to swallow a mustard cocktail. i wanted her to lemme put a fly-blister on to her head, too, but she won't do nothin'." "all right, miss hazy," said lovey mary, hanging her dripping coat on a nail. "i'll stay with her now. don't talk, kate! try to be still." "but i can't, lovey. i'm going to die, and i ain't fit to die. i've been so bad and wicked, i'm 'fraid to go, lovey. what'll i do? what'll i do?" in vain the girl tried to soothe her. her hysteria increased; she cried and raved and threw herself from side to side. "kate! kate!" pleaded lovey mary, trying to hold her arms, "don't cry so. god'll forgive you. he will, if you are sorry." "but i'm afraid," shuddered kate. "i've been so bad. heaven knows i'm sorry, but it's too late! too late!" another paroxysm seized her, and her cries burst forth afresh. mary, in desperation, rushed from the room. "tommy!" she called softly down the steps. the small boy was sitting on the stairs, in round-eyed wonder at what was going on. "tommy," said lovey mary, picking him up, "the sick lady feels so bad! go in and give her a love, darling. pet her cheeks and hug her like you do me. tell her she's a pretty mama. tell her you love her." tommy trotted obediently into the low room and climbed on the bed. he put his plump cheek against the thin one, and whispered words of baby- love. kate's muscles relaxed as her arms folded about him. gradually her sobs ceased and her pulse grew faint and fainter. outside, the rain and sleet beat on the cracked window-pane, but a peace had entered the dingy little room. kate received the great summons with a smile, for in one fleeting moment she had felt for the first and last time the blessed sanctity of motherhood. chapter xiii an honorable retreat "for i will ease my heart although, it be with hazard of my head." miss bell sat in her neat little office, with the evening paper in her hand. the hour before tea was the one time of the day she reserved for herself. susie smithers declared that she sat before the fire at such times and took naps, but susie's knowledge was not always trustworthy --it depended entirely on the position of the keyhole. at any rate, miss bell was not sleeping to-night; she moved about restlessly, brushing imaginary ashes from the spotless hearth, staring absently into the fire, then recurring again and again to an item in the paper which she held: died. kate rider, in her twenty-fourth year, from injuries received in an accident. miss bell seemed to cringe before the words. her face looked old and drawn. "and to think i kept her from having her child!" she said to herself as she paced up and down the narrow room. "no matter what else kate was, she was his mother and had the first right to him. but i acted for the best; i could see no other way. if i had only known!" [illustration: "susie smithers at the keyhole."] there were steps on the pavement without; she went to the window, and shading her eyes with her hands, gazed into the gathering dusk. some one was coming up the walk, some one very short and fat. no; it was a girl carrying a child. miss bell reached the door just in time to catch tommy in her arms as lovey mary staggered into the hall. they were covered with sleet and almost numb from the cold. "kate's dead!" cried lovey mary, as miss bell hurried them into the office. "i didn't know she was going to die. oh, i've been so wicked to you and to kate and to god! i want to be arrested! i don't care what they do to me." she threw herself on the floor, and beat her fists on the carpet. tommy stood near and wept in sympathy; he wore his remnant trousers, and his little straw hat, round which mrs. wiggs had sewn a broad band of black. miss bell hovered over lovey mary and patted her nervously on the back. "don't, my dear, don't cry so. it's very sad--dear me, yes, very sad. you aren't alone to blame, though; i have been at fault, too. i-- i--feel dreadfully about it." miss bell's face was undergoing such painful contortions that lovey mary stopped crying in alarm, and tommy got behind a chair. "of course," continued miss bell, gaining control of herself, "it was very wrong of you to run away, mary. when i discovered that you had gone i never stopped until i found you." "till you found me?" gasped lovey mary. "yes, child; i knew where you were all the time." again miss bell's features were convulsed, and mary and tommy looked on in awed silence. "you see," she went on presently, "i am just as much at fault as you. i was worried and distressed over having to let tommy go with kate, yet there seemed no way out of it. when i found you had hidden him away in a safe place, that you were both well and happy, i determined to keep your secret. but oh, mary, we hadn't the right to keep him from her! perhaps the child would have been her salvation; perhaps she would have died a good girl." "but she did, miss bell," said lovey mary, earnestly. "she said she was sorry again and again, and when she went to sleep tommy's arms was round her neck." "mary!" cried miss bell, seizing the girl's hand eagerly, "did you find her and take him to her?" "no, ma'am. i brought her to him. she didn't have no place to go, and i wanted to make up to her for hating her so. i did ever'thing i could to make her well. we all did. i never thought she was going to die." then, at miss bell's request, lovey mary told her story, with many sobs and tears, but some smiles in between, over the good times in the cabbage patch; and when she had finished, miss bell led her over to the sofa and put her arms about her. they had lived under the same roof for fifteen years, and she had never before given her a caress. "mary," she said, "you did for kate what nobody else could have done. i thank god that it all happened as it did." "but you'd orter scold me and punish me," said lovey mary. "i'd feel better if you did." tommy, realizing in some vague way that a love-feast was in progress, and always ready to echo lovey mary's sentiments, laid his chubby hand on miss bell's knee. "when my little sled drows up i'm doin' to take you ridin'," he said confidingly. miss bell laughed a hearty laugh, for the first time in many months. the knotty problem which had caused her many sleepless nights had at last found its own solution. chapter xiv the cactus blooms "i tell thee love is nature's second sun, causing a spring of virtues where he shines." it was june again, and once more lovey mary stood at an up-stairs window at the home. on the ledge grew a row of bright flowers, brought from miss viny's garden, but they were no brighter than the face that smiled across them at the small boy in the playground below. lovey mary's sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and a dust-cloth was tied about her head. as she returned to her sweeping she sang joyfully, contentedly: "can she sweep a kitchen floor, billy boy, billy boy? can she sweep a kitchen floor, charming billy?" "miss bell says for you to come down to the office," announced a little girl, coming up the steps. "there's a lady there and a baby." lovey mary paused in her work, and a shadow passed over her face. just three years ago the same summons had come, and with it such heartaches and anxiety. she pulled down her sleeves and went thoughtfully down the steps. at the office door she found mrs. redding talking to miss bell. "we leave saturday afternoon," she was saying. "it's rather sooner than we expected, but we want to get the baby to canada before the hot weather overtakes us. last summer i asked two children from the toronto home to spend two weeks with me at our summer place, but this year i have set my heart on taking lovey mary and tommy. they will see niagara falls and buffalo, where we stop over a day, besides the little outing at the lake. will you come, mary? you know robert might get choked again!" lovey mary leaned against the door for support. a half-hour visit to mrs. redding was excitement for a week, and only to think of going away with her, and riding on a steam-car, and seeing a lake, and taking tommy, and being ever so small a part of that gorgeous redding household! she could not speak; she just looked up and smiled, but the smile seemed to mean more than words, for it brought the sudden tears to mrs. redding's eyes. she gave mary's hand a quick, understanding little squeeze, then hurried out to her carriage. that very afternoon lovey mary went to the cabbage patch. as she hurried along over the familiar ground, she felt as if she must sing aloud the happy song that was humming in her heart. she wanted to stop at each cottage and tell the good news; but her time was limited, so she kept on her way to miss hazy's, merely calling out a greeting as she passed. when she reached the door she heard mrs. wiggs's voice in animated conversation. "well, i wish you'd look! there she is, this very minute! i never was so glad to see anybody in my life! my goodness, child, you don't know how we miss you down here! we talk 'bout you all the time, jes like a person puts their tongue in the empty place after a tooth's done pulled out." "i'm awful glad to be back," said lovey mary, too happy to be cast down by the reversion to the original state of the hazy household. "me an' chris ain't had a comfortable day sence you left," complained miss hazy. "i'd 'a' almost rather you wouldn't 'a' came than to have went away ag'in." "but listen!" cried lovey mary, unable to keep her news another minute. "i'm a-going on a railroad trip with mrs. redding, and she's going to take tommy, too, and we are going to see niag'ra and a lake and a buffalo!" "ain't that the grandest thing fer her to go and do!" exclaimed mrs. wiggs. "i told you she was a' angel!" "i'm right skeered of these here long trips," said miss hazy, "so many accidents these days." "my sakes!" answered mrs. wiggs, "i'd think you'd be 'fraid to step over a crack in the floor fer fear you'd fall through. why, lovey mary, it's the nicest thing i ever heared tell of! an' niag'ry fall, too. i went on a trip once when i was little. maw took me through the mountains. i never had seen mountains before, an' i cried at first an' begged her to make 'em sit down. a trip is something you never will fergit in all yer life. it was jes like mrs. reddin' to think about it; but i don't wonder she feels good to you. asia says she never expects to see anything like the way you shook that candy outen little robert. but see here, if you go 'way off there you mustn't fergit us." "i never could forget you all, wherever i went," said lovey mary. "i was awful mean when i come to the cabbage patch; somehow you all just bluffed me into being better. i wasn't used to being bragged on, and it made me want to be good more than anything in the world." "that's so," said mrs. wiggs. "you can coax a' elephant with a little sugar. the worser mr. wiggs used to act, the harder i'd pat him on the back. when he'd git bilin' mad, i'd say: 'now, mr. wiggs, why don't you go right out in the woodshed an' swear off that cuss? i hate to think of it rampantin' round inside of a good-lookin' man like you.' he'd often take my advice, an' it always done him good an' never hurt the woodshed. as fer the childern, i always did use compelments on them 'stid of switches." lovey mary untied the bundle which she carried, and spread the contents on the kitchen table. "i've been saving up to get you all some presents," she said. "i wanted to get something for every one that had been good to me, but that took in the whole patch! these are some new kind of seed for miss viny; she learned me a lot out of her garden. this is goods for a waist for you, miss hazy." "it's rale pretty," said miss hazy, measuring its length. "if you'd 'a' brought me enough fer a skirt, too, i'd never 'a' got through prayin' fer you." mrs. wiggs was indignant. "i declare, miss hazy! you ain't got a manner in the world, sometimes. it's beautiful goods, lovey mary. i'm goin' to make it up fer her by a fancy new pattern asia bought; it's got a sailor collar." "this here is for chris," continued lovey mary, slightly depressed by miss hazy's lack of appreciation, "and this is for mrs. schultz. i bought you a book, mrs. wiggs. i don't know what it's about, but it's an awful pretty cover. i knew you'd like to have it on the parlor table." it was the "iliad"! mrs. wiggs held it at arm's-length and, squinting her eyes, read: "home of an island." "that ain't what the man called it," said lovey mary. "oh, it don't matter 'bout the name. it's a beautiful book, jes matches my new tidy. you couldn't 'a' pleased me better." "i didn't have money enough to go round," explained lovey mary, apologetically, "but i bought a dozen lead-pencils and thought i'd give them round among the children." "ever'thing'll be terrible wrote over," said miss hazy. the last bundle was done up in tissue-paper and tied with a silver string. lovey mary gave it to mrs. wiggs when miss hazy was not looking. "it's a red necktie," she whispered, "for billy." when the train for the north pulled out of the station one saturday afternoon it bore an excited passenger. lovey mary, in a new dress and hat, sat on the edge of a seat, with little robert on one side and tommy on the other. when her nervousness grew unbearable she leaned forward and touched mrs. redding on the shoulder: "will you please, ma'am, tell me when we get there?" mrs. redding laughed. "get there, dear? why, we have just started!" "i mean to the cabbage patch. they're all going to be watching for me as we go through." "is that it?" said mr. redding. "well, i will take the boys, and you can go out and stand on the platform and watch for your friends." lovey mary hesitated. "please, sir, can't i take tommy, too? if it hadn't 'a' been for him i never would have been here." so mr. redding took them to the rear car, and attaching lovey mary firmly to the railing, and tommy firmly to mary, returned to his family. "there's miss viny's!" cried lovey mary, excitedly, as the train whizzed past. "we're getting there. hold on to your hat, tommy, and get your pocket-handkerchief ready to wave." the bell began to ring, and the train slowed up at the great water- tank. "there they are! all of 'em. hello, miss hazy! and there's asia and chris and ever'body!" mrs. wiggs pushed through the little group and held an empty bottle toward lovey mary. "i want you to fill it fer me," she cried breathlessly. "fill it full of niag'ry water. i want to see how them falls look." [illustration: "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve."] the train began to move. miss hazy threw her apron over her head and wept. mrs. wiggs and mrs. eichorn waved their arms and smiled. the cabbage patch, with its crowd of friendly faces, became a blur to the girl on the platform. suddenly a figure on a telegraph pole attracted her attention; it wore a red necktie and it was throwing kisses. lovey mary waved until the train rounded a curve, then she gave tommy an impulsive hug. "it ain't hard to be good when folks love you," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "i'll make 'em all proud of me yet!" [transcriber's note: the spelling inconsistencies of the original have been retained in this etext.] [illustration: sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously.--_page _.] ester ried by pansy author of "julia ried," "the king's daughter," "wise and otherwise," "ester ried yet speaking," "ester ried's namesake," etc. _illustrated by elizabeth withington_ boston lothrop, lee & shepard co. pansy trade-mark registered in u.s. patent office. norwood press: berwick & smith co., norwood, mass., u.s.a. contents. chapter i. ester's home chapter ii. what sadie thought chapter iii. florence vane chapter iv. the sunday lesson chapter v. the poor little fish chapter vi. something happens chapter vii. journeying chapter viii. journey's end chapter ix. cousin abbie chapter x. ester's minister chapter xi. the new boarder chapter xii. three people chapter xiii. the strange christian chapter xiv. the little card chapter xv. what is the difference? chapter xvi. a victory chapter xvii. stepping between chapter xviii. light out of darkness chapter xix. sundries chapter xx. at home chapter xxi. tested chapter xxii. "little plum pies" chapter xxiii. crosses chapter xxiv. god's way chapter xxv. sadie surrounded chapter xxvi. confusion--cross-bearing--consequence chapter xxvii. the time to sleep chapter xxviii. at last ester ried asleep and awake chapter i. ester's home. she did not look very much as if she were asleep, nor acted as though she expected to get a chance to be very soon. there was no end to the things which she had to do, for the kitchen was long and wide, and took many steps to set it in order, and it was drawing toward tea-time of a tuesday evening, and there were fifteen boarders who were, most of them, punctual to a minute. sadie, the next oldest sister, was still at the academy, as also were alfred and julia, while little minnie, the pet and darling, most certainly was _not_. she was around in the way, putting little fingers into every possible place where little fingers ought not to be. it was well for her that, no matter how warm, and vexed, and out of order ester might be, she never reached the point in which her voice could take other than a loving tone in speaking to minnie; for minnie, besides being a precious little blessing in herself, was the child of ester's oldest sister, whose home was far away in a western graveyard, and the little girl had been with them since her early babyhood, three years before. so ester hurried to and from the pantry, with quick, nervous movements, as the sun went toward the west, saying to maggie who was ironing with all possible speed: "maggie, do _hurry_, and get ready to help me, or i shall never have tea ready:" saying it in a sharp fretful tone. then: "no, no, birdie, don't touch!" in quite a different tone to minnie, who laid loving hands on a box of raisins. "i _am_ hurrying as fast as i _can_!" maggie made answer. "but such an ironing as i have every week can't be finished in a minute." "well, well! don't talk; that won't hurry matters any." sadie ried opened the door that led from the dining-room to the kitchen, and peeped in a thoughtless young head, covered with bright brown curls: "how are you, ester?" and she emerged fully into the great warm kitchen, looking like a bright flower picked from the garden, and put out of place. her pink gingham dress, and white, ruffled apron--yes, and the very school books which she swung by their strap, waking a smothered sigh in ester's heart. "o, my patience!" was her greeting. "are _you_ home? then school is out". "i guess it _is_," said sadie. "we've been down to the river since school." "sadie, won't you come and cut the beef and cake, and make the tea? i did not know it was so late, and i'm nearly tired to death." sadie looked sober. "i would in a minute, ester, only i've brought florence vane home with me, and i should not know what to do with her in the meantime. besides, mr. hammond said he would show me about my algebra if i'd go out on the piazza this minute." "well, _go_ then, and tell mr. hammond to wait for his tea until he gets it!" ester answered, crossly. "here, julia"--to the ten-year old newcomer--"go away from that raisin-box, this minute. go up stairs out of my way, and alfred too. sadie, take minnie with you; i can't have her here another instant. you can afford to do that much, perhaps." "o, ester, you're cross!" said sadie, in a good-humored tone, coming forward after the little girl. "come, birdie, auntie essie's cross, isn't she? come with aunt sadie. we'll go to the piazza and make mr. hammond tell us a story." and minnie--ester's darling, who never received other than loving words from her--went gleefully off, leaving another heartburn to the weary girl. they _stung_ her, those words: "auntie essie's cross, isn't she?" back and forth, from dining-room to pantry, from pantry to dining-room, went the quick feet at last she spoke: "maggie, leave the ironing and help me; it is time tea was ready." "i'm just ironing mr. holland's shirt," objected maggie. "well, i don't care if mr. holland _never_ has another shirt ironed. i want you to go to the spring for water and fill the table-pitchers, and do a dozen other things." the tall clock in the dining-room struck five, and the dining-bell pealed out its prompt summons through the house. the family gathered promptly and noisily--school-girls, half a dozen or more, mr. hammond, the principal of the academy, miss molten, the preceptress, mrs. brookley, the music-teacher, dr. van anden, the new physician, mr. and mrs. holland, and mr. arnett, mr. holland's clerk. there was a moment's hush while mr. hammond asked a blessing on the food; then the merry talk went on. for them all maggie poured cups of tea, and ester passed bread and butter, and beef and cheese, and sadie gave overflowing dishes of blackberries, and chattered like a magpie, which last she did everywhere and always. "this has been one of the scorching days," mr. holland said. "it was as much as i could do to keep cool in the store, and we generally are well off for a breeze there." "it has been more than _i_ could do to keep cool anywhere," mrs. holland answered. "i gave it up long ago in despair." ester's lip curled a little. mrs. holland had nothing in the world to do, from morning until night, but to keep herself cool. she wondered what the lady would have said to the glowing kitchen, where _she_ had passed most of the day. "miss ester looks as though the heat had been too much for her cheeks," mrs. brookley said, laughing. "what _have_ you been doing?" "something besides keeping cool," ester answered soberly. "which is a difficult thing to do, however," dr. van anden said, speaking soberly too. "i don't know, sir; if i had nothing to do but that, i think i could manage it." "i have found trouble sometimes in keeping myself at the right temperature even in january." ester's cheeks glowed yet more. she understood dr. van anden, and she knew her face did not look very self-controlled. no one knows what prompted minnie to speak just then. "aunt sadie said auntie essie was cross. were you, auntie essie?" the household laughed, and sadie came to the rescue. "why, minnie! you must not tell what aunt sadie says. it is just as sure to be nonsense as it is that you are a chatter-box." ester thought that they would _never_ all finish their supper and depart; but the latest comer strolled away at last, and she hurried to toast a slice of bread, make a fresh cup of tea, and send julia after mrs. ried. sadie hovered around the pale, sad-faced woman while she ate. "are you _truly_ better, mother? i've been worried half to pieces about you all day." "o, yes; i'm better. ester, you look dreadfully tired. have you much more to do?" "only to trim the lamps, and make three beds that i had not time for this morning, and get things ready for breakfast, and finish sadie's dress." "can't maggie do any of these things?" "maggie is ironing." mrs. ried sighed. "it is a good thing that i don't have the sick headache very often," she said sadly; "or you would soon wear yourself out. sadie, are you going to the lyceum tonight?" "yes, ma'am. your worthy daughter has the honor of being editress, you know, to-night. ester, can't you go down? never mind that dress; let it go to guinea." "you wouldn't think so by to-morrow evening," ester said, shortly. "no, i can't go." the work was all done at last, and ester betook herself to her room. how tired she was! every nerve seemed to quiver with weariness. it was a pleasant little room, this one which she entered, with its low windows looking out toward the river, and its cosy furniture all neatly arranged by sadie's tasteful fingers. ester seated herself by the open window, and looked down on the group who lingered on the piazza below--looked _down_ on them with her eyes and with her heart; yet envied while she looked, envied their free and easy life, without a care to harass them, so _she_ thought; envied sadie her daily attendance at the academy, a matter which she _so_ early in life had been obliged to have done with; envied mrs. holland the very ribbons and laces which fluttered in the evening air. it had grown cooler now, a strong breeze blew up from the river and freshened the air; and, as they sat below there enjoying it, the sound of their gay voices came up to her. "what do they know about heat, or care, or trouble?" she said scornfully, thinking over all the weight of _her_ eighteen years of life; she hated it, this life of hers, _just_ hated it--the sweeping, dusting, making beds, trimming lamps, _working_ from morning till night; no time for reading, or study, or pleasure. sadie had said she was cross, and sadie had told the truth; she _was_ cross most of the time, fretted with her every-day petty cares and fatigues. "o!" she said, over and over, "if something would _only_ happen; if i could have one day, just _one_ day, different from the others; but no, it's the same old thing--sweep and dust, and clear up, and eat and sleep. i _hate_ it all." yet, had ester nothing for which to be thankful that the group on the piazza had not? if she had but thought, she had a robe, and a crown, and a harp, and a place waiting for her, up before the throne of god; and all they had _not_. ester did not think of this; so much asleep was she, that she did not even know that none of those gay hearts down there below her had been given up to christ. not one of them; for the academy teachers and dr. van anden were not among them. o, ester was asleep! she went to church on the sabbath, and to preparatory lecture on a week day; she read a few verses in her bible, _frequently_, not every day; she knelt at her bedside every night, and said a few words of prayer--and this was all! she lay at night side by side with a young sister, who had no claim to a home in heaven, and never spoke to her of jesus. she worked daily side by side with a mother who, through many trials and discouragements, was living a christian life, and never talked with her of their future rest. she met daily, sometimes almost hourly, a large household, and never so much as thought of asking them if they, too, were going, some day, home to god. she helped her young brother and sister with their geography lessons, and never mentioned to them the heavenly country whither they themselves might journey. she took the darling of the family often in her arms, and told her stories of "bo peep," and the "babes in the wood," and "robin redbreast," and never one of jesus and his call for the tender lambs! this was ester, and this was ester's home. chapter ii. what sadie thought. sadie ried was the merriest, most thoughtless young creature of sixteen years that ever brightened and bothered a home. merry from morning until night, with scarcely ever a pause in her constant flow of fun; thoughtless, nearly always selfish too, as the constantly thoughtless always are. not sullenly and crossly selfish by any means, only so used to think of self, so taught to consider herself utterly useless as regarded home, and home cares and duties, that she opened her bright brown eyes in wonder whenever she was called upon for help. it was a very bright and very busy saturday morning. "sadie!" mrs. ried called, "can't you come and wash up these baking dishes? maggie is mopping, and ester has her hands full with the cake." "yes, ma'am," said sadie, appearing promptly from the dining-room, with minnie perched triumphantly on her shoulder. "here i am, at your service. where are they?" ester glanced up. "i'd go and put on my white dress first, if i were you," she said significantly. and sadie looked down on her pink gingham, ruffled apron, shining cuffs, and laughed. "o, i'll take off my cuffs, and put on this distressingly big apron of yours, which hangs behind the door; then i'll do." "that's my clean apron; i don't wash dishes in it." "o, bless your careful heart! i won't hurt it the least speck in the world. will i, birdie?" and she proceeded to wrap her tiny self in the long, wide apron. "not _that_ pan, child!" exclaimed her mother "that's a milk-pan." "o," said sadie, "i thought it was pretty shiny. my! what a great pan. don't you come near me, birdie, or you'll tumble in and drown yourself before i could fish you out with the dish-cloth. where is that article? ester, it needs a patch on it; there's a great hole in the middle, and it twists every way." "patch it, then," said ester, dryly. "well, now i'm ready, here goes. do you want _these_ washed?" and she seized upon a stack of tins which stood on ester's table. "_do_ let things alone!" said ester. "those are my baking-tins, ready for use; now you've got them wet, and i shall have to go all over them again." "how will you go, ester? on foot? they look pretty greasy; you'll slip." "i wish you would go up stairs. i'd rather wash dishes all the forenoon than have you in the way." "birdie," said sadie gravely, "you and i musn't go near auntie essie again. she's a 'bowwow,' and i'm afraid she'll bite." mrs. ried laughed. she had no idea how sharply ester had been tried with petty vexations all that morning, nor how bitter those words sounded to her. "come, sadie," she said; "what a silly child you are. can't you do _any thing_ soberly?" "i should think i might, ma'am, when i have such a sober and solemn employment on hand as dish-washing. does it require a great deal of gravity, mother? here, robin redbreast, keep your beak out of my dish-pan." minnie, in the mean time, had been seated on the table, directly in front of the dish-pan. mrs. ried looked around. "o sadie! what _possessed_ you to put her up there?" "to keep her out of mischief, mother. she's jack horner's little sister, and would have had every plum in your pie down her throat, by this time, if she could have got to them. see here, pussy, if you don't keep your feet still, i'll tie them fast to the pan with this long towel, when you'll have to go around all the days of your life with a dish-pan clattering after you." but minnie was bent on a frolic. this time the tiny feet kicked a little too hard; and the pan being drawn too near the edge, in order to be out of her reach, lost its balance--over it went. "o, my patience!" screamed sadie, as the water splashed over her, even down to the white stockings and daintily slippered feet. minnie lifted up her voice, and added to the general uproar. ester left the eggs she was beating, and picked up broken dishes. mrs. ried's voice arose above the din: "sadie, take minnie and go up stairs. you're too full of play to be in the kitchen." "mother, i'm _real_ sorry," said sadie, shaking herself out of the great wet apron, laughing even then at the plight she was in. "pet, don't cry. we didn't drown after all." "_well_! miss sadie," mr. hammond said, as he met them in the hall. "what have you been up to now?" "why, mr. hammond, there's been another deluge; this time of dish-water, and birdie and i are escaping for our lives." "if there is one class of people in this world more disagreeable than all the rest, it is people who call themselves christians." this remark mr. harry arnett made that same saturday evening, as he stood on the piazza waiting for mrs. holland's letters. and he made it to sadie ried. "why, harry!" she answered, in a shocked tone. "it's a _fact_, sadie. you just think a bit, and you'll see it is. they're no better nor pleasanter than other people, and all the while they think they're about right." "what has put you into that state of mind, harry?" "o, some things which happened at the store to-day suggested this matter to me. never mind that part. isn't it so?" "there's my mother," sadie said thoughtfully. "she is good." "not because she's a christian though; it's because she's your mother. you'd have to look till you were gray to find a better mother than i've got, and she isn't a christian either." "well, i'm sure mr. hammond is a good man." "not a whit better or pleasanter than mr. holland, as far as i can see. _i_ don't like him half so well. and holland don't pretend to be any better than the rest of us." "well," said sadie, gleefully, "_i_ dont know many good people. miss molton is a christian, but i guess she is no better than mrs. brookley, and _she_ isn't. there's ester; she's a member of the church." "and do you see as she gets on any better with her religion, than you do without it? for _my_ part, i think you are considerably pleasanter to deal with." sadie laughed. "we're no more alike than a bee and a butterfly, or any other useless little thing," she said, brightly. "but you're very much mistaken if you think i'm the best. mother would lie down in despair and die, and this house would come to naught at once, if it were not for ester." mr. arnett shrugged his shoulders. "i _always_ liked butterflies better than bees," he said. "bees _sting_." "harry," said sadie, speaking more gravely, "i'm afraid you're almost an infidel." "if i'm not, i can tell you one thing--it's not the fault of christians." mrs. holland tossed her letters down to him from the piazza above, and mr. arnett went away. florence vane came over from the cottage across the way--came with slow, feeble steps, and sat down in the door beside her friend. presently ester came out to them: "sadie, can't you go to the office for me? i forgot to send this letter with the rest." "yes," said sadie. "that is if you think you can go that little bit, florence." "i shall think for her," dr. van anden said, coming down the stairs. "florence out here to-night, with the dew falling, and not even any thing to protect your head. i am surprised!" "oh, doctor, do let me enjoy this soft air for a few minutes." "_positively_, no. either come in the house, or go home _directly_. you are very imprudent. miss ester, _i'll_ mail your letters for you." "what does dr. van anden want to act like a simpleton about florence vane for?" ester asked this question late in the evening, when the sisters were alone in their room. sadie paused in her merry chatter. "why, ester, what do you mean? about her being out to-night? why, you know, she ought to be very careful; and i'm afraid she isn't. the doctor told her father this morning he was afraid she would not live through the season, unless she was more careful." "fudge!" said ester. "he thinks he is a wise man; he wants to make her out very sick, so that he may have the honor of helping her. i don't see as she looks any worse than she did a year ago." sadie turned slowly around toward her sister. "ester, i don't know what is the matter with you to-night. you know that florence vane has the consumption, and you know that she is my _dear_ friend." ester did not know what was the matter with herself, save that this had been the hardest day, from first to last, that she had ever known, and she was rasped until there was no good feeling left in her heart to touch. little minnie had given her the last hardening touch of the day, by exclaiming, as she was being hugged and kissed with eager, passionate kisses: "oh, auntie essie! you've cried tears on my white apron, and put out all the starch." ester set her down hastily, and went away. certainly ester was cross and miserable. dr. van anden was one of her thorns. he crossed her path quite often, either with close, searching words about self-control, or grave silence. she disliked him. sadie, as from her pillow she watched her sister in the moonlight kneel down hastily, and knew that she was repeating a few words of prayer, thought of mr. arnett's words spoken that evening, and, with her heart throbbing still under the sharp tones concerning florence, sighed a little, and said within herself: "i should not wonder if harry were right." and ester was so much asleep, that she did not know, at least did not realize, that she had dishonored her master all that day. chapter iii. florence vane. of the same opinion concerning florence was ester, a few weeks later, when, one evening as she was hurrying past him, dr. van anden detained her: "i want to see you a moment, miss ester." during these weeks ester had been roused. sadie was sick; had been sick enough to awaken many anxious fears; sick enough for ester to discover what a desolate house theirs would have been, supposing her merry music had been hushed forever. she discovered, too, how very much she loved her bright young sister. she had been very kind and attentive; but the fever was gone now, and sadie was well enough to rove around the house again; and ester began to think that it couldn't be so very hard to have loving hands ministering to one's simplest want, to be cared for, and watched over, and petted every hour in the day. she was returning to her impatient, irritable life. she forgot how high the fever had been at night, and how the young head had ached; and only remembered how thoroughly tired she was, watching and ministering day and night. so, when she followed dr. van anden to the sitting-room, in answer to his "i want to see you, miss ester," it was a very sober, not altogether pleasant face which listened to his words. "florence vane is very sick to-night. some one should be with her besides the housekeeper. i thought of you. will you watch with her?" if any reasonable excuse could have been found, ester would surely have said "no," so foolish did this seem to her. why, only yesterday she had seen florence sitting beside the open window, looking very well; but then, she was sadie's friend, and it had been more than two weeks since sadie had needed watching with at night. so ester could not plead fatigue. "i suppose so," she answered, slowly, to the waiting doctor, hearing which, he wheeled and left her, turning back, though, to say: "do not mention this to sadie in her present state of body. i don't care to have her excited." "very careful you are of everybody," muttered ester, as he hastened away. "tell her what, i wonder? that you are making much ado about nothing, for the sake of showing your astonishing skill?" in precisely this state of mind she went, a few hours later, over to the cottage, into the quiet room where florence lay asleep--and, for aught she could see, sleeping as quietly as young, fresh life ever did. "what do you think of her?" whispered the old lady who acted as housekeeper, nurse and mother to the orphaned florence. "i think i haven't seen her look better this great while," ester answered, abruptly. "well, i can't say as she looks any worse to _me_ either; but dr. van anden is in a fidget, and i suppose he knows what he's about." the doctor came in at eleven o'clock, stood for a moment by the bedside, glanced at the old lady, who was dozing in her rocking-chair, then came over to ester and spoke low: "i can't trust the nurse. she has been broken of her rest, and is weary. i want _you_ to keep awake. if she" (nodding toward florence) "stirs, give her a spoonful from that tumbler on the stand. i shall be back at twelve. if she wakens, you may call her father, and send john for me; he's in the kitchen. i shall be around the corner at vinton's." then he went away, softly, as he had come. the lamp burned low over by the window, the nurse slept on in her arm-chair, and ester sat with wide-open eyes fixed on florence. and all this time she thought that the doctor was engaged in getting up a scene, the story of which should go forth next day in honor of his skill and faithfulness; yet, having come to watch, she would not sleep at her post, even though she believed in her heart that, were she sleeping by sadie's side, and the doctor quiet in his own room, all would go on well until the morning. but the doctor's evident anxiety had driven sleep from the eyes of the gray-haired old man whose one darling lay quiet on the bed. he came in very soon after the doctor had departed. "i can't sleep," he said, in explanation, to ester. "some way i feel worried. does she seem worse to you?" "not a bit," ester said, promptly. "i think she looks better than usual." "yes," mr. vane answered, in an encouraged tone; "and she has been quite bright all day; but the doctor is all down about her. he won't say a single cheering word." ester's indignation grew upon her. "he might, at least, have let this old man sleep in peace," she said, sharply, in her heart. at twelve, precisely, the doctor returned. he went directly to the bedside. "how has she been?" he asked of ester, in passing. "just as she is now." ester's voice was not only dry, but sarcastic. mr. vane scanned the doctor's face eagerly, but it was grave and sad. quiet reigned in the room. the two men at florence's side neither spoke nor stirred. ester kept her seat across from them, and grew every moment more sure that she was right, and more provoked. suddenly the silence was broken. dr. van anden bent low over the sleeper, and spoke in a gentle, anxious tone: "florence." but she neither stirred nor heeded. he spoke again: "florence;" and the blue eyes unclosed slowly and wearily. the doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her father forward. "speak to her, mr. vane." "florence, my darling," the old man said, with inexpressible love and tenderness sounding in his voice. his fair young daughter turned her eyes on him; but the words she spoke were not of him, or of aught around her. so clear and sweet they sounded, that ester, sitting quite across the room from her, heard them distinctly. "i saw mother, and i saw my savior." dr. van anden sank upon his knees, as the drooping lids closed again, and his voice was low and tremulous: "father, into thy hands we commit this spirit. thy will be done." in a moment more all was bustle and confusion. the nurse was thoroughly awakened; the doctor cared for the poor childless father with the tenderness of a son; then came back to send john for help, and to give directions concerning what was to be done. through it all ester sat motionless, petrified with solemn astonishment. then the angel of death had _really_ been there in that very room, and she had been "so wise in her own conceit," that she did not know it until he had departed with the freed spirit! florence really _was_ sick, then--dangerously sick. the doctor had not deceived them, had not magnified the trouble as she supposed; but it could not be that she was dead! dead! why, only a few minutes ago she was sleeping so quietly! well, she was very quiet now. could the heart have ceased its beating? sadie's florence dead! poor sadie! what would they say to her? how _could_ they tell her? sitting there, ester had some of the most solemn, self-reproachful thoughts that she had ever known. god's angel had been present in that room, and in what a spirit had he found this watcher? dr. van anden went quietly, promptly, from room to room, until every thing in the suddenly stricken household was as it should be; then he came to ester: "i will go over home with you now," he said, speaking low and kindly. he seemed to under stand just how shocked she felt. they went, in the night and darkness, across the street, saying nothing. as the doctor applied his key to the door, ester spoke in low, distressed tones: "doctor van anden, i did not think--i did not dream--." then she stopped. "i know," he said, kindly. "it was unexpected. _i_ thought she would linger until morning, perhaps through the day. indeed, i was so sure, that i ventured to keep my worst fears from mr. vane. i wanted him to rest to-night. i am sorry--it would have been better to have prepared him; but 'at even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning'--you see we know not which. i thank god that to florence it did not matter." those days which followed were days of great opportunity to ester, if she had but known how to use them. sadie's sad, softened heart, into which grief had entered, might have been turned by a few kind, skillful words, from thoughts of florence to florence's savior. ester _did_ try; she was kinder, more gentle with the young sister than was her wont to be; and once, when sadie was lingering fondly over memories of her friend, she said, in an awkward, blundering way, something about florence having been prepared to die, and hoping that sadie would follow her example. sadie looked surprised, but answered, gravely: "i never expect to be like florence. she was perfect, or, at least, i'm sure i could never see any thing about her that wasn't perfection. you know, ester, she never did any thing wrong." and ester, unused to it, and confused with her own attempt, kept silence, and let poor sadie rest upon the thought that it was florence's goodness which made her ready to die, instead of the blood of jesus. so the time passed; the grass grew green over florence's grave, and sadie missed her indeed. yet the serious thoughts grew daily fainter, and ester's golden opportunity for leading her to christ was lost. chapter iv. the sunday lesson. alfred and julia ried were in the sitting-room, studying their sabbath-school lessons. those two were generally to be found together; being twins, they had commenced _life_ together, and had thus far gone side by side. it was a quiet october sabbath afternoon. the twins had a great deal of business on hand during the week, and the sabbath-school lesson used to stand a fair chance of being forgotten; so mrs. ried had made a law that half an hour of every sabbath afternoon should be spent in studying the lesson for the coming sabbath. ester sat in the same room, by the window; she had been reading, but her book had fallen idly in her lap, and she seemed lost in thought sadie, too, was there, carrying on a whispered conversation with minnie, who was snugged close in her arms, and merry bursts of laughter came every few minutes from the little girl. the idea of sadie keeping quiet herself, or of keeping any body else quiet, was simply absurd. "but i say unto you that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also," read julia, slowly and thoughtfully. "alfred, what do you suppose that can mean?" "don't know, i'm sure," alfred said. "the next one is just as queer: 'and if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.' i'd like to see _me_ doing that. i'd fight for it, i reckon." "oh, alfred! you wouldn't, if the bible said you mustn't, would you?" "i don't suppose this means us at all," said alfred, using, unconsciously, the well-known argument of all who have tried to slip away from gospel teaching since adam's time. "i suppose it's talking to those wicked old fellows who lived before the flood, or some such time." "well, _any_how," said julia, "i should like to know what it all means. i wish mother would come home. i wonder how mrs. vincent is. do you suppose she will die, alfred?" "don't know--just hear this, julia! 'but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.' wouldn't you like to see anybody who did all that?" "sadie," said julia, rising suddenly, and moving over to where the frolic was going on, "won't you tell us about our lesson? we don't understand a bit about it; and i can't learn any thing that i don't understand." "bless your heart, child! i suspect you know more about the bible this minute than i do. mother was too busy taking care of you two, when i was a little chicken, to teach me as she has you." "well, but what _can_ that mean--'if a man strikes you on one cheek, let him strike the other too?'" "yes," said alfred, chiming in, "and, 'if anybody takes your coat away, give him your cloak too.'" "i suppose it means just that," said sadie. "if anybody steals your mittens, as that bush girl did yours last winter, julia, you are to take your hood right off, and give it to her." "oh, sadie! you _don't_ ever mean that." "and then," continued sadie, gravely, "if that shouldn't satisfy her, you had better take off your shoes and stockings, and give her them." "sadie," said ester, "how _can_ you teach those children such nonsense?" "she isn't teaching _me_ any thing," interrupted alfred. "i guess i ain't such a dunce as to swallow all that stuff." "well," said sadie, meekly, "i'm sure i'm doing the best i can; and you are all finding fault. i've explained to the best of _my_ abilities julia, i'll tell you the truth;" and for a moment her laughing face grew sober. "i don't know the least thing about it--don't pretend to. why don't you ask ester? she can tell you more about the bible in a minute, i presume, than i could in a year." ester laid her book on the window. "julia, bring your bible here," she said, gravely. "now what is the matter? i never heard you make such a commotion over your lesson." "mother always explains it," said alfred, "and she hasn't got back from mrs. vincent's; and i don't believe anyone else in this house _can_ do it." "alfred," said ester, "don't be impertinent. julia, what is that you want to know?" "about the man being struck on one cheek, how he must let them strike the other too. what does it mean?" "it means just _that_, when girls are cross and ugly to you, you must be good and kind to them; and, when a boy knocks down another, he must forgive him, instead of getting angry and knocking back." "ho!" said alfred, contemptuously, "_i_ never saw the boy yet who would do it." "that only proves that boys are naughty, quarrelsome fellows, who don't obey what the bible teaches." "but, ester," interrupted julia, anxiously, "was that true what sadie said about me giving my shoes and stockings and my hood to folks who stole something from me?" "of course not. sadie shouldn't talk such nonsense to you. that is about men going to law. mother will explain it when she goes over the lesson with you." julia was only half satisfied. "what does that verse mean about doing good to them that--" "here, i'll read it," said alfred--"'but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.'" "why, that is plain enough. it means just what it says. when people are ugly to you, and act as though they hated you, you must be very good and kind to them, and pray for them, and love them." "ester, does god really mean for us to love people who are ugly to us, and to be good to them?" "of course." "well, then, why don't we, if god says so? ester, why don't you?" "that's the point!" exclaimed sadie, in her most roguish tone. "i'm glad you've made the application, julia." now ester's heart had been softening under the influence of these peaceful bible words. she believed them; and in her heart was a real, earnest desire to teach her brother and sister bible truths. left alone, she would have explained that those who loved jesus _were_ struggling, in a weak feeble way, to obey these directions; that she herself was trying, trying _hard_ sometimes; that _they_ ought to. but there was this against ester--her whole life was so at variance with those plain, searching bible rules, that the youngest child could not but see it; and sadie's mischievous tones and evident relish of her embarrassment at julia's question, destroyed the self-searching thoughts. she answered, with severe dignity: "sadie, if i were you, i wouldn't try to make the children as irreverent as i was myself." then she went dignifiedly from the room. dr. van anden paused for a moment before sadie, as she sat alone in the sitting-room that same sabbath-evening. "sadie," said he, "is there one verse in the bible which you have never read?" "plenty of them, doctor. i commenced reading the bible through once; but i stopped at some chapter in numbers--the thirtieth, i think it is, isn't it? or somewhere along there where all those hard names are, you know. but why do you ask?" the doctor opened a large bible which lay on the stand before them, and read aloud: "ye have perverted the words of the living god." sadie looked puzzled. "now, doctor, what ever possessed you to think that i had never read that verse?" "god counts that a solemn thing, sadie." "very likely; what then?" "i was reading on the piazza when the children came to you for an explanation of their lesson." sadie laughed. "did you hear that conversation, doctor? i hope you were benefited." then, more gravely: "dr. van anden, do you really mean me to think that i was perverting scripture?" "_i_ certainly think so, sadie. were you not giving the children wrong ideas concerning the teachings of our savior?" sadie was quite sober now. "i told the truth at last, doctor. i don't know any thing about these matters. people who profess to be christians do not live according to our savior's teaching. at least _i_ don't see any who do; and it sometimes seems to me that those verses which the children were studying, _can not_ mean what they say, or christian people would surely _try_ to follow them." for an answer, dr. van anden turned the bible leaves again, and pointed with his finger to this verse, which sadie read: "but as he which has called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation." after that he went out of the room. and sadie, reading the verse over again, could not but understand that she _might_ have a perfect pattern, if she would. chapter v. the poor little fish. "mother," said sadie, appearing in the dining-room one morning, holding julia by the hand, "did you ever hear of the fish who fell out of the frying-pan into the fire?" which question her mother answered by asking, without turning her eyes from the great batch of bread which she was molding: "what mischief are you up to now, sadie?" "why, nothing," said sadie; "only here is the very fish so renowned in ancient history, and i've brought her for your inspection." this answer brought mrs. ried's eyes around from the dough, and fixed them upon julia; and she said, as soon as she caught a glimpse of the forlorn little maiden: "o, my _patience_!" a specimen requiring great patience from any one coming in contact with her, was this same julia. the pretty blue dress and white apron were covered with great patches of mud; morocco boots and neat white stockings were in the same direful plight; and down her face the salt and muddy tears were running, for her handkerchief was also streaked with mud. "i should _think_ so!" laughed sadie, in answer to her mother's exclamation. "the history of the poor little fish, in brief, is this: she started, immaculate in white apron, white stockings, and the like, for the post-office, with ester's letter. she met with temptation in the shape of a little girl with paper dolls; and, while admiring them, the letter had the meanness to slip out of her hand into the mud! that, you understand, was the frying-pan. much horrified with this state of things, the two wise young heads were put together, and the brilliant idea conceived of giving the muddy letter a thorough washing in the creek! so to the creek they went; and, while they stood ankle deep in the mud, vigorously carrying their idea into effect, the vicious little thing hopped out of julia's hand, and sailed merrily away, down stream! so there she was, 'out of the frying-pan into the fire,' sure enough! and the letter has sailed for uncle ralph's by a different route than that which is usually taken." sadie's nonsense was interrupted at this point by ester, who had listened with darkening face to the rapidly told story: "she ought to be thoroughly _whipped_, the careless little goose! mother, if you don't punish her now, i never would again." then julia's tearful sorrow blazed into sudden anger: "i _oughtn't_ to be whipped; you're an ugly, mean sister to say so. i tumbled down and hurt my arm _dreadfully_, trying to catch your old _hateful_ letter; and you're just as mean as you can be!" between tears, and loud tones, and sadie's laughter, julia had managed to burst forth these angry sentences before her mother's voice reached her; when it did, she was silenced. "julia, i am _astonished_! is that the way to speak to your sister? go up to my room directly; and, when you have put on dry clothes, sit down there, and stay until you are ready to tell ester that you are sorry, and ask her to forgive you." "_really_, mother," sadie said, as the little girl went stamping up the stairs, her face buried in her muddy handkerchief, "i'm not sure but you have made a mistake, and ester is the one to be sent to her room until she can behave better. i don't pretend to be _good_ myself; but i must say it seems ridiculous to speak in the way she did to a sorry, frightened child. i never saw a more woeful figure in my life;" and sadie laughed again at the recollection. "yes," said ester, "you uphold her in all sorts of mischief and insolence; that is the reason she is so troublesome to manage." mrs. ried looked distressed. "don't, ester," she said; "don't speak in that loud, sharp tone. sadie, you should not encourage julia in speaking improperly to her sister. i think myself that ester was hard with her. the poor child did not mean any harm; but she must not be rude to anybody." "oh, yes," ester said, speaking bitterly, "of course _i_ am the one to blame; i always _am_. no one in this house ever does any thing wrong except _me_." mrs. ried sighed heavily, and sadie turned away and ran up stairs, humming: "oh, would i were a buttercup, a blossom in the meadow." and julia, in her mother's room, exchanged her wet and muddy garments for clean ones, and _cried_; washed her face in the clear, pure water until it was fresh and clean, and cried again, louder and harder; her heart was all bruised and bleeding. she had not meant to be careless. she had been carefully dressed that morning to spend the long, bright saturday with vesta griswold. she had intended to go swiftly and safely to the post-office with the small white treasure intrusted to her care; but those paper dolls were _so_ pretty, and of course there was no harm in walking along with addie, and looking at them. how could she know that the hateful letter was going to tumble out of her apron pocket? right there, too, the only place along the road where there was the least bit of mud to be seen! then she had honestly supposed that a little clean water from the creek, applied with her smooth white handkerchief, would take the stains right out of the envelope, and the sun would dry it, and it would go safely to uncle ralph's after all; but, instead of that, the hateful, _hateful_ thing slipped right out of her hand, and went floating down the stream; and at this point julia's sobs burst forth afresh. presently she took up her broken thread of thought, and went on: how very, _very_ ugly ester was; if _she_ hadn't been there, her mother would have listened kindly to her story of how very sorry she was, and how she meant to do just right. then she would have forgiven her, and she would have been freshly dressed in her clean blue dress instead of her pink one, and would have had her happy day after all; and now she would have to spend this bright day all alone; and, at this point, her tears rolled down in torrents. "jule," called a familiar voice, under her window, "where are you? come down and mend my sail for me, won't you?" julia went to the window and poured into alfred's sympathetic ears the story of her grief and her wrongs. "just exactly like her," was his comment on ester's share in the tragedy. "she grows crosser every day. i guess, if i were you, i'd let her wait a spell before i asked her forgiveness." "i guess i shall," sputtered julia. "she was meaner than any thing, and i'd tell her so this minute, if i saw her; that's all the sorry i am." so the talk went on; and when alfred was called to get ester a pail of water, and left julia in solitude, she found her heart very much strengthened in its purpose to tire everybody out in waiting for her apology. the long, warm, busy day moved on; and the overworked and wearied mother found time to toil up two flights of stairs in search of her young daughter, in the hope of soothing and helping her; but julia was in no mood to be helped. she hated to stay up there alone; she wanted to go down in the garden with alfred; she wanted to go to the arbor and read her new book; she wanted to take a walk down by the river; she wanted her dinner exceedingly; but to ask ester's forgiveness was the one thing that she did _not_ want to do. no, not if she staid there alone for a week; not if she _starved_, she said aloud, stamping her foot and growing indignant over the thought. alfred came as often as his saturday occupations would admit, and held emphatic talks with the little prisoner above, admiring her "pluck," and assuring her that he "wouldn't give in, not he." "you see i _can't_ do it," said julia, with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, "because it wouldn't be true. i'm _not_ sorry; and mother wouldn't have me tell a lie for anybody." so the sun went toward the west, and julia at the window watched the academy girls moving homeward from their afternoon ramble, listened to the preparations for tea which were being made among the dishes in the dining-room, and, having no more tears to shed, sighed wearily, and wished the miserable day were quite done and she was sound asleep. only a few moments before she had received a third visit from her mother; and, turning to her, fresh from a talk with alfred, she had answered her mother's question as to whether she were not now ready to ask ester's forgiveness, with quite as sober and determined a "no, ma'am," as she had given that day; and her mother had gravely and sadly answered, "i am very sorry, julia i can't come up here again; i am too tired for that. you may come to me, if you wish to see me any time before seven o'clock. after that you must go to your room." and with this julia had let her depart, only saying, as the door closed: "then i can be asleep before ester comes up. i'm glad of that. i wouldn't look at her again to-day for anything." and then julia was once more summoned to the window. "jule," alfred said, with less decision in his voice than there had been before, "mother looked awful tired when she came down stairs just now, and there was a tear rolling down her cheek." "there was?" said julia, in a shocked and troubled tone. "and i guess," alfred continued, "she's had a time of it to-day. ester is too cross even to look at; and they've been working pell-mell all day; and minnie tumbled over the ice-box and got hurt, and mother held her most an hour; and i guess she feels real bad about this. she told sadie she felt sorry for you." silence for a little while at the window above, and from the boy below: then he broke forth suddenly: "i say, jule, hadn't you better do it after all--not for ester, but there's mother, you know." "but, alfred," interrupted the truthful and puzzled julia, "what can i do about it? you know i'm to tell ester that i'm sorry; and that will not be true." this question also troubled alfred. it did not seem to occur to these two foolish young heads that she _ought_ to be sorry for her own angry words, no matter how much in the wrong another had been. so they stood with grave faces, and thought about it. alfred found a way out of the mist at last. "see here, aren't you sorry that you couldn't go to vesta's, and had to stay up there alone all day, and that it bothered mother?" "of course," said julia, "i'm real sorry about mother. alfred, did i, honestly, make her cry?" "yes, you did," alfred answered, earnestly. "i saw that tear as plain as day. now you see you can tell ester you're sorry, just as well as not; because, if you hadn't said any thing to her, mother could have made it all right; so of course you're sorry." "well," said julia, slowly, rather bewildered still, "that sounds as if it was right; and yet, somehow----. well, alfred, you wait for me, and i'll be down right away." so it happened that a very penitent little face stood at her mother's elbow a few moments after this; and julia's voice was very earnest: "mother, i'm so sorry i made you such a great deal of trouble to-day." and the patient mother turned and kissed the flushed cheek, and answered kindly: "mother will forgive you. have you seen ester, my daughter?" "no, ma'am," spoken more faintly; "but i'm going to find her right away." and ester answered the troubled little voice with a cold "actions speak louder than words. i hope you will show how sorry you are by behaving better in future. stand out of my way." "is it all done up?" alfred asked, a moment later, as she joined him on the piazza to take a last look at the beauty of this day which had opened so brightly for her. "yes," with a relieved sigh; "and, alfred, i never mean to be such a woman as ester is when i grow up. i wouldn't for the world. i mean to be nice, and good, and kind, like sister sadie." chapter vi. something happens. now the letter which had caused so much trouble in the ried family, and especially in ester's heart, was, in one sense, not an ordinary letter. it had been written to ester's cousin, abbie, her one intimate friend, uncle ralph's only daughter. these two, of the same age, had been correspondents almost from their babyhood; and yet they had never seen each other's faces. to go to new york, to her uncle's house, to see and be with cousin abbie, had been the one great dream of ester's heart--as likely to be realized, she could not help acknowledging, as a journey to the moon, and no more so. new york was at least five hundred miles away; and the money necessary to carry her there seemed like a small fortune to ester, to say nothing of the endless additions to her wardrobe which would have to be made before she would account herself ready. so she contented herself, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say she made herself discontented, with ceaseless dreams over what new york, and her uncle's family, and, above all, cousin abbie, were like; and whether she would ever see them; and why it had always happened that something was sure to prevent abbie's visits to herself; and whether she should like her as well, if she could be with her, as she did now; and a hundred other confused and disconnected thoughts about them all. ester had no idea what this miserable, restless dreaming of hers was doing for her. she did not see that her very desires after a better life, which were sometimes strong upon her, were colored with impatience and envy. cousin abbie was a christian, and wrote her some earnest letters; but to ester it seemed a very easy matter indeed for one who was surrounded, as she imagined abbie to be, by luxury and love, to be a joyous, eager christian. into this very letter that poor julia had sent sailing down the stream, some of her inmost feelings had been poured. "don't think me devoid of all aspirations after something higher," so the letter ran. "dear abbie, you, in your sunny home, can never imagine how wildly i long sometimes to be free from my surroundings, free from petty cares and trials, and vexations, which, i feel, are eating out my very life. oh, to be free for one hour, to feel myself at liberty, for just one day, to follow my own tastes and inclinations; to be the person i believe god designed me to be; to fill the niche i believe he designed me to fill! abbie, i _hate_ my life. i have not a happy moment. it is all rasped, and warped, and unlovely. i am nothing, and i know it; and i had rather, for my own comfort, be like the most of those who surround me--nothing, and not know it. sometimes i can not help asking myself why i was made as i am. why can't i be a clod, a plodder, and drag my way with stupid good nature through this miserable world, instead of chafing and bruising myself at every step." now it would be very natural to suppose that a young lady with a grain of sense left in her brains, would, in cooler moments, have been rather glad than otherwise, to have such a restless, unhappy, unchristianlike letter hopelessly lost. but ester felt, as has been seen, thoroughly angry that so much lofty sentiment, which she mistook for religion, was entirely lost yet let it not be supposed that one word of this rebellious outbreak was written simply for effect. ester, when she wrote that she "hated her life," was thoroughly and miserably in earnest. when, in the solitude of her own room, she paced her floor that evening, and murmured, despairingly: "oh, if something would _only_ happen to rest me for just a little while!" she was more thoroughly in earnest than any human being who feels that christ has died to save her, and that she has an eternal resting-place prepared for her, and waiting to receive her, has any right to feel on such a subject. yet, though the letter had never reached its destination, the pitying savior, looking down upon his poor, foolish lamb in tender love, made haste to prepare an answer to her wild, rebellious cry for help, even though she cried blindly, without a thought of the helper who is sufficient for all human needs. "long looked for, come at last!" and sadie's clear voice rang through the dining-room, and a moment after that young lady herself reached the pump-room, holding up for ester's view a dainty envelope, directed in a yet more dainty hand to miss ester ried. "here's that wonderful letter from cousin abbie which you have sent me to the post-office after three times a day for as many weeks. it reached here by the way of cape horn, i should say, by its appearance. it has been remailed twice." ester set her pail down hastily, seized the letter, and retired to the privacy of the pantry to devour it; and for once was oblivious to the fact that sadie lunched on bits of cake broken from the smooth, square loaf while she waited to hear the news. "anything special?" mrs. ried asked, pausing in the doorway, which question ester answered by turning a flushed and eager face toward them, as she passed the letter to sadie, with permission to read it aloud. surprised into silence by the unusual confidence, sadie read the dainty epistle without comment: "my dear ester: "i'm in a grand flurry, and shall therefore not stop for long stories to-day, but come at the pith of the matter immediately. we want you. that is nothing new, you are aware, as we have been wanting you for many a day. but there is new decision in my plans, and new inducements, this time. we not only want, but _must_ have you. please don't say 'no' to me this once. we are going to have a wedding in our house, and we need your presence, and wisdom, and taste. father says you can't be your mother's daughter if you haven't exquisite taste. i am very busy helping to get the bride in order, which is a work of time and patience; and i do so much need your aid; besides, the bride is your uncle ralph's only daughter, so of course you ought to be interested in her. "ester, _do_ come. father says the inclosed fifty dollars is a present from him, which you must honor by letting it pay your fare to new york just as soon as possible. the wedding is fixed for the twenty-second; and we want you here at least three weeks before that. brother ralph is to be first groomsman; and he especially needs your assistance, as the bride has named you for her first bridesmaid. i'm to dress--i mean the bride is to dress--in white, and mother has a dress prepared for the bridesmaid to match hers; so that matter need not delay or cause you anxiety. "this letter is getting too long. i meant it to be very brief and pointed. i designed every other word to be 'come;' but after all i do not believe you will need so much urging to be with us at this time. i flatter myself that you love me enough to come to me if you can. so, leaving ralph to write directions concerning route and trains, i will run and try on the bride's bonnet, which has just come home. "p.s. there is to be a groom as well as a bride, though i see i have said nothing concerning him. never mind, you shall see him when you come. dear ester, there isn't a word of tense in this letter, i know; but i haven't time to put any in." "really," laughed sadie, as she concluded the reading, "this is almost foolish enough to have been written by me. isn't it splendid, though? ester, i'm glad you are _you_. i wish i had corresponded with cousin abbie myself. a wedding of any kind is a delicious novelty; but a real new york wedding, and a bridesmaid besides--my! i've a mind to clap my hands for you, seeing you are too dignified to do it yourself." "oh," said ester, from whose face the flush had faded, leaving it actually pale with excitement and expected disappointment, "you don't suppose i am foolish enough to think i can go, do you?" "of course you will go, when uncle ralph has paid your fare, and more, too. fifty dollars will buy a good deal besides a ticket to new york. mother, don't you ever think of saying that she can't go; there is nothing to hinder her. she is to go, isn't she?" "why, i don't know," answered this perplexed mother. "i want her to, i am sure; yet i don't see how she can be spared. she will need a great many things besides a ticket, and fifty dollars do not go as far as you imagine; besides, ester, you know i depend on you so much." ester's lips parted to speak; and had the words come forth which were in her heart, they would have been sharp and bitter ones--about never expecting to go anywhere, never being able to do any thing but work; but sadie's eager voice was quicker than hers: "oh now, mother, it is no use to talk in that way. i've quite set my heart on ester's going. i never expect to have an invitation there myself, so i must take my honors secondhand. "mother, it is time you learned to depend on me a little. i'm two inches taller than ester, and i've no doubt i shall develop into a remarkable person when she is where we can't all lean upon her. school closes this very week, you know, and we have vacation until october. abbie couldn't have chosen a better time. whom do you suppose she is to marry? what a queer creature, not to tell us. say she can go, mother--quick!" sadie's last point was a good one in mrs. ried's opinion. perhaps the giddy sadie, at once her pride and her anxiety, might learn a little self-reliance by feeling a shadow of the weight of care which rested continually on ester. "you certainly need the change," she said, her eyes resting pityingly on the young, careworn face of her eldest daughter. "but how could we manage about your wardrobe? your black silk is nice, to be sure; but you would need one bright evening dress at least, and you know we haven't the money to spare." then sadie, thoughtless, selfish sadie, who was never supposed to have one care for others, and very little for herself--sadie, who vexed ester nearly every hour in the day, by what, at the time, always seemed some especially selfish, heedless act--suddenly shone out gloriously. she stood still, and actually seemed to think for a full minute, while ester jerked a pan of potatoes toward her, and commenced peeling vigorously; then she clapped her hands, and gave vent to little gleeful shouts before she exclaimed "oh, mother, mother! i have it exactly. i wonder we didn't think of it before. there's my blue silk--just the thing! i am tall, and she is short, so it will make her a beautiful train dress. won't that do splendidly!" the magnitude of this proposal awed even ester into silence. to be appreciated, it must be understood that sadie ried had never in her life possessed a silk dress. mrs. ried's best black silk had long ago been cut over for ester; so had her brown and white plaid; so there had been nothing of the sort to remodel for sadie; and this elegant sky-blue silk had been lying in its satin-paper covering for more than two years. it was the gift of a dear friend of mrs. ried's girlhood to the young beauty who bore her name, and had been waiting all this time for sadie to attain proper growth to admit of its being cut into for her. meantime she had feasted her eyes upon it, and gloried in the prospect of that wonderful day when she should sweep across the platform of music hall with this same silk falling in beautiful blue waves around her; for it had long been settled that it was to be worn first on that day when she should graduate. no wonder, then, that ester stood in mute astonishment, while mrs. ried commented: "why, sadie, my dear child, is it possible you are willing to give up your blue silk?" "not a bit of it, mother; i don't intend to give it up the least bit in the world. i'm merely going to lend it. it's too pretty to stay poked up in that drawer by itself any longer. i've set my heart on its coming out this very season just as likely as not it will learn to put on airs for me when i graduate. i'm not at all satisfied with my attainments in that line; so ester shall take it to new york; and if she sits down or stands up, or turns around, or has one minute's peace while she has it on, for fear lest she should spot it, or tear it, or get it stepped on, i'll never forgive her." and at this harangue ester laughed a free, glad laugh, such as was seldom heard from her. some way it began to seem as if she were really to go, sadie had such a brisk, business-like way of saying "ester shall take it to new york." oh, if she only, _only_ could go, she would be willing to do _any thing_ after that; but one peep, one little peep into the beautiful magic world that lay outside of that dining-room and kitchen she felt as if she must have. perhaps that laugh did as much for her as any thing. it almost startled mrs. ried with its sweetness and rarity. what if the change would freshen and brighten her, and bring her back to them with some of the sparkles that continually danced in sadie's eyes; but what, on the other hand, if she should grow utterly disgusted with the monotony of their very quiet, very busy life, and refuse to work in that most necessary treadmill any longer. so the mother argued and hesitated, and the decision which was to mean so much more than any of those knew, trembled in the balance; for let mrs. ried once find voice to say, "oh, ester, i don't see but what you will _have_ to give it up," and ester would have turned quickly and with curling lip, to that pan of potatoes, and have sharply forbidden any one to mention the subject to her again. once more sadie, dear, merry, silly sadie, came to the rescue. "mother, oh, mother! what an endless time you are in coming to a decision! i could plan an expedition to the north pole in less time than this. i'm just wild to have her go. i want to hear how a genuine new york bride looks; besides, you know, dear mother, i want to stay in the kitchen with you. ester does every thing, and i don't have any chance. i perfectly long to bake, and boil, and broil, and brew things. say yes, there's a darling." and mrs. ried looked at the bright, flushed face, and thought how little the dear child knew about all these matters, and how little patience poor ester, who was so competent herself, would have with sadie's ignorance, and said, slowly and hesitatingly, but yet actually said: "well, ester, my daughter, i really think we must try to get along without you for a little while!" and these three people really seemed to think that they had decided the matter. though two of them were at least theoretical believers in a "special providence," it never once occurred to them that this little thing, in all its details, had been settled for ages. chapter vii. journeying. "twenty minutes here for refreshments!" "passengers for new york take south track!" "new york daily papers here!" "sweet oranges here!" and amid all these yells of discordant tongues, and the screeching of engines, and the ringing of bells, and the intolerable din of a merciless gong, ester pushed and elbowed her way through the crowd, almost panting with her efforts to keep pace with her traveling companion, a nervous country merchant on his way to new york to buy goods. he hurried her through the crowd and the noise into the dining-saloon; stood by her side while, obedient to his orders, she poured down her throat a cup of almost boiling coffee; then, seating her in the ladies' room charged her on no account to stir from that point while he was gone--he had just time to run around to the post-office, and mail a forgotten letter; then he vanished, and in the confusion and the crowd ester was alone. she did not feel, in the least, flurried or nervous; on the contrary, she liked it, this first experience of hers in a city depot; she would not have had it made known to one of the groups of fashionably-attired and very-much-at-ease travelers who thronged past her for the world--but the truth was, ester had been having her very first ride in the cars! sadie had made various little trips in company with school friends to adjoining towns, after school books, or music, or to attend a concert, or for pure fun; but, though ester had spent her eighteen years of life in a town which had long been an "express station," yet want of time, or of money, or of inclination to take the bits of journeys which alone were within her reach, had kept her at home. now she glanced at herself, at her faultlessly neat and ladylike traveling suit. she could get a full view of it in an opposite mirror, and it was becoming, from the dainty vail which fluttered over her hat, to the shining tip of her walking boots; and she gave a complacent little sigh, as she said to herself: "i don't see but i look as much like a traveler as any of them. i'm sure i don't feel in the least confused. i'm glad i'm not as ridiculously dressed as that pert-looking girl in brown. i should call it in very bad taste to wear such a rich silk as that for traveling. she doesn't look as though she had a single idea beyond dress; probably that is what is occupying her thoughts at this very moment;" and ester's speaking face betrayed contempt and conscious superiority, as she watched the fluttering bit of silk and ribbons opposite. ester had a very mistaken opinion of herself in this respect; probably she would have been startled and indignant had any one told her that her supposed contempt for the rich and elegant attire displayed all around her, was really the outgrowth of envy; that, when she told herself _she_ wouldn't lavish so much time and thought, and, above all, _money_, on mere outside show, it was mere nonsense--that she already spent all the time at her disposal, and all the money she could possibly spare, on the very things which she was condemning. the truth was, ester had a perfectly royal taste in all these matters. give her but the wherewithal, and she would speedily have glistened in silk, and sparkled with jewels; yet she honestly thought that her bitter denunciation of fashion and folly in this form was outward evidence of a mind elevated far above such trivial subjects, and looked down, accordingly, with cool contempt on those whom she was pleased to denominate "butterflies of fashion." and, in her flights into a "higher sphere of thought," this absurdly inconsistent ester never once remembered how, just exactly a week ago that day, she had gone around like a storm king, in her own otherwise peaceful home, almost wearing out the long-suffering patience of her weary mother, rendered the house intolerable to sadie, and actually boxed julia's ears; and all because she saw with her own common-sense eyes that she really _could_ not have her blue silk, or rather sadie's blue silk, trimmed with netted fringe at twelve shillings a yard, but must do with simple folds and a seventy-five-cent heading! such a two weeks as the last had been in the ried family! the entire household had joined in the commotion produced by ester's projected visit. it was marvelous how much there was to do. mrs. ried toiled early and late, and made many quiet little sacrifices, in order that her daughter might not feel too keenly the difference between her own and her cousin's wardrobe. sadie emptied what she denominated her finery box, and donated every article in it, delivering comic little lectures to each bit of lace and ribbon, as she smoothed them and patted them, and told them they were going to new york. julia hemmed pocket handkerchiefs, and pricked her poor little fingers unmercifully and uncomplainingly. alfred ran of errands with remarkable promptness, but confessed to julia privately that it was because he was in such a hurry to have ester gone, so he could see how it would seem for everybody to be good natured. little minie got in everybody's way as much as such a tiny creature could, and finally brought the tears to ester's eyes, and set every one else into bursts of laughter, by bringing a very smooth little handkerchief about six inches square, and offering it as her contribution toward the traveler's outfit. as for ester, she was hurried and nervous, and almost unendurably cross, through the whole of it, wanting a hundred things which it was impossible for her to have, and scorning not a few little trifles that had been prepared for her by patient, toil-worn fingers. "ester, i _do_ hope new york, or cousin abbie, or somebody, will have a soothing and improving effect upon you," sadie had said, with a sort of good-humored impatience, only the night before her departure. "now that you have reached the summit of your hopes, you seem more uncomfortable about it than you were even to stay at home. do let us see you look pleasant for just five minutes, that we may have something good to remember you by." "my dear," mrs. ried had interposed, rebukingly, "ester is hurried and tired, remember, and has had a great many things to try her to-day. i don't think it is a good plan, just as a family are about to separate, to say any careless or foolish words that we don't mean. mother has a great many hard days of toil, which ester has given, to remember her by." oh, the patient, tender, forgiving mother! ester, being asleep to her own faults, never once thought of the sharp, fretful, half disgusted way in which much of her work had been performed, but only remembered, with a little sigh of satisfaction, the many loaves of cake, and the rows of pies, which she had baked that very morning in order to save her mother's steps. this was all she thought of now, but there came days when she was wide-awake. meantime the new york train, after panting and snorting several times to give notice that the twenty minutes were about up, suddenly puffed and rumbled its way out from the depot, and left ester obeying orders, that is, sitting in the corner where she had been placed by mr. newton--being still outwardly, but there was in her heart a perfect storm of vexation. "this comes of mother's absurd fussiness in insisting upon putting me in mr. newton's care, instead of letting me travel alone, as i wanted to," she fumed to herself. "now we shall not get into new york until after six o'clock! how provoking!" "how provoking this is!" mr. newton exclaimed, re-echoing her thoughts as he bustled in, red with haste and heat, and stood penitently before her. "i hadn't the least idea it would take so long to go to the post-office. i am very sorry!" "well," he continued, recovering his good humor, notwithstanding ester's provoking silence, "what can't be cured must be endured, miss ester; and it isn't as bad as it might be, either. we've only to wait an hour and a quarter. i've some errands to do, and i'll show you the city with pleasure; or would you prefer sitting here and looking around you?" "i should decidedly prefer not running the chance of missing the next train," ester answered very shortly. "so i think it will be wiser to stay where i am." in truth mr. newton endured the results of his own carelessness with too much complacency to suit ester's state of mind; but he took no notice of her broadly-given hint further than to assure her that she need give herself no uneasiness on that score; he should certainly be on time. then he went off, looking immensely relieved; for mr. newton frankly confessed to himself that he did not know how to take care of a lady. "if she were a parcel of goods now that one could get stored or checked, and knew that she would come on all right, why--but a lady. i'm not used to it. how easily i could have caught that train, if i hadn't been obliged to run back after her; but, bless me, i wouldn't have her know that for the world." this he said meditatively as he walked down south street. the new york train had carried away the greater portion of the throng at the depot, so that ester and the dozen or twenty people who occupied the great sitting-room with her, had comparative quiet. the wearer of the condemned brown silk and blue ribbons was still there, and awoke ester's vexation still further by seeming utterly unable to keep herself quiet; she fluttered from seat to seat, and from window to window, like an uneasy bird in a cage. presently she addressed ester in a bright little tone: "doesn't it bore you dreadfully to wait in a depot?" "yes," said ester, briefly and truthfully, notwithstanding the fact that she was having her first experience in that boredom. "are you going to new york?" "i hope so," she answered, with energy. "i expected to have been almost there by this time; but the gentleman who is supposed to be taking care of me, had to rush off and stay just long enough to miss the train." "how annoying!" answered the blue ribbons with a soft laugh. "i missed it, too, in such a silly way. i just ran around the corner to get some chocolate drops, and a little matter detained me a few moments; and when i came back, the train had gone. i was so sorry, for i'm in such a hurry to get home. do you live in new york?" ester shook her head, and thought within herself: "that is just as much sense as i should suppose you to have--risk the chance of missing a train for the sake of a paper of candy." of course ester could not be expected to know that the chocolate drops were for the wee sister at home, whose heart would be nearly broken if sister fanny came home, after an absence of twenty-four hours, without bringing her any thing; and the "little matter" which detained her a few moments, was joining the search after a twenty-five-cent bill which the ruthless wind had snatched from the hand of a barefooted, bareheaded, and almost forlorn little girl, who cried as violently as though her last hope in life had been blown away with it; nor how, failing in finding the treasure, the gold-clasped purse had been opened, and a crisp, new bill had been taken out to fill its place; neither am i at all certain as to whether it would have made any difference at all in ester's verdict, if she had known all the circumstances. the side door opened quietly just at this point and a middle-aged man came in, carrying in one hand a tool-box, and in the other a two-story tin pail. both girls watched him curiously as he set these down on the floor, and, taking tacks from his pocket and a hammer from his box, he proceeded to tack a piece of paper to the wall. ester, from where she sat, could see that the paper was small, and that something was printed on it in close, fine type. it didn't look in the least like a handbill, or indeed like a notice of any sort. her desire to know what it could be grew strong; two tiny tacks held it firmly in its place. then the man turned and eyed the inmates of the room, who were by this time giving undivided attention to him and his bit of paper presently he spoke, in a quiet, respectful tone: "i've tacked up a nice little tract. i thought maybe while you was waiting you might like something to read. if one of you would read it aloud, all the rest could hear it." so saying, the man stooped and took up his tool-box and his tin pail, and went away, leaving the influences connected with those two or three strokes of his hammer to work for him through all time, and meet him at the judgment. but if a bomb-shell had suddenly come down and laid itself in ruins it their feet, it could not have made a much more startled company than the tract-tacker left behind him. a tract!--actually tacked up on the wall, and waiting for some human voice to give it utterance! a tract in a railroad depot! how queer! how singular! how almost improper! why? oh, ester didn't know; it was so unusual. yes; but then that didn't make it improper. no; but--then, she--it--well, it was fanatical. oh yes, that was it. she knew it was improper in some way. it was strange that that very convenient word should have escaped her for a little. this talk ester held hurriedly with her conscience. it was asleep, you know; but just then it nestled as in a dream, and gave her a little prick; but that industrious, important word, "fanatical," lulled it back to its rest. meantime there hung the tract, and fluttered a little in the summer air, as the door opened and closed. was no one to give it voice? "i'd like dreadful well to hear it," an old lady said, nodding her gray head toward the little leaf on the wall; "but i've packed up my specs, and might just as well have no eyes at all, as far as readin' goes, when i haven't got my specs on. there's some young eyes round here though, one would think." she added, looking inquiringly around. "you won't need glasses, i should say now, for a spell of years!" this remark, or hint, or inquiry, was directed squarely at ester, and received no other answer than a shrug of the shoulder and an impatient tapping of her heels on the bare floor. under her breath ester muttered, "disagreeable old woman!" the brown silk rustled, and the blue ribbons fluttered restlessly for a minute; then their owner's clear voice suddenly broke the silence: "i'll read it for you, ma'am, if you really would like to hear it." the wrinkled, homely, happy old face broke into a beaming smile, as she turned toward the pink-cheeked, blue-eyed maiden. "that i would," she answered, heartily, "dreadful well. i ain't heard nothing good, 'pears to me, since i started; and i've come two hundred miles. it seems as if it might kind of lift me up, and rest me like, to hear something real good again." with the flush on her face a little hightened, the young girl promptly crossed to where the tract hung; and a strange stillness settled over the listeners as her clear voice sounded distinctly down the long room. this was what she read. solemn questions. "dear friend: are you a christian? what have you done to-day for christ? are the friends with whom you have been talking traveling toward the new jerusalem? did you compare notes with them as to how you were all prospering on the way? is that stranger by your side a fellow-pilgrim? did you ask him if he _would_ be? have you been careful to recommend the religion of jesus christ by your words, by your acts, by your looks, this day? if danger comes to you, have you this day asked christ to be your helper? if death comes to you this night, are you prepared to give up your account? what would your record of this last day be? a blank? what! have you done _nothing_ for the master? then what have you done against him? nothing? nay, verily! is not the bible doctrine, 'he that is not for me is against me?' "remember that every neglected opportunity, every idle word, every wrong thought of yours has been written down this day. you can not take back the thoughts or words; you can not recall the opportunity. this day, with all its mistakes, and blots, and mars, you can never live over again. it must go up to the judgment just as it is. have you begged the blood of jesus to be spread over it all? have you resolved that no other day shall witness a repeatal of the same mistakes? have you resolved in your own strength or in his?" during the reading of the tract, a young man had entered, paused a moment in surprise at the unwonted scene, then moved with very quiet tread across the room and took the vacant seat near ester. as the reader came back to her former seat, with the pink on her cheek deepened into warm crimson, the new comer greeted her with-- "good-evening, miss fannie. have you been finding work to do for the master?" "only a very little thing," she answered, with a voice in which there was a slight tremble. "i don't know about that, my dear." this was the old woman's voice. "i'm sure i thank you a great deal. they're kind of startling questions like; enough to most scare a body, unless you was trying pretty hard, now ain't they?" "very solemn questions, indeed," answered the gentleman to whom this question seemed to be addressed. "i wonder, if we were each obliged to write truthful answers to each one of them, how many we should be ashamed to have each other see?" "how many would be ashamed to have _him_ see?" the old woman spoke with an emphatic shake of her gray head, and a reverent touch of he pronoun. "that is the vital point," he said. "yet how much more ashamed we often seem to be of man's judgment than of god's." then he turned suddenly to ester, and spoke in a quiet, respectful tone: "is the stranger by my side a fellow-pilgrim?" ester was startled and confused. the whole scene had been a very strange one to her. she tried to think the blue-ribboned girl was dreadfully out of her sphere; but the questions following each other in such quick succession, were so very solemn, and personal, and searching--and now this one. she hesitated, and stammered, and flushed like a school-girl, as at last she faltered: "i--i think--i believe--i am." "then i trust you are wide-awake, and a faithful worker in the vineyard," he said, earnestly. "these are times when the master needs true and faithful workmen." "he's a minister," said ester, positively, to herself, when she had recovered from her confusion sufficiently to observe him closely, as he carefully folded the old woman's shawl for her, took her box and basket in his care, and courteously offered his hand to assist her into the cars for the new york train thundered in at last, and mr. newton presented himself; and they rushed and jostled each other out of the depot and into the train. and the little tract hung quietly in its corner; and the carpenter who had left it there, hammered, and sawed, and planed--yes, and prayed that god would use it, and knew not then, nor afterward, that it had already awakened thoughts that would tell for eternity. chapter viii. the journey's end. "yes, he's a minister," ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found leisure to observe him more closely. mr. newton was absorbed in the _tribune_; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water and attended to all her simple wants. during the stopping of the train at a station, their talk became distinct. "and i haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old lady was saying. "won't he be glad though, to see his mother once more? and he's got children--two of them; one is named after me, sabrina. it's an awful homely name, i think, don't you? but then, you see, it was grandma's." "and that makes all the difference in the world," her companion answered. "so the old home is broken up, and you are going to make a new one." "yes; and i'll show you every _thing_ i've got to remember my old garden by." with eager, trembling fingers, she untied the string which held down the cover of her basket, and, rummaging within, brought to light a withered bouquet of the very commonest and, perhaps, the very homeliest flowers that grew, if there _are_ any homely flowers. "there," she said, holding it tenderly, and speaking with quivering lip and trembling voice. "i picked 'em the very last thing i did, out in my own little garden patch by the backdoor. oh, times and times i've sat and weeded and dug around them, with him sitting on the stoop and reading out loud to me. i thought all about just how it was while i was picking these. i didn't stay no longer, and i didn't go back to the house after that. i couldn't; i just pulled my sun-bonnet over my eyes, and went across lots to where i was going to get my breakfast" ester felt very sorry for the poor homeless, friendless old woman--felt as though she would have been willing to do a good deal just then to make her comfortable; yet it must be confessed that that awkward bunch of faded flowers, arranged without the slightest regard to colors, looked rather ridiculous; and she felt surprised, and not a little puzzled, to see actual tears standing in the eyes of her companion as he handled the bouquet with gentle care. "well," he said, after a moment of quiet, "you are not leaving your best friend after all. does it comfort your heart very much to remember that, in all your partings and trials, you are never called upon to bid jesus good-by?" "what a way he has of bringing that subject into every conversation," commented ester, who was now sure that he was a minister. someway ester had fallen into a way of thinking that every one who spoke freely concerning these matters must be either a fanatic or a minister. "oh, that's about all the comfort i've got left." this answer came forth from a full heart, and eyes brimming with tears. "and i don't s'pose i need any other, if i've got jesus left i oughtn't to need any thing else; but sometimes i get impatient--it seems to me i've been here long enough, and it's time i got home." "how is it with the boy who is expecting you; has he this same friend?" the gray head was slowly and sorrowfully shaken. "oh, i'm afraid he don't know nothing about _him_." "ah! then you have work to do; you can't be spared to rest yet. i presume the master is waiting for you to lead that son to himself." "i mean to, i mean to, sir," she said earnestly, "but sometimes i think maybe my coffin could do it better than i; but god knows--and i'm trying to be patient." then the train whirred on again, and ester missed the rest; but one sentence thrilled her--"maybe my coffin could do it better than i." how earnestly she spoke, as if she were willing to die at once, if by that she could save her son. how earnest they both were, anyway--the wrinkled, homely, ignorant old woman and the cultivated, courtly gentleman. ester was ill at ease--conscience was arousing her to unwonted thought. these two were different from her she was a christian--at least she supposed so, hoped so; but she was not like them. there was a very decided difference. were they right, and was she all wrong? wasn't she a christian after all? and at this thought she actually shivered. she was not willing to give up her title, weak though it might be. "oh, well!" she decided, after a little, "she is an old woman, almost through with life. of course she looks at everything through a different aspect from what a young girl like me naturally would; and as for him, ministers always are different from other people, of course." foolish ester! did she suppose that ministers have a private bible of their own, with rules of life set down therein for them, quite different from those written for her! and as for the old woman, almost through with life, how near might ester be to the edge of her own life at that very moment! when the train stopped again the two were still talking. "i just hope my boy will look like you," the old lady said suddenly, fixing admiring eyes on the tall form that stood beside her, patiently waiting for the cup from which she was drinking the tea which he had procured for her. ester followed the glance of her eye, and laughed softly at the extreme improbability of her hope being realized, while he answered gravely: "i hope he will be a noble boy, and love his mother as she deserves; then it will matter very little who he looks like." while the cup was being returned there was a bit of toilet making going on; the gray hair was smoothed back under the plain cap, and the faded, twisted shawl rearranged and carefully pinned. meantime her thoughts seemed troubled, and she looked up anxiously into the face of her comforter as he again took his seat beside her. "i'm just thinking i'm such a homely old thing, and new york is such a grand place, i've heard them say. i _do_ hope he won't be ashamed of his mother." "no danger," was the hearty answer; "he'll think you are the most beautiful woman he has seen in ten years." there is no way to describe the happy look which shone in the faded blue eyes at this answer; and she laughed a softly, pleased laugh as she said: "maybe he'll be like the man i read about the other day. some mean, old scamp told him how homely his mother was; and he said, says he, 'yes, she's a homely woman, sure enough; but oh she's such a _beautiful_ mother!' what ever will i do when i get in new york," she added quickly, seized with a sudden anxiety. "just as like as not, now, he never got a bit of my letter, and won't be there to get me!" "do you know where your son lives?" "oh, yes, i've got it on a piece of paper, the street and the number; but bless your heart, i shouldn't know whether to go up, or down, or across." just the shadow of a smile flitted over her friend's face as the thought of the poor old lady, trying to make her way through the city came to him. then he hastened to reassure her. "then we are all right, whether he meets you or not; we can take a carriage and drive there. i will see you safe at home before i leave you." this crowning act of kindness brought the tears. "i don't know why you are so good to me," she said simply, "unless you are the friend i prayed for to help me through this journey. if you are, it's all right; god will see that you are paid for it." and before ester had done wondering over the singular quaintness of this last remark there was a sudden triumphant shriek from the engine, and a tremendous din, made up of a confusion of more sounds than she had ever heard in her life before; then all was hurry and bustle around her, and she suddenly awakened to the fact that as soon as they had crossed the ferry she would actually be in new york. even then she bethought herself to take a curious parting look at the oddly matched couple who were carefully making their way through the crowd, and wonder if she would ever see them again. the next hour was made up of bewilderment to ester. she had a confused remembrance afterward of floating across a silver river in a palace; of reaching a place where everybody screamed instead of talked, and where all the bells were ringing for fire, or something else. she looked eagerly about for her uncle, and saw at least fifty men who resembled him, as she saw him last, about ten years ago. she fumbled nervously for his address in her pocket-book, and gave mr. newton a recipe for making mince pies instead; finally she found herself tumbled in among cushions and driving right into carriages and carts and people, who all got themselves mysteriously out of the way; down streets that she thought must surely be the ones that the bells were ringing for, as they were all ablaze. it had been arranged that ester's escort should see her safely set down at her uncle's door, as she had been unable to state the precise time of her arrival; and besides, as she was an entire stranger to her uncle's family, they could not determine any convenient plan for meeting each other at the depot. so ester was whirled through the streets at a dizzying rate, and, with eyes and ears filled with bewildering sights and sounds, was finally deposited before a great building, aglow with gas and gleaming with marble. mr. newton rang the bell, and ester, making confused adieus to him, was meantime ushered into a hall looking not unlike judge warren's best parlor. a sense of awe, not unmixed with loneliness and almost terror, stole over her as the man who opened the door stood waiting, after a civil--"whom do you wish to see, and what name shall i send up?" "whom _did_ she wish to see, and what _was_ her name, anyway. could this be her uncle's house? did she want to see any of them?" she felt half afraid of them all. suddenly the dignity and grandeur seemed to melt into gentleness before her, as the tiniest of little women appeared and a bright, young voice broke into hearty welcome: "is this really my cousin ester? and so you have come! how perfectly splendid. where is mr. newton? gone? why, john, you ought to have smuggled him in to dinner. we are _so_ much obliged to him for taking care of _you_. john, send those trunks up to my room. you'll room with me, ester, won't you? mother thought i ought to put you in solitary state in a spare chamber, but i couldn't. you see i have been so many years waiting for you, that now i want you every bit of the time." all this while she was giving her loving little pats and kisses, on their way up stairs, whither she at once carried the traveler. such a perfect gem of a room as that was into which she was ushered. ester's love of beauty seemed likely to be fully gratified; she cast one eager glance around her, took in all the charming little details in a second of time, and then gave her undivided attention to this wonderful person before her who certainly was, in veritable flesh and blood, the much-dreamed over, much-longed for cousin abbie. a hundred times had ester painted her portrait--tall and dark and grand, with a perfectly regal form and queenly air, hair black as midnight, coiled in heavy masses around her head, eyes blacker if possible than her hair. as to dress, it was very difficult to determine; sometimes it was velvet and diamonds, or, if the season would not possibly admit of that, then a rich, dark silk, never, by any chance, a material lighter than silk. this had been her picture. now she could not suppress a laugh as she noted the contrast between it and the original. she was even two inches shorter than ester herself, with a manner much more like a fairy's than a queen's; instead of heavy coils of black hair, there were little rings of brown curls clustering around a fair, pale forehead, and continually peeping over into the bluest of eyes; then her dress was the softest and quietest of muslins, with a pale-blue tint. ester's softly laugh chimed merrily; she turned quickly. "now have you found something to laugh at in me already?" she said gleefully. "why," said ester, forgetting to be startled over the idea that she should laugh at cousin abbie, "i'm only laughing to think how totally different you are from your picture." "from my picture!" "yes, the one which i had drawn of you in my own mind. i thought you were tall, and had black hair, and dressed in silks, like a grand lady." abbie laughed again. "don't condemn me to silks in such weather as this, at least," she said gaily. "mother thinks i am barbarous to summon friends to the city in august; but the circumstances are such that it could not well be avoided. so put on your coolest dress, and be as comfortable as possible." this question of how she should appear on this first evening had been one of ester's puzzles; it would hardly do to don her blue silk at once, and she had almost decided to choose the black one; but abbie's laugh and shrug of the shoulder had settled the question of silks. so now she stood in confused indecision before her open trunk. abbie came to the rescue. "shall i help you?" she said, coming forward "i'll not ring for maggie to-night, but be waiting maid myself. suppose i hang up some of these dresses? and which shall i leave for you? this looks the coolest," and she held up to ester's view the pink and white muslin which did duty as an afternoon dress at home. "well," said ester, with a relieved smile, "i'll take that." and she thought within her heart: "they are not so grand after all." presently they went down to dinner, and in view of the splendor of the dining-room, and sparkle of gas and the glitter of silver, she changed her mind again and thought them very grand indeed. her uncle's greeting was very cordial; and though ester found it impossible to realize that her aunt helen was actually three years older than her own mother, or indeed that she was a middle-aged lady at all, so very bright and gay and altogether unsuitable did her attire appear; yet on the whole she enjoyed the first two hours of her visit very much, and surprised and delighted herself at the ease with which she slipped into the many new ways which she saw around her. only once did she find herself very much confused; to her great astonishment and dismay she was served with a glass of wine. now ester, among the stanch temperance friends with whom she had hitherto passed her life, had met with no such trial of her temperance principles, which she supposed were sound and strong; yet here she was at her uncle's table, sitting near her aunt, who was contentedly sipping from her glass. would it be proper, under the circumstances, to refuse? yet would it be proper to do violence to her sense of right? ester had no pledge to break, except the pledge with her own conscience; and it is most sadly true that that sort of pledge does not seem to be so very binding in the estimation of some people. so ester sat and toyed with hers, and came to the very unwarrantable conclusion that what her uncle offered for her entertainment it must be proper for her to take! do ester's good sense the justice of understanding that she didn't believe any such thing; that she knew it was her own conscience by which she was to be judged, not her uncle's; that such smooth-sounding arguments honestly meant that whatever her uncle offered for her entertainment she had not the moral courage to refuse. so she raised the dainty wine-glass to her lips, and never once bethought herself to look at abbie and notice how the color mounted and deepened on her face, nor how her glass remained untouched beside her plate. on the whole ester was glad when all the bewildering ceremony of the dinner was concluded, and she, on the strength of her being wearied with her journey, was permitted to retire with abbie to their room. chapter ix. cousin abbie. "now i have you all to myself," that young lady said, with a happy smile, as she turned the key on the retreating maggie and wheeled an ottoman to ester's side. "where shall we commence? i have so very much to say and hear; i want to know all about aunt laura, and sadie, and the twins. oh, ester, you have a little brother; aren't you so glad he is a _little_ boy?" "why, i don't know," ester said, hesitatingly; then more decidedly, "no; i am always thinking how glad i should be if he were a young man, old enough to go out with me, and be company for me." "i know that is pleasant; but there are very serious drawbacks. now, there's our ralph, it is very pleasant to have him for company; and yet--well, ester, he isn't a christian, and it seems all the time to me that he is walking on quicksands. i am in one continual tremble for him, and i wish so often that he was just a little boy, no older than your brother alfred; then i could learn his tastes, and indeed mold them in a measure by having him with me a great deal, and it does seem to me that i could make religion appear such a pleasant thing to him, that he couldn't help seeking jesus for himself. don't you enjoy teaching alfred?" poor, puzzled ester! with what a matter-of-course air her cousin asked this question. could she possibly tell her that she sometimes never gave alfred a thought from one week's end to another, and that she never in her life thought of teaching him a single thing. "i am not his teacher," she said at length "i have no time for any such thing; he goes to school, you know, and mother helps him." "well," said abbie, with a thoughtful air, "i don't quite mean teaching, either; at least not lessons and things of that sort, though i think i should enjoy having him depend on me in all his needs; but i was thinking more especially of winning him to jesus; it seems so much easier to do it while one is young. perhaps he is a christian now; is he?" ester merely shook her head in answer. she could not look in those earnest blue eyes and say that she had never, by word or act, asked him to come to jesus. "well, that is what i mean; you have so much more chance than i, it seems to me. oh, my heart is so heavy for ralph! i am all alone. ester, do you know that neither my mother nor my father are christians, and our home influence is--; well, is not what a young man needs. he is very--gay they call it. there are his friends here in the city, and his friends in college,--none of them the style of people that _i_ like him to be with,--and only poor little me to stem the tide of worldliness all around him. there is one thing in particular that troubles me--he is, or rather he is not--," and here poor abbie stopped, and a little silence followed. after a moment she spoke again: "oh, ester, you will learn what i mean without my telling you; it is something in which i greatly need your help. i depend upon you; i have looked forward to your coming, on his account as well as on my own. i know it will be better for him." ester longed to ask what the "something" was, and what was expected of her; but the pained look on abbie's face deterred her, and she contented herself by saying: "where is he now?" "in college; coming next week. i long, on his account, to have a home of my own. i believe i can show him a style of life which will appear better to him than the one he is leading now." this led to a long talk on the coming wedding. "mother is very much disturbed that it should occur in august," abbie said; "and of course it is not pleasant as it would be later; but the trouble is, mr. foster is obliged to go abroad in september." "who is mr. foster? can't you be married if he isn't here?" "not very well," abbie said, with a bright little laugh. "you see he is the one who has asked me to marry him." "why! is he?" and ester laughed at her former question; then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she asked: "is he a minister?" "oh dear no, he is only a merchant." "is he a--a christian?" was her next query, and so utterly unused was she to conversation on this subject, that she actually stammered over the simple sentence. such a bright, earnest face as was turned toward her at this question! "ester," said abbie quickly, "i couldn't marry a man who was not a christian." "why," ester asked, startled a little at the energy of her tone, "do you think it is wrong?" "perhaps not for every one. i think one's own carefully enlightened conscience should prayerfully decide the question; but it would be wrong for me. i am too weak; it would hinder my own growth in grace. i feel that i need all the human helps i can get. yes, mr. foster is an earnest christian." "do you suppose," said ester, growing metaphysical, "that if mr. foster were not a christian you would marry him?" a little shiver quivered through abbie's frame as she answered: "i hope i should have strength to do what i thought right; and i believe i should." "yes, you think so now," persisted ester, "because there is no danger of any such trial; but i tell you i don't believe, if you were brought to the test, that you would do any such thing." abbie's tone in reply was very humble. "perhaps not--i might miserably fail; and yet, ester, _he_ has said, 'my grace is sufficient for thee.'" then, after a little silence, the bright look returned to her face as she added: "i am very glad that i am not to be tried in that furnace; and do you know, ester, i never believed in making myself a martyr to what might have been, or even what _may_ be in the future; 'sufficient unto the day' is my motto. if it should ever be my duty to burn at the stake, i believe i should go to my savior and plead for the 'sufficient grace;' but as long as i have no such known trial before me, i don't know why i should be asking for what i do not need, or grow unhappy over improbabilities, though i _do_ pray every day to be prepared for whatever the future has for me." then the talk drifted back again to the various details connected with the wedding, until suddenly abbie came to her feet with a spring. "why, ester!" she exclaimed penitently, "what a thoughtless wretch i am! here have i been chattering you fairly into midnight, without a thought of your tired body and brain. this session must adjourn immediately. shall you and i have prayers together to-night? will it seem homelike to you? can you play i am sadie for just a little while?" "i should like it," ester answered faintly. "shall i read, as you are so weary?" and, without waiting for a reply, she unclasped the lids of her little bible. "are you reading the bible by course? where do you like best to read, for devotional reading i mean?" "i don't know that i have any choice?" ester's voice was fainter still. "haven't you? i have my special verses that i turn to in my various needs. where are you and sadie reading?" "no where," said ester desperately. abbie's face expressed only innocent surprise "don't you read together? you are roommates, aren't you? now i always thought it would be so delightful to have a nice little time, like family worship, in one's own room." "sadie doesn't care anything about these things, she isn't a christian," ester said at length. "oh, dear! isn't she?" what a very sad and troubled tone it was in which abbie spoke. "then you know something of my anxiety; and yet it is different. she is younger than you, and you can have her so much under your influence. at least it seems different to me. how prone we are to consider our own anxieties peculiarly trying." ester never remembered giving a half hour's anxious thought to this which was supposed to be an anxiety with her in all her life; but she did not say so, and abbie continued: "who is your particular christian friend, then?" what an exceedingly trying and troublesome talk this was to ester! what _was_ she to say? clearly nothing but the truth. "abbie, i haven't a friend in the world." "you poor, dear child; then we are situated very much alike after all--though i have dear friends outside of my own family; but what a heavy responsibility you must feel in your large household, and you the only christian. do you shrink from responsibility of that kind, ester? does it seem, sometimes, as if it would almost rush you?" "oh, there are some christians in the family," ester answered, preferring to avoid the last part of the sentence; "but then--" "they are half way christians, perhaps. i understand how that is; it really seems sadder to me than even thoughtless neglect." be it recorded that ester's conscience pricked her. this supposition on abbie's part was not true. dr. van anden, for instance, always had seemed to her most horribly and fanatically in earnest. but in what rank should she place this young, and beautiful, and wealthy city lady? surely, she could not be a fanatic? ester was troubled. "well," said abbie, "suppose i read you some of my sweet verses. do you know i always feel a temptation to read in john? there is so much in that book about jesus, and john seemed to love him so." ester almost laughed. what an exceedingly queer idea--a _temptation_ to read in any part of the bible. what a strange girl her cousin was. now the reading began. "this is my verse when i am discouraged--'wait on the lord; be of good courage and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, i say, on the lord.' isn't that reassuring. and then these two. oh, ester, these are wonderful! 'i have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins; return unto me; for i have redeemed thee.' 'sing, o ye heavens; for the lord hath done it; shout, ye lower parts of the earth; break forth in singing, ye mountains, o forest, and every tree therein; for the lord hath redeemed jacob, and glorified himself in israel.' and in that glorious old prophet's book is my jubilant verse--'and the ransomed of the lord shall return and come to zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.'" "now, ester, you are very tired, aren't you? and i keep dipping into my treasure like a thoughtless, selfish girl as i am. you and i will have some precious readings out of this book, shall we not? now i'll read you my sweet good-night psalm. don't you think the psalms are wonderful, ester?" and without waiting for reply the low-toned, musical voice read on through that marvel of simplicity and grandeur, the st psalm: "i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. my help cometh from the lord which made heaven and earth. he will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. behold, he that keepeth israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. the lord is thy keeper, the lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. the sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. the lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. the lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore." "ester, will you pray?" questioned her cousin, as the reading ceased, and she softly closed her tiny book. ester gave her head a nervous, hurried shake. "then shall i? or, dear ester, would you prefer to be alone?" "no," said ester; "i should like to hear you?" and so they knelt, and abbie's simple, earnest, tender prayer ester carried with her for many a day. after both heads were resting on their pillows, and quiet reigned in the room, ester's eyes were wide open. her cousin abbie had astonished her; she was totally unlike the cousin abbie of her dreams in every particular; in nothing more so than the strangely childlike matter-of-course way in which she talked about this matter of religion. ester had never in her life heard any one talk like that, except, perhaps, that minister who had spoken to her in the depot. his religion seemed not unlike abbie's. thinking of him, she suddenly addressed abbie again. "there was a minister in the depot to-day, and he spoke to me;" then the entire story of the man with his tract, and the girl with blue ribbons, and the old lady, and the young minister, and bits of the conversation, were gone over for abbie's benefit. and abbie listened, and commented, and enjoyed every word of it, until the little clock on the mantel spoke in silver tones, and said, one, two. then abbie grew penitent again. "positively, ester, i won't speak again: you will be sleepy all day to-morrow, and you needn't think i shall give you a chance even to wink. good-night." "good-night," repeated ester; but she still kept her eyes wide open. her journey, and her arrival, and abbie, and the newness and strangeness of everything around her, had banished all thought of sleep. so she went over in detail everything which had occurred that day but persistently her thoughts returned to the question which had so startled her, coming from the lips of a stranger, and to the singleness of heart which seemed to possess her cousin abbie. "_was_ she a fellow-pilgrim after all?" she queried. if so, what caused the difference between abbie and herself. it was but a few hours since she first beheld her cousin; and yet she distinctly _felt_ the difference between them in that matter. "we are as unlike," thought ester, turning restlessly on her pillow. "well, as unlike as two people can be." what _would_ abbie say could she know that it was actually months since ester had read as much connectedly in her bible as she had heard read that evening? yes, ester had gone backward, even as far as that! farther! what would abbie say to the fact that there were many, many prayerless days in her life? not very many, perhaps, in which she had not used a form of prayer; but their names were legion in which she had risen from her knees unhelped and unrefreshed; in which she knew that she had not _prayed_ a single one of the sentences which she had been repeating. and just at this point she was stunned with a sudden thought--a thought which too often escapes us all. she would not for the world, it seemed to her, have made known to abbie just how matters stood with her; and yet, and yet--christ knew it all. she lay very still, and breathed heavily. it came to her with all the thrill of an entirely new idea. then that unwearied and ever-watchful satan came to her aid. "oh, well," said he, "your cousin abbie's surroundings are very different from yours. give you all the time which she has at her disposal, and i dare say you would be quite as familiar with your bible as she is with hers. what does she know about the petty vexations and temptations, and bewildering, ever-pressing duties which every hour of every day beset your path? the circumstances are very different. her life is in the sunshine, yours in the shadow. besides, you do not know her; it is easy enough to talk; _very_ easy to read a chapter in the bible; but after all there are other things quite as important, and it is more than likely that your cousin is not quite perfect yet." ester did not know that this was the soothing lullaby of the old serpent. well for her if she had, and had answered it with that solemn, all-powerful "get thee behind me, satan." but she gave her own poor brain the benefit of every thought; and having thus lulled, and patted, and coaxed her half-roused and startled conscience into quiet rest again, she turned on her pillow and went to sleep. chapter x. ester's minister. ester was dreaming that the old lady on the cars had become a fairy, and that her voice sounded like a silver bell, when she suddenly opened her eyes, and found that it was either the voice of the marble clock on the mantel, or of her cousin abbie, who was bending over her. "do you feel able to get up to breakfast, ester dear, or had you rather lie and rest?" "breakfast!" echoed ester, in a sleepy bewilderment, raising herself on one elbow, and gazing at her cousin. "yes, breakfast!"--this with a merry laugh "did you suppose that people in new york lived without such inconveniences?" oh! to be sure, she was in new york, and ester repeated the laugh--it had sounded so queerly to hear any one talk to her about getting up to breakfast; it had not seemed possible that that meal could be prepared without her assistance. "yes, certainly, i'll get up at once. have i kept you waiting, abbie?" "oh no, not at all; generally we breakfast at nine, but mother gave orders last night to delay until half-past nine this morning." ester turned to the little clock in great amazement; it was actually ten minutes to nine! what an idea! she never remembered sleeping so late in her life before. why, at home the work in the dining-room and kitchen must all be done by this time, and sadie was probably making beds. poor sadie! what a time she would have! "she will learn a little about life while i am away," thought ester complacently, as she stood before the mirror, and pinned the dainty frill on her new pink cambric wrapper, which sadie's deft fingers had fashioned for her. ester had declined the assistance of maggie--feeling that though she knew perfectly well how to make her own toilet, she did _not_ know how to receive assistance in the matter. "now i will leave you for a little," abbie said, taking up her tiny bible. "ester, where is your bible? i suppose you have it with you?" ester looked annoyed. "i don't believe i have," she said hurriedly. "i packed in such haste, you see, and i don't remember putting it in at all." "oh, i am sorry--you will miss it so much! do you have a thousand little private marks in your bible that nobody else understands? i have a great habit of reading in that way. well, i'll bring you one from the library that you may mark just as much as you please." ester sat herself down, with a very complacent air, beside the open window, with the bible which had just been brought her, in her lap. clearly she had been left alone that she might have opportunity for private devotion, and she liked the idea very much; to be sure, she had not been in the habit of reading in the bible in the morning, but that, she told herself, was simply because she never had time hardly to breathe in the mornings at home; there she had beefsteak to cook, and breakfast rolls to attend to, she said disdainfully, as if beefsteak and breakfast rolls were the most contemptible articles in the world, entirely beneath the notice of a rational being; but now she was in a very different atmosphere; and at nine o'clock of a summer morning was attired in a very becoming pink wrapper, finished with the whitest of frills; and sat at her window, a young lady of elegant leisure, waiting for the breakfast-bell. of course she could read a chapter in the bible now, and should enjoy it quite as much as abbie did. she had never learned that happy little habit of having a much-used, much-worn, much-loved bible for her own personal and private use; full of pencil marks and sacred meanings, grown dear from association, and teeming with memories of precious communings. she had one, of course--a nice, proper-looking bible--and if it chanced to be convenient when she was ready to read, she used it; if not, she took sadie's, or picked up julia's from under the table, or the old one on a shelf in the corner, with one cover and part of revelation missing--it mattered not one whit to her which--for there were no pencil marks, and no leaves turned down, and no special verses to find. she thought the idea of marking certain verses an excellent one, and deciding to commence doing so at once, cast about her for a pencil. there was one on the round table, by the other window; but there were also many other things. abbie's watch lay ticking softly in its marble and velvet bed, and had to be examined and sighed over; and abbie's diamond pin in the jewel-case also demanded attention--then there were some blue and gold volumes to be peeped at, and longfellow received more than a peep; then, most witching of all, "say and seal," in two volumes--the very books sadie had borrowed once, and returned, before ester had a chance to discover how faith managed about the ring. longfellow and the bible slid on the table together, and "say and seal" was eagerly seized upon, just to be glanced over, and the glances continued until there pealed a bell through the house; and, with a start, and a confused sense of having neglected her opportunities, this christian young lady followed her cousin down stairs, to meet all the temptations and bewilderments of a new day, unstrengthened by communion with either her bible or her savior. that breakfast, in all its details, was a most bewitching affair. ester felt that she could never enjoy that meal again, at a table that was not small and round, and covered with damask nor drink coffee that had not first flowed gracefully down from a silver urn. as for aunt helen, she could have dispensed with her; she even caught herself drawing unfavorable comparisons between her and the patient, hardworking mother far away. "where is uncle ralph?" she asked suddenly, becoming conscious that there were only three, when last evening there were four. "gone down town some hours ago," abbie answered. "he is a business-man, you know, and can not keep such late hours." "but does he go without breakfast?" "no--takes it at seven, instead of nine, like our lazy selves." "he used to breakfast at a restaurant down town, like other business-men," further explained aunt helen, observing the bewildered look of this novice in city-life. "but it is one of abbie's recent whims that she can make him more comfortable at home, so they rehearse the interesting scene of breakfast by gas-light every morning." abbie's clear laugh rang out merrily at this. "my dear mother, don't, i beg of you, insult the sun in that manner! ester, fancy gas-light at seven o'clock on an august morning!" "do you get down stairs at seven o'clock?" was ester's only reply. "yes, at six, or, at most, half-past. you see, if i am to make father as comfortable at home as he would be at a restaurant, i must flutter around a little." "burns her cheeks and her fingers over the stove," continued aunt helen in a disgusted tone, "in order that her father may have burnt toast prepared by her hands." "you've blundered in one item, mother," was abbie's good-humored reply. "my toast is _never_ burnt, and only this morning father pronounced it perfect." "oh, she is developing!" answered mrs. ried, with a curious mixture of annoyance and amusement in look and tone. "if mr. foster fails in business soon, as i presume he will, judging from his present rate of proceeding, we shall find her advertising for the position of first-class cook in a small family." if abbie felt wounded or vexed over this thrust at mr. foster, it showed itself only by a slight deepening of the pink on her cheek, as she answered in the brightest of tones: "if i do, mother, and you engage me, i'll promise you that the eggs shall not be boiled as hard as these are." all this impressed two thoughts on ester's mind--one, that abbie, for some great reason unknown to, and unimagined by herself, actually of her own free will, arose early every morning, and busied herself over preparations for her father's breakfast; the other, that abbie's mother said some disagreeable things to her, in a disagreeable way--a way that would exceedingly provoke _her_, and that she _wouldn't endure_, she said to herself, with energy. these two thoughts so impressed themselves, that when she and abbie were alone again, they led her to ask two questions: "why do you get breakfast at home for your father, abbie? is it necessary?" "no; only i like it, and he likes it. you see, he has very little time to spend at home, and i like that little to be homelike; besides, ester, it is my one hour of opportunity with my father. i almost _never_ see him alone at any other time, and i am constantly praying that the spirit will make use of some little word or act of mine to lead him to the cross." there was no reply to be made to this, so ester turned to the other question: "what does your mother mean by her reference to mr. foster?" "she thinks some of his schemes of benevolence are on too large a scale to be prudent. but he is a very prudent man, and doesn't seem to think so at all." "doesn't it annoy you to have her speak in that manner about him?" the ever-ready color flushed into abbie's cheeks again, and, after a moment's hesitation, she answered gently: "i think it would, ester, if she were not my _own mother_, you know." another rebuke. ester felt vexed anyway. this new strange cousin of hers was going to prove painfully good. but her first day in new york, despite the strangeness of everything, was full of delight to her. they did not go out, as ester was supposed to be wearied from her journey, though, in reality, she never felt better; and she reveled all day in a sense of freedom--of doing exactly what she pleased, and indeed of doing nothing; this last was an experience so new and strange to her, that it seemed delightful. ester's round of home duties had been so constant and pressing, the rebound was extreme; it seemed to her that she could never bake any more pies and cakes in that great oven, and she actually shuddered over the thought that, if she were at home, she would probably be engaged in ironing, while maggie did the heavier work. she went to fanning most vigorously as this occurred to her, and sank back among the luxurious cushions of abbie's easy chair, as if exhausted; then she pitied herself most industriously, and envied abbie more than ever, and gave no thought at all to mother and sadie, who were working so much harder than usual, in order that she might sit here at ease. at last she decided to dismiss every one of these uncomfortable thoughts, to forget that she had ever spent an hour of her life in a miserable, hot kitchen, but to give herself entirely and unreservedly to the charmed life, which stretched out before her for three beautiful weeks. "three weeks is quite a little time, after all," she told herself hopefully. "three weeks ago i hadn't the least idea of being here; and who knows what may happen in the next three weeks? ah! sure enough, ester, who knows?" "when am i to see mr. foster?" she inquired of abbie as they came up together from the dining-room after lunch. "why, you will see him to-night, if you are not too tired to go out with me. i was going to ask about that." "i'm ready for anything; don't feel as if i ever experienced the meaning of that word," said ester briskly, rejoiced at the prospect of going anywhere. "well, then, i shall carry you off to our thursday evening prayer-meeting--it's just _our_ meeting, you see--we teachers in the mission--there are fifty of us, and we do have the most delightful times. it is like a family--rather a large family, perhaps you think--but it doesn't seem so when we come on sabbath, from the great congregation, and gather in our dear little chapel--we seem like a company of brothers and sisters, shutting ourselves in at home, to talk and pray together for a little, before we go out into the world again. is thursday your regular prayer-meeting evening, ester?" now it would have been very difficult for ester to tell when _her_ regular prayer-meeting evening was, as it was so long ago that she grew out of the habit of regularly attending, that now she scarcely ever gave it a thought. but she had sufficient conscience left to be ashamed of this state of things, and to understand that abbie referred to the church prayer-meeting, so she answered simply--"no; wednesday." "that is our church prayer-meeting night. i missed it last evening because i wanted to welcome you. and tuesday is our bible-class night." "do you give three evenings a week to religious meetings, abbie?" "yes," said abbie with softly glee; "isn't it splendid? i appreciate my privileges, i assure you; so many people _could not_ do it." "and so many people _would not_" ester thought. so they were not in to dinner with the family, but took theirs an hour earlier; and with david, whom abbie called her body-guard, for escort, made their way to abbie's dear little chapel, which proved to be a good-sized church, very prettily finished and furnished. that meeting, from first to last, was a succession of surprises to ester, commencing with the leader, and being announced to abbie in undertone: "your minister is the very man who spoke to me yesterday in the depot." abbie nodded and smiled her surprise at this information; and ester looked about her. presently another whisper: "why, abbie, there is the blue-ribboned girl i told you about, sitting in the third seat from the front." "that," said abbie, looking and whispering back, "is fanny ames; one of our teachers." presently ester set to work to select mr. foster from the rows of young men who were rapidly filling the front seats in the left aisle. "i believe that one in glasses and brown kids is he," she said to herself, regarding him curiously; and as if to reward her penetration he rose suddenly and came over, book in hand, to the seat directly in front of where they were sitting. "good evening, abbie," was his greeting. "we want to sing this hymn, and have not the tune. can you lead it without the notes?" "why, yes," answered abbie slowly, and with a little hesitation. "that is, if you will help me." "we'll all help," he said, smiling and returning to his seat. "yes, i'm sure that is he," commented ester. then the meeting commenced; it was a novel one. one person at least had never attended any just like it. instead of the chapter of proper length, which ester thought all ministers selected for public reading, this reader read just three verses, and he did not even rise from his seat to do it, nor use the pulpit bible, but read from a bit of a book which he took from his pocket. then the man in spectacles started a hymn, which ester judged was the one which had no notes attached from the prompt manner in which abbie took up the very first word. "now," said the leader briskly, "before we pray let us have requests." and almost before he had concluded the sentence a young man responded. "remember, especially, a boy in my class, who seems disposed to turn every serious word into ridicule." "what a queer subject for prayer," ester thought. "remember my little brother, who is thinking earnestly of those things," another gentleman said, speaking quickly, as if he realized that he must hasten or lose his chance. "pray for every one of my class. i want them all." and at this esther actually started, for the petition came from the lips of the blue-ribboned fanny in the corner. a lady actually taking part in a prayer-meeting when gentlemen were present! how very improper. she glanced around her nervously, but no one else seemed in the least surprised or disturbed; and indeed another young lady immediately followed her with a similar request. "now," said the leader, "let us pray." and that prayer was so strange in its sounding to ester. it did not commence by reminding god that he was the maker and ruler of the universe, or that he was omnipotent and omnipresent and eternal, or any of the solemn forms of prayer to which her ears were used, but simply: "oh, dear savior, receive these petitions which we bring. turn to thyself the heart of the lad who ridicules the efforts of his teacher; lead the little brother into the strait and narrow way; gather that entire class into thy heart of love"--and thus for each separate request a separate petition; and as the meeting progressed it grew more strange every moment to ester. each one seemed to have a word that he was eager to utter; and the prayers, while very brief, were so pointed as to be almost startling. they sang, too, a great deal, only a verse at a time, and whenever they seemed to feel like it. her amazement reached its hight when she felt a little rustle beside her, and turned in time to see the eager light in abbie's eyes as she said: "one of my class has decided for christ." "good news," responded the leader. "don't let us forget this item of thanksgiving when we pray." as for ester she was almost inclined not to believe her ears. had her cousin abbie actually "spoken in meeting?" she was about to sink into a reverie over this, but hadn't time, for at this point the leader arose. "i am sorry," said he, "to cut the thread that binds us, but the hour is gone. another week will soon pass, though, and, god willing, we shall take up the story--sing." and a soft, sweet chant stole through the room: "let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting of my hands as evening sacrifice." then the little company moved with a quiet cheerfulness toward the door. "have you enjoyed the evening?" abbie asked in an eager tone, as they passed down the aisle. "why, yes, i believe so; only it was rather queer." "queer, was it? how?" "oh, i'll tell you when we get home. your minister is exactly behind us, abbie, and i guess he wants to speak with you." there was a bright flush on abbie's face, and a little sparkle in her eye, as she turned and gave her hand to the minister, and then said in a demure and softly tone: "cousin ester, let me make you acquainted with my friend, mr. foster." chapter xi. the new boarder. "i don't know what to decide, really," mrs. ried said thoughtfully, standing, with an irresolute air, beside the pantry door. "sadie, hadn't i better make these pies?" "is that the momentous question which you can't decide, mother?" mrs. ried laughed. "not quite; it is about the new boarder. we have room enough for another certainly, and seven dollars a week is quite an item just now. if ester were at home, i shouldn't hesitate." "mother, if i weren't the meekest and most enduring of mortals, i should be hopelessly vexed by this time at the constancy with which your thoughts turn to ester; it is positively insulting, as if i were not doing remarkably. do you put anything else in apple-pies? i never mean to have one, by the way, in my house. i think they're horrid; crust--apples--nutmeg--little lumps of butter all over it. is there anything else, mother, before i put the top on?" "sometimes i sweeten mine a little," mrs. ried answered demurely. "oh, sure enough; it was that new boarder that took all thoughts of sweetness out of me. how much sugar, mother? do let him come. we are such a stupid family now, it is time we had a new element in it; besides, you know i broke the largest platter yesterday, and his seven dollars will help buy another. i wish he was anything but a doctor, though; one ingredient of that kind is enough in a family, especially of the stamp which we have at present." "sadie," said mrs. ried gravely and reprovingly; "i never knew a young man for whom i have a greater respect than i have for dr. van anden." "yes, ma'am," answered sadie, with equal gravity; "i have an immense respect for him i assure you, and so i have for the president, and i feel about as intimate with the one as the other. i hope dr. douglass will be delightfully wild and wicked. how will dr. van anden enjoy the idea of a rival?" "i spoke of it to him yesterday. i told him we would't give the matter another thought if it would be in any way unpleasant to him. i thought we owed him that consideration in return for all his kindness to us; but he assured me that it could make not the slightest difference to him." "do let him come, then. i believe i need another bed to make; i'm growing thin for want of exercise, and, by the way, that suggests an item in his favor; being a doctor, he will be out all night occasionally, perhaps, and the bed won't need making so often. mother, i do believe i didn't put a speck of soda in that cake i made this morning. what will that do to it? or, more properly speaking, what will it _not_ do, inasmuch as it is not there to _do_? as for ester, i shall consider it a personal insult if you refer to her again, when i am so magnificently filling her place." and this much enduring mother laughed and groaned at nearly the same time. poor ester never forgot the soda, nor indeed anything else, in her life; but then sadie was so overflowing with sparkle and good humor. finally the question was decided, and the new boarder came, and was duly installed in the family; and thence commenced a new era in sadie's life. merry clerks and schoolboys she counted among her acquaintances by the score. grave, dignified, slightly taciturn men of the dr. van anden stamp she numbered also among her friends; but never one quite like dr. douglass. this easy, graceful, courteous gentleman, who seemed always to have just the right thing to say or do, at just the right moment; who was neither wild nor sober; who seemed the furthest possible remove from wicked, yet who was never by any chance disagreeably good. his acquaintance with sadie progressed rapidly. a new element had come to mix in with her life. the golden days wherein the two sisters had been much together, wherein the christian sister might have planted much seed for the master in sadie's bright young heart, had all gone by. perchance that sleeping christian, nestled so cosily among the cushions in cousin abbie's morning-room, might have been startled and aroused, could she have realized that days like those would never come back to her; that being misspent they had passed away; that a new worker had come to drop seed into the unoccupied heart; that never again would sadie be as fresh, and as guileless, and as easily won, as in those days which she had let slip in idle, aye, worse than idle, slumber. sadie sealed and directed a letter to ester and ran with it down stairs. dr. douglass stood in the doorway, hat in hand. "shall i have the pleasure of being your carrier?" he said courteously. "do you suppose you are to be trusted?" sadie questioned, as she quietly deposited the letter in his hat. "that depends in a great measure on whether you repose trust in me. the world is safer in general than we are inclined to think it. who lives in that little birdsnest of a cottage just across the way?" "a dear old gentleman, mr. vane," sadie answered, her voice taking a tender tone, as it always did when any chance word reminded her of florence. "that is he standing in the gateway. doesn't he look like a grand old patriarch?" as they looked dr. van anden drove suddenly from around the corner, and reined in his horses in front of the opposite gateway. they could hear his words distinctly. "mr. vane, let me advise you to avoid this evening breeze; it is blowing up strongly from the river." "is dr. van anden the old gentleman's nurse, or guardian, or what?" questioned sadie's companion. "physician," was her brief reply. then, after a moment, she laughed mischievously. "you don't like dr. van anden, dr. douglass?" "i! oh, yes, i like him; the trouble is, he doesn't like me, for which he is not to blame, to be sure. probably he can not help it. i have in some way succeeded in gaining his ill-will. why do you think i am not one of his admirers?" "oh," answered this rude and lawless girl, "i thought it would be very natural for you to be slightly jealous of him, professionally, you know." if her object was to embarrass or annoy dr. douglass, apparently she did not gain her point. he laughed good humoredly as he replied: "professionally, he is certainly worthy of envy; i regard him as a very skillful physician, miss ried." ere sadie could reply the horses were stopped before the door, and dr. van anden addressed her: "sadie, do you want to take a ride?" now, although sadie had no special interest in, or friendship for, dr. van anden, she did exceedingly like his horses, and cultivated their acquaintance whenever she had an opportunity. so within five minutes after this invitation was received she was skimming over the road in a high state of glee. sadie marked that night afterward as the last one in which she rode after those black ponies for many a day. the doctor seemed more at leisure than usual, and in a much more talkative mood; so it was quite a merry ride, until he broke a moment's silence by an abrupt question: "sadie, haven't your mother and you always considered me a sincere friend to your family?" sadie's reply was prompt and to the point. "certainly, dr. van anden; i assure you i have as much respect for, and confidence in, you as i should have had for my grandfather, if i had ever known him." "that being the case," continued the doctor, gravely, "you will give me credit for sincerity and earnestness in what i am about to say. i want to give you a word of warning concerning dr. douglass. he is not a man whom _i_ can respect; not a man with whom i should like to see my sister on terms of friendship. i have known him well and long, sadie; therefore i speak." sadie ried was never fretful, never petulant, and very rarely angry; but when she was, it was a genuine case of unrestrained rage, and woe to the individual who fell a victim to her blazing eyes and sarcastic tongue. to-night dr. van anden was that victim. what right had he to arraign her before him, and say with whom she should, or should not, associate, as if he were indeed her very grandfather! what business had he to think that she was too friendly with dr. douglass! with the usual honesty belonging to very angry people, it had not once occurred to her that dr. van anden had said and done none of these things. when she felt that her voice was sufficiently steady, she spoke: "i am happy to be able to reassure you, dr. van anden, you are _very_ kind--extremely so; but as yet i really feel myself in no danger from dr. douglass' fascinations, however remarkable they may be. my mother and i enjoy excellent health at present, so you need have no anxiety as regards our choice of physicians, although it is but natural that you should feel nervous, perhaps; but you will pardon me for saying that i consider your interference with my affairs unwarrantable and uncalled for." if dr. van anden desired to reply to this insulting harangue, there was no opportunity, for at this moment they whirled around the corner and were at home. sadie flung aside her hat with an angry vehemence, and, seating herself at the piano, literally stormed the keys, while the doctor re-entered his carriage and quietly proceeded to his evening round of calls. what a whirlwind of rage there was in sadie's heart! what earthly right had this man whom she _detested_ to give _her_ advice? was she a child, to be commanded by any one? what right had any one to speak in that way of dr. douglass? he was a gentleman, _certainly_, much more of a one than dr. van anden had shown himself to be--and she liked him; yes, and she would like him, in spite of a whole legion of envious doctors. a light step crossed the hall and entered the parlor. sadie merely raised her eyes long enough to be certain that dr. douglass stood beside her, and continued her playing. he leaned over the piano and listened. "had you a pleasant ride?" he asked, as the tone of the music lulled a little. "charming." sadie's voice was full of emphasis and sarcasm. "i judged, by the style of music which you were playing, that there must have been a hurricane." "nothing of the sort; only a little paternal advice." "indeed! have you been taken into his kindly care? i congratulate you." sadie was still very angry, or she would never have been guilty of the shocking impropriety of her next remark. but it is a lamentable fact that people will say and do very strange things when they are angry--things of which they have occasion to repent in cooler moments. fixing her bright eyes full and searchingly on dr. douglass, she said abruptly: "he was warning me against the impropriety of associating with your dangerous self." a look as of sadness and deep pain crossed dr. douglass' face, and he thought aloud, rather than said: "is that man determined i shall have no friends?" sadie was touched; she struck soft, sweet chords with a slow and gentle movement as she asked: "what is your offense in his eyes, dr. douglass?" then, indeed, dr. douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply. "why--i--he--i would rather not tell you, miss ried, it sounds badly." then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh--"and that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps. well, then, i had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating--neither would i repeat it if it were, in honor to him. he is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me." the music stopped entirely, and sadie's great truthful eyes were fixed in horror on his face. "is it possible," she said at length, "that _that_ is all, and he can bear such determined ill-will toward you? and they call him an earnest christian!" at which remark dr. douglass laughed a low, quick laugh, as if he found it quite impossible to restrain his mirth, and then became instantly grave, and said: "i beg your pardon." "for what, dr. douglass; and why did you laugh?" "for laughing; and i laughed because i could not restrain a feeling of amusement at your innocently connecting his unpleasant state of mind with his professions of christianity." "should they not be connected?" "well, that depends upon how much importance you attach to them." "dr. douglass, what do you mean?" "treason, i suspect, viewed from your standpoint; and therefore it would be much more proper for me not to talk about it." "but i want you to talk about it. do you mean to say that you have no faith in any one's religion?" "how much have you?" "dr. douglass, that is a very yankee way of answering a question." "i know; but it is the easiest way of reaching my point; so i repeat: how much faith have you in these christian professions? or, in other words, how many professing christians do you know who are particularly improved in your estimation by their professions?" the old questioning of sadie's own heart brought before her again! oh, christian sister, with whom so many years of her life had been spent, with whom she had been so closely connected, if she could but have turned to you, and remembering your earnest life, your honest endeavors toward the right, your earnest struggles with sin and self; the evident marks of the lord jesus all about you; and, remembering this, have quelled the tempter in human form, who stood waiting for a verdict, with a determined--"i have known _one_"--what might not have been gained for your side that night? chapter xii. three people. as it was she hesitated, and thought--not of ester, _her_ life had not been such as to be counted for a moment--of her mother. well, mrs. ried's religion had been of a negative rather than of a positive sort, at least outwardly. she never spoke much of these matters, and sadie positively did not know whether she ever prayed or not. how was she to decide whether the gentle, patient life was the outgrowth of religion in her heart, or whether it was a natural sweetness of disposition and tenderness of feeling? then there was dr. van anden, an hour ago she would surely have said him, but now it was impossible; so as the silence, and the peculiar smile on dr. douglass' face, grew uncomfortable, she answered hurriedly: "i don't know many christian people, doctor." and then, more truthfully: "but i don't consider those with whom i am acquainted in any degree remarkable; yet at the same time i don't choose to set down the entire christian world as a company of miserable hypocrites." "not at all," the doctor answered quickly. "i assure you i have many friends among that class of people whom i respect and esteem; but since you have pressed me to continue this conversation i must frankly confess to you that my esteem is not based on the fact that they are called christians. i--but, miss ried, this is entirely unlike, and beneath me, to interfere with and shake your innocent, trusting faith. i would not do it for the world." sadie interrupted him with an impatient shake of her head. "don't talk nonsense, dr. douglass, if you can help it. i don't feel innocent at all, just now at least, and i have no particular faith to shake; if i had i hope you would not consider it such a flimsy material as to be shaken by any thing which you have said as yet. i certainly have heard no arguments. occasionally i think of these matters, and i have been surprised, and not a little puzzled, to note the strange inconsistency existing between the profession and practice of these people. if you have any explanation i should like to hear it; that is all." clearly this man must use at least the semblance of sense if he were going to continue the conversation. his answer was grave and guarded. "i have offered no arguments, nor do i mean to. i was apologizing for having touched upon this matter at all. i am unfortunate in my belief, or rather disbelief; but it is no part of my intention to press it upon others. i incline to the opinion that there are some very good, nice, pleasant people in the world, whom the accidents of birth and education have taught to believe that they are aided in this goodness and pleasantness by a more than human power, and this belief rather helps than otherwise to mature their naturally sweet, pure lives. my explanation of their seeming inconsistencies is, that they have never realized the full moral force of the rules which they profess to follow. i divide the world into two distinct classes--the so-called christian world, i mean. those whom i have just named constitute one class, and the other is composed of unmitigated hypocrites. now my friend, i have talked longer on this subject than i like, or than i ought. i beg you will forget all i have said, and give me some music to close the scene." sadie laughed, and ran her fingers lightly over the keys; but she asked: "in which class do you place your brother in the profession, doctor?" dr. douglass drew his shoulder into a very slight though expressive shrug, as he answered. "it is exceedingly proper, and also rather rare, for a physician to be eminent not only for skill but piety, and my brother practitioner is a wise and wary man, who--" and here he paused abruptly--"miss ried," he added after a moment, in an entirely changed tone: "which of us is at fault to-night, you or myself, that i seem bent on making uncharitable remarks? i really did not imagine myself so totally depraved. and to be serious, i am very sorry that this style of conversation was ever commenced. i did not intend it. i do not believe in interfering with the beliefs, or controverting the opinions of others." apparently sadie had recovered her good humor, for her laugh was as light and careless as usual when she made answer: "don't distress yourself unnecessarily, dr. douglass; you haven't done me the least harm. i assure you i don't believe a word you say, and i do you the honor of believing that you don't credit more than two-thirds of it yourself. now i'm going to play you the stormiest piece of music you ever heard in your life." and the keys rattled and rang under her touch, and drew half a dozen loungers from the halls to the parlor, and effectually ended the conversation. three people belonging to that household held each a conversation with their own thoughts that night, which to finite eyes would have aided the right wonderfully had it been said before the assembled three, instead of in the quiet and privacy of their own rooms. sadie had calmed down, and, as a natural consequence, was somewhat ashamed of herself; and as she rolled up and pinned, and otherwise snugged her curls into order for the night, scolded herself after this fashion: "sadie ried, you made a simpleton of yourself in that speech which you made to dr. van anden to-night; because you think a man interferes with what doesn't concern him, is no reason why you should grow flushed and angry, and forget that you're a lady. you said some very rude and insulting words, and you know your poor dear mother would tell you so if she knew any thing about it, which she won't; that's one comfort; and besides you have probably offended those delightful black ponies, and it will be forever before they will take you another ride, and that's worse than all the rest. but who would think of dr. van anden being such a man? i wish dr. douglass had gone to europe before he told me--it was rather pleasant to believe in the extreme goodness of somebody. i wonder how much of that nonsense which dr. douglass talks he believes, any way? perhaps he is half right; only i'm not going to think any such thing, because it would be wicked, and i'm good. and because"--in a graver tone, and with a little reverent touch of an old worn book which lay on her bureau--"this is my father's bible, and he lived and died by its precepts." up another flight of stairs, in his own room, dr. douglass lighted his cigar, fixed himself comfortably in his arm-chair, with his feet on the dressing-table, and, between the puffs, talked after this fashion: "sorry we ran into this miserable train of talk to-night; but that young witch leads a man on so. i'm glad she has a decided mind of her own; one feels less conscience-stricken. i'm what they call a skeptic myself, but after all, i don't quite like to see a lady become one. _i_ shan't lead her astray. i wouldn't have said any thing to-night if it hadn't been for that miserable hypocrite of a van anden; the fellow must learn not to pitch into me if he wants to be let alone; but i doubt if he accomplished much this time. what a witch she is!" and dr. douglass removed his cigar long enough to give vent to a hearty laugh in remembrance of some of sadie's remarks. just across the hall dr. van anden sat before his table, one hand partly shading his eyes from the gaslight while he read. and the words which he read were these: "o let not the oppressed returned ashamed: let the poor and needy praise thy name. arise, o god, plead thine own cause: remember how the foolish man reproacheth thee daily. forget not the voice of thine enemies; the tumult of those that rise up against thee increaseth continually." something troubled the doctor to-night; his usually grave face was tinged with sadness. presently he arose and paced with slow measured tread up and down the room. "i ought to have done it," he said at last. "i ought to have told her mother that he was in many ways an unsafe companion for sadie, especially in this matter; he is a very cautious, guarded, fascinating skeptic--all the more fascinating because he will be careful not to shock her taste with any boldly-spoken errors. i should have warned them--how came i to shrink so miserably from my duty? what mattered it that they would be likely to ascribe a wrong motive to my caution? it was none the less my duty on that account." and the sad look deepened on his face as he marched slowly back and forth; but he was nearer a solution of his difficulties than was either of those others for at last he came over to his chair again, and sank before it on his knees. now, let us understand these three people each of them, in their separate ways, were making mistakes. sadie had said that she was not going to believe any of the nonsense which dr. douglass talked; she honestly supposed that she was not influenced in the least. and yet she was mistaken; the poison had entered her soul. as the days passed on, she found herself more frequently caviling over the shortcomings of professing christians; more quick to detect their mistakes and failures; more willing to admit the half-uttered thought that this entire matter might be a smooth-sounding fable. sadie was the child of many prayers, and her father's much-used bible lay on her dressing-table, speaking for him, now that his tongue was silent in the grave; so she did not _quite_ yield to the enemy--but she was walking in the way of temptation--and the christian tongues around her, which the grave had _not_ silenced, yet remained as mute as though their lips were already sealed; and so the path in which sadie walked grew daily broader and more dangerous. then there was dr. douglass--not by any means the worst man that the world can produce. he was, or fancied himself to be, a skeptic. like many a young man, wise in his own conceit, he had no very distinct idea of what he was skeptical about, nor to what hights of illogical nonsense his own supposed views, carried out, would lead him; like many another, too, he had studied rhetoric, and logic, and mathematics, and medicine, thoroughly and well; he would have hesitated long, and studied hard, and pondered deeply, before he had ventured to dispute an established point in surgery. and yet, with the inconsistent folly of the age, he had absurdly set his seal to the falsity of the bible, after giving it, at most, but a careless reading here and there, and without having ever once honestly made use of the means by which god has promised to enlighten the seekers after knowledge. and yet, his eyes being blinded, he did not realize how absurd and unreasonable, how utterly foolish, was his conduct. he thought himself sincere; he had no desire to lead sadie astray from her early education, and, like most skeptical natures, he quite prided himself upon the care with which he guarded his peculiar views, although i could never see why that was being any other than miserably selfish or inconsistent; for it is saying, in effect, one of two things, either: "my belief is sacred to myself alone, and nobody else shall have the benefit of it, if i can help it;" or else: "i am very much ashamed of my position as a skeptic, and i shall keep it to myself as much as possible." be that as it may, dr. douglass so thought, and was sincere in his intentions to do sadie no harm; yet, as the days came and went, he was continually doing her injury. they were much in each other's society, and the subject which he meant should be avoided was constantly intruding. both were so constantly on the alert, to see and hear the unwise, and inconsistent, and unchristian acts and words, and also, alas! there were so many to be seen and heard, that these two made rapid strides in the broad road. finally, there was dr. van anden, carrying about with him a sad and heavy heart. he could but feel that he had shrunken from his duty, hidden behind that most miserable of all excuses: "what will people think?" if dr. douglass had had any title but that particular one prefixed to his name, he would not have hesitated to have advised mrs. ried concerning him; but how could he endure the suspicion that he was jealous of dr. douglass? then, in trying to right the wrong, by warning sadie, he was made to realize, as many a poor christian has realized before him, that he was making the sacrifice too late, and in vain. there was yet another thing--dr. douglass' statements to sadie had been colored with truth. among his other honest mistakes was the belief that dr. van anden was a hypocrite. they had clashed in former years. dr. douglass had been most in the wrong, though what man, unhelped by christ, was ever known to believe this of himself? but there had been wrong also on the other side, hasty words spoken--words which rankled, and were rankling still, after the lapse of years. dr. van anden had never said: "i should not have spoken thus; i am sorry." he had taught himself to believe that it would be an unnecessary humiliation for him to say this to a man who had so deeply wronged him! but, to do our doctor justice, time had healed the wound with him; it was not personal enmity which prompted his warning, neither had he any idea of the injury which those sharp words of his were doing in the unsanctified heart. and when he dropped upon his knees that night he prayed earnestly for the conversion of sadie and dr. douglass. so these three lived their lives under that same roof, and guessed not what the end might be. chapter xiii. the strange christian. "abbie," said ester, wriggling herself around from before an open trunk, and letting a mass of collars and cuffs slide to the floor in her earnestness, "do you know i think you're the very strangest girl i ever knew in my life?" "i'm sure i did not," abbie answered gaily. "if it's a nice 'strange' do tell me about it. i like to be nice--ever so much." "well, but i am in earnest, abbie; you certainly are. these very collars made me think of it. oh dear me! they are all on the floor." and she reached after the shining, sliding things. abbie came and sat down beside her, presently, with a mass of puffy lace in her hands, which she was putting into shape. "suppose we have a little talk, all about myself," she said gently and seriously. "and please tell me, ester, plainly and simply, what you mean by the term 'strange.' do you know i have heard it so often that sometimes i fear i really am painfully unlike other people. you are just the one to enlighten me." ester laughed a little as she answered: "you are taking the matter very seriously. i did not mean any thing dreadful." "ah! but you are not to be excused in that way, my dear ester. i look to you for information. mother has made the remark a great many times, but it is generally connected in some way with religious topics, and mother, you know, is not a christian; therefore i have thought that perhaps some things seemed strange to her which would not to--_you_, for instance. but since you have been here you have spoken your surprise concerning me several times, and looked it oftener; and to-day i find that even my stiff and glossy, and every way proper, collars and cuffs excite it. so do please tell me, ought i to be in a lunatic asylum somewhere instead of preparing to go to europe?" now although ester laughed again, at the mixture of comic and pathetic in abbie's tone, yet something in the words had evidently embarrassed her. there was a little struggle in her mind, and then she came boldly forth with her honest thoughts. "well, the strangeness is connected with religious topics in my mind also; even though i am a professing christian i do not understand you. i am an economist in dress, you know, abbie. i don't care for these things in the least; but if i had the money as you have, there are a great many things which i should certainly have. you see there is no earthly sense in your economy, and yet you hesitate over expenses almost as much as i do." there was a little gleam of mischief in abbie's eyes as she answered: "will you tell me, ester, why you would take the trouble to get 'these things' if you do not care for them in the least?" "why because--because--they would be proper and befitting my station in life." "do i dress in a manner unbecoming to my station in life." "no," said ester promptly, admiring even then the crimson finishings of her cousin's morning-robe. "but then--well, abbie, do you think it is wicked to like nice things?" "no," abbie answered very gently; "but i think it is wrong to school ourselves into believing that we do not care for any thing of the kind; when, in reality, it is a higher, better motive which deters us from having many things. forgive me, ester, but i think you are unjust sometimes to your better self in this very way." ester gave a little start, and realized for the first time in her life that, truth-loving girl though she was, she had been practicing a pretty little deception of this kind, and actually palming it off on herself. in a moment, however, she returned to the charge. "but, abbie, did aunt helen really want you to have that pearl velvet we saw at stewart's?" "she really did." "and you refused it?" "and i refused it." "well, is that to be set down as a matter of religion, too?" this question was asked with very much of ester's old sharpness of tone. abbie answered her with a look of amazement. "i think we don't understand each other," she said at length, with the gentlest of tones. "that dress, ester, with all its belongings could not have cost less than seven hundred dollars. could i, a follower of the meek and lowly jesus, living in a world where so many of his poor are suffering, have been guilty of wearing such a dress as that? my dear, i don't think you sustain the charge against me thus far. i see now how these pretty little collar (and, by the way, ester, you are crushing one of them against that green box) suggested the thought; but you surely do not consider it strange, when i have such an array of collars already, that i did not pay thirty dollars for that bit of a cobweb which we saw yesterday?" "but aunt helen wanted you to." a sad and troubled look stole over abbie's face as she answered: "my mother, remember, dear ester, does not realize that she is not her own, but has been bought with a price. you and i know and feel that we must give an account of our stewardship. ester, do you see how people who ask god to help them in every little thing which they have to decide--in the least expenditure of money--can after that deliberately fritter it away?" "do you ask god's help in these matters?" "why, certainly--" with the wondering look in her eyes, which ester had learned to know and dislike--"'whatsoever therefore ye do'--you know." "but, abbie, going out shopping to buy--handkerchiefs, for instance; that seems to me a very small thing to pray about." "even the purchase of handkerchiefs may involve a question of conscience, my dear ester, as you would realize if you had seen the wicked purchases that i have in that line; and some way i never can feel that any thing that has to do with me is of less importance than a tiny sparrow, and yet, you know, he looks after them." "abbie, do you mean to say that in every little thing that you buy you weigh the subject, and discuss the right and wrong of it?" "i certainly do try to find out just exactly what is right, and then do it; and it seems to me there is no act in this world so small as to be neither right nor wrong." "then," said ester, with an impatient twitch of her dress from under abbie's rocker, "i don't see the use in being rich." "nobody is rich, ester, only god; but i'm so glad sometimes that he has trusted me with so much of his wealth, that i feel like praying a prayer about that one thing--a thanksgiving. what else am i strange about, ester?" "everything," with growing impatience. "i think it was as queer in you as possible not to go to the concert last evening with uncle ralph?" "but, ester, it was prayer-meeting evening." "well, suppose it was. there is prayer-meeting every week, and there isn't this particular singer very often, and uncle ralph was disappointed. i thought you believed in honoring your parents." "you forget, dear ester, that father said he was particularly anxious that i should do as i thought right, and that he should not have purchased the tickets if he had remembered the meeting. father likes consistency." "well, that is just the point. i want to know if you call it inconsistent to leave your prayer meeting for just one evening, no matter for what reason?" abbie laughed in answer. "do you know, ester, you wouldn't make a good lawyer, you don't stick to the point. it isn't a great many reasons that might be suggested that we are talking about, it is simply a concert." then more gravely--"i try to be very careful about this matter. so many detentions are constantly occurring in the city, that unless the line were very closely-drawn i should not get to prayer-meeting at all. there are occasions, of course, when i must be detained; but under ordinary circumstances it must be more than a concert that detains me." "i don't believe in making religion such a very solemn matter as that all amounts to; it has a tendency to drive people away from it." the look on abbie's face, in answer to this testily spoken sentence, was a mixture of bewilderment and pain. "i don't understand"--she said at length--"how is that a solemn matter? if we really expect to meet our savior at a prayer-meeting, isn't it a delightful thought? i am very happy when i can go to the place of prayer." ester's voice savored decidedly of the one which she was wont to use in her very worst moods in that long dining-room at home. "of course i should have remembered that mr. foster would be at the prayer-meeting, and not at the concert; that was reason enough for your enjoyment." the rich blood surged in waves over abbie's face during this rude address; but she said not a single word in answer. after a little silence, she spoke in a voice that trembled with feeling. "ester, there is one thought in connection with this subject that troubles me very much. do you really think, as you have intimated, that i am selfish, that i consult my own tastes and desires too much, and so do injury to the cause. for instance, do you think i prejudiced my father?" what a sweet, humble, even tearful, face it was! and what a question to ask of ester! what had developed this disagreeable state of mind save the confused upbraidings of her hitherto quiet conscience over the contrast between cousin abbie's life and hers. here, in the very face of her theories to the contrary, in very defiance to her belief in the folly, and fashion, and worldliness that prevailed in the city, in the very heart of this great city, set down in the midst of wealth and temptation, had she found this young lady, daughter of one of the merchant princes, the almost bride of one of the brightest stars in the new york galaxy on the eve of a brilliant departure for foreign shores, with a whirl of preparation and excitement about her enough to dizzy the brain of a dozen ordinary mortals, yet moving sweetly, brightly, quietly, through it all, and manifestly finding her highest source of enjoyment in the presence of, and daily communion with, her savior. all ester's speculations concerning her had come to naught. she had planned the wardrobe of the bride, over and over again, for days before she saw her; and while she had prepared proper little lectures for her, on the folly and sinfulness of fashionable attire, had yet delighted in the prospect of the beauty and elegance around her. how had her prospects been blighted! beauty there certainly was in everything, but it was the beauty of simplicity, not at all such a display of silks and velvets and jewels as ester had planned. it certainly could not be wealth which made abbie's life such a happy one, for she regulated her expenses with a care and forethought such as ester had never even dreamed of. it could not be a life of ease, a freedom from annoyance, which kept her bright and sparkling, for it had only taken a week's sojourn in her aunt helen's home to discover to ester the fact that all wealthy people were not necessarily amiable and delightful. abbie was evidently rasped and thwarted in a hundred little ways, having a hundred little trials which _she_ had never been called upon to endure. in short, ester had discovered that the mere fact of living in a great city was not in itself calculated to make the christian race more easy or more pleasant. she had begun to suspect that it might not even be quite so easy as it was in a quiet country home; and so one by one all her explanations of abbie's peculiar character had become bubbles, and had vanished as bubbles do. what, then, sustained and guided her cousin? clearly ester was shut up to this one conclusion--it was an ever-abiding, all-pervading christian faith and trust. but then had not _she_ this same faith? and yet could any contrast be greater than was abbie's life contrasted with hers? there was no use in denying it, no use in lulling and coaxing her conscience any longer, it had been for one whole week in a new atmosphere; it had roused itself; it was not thoroughly awake as yet, but restless and nervous and on the alert--and _would not_ be hushed back into its lethargic state. this it was which made ester the uncomfortable companion which she was this morning. she was not willing to be shaken and roused; she had been saying very unkind, rude things to abbie, and now, instead of flouncing off in an uncontrollable fit of indignation, which course ester could but think would be the most comfortable thing which could happen next, so far as she was concerned, abbie sat still, with that look of meek inquiry on her face, humbly awaiting her verdict. how ester wished she had never asked that last question! how ridiculous it would make her appear, after all that had been said, to admit that her cousin's life had been one continual reproach of her own; that concerning this very matter of the concert, she had heard uncle ralph remark that if all the world matched what they did with what they said, as well as abbie did, he was not sure but he might be a christian himself. then suppose she should add that this very pointed remark had been made to her when they were on their way to the concert in question. altogether, ester was disgusted and wished she could get back to where the conversation commenced, feeling certain now that she would leave a great many things unsaid. i do not know how the conversation would have ended, whether ester could have brought herself to the plain truth, and been led on and on to explain the unrest and dissatisfaction of her own heart, and thus have saved herself much of the sharp future in store for her; but one of those unfortunate interruptions which seem to finite eyes to be constantly occurring, now came to them. there was an unusual bang to the front door, the sound of strange footsteps in the hall, the echo of a strange voice floated up to her, and abbie, with a sudden flinging of thimble and scissors, and an exclamation of "ralph has come," vanished. chapter xiv. the little card. left to herself, ester found her train of thought so thoroughly disagreeable that she hastened to rid herself of it, and seized upon the new comer to afford her a substitute. this cousin, whom she had expected to influence for good, had at last arrived. ester's interest in him had been very strong ever since that evening of her arrival, when she had been appealed to to use her influence on him--just in what way she hadn't an idea. abbie had never spoken of it since, and seemed to have lost much of her eager desire that the cousins should meet. ester mused about all this now; she wished she knew just in what way she was expected to be of benefit. abbie was evidently troubled about him. perhaps he was rough and awkward; school-boys often were, even those born in a city. very much of ralph's life had been spent away from home, she knew; and she had often heard that boys away from home influences grew rude and coarse oftentimes. yes, that was undoubtedly it. shy, too, he was of course; he was of about the age to be that. she could imagine just how he looked--he felt out of place in the grand mansion which he called home, but where he had passed so small a portion of his time. probably he didn't know what to do with his hands, nor his feet; and just as likely as not he sat on the edge of his chair and ate with his knife--school was a horrid place for picking up all sorts of ill manners. of course all these things must annoy abbie very much, especially at this time when he must necessarily come so often in contact with that perfection of gentlemanliness, mr. foster. "i wish," thought ester at this point, growing a little anxious, "i wish there was more than a week before the wedding; however i'll do my best. abbie shall see i'm good for something. although i do differ with her somewhat in her peculiar views, i believe i know how to conduct myself with ease, in almost any position, if i have been brought up in the country." and by the time the lunch-bell rang a girl more thoroughly satisfied with herself and her benevolent intentions, than was this same ester, could hardly have been found. she stood before the glass smoothing the shining bands of hair, preparatory to tying a blue satin ribbon over them, when abbie fluttered in. "forgive me, a great many times, for rushing off in the flutter i did, and leaving you behind, and staying away so long. you see i haven't seen ralph in quite a little time, and i forgot everything else. your hair doesn't need another bit of brushing, ester, it's as smooth as velvet; they are all waiting for us in the dining-room, and i want to show you to ralph." and before the blue satin ribbon was tied quite to her satisfaction, ester was hurried to the dining-room, to take up her new role of guide and general assistant to the awkward youth. "i suppose he hasn't an idea what to say to me," was her last compassionate thought, as abbie's hand rested on the knob. "i hope he won't be hopelessly quiet, but i'll manage in some way." at first he was nowhere to be seen; but as abbie said eagerly: "ralph, here is cousin ester!" the door swung back into its place, and revealed a tall, well-proportioned young man, with a full-bearded face, and the brightest of dancing eyes. he came forward immediately, extending both hands, and speaking in a rapid voice. "long-hoped-for come at last! i don't refer to myself, you understand, but to this much-waited-for, eagerly-looked-forward-to prospect of greeting my cousin ester. ought i to welcome you, or you me--which is it? i'm somewhat bewildered as to proprieties. this fearfully near approach to a wedding has confused my brain. sis"--turning suddenly to abbie--"have you prepared ester for her fate? does she fully understand that she and i are to officiate? that is, if we don't evaporate before the eventful day. sis, how could you have the conscience to perpetrate a wedding in august? whatever takes foster abroad just now, any way?" and without waiting for answer to his ceaseless questions he ran gaily on. clearly whatever might be his shortcomings, inability to talk was _not_ one of them. and ester, confused, bewildered, utterly thrown out of her prepared part in the entertainment, was more silent and awkward than she had ever known herself to be; provoked, too, with abbie, with ralph, with herself. "how _could_ i have been such a simpleton?" she asked herself as seated opposite her cousin at table she had opportunity to watch the handsome face, with its changeful play of expression, and note the air of pleased attention with which even her uncle ralph listened to his ceaseless flow of words. "i knew he was older than abbie, and that this was his third year in college. what could i have expected from uncle ralph's son? a pretty dunce he must think me, blushing and stammering like an awkward country girl. what on earth could abbie mean about needing my help for him, and being troubled about him. it is some of her ridiculous fanatical nonsense, i suppose. i wish she could ever talk or act like anybody else." "i don't know that such is the case, however," ralph was saying, when ester returned from this rehearsal of her own thoughts. "i can simply guess at it, which is as near an approach to an exertion as a fellow ought to be obliged to make in this weather. john, you may fill my glass if you please. father, this is even better wine than your cellar usually affords, and that is saying a great deal. sis, has foster made a temperance man of you entirely; i see you are devoted to ice water?" "oh, certainly," mrs. ried answered for her, in the half contemptuous tone she was wont to assume on such occasions. "i warn you, ralph, to get all the enjoyment you can out of the present, for abbie intends to keep you with her entirely after she has a home of her own--out of the reach of temptation." ester glanced hurriedly and anxiously toward her cousin. how did this pet scheme of hers become known to mrs. ried, and how could abbie possibly retain her habitual self-control under this sarcastic ridicule, which was so apparent in her mother's voice? the pink on her cheek did deepen perceptibly, but she answered with the most perfect good humor: "ralph, don't be frightened, please. i shall let you out once in a long while if you are very good." ralph bent loving eyes on the young, sweet face, and made prompt reply: "i don't know that i shall care for even that reprieve, since you're to be jailer." what could there be in this young man to cause anxiety, or to wish changed? yet even while ester queried, he passed his glass for a third filling, and taking note just then of abbie's quick, pained look, then downcast eyes, and deeply flushing face, the knowledge came suddenly that in that wine-glass the mischief lay. abbie thought him in danger, and this was the meaning of her unfinished sentence on that first evening, and her embarrassed silence since; for ester, with her filled glass always beside her plate, untouched indeed sometimes, but oftener sipped from in response to her uncle's invitation, was not the one from whom help could be expected in this matter. and ester wondered if the handsome face opposite her could really be in absolute danger, or whether this was another of abbie's whims--at least it wasn't pleasant to be drinking wine before him, and she left her glass untouched that day, and felt thoroughly troubled about that and everything. the next morning there was a shopping excursion, and ralph was smuggled in as an attendant. abbie turned over the endless sets of handkerchiefs in bewildering indecision. "take this box; do, abbie," ester urged. "this monogram in the corner is lovely, and that is the dearest little sprig in the world." "which is precisely what troubles me," laughed abbie. "it is entirely too dear. think of paying such an enormous sum for just handkerchiefs!" ralph, who was lounging near her, trying hard not to look bored, elevated his eyebrows as his ear caught the sentence, and addressed her in undertone: "is foster hard up? if he is, you are not on his hands yet, sis; and i'm inclined to think father is good for all the finery you may happen to fancy." "that only shows your ignorance of the subject or your high opinion of me. i assure you were i so disposed i could bring father's affairs into a fearful tangle this very day, just by indulging a fancy for finery." "are his affairs precarious, abbie, or is finery prodigious?" abbie laid her hand on a square of cobwebby lace. "that is seventy-five dollars, ralph." "what of that? do you want it?" and ralph's hand was in his pocket. abbie turned with almost a shiver from the counter. "i hope not, ralph," she said with sudden energy. "i hope i may never be so unworthy of my trust as to make such a wicked use of money." then more lightly, "you are worse than queen ester here, and her advice is bewildering enough." "but, abbie, how can you be so absurd," said that young lady, returning to the charge. "those are not very expensive, i am sure, at least not for you; and you certainly want some very nice ones. i'm sure if i had one-third of your spending money i shouldn't need to hesitate." abbie's voice was very low and sweet, and reached only her cousin's ear. "ester, 'the silver and the gold are _his_,' and i have asked him this very morning to help me in every little item to be careful of his trust. now do you think--" but ester had turned away in a vexed uncomfortable state of mind, and walked quite to the other end of the store, leaving abbie to complete her purchases as she might see fit. she leaned against the door, tapping her fingers in a very softly, but very nervous manner against the glass. how queer it was that in the smallest matters she and abbie could not agree? how was it possible that the same set of rules could govern them both? and the old ever-recurring question came up to be thought over afresh. clearly they were unlike--utterly unlike. now was abbie right and she wrong? or was abbie--no, not wrong, the word would certainly not apply; there absolutely _could_ be no wrong connected with abbie's way. well, then, queer!--unlike other people, unnecessarily precise--studying the right and wrong of matters, which she had been wont to suppose had no moral bearing of any sort, rather which she had never given any attention to? while she waited and queried, her eye caught a neat little card-receiver hanging near her, apparently filled with cards, and bearing in gilt lettering, just above them, the winning words: "free to all. take one." this was certainly a kindly invitation; and ester's curiosity being aroused as to what all this might be for, she availed herself of the invitation, and drew with dainty fingers a small, neat card from the case, and read: i solemnly agree, _as god shall help me_: . to observe regular seasons of secret prayer, it least in the morning and evening of each day. . to read daily at least a small portion of the bible. . to attend at one or more prayer-meetings every week, if i have strength to get there. . to stand up for jesus always and everywhere. . to try to save at least one soul each year. . to engage in no amusement where my savior could not be a guest. had the small bit of card-board been a coal of fire it could not have been more suddenly dropped upon the marble before her than was this, as ester's startled eyes took in its meaning. who could have written those sentences? and to be placed there in a conspicuous corner of a fashionable store? was she never to be at peace again? had the world gone wild? was this an emanation from cousin abbie's brain, or were there many more cousin abbies in what she had supposed was a wicked city, or--oh painful question, which came back hourly nowadays, and seemed fairly to chill her blood--was this religion, and had she none of it? was her profession a mockery, her life a miserably acted lie? "is that thing hot?" it was ralph's amused voice which asked this question close beside her. "what? where?" and ester turned in dire confusion. "why that bit of paper--or is it a ghostly communication from the world of spirits? you look startled enough for me to suppose anything, and it spun away from your grasp very suddenly. oh," he added, as he glanced it through, "rather ghostly, i must confess, or would be if one were inclined that way; but i imagined your nerves were stronger. did the pronoun startle you?" "how?" "why i thought perhaps you considered yourself committed to all this solemnity before your time, or willy-nilly, as the children say. what a comical idea to hang one's self up in a store in this fashion. i must have one of these. are you going to keep yours?" and as he spoke he reached forward and possessed himself of one of the cards. "rather odd things to be found in our possession, wouldn't they be? abbie now would be just one of this sort." that cold shiver trembled again through ester's frame as she listened. clearly he did not reckon her one of "that sort." he had known her but one day, and yet he seemed positive that she stood on an equal footing with himself. oh why was it? how did he know? was her manner then utterly unlike that of a christian, so much so that this young man saw it already, or was it that glass of wine from which she had sipped last evening?--and at this moment she would have given much to be back where she thought herself two weeks ago, on the wine question; but she stood silent and let him talk on, not once attempting to define her position--partly because there had crept into her mind this fearful doubt, unaccompanied by the prayer: "if i've never loved before, help me to begin to-day"-- and partly, oh poor ester, because she was utterly unused to confessing her savior; and though not exactly ashamed of him, at least she would have indignantly denied the charge, yet it was much less confusing to keep silence, and let others think as they would--this had been her rule, she followed it now, and ralph continued: "queer world this? isn't it? how do you imagine our army would have prospered if one-fourth of the soldiers had been detailed for the purpose of coaxing the rest to follow their leader and obey orders? that's what it seems to me the so-called christian world is up to. does the comical side of it ever strike you, ester? positively i can hardly keep from laughing now and then to hear the way in which dr. downing pitches into his church members, and they sit and take it as meekly as lambs brought to the slaughter. it does them about as much good, apparently, as it does me--no not so much, for it amuses me, and serves to make me good-natured, on good terms with myself for half an hour or so. i'm so thoroughly rejoiced, you see, to think that i don't belong to that set of miserable sinners." "dr. downing does preach very sharp, harsh sermons," ester said at last, feeling the necessity of saying something. "i have often wondered at it. i think them calculated to do more harm than good." "oh _i_ don't wonder at it in the least. i'd make it sharper yet if i were he; the necessity exists evidently. the wonder lies in _that_ to my mind. if a fellow really means to do a thing, what does he wait to be punched up about it everlastingly for? hang me, if i don't like to see people act as though they meant it, even if the question is a religious one. ester, how many times ought i to beg your pardon for using an unknown tongue--in other words, slang phrases? i fancied myself talking to my chum, delivering a lecture on theology, which is somewhat out of my sphere, as you have doubtless observed. yet such people as you and i can't help having eyes and ears, and using them now and then, can we?" still silence on ester's part, so far as defining her position was concerned. she was not ashamed of her savior now, but of herself. if this gay cousin's eyes were critical she knew she could not bear the test. yet she rallied sufficiently to condemn within her own mind the poor little cards. "they will do more harm than good," she told herself positively. to such young men as ralph, for instance, what could he possibly want with one of them, save to make it a subject of ridicule when he got with some of his wild companions. but it transpired that his designs were not so very wicked after all; for as they left the store he took the little card from his pocket, and handed it to abbie with a quiet: "sis, here is something that you will like." and abbie read it and said: "how solemn that is. did you get it for me, ralph? thank you." and ralph bowed and smiled on her, a kind, almost tender smile, very unlike the roguish twinkle that had shone in his eyes while he talked with ester. all through the busy day that silent, solemn card haunted ester. it pertinaciously refused to be lost. she dropped it twice in their transit from store to store, but ralph promptly returned it to her. at home she laid it on her dressing-table, but piled scarfs and handkerchiefs and gloves over it as high as she might, it was sure to flutter to the floor at her feet, as she sought hurriedly in the mass of confusion for some missing article. once she seized and flung it from the window in dire vexation, and was rewarded by having maggie present it to her about two minutes thereafter, as a "something that landed square on my head, ma'am, as i was coming around the corner." at last she actually grew nervous over it, felt almost afraid to touch it, so thoroughly had it fastened itself on her conscience. these great black letters in that first sentence seemed burned into her brain: "i solemnly agree, as god shall help me." at last she deposited the unwelcome little monitor at the very bottom of her collar-box, under some unused collars, telling herself that it was for safe keeping, that she might not lose it again; not letting her conscience say for a moment that it was because she wanted to bury the haunting words out of her sight. chapter xv. what is the difference? ester stood before her mirror, arranging some disordered braids of hair. she had come up from the dining-room for that purpose. it was just after dinner. the family, with the addition of mr. foster, were gathered in the back parlor, whither she was in haste to join them. "how things do conspire to hinder me!" she exclaimed impatiently as one loose hair-pin after another slid softly and silently out of place. "this horrid ribbon doesn't shade with the trimming on my dress either. i wonder what can have become of that blue one?" with a jerk sadie's "finery-box" was produced, and the contents tumbled over. the methodical and orderly ester was in nervous haste to get down to that fascinating family group; but the blue ribbon, with the total depravity of all ribbons, remained a silent and indifferent spectator of her trials, snugged back in the corner of a half open drawer. ester had set her heart on finding it, and the green collar-box came next under inspection, and being impatiently shoved back toward its corner when the quest proved vain, took that opportunity for tumbling over the floor and showering its contents right and left. "what next, i wonder?" ester muttered, as she stooped to scoop up the disordered mass of collars, ruffles, cuffs, laces, and the like, and with them came, face up, and bright, black letters, scorching into her very soul, the little card with its: "i solemnly agree, as god shall help me." ester paused in her work, and stood upright with a strange beating at her heart. what _did_ this mean? was it merely chance that this sentence had so persistently met her eye all this day, put the card where she would? and what was the matter with her anyway? why should those words have such strange power over her? why had she tried to rid herself of the sight of them? she read each sentence aloud slowly and carefully. "now," she said decisively, half irritated that she was allowing herself to be hindered, "it is time to put an end to this nonsense. i am sick and tired of feeling as i have of late--these are all very reasonable and proper pledges, at least the most of them are. i believe i'll adopt this card. yes, i will--that is what has been the trouble with me. i've neglected my duty--rather i have so much care and work at home, that i haven't time to attend to it properly--but here it is different. it is quite time i commenced right in these things. to-night, when i come to my room, i will begin. no, i can not do that either, for abbie will be with me. well, the first opportunity then that i have--or no--i'll stop now, this minute, and read a chapter in the bible and pray; there is nothing like the present moment for keeping a good resolution. i like decision in everything--and, i dare say, abbie will be very willing to have a quiet talk with mr. foster before i come down." and sincerely desirous to be at peace with her newly troubled conscience--and sincerely sure that she was in the right way for securing that peace--ester closed and locked her door, and sat herself down by the open window in a thoroughly self-satisfied state of mind, to read the bible and to pray. poor human heart, so utterly unconscious of its own deep sickness--so willing to plaster over the unhealed wound! where should she read? she was at all times a random reader of the bible; but now with this new era it was important that there should be a more definite aim in her reading. she turned the leaves rapidly, eager to find a book which looked inviting for the occasion, and finally seized upon the gospel of john as entirely proper and appropriate, and industriously commenced: "'in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god. the same was in the beginning with god.' now that wretched hair-pin is falling out again, as sure as i live; i don't see what is the matter with my hair to-day. i never had so much trouble with it--'all things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made. in him was life: and the life was the light of men.'--there are mr. and miss hastings. i wonder if they are going to call here? i wish they would. i should like to get a nearer view of that trimming around her sack; it is lovely whatever it is.--'and the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'" now it was doubtful if it had once occurred to ester who this glorious "word" was, or that he had aught to do with her. certainly the wonderful and gracious truths embodied in these precious verses, truths which had to do with every hour of her life, had not this evening so much as made an entrance into her busy brain; and yet she actually thought herself in the way of getting rid of the troublesome thoughts that had haunted her the days just past. the verses were being read aloud, the thoughts about the troublesome hair and the trimmings on miss hastings' sack were suffered to remain thoughts, not to put into words--had they been perhaps even ester would have noticed the glaring incongruity. as it was she continued her two occupations, reading the verses, thinking the thoughts, until at last she came to a sudden pause, and silence reigned in the room for several minutes; then there flushed over ester's face a sudden glow, as she realized that she sat, bible in hand, one corner of the solemnly-worded card marking the verse at which she had paused, and that verse was: "he came unto his own, and his own received him not." and she realized that her thoughts during the silence had been: "suppose miss hastings should call and should inquire for her, and she should go with aunt helen to return the call, should she wear mother's black lace shawl with her blue silk dress, or simply the little ruffled cape which matched the dress! she read that last verse over again, with an uncomfortable consciousness that she was not getting on very well; but try as she would, ester's thoughts seemed resolved not to stay with that first chapter of john--they roved all over new york, visited all the places that she had seen, and a great many that she wanted to see, and that seemed beyond her grasp, going on meantime with the verses, and keeping up a disagreeable undercurrent of disgust. over those same restless thoughts there came a tap at the door, and maggie's voice outside. "miss ried, miss abbie sent me to say that there was company waiting to see you, and if you please would you come down as soon as you could?" ester sprang up. "very well," she responded to maggie. "i'll be down immediately." then she waited to shut the card into her bible to keep the place, took a parting peep in the mirror to see that the brown hair and blue ribbon were in order, wondered if it were really the hastings who called on her, unlocked her door, and made a rapid passage down the stairs--most unpleasantly conscious, however, at that very moment that her intentions of setting herself right had not been carried out, and also that so far as she had gone it had been a failure. truly, after the lapse of so many years, the light was still shining in darkness. in the parlor, after the other company had departed, ester found herself the sole companion of mr. foster at the further end of the long room. abbie, half sitting, half kneeling on an ottoman near her father, seemed to be engaged in a very earnest conversation with him, in which her mother occasionally joined, and at which ralph appeared occasionally to laugh; but what was the subject of debate they at their distance were unable to determine, and at last mr. foster turned to his nearest neighbor. "and so, miss ester, you manufactured me into a minister at our first meeting?" in view of their nearness to cousinship the ceremony of surname had been promptly discarded by mr. foster, but ester was unable to recover from a sort of awe with which he had at first inspired her, and this opening sentence appeared to be a confusing one, for she flushed deeply and only bowed her answer. "i don't know but it is a most unworthy curiosity on my part," continued mr. foster, "but i have an overwhelming desire to know why--or, rather, to know in what respect, i am ministerial. won't you enlighten me, miss ester?" "why," said ester, growing still more confused, "i thought--i said--i--no, i mean i heard your talk with that queer old woman, some of it; and some things that you said made me think you must be a minister." "what things, miss ester?" "everything," said ester desperately. "you talked, you know, about--about religion nearly all the time." a look of absolute pain rested for a moment on mr. foster's face, as he said: "is it possible that your experience with christian men has been so unfortunate that you believe none but ministers ever converse on that subject?" "i never hear any," ester answered positively. "but your example as a christian lady, i trust, is such that it puts to shame your experience among gentlemen?" "oh but," said ester, still in great confusion, "i didn't mean to confine my statement to gentlemen. i never hear anything of the sort from ladies." "not from that dear old friend of ours on the cars?" "oh yes; she was different from other people too. i thought she had a very queer way of speaking; but then she was old and ignorant. i don't suppose she knew how to talk about any thing else, and she is my one exception." mr. foster glanced in the direction of the golden brown head that was still in eager debate at the other end of the room, before he asked his next question. "how is it with your cousin?" "oh she!" said ester, brought suddenly and painfully back to all her troublesome thoughts--and then, after a moment's hesitation, taking a quick resolution to probe this matter to its foundation, if it had one. "mr. foster, don't you think she is _very_ peculiar?" at which question mr. foster laughed, then answered good humoredly: "do you think me a competent witness in that matter?" "yes," ester answered gravely, too thoroughly in earnest to be amused now; "she is entirely different from any person that i ever saw in my life. she don't seem to think about any thing else--at least she thinks more about this matter than any other." "and that is being peculiar?" "why i think so--unnatural, i mean--unlike other people." "well, let us see. do you call it being peculiarly good or peculiarly bad?" "why," said ester in great perplexity, "it isn't _bad_ of course. but she--no, she is very good, the best person i ever knew; but it is being like nobody else, and nobody _can_ be like her. don't you think so?" "i certainly do," he answered with the utmost gravity, and then he laughed again; but presently noting her perplexed look, he grew sober, and spoke with quiet gravity. "i think i understand you, miss ester. if you mean, do i not think abbie has attained to a rare growth in spirituality for one of her age, i most certainly do; but if you mean, do i not think it almost impossible for people in general to reach as high a foothold on the rock as she has gained, i certainly do not. i believe it is within the power, and not only that, but it is the blessed privilege, and not only that, but it is the sacred duty of every follower of the cross to cling as close and climb as high as she has." "_i_ don't think so," ester said, with a decided shake of the head. "it is much easier for some people to be good christians than it is for others." "granted--that is, there is a difference of temperament certainly. but do you rank abbie among those for whom it was naturally easy?" "i think so." this time mr. foster's head was very gravely shaken. "if you had known her when i did you would not think so. it was very hard for her to yield. her natural temperament, her former life, her circle of friends, her home influences were all against her, and yet christ triumphed." "yes, but having once decided the matter, it is smooth sailing with her now." "do you think so? has abbie no trials to meet, no battles with satan to fight, so far as you can discover?" "only trifles," said ester, thinking of aunt helen and ralph, but deciding that abbie had luxuries enough to offset both these anxieties. "i believe you will find that it needs precisely the same help to meet trifles that it does to conquer mountains of difficulty. the difference is in degree not in kind. but i happen to know that some of abbie's 'trifles' have been very heavy and hard to bear. however, the matter rests just here, miss ester. i believe we are all too willing to be conquered, too willing to be martyrs, not willing to reach after and obtain the settled and ever-growing joys of the christian." ester was thoroughly ill at ease; all this condemned her--and at last, resolved to escape from this net work of her awakening conscience, she pushed boldly on. "people have different views on this subject as well as on all others. now abbie and i do not agree in our opinions. there are things which she thinks right that seem to me quite out of place and improper." "yes," he said inquiringly, and with the most quiet and courteous air; "would you object to mentioning some of those things?" "well, as an instance, it seemed to me very queer indeed to hear her and other young ladies speaking in your teachers' prayer-meeting. i never heard of such a thing, at least not among cultivated people." "and you thought it improper?" "almost--yes, quite--perhaps. at least _i_ should never do it." "were you at mrs. burton's on the evening in which our society met?" this, to ester's surprise, was her companion's next very-wide-of-the-mark question. she opened her eyes inquiringly; then concluding that he was absent-minded, or else had no reply to make, and was weary of the subject, answered simply and briefly in the affirmative. "i was detained that night. were there many out?" "quite a full society abbie said. the rooms were almost crowded." "pleasant?" "oh very. i hardly wished to go as they were strangers to me; but i was very happily disappointed, and enjoyed the evening exceedingly." "were there reports?" "very full ones, and mrs. burton was particularly interesting. she had forgotten her notes, but gave her reports from memory very beautifully." "ah, i am sorry for that. it must have destroyed the pleasure of the evening for you." "i don't understand, mr. foster." "why you remarked that you considered it improper for ladies to take part in such matters: and of course what is an impropriety you can not have enjoyed." "oh that is a very different matter. it was not a prayer-meeting." "i beg pardon. i did not understand. it is only at prayer-meetings that it is improper for ladies to speak. may i ask why?" ester was growing vexed. "mr. foster," she said sharply, "you know that it is quite another thing. there are gentlemen enough present, or ought to be, to do the talking in a prayer-meeting." "there is generally a large proportion of gentlemen at the society. i presume there were those present capable of giving mrs. burton's report." "well _i_ consider a society a very different thing from a gathering in a church." "ah, then it's the church that is at fault. if that is the case, i should propose holding prayer meetings in private parlors. would that obviate your difficulty?" "no," said ester sharply, "not if there were gentlemen present. it is their business to conduct a religious meeting." "then, after all, it is religion that is at the foundation of this trouble. pray, miss ester, was mrs. burton's report irreligious?" "mr. foster," said ester, with flushing cheeks, and in a whirl of vexation, "_don't_ you understand me?" "i think i do, miss ester. the question is, do you understand yourself? let me state the case. you are decidedly not a woman's rights lady. i am decidedly not a woman's rights gentleman--that is, in the general acceptation of that term. you would think, for instance, that abbie was out of her sphere in the pulpit or pleading a case at the bar. so should i. in fact, there are many public places in which you and i, for what we consider good and sufficient reasons, would not like to see her. but, on the other hand, we both enjoy mrs. burton's reports, either verbal or written, as she may choose. we, in company with many other ladies and gentlemen, listen respectfully; we both greatly enjoy hearing miss ames sing; we both consider it perfectly proper that she should so entertain us at our social gatherings. at our literary society we have both enjoyed to the utmost miss hanley's exquisite recitation from 'kathrina.' i am sure not a thought of impropriety occurred to either of us. we both enjoyed the familiar talk on the subject for the evening, after the society proper had adjourned. so the question resolves itself into this: it seems that it is pleasant and proper for fifty or more of us to hear mrs. burton's report in mrs. burton's parlor--to hear ladies sing--to hear ladies recite in their own parlors, or in those of their friends--to converse familiarly on any sensible topic; but the moment the very same company are gathered in our chapel, and mrs. burton says, 'pray for my class,' and miss ames says, 'i love jesus,' and miss hanley says, 'the lord is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever,' it becomes improper. will you pardon my obtuseness and explain to me the wherefore?" but ester was not in a mood to explain, if indeed she had aught to say, and she only answered with great decision and emphasis: "_i_ have never been accustomed to it." "no! i think you told me that you were unaccustomed to hearing poetical recitations from young ladies. does that condemn them?" to which question ester made no sort of answer, but sat looking confused, ashamed and annoyed all in one. her companion roused himself from his half reclining attitude on the sofa, and gave her the benefit of a very searching look; then he came to an erect posture and spoke with entire change of tone. "miss ester, forgive me if i have seemed severe in my questionings and sarcastic in my replies. i am afraid i have. the subject is one which awakens sarcasm in me. it is so persistently twisted and befogged and misunderstood, some of the very best people seem inclined to make our prayer-meetings into formidable church-meetings, for the purpose of hearing a succession of not _very_ short sermons, rather than a social gathering of christians, to sympathize with, and pray for and help each other, as i believe the master intended them to be. but may i say a word to you personally? are you quite happy as a christian? do you find your love growing stronger and your hopes brighter from day to day?" ester struggled with herself, tore bits of down from the edge of her fan, tried to regain her composure and her voice, but the tender, gentle, yet searching tone, seemed to have probed her very soul--and the eyes that at last were raised to meet his were melting into tears, and the voice which answered him quivered perceptibly. "no, mr. foster, i am not happy." "why? may i ask you? is the savior untrue to his promises, or is his professed servant untrue to him?" ester's heart was giving heavy throbs of pain, and her conscience was whispering loudly, "untrue," "untrue;" but she had made no answer, when ralph came with brisk step toward where they sat. "two against one isn't fair play," he said, with a mixture of mischief and vexation in his tone. "foster, don't shirk; you have taught abbie, now go and help her fight it out like a man. come, take yourself over there and get her out of this scrape. i'll take care of ester; she looks as though she had been to camp-meeting." and mr. foster, with a wondering look for ralph and a troubled one for ester, moved slowly toward that end of the long parlor where the voices were growing louder, and one of them excited. chapter xvi. a victory. "this is really the most absurd of all your late absurdities," mrs. ried was saying, in rather a loud tone, and with a look of dignified disgust bestowed upon abbie, as mr. foster joined the group. "will you receive me into this circle, and enlighten me as regards this particular absurdity," he said, seating himself near mrs. ried. "oh it was nothing remarkable," that lady replied in her most sarcastic tone. "at least it is quite time we were growing accustomed to this new order of things. abbie is trying to enlighten her father on the new and interesting question of temperance, especially as it is connected with wedding parties, in which she is particularly interested just at present." abbie bestowed an appealing glance on mr. foster, and remained entirely silent. "i believe i can claim equal interest then in the matter," he answered brightly. "and will petition you, mrs. ried, to explain the point at issue." "indeed, mr. foster, i'm not a temperance lecturer, and do not consider myself competent to perform the awful task. i refer you to abbie, who seems to be thoroughly posted, and very desirous of displaying her argumentative powers." still silence on abbie's part, and only a little tremble of the lip told a close observer how deeply she felt the sharp tones and unmotherly words. mrs. ried spoke at last, in calm, measured accents. "my daughter and i, mr. foster, differ somewhat in regard to the duties and privileges of a host. i claim the right to set before my guests whatever _i_ consider proper. she objects to the use of wine, as, perhaps, you are aware. indeed, i believe she has imbibed her very peculiar views from you; but i say to her that as i have always been in the habit of entertaining my guests with that beverage, i presume i shall continue to do so." mr. foster did not seem in the mood to argue the question, but responded with genial good humor. "ah but, mrs. ried, you ought to gratify your daughter in her parting request. that is only natural and courteous, is it not?" mrs. ried felt called upon to reply. "we have gratified so many of her requests already that the whole thing bids fair to be the most ridiculous proceeding that new york has ever witnessed. fancy a dozen rough boys banging and shouting through my house, eating cake enough to make them sick for a month, to say nothing of the quantity which they will stamp into my carpets, and all because they chance to belong to abbie's mission class!" ralph and ester had joined the group in the meantime, and the former here interposed. "that last argument isn't valid, mother. haven't i promised to hoe out the rooms myself, immediately after the conclusion of the solemn services?" and mr. foster bestowed a sudden troubled look on abbie, which she answered by saying in a low voice, "i should recall my invitations to them under such circumstances." "you will do no such thing," her father replied sharply. "the invitations are issued in your parents' names, and we shall have no such senseless proceedings connected with them when you are in your own house you will doubtless be at liberty to do as you please; but in the meantime it would be well to remember that you belong to your father's family at present." ralph was watching the flushing cheek and quivering lip of his young sister, and at this point flung down the book with which he had been idly playing, with an impatient exclamation: "it strikes me, father, that you are making a tremendous din about a little matter. i don't object to a glass of wine myself, almost under any circumstances, and i think this excruciating sensitiveness on the subject is absurd and ridiculous, and all that sort of thing; but at the same time i should be willing to undertake the job of smashing every wine bottle there is in the cellar at this moment, if i thought that sis' last hours in the body, or at least in the paternal mansion, would be made any more peaceful thereby." during this harangue the elder mr. ried had time to grow ashamed of his sharpness, and answered in his natural tone. "i am precisely of your opinion, my son. we are making 'much ado about nothing.' we certainly have often entertained company before, and abbie has sipped her wine with the rest of us without sustaining very material injury thereby, so far as i can see. and here is ester, as stanch a church member as any of you, i believe, but that doesn't seem to forbid her behaving in a rational manner, and partaking of whatever her friends provide for her entertainment. why can not the rest of you be equally sensible?" during the swift second of time which intervened between that sentence and her reply ester had three hard things to endure--a sting from her restless conscience, a look of mingled pain and anxiety from mr. foster, and one of open-eyed and mischievous surprise from ralph. then she spoke rapidly and earnestly. "indeed, uncle ralph, i beg you will not judge of any other person by my conduct in this matter. i am very sorry, and very much ashamed that i have been so weak and wicked. i think just as abbie does, only i am not like her, and have been tempted to do wrong, for fear you would think me foolish." no one but ester knew how much these sentences cost her; but the swift, bright look telegraphed her from abbie's eyes seemed to repay her. ralph laughed outright. "four against one," he said gaily. "i've gone over to the enemy's side myself, you see, on account of the pressure. father, i advise you to yield while you can do it gracefully, and also to save me the trouble of smashing the aforesaid bottles." "but," persisted mr. ried, "i haven't heard an argument this evening. what is there so shocking in a quiet glass of wine enjoyed with a select gathering of one's friends?" john now presented himself at the door with a respectful, "if you please, sir, there is a person in the hall who persists in seeing mr. foster." "show him in, then," was mr. ried's prompt reply. john hesitated, and then added: "he is a very common looking person, sir, and--" "i said show him in, i believe," interrupted the gentleman of the house, in a tone which plainly indicated that he was expending on john the irritation which he did not like to bestow further, on either his children or his guests. john vanished, and mr. ried added: "you can take your _friend_ into the library, mr. foster, if it proves to be a private matter." there was a marked emphasis on the word _friend_ in this sentence; but mr. foster only bowed his reply, and presently john returned, ushering in a short, stout man, dressed in a rough working suit, twirling his hat in his hand, and looking extremely embarrassed and out of place in the elegant parlor. mr. foster turned toward him immediately, and gave him a greeting both prompt and cordial. "ah, mr. jones, good evening. i have been in search of you today, but some way managed to miss you." at this point abbie advanced and placed a small white hand in mr. jones' great hard brown one, as she repeated the friendly greeting, and inquired at once: "how is sallie, to-night, mr. jones?" "well, ma'am, it is about her that i'm come, and i beg your pardon, sir (turning to mr. foster), for making so bold as to come up here after you; but she is just that bad to-night that i could not find it in me to deny her any thing, and she is in a real taking to see you. she has sighed and cried about it most of this day, and to-night we felt, her mother and me, that we couldn't stand it any longer, and i said i'd not come home till i found you and told you how much she wanted to see you. it's asking a good deal, sir, but she is going fast, she is; and--" here mr. jones' voice choked, and he rubbed his hard hand across his eyes. "i will be down immediately," was mr. foster's prompt reply. "certainly you should have come for me. i should have been very sorry indeed to disappoint sallie. tell her i will be there in half an hour, mr. jones." and with a few added words of kindness from abbie, mr. jones departed, looking relieved and thankful. "that man," said mr. foster, turning to ester, as the door closed after him, "is the son of our old lady, don't you think! you remember i engaged to see her conveyed to his home in safety, and my anxiety for her future welfare was such that my pleasure was very great in discovering that the son was a faithful member of our mission sabbath-school, and a thoroughly good man." "and who is sallie?" ester inquired, very much interested. mr. foster's face grew graver. "sallie is his one treasure, a dear little girl, one of our mission scholars, and a beautiful example of how faithful christ can be to his little lambs." "what is supposed to be the matter with sallie?" this question came from ralph, who had been half amused, half interested, with the entire scene. the gravity on mr. foster's face deepened into sternness as he answered: "sallie is only one of the many victims of our beautiful system of public poisoning. the son of her mother's employer, in a fit of drunken rage, threw her from the very top of a long flight of stairs, and now she lies warped and misshapen, mourning her life away. by the way"--he continued, turning suddenly toward mr. ried--"i believe you were asking for arguments to sustain my 'peculiar views.' here is one of them: this man of whom i speak, whose crazed brain has this young sad life and death to answer for, i chance to know to a certainty commenced his downward career in a certain pleasant parlor in this city, among a select gathering of friends, taking a quiet glass of wine!" and mr. foster made his adieus very brief, and departed. ralph's laugh was just a little nervous as he said, when the family were alone: "foster is very fortunate in having an incident come to our very door with which to point his theories." abbie had deserted her ottoman and taken one close by her father's side. now she laid her bright head lovingly against his breast, and looked with eager, coaxing eyes into his stern gray ones. "father," she said softly, "you'll let your little curly have her own way just this time, won't you? i will promise not to coax you again until i want something very bad indeed." mr. ried had decided his plan of action some moments before. he was prepared to remind his daughter in tones of haughty dignity that he was "not in the habit of playing the part of a despot in his own family, and that as she and her future husband were so very positive in their very singular opinions, and so entirely regardless of his wishes or feelings, he should, of course, not force his hospitalities on her guests." he made one mistake. for just a moment he allowed his eyes to meet the sweet blue ones, looking lovingly and trustingly into his, and whatever it was, whether the remembrance that his one daughter was so soon to go out from her home, or the thought of all the tender and patient love and care which she had bestowed on him in those early morning hours, the stern gray eyes grew tender, the haughty lines about the mouth relaxed, and with a sudden caressing movement of his hand among the brown curls, he said in a half moved, half playful tone: "did you ever ask any thing of anybody in your life that you didn't get?" then more gravely: "you shall have your way once more. abbie, it would be a pity to despoil you of your scepter at this late day." "fiddlesticks!" ejaculated mrs. ried. before she had added anything to that original sentiment abbie was behind her chair, both arms wound around her neck, and then came soft, quick, loving kisses on her cheeks, on her lips, on her chin, and even on her nose. "nonsense!" added her mother. then she laughed. "your father would consent to have the ceremony performed in the attic if you should take a fancy that the parlors are too nicely furnished to suit your puritanic views and i don't know but i should be just as foolish." "that man has gained complete control over her," mrs. ried said, looking after abbie with a little sigh, and addressing her remarks to ester as they stood together for a moment in the further parlor. "he is a first-class fanatic, grows wilder and more incomprehensible in his whims every day, and bends abbie to his slightest wish. my only consolation is that he is a man of wealth and culture, and indeed in every other respect entirely unexceptionable." a new light dawned upon ester. this was the secret of abbie's "strangeness." mr. foster was one of those rare and wonderful men about whom one occasionally reads but almost never meets, and of course abbie, being so constantly under his influence, was constantly led by him. very few could expect to attain to such a hight; certainly she, with her social disadvantages and unhelpful surroundings, must not hope for it. she was rapidly returning to her former state of self-satisfaction. there were certain things to be done. for instance, that first chapter of john should receive more close attention at her next reading; and there were various other duties which should be taken up and carefully observed. but, on the whole, ester felt that she had been rather unnecessarily exercised, and that she must not expect to be perfect. and so once more there was raised a flag of truce between her conscience and her life. chapter xvii. stepping between. they lingered together for a few minutes in the sitting-room, abbie, ester, ralph and mr. foster. they had been having a half sad, half merry talk. it was the evening before the wedding. ere this time to-morrow abbie would have left them, and in just a little while the ocean would roll between them. ester drew a heavy sigh as she thought of it all. this magic three weeks, which had glowed in beauty for her, such, as she told herself, her life would never see again, were just on the eve of departure; only two days now before she would carry that same restless, unhappy heart back among the clattering dishes in that pantry and dining-room at home. ralph broke the little moment of silence which had fallen between them. "foster, listen to the sweet tones of that distant clock. it is the last time that you, being a free man, will hear it strike five." "unless i prove to be an early riser on the morrow, which necessity will compel me to become if i tarry longer here at present. abbie, i must be busy this entire evening. that funeral obliged me to defer some important business matters that i meant should have been dispatched early in the day." "it isn't possible that you have been to a funeral to-day! how you do mix things." ralph uttered this sentence in real or pretended horror. "why not?" mr. foster answered gently, and added: "it is true though; life and death are very strangely mixed. it was our little sabbath-school girl, sallie, whom we laid to rest to-day. it didn't jar as some funerals would have done; one had simply to remember that she had reached home. miss ester, if you will get that package for me i will execute your commission with pleasure." ester went away to do his bidding, and ralph, promising to meet him at the store in an hour, sauntered away, and for a few moments abbie and mr. foster talked together alone. "good-by all of you," he said smiling, as he glanced back at the two girls a few moments later. "take care of her, ester, until i relieve you. it will not be long now." "take care," ester answered gaily; "you have forgotten the 'slip' that there may be 'between the cup and the lip.'" but he answered her with an almost solemn gravity: "i never forget that more worthy expression of the same idea, we know not what a day may bring forth; but i always remember with exceeding joy that god knows, and will lead us." "he is graver than ten ministers," ester said, as they turned from the window. "come, abbie, let us go up stairs." it was two hours later when abbie entered the sitting-room where ester awaited her, and curled herself into a small heap of white muslin at ester's feet. "there!" said she, with a musical little laugh, "mother has sent me away. the measure of her disgust is complete now. dr. downing is in the sitting-room, and i have been guilty of going in to see him. imagine such a fearful breach of etiquette taking place in the house of ried! do you know, i don't quite know what to do with myself. there is really nothing more to busy myself about, unless i eat the wedding cake." "you don't act in the least like a young lady who is to be married to-morrow," was ester's answer, as she regarded her cousin with a half amused, half puzzled air. "don't i?" said abbie, trying to look alarmed. "what _have_ i done now? i'm forever treading on bits of propriety, and crushing them. it will be a real relief to me when i am safely married, and can relapse into a common mortal again. why, ester, what have i been guilty of just now?" "you are not a bit sentimental; are you, abbie?" and at this gravely put question abbie's laugh rang out again. "now don't, please, add that item to the list," she said merrily. "ester, is it very important that one should be sentimental on such an occasion? i wish you were married, i really do, so that i might be told just how to conduct my self. how can you and mother be so unreasonable as to expect perfection when it is all new, and i really never practiced in my life?" then a change, as sudden as it was sweet, flushed over abbie's face. the merry look died out, and in its place a gentle, tender softness rested in the bright blue eyes, and her voice was low and quiet. "you think my mood a strange one, i fancy, dear ester; almost unbecoming in its gayety. perhaps it is, and yet i feel it bright and glad and happy. the change is a solemn one, but it seems to me that i have considered it long and well. i remember that my new home is to be very near my old one; that my brother will have a patient, faithful, life-long friend in mr. foster, and this makes me feel more hopeful for him--and, indeed, it seems to me that i feel like repeating, 'the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places.' i do not, therefore, affect a gravity that i do not feel. i am gloriously happy to-night, and the strongest feeling in my heart is thankfulness. my heavenly father has brimmed my earthly cup, so that it seems to me there is not room in my heart for another throb of joy; and so you see--ester, what on earth can be going on down stairs? have you noticed the banging of doors, and the general confusion that reigns through the house? positively if i wasn't afraid of shocking mother into a fainting fit i would start on a voyage of discovery." "suppose i go," ester answered, laughing. "inasmuch as i am not going to be married, there can be no harm in seeing what new developments there are below stairs. i mean to go. i'll send you word if it is any thing very amazing." and with a laughing adieu ester closed the door on the young bride-elect, and ran swiftly down stairs. there did seem to be a good deal of confusion in the orderly household, and the very air of the hall seemed to be pervaded with a singular subdued excitement; voices of suppressed loudness issued from the front parlor and as ester knocked she heard a half scream from mrs. ried, mingled with cries of "don't let her in." growing thoroughly alarmed, ester now abruptly pushed open the door and entered. "oh, for mercy's sake, don't let her come," almost screamed mrs. ried, starting wildly forward. "mother, _hush_!" said ralph's voice in solemn sternness. "it is only ester. where is abbie?" "in her room. what is the matter? why do you all act so strangely? i came to see what caused so much noise." and then her eyes and voice were arrested by a group around the sofa; mr. ried and dr. downing, and stooping over some object which was hidden from her was the man who had been pointed out to her as the great dr. archer. as she looked in terrified amazement, he raised his head and spoke. "it is as i feared, mr. ried. the pulse has ceased." "it is not possible!" and the hollow, awestruck tone in which mr. ried spoke can not be described. and then ester saw stretched on that sofa a perfectly motionless form, a perfectly pale and quiet face, rapidly settling into the strange solemn calm of death, and that face and form were mr. foster's! and she stood as if riveted to the spot; stood in speechless, moveless horror and amaze--and then the swift-coming thoughts shaped themselves into two woe-charged words: "oh abbie!" what a household was this into which death had so swiftly and silently entered! the very rooms in which the quiet form lay sleeping, all decked in festive beauty in honor of the bridal morning; but oh! there was to come no bridal. ester shrank back in awful terror from the petition that she would go to abbie. "i can not--i _can not_!" she repeated again and again. "it will kill her; and oh! it would kill me to tell her." mrs. ried was even more hopeless a dependence than ester; and mr. ried cried out in the very agony of despair: "what _shall_ we do? is there _nobody_ to help us?" then ralph came forward, grave almost to sternness, but very calm. "dr. downing," he said, addressing the gentleman who had withdrawn a little from the family group. "it seems to me that you are our only hope in this time of trial. my sister and you are sustained, i verily believe, by the same power. the rest of us seem to _have_ no sustaining power. would you go to my sister, sir?" dr. downing turned his eyes slowly away from the calm, moveless face which seemed to have fascinated him, and said simply: "i will do what i can for abbie. it is blessed to think what a helper she has. one who never faileth. god pity those who have no such friend." so they showed him up to the brightly-lighted library, and sent a message to the unconscious abbie. "dr. downing," she said, turning briskly from the window in answer to maggie's summons. "whatever does he want of me do you suppose, maggie? i'm half afraid of him tonight. however, i'll endeavor to brave the ordeal. tell miss ester to come up to me as soon as she can, and be ready to defend me if i am to receive a lecture." this, as she flitted by toward the door; and a pitying cloud just then hid the face of the august moon, and vailed from the glance of the poor young creature the white, frightened face of maggie. with what unutterable agony of fear did the family below wait and long for and dread the return of dr. downing, or some message from that dreadful room. the moments that seemed hours to them dragged on, and no sound came to them. "she has not fainted then," muttered ralph at last, "or he would have rung. ester, you know what maggie said. could you not go to her?" ester cowered and shrunk. "oh, ralph, don't ask me. i _can not_." then they waited again in silence; and at last shivered with fear as dr. downing softly opened the door. there were traces of deep emotion on his face, but just now it was wonderful for its calmness. "she knows all," he said, addressing mr. ried. "and the widow's god is hers. mrs. ried, she makes special request that she need see no living soul to-night; and, indeed, i think it will be best. and now, my friends, may i pray with you in this hour of trial." so while quick, skillful fingers prepared the sleeper in that front parlor for his long, long rest, a group such as had never bowed the knee together before, knelt in the room just across the hall, and amid tears and moans they were commended to the care of him who waits to help us all. by and by a solemn quiet settled down upon that strangely stricken household. in the front parlor the folding doors were closed, and the angel of death kept guard over his quiet victim. from the chamber overhead came forth no sound, and none knew save god how fared the struggle between despair and submission in that young heart. in the sitting-room ester waited breathlessly while ralph gave the particulars, which she had not until now been able to hear. "we were crossing just above the store; had nearly got across; he was just saying that his preparations were entirely perfected for a long absence. 'it is a long journey,' he added, 'and if i never come back i have the satisfaction of thinking that i have left everything ready even for that. it is well to be ready even for death, ralph,' he said, with one of his glorious smiles; 'it makes life pleasanter.' i don't know how i can tell you the rest." and ralph's lips grew white and tremulous. "indeed, i hardly know how it was. there was an old bent woman crossing just behind us, and there was a carriage, and a wretch of a drunken driver pushing his way through. i don't know how foster came to look around, but he did, and said, 'there is my dear old lady behind us, ralph; she ought not to be out with a mere child for a companion.' and then he uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang forward--and i know nothing clearly that followed. i saw him drag that old woman fairly from under the horses' feet. i heard the driver curse, and saw him strike his frightened horses, and they reared and plunged, and i saw him fall; but it all seemed to happen in one second of time--and how i got him home, and got dr. archer, and kept it from abbie, i don't seem to know. oh god help my poor little fair darling." and ralph choked and stopped, and wiped from his eyes great burning tears. "oh ralph!" said ester, as soon as she could speak. "then all this misery comes because that driver was intoxicated." "yes," said ralph, with compressed lips and flashing eyes. * * * * * "and that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed." rom. : . * * * * * chapter xviii. light out of darkness. slowly, slowly, the night wore away, and the eastern sky grew rosy with the blush of a new morning--the bridal morning! how strangely unreal, how even impossible did it seem to ester, as she raised the curtains and looked drearily out upon the dawn, that this was actually the day upon which her thoughts had centered during the last three weeks what a sudden shutting down had there been to all their plans and preparations! how strangely the house looked--here a room bedecked in festive beauty for the wedding; there one with shrouded mirrors, and floating folds of crape! life and death, a wedding and a funeral--they had never either of them touched so close to her before; and now the one had suddenly glided backward, and left her heart heavy with the coming of the other. mechanically, she turned to look upon the silvery garment gleaming among the white furnishings of the bed, for she was that very morning to have assisted in arraying the bride in those robes of beauty. her own careful fingers had laid out all the bewildering paraphernalia of the dressing-room--sash and gloves, and handkerchief and laces. just in that very spot had she stood only yesterday, and talking the while with abbie; had altered a knot of ribbons, and given the ends a more graceful droop, and just at that moment abbie had been summoned below stairs to see mr. foster--and now he was waiting down there, not for abbie, but for the coffin and the grave, and abbie was----. and here ester gave a low, shuddering moan, and covered her eyes with her hands. why had she come into that room at all? and why was all this fearful time allowed to come to abbie? poor, poor abbie she had been so bright and so good, and mr. foster had been so entirely her guide--how could she ever endure it? ester doubted much whether abbie could ever bear to see _her_ again, she had been so closely connected with all these bright days, over which so fearful a pall had fallen. it would be very natural if she should refuse even to _see_ her--and, indeed, ester almost hoped she would. it seemed to her that this was a woe too deep to be spoken of or endured, only she said with a kind of desperation, "things _must_ be endured;" and there was a wild thought in her heart, that if she could but have the ordering of events, all this bitter sorrow should never be. there came a low, tremulous knock as an interruption to her thoughts, and maggie's swollen eyes and tear-stained face appeared at the door with a message. "if you please, miss ester, she wants you." "who?" asked ester, with trembling lips and a sinking at her heart. "miss abbie, ma'am; she asked for you, and said would you come to her as soon as you could." but it was hours after that before ester brought herself to feel that she _could_ go to her. nothing had ever seemed so hard to her to do. how to look, how to act, what to say, and above all, what _not_ to say to this poor, widowed bride. these questions were by no means answered, when she suddenly, in desperate haste, decided that if it must be done, the sooner it was over the better, and she made all speed to prepare herself for the visit; and yet there was enough of ester's personal self left, even on that morning, to send a little quiver of complacency through her veins, as she bathed her tear-stained face, and smoothed her disordered hair. abbie had sent for _her_. abbie wanted her; she had sent twice. evidently she had turned to her for help. miserably unable as she felt herself to give it, still it was a comfort to feel that she was the one selected from the household for companionship. ester knew that mrs. ried had been with her daughter for a few moments, and that ralph had rushed in and out again, too overcome to stay, but ester had asked no questions, and received no information concerning her. she pictured her lying on the bed, with disordered hair and swollen eyes, given over to the abandonment of grief, or else the image of stony despair; and it was with a very trembling hand that at last she softly turned the knob and let herself into the morning room, which she and abbie had enjoyed together; and just as she pushed open the door, a neighboring clock counted out twelve strokes, and it was at twelve o'clock that abbie was to become a wife! midway in the room ester paused, and, as her eyes rested on abbie, a look of bewildering astonishment gathered on her face. in the little easy chair by the open window, one hand keeping the place in the partly closed book, sat the young creature, whose life had so suddenly darkened around her. the morning robe of soft pure white was perfect in its neatness and simplicity, the brown curls clustered around her brow with their wonted grace and beauty, and while under her eyes indeed there were heavy rings of black, yet the eyes themselves were large and full and tender. as she held out the disengaged hand, there came the soft and gentle likeness of a smile over her face; and ester, bewildered, amazed, frightened, stood almost as transfixed as if she had been one of those who saw the angel sitting at the door of the empty tomb. stood a moment, then a sudden revulsion of feeling overcoming her, hurried forward, and dropping on her knees, bowed her head over the white hand and the half-open bible, and burst into a passion of tears. "_dear_ ester!" this said abbie in the softest, most soothing of tones. the mourner turned comforter! "oh abbie, abbie, how can you bear it--how _can_ you live?" burst forth from the heart of this friend who had come to comfort this afflicted one! there was a little bit of silence now, and a touching tremble to the voice when it was heard again. "'the lord knoweth them that are his.' i try to remember that. christ knows it all, and he loves me, and he is all-powerful; and yet he leads me through this dark road; therefore it _must_ be right." "but," said ester, raising her eyes and staying her tears for very amazement, "i do not understand--i do not see. how _can_ you be so calm, so submissive, at least just now--so soon--and you were to have been married to-day?" the blood rolled in great purple waves over neck and cheek and brow, and then receded, leaving a strange, almost death-like, pallor behind it. the small hands were tightly clasped, with a strange mixture of pain and devotion in the movement, and the white lips moved for a moment, forming words that met no mortal ear--then the sweet, low, tender voice sounded again. "dear ester, i pray. there is no other way. i pray all the time. i keep right by my savior. there is just a little, oh, a very little, vale of flesh between him and between my--my husband and myself. jesus loves me, ester. i know it now just as well as i did yesterday. i do not and can not doubt him." a mixture of awe and pain and astonishment kept ester moveless and silent, and abbie spoke no more for some moments. then it was a changed, almost bright voice. "ester do you remember we stood together alone for a moment yesterday? i will tell you what he said, the last words that were intended for just me only, that i shall hear for a little while; they are _my_ words, you know, but i shall tell them to you so you may see how tender christ is, even in his most solemn chastenings. 'see here,' he said, 'i will give you a word to keep until we meet in the morning: the lord watch between thee and me while we are absent one from another.' i have been thinking, while i sat here this morning, watching the coming of this new day, which you know is his first day in heaven, that perhaps it will be on some such morning of beauty as this that my long, long day will dawn, and that i will say to him, as soon as ever i see his face again: 'the word was a good one; the lord has watched between us, and the night is gone.' think of it, ester. i shall _surely_ say that some day--'some summer morning.'" the essence of sweetness and the sublimity of faith which this young christian threw into these jubilant words can not be repeated on paper; but, thank god, they can in the heart--they are but the echo of those sure and everlasting words: "my grace is sufficient for thee." as for ester, who had spent her years groveling in the dust of earth, it was the recital of such an experience as she had not deemed it possible for humanity to reach. and still she knelt immovable and silent, and abbie broke the silence yet again. "dear ester, do you know i have not seen him yet, and i want to. mother does not understand, and she would not give her consent, but she thinks me safe while you are with me. would you mind going down with me just to look at his face again?" oh, ester would mind it _dreadfully_. she was actually afraid of death. she was afraid of the effect of such a scene upon this strange abbie. she raised her head, shivering with pain and apprehension, and looked a volume of petition and remonstrance; but ere she spoke abbie's hand rested lovingly on her arm, and her low sweet voice continued the pleading: "you do not quite understand my mood, ester. i am not unlike others; i have wept bitter tears this past night; i have groaned in agony of spirit; i have moaned in the very dust. i shall doubtless have such struggles again. this is earth, and the flesh is weak; but now is my hour of exaltation--and while it is given me now to feel a faint overshadowing of the very glory which surrounds him, i want to go and look my last upon the dear clay which is to stay here on earth with me." and ester rose up, and wound her arm about the tiny frame which held this brave true heart, and without another spoken word the two went swiftly down the stairs, and entered the silent, solemn parlor. yet, even while she went, a fierce throb of pain shook ester's heart, as she remembered how they had arranged to descend the staircase on this very day--in what a different manner, and for what a different purpose. apparently no such thought as this touched abbie. she went softly and yet swiftly forward to the still form, while ester waited in almost breathless agony to see what would result from this trial of faith and nerve; but what a face it was upon which death had left its seal! no sculptured marble was ever so grand in its solemn beauty as was this clay-molded face, upon which the glorious smile born not of earth rested in full sweetness. abbie, with clasped hands and slightly parted lips, stood and almost literally drank in the smile; then, sweet and low and musical, there broke the sound of her voice in that great solemn room. "so he giveth his beloved sleep." not another word or sound disturbed the silence. and still abbie stood and gazed on the dear, dead face. and still ester stood near the door, and watched with alternations of anxiety and awe the changeful expressions on the scarcely less white face of the living, until at last, without sound or word, she dropped upon her knees, a cloud of white drapery floating around her, and clasped her hands over the lifeless breast. then on ester's face the anxiety gave place to awe, and with softly moving fingers she opened the door, and with noiseless tread went out into the hall and left the living and the dead alone together. there was one more scene for ester to endure that day. late in the afternoon, as she went to the closed room, there was bending over the manly form a gray-haired old woman. by whose friendly hands she had been permitted to enter, ester did not stop to wonder. she had seen her but once before, but she knew at a glance the worn, wrinkled face; and, as if a picture of the scene hung before her, she saw that old, queer form, leaning trustfully on the strong arm, lying nerveless now, being carefully helped through the pushing throng--being reverently cared for as if she had been his mother; and _she_, looking after the two, had wondered if she should ever see them again. now she stood in the presence of them both, yet what an unmeasurable ocean rolled between them! the faded, tearful eyes were raised to her face after a moment, and a quivering voice spoke her thoughts aloud, rather than addressed any body. "he gave his life for poor old useless me, and it was such a beautiful life, and was needed, oh so much; but what am i saying, god let it be him instead of me, who wanted so to go--and after trusting him all along, am i, at my time of life, going to murmur at him now? he came to see me only yesterday"--this in a more natural tone of voice, addressed to ester--"he told me good-by. he said he was going a long journey with his wife; and now, may the dear savior help the poor darling, for he has gone his long journey without her." ester waited to hear not another word. the heavy sense of pain because of abbie, which she had carried about with her through all that weary day, had reached its height with that last sentence: "he has gone his long journey without her." she fled from the room, up the stairs, to the quiet little chamber, which had been given to her for her hours of retirement, locked and bolted the door, and commenced pacing up and down the room in agony of soul. it was not all because of abbie that this pain knocked so steadily at her heart, at least not all out of sympathy with her bitter sorrow. there was a fearful tumult raging in her own soul; her last stronghold had been shattered. of late she had come to think that abbie's christian life was but a sweet reflection of mr. foster's strong, true soul; that she leaned not on christ, but on the arm of flesh. she had told herself very confidently that if _she_ had such a friend as he had been to abbie, she should be like her. in her hours of rebellion she had almost angrily reminded herself that it was not strange that abbie's life could be so free from blame; _she_ had some one to turn to in her needs. it was a very easy matter for abbie to slip lightly over the petty trials of her life, so long as she was surrounded and shielded by that strong, true love. but now, ah now, the arm of flesh had faltered, the strong staff had broken, and broken, too, only a moment, as it were, before it was to have been hers in name as well as in spirit. naturally, ester had expected that the young creature, so suddenly shorn of her best and dearest, would falter and faint, and utterly fail. and when, looking on, she saw the triumph of the christian's faith, rising even over death, sustained by no human arm, and yet wonderfully, triumphantly sustained, even while she bent for the last time over that which was to have been her earthly all--looking and wondering, there suddenly fell away from her the stupor of years, and ester saw with wide, open eyes, and thoroughly awakened soul, that there was a something in this christian religion that abbie had and she had not. and thus it was that she paced her room in that strange agony that was worse than grief, and more sharp than despair. no use now to try to lull her conscience back to quiet sleep again; that time was past, it was thoroughly and sharply awake; the same all-wise hand which had tenderly freed one soul from its bonds of clay and called it home, had as tenderly and as wisely, with the same stroke, cut the cords that bound this other soul to earth, loosed the scales from her long-closed eyes, broke the sleep that had well-nigh lulled her to ruin; and now heart and brain and conscience were thoroughly and forever awake. when at last, from sheer exhaustion, she ceased her excited pacing up and down the room and sank into a chair, her heart was not more stilled. it seemed to her, long after, in thinking of this hour, that it was given to her to see deeper into the recesses of her own depravity than ever mortal had seen before. she began years back, at that time when she thought she had given her heart to christ, and reviewed step by step all the weary way, up to this present time; and she found nothing but backslidings, and inconsistencies, and confusion--denials of her savior, a closed bible, a neglected closet, a forgotten cross. oh, the bitterness, the unutterable agony of that hour! surely abbie, on her knees struggling with her bleeding heart, and yet feeling all around and underneath her the everlasting arms, knew nothing of desolation such as this. fiercer and fiercer waged the warfare, until at last every root of pride, or self-complacence, or self-excuse, was utterly cast out. yet did not satan despair. oh, he meant to have this poor sick, weak lamb, if he could get her; no effort should be left unmade. and when he found that she could be no more coaxed and lulled and petted into peace, he tried that darker, heavier temptation--tried to stupefy her into absolute despair. "no," she said within her heart, "i am not a christian; i never have been one; i never _can_ be one. i've been a miserable, self-deceived hypocrite all my life. i have had a name to live, and am dead. i would not let myself be awakened; i have struggled against it; i have been only too glad to stop myself from thinking about it. i have been just a miserable stumbling-block, with no excuse to offer; and now i feel myself deserted, justly so. there can be no rest for such as i. i have no savior; i have insulted and denied him; i have crucified him again, and now he has left me to myself." thus did that father of lies continue to pour into this weary soul the same old story which he has repeated for so many hundred years, with the same old foundation: "_i--i--i_." and strange to say, this poor girl repeated the experience which has so many times been lived, during these past hundreds of years, in the very face of that other glorious pronoun, in very defiance, it would seem, to that old, old explanation: "surely _he_ hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows." "_he_ was wounded for our transgressions; _he_ was bruised for our iniquities. the chastisement of our peace was upon _him_: and with _his stripes_ we are healed." yes, ester knew those two verses. she knew yet another which said: "all we, like sheep, have gone astray. we have turned every one to his own way: _and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all_." and yet she dared to sit with hopeless, folded hand, with heavy despairing eyes, and repeat that sentence: "i _have_ no savior now." and many a wandering sheep has dared, even in its repenting hour, to insult the great shepherd thus. ester's bible lay on the window seat--the large, somewhat worn bible which abbie had lent her, to "mark just as much as she pleased;" it lay open, as if it had opened of itself to a familiar spot. there were heavy markings around several of the verses, markings that had not been made by ester's pencil. some power far removed from that which had been guiding her despairing thoughts prompted her to reach forth her hand for the book, and fix her attention on those marked verses, and the words were these: "for thus saith the high and lofty one that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is holy; i dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones. for i will not contend forever, neither will i be always wroth: for the spirit should fail before me, and the souls which i have made. for the iniquity of his covetousness was i wroth, and smote him: i hid me, and was wroth, and he went on frowardly in the way of his heart. i have seen his ways, and will heal him: i will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners. i create the fruit of the lips; peace, peace to him that is afar off, and to him that is near, saith the lord; and _i will heal him_." had an angel spoken to ester, or was it the dear voice of the lord himself? she did not know. she only knew that there rang through her very soul two sentences as the climax of all these wonderful words: "peace, peace to him that is afar off"--and--"i will heal him." a moment more, and with the very promise of the crucified spread out before her, ester was on her knees; and at first, with bursts of passionate, tearful pleading, and later with low, humble, contrite tones, and finally with the sound in her voice of that peace which comes only to those to whom christ is repeating: "i have blotted out as a cloud thy transgressions, and as a thick cloud thy sins," did ester pray. "do you know, dear ester, there must have been two new joys in heaven to-day? first they had a new-comer among those who walk with him in white, for they are worthy; and then they had that shout of triumph over another soul for whom satan has struggled fiercely and whom he has forever lost." this said abbie, as they nestled close together that evening in the "purple twilight." and ester answered simply and softly: amen. chapter xix. sundries. meanwhile the days moved on; the time fixed for ester's return home had long passed, and yet she tarried in new york. abbie clung to her, wanted her for various reasons; and the unselfish, pitying mother, far away, full of tender sympathy for the stricken bride, smothered a sigh of weariness, buried in her heart the thought of her own need of her eldest daughter's presence and help, and wrote a long, loving letter, jointly to the daughter and niece, wherein she gave her full consent to ester's remaining away, so long as she could be a comfort to her cousin. two items worthy of record occurred during these days. the first time the family gathered at the dinner table, after the one who had been so nearly a son of the house had been carried to his rest in that wonderful and treasured city of greenwood, ralph, being helped by john, as usual, to his glass of wine, refused it with a short, sharp, almost angry "_no_. take it away and never offer me the accursed stuff again. we should have had him with us to-day but for that. i'll never touch another drop of it as long as i live." which startling words mr. and mrs. ried listened to without comment, other than a half-frightened look bestowed on abbie, to see how she would bear this mention of her dead; and she bore it this way. turning her eyes, glistening with tears, full on her brother's face, she said, with a little quiver of tender gladness in her voice: "oh, ralph, i knew it had a silver lining, but i did not think god would let me see it so soon." then mr. and mrs. ried concluded that both their children were queer, and that they did not understand them. the other item was productive of a dissertation on propriety from mrs. ried. ralph and his father were in the back parlor, the former standing with one arm resting on the mantel while he talked with his father, who was half buried in a great easy chair--that easy chair in his own elegant parlor, and his handsome son standing before him in that graceful attitude, were mr. ried's synonyms for perfect satisfaction; and his face took on a little frown of disappointment, as the door opened somewhat noisily, and mrs. ried came in wearing a look expressive of thoroughly-defined vexation. ralph paused in the midst of his sentence, and wheeled forward a second easy chair for his mother, then returned to his former position and waited patiently for the gathered frown to break into words, which event instantly occurred. "i really do not think, mr. ried, that this nonsense ought to be allowed; besides being a very strange, unfeeling thing to do, it is in my opinion positively indecent--and i _do_ think, mr. ried, that you ought to exercise your authority for once." "if you would kindly inform me what you are supposed to be talking about, and where my authority is specially needed at this time, i might be induced to consider the matter." this, from the depths of the easy chair, in its owner's most provokingly indifferent tone, which fortunately mrs. ried was too much preoccupied to take special note of, and continued her storm of words. "here, it is not actually quite a week since he was buried, and abbie must needs make herself and her family appear perfectly ridiculous by making her advent in public." mr. ried came to an upright posture, and even ralph asked a startled question: "where is she going?" "why, where do you suppose, but to that absurd little prayer-meeting, where she always would insist upon going every thursday evening. i used to think it was for the pleasure of a walk home with mr. foster; but why she should go to-night is incomprehensible to me." "nonsense!" said mr. ried, settling back into the cushions. "a large public that will be. i thought at the very least she was going to the opera. if the child finds any comfort in such an atmosphere, where's the harm? let her go." "where's the harm! now, mr. ried, that is just as much as you care for appearances _sometimes_, and at other times you can be quite as particular as _i_ am; though i certainly believe there is nothing that abbie might take a fancy to do that you would not uphold her in." mr. ried's reply was uttered in a tone that impressed one with the belief that he was uttering a deliberate conviction. "you are quite right as regards that, i suspect. at least i find myself quite unable to conceive of any thing connected with her that could by any twisting be made other than just the thing." mrs. ried's exasperated answer was cut short by the entrance of abbie, attired as for a walk or ride, the extreme pallor of her face and the largeness of her soft eyes enhanced by the deep mourning robes which fell around her like the night. "now, abbie," said mrs. ried, turning promptly to her, "i did hope you had given up this strangest of all your strange whims. what _will_ people think?" "people are quite accustomed to see me there, dear mother, at least all the people who will see me to-night; and if _ever_ i needed help i do just now." "i should think it would be much more appropriate to stay at home and find help in the society of your own family. that is the way other people do who are in affliction." mrs. ried had the benefit of a full, steady look from abbie's great solemn eyes now, as she said: "mother, i want god's help. no other will do me any good." "well," answered mrs. ried, after just a moment of rather awe-struck silence, "can't you find that help any where but in that plain, common little meeting-house? i thought people with your peculiar views believed that god was every-where." an expression not unlike that of a hunted deer shone for a moment in abbie's eyes. then she spoke, in tones almost despairing: "o mother, _mother_, you _can not_ understand." tone, or words, or both, vexed mrs. ried afresh, and she spoke with added sharpness. "at least i can understand this much, that my daughter is very anxious to do a thing utterly unheard of in its propriety, and i am thoroughly ashamed of you. if i were ester i should not like to uphold you in such a singularly conspicuous parade. remember, you have no one _now_ but john to depend upon as an escort." ralph had remained a silent, immovable listener to this strange, sad conversation up to this moment. now he came suddenly forward with a quick, firm tread, and encircled abbie's trembling form with his arm, while with eyes and voice he addressed his mother. "in that last proposition you are quite mistaken, my dear mother. abbie chances to have a brother, who considers himself honored by being permitted to accompany her any where she may choose to go." mrs. ried looked up at her tall, haughty son in unfeigned astonishment, and for an instant was silent. "oh," she said at last, "if you have chosen to rank yourself on this ridiculous fanatical side, i have nothing more to say." as for mr. ried, he had long before this shadded his eyes with his hand, and was looking through half-closed fingers with mournful eyes at the sable robes and pallid face of his golden-haired darling, apparently utterly unconscious of or indifferent to the talk that was going on. but will ralph ever forget the little sweet smile which illumined for a moment the pure young face, as she turned confiding eyes on him? thenceforth there dawned a new era in abbie's life. ralph, for reasons best known to himself, chose to be released from his vacation engagements in a neighboring city, and remained closely at home. and abbie went as usual to her mission-class, to her bible-class, to the teacher's prayer-meeting, to the regular church prayer-meeting, every-where she had been wont to go, and she was always and every-where accompanied and sustained by her brother. as for ester, these were days of great opportunity and spiritual growth to her. so we bridge the weeks between and reach the afternoon of a september day, bright and beautiful, as the month draws toward its closing; and ester is sitting alone in her room in the low, easy chair by the open window, and in her lap lies an open letter, while she, with thoughtful, earnest eyes seems reading, not it, but the future, or else her own heart. the letter is from sadie, and she has written thus: "my dear city sister,--mother said to-night, as we were promenading the dining-room for the sake of exercise, and also to clear off the table (maggie had the toothache and was off duty): 'sadie, my dear child, haven't you written to ester yet? do you think it is quite right to neglect her so, when she must be very anxious to hear from home?' now, you know, when mother says, 'sadie, my dear child,' and looks at me from out those reproachful eyes of hers, there is nothing short of mixing a mess of bread that i would not do for her. so here i am--place, third story front; time, : p.m.; position, foot of the bed (julia being soundly sleeping at the head), one gaiter off and one gaiter on, somewhat after the manner of 'my son john' so renowned in history. speaking of bread, how abominably that article can act. i had a solemn conflict with a batch of it this morning. firstly, you must know, i forgot it. mother assured me it was ready to be mixed before i awakened, so it must have been before that event took place that the forgetfulness occurred; however, be that as it may, after i was thoroughly awake, and up, and _down_, i still forgot it. the fried potatoes were frying themselves fast to that abominable black dish in which they are put to sizzle, and which, by the way, is the most nefarious article in the entire kitchen list to get clean (save and excepting the dish-cloth). well, as i was saying, they burned themselves, and i ran to the rescue. then minie wanted me to go to the yard with her, to see a 'dear cunning little brown and gray thing, with some greenish spots, that walked and spoke to her.' the interesting stranger proved to be a fair-sized frog! while examining into, and explaining minutely the nature and character and occupations of the entire frog family, the mixture in the tin pail, behind the kitchen stove, took that opportunity to _sour_. my! what a bubble it was in, and what an interesting odor it emitted, when at last i returned from frogdom to the ordinary walks of life, and gave it my attention. maggie was above her elbows in the wash-tub, so i seized the pail, and in dire haste and dismay ran up two flights of stairs in search of mother. i suppose you know what followed. i assure you, i think mothers and soda are splendid! what a remarkable institution that ingredient is. while i made sour into sweet with the aid of its soothing proclivities, i moralized; the result of which was that after i had squeezed and mushed and rolled over, and thumped and patted my dough the requisite number of times, i tucked it away under blankets in a corner, and went out to the piazza to ask dr. douglass if he knew of an article in the entire round of materia medica which could be given to human beings when they were sour and disagreeable, and which, after the manner of soda in dough, would immediately work a reform. on his acknowledging his utter ignorance of any such principle, i advanced the idea that cooking was a much more developed science than medicine; thence followed an animated discussion. "but in the meantime what do you suppose that bread was doing? just spreading itself in the most remarkable manner over the nice blanket under which i had cuddled it! then i had an amazing time. mother said the patting process must all be done over again; and there was abundant opportunity for more moralizing. that bread developed the most remarkable stick-to-a-tive-ness that i ever beheld. i assure you, if total depravity is a mark of humanity, then i believe my dough is human. "well, we are all still alive, though poor mr. holland is, i fear, very little more than that. he was thrown from his carriage one evening last week, and brought home insensible. he is now in a raging fever, and very ill indeed. for once in their lives both doctors agree. he is delirious most of the time; and his delirium takes the very trying form which leads him to imagine that only mother can do any thing for him. the doctors think he fancies she is his own mother, and that he is a boy again. all this makes matters rather hard on mother. she is frequently with him half the night; and often maggie and i are left to reign supreme in the kitchen for the entire day. those are the days that 'try men's souls,' especially women's. "i am sometimes tempted to think that all the book knowledge the world contains is not to be compared to knowing just what, and how, and when, to do in the kitchen. i quite think so for a few hours when mother, after a night of watching in a sick room, comes down to undo some of my blundering. she is the patientest, dearest, lovingest, kindest mother that ever a mortal had, and just because she is so patient shall i rejoice over the day when she can give a little sigh of relief and leave the kitchen, calm in the assurance that it will be right-side up when she returns. ester, how _did_ you make things go right? i'm sure i try harder than i ever knew you to, and yet salt will get into cakes and puddings, and sugar into potatoes. just here i'm conscience smitten. i beg you will not construe one of the above sentences as having the remotest allusion to your being sadly missed at home. mother said i was not even to _hint_ such a thing, and i'm sure i haven't. i'm a _remarkable_ housekeeper. the fall term at the academy opened week before last. i have hidden my school-books behind that old barrel in the north-east corner of the attic. i thought they would be safer there than below stairs. at least i was sure the bread would do better in the oven because of their ascent. "to return to the scene of our present trials: mr. holland is, i suppose, very dangerously sick; and poor mrs. holland is the very embodiment of despair. when i look at her in prospective misery, i am reminded of poor, dear cousin abbie (to whom i would write if it didn't seem a sacrilege), and i conclude there is really more misery in this world of ours than i had any idea of. i've discovered why the world was made round. it must be to typify our lives--sort of a tread-mill existence, you know; coming constantly around to the things which you thought you had done yesterday and put away; living over again to-day the sorrows which you thought were vanquished last week. i'm sleepy, and it is nearly time to bake cakes for breakfast. 'the tip of the morning to you,' as patrick o'brien greets maggie. "yours nonsensically; sadie." chapter xx. at home. over this letter ester had laughed and cried, and finally settled, as we found her, into quiet thought. when abbie came in after a little, and nestled on an ottoman in front of her, with an inquiring look, ester placed the letter in her hands, without note or comment, and abbie read and laughed considerably, then grew more sober, and at last folded the letter with a very thoughtful face. "well," said ester, at last, smiling a little. and abbie answered: "oh, ester." "yes," said ester, "you see they need me." then followed a somewhat eager, somewhat sorrowful talk, and then a moment of silence fell between them, which abbie broke by a sudden question: "ester, isn't this dr. douglass gaining some influence over sadie? have i imagined it, or does she speak of him frequently in her letters, in a way that gives me an idea that his influence is not for good?" "i'm afraid it is very true; his influence over her seems to be great, and it certainly is not for good. the man is an infidel, i think. at least he is very far indeed from being a christian. do you know i read a verse in my bible this morning which, when i think of my past influence over sadie, reminds me bitterly of myself. it was like this: 'while men slept his enemy came and sowed tares--.' if i had not been asleep i might have won sadie for the savior before this enemy came." "well," abbie answered gently, not in the least contradicting this sad statement, but yet speaking hopefully, "you will try to undo all this now." "oh, abbie, i don't know. i am so weak--like a child just beginning to take little steps alone, instead of being the strong disciple that i might have been. i distrust myself. i am afraid." "i'm not afraid for you," abbie said, speaking very earnestly. "because, in the first place you are unlike the little child, in that you must never even try to take one step _alone_. and besides, there are more verses in the bible than that one. see here, let me show you mine." and abbie produced her little pocket bible, and pointed with her finger while ester read; "when i am weak, then am i strong." then turning the leaves rapidly, as one familiar with the strongholds of that tower of safety, she pointed again, and ester read: "what time i am afraid, i will trust in thee." almost five o'clock of a sultry october day, one of those days which come to us sometimes during that golden month, like a regretful turning back of the departing summer. a day which, coming to people who have much hard, pressing work, and who are wearied and almost stifled with the summer's heat, makes them thoroughly uncomfortable, not to say cross. almost five o'clock, and in the great dining-room of the rieds sadie was rushing nervously back and forth, very much in the same manner that ester was doing on that first evening of our acquaintance, only there was not so much method in her rushing. the curtains were raised as high as the tapes would take them, and the slant rays of the yellow sun were streaming boldly in, doing their bravest to melt into oil the balls of butter on the table, for poor, tired, bewildered sadie had forgotten to let down the shades, and forgotten the ice for the butter, and had laid the table cloth crookedly, and had no time to straighten it. this had been one of her trying days. the last fierce look of summer had parched anew the fevered limbs of the sufferer up stairs, and roused to sharper conflict the bewildered brain. mrs. ried's care had been earnest and unremitting, and sadie, in her unaccustomed position of mistress below stairs, had reached the very verge of bewildered weariness. she gave nervous glances at the inexorable clock as she flew back and forth. there were those among mrs. ried's boarders whose business made it almost a necessity that they should be promptly served at five o'clock. maggie had been hurriedly summoned to do an imperative errand connected with the sick room; and this inexperienced butterfly, with her wings sadly drooping, was trying to gather her scattered wits together sufficiently to get that dreadful tea-table ready for the thirteen boarders who were already waiting the summons. "what _did_ i come after?" she asked herself impatiently, as she pressed her hand to her frowning forehead, and stared about the pantry in a vain attempt to decide what had brought her there in such hot haste. "oh, a spoon--no, a fork, i guess it was. why, i don't remember the forks at all. as sure as i'm here, i believe they are, too, instead of being on the table; and--oh, my patience, i believe those biscuits are burning. i wonder if they are done. oh, dear me!" and the young lady, who was mr. hammond's star scholar, bent with puzzled, burning face, and received hot whiffs of breath from the indignant oven while she tried to discover whether the biscuits were ready to be devoured. it was an engrossing employment. she did not hear the sound of carriage wheels near the door, nor the banging of trunks on the side piazza. she was half way across the dining-room, with her tin of puffy biscuits in her hands, with the puzzled, doubtful look still on her face, before she felt the touch of two soft, loving arms around her neck, and turning quickly, she screamed, rather than said: "oh, ester!" and suddenly seating her tin of biscuit on one chair and herself on another, sadie covered her face with both hands and actually cried. "why, sadie, you poor dear child, what _can_ be the matter?" and ester's voice was full of anxiety, for it was almost the first time that she had ever seen tears on that bright young face. sadie's first remark caused a sudden revulsion of feeling. springing suddenly to her feet, she bent anxious eyes on the chair full of biscuit. "oh, ester," she said, "_are_ these biscuits done, or will they be sticky and hateful in the middle?" _how_ ester laughed! then she came to the rescue. "_done_--of course they are, and beautifully, too. did you make them? here, i'll take them out. sadie, where is mother?" "in mr. holland's room. she has been there nearly all day. mr. holland is no better, and maggie has gone on an errand for them. why have you come? did the fairies send you?" "and where are the children?" "they have gone to walk. minie wanted mother every other minute, so alfred and julia have carried her off with them. say, you _dear_ ester, how _did_ you happen to come? how shall i be glad enough to see you?" ester laughed. "then i can't see any of them," she said by way of answer. "never mind, then we'll have some tea. you poor child, how very tired you look. just seat yourself in that chair, and see if i have forgotten how to work." and sadie, who was thoroughly tired, and more nervous than she had any idea she could be, leaned luxuriously back in her mother's chair, with a delicious sense of unresponsibility about her, and watched a magic spell come over the room. down came the shades in a twinkling, and the low red sun looked in on them no more; the table-cloth straightened itself; pickles and cheese and cake got out of their confused proximity, and marched each to their appropriate niche on the well-ordered table; a flying visit into well-remembered regions returned hard, sparkling, ice-crowned butter. and when at last the fragrant tea stood ready to be served, and ester, bright and smiling, stationed herself behind her mother's chair, sadie gave a little relieved sigh, and then she laughed. "you're straight from fairy land, ester; i know it now. that table-cloth has been crooked in spite of me for a week. maggie lays it, and i _can not_ straighten it. i don't get to it. i travel five hundred miles every night to get this supper ready, and it's never ready. i have to bob up for a fork or a spoon, or i put on four plates of butter and none of bread. oh there is witch work about it, and none but thoroughbred witches can get every thing, every little insignificant, indispensable thing on a table. i can't keep house." "you poor kitten," said ester, filled with very tender sympathy for this pretty young sister and feeling very glad indeed that she had come home, "who would think of expecting a butterfly to spin? you shall bring those dear books down from the attic to-morrow. in the meantime, where is the tea-bell?" "oh, we don't ring," said sadie, rising as she spoke. "the noise disturbs mr. holland. here comes my first lieutenant, who takes charge of that matter. my sister, miss ried, dr. douglass." and ester, as she returned the low, deferential bow bestowed upon her, felt anew the thrill of anxiety which had come to her of late when she thought of this dangerous stranger in connection with her beautiful, giddy, unchristian sister. on the whole, ester's home coming was pleasant. to be sure it was a wonderful change from her late life; and there was perhaps just the faintest bit of a sigh as she drew off her dainty cuffs and prepared to wipe the dishes which sadie washed, while maggie finished her interrupted ironing. what would john, the stylish waiter at uncle ralph's, think if he could see her now, and how funny abbie would look engaged in such employment; but sadie looked so bright and relieved and rested, and chatted so gayly, that presently ester gave another little sigh and said: "poor abbie! how very, _very_ lonely she must be to-night. i wish she were here for you to cheer her, sadie." later, while she dipped into the flour preparatory to relieving sadie of her fearful task of sponge setting, the kitchen clock struck seven. this time she laughed at the contrast. they were just going down to dinner now at uncle ralph's. only night before last she was there herself. she had been out that day with aunt helen, and so was attired in the lovely blue silk and the real laces, which were aunt helen's gift, fastened at the throat by a tiny pearl, abbie's last offering. now they were sitting down to dinner without her, and she was in the great pantry five hundred miles away, a long, wide calico apron quite covering up her traveling dress, sleeves rolled above her elbows, and engaged in scooping flour out of the barrel into her great wooden bowl! but then how her mother's weary, careworn face had brightened, and glowed into pleased surprise as she caught the first glimpse of her; how lovingly she had folded her in those dear _motherly_ arms, and said, actually with lips all a tremble: "my _dear_ daughter! what an unexpected blessing, and what a kind providence, that you have come just now." then alfred and julia had been as eager and jubilant in their greeting as though ester had been always to them the very perfection of a sister; and hadn't little minie crumpled her dainty collar into an unsightly rag, and given her "scotch kisses," and "dutch kisses," and "yankee kisses," and genuine, sweet baby kisses, in her uncontrollable glee over dear "auntie essie." and besides, oh besides! this ester ried who had come home was not the ester ried who had gone out from them only two months ago. a whole lifetime of experience and discipline seemed to her to have been crowded into those two months. nothing of her past awakened more keen regret in this young girl's heart than the thought of her undutiful, unsisterly life. it was all to be different now. she thanked god that he had let her come back to that very kitchen and dining-room to undo her former work. the old sluggish, selfish spirit had gone from her. before this every thing had been done for ester ried, now it was to be done for christ--_every thing_, even the mixing up of that flour and water; for was not the word given: "_whatsoever_ ye do, do all to the glory of god?" how broad that word was, "whatsoever." why that covered every movement--yes, and every word. how _could_ life have seemed to her dull and uninteresting and profitless? sadie hushed her busy tongue that evening as she saw in the moonlight ester kneeling to pray; and a kind of awe stole over her for a moment as she saw that the kneeler seemed unconscious of any earthly presence. somehow it struck sadie as a different matter from any kneeling which she had ever watched in the moonlight before. and ester, as she rested her tired, happy head upon her own pillow, felt this word ringing sweetly in her heart: "and ye are christ's, and christ is god's." chapter xxi. tested. ester was winding the last smooth coil of hair around her head when sadie opened her eyes the next morning. "my!" she said. "do you know, ester, it is perfectly delightful to me to lie here and look at you, and remember that i shall not be responsible for those cakes this morning? they shall want a pint of soda added to them for all that i shall need to know or care." ester laughed. "you will surely have _your_ pantry well stocked with soda," she said, gayly. "it seems to have made a very strong impression on your mind." but the greeting had chimed with her previous thoughts and sounded pleasant to her. she had come home to be the helper; her mother and sadie should feel and realize after this how very much of a helper she could be. that very day should be the commencement of her old, new life. it was baking day--her detestation heretofore, her pleasure now. no more useful day could be chosen. how she would dispatch the pies and cakes and biscuits, to say nothing of the wonderful loaves of bread. she smiled brightly on her young sister, as she realized in a measure the weight of care which she was about to lift from her shoulders; and by the time she was ready for the duties of the day she had lived over in imagination the entire routine of duties connected with that busy, useful, happy day. she went out from her little clothes-press wrapped in armor--the pantry and kitchen were to be her battle-field, and a whole host of old temptations and trials were there to be met and vanquished. so ester planned, and yet it so happened that she did not once enter the kitchen during all that long busy day, and sadie's young shoulders bore more of the hundred little burdens of life that saturday than they had ever felt before. descending the stairs, ester met dr. van anden for the first time since her return. he greeted her with a hurried "good-morning," quite as if he had seen her only the day before, and at once pressed her into service: "miss ester, will you go to mr. holland immediately? i can not find your mother. send mrs. holland from the room, she excites him. tell her _i_ say she must come immediately to the sitting-room; i wish to see her. give mr. holland a half teaspoonful of the mixture in the wine-glass every ten minutes, and on no account leave him until i return, which will be as soon as possible." and seeming to be certain that his directions would be followed, the doctor vanished. for only about a quarter of a minute did ester stand irresolute. dr. van anden's tone and manner were full of his usual authority--a habit with him which had always annoyed her. she shrank with a feeling amounting almost to terror from a dark, quiet room, and the position of nurse. her base of operations, according to her own arrangements, had been the light, airy kitchen, where she felt herself needed at this very moment. but one can think of several things in a quarter of a minute. ester had very lately taken up the habit of securing one bible verse as part of her armor to go with her through the day. on this particular morning the verse was: "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." now if her hands had found work waiting for her down this first flight of stairs instead of down two, as she had planned, what was that to her? ester turned and went swiftly to the sick room, dispatched the almost frantic wife according to the doctor's peremptory orders, gave the mixture as directed, waited patiently for the doctor's return, only to hear herself installed as head nurse for the day; given just time enough to take a very hurried second table meal with sadie, listen to her half pitiful, half comic complainings, and learn that her mother was down with sick headache. so it was that this first day at home drew toward its closing; and not one single thing that ester had planned to do, and do so well, had she been able to accomplish. it had been very hard to sit patiently there and watch the low breathings of that almost motionless man on the bed before her, to rouse him at set intervals sufficiently to pour some mixture down his unwilling lips, to fan him occasionally, and that was all. it had been hard, but ester had not chafed under it; she had recognized the necessity--no nurse to be found, her mother sick, and the young, frightened, as well as worn-out wife, not to be trusted. clearly she was at the post of duty. so as the red sun peeped in a good-night from a little corner of the closed curtain, it found ester not angry, but _very_ sad. _such_ a weary day! and this man on the bed was dying; both doctors had _looked_ that at each other at least a dozen times that day. how her life of late was being mixed up with death. she had just passed through one sharp lesson, and here at the threshold awaited another. different from that last though--oh, _very_ different--and herein lay some of the sadness. mr. foster had said "every thing was ready for the long journey, even should there be no return." then she went back for a minute to the look of glory on that marble face, and heard again that wonderful sentence: "_so_ he giveth his beloved sleep." but this man here! every thing had not been made ready by him. so at least she feared. yet she was conscious, professed christian though she had been, living in the same house with him for so many years, that she knew very little about him. she had seen much of him, had talked much with him, but she had never mentioned to him the name of christ, the name after which she called herself. the sun sank lower, it was almost gone; this weary day was nearly done; and very sad and heavy-hearted felt this young watcher--the day begun in brightness was closing in gloom. it was not all so clear a path as she had thought; there were some things that she could not undo. those days of opportunity, in which she might at least have invited this man to jesus, were gone; it seemed altogether probable that there would never come another. there was a little rustle of the drapery about the bed, and she turned suddenly, to meet the great searching eyes of the sick man, bent full upon her. then he spoke in low, but wonderfully distinct and solemn tones. and the words he slowly uttered were yet more startling: "am i going to die?" oh, what _was_ ester to say? how those great bright eyes searched her soul! looking into them, feeling the awful solemnity of the question, she could not answer "no;" and it seemed almost equally impossible to tell him "yes." so the silence was unbroken, while she trembled in every nerve, and felt her face blanch before the continued gaze of those mournful eyes. at length the silence seemed to answer him; for he turned his head suddenly from her, and half buried it in the pillow, and neither spoke nor moved. that awful silence! that moment of opportunity, perhaps the last of earth for him, perhaps it was given to her to speak to him the last words that he would ever hear from mortal lips. what _could_ she say? if she only knew how--only had words. yet _something_ must be said. then there came to ester one of those marked bible verses which had of late grown so precious, and her voice, low and clear, filled the blank in the room. "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." no sound from the quiet figure on the bed. she could not even tell if he had heard, yet perhaps he might, and so she gathered them, a little string of wondrous pearls, and let them fall with soft and gentle cadence from her lips. "commit thy way unto the lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass." "the lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him--the lord is gracious, and full of compassion." "thus saith the lord, your redeemer, the holy one of israel, i, even i, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins." "look unto me and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth; for i am god, and there is none else." "incline your ear, and come unto me; hear, and your soul shall live." silence for a moment, and then ester repeated, in tones that were full of sweetness, that one little verse, which had become the embodiment to her of all that was tender, and soothing and wonderful: "what time i am afraid i will trust in thee." was this man, moving toward the very verge of the river, afraid? ester did not know, was not to know whether those gracious invitations from the redeemer of the world had fallen once more on unheeding ears, or not; for with a little sigh, born partly of relief, and partly of sorrow, that the opportunity was gone, she turned to meet dr. van anden, and was sent for a few moments out into the light and glory of the departing day, to catch a bit of its freshness. it was as the last midnight stroke of that long, long day was being given, that they were gathered about the dying bed. sadie was there, solemn and awe-stricken. mrs. ried had arisen from her couch of suffering, and nerved herself to be a support to the poor young wife. dr. douglass, at the side of the sick man, kept anxious watch over the fluttering pulse. ester, on the other side, looked on in helpless pity, and other friends of the hollands were grouped about the room. so they watched and waited for the swift down-coming of the angel of death the death damp had gathered on his brow, the pulse seemed but a faint tremble now and then, and those whose eyes were used to death thought that his lips would never frame mortal sound again, when suddenly the eyelids raised, and mr. holland, fixing a steady gaze upon the eyes bent on him from the foot of the bed, whither ester had slipped to make more room for her mother and mrs. holland, said, in a clear, distinct tone, one unmistakable word--"pray!" will ester ever forget the start of terror which thrilled her frame as she felt that look and heard that word? she cast a quick, frightened glance around her of inquiry and appeal; but her mother and herself were the only ones present whom she had reason to think ever prayed. could she, _would_ she, that gentle, timid, shrinking mother? but mrs. ried was supporting the now almost fainting form of mrs. holland, and giving anxious attention to her. "he says pray!" sadie murmured, in low, frightened tones. "oh, where is dr. van anden?" ester knew he had been called in great haste to the house across the way, and ere he could return, this waiting spirit might be gone--gone without a word of prayer. would ester want to die so, with no voice to cry for her to that listening savior? but then no human being had ever heard her pray. could she?--must she? oh, for dr. van anden--a christian doctor! oh, if that infidel stood anywhere but there, with his steady hand clasping the fluttering pulse, with his cool, calm eyes bent curiously on her--but mr. holland was dying; perhaps the everlasting arms were not underneath him--and at this fearful thought, ester dropped upon her knees, giving utterance to her deepest need in the first uttered words, "oh, holy spirit, teach me just what to say!" her mother, listening with startled senses as the familiar voice fell on her ear, could but think that _that_ petition was answered; and ester felt it in her very soul, dr. douglass, her mother, sadie, all of them were as nothing--there was only this dying man and christ, and she pleading that the passing soul might be met even now by the angel of the covenant. there were those in the room who never forgot that prayer of ester's. dr. van anden, entering hastily, paused midway in the room, taking in the scene in an instant of time, and then was on his knees, uniting his silent petitions with hers. so fervent and persistent was the cry for help, that even the sobs of the stricken wife were hushed in awe, and only the watching doctor, with his finger on the pulse, knew when the last fluttering beat died out, and the death-angel pressed his triumphant seal on pallid lip and brow. "dr. van anden," ester said, as they stood together for a moment the next morning, waiting in the chamber of death for mrs. ried's directions--. "was--did he," with an inclination of her head toward the silent occupant of the couch, "did he ever think he was a christian?" the doctor bent on her a grave, sad look, and slowly shook his head. "oh, doctor! you can not think that he--" and ester stopped, her face blanching with the fearfulness of her thought. "shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" this was the doctor's solemn answer. after a moment, he added: "perhaps that one eagerly-spoken word, 'pray,' said as much to the ears of him whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, as did that old-time petition--'remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.'" ester never forgot that and the following day, while the corpse of one whom she had known so well lay in the house; and when she followed him to the quiet grave, and watched the red and yellow autumn leaves flutter down around his coffin--dead leaves, dead flowers, dead hopes, death every-where--not just a going up higher, as mr. foster's death had been--this was solemn and inexorable death. more than ever she felt how impossible it was to call back the days that had slipped away while she slept, and do their neglected duties. she had come for this, full of hope; and now one of those whom she had met many times each day for years, and never said jesus to, was at this moment being lowered into his narrow house, and, though god had graciously given her an inch of time, and strength to use it, it was as nothing compared with those wasted years, and she could never know, at least never until the call came for her, whether or not at the eleventh hour this "poor man cried, and the lord heard him," and received him into paradise. dr. van anden moved around to where she was standing, with tightly clasped hands and colorless lips. he had been watching her, and this was what he said: "ester, shall you and i ever stand again beside a new-made grave, receiving one whom we have known ever so slightly, and have to settle with our consciences and our savior, because we have not invited that one to come to jesus?" and ester answered, with firmly-drawn lips "as that savior hears me, and will help me _never_!" chapter xxii. "little plum pies." ester was in the kitchen trimming off the puffy crusts of endless pies--the old brown calico morning dress, the same huge bib apron which had been through endless similar scrapes with her--every thing about her looking exactly as it had three months ago, and yet so far as ester and her future--yes, and the future of every one about her was concerned, things were very different. perhaps sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously, and took note that there was a different light in her eye, and a sort of smoothness on the quiet face that she had never noticed before. in fact, sadie missed some wrinkles which she had supposed were part and parcel of ester's self. "how i _did_ hate that part of it," she remarked, watching the fingers that moved deftly around each completed sphere. "mother said my edges always looked as if a mouse had marched around them nibbling all the way. my! how thoroughly i hate housekeeping. i pity the one who takes me for better or worse--always provided there exists such a poor victim on the face of the earth." "i don't think you hate it half so much as you imagine," ester answered kindly. "any way you did nicely. mother says you were a great comfort to her." there was a sudden mist before sadie's eyes. "did mother say that?" she queried. "the blessed woman, what a very little it takes to make a comfort for her. ester, i declare to you, if ever angels get into kitchens and pantries, and the like, mother is one of them. the way she bore with my endless blunderings was perfectly angelic. i'm glad, though, that her day of martyrdom is over, and mine, too, for that matter." and sadie, who had returned to the kingdom of spotless dresses and snowy cuffs, and, above all, to the dear books and the academy, caught at that moment the sound of the academy bell, and flitted away. ester filled the oven with pies, then went to the side doorway to get a peep at the glowing world. it was the very perfection of a day--autumn meant to die in wondrous beauty that year. ester folded her bare arms and gazed. she felt little thrills of a new kind of restlessness all about her this morning. she wanted to do something grand, something splendidly good. it was all very well to make good pies; she had done that, given them the benefit of her highest skill in that line--now they were being perfected in the oven, and she waited for something. if ever a girl longed for an opportunity to show her colors, to honor her leader, it was our ester. oh yes, she meant to do the duty that lay next her, but she perfectly ached to have that next duty something grand, something that would show all about her what a new life she had taken on. dr. van anden was tramping about in his room, over the side piazza, a very unusual proceeding with him at that hour of the day; his windows were open, and he was singing, and the fresh lake wind brought tune and words right down to ester's ear: "i would not have the restless will that hurries to and fro, seeking for some great thing to do, or wondrous thing to know; i would be guided as a child, and led where'er i go. "i ask thee for the daily strength, to none that ask denied, a mind to blend with outward life, while keeping at thy side; content to fill a little space if thou be glorified." of course dr. van anden did not know that ester ried stood in the doorway below, and was at that precise moment in need of just such help as this; but then what mattered that, so long as the master did? just then another sense belonging to ester did its duty, and gave notice that the pies in the oven were burning; and she ran to their rescue, humming meantime: "content to fill a little space if thou be glorified." eleven o'clock found her busily paring potatoes--hurrying a little, for in spite of swift, busy fingers their work was getting a little the best of maggie and her, and one pair of very helpful hands was missing. alfred and julia appeared from somewhere in the outer regions, and ester was too busy to see that they both carried rather woe-begone faces. "hasn't mother got back yet?" queried alfred. "why, no," said ester. "she will not be back until to-night--perhaps not then. didn't you know mrs. carleton was worse?" alfred kicked his heels against the kitchen door in a most disconsolate manner. "somebody's always sick," he grumbled out at last. "a fellow might as well not have a mother. i never saw the beat--nobody for miles around here can have the toothache without borrowing mother. i'm just sick and tired of it." ester had nearly laughed, but catching a glimpse of the forlorn face, she thought better of it, and said: "something is awry now, i know. you never want mother in such a hopeless way as that unless you're in trouble; so you see you are just like the rest of them, every body wants mother when they are in any difficulty." "but she is my mother, and i have a right to her, and the rest of 'em haven't." "well," said ester, soothingly, "suppose i be mother this time. tell me what's the matter and i'll act as much like her as possible." "_you_!" and thereupon alfred gave a most uncomplimentary sniff. "queer work you'd make of it." "try me," was the good-natured reply. "i ain't going to. i know well enough you'd say 'fiddlesticks' or 'nonsense,' or some such word, and finish up with 'just get out of my way.'" now, although ester's cheeks were pretty red over this exact imitation of her former ungracious self, she still answered briskly: "very well, suppose i should make such a very rude and unmotherlike reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?" at which sentence alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door, and laughed. "tell us all about it," continued ester, following up her advantage. "nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very last one before snow, and i meant to ask mother to let us go, only how was i going to know that mrs. carleton would get sick and come away down here after her before daylight; and i know she would have let me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of 'em--and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have made me some, i know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's all up, and i shall have to stay at home like i always do, just for sick folks. it's mean, any how." ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble question: "is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits of plum pies?" "no," alfred explained, earnestly. "because, you see, they've got plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like my pies, awfully. i most always take 'em. mr. hammond likes them, too; he's going along to take care of us, and i shouldn't like to go without the little pies, because they depend upon them." "oh," said ester, "girls go, too, do they?" and she looked for the first time at the long, sad face of julia in the corner. "yes, and jule is in just as much trouble as i am, cause they are all going to wear white dresses, and she's tore hers, and she says she can't wear it till it's ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and maggie says she can't and won't iron it to-day, _so_; and mother was going to mend it this very morning, and--. oh, fudge! it's no use talking, we've got to stay at home, jule, so now." and the kicking heels commenced again. ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face. she was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it _did_ seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing, so much plum pies and torn dresses should step right into her path. then unconsciously she repeated: "content to fill a _little_ space if _thou_ art glorified." _could_ he be glorified, though, by such very little things? yet hadn't she wanted to gain an influence over alfred and julia, and wasn't this her first opportunity; besides there was that verse: "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do--." at that point her thoughts took shape in words. "well, sir, we'll see whether mother is the only woman in this world after all. you tramp down cellar and bring me up that stone jar on the second shelf, and we'll have those pies in the oven in a twinkling; and that little woman in the corner, with two tears rolling down her cheeks, may bring her white dress and my work-box and thimble, and put two irons on the stove, and my word for it you shall both be ready by three o'clock, spry and span, pies and all." by three o'clock on the afternoon in question ester was thoroughly tired, but little plum pies by the dozen were cuddling among snowy napkins in the willow basket, and alfred's face was radiant as he expressed his satisfaction, after this fashion: "you're just jolly, ester! i didn't know you could be so good. won't the boys chuckle over these pies, though? ester, there's just seven more than mother ever made me." "very well," answered ester, gayly; "then there will be just seven more chuckles this time than usual." julia expressed her thoughts in a way more like her. she surveyed her skillfully-mended and beautifully smooth white dress with smiling eyes; and as ester tied the blue sash in a dainty knot, and stepped back to see that all was as it should be, she was suddenly confronted with this question: "ester, what does make you so nice to-day; you didn't ever used to be so?" how the blood rushed into ester's cheeks as she struggled with her desire to either laugh or cry, she hardly knew which. these were very little things which she had done, and it was shameful that, in all the years of her elder sisterhood, she had never sacrificed even so little of her own pleasure before; yet it was true, and it made her feel like crying--and yet there was rather a ludicrous side to the question, to think that all her beautiful plans for the day had culminated in plum pies and ironing. she stooped and kissed julia on the rosy cheek, and answered gently, moved by some inward impulse: "i am trying to do all my work for jesus nowadays." "you didn't mend my dress and iron it, and curl my hair, and fix my sash, for him, did you?" "yes; every little thing." "why, i don't see how. i thought you did them for me." "i did, julia, to please you and make you happy; but jesus says that that is just the same as doing it for him." julia's next question was very searching: "but, ester, i thought you had been a member of the church a good many years. sadie said so. didn't you ever try to do things for jesus before?" a burning blush of genuine shame mantled ester's face, but she answered quickly: "no; i don't think i ever really did." julia eyed her for a moment with a look of grave wonderment, then suddenly stood on tiptoe to return the kiss, as she said: "well, i think it is nice, anyway. if jesus likes to have you be so kind and take so much trouble for me, why then he must love me, and i mean to thank him this very night when i say my prayers." and as ester rested for a moment in the arm-chair on the piazza, and watched her little brother and sister move briskly off, she hummed again those two lines that had been making unconscious music in her heart all day: "content to fill a _little_ space if thou be glorified." chapter xxiii. crosses. the large church was _very_ full; there seemed not to be another space for a human being. people who were not much given to frequenting the house of god on a week-day evening, had certainly been drawn thither at this time. sadie ried sat beside ester in their mother's pew, and harry arnett, with a sober look on his boyish face, sat bolt upright in the end of the pew, while even dr. douglass leaned forward with graceful nonchalance from the seat behind them, and now and then addressed a word to sadie. these people had been listening to such a sermon as is very seldom heard--that blessed man of god whose name is dear to hundreds and thousands of people, whose hair is whitened with the frosts of many a year spent in the master's service, whose voice and brain and heart are yet strong, and powerful, and "mighty through god," the rev. mr. parker, had been speaking to them, and his theme had been the soul, and his text had been: "what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" i hope i am writing for many who have had the honor of hearing that appeal fresh from the great brain and greater heart of mr. parker. such will understand the spell under which his congregation sat even after the prayer and hymn had died into silence. now the gray-haired veteran stood bending over the pulpit, waiting for the christian witnesses to the truth of his solemn messages; and for that he seemed likely to wait. a few earnest men, veterans too in the cause, gave in their testimony--and then occurred one of those miserable, disheartening, disgraceful pauses which are met with nowhere on earth among a company of intelligent men and women, with liberty given them to talk, save in a prayer-meeting! still silence, and still the aged servant stood with one arm resting on the bible, and looked down almost beseechingly upon that crowd of dumb christians. "ye are my witnesses, saith the lord," he repeated, in earnest, pleading tones. miserable witnesses they! was not the lord ashamed of them all, i wonder? something like this flitted through ester's brain as she looked around upon that faithless company, and noted here and there one who certainly ought to "take up his cross." then some slight idea of the folly of that expression struck her. what a fearful cross it was, to be sure! what a strange idea to use the same word in describing it that was used for that blood-stained, nail-pierced cross on calvary. then a thought, very startling in its significance, came to her. was that cross borne only for men? were they the only ones who had a thank-offering because of calvary? surely _her_ savior hung there, and bled, and groaned, and died for her. why should not she say, "by his stripes _i_ am healed?" what if she should? what would people think? no, not that either. what would jesus think? that, after all, was the important question. did she really believe that if she should say in the hearing of that assembled company, "i love jesus," that jesus, looking down upon her, and hearing how her timid voice broke the dishonoring silence, would be displeased, would set it down among the long list of "ought not to have" dones? she tried to imagine herself speaking to him in her closet after this manner: "dear savior, i confess with shame that i have brought reproach upon thy name this day, for i said, in the presence of a great company of witnesses, that i loved thee!" in defiance of her education and former belief upon this subject, ester was obliged to confess, then and there, that all this was extremely ridiculous. "oh, well," said satan, "it's not exactly _wrong_, of course; but then it isn't very modest or ladylike; and, besides, it is unnecessary. there are plenty of men to do the talking." "but," said common sense, "i don't see why it's a bit more unladylike than the ladies' colloquy at the lyceum was last evening. there were more people present than are here tonight; and as for the men, they are perfectly mum. there seems to be plenty of opportunity for somebody." "well," said satan, "it isn't customary at least, and people will think strangely of you. doubtless it would do more harm than good." this most potent argument, "people will think strangely of you," smothered common sense at once, as it is apt to do, and ester raised her head from the bowed position which it had occupied during this whirl of thought, and considered the question settled. some one began to sing, and of all the words that _could_ have been chosen, came the most unfortunate ones for this decision: "on my head he poured his blessing, long time ago; now he calls me to confess him before i go. my past life, all vile and hateful, he saved from sin; i should be the most ungrateful not to own him. death and hell he bade defiance, bore cross and pain; shame my tongue this guilty silence, and speak his name." this at once renewed the struggle, but in a different form. she no longer said, "ought i?" but, "can i?" still the spell of silence seemed unbroken save by here and there a voice, and still ester parleyed with her conscience, getting as far now as to say: "when mr. jones sits down, if there is another silence, i will try to say something"--not quite meaning, though, to do any such thing, and proving her word false by sitting very still after mr. jones sat down, though there was plenty of silence. then when mr. smith said a few words, ester whispered the same assurance to herself, with exactly the same result. the something _decided_ for which she had been longing, the opportunity to show the world just where she stood, had come at last, and this was the way in which she was meeting it. at last she knew by the heavy thuds which her heart began to give, that the question was decided, that the very moment deacon graves sat down she would rise; whether she would say any thing or not would depend upon whether god gave her any thing to say--but at least she could stand up for jesus. but mr. parker's voice followed deacon graves'; and this was what he said: "am i to understand by your silence that there is not a christian man or woman in all this company who has an unconverted friend whom he or she would like to have us pray for?" then the watching angel of the covenant came to the help of this trembling, struggling ester, and there entered into her heart such a sudden and overwhelming sense of longing for sadie's conversion, that all thought of what she would say, and how she would say it, and what people would think, passed utterly out of her mind; and rising suddenly, she spoke, in clear and wonderfully earnest tones: "will you pray for a dear, dear friend?" god sometimes uses very humble means with which to break the spell of silence which satan so often weaves around christians; it was as if they had all suddenly awakened to a sense of their privileges. dr. van anden said, in a voice which quivered with feeling: "i have a brother in the profession for whom i ask your prayers that he may become acquainted with the great physician." request followed request for husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, and children. even timid, meek-faced, low-voiced mrs. ried murmured a request for her children who were out of christ. and when at last harry arnett suddenly lifted his handsome boyish head from its bowed position, and said in tones which conveyed the sense of a decision, "pray for _me_" the last film of worldliness vanished; and there are those living to-day who have reason never to forget that meeting. "is it your private opinion that our good doctor got up a streak of disinterested enthusiasm over my unworthy self this evening?" this question dr. douglass asked of sadie as they lingered on the piazza in the moonlight. sadie laughed gleefully. "i am sure i don't know. i'm prepared for any thing strange that can possibly happen. mother and ester between them have turned the world upside down for me to-night. in case you are the happy man, i hope you are grateful?" "extremely! should be more so perhaps if people would be just to me in private, and not so alarmingly generous in public." "how bitter you are against dr. van anden," sadie said, watching the lowering brow and sarcastic curve of the lip, with curious eyes. "how much i should like to know precisely what is the trouble between you!" dr. douglass instantly recovered his suavity. "do i appear bitter? i beg your pardon for exhibiting so ungentlemanly a phase of human nature; yet hypocrisy does move me to--" and then occurred one of those sudden periods with which dr. douglass always seemed to stop himself when any thing not quite courteous was being said. "just forget that last sentence," he added. "it was unwise and unkind; the trouble between us is not worthy of a thought of yours. i wish i could forget it. i believe i could if he would allow me." at this particular moment the subject of the above conversation appeared in the door. sadie gave a slight start; the thought that dr. van anden had heard the talk was not pleasant. she need not have feared, he had just come from his room, and from his knees. he spoke abruptly and with a touch of nervousness: "dr. douglass, may i have a few words with you in private?" dr. douglass' "certainly, if miss sadie will excuse us," was both prompt and courteous apparently, though the tone said almost as plainly as words could have done, "to what can i be indebted for this honor?" dr. van anden led the way into the brightly lighted vacant parlor; and there dr. douglass stationed himself directly under the gas light, where he could command a full view of the pale, somewhat anxious face of his companion, and waited with that indescribable air made up of nonchalance and insolence. dr. van anden dashed into his subject: "dr. douglass, ten years ago you did what you could to injure me. i thought then purposely, i think now that perhaps you were sincere. be that as it may, i used language to you then, which i, as a christian man, ought never to have used. i have repented it long ago, but in my blindness i have never seen that i ought to apologize to you for it until this evening. god has shown me my duty. dr. douglass, i ask your pardon for the angry words i spoke to you that day." the gentleman addressed kept his full bright eyes fixed on dr. van anden, and answered him in the quietest and at the same time iciest of tones: "you are certainly very kind, now that your anger has had time to cool during these ten years, to accord to me the merit of being _possibly_ sincere. now i was more _christian_ in my conclusions; i set you down as an honest blunderer. that i have had occasion since to change my opinion is nothing to the purpose but it would be pleasanter for both of us if apologies could restore our friend, mrs. lyons to life." during this response dr. van anden's face was a study. it had passed in quick succession through so many shades of feeling, anxiety, anger, disgust, and finally surprise, and apparently a dawning sense of a new development, for he made the apparently irrelevant reply: "do you think _i_ administered that chloroform?" dr. douglass' coolness forsook him for a moment "who did?" he queried, with flashing eyes. "dr. gilbert." "dr. gilbert?" "yes, sir." "how does it happen that i never knew it?" "i am sure i do not know." dr. van anden passed his hand across his eyes, and spoke in sadness and weariness. "i had no conception that you were not aware of it until this moment. it explains in part what was strangely mysterious to me; but even in that case, it would have been, as you said, a blunder, not a criminal act however, we can not undo _that_ past. i desire, above all other things, to set myself right in your eyes as a christian man. i think i may have been a stumbling-block to you. god only knows how bitter is the thought i have done wrong; i should have acknowledged it years ago. i can only do it now. again i ask you. dr. douglass, will you pardon those bitterly spoken words of mine?" dr. douglass bowed stiffly, with an increase of hauteur visible in every line of his face. "give yourself no uneasiness on that score, dr. van anden, nor on any other, i beg you, so far as i am concerned. my opinion of christianity is peculiar perhaps, but has not altered of late; nor is it likely to do so. of course, every gentleman is bound to accept the apology of another, however tardily it may be offered. shall i bid you good-evening, sir?" and with a very low, very dignified bow, dr. douglass went back to the piazza and sadie. and groaning in spirit over the tardiness of his effort, dr. van anden returned to his room, and prayed that he might renew his zeal and his longing for the conversion of that man's soul. "have you been receiving a little fraternal advice?" queried sadie, her mischievous eyes dancing with fun over the supposed discomfiture of one of the two gentlemen, she cared very little which. "not at all. on the contrary, i have been giving a little of that mixture in a rather unpalatable form, i fear. i haven't a very high opinion of the world, miss sadie." "including yourself, do you mean?" was sadie's demure reply. dr. douglass looked the least bit annoyed; then he laughed, and answered with quiet grace: "yes, including even such an important individual as myself. however, i have one merit which i consider very rare--sincerity." sadie's face assumed a half puzzled, half amused expression, as she tried by the moonlight to give a searching look at the handsome form leaning against the pillar opposite her. "i wonder if you _are_ as sincere as you pretend to be?" was her next complimentary sentence. "and also i wonder if the rest of the world are as unlimited a set of humbugs as you suppose? how do you fancy you happened to escape getting mixed up with the general humbugism of the world? this mr. parker, now, talks as though he felt it and meant it." "he is a first-class fanatic of the most outrageous sort. there ought to be a law forbidding such ranters to hold forth, on pain of imprisonment for life." "dr. douglass," said sadie, speaking with grave dignity, "i would rather not hear you speak of that old gentleman in such a manner. he may be a fanatic and a ranter, but i believe he means it, and i can't help respecting him more than any cold-blooded moralist that i ever met. besides, i can not forget that my honored father was among the despised class of whom you speak so scornfully." "my dear friend," and dr. douglass' tone was as gentle as her mother's could have been, "forgive me if i have pained you; it was not intentional. i do not know what i have been saying--some unkind things perhaps, and that is always ungentlemanly; but i have been greatly disturbed this evening, and that must be my apology. pardon me for detaining you so long in the evening air. may i advise you, professionally, to go in immediately?" "may i advise you unselfishly to get into a better humor with the world in general, and dr. van anden in particular, before you undertake to talk with a lady again?" sadie answered in her usual tones of raillery; all her dignity had departed. "meantime, if you would like to have unmolested possession of this piazza to assist you in tramping off your evil spirit, you shall be indulged. i'm going to the west side. the evening air and i are excellent friends." and with a mocking laugh and bow sadie departed. "i wonder," she soliloquized, returning to gravity the moment she was alone, "i wonder what that man has been saying to him now? how unhappy these two gentlemen make themselves. it would be a consolation to know right from wrong. i just wish i believed in everybody as i used to. the idea of this gray-headed minister being a hypocrite! that's absurd. but then the idea of dr. van anden being what he is! well, it's a queer world. i believe i'll go to bed." chapter xxiv. god's way. be it understood that dr. douglass was very much astonished, and not a little disgusted with himself. as he marched defiantly up and down the long piazza he tried to analyze his state of mind. he had always supposed himself to be a man possessed of keen powers of discernment, and yet withal exercising considerable charity toward his erring fellow-men, willing to overlook faults and mistakes, priding himself not a little on the kind and gentlemanly way in which he could meet ruffled human nature of any sort. in fact, he dwelt on a sort of pedestal, from the hight of which he looked calmly and excusingly down on weaker mortals. this, until to-night: now he realized, in a confused, blundering sort of way, that his pedestal had crumbled, or that he had tumbled from its hight, or at least that something new and strange had happened. for instance, what had become of his powers of discernment? here was this miserable doctor, who had been one of the thorns of his life, whom he had looked down upon as a canting hypocrite. was he, after all, mistaken? the explanation of to-night looked like it; he had been deceived in that matter which had years ago come between them; he could see it very plainly now. in spite of himself, the doctor's earnest, manly apology would come back and repeat itself to his brain, and demand admiration. now dr. douglass was honestly amazed at himself, because he was not pleased with this state of things. why was he not glad to discover that dr. van anden was more of a man than he had ever supposed? this would certainly be in keeping with the character of the courteous, unprejudiced gentleman that he had hitherto considered himself to be; but there was no avoiding the fact that the very thought of dr. van anden was exasperating, more so this evening than ever before. and the more his judgment became convinced that he had blundered, the more vexed did he become. "confound everybody!" he exclaimed at length, in utter disgust. "what on earth do i care for the contemptible puppy, that i should waste thought on him. what possessed the fellow to come whining around me to-night, and set me in a whirl of disagreeable thought? i ought to have knocked him down for his insufferable impudence in dragging me out publicly in that meeting." this he said aloud; but something made answer down in his heart: "oh, it's very silly of you to talk in this way. you know perfectly well that dr. van anden is not a contemptible puppy at all. he is a thoroughly educated, talented physician, a formidable rival, and you know it; and he didn't whine in the least this evening; he made a very manly apology for what was not so very bad after all, and you more than half suspect yourself of admiring him." "fiddlesticks!" said dr. douglass aloud to all this information, and went off to his room in high dudgeon. the next two days seemed to be very busy ones to one member of the ried family. dr. douglass sometimes appeared at meal time and sometimes not, but the parlor and the piazza were quite deserted, and even his own room saw little of him. sadie, when she chanced by accident to meet him on the stairs, stopped to inquire if the village was given over to small-pox, or any other dire disease which required his constant attention; and he answered her in tones short and sharp enough to have been dr. van anden himself: "it is given over to madness," and moved rapidly on. this encounter served to send him on a long tramp into the woods that very afternoon. in truth, dr. douglass was overwhelmed with astonishment at himself. two such days and nights as the last had been he hoped never to see again. it was as if all his pet theories had deserted him at a moment's warning, and the very spirit of darkness taken up his abode in their place. go whither he would, do what he would, he was haunted by these new, strange thoughts. sometimes he actually feared that he, at least, was losing his mind, whether the rest of the world were or not. being an utter unbeliever in the power of prayer, knowing indeed nothing at all about it, he would have scoffed at the idea that dr. van anden's impassioned, oft-repeated petitions had aught to do with him at this time. had he known that at the very time in which he was marching through the dreary woods, kicking the red and yellow leaves from his path in sullen gloom, ester in her little clothes-press, on her knees, was pleading with god for his soul, and that through him sadie might be reached, i presume he would have laughed. the result of this long communion with himself was as follows: that he had overworked and underslept, that his nervous system was disordered, that in the meantime he had been fool enough to attend that abominable sensation meeting, and the man actually had wonderful power over the common mind, and used his eloquence in a way that was quite calculated to confuse a not perfectly balanced brain. it was no wonder, then, in his state of bodily disorder, that the sympathetic mind should take the alarm. so much for the disease, now for the remedy. he would study less, at least he would stop reading half the night away; he would begin to practice some of his own preaching, and learn to be more systematic, more careful of this wonderful body, which could cause so much suffering; he would ride fast and long; above all, he would keep away from that church and that man, with his fanciful pictures and skillfully woven words. having determined his plan of action he felt better. there was no sense, he told himself, in yielding to the sickly sentimentalism which had bewitched him for the past few days; he was ashamed of it, and would have no more of it. he was master of his own mind, he guessed, always had been, and always _would_ be. and he started on his homeward walk with a good deal of alacrity, and much of his usual composure settling on his face. oh, would the gracious spirit which had been struggling with him leave him indeed to himself? "o god," pleaded ester, "give me this one soul in answer to my prayer. for the sake of sadie, bring this strong pillar obstructing her way to thyself. for the sake of jesus, who died for them both, bring them both to yield to him." dr. douglass paused at the place where two roads forked and mused, and the subject of his musing was no more important than this: should he go home by the river path or through the village? the river path was the longer, and it was growing late, nearly tea time; but if he took the main road he would pass his office, where he was supposed to be, as well as several houses where he ought to have been, besides meeting probably several people whom he would rather not see just at present. on the whole, he decided to take the river road, and walked briskly along, quite in harmony with himself once more, and enjoying the autumn beauty spread around him. a little white speck attracted his attention; he almost stopped to examine into it, then smiled at his curiosity, and moved on. "a bit of waste paper probably," he said to himself. "yet what a curious shape it was as if it had been carefully folded and hidden under that stone. suppose i see what it is? who knows but i shall find a fortune hidden in it?" he turned back a step or two, and stooped for the little white speck. one corner of it was nestled under a stone. it was a ragged, rumpled, muddy fragment of a letter, or an essay, which rain and wind and water had done their best to annihilate, and finally, seeming to become weary of their plaything, had tossed it contemptuously on the shore, and a pitying stone had rolled down and covered and preserved a tiny corner. dr. douglass eyed it curiously, trying to decipher the mud-stained lines, and being in a dreamy mood wondered meanwhile what young, fair hand had penned the words, and what of joy or sadness filled them. scarcely a word was readable, at least nothing that would gratify his curiosity, until he turned the bit of leaf, and the first line, which the stone had hidden, shone out distinctly: "sometimes i can not help asking myself why i was made--." here the corner was torn off, and whether that was the end of the original sentence or not, it was the end to him. god sometimes uses very simple means with which to confound the wisdom of this world. such a sudden and extraordinary revulsion of feeling as swept over dr. douglass he had never dreamed of before. he did not stop to question the strangeness of his state of mind, nor why that bit of soiled, torn paper should possess so fearful a power over him. he did not even realize at the moment that it was connected with this bewilderment, he only knew that the foundation upon which he had been building for years seemed suddenly to have been torn from under him by invisible hands, and left his feet sinking slowly down on nothing; and his inmost soul took suddenly up that solemn question with which he had never before troubled his logical brain: "i can not help asking myself why i was made?" there was only one other readable word on that paper, turn it whichever way he would, and that word was "god;" and he started and shivered when his eye met this, as if some awful voice had spoken it to his ear. "what unaccountable witchcraft has taken possession of me?" he muttered, at length. and turning suddenly he sat himself down on an old decaying log by the river side, and gave himself up to real, honest, solemn thought. "where is dr. douglass?" queried julia, appearing at the dining-room door just at tea time. "there is a boy at the door says they want him at judge beldon's this very instant." "he's _nowhere_" answered sadie solemnly, pausing in the work of arranging cups and saucers. "it's my private opinion that he has been and gone and hung himself. he passed the window about one o'clock, looking precisely as i should suppose a man would who was about to commit that interesting act, since which time i've answered the bell seventeen times to give the same melancholy story of his whereabouts." "my!" exclaimed the literal julia, hurrying back to the boy at the door. she comprehended her sister sufficiently to have no faith in the hanging statement, but honestly believed in the seventeen sick people who were waiting for the doctor. the church was very full again that evening. sadie had at first declared herself utterly unequal to another meeting that week, but had finally allowed herself to be persuaded into going; and had nearly been the cause of poor julia's disgrace because of the astonished look which she assumed as dr. douglass came down the aisle, with his usual quiet composure of manner, and took the seat directly in front of them. the sermon was concluded. the text: "see i have set before thee this day life and good, death and evil," had been dwelt upon in such a manner that it seemed to some as if the aged servant of god had verily been shown a glimpse of the two unseen worlds waiting for every soul, and was painting from actual memory the picture for them to look upon. that most solemn of all solemn hymns had just been sung: "there is a time, we know not when a point, we know not where, that marks the destiny of men 'twixt glory and despair. "there is a line, by us unseen, that crosses every path, the hidden boundary between god's mercy and his wrath." silence had but fairly settled on the waiting congregation when a strong, firm voice broke in upon it, and the speaker said: "i believe in my soul that i have met that point and crossed that line this day. i surely met god's mercy and his wrath, face to face, and struggled in their power. your hymn says, 'to cross that boundary is to die;' but i thank god that there are two sides to it. i feel that i have been standing on the very line, that my feet had well-nigh slipped. to-night i step over on to mercy's side. reckon me henceforth among those who have chosen life." "amen," said the veteran minister, with radiant face. "thank god," said the earnest pastor, with quivering lip. two heads were suddenly bowed in the silent ecstasy of prayer--they were ester's and dr. van anden's. as for sadie, she sat straight and still as if petrified with amazement, as she well-nigh felt herself to be, for the strong, firm voice belonged to dr. douglass! an hour later dr. van anden was pacing up and down the long parlor, with quick, excited steps, waiting for he hardly knew what, when a shadow fell between him and the gaslight. he glanced up suddenly, and his eyes met dr. douglass, who had placed himself in precisely the same position in which he had stood when they had met there before. dr. van anden started forward, and the two gentlemen clasped hands as they had never in their lives done before. dr. douglass broke the beautiful silence first with earnestly spoken words: "doctor, will you forgive all the past?" and dr. van anden answered: "oh, my brother in christ!" as for ester, she prayed, in her clothes-press, thankfully for dr. douglass, more hopefully for sadie, and knew not that a corner of the poor little letter which had slipped from julia's hand and floated down the stream one summer morning, thereby causing her such a miserable, _miserable_ day, was lying at that moment in dr. douglass' note-book, counted as the most precious of all his precious bits of paper. verily "his ways are not as our ways." chapter xxv. sadie surrounded. "oh," said sadie, with a merry toss of her brown curls, "_don't_ waste any more precious breath over me, i beg. i'm an unfortunate case, not worth struggling for. just let me have a few hours of peace once more. if you'll promise not to say 'meeting' again to me, i'll promise not to laugh at you once after this long drawn-out spasm of goodness has quieted, and you have each descended to your usual level once more." "sadie," said ester, in a low, shocked tone, "_do_ you think we are all hypocrites, and mean not a bit of this?" "by _no_ means, my dear sister of charity, at least not all of you. i'm a firm believer in diseases of all sorts. this is one of the violent kind of highly contagious diseases; they must run their course, you know. i have not lived in the house with two learned physicians all this time without learning that fact, but i consider this very nearly at its height, and live in hourly expectation of the 'turn.' but, my dear, i don't think you need worry about me in the least. i don't believe i'm a fit subject for such trouble. you know i never took whooping-cough nor measles, though i have been exposed a great many times." to this ester only replied by a low, tremulous, "don't, sadie, please." sadie turned a pair of mirthful eyes upon her for a moment, and noting with wonder the pale, anxious face and quivering lip of her sister, seemed suddenly sobered. "ester," she said quietly, "i don't think you are 'playing good;' i _don't_ positively. i believe you are thoroughly in earnest, but i think you have been through some very severe scenes of late, sickness and watching, and death, and your nerves are completely unstrung. i don't wonder at your state of feeling, but you will get over it in a little while, and be yourself again." "oh," said ester, tremulously, "i pray god i may _never_ be myself again; not the old self that you mean." "you will," sadie answered, with roguish positiveness. "things will go cross-wise, the fire won't burn, and the kettle won't boil, and the milk-pitcher will tip over, and all sorts of mischievous things will go on happening after a little bit, just as usual, and you will feel like having a general smash up of every thing in spite of all these meetings." ester sighed heavily. the old difficulty again--things would not be undone. the weeds which she had been carelessly sowing during all these past years had taken deep root, and would not give place. after a moment's silence she spoke again. "sadie, answer me just one question. what do you think of dr. douglass?" sadie's face darkened ominously. "never mind what i think of _him_," she answered in short, sharp tones, and abruptly left the room. what she _did_ think of him was this: that he had become that which he had affected to consider the most despicable thing on earth--a hypocrite. remember, she had no personal knowledge of the power of the spirit of god over a human soul. she had no conception of how so mighty a change could be wrought in the space of a few hours, so her only solution of the mystery was that to serve some end which he had in view dr. douglass had chosen to assume a new character. later, on that same day, sadie encountered dr. douglass, rather, she went to the side piazza equipped for a walk, and he came eagerly from the west end to speak with her. "miss sadie, i have been watching for you. i have a few words that are burning to be said." "proceed," said sadie, standing with demurely folded hands, and a mock gravity in her roguish eyes. "i want to do justice at this late day to dr. van anden. i misjudged him, wronged him, perhaps prejudiced you against him. i want to undo my work." "some things can be done more easily than they can be undone," was sadie's grave and dignified reply. "you certainly have done your best to prejudice me against dr. van anden not only, but against all other persons who hold his peculiar views, and you have succeeded splendidly. i congratulate you." that look of absolute pain which she had seen once or twice on this man's face, swept over it now as he answered her. "i know--i have been blind and stupid, _wicked_ any thing you will. most bitterly do i regret it now; most eager am i to make reparation." sadie's only answer was: "what a capital actor you would make, dr. douglass. are you sure you have not mistaken your vocation?" "i know what you think of me." this with an almost quivering lip, and a voice strangely humble and as unlike as possible to any which she had ever heard from dr. douglass before. "you think i am playing a part. though what my motive could be i can not imagine, can you? but i do solemnly assure you that if ever i was sincere in any thing in all my life i am now concerning this matter." "there is a most unfortunate 'if' in the way, doctor. you see, the trouble is, i have very serious doubts as to whether you ever were sincere in any thing in your life. as to motives, a first-class anybody likes to try his power. you will observe that 'i have a very poor opinion of the world.'" the doctor did not notice the quotation of his favorite expression, but answered with a touch of his accustomed dignity: "i may have deserved this treatment at your hands, miss sadie. doubtless i have, although i am not conscious of ever having said to you any thing which i did not _think_ i _meant_. i have been a _fool_. i am willing--yes, and anxious to own it. but there are surely some among your acquaintances whom you can trust if you can not me. i--" sadie interrupted him. "for instance, that 'first-class fanatic of the most objectionable stamp,' the man who dr. douglass thought, not three days ago, ought to be bound by law to keep the peace. i suppose you would have me unhesitatingly receive every word he says?" dr. douglass' face brightened instantly, and he spoke eagerly: "i remember those words, miss sadie, and just how honestly i spoke them, and just how bitterly i felt when i spoke them, and i have no more sure proof that this thing is of god than i have in noting the wonderful change which has come over my feelings in regard to that blessed man. i pray god that he may be permitted to speak to your soul with the tremendous power that he has to mine. oh, sadie, i have led you astray, may i not help you back?" "i am not a weather-vane, dr. douglass, to be whirled about by every wind of expediency; besides i am familiar with one verse in the bible, of which you seem never to have heard: whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. you have sowed well and faithfully; be content with your harvest." i do not know what the pale, grave lips would have answered to this mocking spirit, for at that moment dr. van anden and the black ponies whizzed around the corner, and halted before the gate. "sadie," said the doctor, "are you in the mood for a ride? i have five miles to drive." "dr. van anden," answered sadie, promptly, "the last time you and i took a ride together we quarreled." "precisely," said the doctor, bowing low. "let us take another now and make up." "very well," was the gleeful answer which he received, and in another minute they were off. for the first mile or two he kept a tight rein, and let the ponies skim over the ground in the liveliest fashion, during which time very little talking was done. after that he slackened his speed, and leaning back in the carriage addressed himself to sadie: "now we are ready to make up." "how shall we commence?" asked sadie, gravely. "who quarreled?" answered the doctor, sententiously. "well," said sadie, "i understand what you are waiting for. you think i was very rude and unladylike in my replies to you during that last interesting ride we took. you think i jumped at unwarrantable conclusions, and used some unnecessarily sharp words. i think so myself, and if it will be of any service to you to know it, i don't mind telling you in the least." "that is a very excellent beginning," answered the doctor, heartily. "i think we shall have no difficulty in getting the matter all settled now, for my part, it won't sound as well as yours, because however blunderingly i may have said what i did, i said it honestly, in good faith, and with a good and pure motive. but i am glad to be able to say in equal honesty that i believe i was over-cautious, that dr. douglass was never so little worthy of regard as i supposed him to be, and that nothing could have more rejoiced my heart than the noble stand which he has so recently taken. indeed his conduct has been so noble that i feel honored by his acquaintance." he was interrupted by a mischievous laugh. "a mutual admiration society," said sadie, in her most mocking tone. "did you and dr. douglass have a private rehearsal? you interrupted him in a similar rhapsody over your perfections." instead of seeming annoyed, dr. van anden's face glowed with pleasure. "did he explain to you our misunderstanding?" he asked, eagerly. "that was very noble in him." "of _course_. he is the soul of nobility--a villain yesterday and a saint to-day. i don't understand such marvelously rapid changes, doctor." "i know you don't," the doctor answered quietly. "although you have exaggerated both terms, yet there is a great and marvelous change, which must be experienced to be understood. will you never seek it for yourself, sadie?" "i presume i never shall, as i very much doubt the existence of any such phenomenon." the doctor appeared neither shocked nor surprised, but favored her with a cool and quiet reply: "oh, no, you don't doubt it in the least. don't try to make yourself out that foolish and unreasonable creature--an unbeliever in what is as clear to a thinking mind as is the sun at noonday. you and i have no need to enter into an argument concerning this matter. you have seen some unwise and inconsistent acts in many who are called by the name of christian. you imagine that they have staggered your belief in the verity of the thing itself. yet it is not so. you had a dear father who lived and died in the faith, and you no more doubt the fact that he is in heaven to-day, brought there by the power of the savior in whom he trusted, than you doubt your own existence at this moment." sadie sat silenced and grave; she was very rarely either, perhaps. dr. van anden was the one person who could have thus subdued her, but in her inmost heart she felt his words to be true; that dear, _dear_ father, whose weary suffering life had been one long evidence to the truth of the religion which he professed--yes, it was so, she no more doubted that he was at this moment in that blessed heaven toward which his hopes had so constantly tended, than she doubted the shining of that day's sun--so he, being dead, yet spoke to her. besides, her keen judgment had, of late, settled back upon the belief that dr. van anden lived a life that would bear watching--a true, earnest, manly life; also, that he was a man not likely to be deceived. so, sitting back there in the carriage, and appearing to look at nothing, and be interested in nothing, she allowed herself to take in again the firm conviction that whatever most lives were, there was always that father--safe, _safe_ in the christian's heaven--and there were besides some few, a very few, she thought; but there were _some_ still living, whom she knew, yes, actually _knew_, were fitting for that same far-away, safe place. no, sadie had stood upon the brink, was standing there still, indeed; but reason and the long-buried father still kept her from toppling over into the chasm of settled unbelief. "blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." but something must be said. sadie was not going to sit there and allow dr. van anden to imagine that she was utterly quieted and conquered; she would rather quarrel with him than have that. he had espoused dr. douglass' cause so emphatically, let him argue for him now; there was nothing like a good sharp argument to destroy the effect of unpleasant personal questions--so she blazed into sudden indignation: "i think dr. douglass is a hypocrite!" nothing could have been more composed than the tone in which she was answered: "very well. what then?" this question was difficult to answer, and sadie remaining silent, her companion continued: "mr. smith is a drunkard; therefore i will be a thief. is that miss sadie ried's logic?" "i don't see the point." "don't you? wasn't that exclamation concerning dr. douglass a bit of hiding behind the supposed sin of another--a sort of a reason why you were not a christian, because somebody else pretended to be? is that sound logic, sadie? when your next neighbor in class peeps in her book, and thereby disgraces herself, and becomes a hypocrite, do you straightway declare that you will study no more? you see it is fashionable, in talking of this matter of religion, to drag out the shortcomings and inconsistencies of others, and try to make of them a garment to covet our own sins; but it is very senseless, after all, and you will observe is never done in the discussion of any other question." clearly, sadie must talk in a common-sense way with this straightforward man, if she talked at all. her resolution was suddenly taken, to say for once just what she meant; and a very grave and thoughtful pair of eyes were raised to meet the doctor's when next she spoke. "i think of these things sometimes, doctor, and though a great deal of it seems to be humbug, it is as you say--i know _some_ are sincere, and i know there is a right way. i have been more than half tempted many times during the last few weeks to discover for myself the secret of power, but i am deterred by certain considerations, which you would, doubtless, think very absurd, but which, joined with the inspiration which i receive from the ridiculous inconsistencies of others, have been sufficient to deter me hitherto." "would you mind telling me some of the considerations?" and the moment sadie began to talk honestly, the doctor's tones lost their half-indifferent coolness, and expressed a kind and thoughtful interest. "no," she said, hesitatingly. "i don't know that i need, but you will not understand them; for instance, if i were a christian i should have to give up one of my favorite amusements--almost a passion, you know, dancing is with me, and i am not ready to yield it." "why should you feel obliged to do so if you were a christian?" sadie gave him the benefit of a very searching look. "don't _you_ think i would be?" she queried, after a moment's silence. "i haven't said what i thought on that subject, but i feel sure that it is not the question for you to decide at present; first settle the all-important one of your personal acceptation of christ, and then it will be time to decide the other matter, for or against, as your conscience may dictate." "oh, but," said sadie, positively, "i know very well what my conscience would dictate, and i am not ready for it." "isn't dancing an innocent amusement?" "for _me_ yes, but not for a christian." "does the bible lay down one code of laws for you and another for christians?" "i think so--it says, 'be not conformed to the world.'" "granted; but does it anywhere say to those who are of the world, '_you_ have a right to do just what you like; that direction does not apply to you at all, it is all intended for those poor christians?'" "dr. van anden," said sadie with dignity, "don't you think there should be a difference between christians and those who are not?" "undoubtedly i do. do _you_ think that every person ought or ought _not_ to be a christian?" sadie was silent, and a little indignant. after a moment she spoke again, this time with a touch of hauteur: "i think you understand what i mean, doctor, though you would not admit it for the world. i don't suppose i feel very deeply on the subject, else i would not advance so trivial an excuse; but this is honestly my state of mind. whenever i think about the matter at all, this thing comes up for consideration. i think it would be very foolish for me to argue against dancing, for i don't know much about the arguments, and care less. i know only this much, that there is a very distinctly defined inconsistency between a profession of religion and dancing, visible very generally to the eyes of those who make no profession; the other class don't seem so able to see it; but there exists very generally among us worldlings a disposition to laugh a little over dancing christians. whether this is a well-founded inconsistency, or only a foolish prejudice on our part, i have never taken the trouble to try to determine, and it would make little material difference which it was--it is enough for me that such is the case; and it makes it very plain to me that if i were an honest professor of that religion which leads one of its teachers to say, 'he will eat no meat while the world stands if it makes his brother to offend,' i should be obliged to give up my dancing. but since i am not one of that class, and thus have no such influence, i can see no possible harm in my favorite amusement, and am not ready to give it up; and that is what i mean by its being innocent for me, and not innocent for professing christians." dr. van anden made no sort of reply, if sadie could judge from his face; he seemed to have grown weary of the whole subject; he leaned back in his carriage, and let the reins fall loosely and carelessly. his next proceeding was most astounding; coolly possessing himself of one of the small gloved hands that lay idly in sadie's lap, he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone: "sadie, would you allow me to put my arm around you?" in an instant the indignant blood surged in waves over sadie's face; the hand was angrily withdrawn, and the graceful form drawn to an erect hight, and it is impossible to describe the freezing tone of astonished indignation in which she ejaculated, "dr. van anden!" "just what i expected," returned that gentleman in a composed manner, bestowing a look of entire satisfaction upon his irate companion. "and yet, sadie, i hope you will pardon my obtuseness, but i positively can not see why, if it is proper and courteous, and all that sort of thing, i, who am a friend of ten years' standing, should not enjoy the same privilege which you accord to fred kenmore, to whom you were introduced last week, and with whom i heard you say you danced five times." sadie looked confused and annoyed, but finally she laughed; for she had the good sense to see the folly of doing any thing else under existing circumstances. "that is the point which puzzles me at present," continued the doctor, in a kind, grave tone. "i do not understand how young ladies of refinement can permit, under certain circumstances, and often from comparative strangers, attentions which, under other circumstances, they repel with becoming indignation. won't you consider the apparent inconsistency a little? it is the only suggestion which i wish to offer on the question at present. when you have settled that other important matter, this thing will present itself to your clear-seeing eyes in other and more startling aspects. meantime, this is the house at which i must call. will you hold my horses, miss sadie, while i dispatch matters within?" chapter xxvi. confusion--cross-bearing--consequence. but the autumn days were not _all_ bright, and glowing, and glorious. one morning it rained--not a soft, silent, and warm rain, but a gusty, windy, turbulent one; a rain that drove into windows ever so slightly raised, and hurled itself angrily into your face whenever you ventured to open a door. it was a day in which fires didn't like to burn, but smoldered, and sizzled, and smoked; and people went around shivering, their shoulders shrugged up under little dingy, unbecoming shawls, and the clouds were low, and gray, and heavy--and every thing and every body seemed generally out of sorts. ester was no exception; the toothache had kept her awake during the night, and one cheek was puffy and stiff in the morning, and one tooth still snarled threateningly whenever the slightest whisper of a draught came to it. the high-toned, exalted views of life and duty which had held possession of her during the past few weeks seemed suddenly to have deserted her. in short, her body had gained that mortifying ascendency over the soul which it will sometimes accomplish, and all her hopes, and aims, and enthusiasms seemed blotted out. things in the kitchen were uncomfortable. maggie had seized on this occasion for having the mumps, and acting upon the advice of her sympathizing mistress, had pinned a hot flannel around her face and gone to bed. the same unselfish counsel had been given to ester, but she had just grace enough left to refuse to desert the camp, when dinner must be in readiness for twenty-four people in spite of nerves and teeth. just here, however, the supply failed her, and she worked in ominous gloom. julia had been pressed into service, and was stoning raisins, or eating them, a close observer would have found it difficult to discover which. she was certainly rasping the nerves of her sister in a variety of those endless ways by which a thoughtless, restless, questioning child can almost distract a troubled brain. ester endured with what patience she could the ceaseless drafts upon her, and worked at the interminable cookies with commendable zeal. alfred came with a bang and a whistle, and held open the side door while he talked. in rushed the spiteful wind, and all the teeth in sympathy with the aching one set up an immediate growl. "mother, i don't see any. why, where is mother?" questioned alfred; and was answered with an emphatic "shut that door!" "well, but," said alfred, "i want mother. i say, ester, will you give me a cookie?" "no!" answered ester, with energy. "did you hear me tell you to shut that door this instant?" "well now, don't bite a fellow." and alfred looked curiously at his sister. meantime the door closed with a heavy bang. "mother, say, mother," he continued, as his mother emerged from the pantry, "i don't see any thing of that hammer. i've looked every-where. mother, can't i have one of ester's cookies? i'm awful hungry." "why, i guess so, if you are really suffering. try again for the hammer, my boy; don't let a poor little hammer get the better of you." "well," said alfred, "i won't," meaning that it should answer the latter part of the sentence; and seizing a cookie he bestowed a triumphant look upon ester and a loving one upon his mother, and vanished amid a renewal of the whistle and bang. this little scene did not serve to help ester; she rolled away vigorously at the dough, but felt some way disturbed and outraged, and finally gave vent to her feeling in a peremptory order. "julia, don't eat another raisin; you've made away with about half of them now." julia looked aggrieved. "mother lets me eat raisins when i pick them over for her," was her defense; to which she received no other reply than-- "keep your elbows off the table." then there was silence and industry for some minutes. presently julia recovered her composure, and commenced with-- "say, ester, what makes you prick little holes all over your biscuits?" "to make them rise better." "does every thing rise better after it is pricked?" sadie was paring apples at the end table, and interposed at this point-- "if you find that to be the case, julia, you must be very careful after this, or we shall have ester pricking you when you don't 'rise' in time for breakfast in the morning." julia suspected that she was being made a dupe of, and appealed to her older sister: "_honestly_, ester, _do_ you prick them so they will rise better?" "of course. i told you so, didn't i?" "well, but why does that help them any? can't they get up unless you make holes in them, and what is all the reason for it?" now, these were not easy questions to answer, especially to a girl with the toothache, and ester's answer was not much to the point. "julia, i declare you are enough to distract one. if you ask any more questions i shall certainly send you up stairs out of the way." her scientific investigations thus nipped in the bud, julia returned again to silence and raisins, until the vigorous beating of some eggs roused anew the spirit of inquiry. she leaned eagerly forward with a-- "say, ester, please tell me why the whites all foam and get thick when you stir them, just like beautiful white soapsuds." and she rested her elbow, covered with its blue sleeve, plump into the platter containing the beaten yolks. you must remember ester's face-ache, but even then i regret to say that this disaster culminated in a decided box on the ear for poor julia, and in her being sent weeping up stairs. sadie looked up with a wicked laugh in her bright eyes, and said, demurely: "you didn't keep your promise, ester, and let me live in peace, so i needn't keep mine and i consider you pretty well out of the spasm which has lasted for so many days." "sadie, i am really ashamed of you." this was mrs. ried's grave, reproving voice; and she added, kindly: "ester, poor child, i wish you would wrap your face up in something warm and lie down awhile. i am afraid you are suffering a great deal." poor ester! it had been a hard day. late in the afternoon, as she stood at the table, and cut the bread, and cake, and cheese, and cold meat for tea; when the sun had made a rift in the clouds, and was peeping in for good-night; when the throbbing nerves had grown quiet once more, she looked back upon this weary day in shame and pain. how very little her noble resolves, and efforts, and advances had been worth after all. how far back she seemed to have gone in that one day--not strength enough to bear even the little crosses that befell in an ordinarily quiet life! how she had lost the so-lately-gained influence over alfred and julia by a few cross words! how much reason she had given sadie to think that her attempts at following the master were, after all, only spasmodic and visionary! but ester had been to that little clothes-press up stairs in search of help and forgiveness, and now she clearly saw there was something to do besides mourn over her failures. it was hard to do it, too. ester's spirit was proud, and it was very humbling to confess herself in the wrong. she hesitated and shrank from the work, until she finally grew ashamed of herself for that; and at last, without turning her head from her work, or giving her resolve time to falter, she called to the twins, who were occupying seats in one of the dining-room windows, and talking low and soberly to each other: "children, come here a moment, will you?" the two had been very shy of ester since the morning's trials, and were at that moment sympathizing with each other in a manner uncomplimentary to her. however, they slid down from their perch and slowly answered her call. ester glanced up as they entered the storeroom, and then went on cutting her cheese, but speaking in low, gentle tones: "i want to tell you two how sorry i am that i spoke so crossly and unkindly to you this morning. it was very wrong in me. i thought i never should displease jesus so again, but i did, you see; and now i am very sorry indeed, and i want you to forgive me." alfred looked aghast. this was an ester that he had never seen before, and he didn't know what to say. he wriggled the toes of his boots together, and looked down at them in puzzled wonder. at last he faltered out: "i didn't know your cheek ached till mother told me, or else i'd have shut the door right straight. i'd ought to, _any how_, cheek or no cheek." this last in a lower tone, and more looking down at his boots. it was new work for alfred, this voluntarily owning himself in the wrong. julia burst forth eagerly. "and i was very careless and naughty to keep putting my elbows on the table after you had told me not to, and i am ever so sorry that i made you such a lot of trouble." "well, then," said ester, "we'll all forgive each other, shall we, and begin over again? and, children, i want you to understand that i _am_ trying to please jesus; and when i fail it is because of my own wicked heart, not because there is any need of it if i tried harder; and i want you to know how anxious i am that you should love this same jesus now while you are young, and get him to help you." their mother called the children at this moment, and ester dismissed them each with a kiss. there was a little rustle in the flour-room, and sadie, whom nobody knew was down stairs, emerged therefrom with suspiciously red eyes but a laughing face, and approached her sister. "ester," said she, "i'm positively afraid that you are growing into a saint, and i know that i'm a sinner. i consider myself mistaken about the spasm--it is evidently a settled disease." while the bell tolled for evening service ester stood in the front doorway, and looked doubtfully up and down the damp pavements and muddy streets, and felt of her stiff cheek. how much she seemed to need the rest and help of god's house to-night; and yet-- julia's little hand stole softly into hers. "we've been talking about what you said you wanted us to do, alfred and i have. we've talked about it a good deal lately. _we_ most wish so, too." ere ester could reply other than by an eager grasp of the small hand, dr. douglass came out. his horses and carriage were in waiting. "miss ried," he said, pausing irresolutely with his foot on the carriage step, and finally turning back, "i am going to drive down to church this evening, as i have a call to make afterward. will you not ride down with me; it is unpleasant walking?" ester's grave face brightened. "i'm so glad," she answered eagerly. "i _did_ want to go to church to-night, and i was afraid it would be imprudent on account of my tooth." alfred and julia sat right before them in church; and ester watched them with a prayerful, and yet a sad heart what right had she to expect an answer to her petitions when her life had been working against them all that day? and yet the blood of christ was all-powerful, and there was always _his_ righteousness to plead; and she bent her head in renewed supplications for these two, "and it shall come to pass, that before they call i will answer, and while they are yet speaking i will hear." into one of the breathless stillnesses that came, while beating hearts were waiting for the requests that they hoped would be made, broke julia's low, trembling, yet singularly clear voice: "please pray for me." there was a little choking in alfred's throat, and a good deal of shuffling done with his boots. it was so much more of a struggle for the sturdy boy than the gentle little girl; but he stood manfully on his feet at last, and his words, though few, were fraught with as much meaning as any which had been spoken there that evening, for they were distinct and decided: "me, too." chapter xxvii. the time to sleep life went swiftly and busily on. with the close of december the blessed daily meetings closed, rather they closed with the first week of the new year, which the church kept as a sort of jubilee week in honor of the glorious things that had been done for them. the new year opened in joy for ester; many things were different. the honest, straightforward little julia carried all her earnestness of purpose into this new life which had possessed her soul; and the sturdy brother had naturally too decided a nature to do any thing half-way, so ester was sure of this young sister and brother. besides, there was a new order of things between her mother and herself; each had discovered that the other was bound on the same journey, and that there were delightful resting-places by the way. for herself, she was slowly but surely gaining. little crosses that she stooped and resolutely took up grew to be less and less, until they, some of them, merged into positive pleasures. there were many things that cast rays of joy all about her path; but there was still one heavy abiding sorrow. sadie went giddily and gleefully on her downward way. if she perchance seemed to have a serious thought at night it vanished with the next morning's sunshine, and day by day ester realized more fully how many tares the enemy had sown while she was sleeping. sometimes the burden grew almost too heavy to be borne, and again she would take heart of grace and bravely renew her efforts and her prayers. it was about this time that she began to recognize a new feeling. she was not sick exactly, and yet not quite well. she discovered, considerably to her surprise, that she was falling into the habit of sitting down on a stair to rest ere she had reached the top of the first flight; also, that she was sometimes obliged to stay her sweeping and clasp her hands suddenly over a strange beating in her heart. but she laughed at her mother's anxious face, and pronounced herself quite well, quite well, only perhaps a little tired. meantime all sorts of plans for usefulness ran riot in her brain. she could not go away on a mission because her mission had come to her. for a wonder she realized that her mother needed her. she took up bravely and eagerly, so far as she could see it, the work that lay around her; but her restless heart craved more, more. she _must_ do something outside of this narrow circle for the master. one evening her enthusiasm, which had been fed for several days on a new scheme that was afloat in the town, reached its hight. ester remembered afterward every little incident connected with that evening--just how cozy the little family sitting-room looked, with her for its only occupant; just how brightly the coals glowed in the open grate; just what a brilliant color they flashed over the crimson cushioned rocker, which she had vacated when she heard dr. van anden's step in the hall, and went to speak to him. she was engaged in writing a letter to abbie, full of eager schemes and busy, bright work. "i am astonished that i ever thought there was nothing worth living for;" so she wrote. "why life isn't half long enough for the things that i want to do. this new idea just fills me with delight. i am so eager to get to work--" thus far when she heard that step, and springing up went with eagerness to the door. "doctor, are you in haste? haven't you just five minutes for me?" "ten," answered the doctor promptly, stepping into the bright little room. in her haste, not even waiting to offer him a seat, ester plunged at once into her subject. "aren't you the chairman of that committee to secure teachers for the evening school?" "i am." "have you all the help you want?" "not by any means. volunteers for such a self-denying employment as teaching factory girls are not easy to find." "well, doctor, do you think--would you be willing to propose my name as one of the teachers? i should so like to be counted among them." instead of the prompt thanks which she expected, to her dismay dr. van anden's face looked grave and troubled. finally he slowly shook his head with a troubled-- "i don't think i can, ester." such an amazed, grieved, hurt look as swept over ester's face. "it is no matter," she said at last, speaking with an effort. "of course i know little of teaching, and perhaps could do no good; but i thought if help was scarce you might--well, never mind." and here the doctor interposed. "it is not that, ester," with the troubled look deepening on his face. "i assure you we would be glad of your help, but," and he broke off abruptly, and commenced a sudden pacing up and down the room. then stopped before her with these mysterious words: "i don't know how to tell you, ester." ester's look now was one of annoyance, and she spoke quickly. "why, doctor, you need tell me nothing. i am not a child to have the truth sugar-coated. if my help is not needed, that is sufficient." "your help is exactly what we need, ester, but your health is not sufficient for the work." and now ester laughed. "why, doctor, what an absurd idea in a week i shall be as well as ever. if that is all you may surely count me as one of your teachers." the doctor smiled faintly, and then asked: "do you never feel any desire to know what may be the cause of this strange lassitude which is creeping over you, and the sudden flutterings of heart, accompanied by pain and faintness, which take you unawares?" ester's face paled a little, but she asked, quietly enough: "how do you know all this?" "i am a physician, ester. do you think it is kindness to keep a friend in ignorance of what very nearly concerns him, simply to spare his feelings for a little?" "why, dr. van anden, you do not think--you do not mean that--tell me _exactly what_ you mean." but the doctor's answer was grave, anxious, absolute _silence_. perhaps the silence answered her--perhaps her own heart told the secret to her, for a sudden gray palor overspread her face. for an instant the room darkened and whirled around her, then she staggered as if she would have fallen, then she reached forward and caught hold of the little red rocker, and sank into it, and leaning both elbows on the writing-table before her, buried her face in her hands. afterward ester called to mind the strange whirl of thoughts which thrilled her brain at that time. life in all the various phases that she had thought it would wear for her, all the endless plans that she had made, all the things that she had meant to _do_ and _be_, came and stared her in the face. nowhere in all her plannings crossed by that strange creature death; someway she had never planned for that. could it be possible that he was to come for her so soon, before any of these things were done? was it possible that she must leave sadie, bright, brilliant, unsafe sadie, and go away where she could work for her no more? then, like a picture spread before her, there came back that day in the cars, on her way to new york, the christian stranger, who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven--the earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange sentence on her lips: "maybe my coffin will do it better than i can." well, maybe _her_ coffin could do it for sadie. oh the blessed thought! plans? yes, but perhaps god had plans too. what mattered hers compared to _his_? if he would that she should do her earthly work by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the "rest that remaineth," "what was that to her?" presently she spoke without raising her head. "are you very certain of this thing, doctor, and is it to come to me soon?" "that last we can not tell, dear friend. you _may_ be with us years yet, and it _may_ be swift and sudden. i think it is worse than mistaken kindness, it is foolish wickedness, to treat a christian woman like a little child. i wanted to tell you before the shock would be dangerous to you." "i understand." when she spoke again it was in a more hesitating tone. "does dr. douglass agree with you?" and the quick, pained way in which the doctor answered showed her that he understood. "dr. douglass will not _let_ himself believe it." then a long silence fell between them. the doctor kept his position, leaning against the mantel, but never for a moment allowed his eyes to turn away from that motionless figure before him. only the loving, pitying savior knew what was passing in that young heart. at last she arose and came toward the doctor, with a strange sweetness playing about her mouth, and a strange calm in her voice. "dr. van anden, i am _so_ much obliged to you. don't be afraid to leave me now. i think i need to be quite alone." and the doctor, feeling that all words were vain and useless, silently bowed, and softly let himself out of the room. the first thing upon which ester's eye alighted when she turned again to the table was the letter in which she had been writing those last words: "why life isn't half long enough for the things that i want to do." very quietly she picked up the letter and committed it to the glowing coals upon the grate. her mood had changed. by degrees, very quietly and very gradually, as such bitter things _do_ creep in upon a family, it grew to be an acknowledged fact that ester was an invalid. little by little her circle of duties narrowed, one by one her various plans were silently given up, the dear mother first, and then sadie, and finally the children, grew into the habit of watching her footsteps, and saving her from the stairs, from the lifting, from every possible burden. once in a long while, and then, as the weeks passed, more frequently, there would come a day in which she did not get down further than the little sitting-room, but was established amid pillows on the couch, "enjoying poor health," as she playfully phrased it. so softly and silently and surely the shadow crept and crept, until when june brought roses and abbie. ester received her in her own room, propped up among the pillows in her bed. gradually they grew accustomed to that also, as god in his infinite mercy has planned that human hearts shall grow used to the inevitable. they even told each other hopefully that the warm weather was what depressed her so much, and as the summer heat cooled into autumn she would grow stronger. and she had bright days in which she really seemed to grow strong, and which deceived every body save dr. van anden and herself. during one of those bright days sadie came from school full of a new idea, and curled herself in front of ester's couch to entertain her with it. "mr. hammond's last," she said. "such a curious idea, as like him as possible, and like nobody else. you know that our class will graduate in just two years from this time, and there are fourteen of us, an even number, which is lucky for mr. hammond. well, we are each, don't you think, to write a letter, as sensible, honest, and piquant as we can make it, historic, sentimental, poetic, or otherwise, as we please, so that it be the honest exponent of our views. then we are to make a grand exchange of letters among the class, and the young lady who receives my letter, for instance, is to keep it sealed, and under lock and key, until graduation day, when it is to be read before scholars, faculty, and trustees, and my full name announced as the signature; and all the rest of us are to perform in like manner." "what is supposed to be the object?" queried abbie. "precisely the point which oppressed us, until mr. hammond complimented us by announcing that it was for the purpose of discovering how many of us, after making use of our highest skill in that line, could write a letter that after two years we should be willing to acknowledge as ours." ester sat up flushed and eager. "that is a very nice idea," she said, brightly. "i'm so glad you told me of it. sadie, i'll write you a letter for that day. i'll write it to-morrow, and you are to keep it sealed until the evening of that day on which you graduate. then when you have come up to your room and are quite alone, you are to read it. will you promise, sadie?" but sadie only laughed merrily, and said "you are growing sentimental, ester, as sure is the world. how can i make any such promise as that? i shall probably chatter to you like a magpie instead of reading any thing." this young girl utterly ignored so far as was possible the fact of ester's illness, never allowing it to be admitted in her presence that there were any fears as to the result. ester had ceased trying to convince her, so now she only smiled quietly and repeated her petition. "will you promise, sadie?" "oh yes, i'll promise to go to the mountains of the moon on foot and alone, across lots--_any thing_ to amuse you. you're to be pitied, you see, until you get over this absurd habit of cuddling down among the pillows." so a few days thereafter she received with much apparent glee the dainty sealed letter addressed to herself, and dropped it in her writing-desk, but ere she turned the key there dropped a tear or two on the shining lid. well, as the long, hot summer days grew longer and fiercer, the invalid drooped and drooped, and the home faces grew sadder. yet there still came from time to time those rallying days, wherein sadie confidently pronounced her to be improving rapidly. and so it came to pass that so sweet was the final message that the words of the wonderful old poem proved a siting description of it all. "they thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died." into the brightness of the september days there intruded one, wherein all the house was still, with that strange, solemn stillness that comes only to those homes where death has left a seal. from the doors floated the long crape signals, and in the great parlors were gathering those who had come to take their parting look at the white, quiet face. "ester ried, aged ," so the coffin-plate told them. thus early had the story of her life been finished. only one arrangement had ester made for this last scene in her life drama. "i am going to preach my own funeral sermon," she had said pleasantly to abbie one day. "i want every one to know what seemed to me the most important thing in life. and i want them to understand that when i came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing still--for christians, i mean. my sermon is to be preached for them. no it isn't either; it applies equally to all. the last time i went to the city i found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon i want preached. i bought it. you will find the package in my upper bureau drawer, abbie. i leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that every one who comes to look at _me_ will be sure to see them." so on this day, amid the wilderness of flowers and vines and mosses that had possession of the rooms, ranged along the mantel, hanging in clusters on the walls, were beautifully illuminated texts--and these were some of the words that they spoke to those who silently gathered in the parlors: "and that knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep." "but wilt thou know, o vain man, that faith without works is dead?" "what shall we do that we might work the works of god?" "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest." "i must work the work of him that sent me while it is day: the night cometh when no man can work." "awake to righteousness and sin not." "awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and christ shall give thee light." "redeeming the time, because the days are evil." "let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch, and be sober." chiming in with the thoughts of those who knew by whose direction the illuminated texts were hung, came the voice of the minister, reading: "and i heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." so it was that ester ried, lying quiet in her coffin, was reckoned among that number who "being dead, yet speaketh." chapter xxviii. at last. the busy, exciting, triumphant day was done. sadie ried was no longer a school-girl; she had graduated. and although a dress of the softest, purest white had been substituted for the blue silk, in which she had so long ago planned to appear, its simple folds had swept the platform of music hall in as triumphant a way as ever she had planned for the other. more so, for sadie's wildest flights of fancy had never made her valedictorian of her class, yet that she certainly was. in some respects it had been a merry day--the long sealed letters had been opened and read by their respective holders that morning, and the young ladies had discovered, amid much laughter and many blushes, that they were ready to pronounce many of the expressions which they had carefully made only two years before, "ridiculously out of place" or "absurdly sentimental." "progress," said mr. hammond, turning for a moment to sadie, after he had watched with an amused smile the varying play of expression on her speaking face, while she listened to the reading of her letter. "you were not aware that you had improved so much in two years, now, were you?" "i was not aware that i ever was such a simpleton!" was her half-provoked, half-amused reply. to-night she loitered strangely in the parlors, in the halls, on the stairs, talking aimlessly with any one who would stop; it was growing late. mrs. ried and the children had long ago departed. dr. van anden had not yet returned from his evening round of calls. every body in and about the house was quiet, ere sadie, with slow, reluctant steps, finally ascended the stairs and sought her room. arrived there, she seemed in no haste to light the gas; moonlight was streaming into the room, and she put herself down in front of one of the low windows to enjoy it. but it gave her a view of the not far distant cemetery, and gleamed on a marble slab, the lettering of which she knew perfectly well was--"ester, daughter of alfred and laura ried, died sept. , --, aged . asleep in jesus--awake to everlasting life." and that reminded her, as she had no need to be reminded, of a letter with the seal unbroken, lying in her writing-desk--a letter which she had promised to read this evening--promised the one who wrote it for her, and over whose grave the moonlight was now wrapping its silver robe. sadie felt strangely averse to reading that letter; in part, she could imagine its contents, and for the very reason that she was still "halting between two opinions," "almost persuaded," and still on that often fatal "almost" side, instead of the "altogether," did she wait and linger, and fritter away the evening as best she could, rather than face that solemn letter. even when she turned resolutely from the window, and lighted the gas, and drew down the shade, she waited to put every thing tidy on her writing-table, and then, when she had finally turned the key in her writing-desk, to read over half a dozen old letters and bits of essays, and scraps of poetry, ere she reached down for that little white envelope, with her name traced by the dear familiar hand that wrote her name no more. at last the seal was broken, and sadie read: "my darling sister: "i am sitting to-day in our little room--yours and mine. i have been taking in the picture of it; every thing about it is dear to me, from our father's face smiling down on me from the wall, to the little red rocker in which he sat and wrote, in which i sit now, and in which you will doubtless sit, when i have gone to him. i want to speak to you about that time. when you read this, i shall have been gone a long, long time, and the bitterness of the parting will all be past; you will be able to read calmly what i am writing. i will tell you a little of the struggle. for the first few moments after i knew that i was soon to die, my brain fairly reeled; it seemed to me that i _could_ not. i had so much to live for, there was so much that i wanted to do; and most of all other things, i wanted to see you a christian. i wanted to live for that, to work for it, to undo if i could some of the evil that i knew my miserable life had wrought in your heart. then suddenly there came to me the thought that perhaps what my life could not do, my coffin would accomplish--perhaps that was to be god's way of calling you to himself perhaps he meant to answer my pleading in that way, to let my grave speak for me, as my crooked, marred, sinful living might never be able to do. my darling, then i was content; it came to me so suddenly as that almost the certainty that god meant to use me thus, and i love you so, and i long so to see you come to him, that i am more than willing to give up all that this life seemed to have for me, and go away, if by that you would be called to christ. "and sadie, dear, you will know before you read this, how much i had to give up. you will know very soon all that dr. douglass and i looked forward to being to each other--but i give it up, give him up, more than willingly--joyfully--glad that my father will accept the sacrifice, and make you his child. oh, my darling, what a life i have lived before you! i do not wonder that, looking at me, you have grown into the habit of thinking that there is nothing in religion--you have looked at me, not at jesus, and there has been no reflection of his beauty in me, as there should have been, and the result is not strange. knowing this, i am the more thankful that god will forgive me, and use me as a means to bring you home at last. i speak confidently. i am sure, you see, that it will be; the burden, the fearful burden that i have carried about with me so long, has gone away. my redeemer and yours has taken it from me. i shall see you in heaven. father is there, and i am going, oh _so_ fast, and mother will not be long behind, and alfred and julia have started on the journey, and you _will_ start. oh, i know it--we shall all be there! i told my savior i was willing to do any thing, _any thing_, so my awful mockery of a christian life, that i wore so long, might not be the means of your eternal death. and he has heard my prayer. i do not know when it will be; perhaps you will still be undecided when you sit in our room and read these words. oh, i hope, i _hope_ you will not waste two years more of your life, but if you do, if as you read these last lines that i shall ever write, the question is unsettled, i charge you by the memory of your sister, by the love you bear her not to wait another _moment_--not one. oh, my darling, let me beg this at your hands; take it as my dying petition--renewed after two years of waiting. come to jesus now. "that question settled, then let me give you one word of warning. do not live as i have done--my life has been a failure--five years of stupid sleep, while the enemy waked and worked. oh, god, forgive me! sadie, never let that be your record. let me give you a motto--'press toward the mark.' the mark is high; don't look away from or forget it, as i did; don't be content with simply sauntering along, looking toward it now and then, but take in the full meaning of that earnest sentence, and live it--'press toward the mark!' "and now good-by. when you have finished reading this letter, do this last thing for me: if you are already a christian, get down on your knees and renew your covenant; resolve anew to live and work, and suffer and die, for christ. if you are not a christian--oh, i put my whole soul into this last request--i beg you kneel and give yourself up to jesus. my darling, good-by until we meet in heaven. "ester ried." the letter dropped from sadie's nerveless fingers. she arose softly, and turned down the gas, and raised the shade--the moonlight still gleamed on the marble slab. dr. van anden came with quick, firm tread up the street. she gave a little start as she recognized the step, and her thoughts went out after that other lonely doctor, who was to have been her brother, and then back to the long, earnest letter and the words, "i give him up"--and she realized as only those can who know by experience, what a giving up that would be, how much her sister longed for her soul. and then, moved by a strong, firm resolve, sadie knelt in the solemn moonlight, and the long, long struggle was ended. father and sister were in heaven, but on earth, this night, their prayers were being answered. "blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." the end. violet: a fairy story. boston: phillips, sampson, and company. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by phillips, sampson, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. publishers' advertisement. in the absence of any preface by the author, the publishers desire to call special attention to this most exquisite little story. it breathes such a love of nature in all her forms, inculcates such excellent principles, and is so full of beauty and simplicity, that it will delight not only children, but all readers of unsophisticated tastes. the author seems to teach the gentle creed which coleridge has imbodied in those familiar lines,-- "he prayeth well who loveth well both man, and bird, and beast." violet: a fairy story. chapter i. violet's home. once there was a gardener who lived in an old hut of a house, with one table inside, and some rough stools, and a large box that served for a bed, all of which he had made himself. there was one window; but when it stormed the rain beat in so that the old lady, his wife, had to pin her shawl against it, and then the whole house was dark as night. every body thought these people poor except themselves; but they had one treasure which seemed to them better than a whole mountain of gold and all the splendid houses and gay carriages in the world. this was their little daughter violet, whose presence in their home made it beautiful and stately, and whose absence, they thought, would have made a palace dull. violet was not as beautiful as some children. she was pale and slender, and her soft, light hair did not curl in ringlets, but floated over her shoulders like a golden veil. but o, she had such beautiful eyes! they were large, and so bright and clear, and such a deep, deep blue! sometimes they made you think of a brook in the shady wood when gleams of sunshine have found their way to it; sometimes they were like nothing so much as the violets that grew beside the doorway of her own father's hut. the old man had, besides his daughter, a garden, which was dear to him; and well it might be, for in summer it did one's eyes good to look at the blossoms all tangled together, and sprinkled over with great drops of pearly dew. roses there were, and lilies, and fox-gloves, and mignonette, and a great many other flowers that had long names, which violet could not remember. then there were long, neatly-kept beds of vegetables and sweet herbs, which reuben--for that was the gardener's name--carried to market. now, while reuben was digging his vegetables, his wife and violet would gather the prettiest flowers and buds, and tie them into bouquets with so much taste that soon the old gardener became famous for his flowers, and many rich people sought him out, promising to buy all he would bring to their houses. flowers only grow in summer time; and all the year round people must eat, and drink, and wear clothes; and then reuben had to pay rent for his garden; so, notwithstanding their industry, violet's friends were poor. but they were happier than a great many rich people, and certainly loved violet as well as though she had been a queen. they were so kind to her that sometimes the little girl thought, if there were such beings as fairies, they must look into her heart every day, find out her wishes, and tell them to her good parents. between you and me, there _were_ two fairies--one named love and the other contentment--that lived all the time in reuben's hut; and though violet had never seen their faces, and did not even know their names, they were always doing something for her. it was because these excellent friends had touched her coarse garments that they looked fine and soft as velvet to her eyes; it was because they never left the old black hut that it looked so clean and sunny--cheerful as a palace. you may wonder, if these fairies were so powerful, why they didn't have a palace of their own; but you must remember directly they enter a place it becomes a palace; and besides, violet possessed a charm so powerful that even the fairies could not fly away unless she gave them leave; and yet--wasn't it queer?--she did not know this herself. chapter ii. strange playfellows. violet's birthday was very near; but she had forgotten all about it, birthdays came so far apart in her happy life. from morning until evening seemed long enough for a year to her; she found so much work to do, and such beautiful walks to take, and had so many playfellows, to say nothing of the two good fairies that always watched over and followed her. perhaps you wonder how the little girl found friends, living as she did away out in a lonesome field among the mountains. she could have described her pets to you better than i can, because the fairy love dressed them up for her in jewels and rainbows, while to others they were only toads, and snakes, and flies, and trees, and brooks, and clouds. funny playfellows, you will think. there was one good thing about them--they never quarrelled or used bad words; and then it was sport for violet, after her work was finished, to scamper away with them. but if she ran ever so fast, the fairy love always kept up with her; and it is well she did; for if she had staid at home, or fallen into a pit on the way, all violet's dear playfellows would have changed in an instant--have grown ugly and coarse, and, what is worse, she would have trodden on them and crushed their wings--by mistake, i hope, for she never had been so wicked; and violet herself would have changed into a little peevish girl, with a sickly face and loose yellow hair, and wearing a dress so coarse and rough you would not give it to a beggar child. but violet kept the charm locked safe in her heart, and therefore, wander wherever she would, the fairies had to follow. they were up with her early in summer mornings, for she loved dearly to watch the sun rise. she would climb a hill, at the foot of which reuben's hut was built, and all alone up there, close, she thought, to the soft, rosy sky, would wait and watch, and at last clap her little hands for joy when the great golden sun came in sight above the woods. she would stand on tiptoe, and laugh aloud when she saw the shadows fly away, like frightened birds, before the sunshine, which flooded all the valley now, and which lay upon the beautiful wreaths of mist that went curling up to meet it from the ponds and brooks, brightening them to dazzling whiteness--so like the clouds in heaven that violet half believed the earth about her was beautiful as that far-off blue sky. so it would be if every little girl and boy kept two good fairies, like love and contentment, flying about with them. how the grass glittered with dew! how the slender wild flowers were bowed down with its weight!--pearl and diamond beads strung all along the stems, and edging every petal. children who keep in bed until eight o'clock know very little about the beauty of summer mornings. perhaps, even if they did arise in time, they would be afraid of wetting their shoes in the grass; but violet was very poor, you know, and never wore a shoe in her life, and lived out of doors so much that she was not in the least delicate. as soon as the sunshine had crept near their nests among the green boughs of the wood, all the wild birds began to flutter about and sing such loud, clear, sweet songs that violet could not help joining the chorus; and any one else would have known that fairies love and contentment were singing loudest of all. violet heard their music, but supposed it came from the birds. how she wanted to fly away with them, up among the beautiful rosy clouds! but love whispered in her ear,-- "won't your mother want you, little girl, at home? cannot you help her there?" and just then a bird fluttered away from a dew-wet bough, dashing a whole shower of drops in violet's face. instead of being angry, she laughed, and shouted,-- "do it again, bird. if i can't fly away with you, you may wash my face before you go. do it again." but the bird was soon out of sight among the clouds, and violet, with these pearly dewdrops clustering in her golden hair, went dancing down the hill. chapter iii. the mountain brook. close beside the pathway ran a little murmuring brook, foaming and sparkling over its rocky bed, gliding just as merrily through the dark shadows as when its course lay open to the sun. it seemed as if fairy contentment must have bathed in it, or planted some of the flowers along its brink; never was there a merrier little stream. "i know what you're singing about," said violet; "i know, mr. brook; you're trying to make me think you can run down the hill faster than any one else. let us see;" and away she flew, and away the brook went after her, and by her side flew the fairies, and over her head the birds--all singing, "success to violet!" while the leaves "clapped their little hands" in favor of their friend the brook, and the young birds looked over the edge of their nests to find out what in the world this stir could be about. nobody ever knew which won the race. up in the clouds the birds sang, "good, good, good; it was violet, violet!" while the leaves whispered, "no, no, no, no; it was the brook!" but violet and the brook were as good friends as were the birds and trees; so they all laughed together, instead of quarrelling. when violet reached home her breakfast was ready, and she sat down on the doorstep with her tin porringer of bread and milk. she was so hungry that it tasted better than a great many nicer breakfasts which have been eaten from silver cups; but, hungry as she was, she did not forget her kitten, who came, saying, plainly as she could purr, "leave a little for me." violet had found out that it makes one quite as happy to be generous as to eat a good breakfast, and kitty had her share. then she washed her porringer, hung it up in the sun to dry, and ran out in the garden, where her mother was picking flowers, whole baskets full of them, for the market, and told violet to look among the thickly-clustering leaves of her namesakes, and gather all the blossoms she could find. she found a whole apron full, white and blue violets, single and double ones; these she tied in bunches, with a few bright green leaves around each bouquet. the whole garden was scented with their fragrance, and violet thought them the prettiest flowers in the world, as well as the sweetest, and wished in her heart that she could, just once, have one of these whole bunches for her own. while she knelt on the ground admiring her lovely flowers, and wishing they need not all be sent away and sold, the fairy love flew to her mother's side, and whispered in her ear all that violet was thinking about. then her mother remembered that to-morrow would be violet's birthday, and on that occasion she never forgot to give her a present. but about this i must tell in another chapter. chapter iv. toady. violet passed such long, long, busy days, talking all the time to her mother, her kitten, her toads, or the birds that alighted now and then upon a bush, and sang to her while she worked; for violet's mother, though she gave her plenty of time to play, had taught her little girl to sew and read. she might have forgotten to do this amid all her own hard work; but fairy contentment whispered in her ear that, unless violet became useful and industrious, _she_ must fly away, never to return; and love, close by, sang, "see--i have brought her these books; and i'll make the learning easy." i told you that some of violet's playfellows were toads--the same ugly brown toads you have seen hopping about your own garden walks. you must not think they were ugly to her; for, soon as they came in sight, it always happened that the shadow of love's purple wings would fall upon them, and then their brown backs changed to crimson and violet, and the poisonous-looking spots became jewelled studs; and i will not say they were very graceful pets even then; but violet loved them, and they loved her. this is the way their acquaintance began: it was a hot day--blazing hot; so light too--not a shadow to be seen. violet had been in the garden at work, and, as she hastened homeward through the scorching sun, almost fell over a great toad, that had been crossing the path, but was so dusty she had mistaken him for a stone or a ball of earth. she stooped to see if she had injured him, and patting the toad's back, said,-- "you poor little dirty fellow, don't you know enough to keep out of the sun and dust?" toady looked up at her as if he would answer if he did but know how to talk; he only opened and shut, opened and shut, his great wide mouth; but violet understood very well what he meant by this; for the fairy love teaches a language that is not set down in books or studied in colleges. i have known of great scholars, who could talk in twenty or thirty different tongues, and who yet knew less about this language of love, which is the very best in the whole wide world, than our poor little barefooted violet. "you're thirsty, are you, toady?" said she; "stand still, and i'll give you a drink." the toad opened his mouth again, and violet poured over him a few drops she had left in her watering pot. she was half afraid he would not be very well pleased with such a showering; but there he stood, stock still, blinking his round red eyes, and opening his mouth at her as if he would say, "more--more!" "well, wait," she said, laughing; "i'll go to the brook and bring you more water in welcome, just for the sake of seeing your face clean once." away she ran, and toady not only waited for her, but, when she came back, there, one on each side of him, were two smaller toads--the three ranged in a row, looking so sober and funny that violet laughed louder than ever. she sprinkled the poor dusty toads all over with cool, bright water from the mountain brook; and when they had enough, they began to shake their heads and hop away, without even saying, "thank you," and hid themselves in the grass. chapter v. love's charm. but the next day, (and this is a true story,) when it had grown so warm that violet could not work any longer in the garden, and was going home with her hoe and watering pot, there stood the three toads again in the walk, just as they were the day before, with toady, as she called him, between the two smaller ones. all three gave a little hop when violet came in sight, and then stood still again. this was their way of saying, "good morning; we hope you haven't forgotten us." and long afterwards, whenever violet passed through the garden walk, especially if the day was warm, she was pretty sure of meeting her new acquaintances. they even grew so tame that they would follow her about the garden; and often she would walk up and down the same path for half an hour at a time, just for the sake of seeing how soberly her droll little pets would hop along after her, turning whenever she turned, and waiting for her whenever she stopped. violet thought them the wisest and most loving toads that ever hopped. she did not know that love, directly their mistress entered the garden, fastened them to her by a delicate silken cord, just the color of love's own purple wings, and they could not very well help following her; though, if violet had treated them unkindly, in an instant the purple cord would have lost all its strength, and grown slender as the slenderest thread in a spider web. now, my dear readers, though i hope with all my heart that you will try to be as good and loving as violet, i don't want you to _do_ every thing she did. all toads are not as fond of a sprinkling as toady and his young brothers were; so you mustn't drown the poor things in water every time you meet one. what you need is, to persuade the fairies love and contentment to live in your home, and trust to your keeping a charm like the one they had placed in violet's heart. then, every morning of your lives, they will tell something which you can do, and no one else can do as well, to make others happy--kind deeds that will lighten misfortune, and loving words that may enter like music, and dwell in some lonely, sorrowing heart. believe always this one thing--that every kind deed you do for others will make _you_ happier then and always, and every unkind deed will make you feel ashamed and sorry so long as you remember it. no matter to whom the kindness or unkindness may be done--a king or a butterfly, your own dear mother or a little toad in the garden walk. i have known children who could not bear to see even a lily broken down by rain, its beautiful white flowers all lying in the dirt. i have watched them prop it up with sticks, and gently wash the earth away from its delicate petals, and have said to myself, "ah, little one, the fairy love is nestling in your heart." and i have seen the fairy contentment start from her nest among the lilies, and follow the little one as she ran off to play. chapter vi. how fairies look. do you want to know how contentment looks? some people think she is the most beautiful among all the fairies; (and there are hosts of them, and some of the bad ones, even, have handsome faces.) her cheeks are not quite as rosy as love's, and her mild eyes do not sparkle and glitter as brilliantly; but she has a smile even brighter than love's own; this sheds a peaceful light about contentment wherever she goes; and wherever it falls, beautiful flowers will blossom, and the air grow clear and fragrant. she wears a wreath of starbeams, braided into a delicate but brilliant crown; and there is no place so dark but this will light a path through it. her pure white wings look like two lily petals, and though always clean and fresh themselves, i suppose they have dusted away more heaps of care, and though so delicate, have lifted people safely over wider seas of trouble, than all the strong arms in the world--all the railroads and steamships put together. she always carries in her hand an urn, from which a sweet and delicate odor arises like incense. perhaps you will be surprised when i tell where she found this urn. it was the largest and most perfect blossom on a branch of lilies of the valley. did you ever notice what lovely little vases they form when you turn them stem side down? i never saw one half as pretty made of parian; but, then, of course nothing _could_ be as beautiful as a flower; they are god's vases, and his work is always the most perfect. the lily never faded; nothing _can_ fade in the light of contentment's smile; and the modest little flower that might only have shed fragrance about its own green leaves, borne by the fairy, has sprinkled its incense odor through every land. love is more splendid than contentment, but not any more beautiful; _her_ wings are larger, richer, and more delicate. they are like petals of the fleur-de-lis, or iris, perhaps you call it--the splendid, feathery, purple flower, with leaves like long ribbon streamers. they are transparent too; and wherever love goes, the light, shining through these wings, casts a rich purple glow about her--dyed, as you may have seen the sunshine in falling through the great stained window of some church. love's crown is a broad band of golden sunshine, and she scatters roses and violets about every where. chapter vii. the birthday present. but i must tell you what happened to poor toady one day, and see if you wonder that violet felt badly. she was sitting on the doorstep sewing, with kitty in her lap, sound asleep, and the three toads watching her from the walk--as happy a little girl as ever breathed. it was her birthday; and when she awoke that morning, the first thing her eyes rested upon was the largest bunch of sweet violets she had ever seen in her life. they were set in a beautiful white cup, with violet printed in gold letters on the front. she hardly stopped to look twice at them, but, in her nightgown, ran to the door to find and thank her good, kind parents. they were not in the field or the garden; and then violet remembered that this was market day, and they must have gone to the town, and might not be home again until afternoon. it was an hour before violet could dress herself. she looked at and smelt of the flowers a hundred times--set them in every corner and on every ledge to see where they would look prettiest--talked to them, and danced around them, and even pinched her finger to see if she could be awake. all these beautiful, fragrant blossoms her own for a whole day--for a week--as long as they did not fade! then she went to the brook for water, and setting her basin on the bank, knelt down among the dewy flowers to wash her face and smooth her long, soft, golden hair, and as she went home, sang her morning hymn; for violet knew that every morning the birds poured forth their songs, and the flowers their odors, and the brook its vapor wreaths, in gratitude to heaven; and she had no idea of being the only ungrateful thing on earth. she met kitty, and taking her in her arms, hurried into the house, thinking how surprised and delighted puss would be with the violets. but kitty was thinking of something else; she only sneezed when violet put her nose among the wet flowers, and struggled to get away. "well, there--go," said violet, a little hurt. puss had no thought of going; she purred louder than ever, and rubbed her white face against violet's dress, and looked up at her wistfully. "o, you greedy kit!" said violet, at last; "you're thinking about breakfast, and not my flowers. i'll eat it right away, so as to leave you some." but, for joy, she could hardly eat a spoonful; and however kitty slighted what was in the gilded cup, it was plain enough that she enjoyed the contents of the old tin porringer. while puss was eating, violet brought her flowers to the door again, and began to look about for the toads. pretty soon out they hopped from the wet grass, half drowned themselves in dew, and hop, hop, hop they came towards violet. you may think she was very silly; but you must remember she was all alone out in the fields, and had no other playmates; so she made the most of these. the toads stood still when they came to the cup of violets, and looked up at her, winking their round, lazy eyes, until she felt sure they were trying to congratulate her and praise her flowers. then kitty came along, gaping, for she had eaten more breakfast than usual; and love reminded violet that she had work to do, although it was her birthday; so she took kitty in her lap, left the toads staring at her flowers, and seated herself on the doorstep to sew. chapter viii. violet's troubles. just then she heard a light, rolling sound, which came nearer and nearer, till at last she saw a carriage, drawn by two white horses. this entered the green field, and, to violet's surprise, stopped before old reuben's little hut. in the carriage were two children not much older than violet, and their father, a tall, stately gentleman; besides, there were two footmen and a driver. the carriage was painted in gay colors, and gilded so that it fairly glittered in the sun; and the little girl inside was so gayly dressed, in silks, and ribbons, and artificial flowers, that violet thought it must be one of the dolls she had seen in a milliner's window. but the doll, if it was one, spoke, tossing back her curls, and beckoning with her gloved hand to violet, while the gentleman, placing a purse in his daughter's outstretched hand, said,-- "buy as many flowers as you want, narcissa. meantime i will climb the hill yonder, which must overlook a fine prospect, it seems to me. what do _you_ say, alfred? will you accompany me?" now, when the carriage stopped, the boy, narcissa's brother, had taken a book from his pocket, and was reading it attentively; he appeared so unwilling to leave it, although he arose to follow his father, that the indulgent parent said,-- "well, never mind; you can read on." "little girl," exclaimed narcissa, "run quickly into the house and call your mother or father, or somebody; i want them." "we are the only bodies here," said violet, looking at her pets. "well, then, go and pick me all the violets in your garden; i shall pay for them." "they were sent to market this morning," said violet, stroking kitty's back, and not feeling very sorry at narcissa's disappointment, for the little girl in the carriage did not seem to her well bred. "but you must, you _shall_, find me some, girl," said narcissa, in a rage. "don't you know that i'm going to a fancy ball to-night, and my maid must have fifteen bunches of violets to dress me with, and we have only found twelve so far? i know you're not telling the truth, for there in the grass is a whole bunch of beautiful ones. bring them to me," turning to the footman, "and kill those dirty toads in the path; i hate the sight of them." violet rushed to the rescue of her pets. "o, no, no! they are mine--my own--my best friends--_my_ toads and violets!" she screamed. but in vain. the footman stepped on poor toady, kicked him across and across the path, till, all bruised and bleeding, he lay still, and, violet thought, dead, while narcissa clapped her hands and laughed at violet's sorrow. "_your_ toads and violets!" she said; "i should think you were crazy. but i don't want to hurt your feelings, girl. go and bring me two more large handfuls of violets, and i will forgive all your impudence and wrong stories. why don't you go? what are you staring at?" chapter ix. fairies again. it had just come into violet's head that this proud and imperious little mortal in the carriage must be a queen, such as her story books told about, and had a right to every body's service and every body's goods. what strengthened this belief was the fact that, fluttering about narcissa's head, she saw (and though her face was wet with tears, she stared at it) the queerest little fairy; now, too, she saw another fairy perched on alfred's arm as he read, and turning over the leaves of his book; while all about the carriage flew a third, the largest and most splendid of all; he trod upon the servant's heads, right over the crown of their hats; he would sit down to rest on the necks of the beautiful white horses, as they pawed the ground; he whirled round and round narcissa, even daring to pull her own fairy's hair, while he patted alfred's fairy on the back quite condescendingly. this little imp was named pride. he looked, as he flew, like a great scarlet cactus blossom, in his long rich cloak, with heavy tassels, that swept the ground, and left wherever they trailed a very fine dust of gold. in this dust the tassels were dipped continually--powdered over with it, finer than the yellow pollen you may have seen on the stamens of a lily. the flower pollen is good for something, but not so pride's gold dust. he only scatters it because it is so expensive, and common people cannot do the same. i have known persons who sold comfortable homes, cheerful hearts, and good consciences, all for a little gold, which they ground into this silly powder, and threw away. i think pride makes people a little insane; you must take care that none of his gold dust gets into _your_ eyes. the good thing about pride--and there is something good about every body--was his affection for alfred's fairy, ambition. i cannot describe this being, he is so dazzlingly bright. he is the best and the worst fairy i know, for he is at times like each one, and often like all together. it is ambition that makes men good as angels; and every one knows it is ambition that makes satan so bad. this fairy is useful; but he cannot be trusted for a moment; he may serve you faithfully through a long life, and at the end plunge you into some pitfall, just for mischief. he will whisper sweet words in your ear, and build you a glittering boat, and promise to row you down the pleasantest river to paradise itself. perhaps he will do all he promises; perhaps he will only land you in a madhouse or a jail. ambition had taken a fancy to alfred, and never left his side. he would urge him away from his companions and sports, to work over books,--always to work and study,--and promised to make him a great and useful man. there is one strange thing about these fairy people; beautiful and rich as they are, and free and powerful, they will follow and make their home with the poorest little child, and shelter him with their splendid wings, and light up his pathway with their gleaming crowns; but only on one condition--that the child follow wherever they lead, and is true to the fairies as they are true to him; which is but fair, you know. who wants to give advice that is not followed? we all, though at the time we do not know it, choose our own fairies, and, once chosen, they love us and make us love them so well that it is no easy matter to escape from them, or to avoid obeying their advice. so, when you see any one--and grown-up men and women have fairies as well as children--who is led about by a wicked fairy, you must pity instead of blaming the sufferer; and if he offend you, you must take care that _his_ fairy doesn't fly into your heart and frighten away your own, or make you forget, and give unkind answers back. be very sure no one _wants_ to be bad; only if a spiteful little spirit perched on your shoulder, and whispered evil thoughts and angry words into _your_ ear, don't you suppose that sometimes you would obey him and believe what he said? whenever you feel these wicked spirits near, call loud for violet's fairy, love. she will be sure to come; and they know very well they cannot live in her presence; for the light of her starry crown puts out their eyes, and the incense from contentment's urn will take away their breath. if love come, content will be sure to follow; so only keep these fairies near, and you are safe. chapter x. the strangers. but we were talking about violet and poor toady, who lay on the ground all bruised and bleeding, one of his legs so broken that it dragged along after him when he tried to hop, and one of his eyes torn out and hanging by the skin; while the poor thing quivered all over with pain, and looked up at violet with his one eye, as if he would say, "_do_ help me, violet. why didn't you keep them away?" she lifted him into the grass, smoothing it first into something like a nest; then she poured some water from her violet cup to wash away the dust and blood, and stroked his back gently, while toady looked up at her, and shut and opened his one eye, and tried to hop, which was his way of thanking her, you know. when she found how stiff and sore he was, violet burst into tears again, and wondered if the little queen in the carriage was any happier for doing all this mischief. let us see. having taken care of her pet, the little girl looked to see if the carriage had gone; and though she was almost as blind as toady, her eyes were so full of tears, she knew plainly enough by the sound that it was waiting still; for alfred had thrown his book aside, and he and narcissa were talking angrily. "you're an ugly, envious thing," said alfred. "that poor little girl had nothing on earth but those few flowers and a miserable toad; and you, who have every thing you want, could not rest till you had stolen these. if i were king, i'd send you to state's prison." "and if you were a queen, what would _you_ do to the girl in the carriage?" asked narcissa's father of violet; for the gentleman had returned from his walk, and coming quietly behind, had been watching her as she wept and watched over toady, who seemed to be fast asleep. "o, i would send her away to the end of the world, so i might never see her again. _do_ take her away," she pleaded. "but she _has_ done wrong; she had no more right to hurt your toad than you have to hurt my horses in the carriage there. shall i not punish her?" "it wouldn't do me any good," said violet, mournfully. "tell her she may have the flowers in welcome _now_. i don't care about them or any thing else if toady must die." "and why do you care about toady?" "about _him_?" asked violet, shaking away the golden hair as she looked up wonderingly with her beautiful blue eyes,--"care about _him_? why, did you ever see such a handsome toad? and then i have known him so long, and he hops about after me and lets me feed him; and now, now, when i come here in the morning, how lonesome i shall be, for he can't come hopping out from the grass any more, all wet with dew, and winking his round eyes, as if he'd say, 'good morning.'" the gentleman laughed, and then looked very sober, as he said,-- "i can't see much beauty in your pet; but i like you, little girl, for loving him so well; and here is money to pay for the harm my daughter has done." "why," said violet, who had never seen any coin before, "i thought money was made to buy flour and meal with." "so it is," replied the gentleman, "and to buy cake, and fine clothes, and artificial flowers like those in narcissa's bonnet." "i shouldn't want to look like _her_. i am not a queen," said violet, "and i can find a great deal prettier flowers on the mountain than she wears, and prettier-looking stones than these;" and she looked at the silver carelessly; then, brightening up all at once, she asked,-- "will they cure toady's leg? o, if they will, i'll give you my flowers and the new cup both for them." the gentleman shook his head. "then take them away. i don't want any thing." chapter xi. the doctor doctored. if narcissa's father had looked then, he would have seen the fairy love bending over violet till the sunny crown she wore brightened up her face, and made it look beautiful as an angel's, and contentment, too, pouring perfume out of her lily urn. but the gentleman had a great deal of pride's gold dust in his eyes, and therefore he could not see very clearly. he _did_ see the beautiful love violet had for her ugly little pet, and felt how much better it was to be contented, like violet, with so little, than to have almost every thing, like narcissa, and be always wishing for more. and what do you think the fairies did? they looked out of violet's eyes, right through them, into his; and whenever she spoke they flew into his heart with the words, till the proud man, who had not wept since narcissa's mother died, long and long ago, felt great tears gathering in his eyes; and as these fell into the grass, contentment took care to wash away all the pride dust with her own white wings. "the money will not cure your toad," said he; "but _i_ can mend his leg, for i am a physician, and know all about broken bones." so he made the servant bring a case from the carriage, and taking a sharp little knife from it, he cut away the eye, which was too much crushed to be of any use, and then bound up the leg. but toady kicked, and struggled, and made such a time about it, and seemed in such pain, that violet begged him to unfasten the bandage. "well, you are right," he said; "the limb cannot be cured, and if i cut it off it will be out of his way, at least." he had no sooner done _this_ than toady hopped right out of his grassy nest, and looking at violet, winked so drolly with his one eye that she laughed and cried at once, and thanked the doctor over and over again. "you needn't thank _me_," he said; "for it seems you knew better what would suit him than i did, little girl. i wonder who taught you." then love and contentment looked at each other and smiled; _they_ knew very well who had taught violet, and they knew besides that violet was teaching the proud, rich, learned man a lesson better than he could find in all his books or buy with all his money; for the sweet smile of contentment and the beautiful words of love, which had come to him through the lips of the little berry girl, violet, would be remembered for long years, and prompt him to perform kind deeds, and thus to forget his pride and his cares, and be sometimes light-hearted as a little child. chapter xii. who are happiest. do you know, dear children, that as soon as people have grown up they begin to wish they were young again, and had not troublesome servants to manage, and great houses to take care of, and purses full of money to spend or to save, and, worst of all, whole troops of wicked fairies? _they_ call them habits; but fairies they are, for all that. these spirits lead into so much mischief that there are very few men and women who don't sometimes fold their hands and say, "o, dear! if i could go back and be a little child once more!" ask your mother if she wouldn't give all her jewels away in exchange for as pure a heart as children have. ask your father whether he wouldn't give all his bonds and railroad stocks if that would make him as merry and free from care as you are when you climb upon his knee to ask the question. and if they say "no," ask them which fairy they would rather _you_ took for a friend--pride or truth. now, here you are, children still; and if i were you, i'd enjoy being young while it lasts. i'd make friends with as many good fairies, and scare away as many bad ones, as i could find. scare them away! i wouldn't wait to look at them or hear them talk; for some have pretty faces and sweet words, but they are dreadful cheats. i would find out ever so many things,--and there's no end to the number there _are_,--ever so many things which are right, and good, and beautiful. i wouldn't look for any thing else, but would be so happy among these that other people would notice it, and look after them too; and then i would give them as many as they wanted of my treasures, and teach them where to find more; for fairy love takes care that the more we give the more we shall have; and even if we didn't, who wants to be a miser? think how much god has given us!--this whole great world, all the sky over your head, and the air, and sunshine, and woods, and gardens full of flowers, and fathers and mothers to love and take care of us, and a million other things. and what do we give god? every thing that we give away at all we give to him just as much as if we laid it in his hand. don't you know that christ called the poor and ignorant god's little children, and declared he loved them all _better_ than your mother and father love you? and not only this, god cares when even a bird falls to the ground with his wing broken, and is watching to see how much you are willing to do for his creature. chapter xiii. violet berrying. i called violet a little berry girl, and i'll tell you why. on the great hill above their hut, all over one side of it, were blackberry vines; and in autumn, when the berries were ripe, violet and her mother would spend hours and hours picking them. the sun would be scorching hot sometimes, and the thorny vines would tangle into violet's dress and tear her arms, and mosquitos would buzz around her, until she was ready to cry or to declare she _could_ not pick any more. poor violet! _you_ think, perhaps, that it is hard to walk to school under your parasol these sunny days; and she had, day after day, to stand out there among the vines, picking, and picking, and picking, till the two great water pails were full of berries. but when she grew tired, love would point to her poor old mother working so patiently, and looking so tired and warm; and when the fairy whispered, "will you leave her here to finish the work _alone_?" violet would forget in a minute her own weariness, and sing and laugh so merrily, and tell so often how fast her pail was filling up, that the mother would forget _her_ weariness too, and only think how fortunate and how rich she was to have such a good, bright child. when she found a place where the berries grew thick and large, violet would call her mother to pick there; and old mary, reuben's wife, said that "somehow she never could find such splendid places as violet did." so, leaving her there, the little girl would move on; and no matter how low she found the bushes, or how thinly covered with fruit, fairy contentment, hovering over her head, would sing, "who cares? the fewer, the sweeter." what with contentment's singing, and that of violet, and the crickets and locusts, and the bees and bobolinks, there was music enough in the blackberry pasture; and it all chimed together just like the instruments in an orchestra. chapter xiv. the birds' harvest time. but i was telling you about violet's birthday; so let us go back to the doorstep of her father's little hut. narcissa called impatiently that she was tired of waiting; so her father, bidding good by to his new acquaintance, sprang into the carriage, and it rolled lightly through the green field once more. violet sat watching until it was out of sight, and she could no longer see narcissa's feathers and flowers fluttering in the wind. some how she never thought of her afterwards, except as a whole bunch of lace and finery, with a little girl inside of it. then she looked around for her violets; they were gone, and in their place lay the stranger's money. but toady hopped in sight just then, looking so brisk, and getting about so well on his three legs, she thought her flowers were little enough to pay for so much good as he had received. so, happy as ever, violet took her pail and went towards the blackberry hill. it seemed to her the berries were never so thick and large; she soon had enough, and setting them in a shady place, she went to the brook to wash her hands. there were long, deep scratches on her arms. how they smarted when the water touched them! but violet only thought how much worse toady's scratches and bruises were; and then she loved to be clean, for she had watched how the birds wash in the brook a dozen times a day, and how smooth the squirrels keep their fur, and how the flowers and leaves bathe their faces every morning in dew. she didn't want the leaves and birds to be ashamed of her. the little girl strolled on towards the wood, singing and laughing, and talking to every thing she met, but most of all to kitty, who followed after her; while whole troops of grasshoppers and little yellow butterflies flew before, and settled in advance of violet, and when she came up, flew a little farther, as if they wanted to lead her on. then there were flocks and flocks of birds; the ground seemed alive with them, for it was harvest time, and they came for the ripe grain which had fallen when the farmers cut their crops, and was scattered all over the fields. the thistle seeds were ripe too; and the birds, and butterflies, and bees seemed to love this best of all. violet stood watching them eat, and laughed as she told puss that must be where she learned to be so greedy. the bees went buzzing down into the very heart of the purple flowers, and took such long, deep honey draughts, and went back again and again, as if they could never have enough, and hurried away to their hives, for the sake of hurrying back for more. the birds were not much better. they would hover an instant over the whole thistle bed, and then, selecting a good large flower, they would fly at it, fanning away with their fluttering wings till they were lost in a cloud of down, and tear out the rich, ripe seeds, swallowing them so fast it seemed as if they were eating for all winter. violet was never tired of watching, for she loved to see every creature happy, and knew, besides, that the birds and bees only have so good a chance to eat once in the year; and therefore, though she laughed at it, she couldn't blame them for their greediness. there were such handsome yellow birds, with black spots and stripes over their bright breasts and wings. they buried their black and golden heads away in among the thistle down, while they clung to the stem with claws and wings, and were so busy eating that they did not see how near violet crept to them. then a beautiful great butterfly, its rich brown wings spotted with blue and orange, settled upon a flower, and sipped daintily, and fluttered away again to take another sip somewhere else, and then went sailing off into the sunshine. so she skipped along after it, kitty running close behind her, until they came to a bank covered with white everlasting flowers--so many it looked a little way off like snow; and violet, whose mother had told her that in heaven flowers did not fade, but were _all_ everlasting, wondered if the door of heaven had not been left ajar, some day, long enough for a whole shower of seed to blow down towards this hill, and planting itself, come up in these pearl-white flowers. ah, violet! the commonest seeds sprang up into heavenly flowers if they fell in _your_ pathway. chapter xv. where the squirrel led violet. while violet stood wondering thus, she saw a squirrel on the fence, nibbling upon a nut. as soon as she stirred, he darted along a rail or two, and then, waiting till she came up with him, went nibbling again. "you needn't feel so grand with your spry legs. i guess i can run as well as you," said violet. the squirrel tucked the nut under one arm, and with a whisk of his bushy tail, darted like lightning along the rails, leaving violet so far behind she thought he had gone into the wood; but when she had reached far enough herself, there he sat, quietly nibbling at his nut again, and soon as he saw her, whisked up into a tree, and from among the high boughs called, "cheep, cheep, chip! which beat, little girl?" violet could not see him, he went so fast and far; and as she looked up among the leafy boughs, he dropped the nut right into her face, and ran round and round the limb, and called "cheep, cheep, chip!" again, as if he were laughing at her. violet laughed too, and threw the nut back at him, looking first to see how clean he had eaten out the meat. away darted squirrel, without waiting to chip this time, and violet called, as he ran,-- "it's all very fine to whisk along so fast, mister; but i should like to know how much good your travelling does. i know you can't _see_ a thing, any more than they can in the rail cars i've heard about. you're welcome to your legs so long as you leave the brook, and the flowers, and birds for puss and me." but he only answered by dropping another nut from directly over her head, and she followed him into the wood--the beautiful, cool, still wood. violet left off singing as she entered it; for she loved to hear the rustle of the ripe leaves, and to watch the tiny fibres falling lightly from the pines, and hear the nuts and acorns rattle down, and to see the spider webs and insects glitter wherever a gleam of sunshine had stolen through the boughs. her hands were full of flowers, which she had gathered on the way; for she did not mean her new cup should be empty when the good parents came home. so she had picked such a splendid bunch!--bright red cardinal flowers from the swamp; and along by the brook side, where it was sunniest, she found beautiful blue fringed gentians; and farther on branches of golden rod, that looked like little elm trees changed to gold; and on farther still, by the edge of the wood, where, as they waved, they seemed beckoning her, she found plenty of asters, white as snow, with little yellow eyes twinkling out among the petals, or else rich purple with deep gold inside; and she had some of the everlasting flowers too, like bunches of pure pearls. violet crept under the deep shade of the boughs, where the brook was gurgling over its mossy stones, and laid the stems of her flowers there to keep them fresh, making a wall of pebbles around them, so that the water, which tripped along so fast, should not carry them away. for once, when she forgot to do this, she had no sooner placed her flowers in the brook than off they sailed down stream, and scattered so fast and far she couldn't think of finding them all again. violet laughed when she remembered that day, and how the brook, full of its mischief, had run away with her treasures, and scattered them any and every where along its banks, setting some upright, as if they were growing again, and wedging some under the stones, and tangling some under the fence, and floating some down the hill and through the sunny field, so fast they seemed chasing the little fish that made their home in the brook. even away down by reuben's house a few had strayed, and reached home so much before violet that she began to think the waves had, after all, as spry feet as her own. chapter xvi. alone in the wood. her flowers safe in the water, the little girl seated herself on a stone that seemed made purposely for her, it was cushioned so softly with moss; and overhead the boughs of the great trees bent towards her, and rustled and waved like so many fans, and shut her in so closely from the rest of the wood that you might have passed close by, and never guessed she was there. the kitten went fast asleep in her lap, and violet, folding her hands, looked up among the leaves, and across where the boughs parted a little into the wood, and down at her feet, where the grass grew so long and fine, and was sprinkled over with such pretty little leaves--as tiny, some of them, as violet's finger nails, and yet as beautifully scolloped or pointed, and as perfectly finished, as the stoutest laurel or broadest oak leaf in the wood; and, noticing this, violet wondered if god, who had taken as much pains in making little leaves as big ones, had not taken as much pains with, and didn't care as much for, little _people_ as big ones. who knew but he loved her, in her ragged dress, just as well as narcissa in all her finery, or even the tall, rich doctor, who tried to mend toady's leg? then she listened, and felt how still it was there alone with the trees; and the sweet, low sounds that came through this stillness were beautiful as music. far off she could hear the cool, sparkling brook foaming and hurrying over its stony bed; and then the air came breathing through the trees, as if they sighed for joy; and each leaf trembled, and seemed rising to meet the air and fly away with it, and then, falling back again, nestled closer to its neighbor leaves, and whispered softly, as if it were making love to them. but there came a louder rustling among the boughs, and a flutter of wings, and then burst forth a clear, wild song, so near that violet held her breath; for a golden oriole had alighted close beside her, and chirped, and twittered, and trilled, as if he meant to say aloud what the leaves and the brook had been whispering. when he paused, the leaves all clapped their hands for more; and oriole understood them, for he gave another and another song, waiting between each to wet his bill in some bunch of bright, juicy berries. violet did not suspect that the reason the sunshine looked so bright, and the shadows so cool and refreshing, and the leaves and brook so wide awake and so musical, was because the good fairies love and contentment were watching over her; and the beautiful purple light from love's wings, and from contentment's starry crown, and the fragrance from her lily urn, would make any, the dullest place, bright. but as the bird flew away, fairy love whispered inside of violet's heart, "the bird has gone to her nest. isn't it time for violet to be thinking about _her_ nest, and the good mother, who will be there first if she does not make haste and run home?" love's voice was lower than the whisper of the leaves or the far-off murmur of the brook; but the little girl heard and obeyed it for all that. chapter xvii. the kitten's bath. violet had picked a whole apron full of leaves, reaching up in the trees for the largest and handsomest, and then, kneeling where they grew close to the ground, had collected the lovely, delicate ones that were so small you would not notice unless you were looking for them--broad, shining oak leaves, long, graceful chestnut leaves, and some from the fluttering poplar, and some from the hemlocks and pines, tall ferns, and maiden's-hair, and grass, clover, sorrel, ground pine, and hundreds more. violet had been counting how many kinds there were; and as i have forgotten, the first time you go into the woods you must try yourself, and lay them side by side, as she did, to see which is prettiest. but away flew all the leaves, as, directly she heard love's voice, the little girl sprang to her feet, waking puss out of her nap so suddenly that she spit, and put up her back, and her hair stood all on end with fright. then you might have heard violet's laughter ringing merrily enough through the silent wood. such an unusual noise startled a whole flock of crows, where, hid in a tall pine tree, they had, like pussy, been taking a nap, and scolded well because they were awakened. violet wondered if it would help the matter to make such a noise about it with their hoarse voices, which sounded as if they were made on purpose to scold--so grating and shrill. she went to the brook for her flowers, while the kitten followed, gaping such great gapes that violet told her she'd better take care, or she wouldn't be able to close her mouth again. and looking back among the trees, as she climbed the stone wall and was going out into the sunshine again, violet wondered if god _could_ have made that beautiful place for no one but her; no one else entered it, she knew. "i guess god thinks it's no matter how small i am, so long as i'm large enough to love it all," she thought; and i don't believe violet was wrong. as they went home, a great cricket flew from under the kitten's feet and frightened her again, for she was hardly awake. away she sprang to catch it, and away sprang the cricket, while violet had to run fast to keep up with them, laughing to see how puzzled puss would be when the cricket hid under the long grass; and while she was pawing, and purring, and looking up to violet as if she'd ask, "where is he?" out he'd spring again, directly past her nose, and in among the grass would hide, and peep at her, while she looked every where but in the right place. at last, in her eagerness, the kitten jumped rather too far, and went into the brook; and in her fright i don't know what would have happened next if violet had not seized her just as, mewing and trembling, the water was washing her down stream. she lapped violet's face and purred as the little girl tried to dry her fur and warm her again in her bosom; but she was a wilful puss, and preferred creeping along in the sunshine, shaking each of her four paws at every step in the drollest fashion. but she didn't chase any more crickets _that_ day. this affair of the kitten's, and waiting to look for her berries, which violet had hid among the bushes so safely she could not find them herself at first, delayed her so long that she almost flew the rest of the way; for when the old people went to market with their goods, they always came home tired and hungry, and were very glad of a cup of warm tea. so she did not stop flying until a fire was made and the table set; and just then she heard voices at the door. chapter xviii. the price of toady's leg. reuben and mary had come; and glad enough violet was to see them; but this, like all her days, had been so long that she forgot to say a word about her flowers and the gilded cup; she could not remember back to the morning, until her mother asked if she knew whose birthday this was; and then it all came back, and she gave more thanks and kisses than there had been flowers in the cup. "but why is it empty?" asked reuben. and violet told about the carriage, and narcissa, and toady's misfortune, and the kind doctor, who had waited to mend the mischief his daughter had done, and how he took her violets, leaving money in their stead. you should have seen the old people hold up their hands when violet showed them the coin she had only looked upon as so many bright stones. their marketing had not sold as well as usual, and the winter was to be a hard one for poor people, every one said; and they had been telling each other, as they came home, that if providence had not taken care of them so well thus far, they should certainly expect to starve now. and here stood violet with six silver dollars! they could hardly believe their eyes. some fairy must have given it to the child. true enough, old reuben--the fairy love! the rich doctor might have given six times as much, and never have felt the loss enough to remember it. but i cannot tell you how many comforts his money procured for the poor old people. mary had a new warm gown, and reuben a pair of rubbers and some flannel, and violet a blanket shawl, and what was left they spent in tea, rice, flour, and molasses. every afternoon, when the old lady sat down to sew that winter, feeling warmer than she had for many a cold month, and seeing so beautifully, too, from the light that came in at a new window they had bought for the hut where they lived, mary would bless the rich man, and the good child god had given her. and every time reuben waded through the snow towards town, and did not wet his feet, nor come home with rheumatism, as he used to the winter before, he, too, would think of the rich man, and thank god for his little daughter, and wonder if ever _any_ one had so many blessings as he. violet too, with her thick, warm shawl, could go to the district school; and very soon she learned more out of books than reuben and mary had known in all their lives. chapter xix. going to school. violet's years were like her days--busy and joyous; for they were spent in making all about her happy, and in finding new wonder and beauty in the world. winter evenings she would sit on her cricket at the old people's feet, and amuse them by telling her adventures on the way to and from school, or the wonderful things she had learned there. perhaps it had stormed, and she would describe how beautiful it was to see every thing folded in a mantle of white snow, and to run through the pearly dust, and scatter it far and wide, and to see it gathering like a world of blossoms in the branches of the dark pine trees. then she would tell how, when it cleared away, every thing shone, and glittered, and stood so still in the cold, blue air, and she could not hear her own footsteps any more than those of the squirrels that darted along the stone wall, and how she had sung, and shouted, and clapped her hands for company. or she had found a half-frozen bird, and, picking it up with her own half-frozen hands, had warmed it to life, while she felt its little frightened heart beating beneath her shawl--that heart and her own the only moving things in the wide, white silence. and then how glad it made her feel when her bird sprang forth into the sky again, and she watched his shadow circling round and round her, until he alighted in a tree just as she passed underneath, and, with his fluttering wings sent down a shower of snow flakes all over her. this, she supposed, was the only way he had of telling how well and strong he felt, and how he loved her for what she had done to him. but violet could hardly make the old folks believe what she heard at school about far-off countries and strange animals--snakes large enough to crush a horse and rider in their folds, and fishes so huge that half a dozen people could sit inside of them. every child knows these things now, and has pictures of them in his books; but when reuben and mary were young there were few schools; and they, poor people, had to work instead of study. on summer mornings, after her work was done, violet would bring home roots from her favorite wood, and plant them about the house, until you would hardly know it, it was so buried in beautiful green vines. you could not have made violet think there was a pleasanter home on earth than hers, when the clematis was starred all over with white blossoms, and the honeysuckle she had trained over the door was full of bright yellow flowers, and the hop vine hung full of its beautiful cones, and among all shone the bright pink wild roses, and the whole air was sweet with her own favorite violets. birds built nests within the vine, and hatched their young, and sang loudly and sweetly to their friends in the hut as often as they cared to hear. chapter xx. old reuben dead. nothing pleased reuben half as much as to sit in the shadow of the vines, watch the flowers grow, and feel that all this beauty was violet's work; for the old gardener loved flowers dearly; and when he had grown too old to work himself, he was so glad to feel that his garden pets need not be smothered up in weeds, and die. so there he sat in the sun day after day, while he grew thinner and more feeble; and one pleasant afternoon, when violet thought he had taken too long a nap, she went to waken him for fear he might take cold. but she paused to look at the good old man as he sat there with his hands folded on his bosom, and such a beautiful smile on the wrinkled face, and the wind stirring the gray locks, while his head rested among the fresh summer leaves. reuben never awoke; he was dead. violet burst into tears, and wished for a moment that she could die herself; but she thought of the mother who was too infirm to take care of herself, and who had lived with reuben longer and would feel his loss more than she. just then a bird flew from his nest in the vine, and soaring slowly, sang low at first, and sweetly, and then louder and louder, till he was lost among the clouds. and violet remembered what her father had said so often, that one of these days he should shake off the old aching body, and soar as lightly as any bird, and live as happily, up in that calm heaven. they buried reuben under a great elm tree in sight of his own garden, and where he had often rested after his work, and watched the orioles building their nests or teaching their young to sing. lonely and sad enough it was in the hut when violet and her mother went home and saw the old man's empty chair, and his garden tools hanging on the wall. "it won't be long before i shall follow him," said old mary, "and then god will take care of our child." "but i will take care of my mother first, for a great many years," said violet, drawing closer, and putting her arms around mary protectingly; for violet, though still young, was no longer a little child, as when we knew her first. the blue eyes, though, were just as bright and as full of love and tenderness; and the light hair, which was folded now in wavy bands over a calm white forehead, when the light touched it, had the same golden look as of old. she had grown tall too, and healthy, and was graceful as a bird, and had a low, musical voice like the brook, and a smile like sunshine, and, in short, was beautiful as a fairy herself. while she sat there, with her low, sweet voice, trying to console her mother, and now and then her own sunny smile breaking through even her tears, the door opened, and their landlord entered. he had sold the pasture and the whole blackberry hill to a rich man who would build there immediately; and they must move this very night, for the hut stood in his way. chapter xxi. a new home and old friends. trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to store their humble furniture; but violet always hoped for the best, and only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her father had nailed together. "there's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a little dew will hurt them. we may leave them here till we find a better place." but it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even from above old reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little pile of boards. "we had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother, as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last time. "he was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence." so, leaning on violet's arm, old mary crept along the dusty road, farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when they reached the hotel door. not so violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than one for finding a new home. they asked for the stranger, dr. story, were led to his parlor, and told their simple tale. he was interested at once, and very angry that they had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them money, while he hardly took his eyes from violet's face. "no," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find another." "and how shall i do that?" asked the doctor. then violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no friends to speak a good word for her with the committee. "what is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly. "violet." "i thought so; and what has become of toady?" it was the doctor who had mended toady's leg so many years ago, and the young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than alfred, his son, with the fairy ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him care for little else but books. he looked up though, and listened to violet's story, and, as he watched her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she entered the room; for fairy love was stronger than ambition, and he could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an owl could in broad noonday. "but where is narcissa?" asked violet. the father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and narcissa not only lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered her eye and put it out. when violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how handsome narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away. and the fairy love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry girl, that ambition hid in a corner, and alfred didn't think of his books again that day. chapter xxii. the new old home. the doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and violet was mistress of the village school. one morning, as mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and dr. story entered. "i have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "we will call for violet. wouldn't you like to see how i have improved the old blackberry field?" mary was delighted. she had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! she sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles. they met violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride. but what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace! "but now look on the other side," said dr. story. where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses violet had planted trained over it; and there was reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it. they alighted at the cottage door, and violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. while alfred stooped to gather some of these for violet, his father said,-- "do you remember, mary, whose birthday this is?" "sure enough, it's violet's!" exclaimed the old woman. "and this," said the doctor, "is violet's birthday present--this house and garden, and these beds of flowers." but before they could thank him, he added,-- "in return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. will you do it, violet? they are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself." pleased as violet and mary were, i don't think they were half as glad as alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, i should not be surprised if it broke fairy ambition's head. chapter xxiii. alfred. the cottage was all furnished, and had even a foot stove for the old lady, and a soft, stuffed easy chair in the parlor, while on the woodshed wall hung reuben's tools; and what do you think hopped up from under a board as violet stood looking at these? toady, on his three legs, who winked his one round eye at her, as if he would say, "isn't all this fine?" then there was a school room, where violet's pupils came every morning, and learned to love her as if she were their own sister. after school she would tell them stories about the birds, and squirrels, and flowers, among which she had lived so long, or take them to walk in the old pleasant places. they told their sister narcissa, who, like violet, was grown to a young lady now, so much about the new teacher, that one pleasant day she went to the cottage with them. violet was grieved to see how the handsome face was scarred and spoiled; but narcissa said,-- "it was the best thing that ever happened to me, violet--that accident; it cured me of pride and selfishness." and it had, truly. narcissa was so gentle and patient, you would not have known her for the same person. she grew as fond of violet as the children were; and when they were busy in the school room, studying, she would often sit and read to the old lady in the sunny little room where she slept and spent almost all her time. this room looked out towards the violet beds, and over it the vines grew most luxuriantly; their blossoms looked in at her window, and their shadows flickered over the bright-red carpet; while old mary sat in her easy chair thinking of reuben, who was dead and gone, and rejoicing that she could live and die where every thing reminded her of him, and be buried by his side. by his side she _was_ buried, under the great elm tree, but not until she had lived many years in the cottage with violet--the happiest years of her life. then violet's friends at the great house said she had better go and live with them, it was so lonely in the old place now; and about this time alfred came home from india, where he had lived long enough to grow very sickly and very rich. he told violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days. but alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. this violet knew well enough; so she never told alfred that she loved him, but only said "no" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself. but instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else--a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it. there were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet. violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love violet, and sing and chip to her, "_do_ stay." how could she refuse? who would take care of poor toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become. who will believe it?--she was the same kitten that followed violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook. chapter xxiv. narcissa. while violet sat on the doorstep wondering whether to please alfred and his father by going to live with them or to stay with her favorites in the cottage, narcissa came in sight. she was limping along with her crutches through the grass, and looked very pale and tired; for the walk from the wood to the cottage, which was nothing to violet, was a great undertaking to the lame girl. she never walked as far in any other direction; but some how the path to violet's seemed the smoothest and easiest. shall i tell you why? because the fairy love went before her, picking up every rough stone and bur or brier, and when the sun was hottest, shaded the invalid with her delicate purple wings. violet, too, had taught narcissa how many pleasant things there are in the world even for one who is sick. so, instead of fretting because the way was dusty and the sunshine hot, narcissa looked up at the cool green leaves which were fanning her, and watched along all the way to see what beautiful flowers the heat and light were opening. she, too, had learned to love the cool song of the brook; to be glad--though she could not follow them herself, poor cripple!--that the butterflies could flutter about and drink honey from all the flowers, and the squirrels could dart away with their nuts, and the birds go sailing and singing up into the far blue sky. her old fairy, envy, was banished forever from narcissa's heart, and in its place dwelt violet's fairy, love, and contentment, love's unfailing friend. the moment these fairies came, her heart began to grow larger and purer; for it only takes a small soul to hold such a miserable little sprite as envy, who is so mean and poor that he makes every place poor into which he enters, though he looks fine enough in his cloak streaked with purple, gold, and red, like the gaudiest of tulips. no wonder narcissa was glad to make the exchange of friends; for love soon taught her that the way to be happy is to forget all about ourselves, and be glad whenever another is glad, no matter how humble a thing. so when she watched the sunshine creep towards a flower that had been waiting for it in the shade, or when she saw a young bird fly for the first time, or, in frosty mornings that made her sick frame shiver, when she heard the nuts rattle down, and knew the frost had opened their burs, and that the children would be glad, narcissa's heart would be so full of sympathy that i am not sure but she was the happiest of all. chapter xxv. new plans. violet saw narcissa's white dress among the trees,--for the young elms in the avenue had grown so high as to meet now overhead,--and ran out to welcome her. she helped the invalid into her house, brought her mother's easy chair out to the porch, and a footstool and fan, and last of all a little table, upon which she placed fresh flowers and a new book that had been given her, and then hurried away to mix a cooling drink, of which narcissa was very fond. "how good you are, violet," said narcissa when she came back, "and how little i deserve so much from you! a toad just hopped over the step--the queerest old fellow--looked as if he had been through a dozen wars, with his one eye and a missing leg. i could have laughed, we were so much alike; and yet i couldn't, for he made me think of that first day we came to your father's house, and----" "o, yes," interrupted violet; "and only think how much good has come to _us_ from that first visit--how comfortably we have lived ever since!--your father was so kind." "but _i_ wasn't kind," said narcissa, looking very sorrowful; "i did you nothing but harm; and think what you have done for me." "brought you a chair and a fan," laughed violet; "wonderful deeds!" "you may laugh if you will," answered the lady; "but i would not give what i have gained from you in exchange for a hundred times what i ever had before. my beauty only made me vexed if i was not admired; my health and strength made me restless, kept me always in search of what i could not find nor buy. beauty, and health, and money are good for nothing by themselves. o violet, you have given health and beauty to my _heart_, and now i am rich and happy because no living thing can be glad but i grow richer by sharing its joy--those cool cloud shadows flickering over the grass--this sweetness the air has caught from your violet beds; and look how that humming bird enjoys the dew and honey he is drinking out of the roses, hanging among them by his long, slim bill; i can almost taste it with him as clearly as i smell the odor he shakes from the roses with his glittering wings; and i feel, too, the coolness the shadows must bring to the heated grass. for all of this, my friend, i thank you constantly." violet was not fond of hearing herself praised; she thought it pleasure enough to help any one; so she changed the subject by offering narcissa some more of the refreshing drink. she answered,-- "not now, i thank you; but pray where do you buy this cordial?--it is so much pleasanter to me than the rich wines we have at home, which always make me sick." when violet told how she had made the cordial herself from wild raspberries of her own picking, had pressed the juice out with her own white hands, and that the same hands had made the light biscuit she brought with it, and arranged the tasteful bouquet, and nailed up the luxuriant rosebushes, narcissa was quite enchanted, and wished she could live as independently herself. "o," she said, "i am so tired of the noise and confusion at home, and so many new faces, such rich food. if i could live here, violet, with you!" "why not make me a visit? and if you are contented with my simple fare, i shall be very glad to have you stay as long as you will. we might have beautiful times together." "are you in earnest?" asked narcissa, eagerly. "i shall be so happy and so independent here! and i won't be in the way either, for you shall teach me to work, and i can paint, and draw, and play on the piano, and read ever so many languages. all these i will teach you." she smiled, and violet asked why. "i was thinking that the accomplishment of which i was proudest once must be taught by some one else." "why?" "every one praised my dancing; but how in the world could i teach you with my wooden leg? i will learn of you to work, to help others, to find out the best things in books, and the most beautiful things every where. why, we shall be like two fairy queens in our little cottage palace." narcissa's father, instead of objecting to this plan, was very much pleased with it--said the change would be better than any medicine for the invalid. chapter xxvi. spring at the cottage. love and contentment waved their bright wings now; for the two friends became so fond of each other they were not contented apart. narcissa even grew beautiful again, there was such a peaceful smile upon her face, and such an earnest, loving look within her eyes. it was a real pleasure for violet to comfort and amuse this friend, from whom she was constantly learning some new thing. narcissa painted beautifully, and violet would bring her the freshest and loveliest flowers to copy; so there was hardly a blossom or a green leaf in the neighborhood, from april to november, but you could find it almost living again in their portfolio. they would watch the birds too, find out all their names, and their different notes, and how they fed and taught their young; and violet worked in her garden more than ever now, because narcissa's maid took care of the cottage, and kept it as neat as even its mistress wished. she had the lawn before the house enclosed in a border shaped like the half of a great ring, and this was planted full of snowdrops, which blossom quite early, you know, and are very delicate and beautiful. it was like a ring of living pearls; and when these wilted, odors began to steal towards the cottage door, which tempted violet to look under another border thick with green leaves, and there would be more violets than you could count; so the pearl ring changed to one of emerald and amethyst. meantime the sweetbrier by the doorway would begin to have pale green buds on its brown stems, and the honeysuckle and bitter-sweet came forth in fresh green shoots, until there were so many new, tender, fragrant leaves, and buds, and blossoms that the birds were sure to select it as the place for their nests. narcissa loved to watch them while violet was busy with her work. a flock of robins would settle upon the plum tree in the garden, peck at the gum, and dig insect eggs out from the bark, and then fly away towards the wood, singing all together; but soon two would steal back to the plum tree, and chirp and twitter to each other, and look at the cottage, and then at the wood, and then at the thickest boughs of the plum. presently both would fly together towards the house, one settling on the sweetbrier, and one on the roof, and then on the chimney, and then hop along the porch, and then back both would go to have another talk in the plum tree, and then fly off to find their brothers and sisters in the wood. but sure as another morning came, back would come the birds too, looking with their little bright eyes all about the cottage, and always settling at last on that one sweetbrier branch. then they would begin to bring straws and hair, which they wove together into a soft little nest, working away as busy and happy as birds could be, now and then going back to the plum tree, as if from a distance to admire their tiny home. before very long, looking out of the cottage window, you might find the nest full of little cunning eggs; but you could not see these often, for the birds kept them almost constantly sheltered with their own warm breasts, waiting until the little things within should grow strong enough to break and creep out of their shells. all this time the father bird would bring the mother food--bring her ripe cherries, seeds, buds, and worms; and sometimes he would take her place, letting her fly away for a look at the woods, or a drink from the sparkling brook. but some bright morning you would hear the old birds twittering so joyfully, you might know something had come to pass; and the first time they flew away, if you looked from the window again, there would be, instead of the eggs, a little heap of the homeliest things in the world, with great eyes, and great legs and claws, and long red necks, and mouths half as large as the bodies, gaping at you--not a feather to be seen except a little down, like whiskers, about their ears. birds grow very fast; you would be surprised to find how soon they began to fill, and more than fill, the nest, until some morning one after another would hop out among the sweetbrier stems, and show you their glossy backs and speckled breasts, while the old birds watched so proud and happy, and began teaching them to fly and to sing. one morning towards the last of may, when violet was in the garden transplanting her forget-me-nots, and narcissa, in the porch, sat watching her, enjoying the cool, fresh air, the new life that budded forth from every thing, and the freedom and joy of the golden orioles as they flashed in and out among the elm boughs, and twittered forth their wild and plaintive melodies, her attention was caught by a stir and fluttering in the sweetbrier, and then a song from the larch tree opposite. these sounds came from two yellow birds, a mother and her little one. the young one would go, "twe-te-twee," timidly and sweetly, with such a tired tremble at the end; then forth poured the old bird a clear, connected strain, half repeated it, and then paused; and the little sweet voice came again, "pee-te-wee--pee-te-wee--twee-te-wee." it was too cunning, and the old bird took up the trembling, broken strain so clearly, with such ease, "twitter, witter, witter--wee-te-twee-te-twee--twitter, witter, witter"--"wee-te-twee," ended the young one, with that same little tremble in the midst, the same baby sweetness, just such as in a child would make you snatch it up and kiss it--"twee-te-wee." narcissa wondered if there could have been more exquisite music in paradise. chapter xxvii. violet's scholars. violet still had her little school of narcissa's brothers and sisters; but she was so gentle and patient that study was never very hard to them, though the lessons might be long; and then at recess time the boys would go out and pick cherries, or apples, or plums, from the garden, bring them in on fresh green leaves, and they would all sit in the porch and have a little feast together. saturday afternoons they would take a walk in the woods; and violet taught them how to weave oak leaves into crowns, and to make necklaces out of dandelion stems and lilac flowers, and baskets of rushes. they always took something home to narcissa, who could not enjoy long walks because of her lameness. one would pick up a pocket full of checkerberries, and one a handful of the young, spicy leaves; and the prettiest branch of hawthorn, the longest-stemmed violets, the largest-leaved bough of oak, were sure to go home for her. when it grew late in the year, they had such sport gathering chestnuts, hazelnuts, and shagbarks; the boys climbed the trees, and shook or beat them with long poles, and down the nuts would come rattling by baskets full. these were stored away in the cottage; for they all knew that what violet kept for them was safe. when they came near the cottage again after one of these excursions, looking so bright, with their rosy cheeks, and flying hair, and laughing faces, narcissa's smiling face was always at the window watching, and quickly appeared at the door to welcome them. sometimes they all went home crowned with autumn leaves, sometimes with woodbine or ground pine, and early in spring with bloodroots, violets, or anemones. but the prettiest crown, and the rarest flower, and the juiciest bunch of berries were always for narcissa. in stormy days, or when the ground was covered with snow, violet still made the holidays pleasant for her scholars; they would play games and sing in the afternoon. she would teach the girls how to dress their dolls, and the boys how to make pasteboard boxes and kites, and how to put puzzles together. then at evening they would gather around the fireplace, with narcissa's great chair in the midst of the circle, and she or violet would tell stories for hours together. one of these stories narcissa liked so much that she wrote it down, and after violet was dead,--for, like the snowdrops and wild roses, our violet died at last,--she read it to me. i will try and remember it for you; but first i must tell what sorrow there was in the great house on the hill, and not there only, but among all the poor in the neighborhood, when violet went to heaven. under the elm tree they buried her, beside mary and reuben; and the orioles she loved to watch still hatch their young and sing sweet songs above her grave. alfred wanted to build a great marble monument over her; for he said the whole world did not contain a better or lovelier woman. but narcissa said,-- "no; she has built her own monument of good deeds, which will last after marble has mouldered away. let us cover her grave with her own sweet violets, that whenever we pass we may think of _our_ violet." long afterwards, even to this day, when any who knew her witness a kind action, or meet one with a cheerful, hopeful spirit, and a sunny smile, they say, "it is just like violet." so, dear children, let us try to make friends with her fairies, love and contentment, and let us remember that whenever the thought of her urges _us_ to be cheerful, contented, and loving, we, too, shall plant a flower on violet's grave. violet's story. chapter i. it was a snowy night, and the children, as we gathered around the fire, began to ask for stories. i told them a queer dream of my own, and then they insisted that violet should give one of her fairy tales. while she was puzzling her brain for a new one, my little sister mabel, who had climbed upon the sofa and was nestling close to her, asked,-- "what makes you love violets so much? here even in winter time you have some in your bosom. aren't you sweeter than these little homely things?" "narcissa," she answered, "has told a dream, and now i will tell one. it's a kind of fairy story besides, and partly true. you must not ask any questions about the little girl, or make any guesses. her name happened to be just like yours, mabel." "little girl! i thought 'twas a _dream_," said mabel. [illustration: mabel's dream.] "listen, then: a little girl went out one day in search of strawberries. she went into a wide green field that was starred all over with dandelions, and clusters of wild lilies hanging like bells around their stems, and violets, and blue-eyed grass. "there was not a living being in this place except the birds, and little fishes in the brook; for through the long grass all around the field ran a stream of clearest water over a dark-brown, pebbly bed. "rising on every side, so as to shut the field in by itself, were hills closely covered with trees and vines. here birds sang all day long, and flowers bloomed, and nuts and berries ripened; the ground was in some places slippery with fallen pine leaves, and in others soft with a carpet of fresh moss. "it was shady in these woods, but in the field the sun shone, opened the lilies, ripened the strawberries, and made the little girl feel bright and glad, although it was so warm. "strawberries are tiny things to pick; the little girl thought it would take a million to fill her pail; and often she longed to leave them and gather flowers, or play with the fish in the brook, or rest in the cool wood. "but she had always loved violets, just as i love them; and a gardener's wife had promised mabel that the first time she brought a pail full of strawberries to her, she should have in return a whole bunch of these fragrant flowers. "so, stooping among the lilies, which were almost as tall as herself, and picking one by one, one by one, the bright sun pouring its heat down upon her, after a great while her pail was heaped with berries. almost as fragrant as violets they were, too, and looked, upon their long green stems, like little drops of coral. "mabel's work was not over now; she climbed half way up the hill, found a beautiful shady place, where the grass was long, and the roots of a great tree had coiled themselves into a seat, which was cushioned over with moss. "she threw aside her sun bonnet, and began to pick off the green hulls from her fruit, while the broad oak leaves overhead kept fanning her, and lifting the matted curls from her warm forehead. "but then came a great mosquito, and then another, and another; they would whirl around her head, buzzing and buzzing, and fly from her forehead to her nose, and from nose to hand, and hand to shoulder, and then creep into the curly hair, and buzz so close to her ear it frightened her. "twenty times she had a mind to throw her berries into the brook and run home; but then she thought of the violets--how splendid it would be to have them all to herself; she should not give away one flower, not one, she had worked so hard for them. "throwing the stems away lowered the contents of her pail so much that mabel had to go out in the hot field and pick again, and then back to the wood where the mosquitoes were, and work another hour. she never had such a long, hard task before. "but the little girl travelled home at last with her pail brimful in one hand, and a splendid great bunch of lilies in the other. this last served as a parasol till she reached the gardener's gate. "then, taking her violets, mabel hurried home. there were more of them, and they were larger and sweeter, than she had even hoped. she hardly took her eyes from them until she reached her mother's door. "while she was placing her flowers in water, a woman came up the hot, dusty road, with a young child in her arms. she looked tired and warm, and said she had eaten nothing all day long. mabel looked in the closet; there was plenty of bread, but she dared not give it without her mother's leave. she looked in all the rooms; but her mother was not to be found; and when the poor woman had rested a little, mabel watched her creep out into the blazing sun again, dragging the little child after her. she could not bear to think that while she had every thing to make her happy, others must go hungry and tired; and 'suppose it were my mother,' mabel thought; 'i _must_ do something for her; yet i have nothing in the world to give.' "'except the violets,' whispered something inside of mabel's heart. snatching them from the table, she ran after the beggar, and said,-- "'there, i gave a whole pail of strawberries for these; perhaps you can sell them for a loaf of bread.'" the poor woman looked so pleased, and thanked mabel so heartily, that she felt the violets could never have caused her so much joy as it had done to give them away. chapter ii. "not many days after these events, mabel went again to the field where the lilies and strawberries grew, played about in the sun until she was tired, and then seated herself under a shady tree to rest, and hear the birds and rustling leaves, and watch the brook glide through the grass. "the grass about her was long, and fine, and soft as any bed; it was cool too, and mabel, listening to the quiet murmur of the brook, fell fast asleep; but all the while she thought herself wide awake, and wondered why the sound of the rippling of water changed to something like the tread of tiny feet; and then there came the sweetest, most delicate music; and all at once--could it be?--she saw a multitude of little beings marching through the very pathway her footsteps had made in the grass, and approaching her. they were hardly taller than a grasshopper would be if he could stand up like a man, and had formed themselves into the drollest little procession. "first came the musicians; there were flute players, using each a joint of grass stem for instrument, bell ringers, jingling lilies of the valley, and trumpeters tooting through white lilac blossoms. then came the guards, dressed in uniform, and bearing each a fern leaf for banner at once and parasol. with these leaves they shaded a group of little women, who marched along as dignified as nuns until they came to a bunch of fennel leaves that grew near mabel's resting-place. towards this they flew, for the tiny people had wings; they climbed the stems and clung to the feathery leaves, and then all at once, espying mabel, trooped towards her, and ranged themselves upon a platform of plantain leaves. "they were funny little women--tall, and prim, and slim, wearing green mantles and such big purple hoods. they were more polite than some larger people, and did nothing but bow, and courtesy, and smile to mabel, who asked them who they were and whence they came. "they shook their heads, and laughed, while the air was filled with sweetest odor. at last one said,-- "'we are flower spirits. every year we come to earth and live in some blossom, which we fill with beauty and fragrance; but when it withers we go back to fairyland until another spring. we have, besides our fairy queen, a queen whom we choose every year among mortals, and serve her faithfully. we have just returned from working in her service.' "'are you not hungry?' asked mabel. 'i have brought luncheon. won't you eat some of my gingerbread?' "the fairies laughed again. 'we live,' they said, 'upon flower dust and dewdrops; we should not relish mortal food.' "then they called from the attendants who lingered among the fennel leaves their steward and butler; and it was mabel's turn to laugh when she saw how queerly they ate. "some blossoms from the elder bush, little ivory urns, served them for goblets. these were set upon a mushroom, and some red clover blossoms were rolled around the table for seats. the little men had tried in vain to break these blossoms off; so they caught a caterpillar, whipped him along with grass blades, and made him use his teeth for a knife. then they had caught a toad, and heaped his round back with the blossoms, which rolled off as fast as they could be picked up again; and by the time they reached their mistresses, the fairy servants were warm and red in the face as any hay makers. "the fairies grew so hungry with waiting that they even tasted a crumb of mabel's gingerbread; but not liking this very well, they took out from among the provisions that were packed in a wild rose, the petals nicely fastened together with cobweb threads, some poppy and caraway seeds, upon which they began to gnaw with their little white teeth. "'you must have lived in violets,' said mabel. 'every time you shake your bonnets and laugh, the air is full of their odor. can't you smell it?' "'yes, for we were violets once ourselves, and all blossomed in the same garden; some of us grew from the same root, and a queer life we have led in the last few days. one hot day this very week the gardener's wife picked us in the greatest haste, and tied us together so tightly we were all but smothered for a while. the woman gave us to a little girl, who was just putting our stems in some cool water, and we half dead with thirst, when she must needs give us away to a beggar woman.' "'why,' exclaimed mabel, 'were you _my_ violets?' "the fairies only laughed. "'the woman held us in her hot hands until we were all but wilted, and she gave one or two of my sisters to the poor tired child that followed her through the dust.' "'what is the matter?' asked mabel; 'your eyes are full of tears.' "'i am thinking of my sisters, whom we shall never meet again;' and the tears ran down the fairy's little cheeks. 'the child was overtired, and so warm that when they came to a resting-place, and she lay down to sleep, she never awoke again. a lady who had taken pity upon her laid the little body out for burial, and finding those few violets still clinched in the dead hand, would not remove them; so my sisters were buried in her grave, and must remain there no one knows how long; for while we live on earth we must take care of these bodies, frail flowers though they be. if we omit this, all our happiness and usefulness are gone. the kind lady who buried the beggar child bought us from the woman, all wilted as we were. in her shady parlor we soon grew refreshed, lifted our heads again, and in gratitude breathed forth odors, till the room was all perfumed. a lovely girl came to visit the lady, and said so much about our sweetness, that, to our joy, we were divided with her. she took us to her home, a splendid place, all light, and gilding, and flowers, curtains, and cushions, and velvet carpets, and marble stands. upon one of these last we were placed, in a white parian cup, but hardly had time to regain our breath when one of the maiden's lovers came, selected me from among the rest, and twirled me around his finger as he talked, until my stem was broken, and i all but dead. in a lucky hour he let me fall, and, lame as i was, i caught by the leg of a great fly, who whizzed me out of the window in a second, buzzing so all the while that he almost stunned me. i have just found my friends here, and have not had time to ask about their adventures.' "the little woman, tired with talking so long, sank into her seat on the plantain leaf, and taking a caraway seed from her pocket, began nibbling, while her companions finished the story. "'we have had less trouble,' they said. 'the benevolent lady took us to a dismal prison, to be sure, and we were shut up for a while with a man who had murdered another, and was waiting to be hung. he had forgotten his own mother and his early home; but when he looked at us, the past came back to him. he remembered the little garden by his father's house, and felt for a moment like an innocent boy again. from that hour he grew penitent, and he may be forgiven in consequence by god.' "'but didn't the jailer forgive him?' asked mabel. "'no; he was hung. we belonged to no one then, so we caught our withering bodies under our arms, and flew away through the iron gratings of his cell. but, mabel, what are you thinking about?' ended the fairy. "'thinking,' said mabel, 'how much better it was to give away my violets than to keep them. i little dreamed they would do so much good in the world. but, fairy, what is the name of the earthly queen you told me about?' "'mabel,' answered all the little voices; and the fern leaf banners waved, and violet odors filled the air again, while the tiny flutes and trumpets made sweet music at the mention of their queen. "'why, that is my name,' said the little girl. "'and you are our queen,' said the fairies. 'it is a kind and loving heart that gives one power like a fairy wand, and can win all good spirits to serve its owner. this will change selfishness into benevolence, and sin to penitence, and hatred to forgiveness; it will transform--haven't you done it?--a prison into a dewy garden, and put love and penitence into a murderer's heart. whoever uses us to best purposes is our queen; and _this_ summer our queen is mabel.' "mabel reached forward to take her little subjects from the leaf; but lo, it was only a handful of violets. in her surprise, she awoke, with a dim feeling still that she had watched the little procession wind away through her foot tracks in the grass, the fern leaf banners waving over it, while mingled with violet odors came back triumphant music from the tiny flutes and timbrels. low but clear were the fairy voices; and mabel never forgot the words they sang, which ended,-- 'all of us, whoe'er we be, may carve us out such royalty.'" juvenile works christmas holidays at chestnut hill. by cousin mary. containing fine engravings from original designs, and printed very neatly. it will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. little blossom's reward; a christmas book for children by mrs. emily hare. beautifully illustrated from original designs, and a charming presentation book for young people. estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. by h. trusta little mary; or, talks and tales. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. peep at "number five;" or, a chapter in the life of a city pastor. the telltale; or, home secrets told by old travellers. the "last leaf from sunny side;" by paul creyton. father brighthopes; or, an old clergyman's vacation. hearts and faces; or, home life unveiled. by francis c. woodworth. editor of "woodworth's youth's cabinet," author of "the willow lane budget," "the strawberry girl," "the miller of our village," "theodore thinker's tales," etc., etc. uncle frank's boys' and girls' library _a beautiful series, comprising six volumes, with eight tinted engravings in each volume. the following are their titles respectively_:-- i. the peddler's boy; or, i'll be somebody. ii. the diving bell; or, pearls to be sought for. iii. the poor organ grinder, and other stories. iv. our sue: her motto and its uses. v. mike marble: his crotchets and oddities. vi. the wonderful letter bag of kit curious "woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. we regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. the publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_syracuse (n. y.) daily standard._ the bishop's shadow by i.t. thurston _author of "boys of the central," "a genuine lady" etc._ with illustrations by m. eckerson "this learned i from the shadow of a tree that to and fro did sway upon a wall, our shadow selves--our influence--may fall where we can never be." contents i. lost--a pocketbook ii. nan's new home iii. an accident iv. tode meets the bishop v. in the bishop's house vi. tode's new start vii. after tode's departure viii. theo's shadow work ix. theo in trouble x. a bitter disappointment xi. theo's new business xii. nan finds friends xiii. nan's departure xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance xv. a strike xvi. called to go up higher xvii. final glimpses list of illustrations theodore bryan, sign-polisher "he's awakin' up, i guess" adrift again "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!" "stop the car!" thanksgiving reunion the bishop's shadow [illustration: theodore bryan, sign-polisher] i. lost--a pocketbook it was about ten o'clock in the morning and a northeast storm was raging in boston. the narrow crooked business streets were slippery with mud and thronged with drays and wagons of every description, which, with the continual passing of the street cars, made it a difficult and often a dangerous matter to attempt a crossing. the rain came in sudden driving sheets, blotting out all but the nearest cars or vehicles, while the wind seemed to lie in wait at every corner ready to spring forth and wrest umbrellas out of the hands of pedestrians at the most critical points in the crossings. two ladies coming along causeway street by the union depot, waited some minutes on the sidewalk watching for an opening in the endless stream of passing teams. "there! we shan't have a better chance than this. come on now," one of them exclaimed, stepping quickly forward as there came a little break in the moving line. she stepped in front of two cars that had stopped on parallel tracks and her companion hastily followed her. just then there came a fierce gust that threatened to turn their umbrellas inside out. the lady in front clutched hers nervously and hurried forward. as she ran past the second car she found herself almost under the feet of a pair of horses attached to a heavy wagon. the driver yelled angrily at her as he hastily pulled up his team; a policeman shouted warningly and sprang toward her, and her friend stopped short with a low cry of terror. but though the pole of the wagon grazed her cheek and the shock threw her almost to the ground, the lady recovered herself and hurried across to the sidewalk. it was then that a little ragged fellow of perhaps thirteen, slipped swiftly under the very feet of the horses, and, unheeding the savage shouts of the driver, wormed his way rapidly through the crowd and vanished. as he did so, the lady who had so narrowly escaped injury, turned to her friend and cried, "oh my pocketbook! i must have dropped it on the crossing." "on the crossing, did you say?" questioned the policeman, and as she assented, he turned hastily back to the street, but the cars and teams had passed on and others were surging forward and no trace of the pocketbook was visible. the policeman came back and questioned the lady about it, promising to do what he could to recover it. "but it's not probable you'll ever see a penny of the money again," he said. "some rascally thief most likely saw ye drop it an' snatched it up." the policeman was not mistaken. if he had turned through tremont and boylston streets he might have seen a ragged, barefooted boy sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to look into a shop window, yet ever keeping a keenly watchful eye on every policeman he met. the boy looked as if he had not a penny in those ragged pockets of his, but one of his grimy hands clutched tightly the lost pocketbook, which his sharp eyes had seen as it fell beneath the feet of the horses, and which he had deftly appropriated as he wriggled through the mud. heedless of wind and rain the boy lounged along the street. it was not often that he found himself in this section of the city, and it was much less familiar to him than some other localities. he seemed to be wandering aimlessly along, but his restless eyes were on the watch for some retired spot where he might safely examine his prize and see how much money he had secured. for a long time he saw no place that seemed to him a safe one for his purpose, so he went on and on until suddenly he realised that he was tired. he was passing a large brownstone church at the moment, and he sat down on the steps to rest. "my! but this is a gay ol' church!" he thought, as he looked curiously at the beautiful building. "wonder where them steps go to." springing up he ran across the pillared porch to the foot of the stone stairs that led to the upper entrance to the chapel. following a sudden impulse he started hastily up these stairs, his bare feet making no sound. at the top of the stairs he found himself shut in on two sides by a high stone balustrade, the chapel door forming the third side. this door was closed. he tried it softly and found it locked. then he dropped down in the darkest corner of the landing, and, with eyes and ears still keenly alert, pulled from his pocket the mud-stained purse and examined it carefully. he found in it thirty-six dollars in bills and about a dollar more in silver. the boy gave a gleeful, silent laugh. "struck it rich this time," he said to himself. he hunted up a crooked pin from somewhere about his dilapidated garments, and fastened the roll of bills as securely as he could inside the lining of his jacket, keeping the silver in his pocket. then he again examined the book to be sure that he had overlooked nothing. on the inside of the leather was the name, "r. a. russell," and there was also a card bearing the same name and an address. the card he tore into tiny bits and chewed into a pellet which he tossed over the stone balustrade. then, with the pocketbook in his hand, he looked about him. there was a pastor's box fastened beside the door. he crowded the telltale book through the opening in the top of this box, and then with a satisfied air ran blithely down the stone steps. but he stopped short as he came face to face with the sexton who was just crossing the porch. "here, you! where've you been? what you been up to?" cried the man, clutching at him angrily, but the boy was too quick. he ducked suddenly, slipped under the sexton's hands and darted across the porch and down the steps. then he stopped to call back, "be'n makin' 'rangements ter preach fer ye here next sunday--yah! yah!" and with a mocking laugh he disappeared leaving the sexton shaking his fist in impotent wrath. the boy ran swiftly on until he had gotten quite a distance from the church; then he slackened his pace and began to plan what he should do next. the sight of a confectioner's window reminded him that he was hungry, and he went into the store and bought two tarts which he ate as he walked on. after that he bought a quart of peanuts, two bananas and a piece of mince-pie, and having disposed of all these he felt hungry no longer. having in his possession what seemed to him a small fortune, he saw no necessity for working, so that night he did not go as usual to the newspaper office for the evening papers, but spent his time loafing around the busiest corners and watching all that went on about the streets. this unusual conduct attracted the attention of his cronies, and a number of newsboys gathered about him trying to find out the reason of his strange idleness. "i say, tode," called one, "why ain't ye gettin' yer papers?" "aw, he's come into a fortune, he has," put in another. "his rich uncle's come home an' 'dopted him." "naw, he's married vanderbilt's daughter," sneered a third. "say, now, tode, tell us w'at's up," whispered one, sidling up to him. "hev ye swiped somethin'?" tode tried to put on an expression of injured innocence, but his face flushed as he answered, shortly, "come, hush yer noise, will ye! can't a chap lay off fer one day 'thout all the town pitchin' inter him? i made a dollar extry this mornin'--that's all the' is about it," and stuffing his hands into his pockets he marched off to avoid further comment. for the next week tode "lived high" as he expressed it. he had from three to six meals a day and an unlimited amount of pie and peanuts besides, but after all he was not particularly happy. time hung heavy on his hands sometimes--the more so as the boys, resenting his living in luxurious idleness, held aloof, and would have nothing to do with him. he had been quite a leader among them, and it galled him to be so left out and ignored. he began to think that he should not be sorry when his ill-gotten money was gone. he was thinking after this fashion one day as he strolled aimlessly down a side street. it was a quiet street where at that hour there was little passing, and tode lounged along with his hands in his pockets until he came to a place where the sidewalk was littered with building material and where a large house was in course of construction. perhaps the workmen were on a strike that day. at any rate none of them were about, and the boy sprang up onto a barrel that was standing near the curbstone, and sat there drumming on the head with two pieces of lath and whistling a lively air. after a little his whistle ceased and he looked up and down the street with a yawn, saying to himself, "gay ol' street, this is! looks like everybody's dead or asleep." but even as he spoke a girl came hastily around the nearest corner and hurried toward him. she looked about fourteen. her clothes were worn and shabby but they were clean, and in her arms she carried a baby wrapped in a shawl. she stopped beside tode and looked at him with imploring eyes. "oh can't you help me to hide somewhere? do! do!" she cried, with a world of entreaty in her voice. the boy glanced at her coolly. "what ye want ter hide for? been swipin' somethin'?" he questioned, carelessly. the girl flashed at him an indignant glance, then cast a quick, frightened one behind her. "no, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly. "i'm no thief. i'm running away from old mary leary. she's most killed my little brother giving him whiskey so's to make him look sick when she takes him out begging. look here!" she lifted the shawl that was wrapped about the child. tode leaned over and looked at the little face. it was a pitiful little face--so white and thin, with sunken eyes and blue lips--so pitiful that it touched even tode's heart, that was not easily touched. "the ol' woman after ye?" he asked, springing down from the barrel. "yes, yes! oh, do help me," pleaded the girl, the tears running down her cheeks as she gazed at the baby face. "i'm afraid he's going to die." the boy cast a quick glance about him. "here!" he exclaimed, "squat down an' i'll turn this over ye." he seized a big empty barrel that stood near. without a word the girl slipped to the ground and he turned the barrel over her, kicking under the edge a bit of wood to give air. the next moment he stooped down to the opening and whispered, "hi! the ol' lady's a comin'. don't ye peep. i'll fix her!" then he reseated himself again on the barrelhead and began to drum and whistle as before, apparently paying no heed to the woman who came along scolding and swearing, with half a dozen street children following at her heels. she came nearer and nearer but tode drummed on and whistled unconcernedly until she stopped before him and exclaimed harshly, "you boy--have you seen a girl go by here, with a baby?" "nope," replied tode, briefly. "how long you be'n settin' here?" "'bout two weeks," answered the boy, gravely. the woman stormed and blustered, but finding that this made no impression she changed her tactics and began in a wheedling tone, "now, dearie, you'll help an ol' woman find her baby, won't ye? it's heartbroke i am for my pretty darlin' an' that girl has carried him off. tell me, dearie, did they go this way?" "i d' know nothin' 'bout yer gal," exclaimed tode. "why don't ye scoot 'round an' find her 'f she's cleared out?" "an' ain't i huntin' her this blessed minute?" shrieked the woman, angrily. "i b'lieve ye _have_ seen her. like's not ye've hid her away somewheres." tode turned away from her and resumed his drumming while the woman cast a suspicious glance at the unfinished building. "she may be there," she muttered and began searching through the piles of building material on the ground floor. "hope she'll break her ol' neck!" thought tode, vengefully, as he whistled with fresh vigor. the woman reappeared presently, and casting a threatening glance and a torrent of bad language at the boy, went lumbering heavily down the street with the crowd of noisy, curious children straggling along behind her. when they had all disappeared around the corner of the street, tode sprang down and putting his mouth to the opening at the bottom of the barrel whispered hastily, "keep still 'til i see if she's gone sure," and he raced up to the corner where he watched until the woman was out of sight. then he ran back and lifted the barrel off, saying, "it's all right--she's gone, sure 'nough." the girl cast an anxious glance up and down the street as she sprang up. "oh dear!" she exclaimed. "i don't know where to go!" and tode saw that her eyes were full of tears. he looked at her curiously. "might go down t' the wharf. ol' woman wouldn't be likely ter go there, would she?" he suggested. "i don't think so. i've never been there," replied the girl. "which way is it?" "come on--i'll show ye;" and tode set off at a rapid pace. the girl followed as fast as she could, but the child was a limp weight in her arms and she soon began to lag behind and breathe heavily. "what's the matter? why don't ye hurry up?" exclaimed the boy with an impatient backward glance. "i--can't. he's so--heavy," panted the girl breathlessly. tode did not offer to take the child. he only put his hands in his pockets and waited for her, and then went on more slowly. when they reached the wharf, he led the way to a quiet corner where the girl dropped down with a sigh of relief and weariness, while he leaned against a post and looked down at her. presently he remarked, "what's yer name?" "nan hastings," replied the girl. "how'd she get hold o' ye?" pursued the boy, with a backward jerk of his thumb that nan rightly concluded was meant to indicate the leary woman. she answered slowly, "it was when mother died. we had a nice home. we were not poor folks. my father was an engineer, and he was killed in an accident before little brother was born, and that almost broke mother's heart. after the baby came she was sick all the time and she couldn't work much, and so we used up all the money we had, and mother got sicker and at last she told me she was going to die." the girl's voice trembled and she was silent for a moment; then she went on, "she made me kneel down by the bed and promise her that i would always take care of little brother and bring him up to be a _good_ man as father was. i promised, and i am going to do it." the girl spoke earnestly with the light of a solemn purpose in her dark eyes. tode began to be interested. "and she died?" he prompted. "yes, she died. she wrote to some of her relatives before she died asking them to help little brother and me, but there was no answer to the letter, and after she died all our furniture was sold to pay the doctor and the funeral bills. the doctor wanted to send us to an orphan asylum, but mary leary had worked for us, and she told me that if we went to an asylum they would take little brother away from me and i'd never see him any more, and she said if i'd go home with her she'd find me a place to work and i could keep the baby. so i went home with her. it was a horrid place"--nan shuddered--"and i found out pretty soon that she drank whiskey, but i hadn't any other place to go, so i had to stay there, but lately she's been taking the baby out every day and he's been growing so pale and sick-looking, and yesterday i caught her giving him whiskey, and then i knew she did it to make him look sick so that she would get more money when she went out begging with him." "an' so you cut an' run?" put in tode, as the girl paused. [illustration: "he's awakin' up, i guess."] "yes--and i'll _never_ go back to her, but--i don't know what i _can_ do. do you know any place where i can stay and work for little brother?" the dark eyes looked up into the boy's face with a wistful, pleading glance, as the girl spoke. "i'd know no place," replied tode, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. he did not feel called upon to help this girl. tode considered girls entirely unnecessary evils. nan looked disappointed, but she said no more. "he's wakin' up, i guess," remarked tode, glancing at the baby. the little thing stirred uneasily, and then the heavy, blue-veined lids were lifted slowly, and a pair of big innocent blue eyes looked straight into tode's. a long, steadfast, unchildlike look it was, a look that somehow held the boy's eyes in spite of himself, and then a faint, tremulous smile quivered over the pale lips, and the baby hands were lifted to the boy. that look and smile had a strange, a wonderful effect on tode. something seemed to spring into life in his heart in that instant. up to this hour he had never known what love was, for he had never loved any human being, but as he gazed into the pure depths of those blue eyes and saw the baby fingers flutter feebly toward him, his heart went out in love to the child, and he held out his arms to take him. nan hesitated, with a quick glance at tode's dirty hands and garments, but he cried imperiously, "give him here. he wants to come to me," and she allowed him to take the child from her arms. as he felt himself lifted in that strong grasp, little brother smiled again, and nestled with a long breath of content against tode's dirty jacket. "see--he likes me!" cried the boy, his face all aglow with the strange, sweet delight that possessed him. he sat still holding the child, afraid to move lest he disturb his charge, but in a few minutes the baby began to fret. "what's he want?" questioned tode, anxiously. nan looked distressed. "i'm afraid he's hungry," she replied. "oh dear, what _shall_ i do!" she seemed ready to cry herself, but tode sprang up. "you come along," he exclaimed, briefly, and he started off with the child still in his arms, and nan followed wonderingly. she shrank back as he pushed open the door of a restaurant, but tode went in and after a moment's hesitation, she followed. "what'll he take--some beef?" inquired the boy. "oh no!" cried nan, hastily, "some bread and milk will be best for him." "all right. here you--bring us a quart o' milk an' a loaf o' bread," called tode, sharply, to a waiter. when these were brought he added, "now fetch on a steak an' a oyster stew." then he turned with a puzzled look to nan. "how does he take it? d'ye pour it down his throat?" he asked. "no, no!" cried nan, hastily, as he seized the bowl of milk. "you must feed it to him with a spoon." "all right!" and utterly regardless of the grinning waiters tode began to feed the baby, depositing quite as much in his neck as in his mouth, while nan looked on, longing to take the matter into her own hands, but afraid to interfere. suddenly tode glanced at her. "why don't ye eat?" he said, with a gesture toward the food on the table. the girl coloured and drew back. "oh i can't," she exclaimed, hastily, "i ain't--i don't want anything." "ain't ye hungry?" demanded tode in a masterful tone. "n--not much," stammered nan, but the boy saw a hungry gleam in her eyes as she glanced at the food. "y'are, too! now you jest put that out o' sight in a hurry!" but nan shook her head. "i'm no beggar," she said, proudly, "and some time i'm going to pay you for that," and she pointed to the bowl of bread and milk. "shucks!" exclaimed the boy. "see here! i've ordered that stuff an' i'll have it to pay for anyhow, so you might's well eat it. _i_ don't want it," and he devoted himself again to the child. nan turned her head resolutely away, but she was so hungry and the food did smell so good that she could not resist it. she tasted the oysters and in three minutes the bowl was empty, and a good bit of the steak had disappeared before she pushed aside her plate. "thank you," she said, gratefully. "it did taste _so_ good!" "huh!" grunted tode. this was the first time in his life that anybody had said "thank you" to him. he handed the baby over to nan and, though he had said he was not hungry, finished the steak and a big piece of pie in addition and then the three left the restaurant. ii. nan's new home as they went out, nan looked anxiously from side to side, fearing to see or be seen by the leary woman. tode noticed her troubled look and remarked, "ye needn't ter fret. _i_ wouldn't let her touch ye. we might's well go back to the wharf," he added. so they returned to the corner they had left, and in a little while the baby dropped into a refreshing sleep in his sister's lap, while tode sometimes roamed about the wharf, and sometimes lounged against a post and talked with nan. "what is _your_ name?" she asked him, suddenly. "tode bryan." "tode? that's a queer name." "'spect that ain't all of it. there's some more, but i've forgot what 'tis," the boy replied, carelessly. "and where's your home, tode?" "home? ain't got none. never had none--no folks neither." "but where do you live?" "oh, anywheres. when i'm flush, i sleeps at the newsboys' home, an' when i ain't, i takes the softest corner i can find in a alley or on a doorstep," was the indifferent reply. nan looked troubled. "but i can't do that," she said. "i can't sleep in the street with little brother." "why not?" questioned tode, wonderingly. "oh because--girls can't do like that." "lots o' girls do." "but--not nice girls, tode," said nan, wistfully. "well no, i don't 'spect they're nice girls. i don't know any girls 't amount to much," replied tode, disdainfully. nan flushed at his tone, as she answered, "but what _can_ i do? where can i go? seems as if there ought to be some place where girls like me could stay." "that's so, for a fact," assented tode, then he added, thoughtfully, "the's one feller--mebbe you could stay where he lives. he's got a mother, i know." "oh if i only could, tode! i'd work _ever_ so hard," said nan, earnestly. "you stay here an' i'll see 'f i can find him," said the boy. then he turned back to add suspiciously, "now don't ye clear out while i'm gone." nan looked at him wonderingly. "where would i go?" she questioned, and tode answered with a laugh, "that a fact--ye ain't got no place to go, have ye?" then he disappeared and nan waited anxiously for his return. he came back within an hour bringing with him a freckle-faced boy a year or so older than himself. "this's the gal!" he remarked, briefly. the newcomer looked doubtfully at nan. "see the little feller," cried tode, eagerly. "ain't he a daisy? see him laugh," and he chucked the baby clumsily under the chin. the child's heavy eyes brightened and he smiled back into the friendly, dirty face of the boy. the other boy looked at tode wonderingly. "didn't know 't you liked _kids,_" he said, scornfully. "so i don't--but this one's diff'runt," replied tode, promptly. "you ain't no common kid, be ye, little brother?" "what's his name?" questioned the boy. "his name is david, but mother always called him little brother, and so i do," answered the girl, in a low tone. "have you a mother?" she added, with an earnest look at the boy. "got the best mother in this town," was the prompt reply. "oh, won't you take me to her, then? maybe she can tell me what to do," nan pleaded. "well, come along, then," responded the boy, rather grudgingly. "you come too, tode," said nan. "'cause you know we might meet mary leary." "all right. i'll settle her. don't you worry," and tode, with a very warlike air marched along at nan's right hand. "what's your mother's name?" questioned nan, shyly, of the newcomer as the three walked on together. "hunt. i'm dick hunt," was the brief reply. then dick turned away from the girl and talked to tode. it was not very far to dick's home. it was in one of the better class of tenement houses. the hunts had three rooms and they were clean and comfortably furnished. tode looked around admiringly as dick threw open the door and led the way in. tode had never been in rooms like these before. nan--after one quick glance about the place--looked earnestly and longingly into mrs. hunt's kind motherly face. dick wasted no words. "mother," he said, "this girl wants to stay here." mrs. hunt was making paper bags. her busy fingers did not stop for a moment, but she cast a quick, keen glance at nan and tode. "what do you mean, dick?" she said. "oh, mrs. hunt, if you only would let us stay here till i can find a place to work, i'd be so thankful. we'll have to stay in the street tonight--little brother and i--if you don't," urged nan, eagerly. mrs. hunt's kind heart was touched by the girl's pleading tone. she had girls of her own and she thought, "what if my nellie had to spend the night in the street," but she said only: "sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it." the kind tone and those two words "my dear," were almost too much for poor anxious nan. her eyes filled with tears and her voice was not quite steady as she told again her sorrowful little story, and when it was ended the mother's eyes too were dim. "give me that baby," she exclaimed, forgetting her work for the moment, and she took the little fellow tenderly in her arms. "you poor child," she added, to nan, "of course you can stay here to-night. it's a poor enough place an' we're as pinched as we can be, but we'll manage somehow to squeeze out a bite and a corner for you for a day or two anyway." tode's face expressed his satisfaction as he turned to depart. dick too looked pleased. "didn't i tell ye i'd got the best mother in this town?" he said, proudly, as he followed tode down the stairs. "yes you did, an' 'twarn't no lie neither," assented tode, emphatically; "but, see here, you can tell your mother that _i'm_ agoin' to pay for that little feller's bread an' milk." dick looked at him curiously. "you goin' to work again?" he questioned. "'course i am." "somebody's got your beat." "who?" tode stopped short in angry surprise as he asked the question. "that big red-headed feller that they call carrots." "well--carrots'll find himself knocked out o' business," declared tode, fiercely. when the newsboys assembled at the newspaper office a little later, dick speedily reported tode's remark, and soon all eyes were on the alert to see what would happen. tode was greeted rather coldly and indifferently, but that did not trouble him. he bought his papers and set off for his usual beat. scenting a fight a good many of the boys followed. as dick had said, tode found the big fellow on the ground, lustily crying his papers. tode marched straight up to him. "see here, carrots, this's my beat. you clear out--d'ye hear?" he shouted. the big fellow leered at him scornfully, and without a word in response, went on calling his papers. down on the ground went tode's stock in trade, and he fell upon carrots like a small cyclone fighting with teeth, nails, fists and heels, striking in recklessly with never a thought of fear. forgetful of possible customers, the boys quickly formed a ring, and yelled and hooted at the antagonists, cheering first one and then the other. but the contest was an unequal one. the red-headed boy was the bigger and stronger of the two and plucky as tode was, he would have been severely treated had not the affair been ended by the appearance of a policeman who speedily separated the combatants. "what's all this row about?" he demanded, sharply, as he looked from tode's bleeding face to the big fellow's bruised eye. "he took my beat. i've sold papers here for three years," cried tode, angrily. "what _you_ got to say?" the policeman turned to the other. "he give it up. he ain't sold a paper here for a week past," growled carrots. "whose beat is it?" the man turned to the other boys as he asked the question. "reckon it's tode's." "he's o'ny been layin' off fer a spell." "it's tode's sure 'nough." so they answered, and the officer turned again to carrots. "you're a bigger feller 'n he is. you let him alone an' go find a new beat for yourself, an' see 't i don't catch either of ye fightin' in the streets again, or i'll put ye where ye'll get another kind of a beat if ye don't walk straight. now scatter--all of ye!" the "fun" was over and the boys needed no second bidding. they scattered in all directions and the next moment, tode's shrill voice rang out triumphantly, while his rival stalked gloomily off, meditating dire vengeance in the near future. meantime, after tode and dick had departed, nan had spoken a few grateful words to mrs. hunt, and then laying the baby on the lounge, she said, earnestly, "please show me just how you make those bags. i'm sure i can do it." it was simple work and it did not take her many minutes to master the details. her quick eyes and deft fingers soon enabled her to do the work fully as well and as rapidly as mrs. hunt could do it. "well, i never! you certainly are a quick one," exclaimed the good woman as she gave up her seat to the girl. "now if you can finish that job for me, i can get a little sewing done before dark." "oh yes, i can finish this easily," exclaimed nan, delighted that there was something that she could do in return for the kindness shown her. by and by, jimmy, nellie, and the younger children came in from school, staring in amazement at the two strangers who seemed so much at home there. nan made friends with them at once, but she dreaded the arrival of the father. "what if he shouldn't want us to stay?" she thought, anxiously, as she heard a heavy step on the stairs, and nellie called out, "here comes father!" there was a general rush of the children as he opened the door and he came into the room with boys and girls swarming over him. nan's fears departed at the first sight of his honest, kindly face, and his cheery greeting to her. "wal' now, this is nice," he said, heartily, after hearing his wife's brief explanation. "never can have too many little gals 'round to suit me, an' as fer this young man," he lifted little brother gently as he spoke, "he fits into this fam'ly jest like a book. ted here's gettin' most too much of a man to be our baby any longer." ted's round face had lengthened as his father took up the baby, but it brightened at these words, and he straightened himself and slipped his hands into the pockets of the very short trousers he was wearing. "i'll be a big man pretty soon," he remarked, and his father patted his head tenderly as he answered, "so you will, sonny, so you will, an' the more you help other folks the faster you'll grow." that was a happy evening for nan. as she sat at the supper-table at "father's" right hand the only shadow on her satisfaction was the fear that she might not be allowed to remain in this friendly household. but somehow, even that thought could not cast a very dark shadow on her heart when she looked up into the sunshine of father hunt's plain face, or met the motherly smile of his good wife. she lent a helping hand whenever she saw an opportunity to do so, and the table was cleared, and the dishes washed so quickly that mr. hunt remarked to his wife, "look here, now, mother, why can't you an' me go somewheres this evening? you ain't been out with me for more'n a year, an' i feel's if i'd like a bit of an outin' to-night." mrs. hunt looked up doubtfully, but nan spoke up quickly, "do go, mrs. hunt. i'll take care of the children and be glad to." "that's right! that's right!" exclaimed mr. hunt. "'course ye will, an' i 'spect you'll make 'em have such a fine time that they'll be sorry when we get back." ted put his finger in his mouth and gloom gathered on his round face at this suggestion, but it vanished as nan said, "teddy, i can cut fine soldiers out of paper, and animals too. after your father and mother go i'll cut some for you." teddy's face brightened at this promise, and he saw the door close behind his mother without shedding a single tear. nan put little brother to bed and then all the children gathered about the table and nan drew men and animals on brown paper and cut them out, to the great delight of the children. teddy especially was so interested that once nellie remarked, "you needn't get quite into nan's mouth, ted." nan laughed. "if he only won't get his fingers cut instead of the paper," she said. "there! i've got a whole fun'ral of horses," remarked ted, in a tone of great satisfaction, as he ranged a long string of the figures two and two on the table. "look out, ted, you'll knock over the lamp!" cried jimmy, hastily. the warning came too late. even as the words were uttered, the chair on which ted was standing slipped from under him, and as he struck out wildly to save himself from falling he hit the lamp and knocked it over on the table. the chimney rolled to the floor with a crash, and the burning oil spread over the table licking up ted's horses and the scattered bits of paper as it went. then a piece of the burning paper blew against nellie's apron and the next instant that was blazing, and nellie screaming with fright, while the other children ran crying into the inner room--all but ted. he--petrified with terror--stood still with mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at the fiery stream rolling over the table. it all happened in two or three seconds, but nan did not lose her head. she jerked off nellie's apron without regard to fastenings, and crammed it into the coalhod, then snatching up her old shawl which was lying on the lounge, she threw it over the burning lamp and gathered it closely over lamp, paper and all, so smothering the flames. in two minutes the danger was over, nan had lighted another lamp that nellie brought her, and the frightened children came creeping slowly back to the table. teddy did not care for paper men or animals any more that night. he was ready to go to bed, and nellie undressed him and put him there, but the others sat up until the father and mother came home, all eager to tell the story of their danger and of nan's bravery. the mother's eyes filled with tears as she put her arms about as many of the children as she could gather into them and looked at nan in silent gratitude, while the father laid his hand kindly on the girl's brown hair as he said, gravely, "child, you've earned your place in this home. as long as i'm able to work you're just as welcome here as the rest--you and the baby too." nan's eyes were shining happily. "'twas nothing much to do," she answered, "and i'll find some way to pay for little brother and me if only we can stay here." dick had come in soon after his parents, and had listened in gloomy silence to the story of the children. "humph!" he said to himself. "twasn't so awful much to put out that fire. i'd a done it in no time if i'd a been here." it seemed to dick that his father and mother were making altogether too much of this strange girl, and the evil spirit of jealousy reared its ugly head in his heart. he wished he had not brought those two home with him, anyhow. when, the next day, tode met him on the street and inquired about nan and little brother, dick replied, gruffly, "oh, they're all right 'nough." "but are they goin' ter stay't your place?" questioned tode. "'spect so." dick's voice was gruffer than before. "i'm agoin' 'round there to see 'em to-day," remarked tode. dick made no reply. tode repeated, "don't ye hear? i say i'm agoin' ter see 'em to-day." "i heard what ye said. s'pose i'm deaf?" and dick turned his back and marched off. tode looked after him angrily. "like ter punch his head fer him," he said, under his breath. "would, too, if his folks hadn't let little brother stay on there." nothing daunted by dick's unfriendly manner, tode presented himself that afternoon at mrs. hunt's door. he found that good woman and nan both busy over the paper bags. all the children except dick were at school, and little brother was lying on the old shawl at his sister's feet. tode gave an awkward nod by way of greeting and dropped down on the floor beside the child. "hello, little chap!" he said. there certainly was a mutual attraction between the two, for the baby again responded to his greeting with a smile, and held out his scrawny little hands. tode was delighted. he lifted the child in his arms and sat down with him in an old rocking-chair. nan cast a quick, disturbed glance at the two. she had dressed the baby in some clothes that mrs. hunt had found for her--a few that had survived ted's rough usage. they were old but clean, and it was trying to nan to see little brother's pure, sweet face and fresh garments held by tode's dirty hands against his dirtier jacket. but the baby did not mind. he looked as contented as tode did, and when the boy's grimy fingers touched his thin cheek, little brother laughed a soft, happy, gurgling laugh that was music in tode's ears. but suddenly the boy's glance took in the contrast between his soiled hand and the little face against which it rested. for a moment he hesitated, then he arose hastily, placed the child gently on the old shawl again and said to mrs. hunt, "ye ain't got a bit o' soap you could lend me, have ye?" mrs. hunt looked at him inquiringly, then she answered a little unwillingly, for even soap costs money, "you can take that bit on the shelf there." tode seized it and vanished. few things escaped his quick eyes, and he had noticed a sink and a faucet in the hall outside the door. there he rubbed and scrubbed his hands for full five minutes vastly to their improvement, though even then he looked at them doubtfully. "can't do no better," he muttered, as he wiped them--well, he had only one place to wipe them, and he did the best he could. when he went back he glanced somewhat sheepishly at mrs. hunt as he put the remains of the soap back on the shelf, and again took up the baby. nan smiled at him but she made no remark, and tried not to look at his jacket. after he had gone mrs. hunt asked, thoughtfully, "how long have you known that boy, nan?" "i never saw him until yesterday," answered the girl. "he was good to me then." "yes, i know, an' of course you don't want to forget that, but, nan, i'm afraid he's a bad boy. dick says he is. he says he lies and steals and swears. i guess you don't want to have much to do with him." nan looked troubled. she answered, slowly, "i guess he hasn't had much of a chance, mrs. hunt. he can't remember anything about his father and mother, and he says he's never had any home except the street. do you s'pose 'twill hurt for him to come here sometimes to see little brother? 'seems as if it might help him to be a better boy. he likes little brother." for a moment mrs. hunt was silent. she was thinking how hard she tried to bring up her children to be good boys and girls, and yet they were not always good. she wondered what kind of a boy her dick would have been if he, like tode, had had no home and no one to keep him from evil ways. "if that's so, there's some excuse for him," she said, in response to nan's plea for tode. "p'raps 'twill help him somehow if he gets to carin' for that innocent baby, an' i don't mind his comin' here sometimes, only be careful that you don't learn any evil from him, my dear," and she leaned over and kissed the girl's cheek. "oh, mrs. hunt, i _must_ be good always, you know, for little brother's sake. i can't ever forget or break my promise to mother," nan answered, earnestly. and mrs. hunt, as she saw the solemn look in the dark eyes uplifted to her own, felt that she need not worry about nan and tode. iii. an accident tode bryan was sauntering down the street, his hands in his pockets, as usual, when he was not selling papers. he was whistling a lively tune, but he was on the lookout for anything interesting that might happen. as he passed a fruit stand kept by an old woman, he slyly snatched a handful of peanuts which he ate as he went on. he had sold out his papers more quickly than usual, for it was still early in the evening, and the streets were full of business-men on their way to their homes. suddenly the boy stopped short and listened, and the next moment there was a general rush into doorways and side streets as a fire-engine came dashing around the corner, while the police rushed from side to side clearing the way through the narrow street. as the engine passed, tode, like every other boy within sight or hearing, raced madly after it, shouting and yelling "fire" with all the power of his healthy lungs. hearing somebody say where the fire was, he slipped through a narrow cross street and an alley, so coming out ahead of the engine which the next moment swung around the nearest corner. an old man was just crossing the street, and as he heard the clang of the gong and the clatter of the engine, he looked about in a dazed, frightened way, and, instead of hurrying across, hesitated a moment and then turned uncertainly back. the driver did his best to avoid him but when the engine had passed the old man lay motionless upon the ground. instantly a crowd gathered about him and tode pressed forward to the front rank. one policeman was raising the old man's head and another was asking if anybody knew who the injured man was. it was tode, who, peering curiously at the pale face, remarked, "i know him. he buys papers o' me." "what's his name? where does he live?" questioned the officer. "do' know. he keeps a bookstand down on school street." "well, we'll have to send him to the hospital. ring up the ambulance, dick," said the officer to his companion. tode was just dashing off after the engine when one of the policemen collared him. "here you!" he exclaimed. "none o' your cuttin' off! if you know this man you've got to go to the hospital an' 'dentify him." tode looked uncomfortable and tried to squirm out of the man's grasp--a fruitless effort, for his strength availed nothing against that iron grip. the boy had no idea what "'dentify" might mean but he had his reasons for preferring to keep at a distance from the guardians of the law. there was no help for it, however, so with many inward misgivings, he submitted and waited for the ambulance. when it appeared the still insensible old man was lifted in and tode was ordered to the front seat where he rode securely between the driver and the policeman. the boy had never before been in a hospital and he felt very ill at ease when he found himself inside the building with its big rooms and long bare halls. he was left alone with the policeman for a while, and then both of them were called into another room and questioned in regard to the accident. finally tode was dismissed with strict orders to return the next day. "he'll be here. i know him, an' if he don't show up, you jest send me word an' i'll find him for ye," the officer said to the doctor, with a threatening glance at the boy. tode said nothing, but in his heart he was determined not to return the next day. the officer, however, kept his eye on him, and the next afternoon pounced upon him and put him on a street car with strict orders to the conductor not to let him off until he reached the hospital. so finding himself thus under watch and ward, tode concluded that he might as well obey orders, and he rang the bell at the hospital door. he was met by the doctor whom he had seen the night before, and taken at once to the ward where the injured man was lying. as tode gazed around the long room with its rows of white beds, a feeling of awe stole over him. he wanted to get away, for he did not know what to do or say. the old man was lying as if asleep, but when the doctor spoke to him he looked up and his dim eyes brightened at sight of the familiar face of the boy. "oh, bishop, it's you is it? got a paper for me?" he said with a feeble smile. tode wriggled uneasily as he answered gruffly, "guess ye don't want none to-day, do ye?" "no, i don't believe i do. you can bring me one to-morrow, bishop," and as he spoke the old man closed his eyes again, and turned his face away with a weary sigh. "come away now," said the doctor, and once outside the door he added, "he hasn't said as much as that before. seeing some one he knew aroused him as i hoped it would. why does he call you bishop?" "i do' know," replied tode, indifferently. "well, you must come again to-morrow. here's a car ticket and a quarter. i'll give you the same when you come to-morrow. be here about this time, will you?" "all right--i'll come," answered the boy to whom the quarter was an inducement. the old man remained at the hospital for several weeks and tode continued to visit him there at first for the sake of the money and because he dared not disobey the doctor's orders, but after a while he became rather proud of the old man's evident liking for him, and he would often sit and talk with him for half an hour at a time. one day tode inquired curiously, "what d' ye call me bishop for? 'tain't my name." and the old man answered dreamily, "you remind me of a boy i knew when i was about your age. he used to say that he was going to be a bishop when he grew up and so we boys always called him 'bishop.'" "an' did he?" questioned tode. "become a bishop? no, he entered the army and died in his first battle." "w'at's a bishop, anyhow?" asked tode, after a moment's silence. "you know what a minister is, tode?" "a preacher, ye mean?" "yes, a minister is a preacher. a bishop is a sort of head preacher--ranking higher, you know." tode nodded. "i'd rather be a soldier like that feller you knew," he remarked. a day came when the old man was pronounced well enough to leave the hospital and the doctor ordered tode to be on hand to take him home. the boy did not object. he was rather curious to see the little place in the rear of the bookstand where the old man lived alone. since the accident the stand had been closed and tode helped to open and air the room and then made a fire in the stove. when this was done the old man gave him money to buy materials for supper which of course the boy shared. after this he came daily to the place to run errands or do anything that was wanted, and by degrees the old man came to depend more and more upon him until the business of the little stand fell almost wholly into the boy's hands, for the owner's head still troubled him and he could not think clearly. it was a great relief to him to have some one to look after everything for him. tode liked it and the business prospered in his hands. if he lacked experience, he was quicker and sharper than the old man. the two took their meals together, and at night tode slept on a blanket on the floor, and was more comfortable and prosperous than he had ever been in his life before. he had money to spend too, for old mr. carey never asked for any account of the sums that passed through the boy's hands. so he himself was undisturbed by troublesome questions and figures, the old man was content now, and each day found him a little weaker and feebler. tode noticed this but he gave no thought to the matter. why borrow trouble when things were so much to his mind? tode lived in the present. he still sold the evening papers, considering it wise to keep possession of his route against future need, and never a week passed that he did not see little brother at least twice. he would have liked to see the child every day, but he knew instinctively that he was not a favorite with the hunts, and that knowledge made him ill at ease with them. but it could not keep him away altogether. he found too much satisfaction in little brother's love for him. more than once mrs. hunt had remarked to nan that she didn't "see what in the world made the baby so fond of that rough, dirty boy." nan herself wondered at it though she kept always a grateful remembrance of tode's kindness when she first met him. tode often brought little gifts to the child, and would have given him much more, but nan would not allow it. the two had a long argument over the matter one day. it was a bright, sunny morning and mrs. hunt had said that the baby ought to be out in the fresh air, so nan had taken him to the common, and sat there keeping ever a watchful eye for their enemy, mary leary. tode going down beacon street espied the two and forgetting all about the errand on which he was bound, promptly joined them. "he's gettin' fat--he is," the boy remarked, poking his finger at the dimple in the baby's cheek, then drawing it quickly away again with an uncomfortable expression. tode never cared how dirty his hands were except when he saw them in contrast with little brother's pure face. "yes, he's getting well and strong," assented nan, with a happy smile. "i say, nan, w'at's the reason you won't let me pay for his milk?" asked tode, after a little. then it was nan's turn to look uncomfortable, and the color rose in her cheeks as she answered, "i can pay now for all he needs. you know mrs. hunt gets a double quantity of bags and i work on them every day." but this answer did not satisfy tode. "that don't make no diff'runce," he growled. "don't see why you won't let me do nothin' for him," and he cast a gloomy glance at the baby, but little brother laughed up at him and the gloom speedily melted away. after a moment's silence he added, slowly, "it's comin' cold weather. he'll want a jacket or somethin', won't he?" "he'll have to have some warm clothes," replied nan, thoughtfully, "but i can get them--i guess." tode turned upon her fiercely. "i s'pose you'd let him freeze to death 'fore you'd let me buy him any clothes," he burst out, angrily. "i sh'd like ter know w'at's the matter with ye, anyhow. has that measly dick hunt ben stuffin' ye 'bout me?" nan coloured again and dropped her eyes. "say--has he? i'll give it ter him next time i catch him out!" and tode ground his heel suggestively into the gravel walk. "oh, tode, don't! please don't fight dick," pleaded nan. "how can you when his mother's so good to little brother?" "don't care 'f she is. _he_ ain't," was tode's surly reply. "he don't want you'n him to stay there." nan's eyes were full of uneasiness. "did he say so?" she questioned, for she had noticed dick's coldness and been vaguely disturbed by it. the boy nodded. "yes," he said, "he tol' me so. said there's 'nough fer his father ter feed 'thout you'n him," and he pointed to the baby. "but i work," pleaded nan. "i pay for all we eat." "but ye don't pay fer the rent an' the fire, an'--an' everything," tode replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, "so now, ye better let me pay fer little brother an' then you c'n pay the rest." nan hesitated and her face was troubled. finally she lifted her dark eyes to his and said bravely, "tode, i guess i ought to tell you just why i couldn't anyway let you do for little brother as you want to. it's because--because you don't get your money the right way." "who says i don't? did that dick hunt say so? i'll"--began tode, fiercely, but nan laid her hand on his arm and looked steadily into his face. "tode," she said, earnestly, "if you will look straight into little brother's eyes and tell me that you never steal--i'll believe you." "i never"--began the boy, boldly; then he met a grave, sweet glance from the baby's big blue eyes, and he hesitated. the lying words died on his tongue, and turning his eyes away from the little face that he loved, he said gloomily, "what's that got to do with it anyhow? s'posin' i do hook a han'ful of peanuts sometimes. that ain't nothin'." "tode, do you want little brother to hook a handful of peanuts sometimes when he gets big?" asked nan, quietly. the boy turned his eyes again to the baby face and the hot blood burned in his own as he answered, quickly, "'course i don't. he won't be that sort." "no, he won't, if i can help it," replied nan, gravely. tode dug his toe into the dirt in silence. nan added, "tode, by and by, when he gets bigger, would you want him to know that you were a thief?" when tode looked up there was a strange gravity in his eyes, and his lips were set in an expression of stern resolve. "i've got ter quit it," he said, solemnly, "an' i will. say, nan," he added, wistfully, "if i quit now, ye wont ever let him know i used ter be--what you said, will ye?" "no, tode, never," answered nan, quickly and earnestly. "and tode, if you'll stick to it, and not steal or lie or swear, i shan't mind your helping me get things for little brother." the boy's face brightened, and he drew himself up proudly. "it's a bargain, then," he said. nan looked at him thoughtfully. "i don't believe you know how hard it will be, tode. i find it's awful hard to break myself of bad habits, and i don't s'pose you've ever tried to before, have you?" tode considered the question. "guess not," he said, slowly, after a pause. "then i'm afraid you'll find you can't stop doing those bad things all at once. but you'll keep on trying, tode. you won't give up 'cause it's hard work," nan pleaded, anxiously. "nope," answered the boy, briefly, with a glance at the soft little fingers that were clasped about one of his. when nan went home he went with her to the door, loth to lose sight of the only creature in the world for whom he cared. as the door closed behind the two, he walked on thinking over what nan had said. much of it seemed to him "girls' stuff an' nonsense." "as if a fella couldn't stop swipin' things if he wanted to!" he said to himself. as he went on he passed a fruit stand where a man was buying some bananas. in putting his change into his pocket he dropped a nickel, which rolled toward tode who promptly set his foot on it, and then pretending to pull a rag off his torn trousers, he picked up the coin and went on chuckling over his "luck." but suddenly he stopped short and the hot color rose in his cheeks as he exclaimed with an oath, "done it again!" he looked around for the man, but he had disappeared, and with an angry grunt tode flung the nickel into the gutter and went on, beginning so soon to realise that evil habits are not overcome by simply resolving to conquer them. tode never had made any such attempt before, and the discovery had rather a depressing effect on him. it made him cross, too, but to his credit be it said, the thought of giving up the struggle never once occurred to him. he found old mr. carey asleep in his chair, and he awoke him roughly. "see here!" he exclaimed, sharply. "is this the way you 'tend to business when i'm gone? some cove might a stole every book an' paper on the stand, and cleaned out the cash, too." he pulled open the drawer as he spoke. "no thanks to you that 'tain't empty," he grumbled. he had never spoken so sharply before, and the old man was vaguely disturbed by it. he got up and walked feebly across the room, rubbing his trembling fingers through his grey hair in a troubled fashion, as he answered slowly, "yes, yes, bishop--you're right. it was very careless of me to go to sleep so. i don't see how i came to do it. i'm afraid i'm breaking down, my boy--breaking down," he added, sadly. as tode looked at the old man's dim eyes and shaking hands a feeling of sympathy and compassion stole into his heart, and his voice softened as he said, "oh, well, it's all right this time. reckon i'll have to run the business altogether till you get better." "i'm afraid you will, bishop. i'm not much good anyhow, nowadays," and the old man dropped again into his chair with a heavy sigh. the weeks that followed were the most miserable weeks of tode byran's short life. he found out some things about himself that he had never before suspected. it was wholesome knowledge, but it was not pleasant to find that in spite of his strongest resolutions, those nimble fingers of his _would_ pick up nuts and apples from street stands and his quick tongue would rattle off lies and evil words before he could remember to stop it. the other boys found him a most unpleasant companion in these days, for his continual failures made him cross and moody. he would speedily have given up the struggle but for little brother. several times he did give it up for a week or two, but then he staid away from the hunts' rooms until he grew so hungry for a sight of the baby face that he could stay away no longer. nan came to understand what these absences meant, and always when he reappeared she would speak a word of encouragement and faith in his final victory. tode had not cared at all for nan at first, but in these days of struggle and failure he began to value her steadfast faith in him, and again and again he renewed his vow to make himself "fit to help bring up little brother," as he expressed it. it was one day toward the close of winter that tode noticed that mr. carey seemed more than usually dull and listless, dropping into a doze even while the boy was speaking to him, and he went to bed directly after supper. when the boy awoke the next morning the old man lay just as he had fallen asleep. he did not answer when tode spoke to him, and his hands were cold as ice to the boy's touch. tode did not know what to do, but he finally hunted up the policeman, who knew him, and the two went back together and found the old man dead. as no relatives appeared, the city authorities took charge of the funeral, the books and the few pieces of furniture were sold to pay the expenses, and tode found himself once more a homeless waif. he had not minded it before, but his brief experience of even this poor home had unfitted him for living and sleeping in the streets. he found it unpleasant too, to have no money except the little he could earn selling papers. he set himself to face his future in earnest, and came to the conclusion that it was time for him to get into some better paying business. after thinking over the matter for several days he went to nan. "you know them doughnuts you made th' other day?" he began. "yes," replied nan, wonderingly. mrs. hunt had taught her to make various simple dishes, and as tode had happened in the day she made her first doughnuts, she had given him a couple, which he had pronounced "prime!" now he went on, "i don't want to sleep 'round the streets any more. i'm sick of it, but i can't make money 'nough off papers to do anything else. i'm thinkin' of settin' up a stand." "a bookstand, tode?" questioned nan, interestedly. "no--a eatin' stand--fer the fellers ye know--newsboys an' such. 'f you'll make doughnuts an' gingerbread an' san'wiches fer me, i bet all the fellers'll come fer 'em." "now that ain't a bad idea, tode," said mrs. hunt, looking up from her work. "of course the boys would buy good homemade food instead of the trash they get from the cheap eatin' houses, an' nan, i shouldn't wonder if you could earn more that way than by workin' at these bags." nan considered the matter thoughtfully, and finally agreed to give it a trial, and tode went off highly pleased. it took him two weeks to save enough to start his stand even in the simplest fashion, but when he did open it, he at first did a flourishing business. in the beginning the boys patronised him partly from curiosity and partly from good fellowship, but nan's cookery found favour with them at once, and "tode's corner" soon became the favorite lunch counter for the city newsboys, and tode's pockets were better filled than they had been since mr. carey's death. for several weeks all went well, and the boy began to consider himself on the high road to fortune, but then came a setback. one day his stand was surrounded by a crowd of boys all clamoring to be served at once, when the big fellow who had taken possession of tode's newspaper route, months before, came along. he had never forgotten or forgiven the boy for getting the better of him on that occasion, and now he thought he saw a chance for revenge. creeping up behind the group of hungry boys, he suddenly hit one of them a stinging blow on the face, and as this one turned and struck back angrily at him, the big fellow flung him back with all his strength against tode's stand. the stand was an old one and rickety--tode had bought it secondhand--and it went down with a crash, carrying cookies, doughnuts, gingerbread, coffee, sandwiches, cups, plates and boys in one promiscuous mixture. before the boys could struggle to their feet, carrots, with his hands full of gingerbread, had disappeared around the nearest corner. there was a wild rush and a scramble, and when two minutes later, tode stood gazing mournfully at the wreck, not an eatable bit remained. the boys had considered the wreckage as their lawful spoils, and every one of them had snatched as much as he could. later, however, their sense of justice led some of them to express, after their rough fashion, sympathy for tode, and disapproval of his enemy's revengeful act. besides, a few of them had enough conscience to acknowledge to themselves that they had not been entirely blameless. the result was that half a dozen of them went to tode the next day and offered to "chip in" and set him up again. tode appreciated the spirit that prompted the offer, but he was also shrewd enough to foresee that should he accept it, these boys would expect favours in the way of prices and quantities when they dealt with him in the future, and so he declined. "reckin i can stan' on my own feet, boys," he answered. "i've been a-tinkerin' up the ol' stand, an' i'm a-goin' to start in again to-morrow. you fellers come here an' get yer breakfast, an' that's all the help i'll ask, 'cept that ev'ry last one o' ye'll give that carrots a kick fer me." "we will that!" shouted the boys. "we'll make him sorry fer himself!" and the next day their sympathy took the practical form that tode had suggested, for every one of them that had any money to spend, spent it at "tode's corner," so that his stand was cleared again, but in a very satisfactory fashion--a fashion that filled his pockets with dimes and nickels. iv. tode meets the bishop sundays were tode's dreariest days. he found that it did not pay to keep his stand open later than ten o'clock, and then after he had spent an hour with little brother and nan, the time hung heavy on his hands. sometimes he pored over a newspaper for a while, sometimes over something even more objectionable than the sunday newspaper, and for the rest, he loafed around street corners and wharves with other homeless boys like himself. one sunday morning he was listlessly reading over some play-bills pasted on a fence, when the word "bishop" caught his eye, and he spelled out the announcement that a well-known bishop was to speak in st. mark's church, that afternoon. "cracky! i'd like to see a live bishop. b'lieve i'll go," he said to himself. then looking down at his ragged trousers and dirty jacket, he added with a grin, "'spect some o' them nobs'll most have a fit to see me there." nevertheless he determined to go. old mr. carey had never called him anything but "bishop," and now the boy had a queer feeling as he read that word on the bill--a feeling that this bishop whom he had never seen had yet in some way something to do with him--though in what way he could not imagine. he thought over the matter through the hours that followed, sometimes deciding that he would go, and again that he wouldn't, but he found out where st. mark's church was, and at three o'clock he was there. he gave a little start and a shadow fell upon his face as he saw the pillared porch and the stone stairway. he seemed to see himself running up those stairs and stuffing that stolen pocketbook into the pastor's box that he remembered so clearly. these thoughts were not pleasant ones to him now, and tode stopped hesitatingly, undecided whether to go on or to go in. it was early yet and no one was entering though the doors stood invitingly open. while he hesitated, the sexton came out to the steps. tode remembered him too, and looked at him with a grin that exasperated the man. "get out o' this!" he exclaimed, roughly. "we don't want any o' your sort 'round here." of course that settled the matter for tode. he was determined to go in now anyhow, but he knew better than to attempt it just then. "who wants to go int' yer ol' church," he muttered as he turned away. the man growled a surly response but tode did not look back. on the corner he stopped, wondering how he could best elude the unfriendly sexton and slip into the building, without his knowledge. he dropped down on the curbstone and sat there thinking for some time. at last a voice above him said quietly, "well, my boy, aren't you coming to church?" tode looked up, up a long way it seemed to him, into such a face as he had never before looked into. instinctively he arose and stepped back that he might see more plainly those clear blue eyes and that strong, tender mouth. the boy gazed and gazed, forgetting utterly to answer. "you are coming into church with me, aren't you?" so the question was repeated, and tode, still lookingly earnestly up into the man's face, nodded silently. "that's right, my son--come," and a large, kindly hand was laid gently upon the boy's shoulder. without a word he walked on beside the stranger. the sexton was standing in the vestibule as the two approached. a look of blank amazement swept across his face at sight of the boy in such company. he said no word, however, only stepped aside with a bow, but his eyes followed the two as they passed into the church together, and he muttered a few angry words under his breath. as for tode, some strange influence seemed to have taken possession of him, for he forgot to exult over the surly sexton. he passed him without a thought indeed, feeling nothing but a strange, happy wonder at the companionship in which he found himself. the stranger led him up the aisle to one of the best pews, and motioned him in. silently the boy obeyed. then the man looking down with his rare, beautiful smile into the uplifted face, gently raised tode's ragged cap from his rough hair, and laid it on the cushioned seat beside him. then he went away, and tode felt as if the sunlight had been suddenly darkened. his eyes followed the tall, strong figure longingly until it disappeared--then he looked about him, at the beautiful interior of the church. the boy had never been in such a place before, and he gazed wonderingly at the frescoes, the rich colours in the windows, the dark carved woodwork and the wide chancel and pulpit. "wat's it all for, i wonder," he said, half aloud, and then started and flushed as his own voice broke the beautiful, solemn silence. people were beginning to come in and filling the seats about him, and many curious and astonished glances fell upon the boy, but he did not notice them. presently a soft, low strain of music stole out upon the stillness. surely a master hand touched the keys that day, for the street boy sat like a statue listening eagerly to the sweet sounds, and suddenly he found his cheeks wet. he dashed his hand impatiently across them wondering what was the matter with him, for tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but in spite of himself they filled again, till he almost wished the music would cease--almost but not quite, for that strange happiness thrilled his heart as he listened. then far-off voices began to sing, coming nerrer and nearer, until a long line of white-robed men and boys appeared, singing as they walked, and last of all came the kingly stranger who had brought tode into the church, and he went to the lectern and began to read. "the--bishop!" tode breathed the words softly, in a mixture of wonder and delight, as he suddenly realised who this man must be. he sat through the remainder of the service in a dreamy state of strange enjoyment. he did not understand why the people around him stood or knelt at intervals. he did not care. when the bishop prayed, tode looked around, wondering whom he was calling "lord." he concluded that it must be the one who made the music. he listened eagerly, breathlessly, to the sermon, understanding almost nothing of what was said, but simply drinking in the words spoken by that rich, sweet voice, that touched something within him, something that only little brother had ever touched before. yet this was different from the feeling that the baby had awakened in the boy's heart. he loved the baby dearly, but to this great, grand man, who stood there above him wearing the strange dress that he had never before seen a man wear--to him the boy's whole heart seemed to go out in reverent admiration and desire. he knew that he would do anything that this man might ask of him. he could refuse him nothing. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." these words, repeated again and again, fixed themselves in tode's memory with no effort of his own. buying and selling were matters quite in his line now, but he did not understand this. he puzzled over it awhile, then put it aside to be thought out at another time. when the service was over, tode watched the long line of choir boys pass slowly out, and his eyes followed the tall figure of the bishop till it disappeared from his wistful gaze. then he looked about upon the kneeling congregation, wondering if the people were going to stay there all day. the bishop was gone, the music had ceased, and tode did not want to stay any longer. he slipped silently out of the pew and left the church. that evening he wandered off by himself, avoiding the sunday gathering-places of the boys, and thinking over the new experiences of the afternoon. the words the bishop had repeated so often sung themselves over and over in his ears. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." "don't mean me, anyhow," he thought, "'cause i b'long ter myself, sure 'nough. nobody ever bought me 't ever i heard of. wonder who that jesus is, he talked about so much. i wish--i wish he'd talk ter me--that bishop." all the strange happiness that had filled his heart during the service in the church, was gone now. he did not feel happy at all. on the contrary, he felt wretched and utterly miserable. he had begun to have a distinct pride and satisfaction in himself lately, since he had stopped lying and stealing, and had set up in business for himself, and especially since mrs. hunt had begun to look upon him with more favour, as he knew she had--but somehow now all this seemed worthless. although he had not understood the bishop's sermon, it seemed to have unsettled tode's mind, and awakened a vague miserable dissatisfaction with himself. he was not used to such feelings. he didn't like them, and he grew cross and ugly when he found himself unable to shake them off. he had wandered to the quiet corner of the wharf, where he and nan and little brother had spent the first hours of their acquaintance, and he stood leaning against that same post, looking gloomily down into the water, when a lean, rough dog crept slowly toward him, wagging his stumpy tail and looking into the boy's face with eyes that pleaded for a friendly word. generally tode would have responded to the mute appeal, but now he felt so miserable himself, that he longed to make somebody or something else miserable too, so instead of a pat, he gave the dog a kick that sent it limping off with a yelp of pain and remonstrance. he had made another creature as miserable as himself, but somehow it didn't seem to lessen his own wretchedness. indeed, he couldn't help feeling that he had done a mean, cowardly thing, and tode never liked to feel himself a coward. he looked after the dog. it had crawled into a corner and was licking the injured paw. tode walked toward the poor creature that looked at him suspiciously, yet with a faint little wag of its tail, as showing its readiness to forgive and forget, while at the same time ready to run if more abuse threatened. tode stooped and called, "come here, sir!" and, after a moment's hesitation, the dog crept slowly toward him with a low whine, still keeping his bright eyes fastened on the boy's. "poor old fellow," tode said, gently, patting the dog's rough head. "is it hurt? let me see." he felt of the leg, the dog standing quietly beside him. "'tain't broken. it'll be all right pretty soon. what's your name?" tode said, and the dog rubbed his head against the boy's knee and tried to say with his eloquent eyes what his dumb lips could not utter. "got none--ye mean? you're a street dog--like me," the boy added. "well, guess i'll go home an' get some supper," and he walked slowly away and presently forgot all about the dog. he had lately hired a tiny garret room where he slept, and kept his supplies when his stand was closed. he went there now and ate his lonely supper. it had never before seemed lonely to him, but somehow to-night it did. he hurried down the food and started to go out again. as he opened his door, he heard a faint sound, and something moved on the dark landing. "who's there?" he called, sharply. a low whine answered him, and from out the gloom two eyes gleamed and glittered. tode peered into the shadow, then he laughed. "so it's you, is it? you must have tagged me home. come in here then if you want to," and he flung his door wide open and stepped back into the room. then out of the shadows of the dark landing the dog came slowly and warily, ready to turn and slink off if he met no welcome, but tode was in the mood when even a strange dog was better than his own company. he fed the half-starved creature with some stale sandwiches, and then talked to him and tried to teach him some tricks until to his own surprise he heard the city clocks striking nine, and the long, lonely evening he had dreaded was gone. "well now, you're a heap o' company," he said to the dog. "i've a good mind ter keep ye. say, d'ye wan' ter stay, ol' feller?" the dog wagged his abbreviated tail, licked tode's fingers, and rubbed his head against the ragged trousers of his new friend. "ye do, hey! well, i'll keep ye ter-night, anyhow. le' see, what'll i call ye? you've got ter have a name. s'posin' i call ye tag. that do--hey, tag?" the dog gave a quick, short bark and limped gaily about the boy's feet. "all right--we'll call ye tag then. now then, there's yer bed," and he threw into a corner an old piece of carpet that he had picked up on a vacant lot. the dog understood and settled himself with a long, contented sigh, as if he would have said: "at last i've found a master and a home." in a day or two tag's lameness disappeared, and his devotion to his new master was unbounded. tode found him useful, too, for he kept vigilant watch when the boy was busy at his stand, and suffered no thievish fingers to snatch anything when tode's eyes and fingers were too busy for him to be on the lookout. the dog was such a loving, intelligent little creature, that he quickly won his way into nan's heart, and he evidently considered himself the guardian of little brother from the first day that he saw tode and the child together. some dogs have a way of reading hearts, and tag knew within two minutes that tode loved every lock on little brother's sunny head. a few days after that sabbath that the boy was never to forget, he went to see nan and the baby, and in the course of his visit, remarked, "nan, i seen the bishop last sunday." "what bishop?" inquired nan. "the one that talked at the big, stone church--st. mark's, they call it." "i wonder 't they let you in, if you wore them ragged duds," remarked mrs. hunt. "the bishop asked me to go in an' he took me in himself," retorted tode, defiantly. "for the land's sake," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "he must be a queer kind of a bishop!" "a splendid kind of a bishop, i should think," put in nan, and the boy responded quickly, "he is so! i never see a man like him." "never see a man like him? what d'ye mean, tode?" questioned mrs. hunt. tode looked at her as he answered slowly, "he's a great big man--looks like a king--an' his eyes look right through a feller, but they don't hurt. they ain't sharp. they're soft, an'--an'--i guess they look like a mother's eyes would. i d'know much 'bout mothers, 'cause i never had one, but i should think they'd look like his do. i tell ye," tode faced mrs. hunt and spoke earnestly, "a feller'd do 'most anything that that bishop asked him to--couldn't help it." mrs. hunt stared in amazement at the boy. his eyes were glowing and in his voice there was a ring of deep feeling that she had never before heard in it. it made her vaguely uncomfortable. her dick had never spoken so about any bishop, nor indeed, about anybody else, and here was this rough street boy whom she considered quite unfit to associate with dick--and the bishop himself had taken him into church. mrs. hunt spoke somewhat sharply. "well, i must say you were a queer-lookin' one to set in a pew in a church like st. mark's." nan looked distressed, and tode glanced uneasily at his garments. they certainly were about as bad as they could be. even pins and twine could not hold them together much longer. "tode," mrs. hunt went on, "i think it's high time you got yourself some better clothes. dear knows, you need 'em if ever a boy did, an' certainly you must have money 'nough now." "'spect i have. i never thought about it," replied tode. "well, you'd better think about it, an' 'tend to it right away. 'f you're goin' to church with bishops you'd ought to look respectable, anyhow." something in the tone and emphasis with which mrs. hunt spoke brought the colour into tode's brown cheeks, while nan looked at the good woman in surprise and dismay. she did not know how troubled was the mother's heart over her own boy lately, as she saw him growing rough and careless, and that it seemed to her hard that this waif of the streets should be going up while her dick went down. tode thought over what had been said, and the result was that the next time he appeared he was so changed that the good woman looked twice before she recognised him. his clothes had been purchased at a secondhand store, and they might have fitted better than they did, but they were a vast improvement on what he had worn before. he had scrubbed his face as well as his hands this time, and had combed his rough hair as well as he could with the broken bit of comb which was all he possessed in the way of toilet appliances. it is no easy matter for a boy to keep himself well washed and brushed with no face cloth or towel or brush, and no wash basin save the public sink. tode had done his best however, and nan looked at him in pleased surprise. "you do look nice, tode," she said, and the boy's face brightened with satisfaction. all through that week tode told himself that he would not go to the church again, yet day by day the longing grew to see the bishop's face once more and to hear his voice. "w'at's the use! o'ny makes a feller feel meaner 'n dirt," he said to himself again and again, yet the next sabbath afternoon found him hanging about st. mark's hoping that the bishop would ask him in again. but the minutes passed and the bishop did not appear. "maybe he's gone in aready," the boy thought, peering cautiously through the pillars of the entrance. there was no one in sight, and tode crept quietly across the porch through the wide vestibule to the church door. only the sexton was there, and his back was toward the boy as he stood looking out of the opposite door. "now's my time," thought tode, and he ran swiftly and silently up the aisle to the pew where the bishop had placed him. there he hesitated. he was not sure which of several pews was the one, but with a quick glance at the sexton's back, he slipped into the nearest, and hearing the man's footsteps approaching, dropped to the floor and crawled under the seat. the sexton came slowly down the aisle, stopping here and there to arrange books or brush off a dusty spot. he even entered the pew where tode was, and moved the books in the rack in front, but the boy lay motionless in the shadow, and the man passed on without discovering him. then the people began to come in, and tode was just about to get up and sit on the seat, when a lady and a little girl entered the pew. the boy groaned inwardly. "they'll screech if i get up now," he thought. "nothin' for it but to lay here till it's over. wal', i c'n hear _him_ anyhow." "him," in tode's thought was the bishop, and he waited patiently through the early part of the service, longing to hear again that rich, strong, thrilling voice. but alas for tode! it was not the bishop who preached that day. it was a stranger, whose low monotonous voice reached the boy so indistinctly, that he soon gave up all attempts to listen, and before the sermon was half over he was sound asleep. fortunately he was used to hard resting-places, and he slept so quietly that the occupants of the pew did not discover his presence at all. the music of the choir and of the organ mingled with the boy's dreams, but did not arouse him, and when the people departed and the sexton closed the church and went home, tode still slept on in darkness and solitude. usually there was an evening service, but on this occasion it was omitted, the rector being ill, so when tode at last opened his eyes, it was to find all dark and silent about him. as he started up his head struck the bottom of the seat with a force that made him cry out and drop back again. then as he lay there he put out his hands, and feeling the cushioned seat over his head, he knew where he was and guessed what had happened. "wal! i was a chump to go to sleep here!" he muttered, slowly, rising with hands outstretched. "'spect i'll have ter get out of the window." the street lights shining through the stained glass made a faint twilight in the church, but there was something weird and strange about being there alone at that hour that set the boy's heart to beating faster than usual. he went to one of the windows and felt about for the fastenings, but he could not reach them. they were too high. he tried them all, but none were within his reach. then he sat down in one of the pews and wondered what he should do next. he was wide awake now. it seemed to him that he could not close his eyes again that night, and indeed it was long after midnight before he did. he felt strangely lonely as he sat there through those endless hours, dimly hearing the voices and footsteps in the street without grow fewer and fainter, till all was silent save the clocks that rang out the creeping hours to his weary ears. at last his tired eyes closed and he slipped down on the cushioned seat and slept for a few hours, but he awoke again before daylight. it was broad daylight outside before it was light enough in the church for the boy to see clearly, and then he looked hopelessly at the high window fastenings. he had tried every door but all were securely locked. "nothin' t' do but wait till that ol' cove comes back," he said to himself. then a thought flashed across his mind--a thought that made his heart stand still with dread. "s'posin' he don't come till next sunday?" tode knew nothing about midweek or daily services. but he put this terrible thought away from him. "i'll get out somehow if i have ter smash some o' them pictures," he said aloud, as he looked up at the beautiful windows. the minutes seemed endless while the boy walked restlessly up and down the aisles thinking of his stand, and of the customers who would seek breakfast there in vain that morning. at last he heard approaching footsteps, then a key rattled in the lock, and tode instinctively rolled under the nearest pew and lay still, listening to the heavy footsteps of the sexton as he passed slowly about opening doors and windows. the boy waited with what patience he could until the man passed on to the further side of the church, then he slid and crawled along the carpeted aisle until he reached the door, when springing to his feet he made a dash for the street. he heard the sexton shouting angrily after him, but he paid no heed. on and on he ran until he reached his room where tag gave him a wildly delighted welcome, and in a very short time thereafter the stand at "tode's corner" was doing a brisk business. v. in the bishop's house tode's patrons were mostly newsboys of his acquaintance, who came pretty regularly to his stand for breakfast, and generally for a midday meal, lunch or dinner as it might be. where they took their supper he did not know, but he usually closed his place of business after one o'clock, and spent a couple of hours roaming about the streets doing any odd job that came in his way, if he happened to feel like it, or to be in need of money. after his meeting with the bishop he often wandered up into the neighbourhood of st. mark's with a vague hope that he might see again the man who seemed to his boyish imagination a very king among men. it had long been tode's secret ambition to grow into a big, strong man himself--bigger and stronger than the common run of men. now, whenever he thought about it, he said to himself, "just like the bishop." but he never met the bishop, and having found out that he did not preach regularly at st. mark's, tode never went there after the second time. one afternoon in late september, the boy was lounging along with tag at his heels in the neighbourhood of the church, when he heard a great rattling of wheels and clattering of hoofs, and around the corner came a pair of horses dragging a carriage that swung wildly from side to side, as the horses came tearing down the street. there was no one in the carriage, but the driver was puffing along a little way behind, yelling frantically, "stop 'em! stop 'em! why don't ye stop the brutes!" there were not many people on the street, and the few men within sight seemed not at all anxious to risk life or limb in an attempt to stop horses going at such a reckless pace. now tode was only a little fellow not yet fourteen, but he was strong and lithe as a young indian, and as to fear--he did not know what it was. as he saw the horses dashing toward him he leaped into the middle of the street and stood there, eyes alert and limbs ready, directly in their pathway. they swerved aside as they approached him, but with a quick upward spring he grabbed the bit of the one nearest him, and hung there with all his weight. this frightened and maddened the horse, and he plunged and reared and flung his head from side to side, until he succeeded in throwing the boy off. the delay however, slight as it was, had given the driver time to come up, and he speedily regained control of his team while a crowd quickly gathered. tode had been flung off sidewise, his head striking the curbstone, and there he lay motionless, while faithful tag crouched beside him, now and then licking the boy's fingers, and whining pitifully as he looked from face to face, as if he would have said, "_won't_ some of you help him? i can't." the crowd pressed about the unconscious boy with a sort of morbid curiosity, one proposing one thing and one another until a policeman came along and promptly sent a summons for an ambulance; but before it appeared, a tall grey-haired man came up the street and stopped to see what was the matter. he was so tall that he could look over the heads of most of the men, and as he saw the white face of the boy lying there in the street, he hastily pushed aside the onlookers as if they had been men of straw, and stooping, lifted the boy in his strong arms. "stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "would you let the child die in the street?" they fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "it's the bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate and some to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident had occurred. mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none of them. his eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder, the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head. the servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, at his master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressing curiously after them, but the next moment he recovered from his amazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out the eager throng that would have entered with him. a lank, rough-haired dog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gave him a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he took refuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless and miserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a step that he knew. as the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed, "call mrs. martin, brown, and then send for the doctor. this boy was hurt at our very door." brown promptly obeyed both orders, and mrs. martin, the housekeeper, hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. the doctor soon responded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore the boy to consciousness that day. the bishop watched the child as anxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. he had neither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his great heart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in his way. it was near the close of the following day when tode's eyes slowly opened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered about the strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. the doctor and the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced from one face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. he asked no question, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but this time in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor that had preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression of satisfaction. "he'll pull through now," he said in a low tone. "he's young and full of vitality--he'll soon be all right." the bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "that's well! that's well!" he exclaimed, heartily. the doctor looked at him curiously. "did you ever see the lad before you picked him up yesterday?" he asked. "no, never," answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised in tode the boy whom he had taken into church that sunday, weeks before. the doctor shook his head as he drove off and muttered to himself, "whoever saw such a man! who but our bishop would ever think of taking a little street urchin like that right into his home and treating him as if he were his own flesh and blood! well, well, he himself gets taken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the world would be the better if there were more like him!" and if the doctor's pronouns were a little mixed he himself understood what he meant, and nobody else had anything to do with the matter. the next morning tode awoke again and this time to a full and lively consciousness of his surroundings. it was still early and the nurse was dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. the boy looked at her curiously, then he raised himself on his elbow and gazed about him, but as he did so he became conscious of a dull throbbing pain in one side of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. it was his first experience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as his head fell back on the pillow. the sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to his lips, saying, "lie still. the doctor says you must not talk at all until he comes." "so," thought the boy. "i've got a doctor. wonder where i am an' what ails me, anyhow." but that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie still while the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed and the room. then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which she fed him. it tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wished there had been more. then as he lay back on the pillows he remembered all that had happened--the horses running down the street, his attempt to stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck the curbstone. "wonder where i am? tain't a hospital, anyhow," he thought. "my! but i feel nice an' clean an' so--so light, somehow! if only my head wasn't so sore!" no wonder he felt "nice and clean and light somehow," when, for the first time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, were as sweet and fresh as hands could make them. tode never had minded dirt. why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown up knowing nothing better? yet, none the less, was this new experience most delightful to him--so delightful that he didn't care to talk. it was happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy these new conditions, and so presently he floated off again into sleep--a sleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voices aroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctor looking down at him. "well, my boy," said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist near him, "you look better. feel better too, don't you?" tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to his question. "doctor," exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, "he hasn't spoken a single word. do you suppose he can be deaf and dumb?" the bishop entered the room just in time to catch the last words. "deaf and dumb!" he repeated, in a tone of dismay. "dear me! if the poor child is deaf and dumb, i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." as his eyes rested on the bishop tode started and uttered a little inarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop was saying, a singular expression passed over his face. the doctor, watching him closely could make nothing of it. "he looks as if he knew you, bishop," the doctor said. the bishop had taken the boy's rough little hand in his own large, kindly grasp. "no, doctor," he answered, "i don't think i've ever seen him before yesterday, but we're friends all the same, aren't we, my lad?" and he smiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly and happily. tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightly shook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks. "he acts like a deaf mute, certainly," muttered the doctor, and stepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held it first to one and then the other of tode's ears, but out of his sight. tode's ears were as sharp as a ferret's and his brain was as quick as his ears. he knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made no sign. were not the bishop's words ringing in his ears? "if the poor child is deaf and dumb i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." there were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensure his staying there. he understood now that he was in the house of the bishop--"my bishop" he called him in his thought. so, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deaf and dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to be so. tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but at first he found it very hard. as his strength returned there were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if it were known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, and more and more as the days went by he longed to remain where he was. as he grew stronger and able to sit up, books and games and pictures were provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes dragged somewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walk about the house. mrs. martin, the housekeeper, had first admired the boy's bravery, then pitied him for his suffering, and had ended by loving him, because she, too, had a big, kindly heart that was ready to love anybody who needed her love and service. so, it was with great satisfaction that she obeyed the bishop's orders, and bought for the boy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk about his room. she combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped him dress himself in one of his new suits. as she tied his necktie for him she looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself, "whoever would believe that it was the same boy? if only he could hear and speak now like other boys, i'd have nothing more to ask for him." then she stooped and kissed him. tode wriggled uneasily under the unwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it--from a woman. the housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs to the bishop's study. it was a long room containing many books and easy-chairs and two large desks. at one of these the bishop sat writing, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who wore glasses. "come in, mrs. martin, come in," called the bishop, as he saw her standing at the open door. "and who is this?" he added, holding out his hand to the boy. "you don't recognize him?" mrs. martin asked smiling down on tode's smooth head. the bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly and drew the little fellow to his side. "well, well!" he said, "the clothes we wear do make a great difference, don't they, mrs. martin? he's a fine looking lad. gibson, this is the boy i was telling you about." the little dark man turned and looked at tode as the bishop spoke. it was not a friendly look, and tode felt it. "ah," replied mr. gibson, slowly. "so this is the boy, is it? he was fortunate to fall into your hands;" and with a sharp, sidelong glance over his shoulder, mr. gibson turned again to his work. the bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushed tode into it. then he brought a big book full of pictures and put it into the boy's hands. "let him stay here for a while, mrs. martin," he said. "i always work better when there is a child near me--if it's the right sort of a child," he added, with a smile. mrs. martin went out, and tode, with a long, happy breath, leaned back in the big chair and looked about him at the many books, at the dark head bent over the desk in the alcove, finally at the noble face of the bishop intent on his writing. this was the beginning of many happy hours for tode. perhaps it was the weakness and languor resulting from his accident that made him willing to sit quietly a whole morning or afternoon in the study beside the bishop's table, when, before this, to sit still for half an hour would have been an almost unendurable penance to him; but there was another and a far stronger reason in the deep reverential love for the bishop, that day by day was growing and strengthening into a passion in his young heart. the boy's heart was like a garden-spot in which the rich, strong soil lay ready to receive any seed that might fall upon it. better seed could not be than that which all unconsciously this man of god--the bishop--was sowing therein, as day after day he gave his master's message to the sick and sinful and sorrowful souls that came to him for help and comfort. it goes without saying that the bishop had small leisure, for many and heavy were the demands upon his time and thought, but nevertheless he kept two hours a day sacredly free from all other claims, that he might give them to any of god's poor or troubled ones who desired to see him, and believing that tode could hear nothing that was said, he often kept the boy with him during these hours. strange and wonderful lessons were those that the little street boy learned from the consecrated lips of the good bishop--lessons of god's love to man, and of the loving service that man owes not only to his god, but to his brother man. strange, sad lessons too, of sin and sorrow, and their far-reaching influence on human lives. tode had not lived in the streets for nearly fourteen years without learning a great deal about the sin that is in the world, but never until now, had he understood and realised the evil of it and the cure for it. many a time he longed to ask the bishop some of the questions that filled his mind, but that he dared not do. among these visitors there came one morning to the study a plainly dressed lady with a face that tode liked at the first glance. as she talked with the bishop, the boy kept his eyes on the book open in his lap, but he heard all that was said--heard it at first with a startled surprise that changed into a sick feeling of shame and misery--for the story to which he listened was this: the lady was a mrs. russell. the bishop had formerly been her pastor and she still came to him for help and counsel. she had been much interested in a boy of sixteen who had been in her class in the mission school, a boy who was entirely alone in the world. he had picked up a living in the streets, much as tode himself had done, and finally had fallen into bad company and into trouble. mrs. russell had interested herself in his behalf, and upon her promise to be responsible for him, he had been delivered over to her instead of being sent to a reform school. she went to a number of the smaller dry goods stores and secured promises of employment for the boy as parcel deliverer. to do this work he must have a tricycle, and the energetic little lady having found a secondhand one that could be had for thirty dollars, set herself to secure this sum from several of her friends. this she had done, and was on her way to buy the tricycle when she lost her pocketbook. the owner of the tricycle, being anxious to sell, and having another offer, would not hold it for her, but sold it to the other customer. the boy, bitterly disappointed, lost hope and heart, and that night left the place where mrs. russell had put him. since then she had sought in vain for him, and now, unwilling to give him up, she had come to ask the bishop's help in the search. to all this tode listened with flushed cheeks and fast-beating heart, while before his mind flashed a picture of himself, wet, dirty and ragged, gliding under the feet of the horses on the muddy street, the missing pocketbook clutched tightly in his hand. then a second picture rose before him, and he saw himself crowding the emptied book into that box on the chapel door of st. mark's. the bishop pulled open a drawer in his desk and took from it a pocketbook, broken and stained with mud. he handed it to mrs. russell, who looked at him in silent wonder as she saw her own name on the inside. "_how_ did it get into your hands?" she questioned, at last. "you would never guess how," the bishop answered. "it was found in the pastor's box at st. mark's, and the rector came to me to inquire if i knew any one of that name. i had not your present address, but have been intending to look you up as soon as i could find time." "i cannot understand it," said mrs. russell, carefully examining each compartment of the book. "why in the world should the thief have put the empty pocketbook there, of all places?" "of course he would want to get rid of it," the bishop replied, thoughtfully, "but that certainly was a strange place in which to put it." "if the thief could know how the loss of that money drove that poor foolish boy back into sin and misery, he surely would wish he had never touched it--if he has any conscience left," said mrs. russell. "there is good stuff in that poor boy of mine, and i can't bear to give him up and leave him to go to ruin." the bishop looked at her with a grave smile as he answered: "mrs. russell, i never yet knew you willing to give up one of your straying lambs. like the master himself, your big heart always yearns over the wanderers from the fold. i wonder," he added, "if we couldn't get one or two newsboys to help in this search. many of them are very keen, sharp little fellows, and they'd be as likely as anybody to know jack, and to know his whereabouts if he is still in the city. let me see--his name is jack finney, and he is about fifteen or sixteen now, isn't he?" "yes, nearly sixteen." "suppose you give me a description of him, mrs. russell. i ought to remember how he looks, but i see so many, you know," the bishop added, apologetically. "of course you cannot remember all the boys who were in our mission school," replied mrs. russell. "jack is tall and large, for fifteen. his hair is sandy, his eyes blue, and, well--his mouth _is_ rather large. jack isn't a beauty, and he is rough and rude, and i'm afraid he often does things that he ought not to do, but only think what a hard time he has had in the world thus far." "yes," replied the bishop with a sigh, "he _has_ had a hard time, and it is not to be wondered at that he has gone wrong. many a boy does that who has every help toward right living. well now, mrs. russell, i'll see what i can do to help you in this matter. your faith in the boy ought to go far toward keeping him straight if we can find him." the bishop walked to the hall with his visitor. when he came back tode sat with his eyes fastened on the open book in his lap, though he saw it not. he did not look up with his usual bright smile when the bishop sat down beside him. that night he could not eat, and when he went to bed he could not sleep. "thief! thief! you're a thief! you're a thief!" over and over and over again these words sounded in tode's ears. he had known of course that he was a thief, but he had never _realised_ it until this day. as he had sat there and listened to mrs. russell's story, he seemed to see clearly how his soul had been soiled with sin as surely as his body had been with dirt, and even as now the thought of going back to his former surroundings sickened him, so the remembrance of the evil that he had known and done, now seemed horrible to him. it was as if he looked at himself and his past life through the pure eyes of the bishop--and he hated it all. dimly he began to see that there was something that he must do, but what that something was, he could not as yet determine. he was not willing in fact to do what his newly awakened conscience told him that he ought to do. in the morning he showed so plainly the effects of his wakeful night, and of his first moral battle, that the bishop was much concerned. he had begun to teach the boy to write that he might communicate with him in that fashion, but as yet tode had not progressed far enough to make communication with him easy, though he was beginning to read quite readily the bold, clear handwriting of the bishop. this morning, the bishop, noting the boy's pale cheeks and heavy eyes, proposed a walk instead of the writing lesson. tode was delighted to go, and the two set off together. now the boy had an opportunity to see yet farther into the heart and life of this good, great man. they went on and on, away from the wide streets and handsome houses, into the tenement house district, and finally into an old building, where many families found shelter--such as it was. up one flight after another of rickety stairs the bishop led the boy. at last he stopped and knocked at a door on a dark landing. the door was opened by a woman whose eyes looked as if she had forgotten how to smile, but a light flashed into them at sight of her visitor. she hurriedly dusted a chair with her apron, and as the bishop took it he lifted to his knee one of the little ones clinging to the mother's skirts. there were four little children, but one lay, pale and motionless on a bed in one corner of the room. "she is sick?" inquired the bishop, his voice full of sympathy, as he looked at the small, wan face. the woman's eyes filled with tears. "yes," she answered, "i doubt i'm goin' to lose her, an' i feel i ought to be glad for her sake--but i can't." she bent over the little form and kissed the heavy eyelids. "tell me all about it, my daughter," the bishop said, and the woman poured out her story--the old story of a husband who provided for his family after a fashion, when he was sober, but left them to starve when the drink demon possessed him. he had been away now for three weeks, and there was no money for medicine for the sick child, or food for the others. before the story was told the bishop's hand was in his pocket and he held out some money to the woman, saying, "go out and buy what you need. it will be better for you to get it, than for me to. the breath of air will do you good, and i will see to the children until you come back." she hesitated for a moment, then with a word of thanks, threw a shawl over her head and was gone. the bishop gathered the three older children about him, one on each knee and the third held close to his side, and told them stories that held them spellbound until the sick baby began to stir and moan feebly. then the bishop arose, and taking the little creature tenderly in his strong arms, walked back and forth in the small room until the moaning cry ceased and the child slept. he had just laid it again on the bed when the mother came back with her arms full of packages. the look of dull despair was gone from her worn face, and there was a gleam of hope in her eyes as she hastily prepared the medicine for the baby, while the bishop eagerly tore open one of the packages, and put bread into the hands of the other children. "god bless you, sir,--an' he will!" the woman said, earnestly, as the bishop was departing with a promise to come soon again. tode, from his seat in a corner had looked on and listened to all, and now followed the bishop down to the street, and on until they came to a big building. the boy did not know then what place it was. afterward he learned that it was the poorhouse. among the human driftwood gathered here there was one old man who had been a cobbler, working at his trade as long as he had strength to do so. the bishop had known him for a long time before he gave up his work, and now it was the one delight of the old man's life to have a visit from the bishop, and knowing this, the latter never failed to come several times each year. the old cobbler lived on the memory of these visits through the lonely weeks that followed them, looking forward to them as the only bright spots in his sorrowful life. "you'll pray with me before ye go?" he pleaded on this day when his visitor arose to leave. "surely," was the quick reply, and the bishop, falling on his knees, drew tode down beside him, and the old cobbler, the child and the man of god, bowed their heads together. a great wonder fell upon tode first, as he listened to that prayer, and then his heart seemed to melt within him. when he rose from his knees, he had learned who and what god is, and what it is to pray, and though he could not understand how it was, or why--he knew that henceforth his own life must be wholly different. something in him was changed and he was full of a strange happiness as he walked homeward beside his friend. but all in a moment his new joy departed, banished by the remembrance of that pocketbook. "i found it. i picked it up," he argued to himself, but then arose before him the memory of other things that he had stolen--of many an evil thing that he had done, and gloried in the doing. now the remembrance of these things made him wretched. the bishop was to deliver an address that evening, and tode was alone, for he did not feel like going to the housekeeper's room. he was free to go where he chose about the house, so he wandered from room to room, and finally to the study. it was dark there, but he felt his way to his seat beside the bishop's desk, and sitting there in the dark the boy faced his past and his future; faced, too, a duty that lay before him--a duty so hard that it seemed to him he never could perform it, yet he knew he must. it was to tell the bishop how he had been deceiving him all these weeks. tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but they flowed down his cheeks as he sat there in the dark and thought of the happy days he had spent there, and that now he must go away from it all--away from the bishop--back to the wretched and miserable life which was all he had known before. "oh, how _can_ i tell him! how can i tell him!" he sobbed aloud, with his head on the desk. the next moment a strong, wiry hand seized his right ear with a grip that made him wince, while a voice with a thrill of evil satisfaction in it, exclaimed in a low, guarded tone, "so! i've caught you, you young cheat. i've suspected for some time that you were pulling the wool over the bishop's eyes, but you were so plaguy cunning that i couldn't nab you before. you're a fine specimen, aren't you? what do you think the bishop will say to all this?" tode had recognised the voice of mr. gibson, the secretary. he knew that the secretary had a way of going about as soft-footed as a cat. he tried to jerk his ear free, but at that mr. gibson gave it such a tweak that tode could hardly keep from crying out with the pain. he did keep from it, however, and the next moment the secretary let him go, and, striking a match, lit the gas, and then softly closed the door. "now," he said, coming back to the desk, "what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing--to you," replied tode, looking full into the dark face and cruel eyes of the man. "i'll tell the bishop myself what there is to tell." "oh, you will, will you?" answered the man, with a sneer. "i reckon before you get through with your telling you'll wish you'd never been born. the bishop's the gentlest of men--until he finds that some one has been trying to deceive him. and you--you whom he picked up out of the street, you whom he has treated as if you were his own son--i tell you, boy, you'll think you've been struck by lightning when the bishop orders you out of his sight. he never forgives deceit like yours." tode's face paled and his lips trembled as he listened, but he would not give way before his tormentor. his silence angered the secretary yet more. "why don't you speak?" he exclaimed, sharply. "i'll speak to the bishop--not to you," replied the boy, steadily. his defiant tone and undaunted look made the secretary furious. he sprang toward the boy, but tode was on the watch now, and slipped out of his chair and round to the other side of the desk, where he stopped and again faced his enemy, for he knew now that this man was his enemy, though he could not guess the reason of his enmity. the secretary took a step forward, but at that tode sped across the room out of the door, and up to his own room, the door of which he locked. then he sat down and thought over what had happened, and the more he thought of it the more certain he felt that what the secretary had said was true. a long, long time the boy sat there, thinking sad and bitter thoughts. at last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted his head and looked about the bright, pretty room, as if he would fix it all in his mind so that he never could forget it, and as he looked at the soft, rich carpet, the little white bed with its fresh, clean linen, the wide, roomy washstand and bureau, he seemed at the same time to see the bare, dirty, cheerless little closet-like room to which he must return, and his heart ached again. at last he started up, searched in his pockets for a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to write. his paper was a much-crumpled piece that he had found that morning in the wastebasket, and as yet his writing and spelling were poor enough, but he knew what he wanted to express, and this is what he wrote: dear bishop: i hav ben mene and bad i am not def and dum but i acted like i was caus i thot you wood not kepe me if yu knu i am sory now so i am going away but i am going to kepe strate and not bee bad any more ever. i thank you and i lov you deer. tode bryan. it took the boy a long time to write this and there were many smudges and erasures where he had rubbed out and rewritten words. he looked at it with dissatisfied eyes when it was done, mentally contrasting it with the neat, beautifully written letters he had so often seen on the bishop's desk. "can't help it. i can't do no better," he said to himself, with a sigh. then he stood for several minutes holding the paper thoughtfully in his hand. "i know," he exclaimed at last, and ran softly down to the study. it was dark again there and he knew that mr. gibson had gone. going to the desk, he found the bible which the bishop always kept there. as tode lifted it the leaves fell apart at one of the bishop's best-loved chapters, and there the boy laid his letter and closed the book. he hesitated a moment, and then kneeling down beside the desk, he laid his face on the cover of the bible and whispered solemnly, "i _will_ keep straight--i will." it was nearly nine o'clock when tode returned to what had been his room; what would be so no longer. he undressed slowly, and as he took off each garment he looked at it and touched it lingeringly before he laid it aside. "i b'lieve he'd want me to keep these clothes," he thought, "but i don't know. maybe he wouldn't when he finds out how i've been cheatin' him. mrs. martin's burnt up my old ones, an' i've got to have some to wear, but i'll only take what i must have." so, with a sigh, he laid aside his white shirt with its glossy collar and cuffs, his pretty necktie and handkerchief. he hesitated over the shoes and stockings, but finally with a shake of the head, those, too, were laid aside, leaving nothing but one under garment and his jacket, trousers and cap. then he put out the gas and crept into bed. a little later he heard mrs. martin go up to her room, stopping for a moment to glance into his and see that he was in bed. later still, he heard the bishop come in and go to his room, and soon after the lights were out and all the house was still. tode lay with wide open eyes until the big hall clock struck twelve. then he arose, slipped on his few garments and turned to leave the room, but suddenly went back and took up a little testament. "he told me to keep it always an' read a bit in it ev'ry day," the boy thought, as with the little book in his hand he crept silently down the stairs. they creaked under the light tread of his bare feet as they never had creaked in the daytime. he crossed the wide hall, unfastened the door, and passed out into the night. vi. tode's new start a chill seemed to strike to tode's heart as he stood on the stone steps and looked up to the windows of the room where the bishop was sleeping, and his eyes were wet as he passed slowly and sorrowfully out of the gate and turned down the street. suddenly there was a swift rush, a quick, joyful bark, and there was tag, dancing about him, jumping up to lick his fingers, and altogether almost out of his wits with joy. tode sat down on the curbstone and hugged his rough, faithful friend, and if he whispered into the dog's ear some of the grief that made the hour such a bitter one--tag was true and trusty: he never told it. neither did he tell how, night after night, he had watched beside the big house into which he had seen his master carried, nor how many times he had been driven away in the morning by the servants. but tag's troubles were over now. he had found his master. [illustration: adrift again.] "well, ol' fellow, we can't stay here all night. we must go on," tode said at last, and the two walked on together to the house where the boy had slept before his accident. the outer door was ajar as usual, and tode and the dog went up the stairs together. tode tried the door of his room. it was locked on the inside. "they've let somebody else have it," he said to himself. "well, tag, we'll have to find some other place. come on!" once the boy would not have minded sleeping on a grating, or a doorstep, but now it seemed hard and dreary enough to him. he shivered with the cold and shrank from going to any of his old haunts where he would be likely to find some of his acquaintances, homeless street arabs, like himself. finally he found an empty packing box in an alley, and into this he crept, glad to put his bare feet against tag's warm body. but it was a dreary night to him, and weary as he was, he slept but little. as he lay there looking up at the stars, he thought much of the new life that he was to live henceforth. he knew very well that it would be no easy thing for him to live such a life, but obstacles in his way never deterred tode from doing, or at least attempting to do, what he had made up his mind to. he thought much, too, of the bishop, and these thoughts gave him such a heartache that he would almost have banished them had he been able to do so--almost, but not quite, for even with the heartache it was a joy to him to recall every look of that noble face--every tone of that voice that seemed to thrill his heart even in the remembrance. then came thoughts of nan and little brother, and these brought comfort to tode's sorrowful heart. he had not forgotten little brother during the past weeks. there had never been a day when he had not thought of the child with a longing desire to see him, though even for his sake he could hardly have brought himself to lose a day with the bishop. now, however, that he had shut himself out forever from what seemed to him the paradise of the bishop's home, his thoughts turned again lovingly toward the little one, and he could hardly wait for morning, so eager was he to go to him. fortunately for his impatience, he knew that the hunts and nan would be early astir, and at the first possible moment he went in search of them. he ran up the stairs with tag at his heels, and almost trembling with eagerness, knocked at the hunts' door. mrs. hunt herself opened it, and stared at the boy for a moment before she realised who it was. "for the land's sake, if it isn't tode! where in the world have you been all this time?" she cried, holding the door open for him to enter, while the children gazed wonderingly at him. "i've been sick--got hurt," replied tode, his eyes searching eagerly about the room. "i don't see nan or little brother," he added, uneasily. "they don't live here no more," piped up little ned. tode turned a startled glance upon mrs. hunt. "don't live here!" he stammered. "where do they live?" "not far off; just cross the entry," replied mrs. hunt, quickly. "nan's taken a room herself." "oh!" cried tode, in a tone of relief, "i'll go'n see her;" and waiting for no further words, he went. "well," exclaimed mrs. hunt, "he might 'a' told us how he got hurt an' all, 'fore he rushed off, i should think." "jus' like that tode bryan. he don't know nothin'!" remarked dick, scornfully. his mother gave him a searching glance. "there's worse boys than tode bryan, i'm afraid," she said. "there ye go agin, always a flingin' at me," retorted dick, rudely. "how's a feller to git on in the world when his own mother's always down on him?" "you know i'm not down on you, dick," replied his mother, tearfully. "you're always a hintin' nowdays, anyhow," muttered dick, as he reached over and helped himself to the biggest sausage in the dish. mrs. hunt sighed but made no answer, and the breakfast was eaten mostly in silence. meantime, tode running across the entry, had knocked on the door with fingers fairly trembling with eagerness and excitement. nan opening it, gave a glad cry at sight of him, but the boy, with a nod, pushed by her, and snatched up little brother who was lying on the bed. the baby stared at him for an instant and then as tode hugged him more roughly than he realised, the little lips trembled and the baby began to sob. that almost broke tode's heart. he put the child down, crying out bitterly, "oh little brother, _you_ ain't goin' to turn against me, sure?" as he spoke he held out his hands wistfully, and the baby, now getting a good look at him, recognised his favorite, and with his old smile held out his arms to the boy, who caught him up again but more gently this time, and sat down with him on his knee. it was some minutes before tode paid any attention to nan's questions, so absorbed was he with the child, but at length he turned to her and told her where he had been and what had happened to him. she listened to his story with an eager interest that pleased him. "wasn't it strange," she said, when he paused, "wasn't it strange, and lovely too, that you should have been taken into the bishop's house--and kept there all this time? did you like him just as much in his home as in the church, tode?" "he's--he's"--began tode with shining eyes, then as the bishop's face rose before him, he choked and was silent for a moment. "i don't b'lieve there's any other man like him in _this_ world," he said, finally. nan looked at him thoughtfully, at his face that seemed to have been changed and refined by his sickness and his new associations, at the neat clothes he wore, then at his bare feet. "i shouldn't think, if he's so good, that he would have let you come away--so," she said, slowly. tode flushed as he tried to hide his feet under his chair. "'twasn't his fault," he answered, quickly. he too was silent for a moment, then suddenly he sat upright with a look of stern resolve in his grey eyes, as he added, "nan, i'll tell you all there is about it, 'cause things are goin' to be diff'runt after this. i'm goin' to live straight every way, i am; i've--promised." then he told her frankly the whole story; how he had deceived the bishop, pretending to be deaf and dumb; how mr. gibson had come upon him in the study, and what he had said, and how, finally, he himself had come away in the night. nan listened to it all with the keenest interest. "and you had to sleep out of doors," she said; "i'm so sorry, but, if the bishop is so good, why didn't you stay and tell him all about it, tode? don't you think that that would have been better than coming away so without thanking him for all he had done--or anything?" tode shook his head emphatically. "you don't know him, nan," he replied. "he's good, oh better than anybody else in the world, i b'lieve, but don't you see, just 'cause _he's_ so good, he hates cheatin' an' lyin', just _hates_ 'em; an', oh i _couldn't_ tell him i'd been cheatin' him all this time, an' he so good to me." "i know, 'twould have been awful hard to tell him, tode, but seems to me 'twould have been best," the girl insisted. "i _couldn't_, nan," tode repeated, sadly, then impatiently thrusting aside his sorrow and remorse, he added, "come now, i want to know what you've been doin' while i've been gone. i used to think an' think 'bout you'n him," glancing at the baby, "an' wonder what you'd be doin'." "oh, we've got on all right," answered nan, "i was worried enough when you didn't come, 'specially when one of the hunt boys went down and found that your stand had not been opened. i was sure something had happened to you, 'cause i knew you never would stay away from us so, unless something was the matter." "right you are!" put in tode, emphatically. nan went on, "i was sure there was something wrong, too, when tag came here the next day. poor fellow, i was so sorry for him. one of his legs was all swollen and he limped dreadfully, and hungry--why, tode, he acted as if he were starving. but just as soon as i had fed him he went off again, and didn't come back till the next morning, and he's done that way ever since." tag had kept his bright eyes fastened on nan's face while she talked, and he gave a little contented whine as tode stooped and patted his head. "but tell me what you've ben doin', nan. how'd you get money enough to hire this room an' fix it up so dandy?" tode inquired, looking about admiringly. while nan talked she had been passing busily from table to stove, and now she said, "breakfast is ready, tode. bring your chair up here and give me little brother." tode reluctantly gave up the baby, and took his seat opposite nan at the little table. "you've got things fine," he remarked, glancing at the clean towel that served for a tablecloth, and the neat white dishes and well-cooked food. he was hungry enough to do full justice to nan's cooking, and the girl watched him with much satisfaction, eating little herself, but feeding the baby, as she went on with her story. "when you didn't come back, i knew i must find some way to sell my cookies and gingerbread and so i made some fresh and went to every family in this house and asked 'em if they would buy their bread and all of me instead of at the bakeshops. i told 'em i'd sell at the same price as the shops and give them better things. some wouldn't, but most of them had sense enough to see that it would be a good thing for them, and after they'd tried it once or twice they were ready enough to keep on. now i supply this house and the next one. it keeps me cooking all day, but i don't mind that. i'm only too glad that i can earn our living--little brother's and mine. of course, i couldn't be cooking all day on mrs. hunt's stove, and besides they have no room to spare and we crowded 'em, and so, as soon as i got money enough, i hired this room. i'm paying for the furniture as fast as i can. it was all secondhand, of course." tode looked admiringly at the girl, as she ceased speaking. "you've got a head," he remarked. "but now about cooking for my stand. will you have time to do that too?" "yes indeed," replied nan, promptly. "i'll find time somehow." tode hesitated, moved uneasily in his chair and finally said, "'spect you'll have to trust me for the first lot, nan. i ain't got no money, ye know." "why, tode, have you forgotten that ten dollars you asked me to keep for you?" "no--'course i ain't forgot it, but i thought maybe you'd had to use it. twould 'a' been all right if you had, you know." "oh no, i didn't have to use that. here it is," and nan brought it out from some hidden pocket about her dress. "then i'm all right," exclaimed the boy, in a tone of satisfaction. "i've got to get some clothes first an' then i'll be ready for business." "what's the matter with those clothes?" questioned nan. "oh, i've got to send these back to the bishop." tode's face was grave as he spoke. "but--i don't see why. he won't want em," nan remonstrated. "it's this way, nan." tode spoke very earnestly. "if i'd been what he thought i was, i know i could have kept all he gave me, but, you see, if he'd known i was cheatin' an' lyin' to him all the time he wouldn't 'a' given me a single thing, so don't ye see, i ain't no business to keep 'em, an' i ain't goin' to keep 'em a minute longer'n i have to." nan shook her head, for tode's reasoning had not convinced her, but seeing how strong was his feeling in the matter she said no more, and in a few minutes the boy went out, his face radiant with satisfaction, because little brother cried after him. he invested half his ten dollars in some second-hand clothes, including shoes and stockings. they were not very satisfactory after the garments he had been wearing of late, but he said to himself, "they'll have to do till i can get better ones an' sometime i'm agoin' to have some shirts an' have 'em washed every week, too." tode's trade, that day, was not very heavy, for it was not yet known among his regular customers that he had reopened his stand, but he took care to advertise the fact through those whom he met and he did not fear but that his business would soon be prospering again. that afternoon he succeeded in securing a tiny room in the house with nan. it was a dismal little closet, lighted only from the hall, but it was the best he could do, and tode considered himself fortunate to have his dark corner to himself, even though a broken chair and a canvas cot without bedding of any sort were all the furniture he could put into it then. nan shook her head doubtfully when he showed her the room. "dark and dirty," she said, with a sniff of disgust, as the boy threw open the door. "you must get somebody to scrub it for you, tode, and then whitewash the walls. that will make it sweeter and lighter." "so it will," responded the boy, promptly, "but i'll have to do the scrubbin' an' white-washin' both, myself." nan looked at him doubtfully. "i wonder if you'd get it clean," she said. "scrubbing's hard work." "you'll see. what'll i scrub it with--a broom?" "you ought to have a scrub-brush, but i haven't any. you'll have to do it with an old broom and a cloth. i can let you have the broom and i guess we can get a cloth of mrs. hunt. you going to do it now?" she added, as tode began to pull off his coat. "right now," he answered. "you see, nan, i've got loads of things to do, an' i can't be wastin' time." "what things?" questioned nan, curiously. "oh--i'll tell you about them after awhile," replied the boy. "the broom in your room?" "yes, i'll bring it to you," and nan hurried off. she came back with an old pail full of hot water, a piece of soap, a broom and a cloth, and then she proceeded to show tode how to clean the woodwork and floor, thoroughly, with special attention to the dark corners which looked, indeed, as if they had never been visited by a broom. nan was a thorough little housewife, and she longed to do the whole work herself, but tode would not allow that, so she could only stand and look on, wondering inwardly how a boy could handle a broom so awkwardly. but if he was slow and awkward about it, tode was in earnest, and he looked with much satisfaction at the result of his labor when it was completed. "you'll have to wash the floor again after you've whitewashed the walls," nan said, "but it needed two scrubbings, anyhow." tode looked at it ruefully. "oh, did it?" he said. "i think one such scrubbing as that ought to last it a year." nan laughed. "if you'll carry out my bread and things to-morrow, i'll do your whitewashing for you," she said. but tode shook his head. "i'll carry out your stuff all right," he answered, "but i ain't a-goin' to have a girl doin' my work for me." he bought the lime and paid also for the use of a pail and brush, and the next day he put a white coat on his walls, and when this was done, he was much better satisfied with his quarters. nan offered to lend him her shawl in place of a blanket, but he guessed that she needed it herself and refused her offer. vii. after tode's departure in the bishop's household, mrs. martin was always one of the earliest to rise in the morning, and just as tode sat down to breakfast with nan and little brother, the housekeeper was going downstairs. tode's door stood open and she saw that he was not in the room. her quick eyes noted also the pile of neatly folded garments on a chair beside the bed. she stepped into the room and looked around. then she hurried to the study, knowing that the boy loved to stay there, but the study was unoccupied. by the time breakfast was ready she knew that the boy had left the house, but the bishop refused to believe it, nor would he be convinced until the house had been searched from attic to cellar. when mr. gibson made his appearance, a gleam of satisfaction shone in his narrow eyes as he learned of tode's disappearance. "i was afraid something like this would happen," he remarked, gravely. "it's a hopeless kind of business, trying to make anything out of such material. i've had my suspicions of that boy for some time." "don't be too quick to condemn him, mr. gibson," exclaimed the bishop, hastily. "he may have had some good reason for going away so. i've no doubt he thought he had, but i had grown to love the lad and i shall miss him sadly." "did you never suspect that he was not deaf and dumb, as he pretended to be?" the secretary asked. the bishop looked up quickly. "why, no, indeed, i never had such an idea," he answered. an unpleasant smile flickered over the secretary's thin lips as he went on, "i heard the boy talking to himself, here in this room, last evening. he can hear and speak as well as you or i." "oh, i am sorry! i am sorry!" said the bishop, sadly, and then he turned to his desk, and sitting down, hid his face in his hands, and was silent. the secretary cast more than one swift, sidewise glance at him, but dared say no more then. after a while the bishop drew his bible toward him. it opened at the fourteenth chapter of john, and there lay tode's poor little soiled and blotted note. the bishop read it with tear-dimmed eyes, read it again and again, and finally slipped it into an envelope, and replaced it between the leaves of his bible. he said nothing about it to his secretary, and presently he went to his own room, where for a long time he walked back and forth, thinking about the boy, and how he might find him again. then brown came to him with a telegram summoning him to the sickbed of his only sister, and within an hour he left the city, and was absent two weeks. meantime tode, the morning after his scrubbing and whitewashing operations, had carefully folded the clothes he had worn when he left the bishop's house and tied them up in an old newspaper. into one of the pockets of the jacket he had put a note which ran thus: dear mrs. martin: pleas giv thes cloes to the bishop and tell him i wud not have took them away if i had had any others. i did not take shoes or stockins. i keep the littel testament and i read in it evry day. tell him i am trying to be good and when i get good enuf i shall go and see him. you was good to me but he was so good that he made me hate myself and evrything bad. i can never be bad again while i remember him. tode bryan. he hired a boy whom he knew, to carry the bundle to the bishop's house, and from behind a tree-box further down the street, he watched and saw it taken in by brown. the boy's heart was beating hard and fast, as he stood there longing, yet dreading, to see the bishop himself come out of the house. but the bishop was far away, and tode walked sadly homeward, casting many a wistful, lingering glance backward, as he went. brown carried the package gingerly to mrs. martin, for the boy who had delivered it was not over clean, and mrs. martin opened it with some suspicion, but when she saw the clothes she recognised them instantly, and finding the note in the pocket read it with wet eyes. "i knew that wasn't a bad boy," she said to herself, "and this proves it. he's as honest as the day, or he wouldn't have sent back these clothes--the poor little fellow. well, well! i hope the bishop can find him when he gets back, and as to the boy's pretending to be deaf and dumb, i'm sure there was something underneath that if we only knew it. anyhow, i do hope i'll see the little fellow again sometime." when the bishop returned the accumulated work of his weeks of absence so pressed upon him that for a while he had no time for anything else, and when at last he was free to search for tode, he could find no trace of him. as for tode, he had never once thought of the possibility of the bishop's searching for him. he looked forward to seeing his friend again sometime, but that time he put far away when he himself should be "more fit," as he said to himself. one evening soon after his return, nan had a long talk with him, a talk that left her wondering greatly at the change in his thoughts and purposes, and which made her regard him with quite a new feeling of respect. "nan," he began, "i told you i'd got loads of things to do now." "yes?" the girl looked at him inquiringly. tode was silent for a little. it was harder for him to speak than he had thought it would be. "you see," he went on, slowly, "i've been mean as dirt all my life. you don't know what mean things i've done, an' i ain't goin' to tell ye, only that i know now i've got to turn straight around an' not do 'em any more. i've got to make a man of myself," he drew himself up as he spoke, "a real man--the kind that helps other folks up. i can't say just what i mean, but i feel it myself," he added, with a half-appealing glance at nan. she had listened attentively with her eyes fastened on his earnest face. now she said softly, "you mean--you want to be the kind of man the bishop is, don't you?" "oh, i couldn't ever be _really_ like him," protested the boy, quickly, "but, well, i'm goin' to try to be a sort of shadow of him. i mean i'm goin' to try to amount to something myself, an' do what i can to help other poor fellers up instead of down. i'm goin' to lend a hand 'mongst the folks 'round here, just a little you know, as he does 'mongst the poor people he goes to see. but i've got some other things to do too. i've got some money to pay back, an' i've got to find a feller that i helped to pull down." and thereupon, tode told the story of mrs. russell's pocketbook and her search for jack finney. he told it all quite frankly, not trying in the least to excuse or lessen his own guilt in the matter. "it will take you a long time to save up so much money, tode," nan said when he paused. "yes, unless i can find some way to earn more, but i can't help that. i'll do the best i can, an' i've got some notions in my head." he talked over with her some of his plans and projects, and as she listened, she thought to herself, "he's getting 'way ahead of me, but i'm afraid he'll get into trouble at first." and she was not mistaken. tode was now so thoroughly in earnest himself that he forgot to take into consideration the fact that those whom he meant to help up might prefer to be left to go down in their own fashion. his old associates speedily discovered that a great change had come over tode bryan, and the change did not meet with their approval. they called it "mighty cheeky" of him to be "pokin' his nose" into their affairs, and they would show him that he'd better stop it. so tode soon found himself exceedingly unpopular, and, what was worse, in a way, under a boycott that threatened to ruin his business. he fell into the way of carrying his trials and perplexities to nan, and talking them over with her. she had plenty of that common sense, which is not very common after all, and she often made him see the reason of his failures, while at the same time he was sure of her sympathy. one evening tode appeared in her room with his little testament in his hand. there was a perplexed expression in his eyes as he said, "nan, 'bout readin' this, you know--i've been peggin' away at the first part, an' i can't make nothin' of it. it's just a string of funny words, names, i s'pose. _i_ don't see no sense to it." nan glanced at the page to which he had opened. it was the first chapter of matthew. "oh, that's all it is, just a lot of names. you can skip all that, tode," she answered, easily. "no i can't, neither," replied the boy, decidedly. "if i begin to skip, no knowin' where i'll stop. if it's readin' this book that makes folks good, i've got to know all 'bout it. say, can't you read this with me an' tell me how to call all these jawbreakers?" nan looked rather shocked at the boy's free and easy reference to the book, but seeing from his grave face and serious manner that he was very much in earnest, she sat down with him, and the two young heads bent over the page together. "i remember reading this chapter with mother," nan said, gently, "and she told me how to pronounce these names, but i can't remember all of them now. i'll do the best i can, though," and she read slowly the first seventeen verses, tode repeating each name after her. "whew!" he exclaimed, in a tone of intense relief, when the task was ended, "that's 'bout the toughest job ever i tackled." "well, you see, you needn't read all that again. the rest of the chapter is different. it's all about jesus," nan said. tode read the remaining verses slowly by himself, but he shook his head in a dissatisfied way as he closed the book. "that's easier than the names to read, but i don't seem to get much out of it. guess i'm too thick-headed," he said, in a discouraged tone. "tode," exclaimed nan, suddenly, "you ought to go to some sunday-school. then you'd learn all about the bible and the things you want to know." "might be a good scheme, that's a fact," he answered, thoughtfully. "reckon i'll try it on anyhow, an' see how it works." "yes, do. i always used to go before mother was sick. if you have a good teacher you'll like it, i'm sure." "there's a mission school down near my stand. i'll have a try at it next sunday an' see what it's like," tode said. so the very next day he went to the mission chapel, and, from the notice on the door, found out the hours of service, and the following sunday he was on hand in due season. as he went somewhat doubtfully up the steps, he saw in the vestibule a young man, who stepped forward and held out his hand, saying cordially, "glad to see you here. are you a stranger?" tode wasn't quite sure what a stranger might be, but he muttered, "i ain't never been here before." "then i'm glad i happened to meet you. will you come into my class?" tode nodded and followed the young man into the chapel, which was already nearly full of boys and girls. "my name is scott. what is yours?" inquired the stranger, as he led the way to his own corner of the room. tode gave his name, and mr. scott introduced him to half a dozen boys who had already taken their places in his class. one of these boys was dick hunt. he gave tode a careless nod by way of greeting, as the latter dropped into the seat next him. to tode's great satisfaction the lesson chanced to be on the birth of the lord jesus, and mr. scott told the boys the whole story so clearly and vividly, that tode at least was intensely interested. it was all new and fresh to him, and he was listening eagerly to every word, when suddenly dick hunt ran a long pin deep into his leg. the pain made him start and almost cry out, but he suppressed the cry as he turned and gave dick a savage pinch that made him writhe, as he exclaimed in a threatening tone, "you stop that!" mr. scott turned grave, inquiring eyes on the two, as he asked: "what's the matter, dick?" "he's a pinchin' me--tode bryan is. he give me an awful tweak when you wasn't a lookin'." "is that so?" mr. scott asked, and tode, with a scornfully defiant glance at dick, answered promptly, "yes." "i am sorry, tode," said mr. scott; "you can sit here on the other side." tode's face flushed a little as he changed his seat, but now another of the boys, having a grudge against dick, cried out, "hunt stuck a pin in him first; i seen him do it." "you hush up!" muttered dick, with a scowl. just then the superintendent's bell sounded and the lesson time was over. when the school was dismissed, mr. scott detained tode. "why didn't you tell me that dick had stuck a pin into you first," the teacher asked, rapidly turning the leaves of his bible as he spoke. "i ain't a sneak like he is," answered tode, briefly. mr. scott found the place that he wanted, and keeping his finger between the leaves, looked thoughtfully at the boy before him. "you told me that your name is tode. that is what the boys call you. it isn't your real name, is it?" he asked, with a friendly look. tode puckered his forehead into a puzzled frown at the question. "n-no," he answered, slowly. "there's some more to it, but i can't think what 'tis. wish't i could." "you've no father or mother?" "no--never had none since i's big enough to know anything," was the careless reply. mr. scott laid his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder. "my boy," he said, slowly and earnestly, "i believe yours is a very beautiful name. it must be theodore." "that's it! that's it!" exclaimed tode, excitedly. "i 'member somebody told it to me once, an' i know that's it. how'd you know it so quick?" he looked up wonderingly into his teacher's face as he asked the question. "i once knew another theodore who was nicknamed tode; but, my boy, do you know what your name means?" tode shook his head. "didn't know names meant anything," he answered. "but they do. theodore means the gift of god. a boy with such a name as that ought to count for something in the world." "i mean to." the boy uttered the words slowly and emphatically. mr. scott's face brightened. "do you mean that you love and serve the lord jesus, theodore?" he asked, softly. the boy shook his head half sadly, half perplexedly. "i don't know nothin' much 'bout him," he answered, with a gentleness most strange and unusual in him, "but i've promised to do the right thing every time now--an' i'm a-goin' to do it." "you have promised--whom, theodore?" "promised myself--but i don't know nothin' much 'bout what is the right thing," he added, in a discouraged tone. "you'll soon learn if you're in earnest, my boy. this book will tell you all you need to know. can you read?" "some." "then read this verse for me, will you?" mr. scott held out his bible and pointed to the verse. slowly and stumblingly the boy read, "dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves," and again, "recompense to no man evil for evil." seeing that tode did not understand the meaning of what he had read, mr. scott explained the passages to him. the boy listened attentively, then he exclaimed in a tone of dismay, "but does it mean that a feller can't never strike back?" "that's what it says." tode pondered this unpalatable statement with a clouded face. "but what ye goin' to do when some other feller cuts up rough with ye?" "find some other way to get even with him." "but i don't see--what other way is there 'cept hittin' him a harder one'n he gives you?" mr. scott opened his bible again and pointed to the last two verses of the twelfth chapter of romans. tode went home that day with his mind in a tumult. these new ideas did not suit him at all. a "word and a blow," and the blow first had been his method of settling such questions heretofore, and it seemed to him far the better way. he took a roundabout route home, for he did not want to see nan until he had thought out this matter to his own satisfaction. to help people poorer or weaker than himself, or to "keep straight" himself, and help others to do likewise--this was one thing. to meekly submit to ill treatment and "take a blow" from a fellow whom he "could whip with his little finger"--this was quite another and, to one of tode's temperament, a far more distasteful thing. the boy had reached no conclusion when he finally went home to supper. he was silent and thoughtful all the evening, but it was not until the following day that he spoke of the matter to nan. nan listened in perplexed silence to what he had to say. she had been well taught while her mother lived, but she had never given these subjects any real, deep thought, as tode was doing now. she began to feel that this rough, untaught street boy was likely to get far ahead of her if he should keep on pondering over questions like this. even now she could give him but little help. seeing this, tode took up his testament again, and read on and on until he had finished the book of matthew, and gained a pretty clear idea of the life and death of jesus the christ. there was much, of course, that he did not understand at all. many of the words and expressions conveyed no meaning to him, but yet he gathered enough to understand, in a measure, what that life was, and he began dimly to realise why the bishop gave so much of his time and thought to god's poor. the boy pondered these things in his heart, and a new world seemed to open before him. "nan," he said at last, "i've found out what my real name is. it's theodore." "theodore," repeated the girl. "well, i'm glad to know it, for i never did like to call you tode. how did you find out?" "mr. scott said it to me, and i knew as soon as i heard it that that was it." "then i won't ever call you tode again. i shall call you theo. i like that." the boy liked it too. it gave him a strange thrill of pleasure every time he thought of what mr. scott had said about the meaning of his name. viii. theo's shadow work the days that followed were very busy ones for both nan and theo. the girl spent most of her time over the stove or the moulding board, and the boy, delivering the supplies to many of the families in the two big tenement houses, attending to his stand, and selling evening papers, found the days hardly long enough for all that he wanted to do. as he went from room to room with nan's bread and soup and gingerbread, he soon learned much about the different families and found plenty of opportunities to serve as the "bishop's shadow," in these poor homes. money he had not to give, for every penny that he could possibly spare was laid aside for a special purpose now, but he found countless ways to carry help and sunshine to sad and sore hearts, without money. one morning he left nan's room with a basket piled with bread--brown and white--in one hand, and a big tin pail full of boiled hominy in the other. he went first to the top floor, stopping at one door after another, where dirty, frowzy women and children opened at the sound of his cheery whistle. he handed in the loaves, or the measures of hominy with a gay word or a joke that more than once banished a frown from a woman's worn face, or checked the tears of a tired, hungry child. children were getting to be fond of the boy now, and he liked it. in one room there were two families and half a dozen children. in one corner, on a rickety couch was a crippled boy, who had lain there day after day, through long, weary months. he was listening intently for that whistle outside the door, and when he heard it, his dull eyes brightened, and he called out eagerly, "oh, tell him to come in a minute--_just_ a minute!" the woman who opened the door, said indifferently, "tommy wants you to come in a minute." theo stepped over to the tumbled couch, and smiled down into the wistful eyes of the sick boy. "hello, old man!" he said, cheerily. "i've brought you something," and out of his pocket he pulled a golden chrysanthemum that he had picked up in the street the day before, and had kept all night in water. it was not very fresh now, but tommy snatched it hungrily, and gazed at it with a happy smile. "oh, how pretty--how pretty it is!" he cried, softly smoothing the golden petals with his little bony forefinger. "can i keep it, truly?" [illustration: "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!"] "'course. i brought it for you," theo answered, his round, freckled face reflecting the boy's delight. "but i must scoot. folks'll be rowin' me if their bread's late." he ran off leaving the sick boy with the flower held lovingly against his thin white cheek, while his eyes followed wistfully theo's strong, active figure as he hurried away. on the next floor, an old woman, bent and stiffened by rheumatism, sat alone all day, while her children were away at work. she could not get out of her chair, or help herself in any way. her breakfast would be a penny's worth of nan's hominy, but on this morning her children had gone off without even setting out a dish, or a cup of water for her. tode brought her a saucer and spoon, filled a cup with fresh water from the faucet, and pulled up the curtain so that the sunlight would shine in upon her. "there, old lady," he said, brightly, when this was done, "now you're all right, an' i'll be in again an' fix your dinner for ye." the old woman's dim eyes looked after him, and she muttered a word of thanks as she turned slowly to her breakfast. the boy wasted no minutes, for he had none to spare, but even when he did not step inside a door at all, he always had a smile or a bright word ready for each customer, and in lives where sin or grinding poverty has destroyed all hope, and life has become simply dull, dogged endurance of suffering, a cheerful word or smile has a wonderful power. these wretched women and forlorn little children had already begun to look forward to the coming of the "bread boy," as the little ones called him, as a bright spot in their days. in almost every room he managed to leave a hint of cheer behind him, or at least to lighten a little the cloudy atmosphere. his pail and basket empty, he ran back to nan's room for his own supplies, and having opened his stand he served his customers, taking his own breakfast between whiles, as he had opportunity. he sold the morning papers, too, at his stand, and between twelve and one o'clock he was as busy as a boy could well be. after that hour few customers appeared, and then, having made his midday meal from whatever he had left, he closed his stand and went home. then was his time for a little more of what nan called his "shadow work," when he refilled with fresh water the cup of the rheumatic old woman, or carried her a cup of tea that nan had made for her, adding to it, perhaps, a cooky or a sandwich that remained from his stock. or he glanced into a room where two or three children were locked in all day while the mothers were away at work--and attended to the fire for them. often he found time for a five minutes' chat with crippled tommy, and now and then he walked awhile with a sick baby in his arms as he had seen the bishop do that day long before. they were all little things that the boy did, but as he kept on doing them day after day, he found in this service for others such happiness as he never had known before. tommy's delight in the half-withered chrysanthemum set theo to thinking, and the result of his thinking was that he began to frequent the flower stalls and pick up the broken blossoms that were occasionally thrown aside there. one day a woman who was selling flowers, said to him, "say, boy, what do you do with the flowers you pick up? i've seen you 'round here after 'em lots o' times lately." "give 'em to sick folks an' poor ones that can't get out anywheres," replied the boy, promptly. the woman searched his face to see if he were deceiving her, but there was nothing sly or underhanded in the clear eyes that returned her gaze so frankly. "hm-m," she murmured, thoughtfully. "what do you do saturday nights, boy?" "nothin' much, after i've sold out my papers." "well, saturday night's our busy time here; one of our busy times, that is, an' if you want to come 'round an' help for an hour or two, i'll pay you in the flowers that are left over." theo's eyes brightened, but he was shrewd, and was not going to bind himself to an agreement that might not be satisfactory. "i'll come next sat'day an' try it," he said. "all right," and the woman turned to a customer. theo was on hand promptly the next saturday evening. he found that the flower woman wanted him to carry home pots of growing plants for lady purchasers. he was kept busy until nine o'clock, and received in payment a good-sized basket full of violets, roses, heliotrope and carnations. some had short stems, and some were a little wilted, but the boy was well content with his pay. "most of them will freshen up and look bright as ever if you put them to-night in a pail of water where they'll have plenty of room," the woman said; "and here--this is for good luck," and she handed him a little pot of geranium with a cluster of pink blossoms. that brought a smile of genuine delight to the boy's face. "oh!" he cried, "that's dandy! i'll give it to nan." "and who's nan--your sister?" questioned the woman. "n--no, not quite. guess she's as good's my sister, though. shall i come next sat'day, ma'am?" replied the boy. "yes, come next saturday, an' right along, if you keep on doing as well's you've done to-night." theo almost ran home, so eager was he to show nan his treasures. he had never cared very much for flowers himself, but he was beginning now to realise their value to others, and he was sure that nan would be delighted with the geranium. he was not disappointed. the girl's eyes sparkled at sight of the delicate pink blossoms and she thanked him so heartily that he could only mutter, "oh, shucks! 'tain't nothin' much." then he showed her his basket of cut flowers, and she exclaimed delightedly over them as she lifted them out as tenderly as if they had been alive, and placed them carefully in a pail of fresh water in which she had sprinkled a little salt. "mother used to put salt in the water to keep flowers fresh," she said, "and oh, won't it be _lovely_ to carry these around to the shut-ins, tomorrow, theo! i think mrs. hunt would like some," she added. "all right. pick out what you like an' take 'em in to her now." nan selected some of the freshest blossoms and went across with them to her neighbour, leaving theo with the baby, who was asleep. she was gone some time, and when she returned her face was grave. "what's the matter? didn't she like 'em?" asked the boy. "yes, indeed, she was ever so pleased with them, and told me to thank you for sending them to her--but, theo, she's worrying so over dick. she thinks he's going all wrong." "so he is," answered theo, soberly. "and can't you do anything about it?" "don't see's i can. he's in with a mean lot o' fellers, 'n he's no good anyhow, nowadays." "but there must be some good in him. his father and mother are so good," pleaded nan. "mrs. hunt was crying when i went in. she says dick often stays out till midnight or after now, and she's afraid he'll be locked up." "serve him right if he was," muttered theo, under his breath. "he's lost the place his father got for him," added nan. "'course. nobody'd keep such a feller long." nan shook her head sorrowfully, thinking of dick's mother. theo said no more, and soon left the room. nan thought he had gone to bed, but instead, he went out and walked slowly and somewhat doubtfully toward a saloon which he had seen dick enter more than once of late. theo, himself, used to go there, but he had not been near the place for many a week. he did not want to go in now, and he waited about outside, wishing that dick would come out, and yet uncertain what to do if he did come. finally he pushed open the door and went up the stairs. a dozen or so boys were there, many of whom he knew, and among them was dick. the proprietor of the place gave the boy a warm welcome, and some of the boys greeted him gaily, but dick scowled as theo sat down beside him. he waited until the loud talk began again, then he said in a low tone, "dick, i came after you. will you go home with me now? your mother's frettin'." dick's face darkened angrily. "who made you boss over me?" he shouted, springing from his seat with a threatening gesture. "you mind your own business, will you?" theo's cheeks flushed as every face in the room was turned toward him. "what's the row?" "what's he doin'?" "what does he want?" "put him out! put him out!" these shouts and others mingled with oaths as all crowded about the two boys. "there's no row, an' nothin' to get mad about," said theo, trying to speak quietly. "dick's mother's frettin', an' i asked him to go home with me. that's all there is about it." "an' enough it is too," exclaimed one of the boys. "dick's big enough to know when to go home, ain't he?" "what's he got to do with me or my mother?" growled dick, "i'll go home when i get good an' ready, an' not before." "an' it's time for _you_ to go home now!" exclaimed the proprietor of the place, elbowing his way to the front of the group, and addressing theo. "we don't want none o' your sort around here. now clear out--d'ye hear?" seeing that it was useless to stay longer, theo departed, followed by taunting cries and yells, from all in the room. he went gloomily homeward, telling himself that he had been a fool to try to do anything for dick hunt. dick was "no good anyhow." but, as he passed her door, mrs. hunt opened it and peered anxiously out. her eyes were red and swollen, and she turned back with a disappointed air as she saw theo. the next moment however, she stepped out into the hall, pushing the door to behind her. "tode," she whispered, "do you know where my dick is?" the boy answered reluctantly, "he's down at todd's." mrs. hunt put her apron to her eyes and sobbed softly. "oh, dear," she moaned, "his father's gone to look for him, an' if he finds him there he'll most kill him--he's that mad with the boy for the way he's been goin' on lately." theo stood silent, not knowing what to say, and then mrs. hunt turned back into the room while he went up another flight to his. he had just reached his own door when he heard loud, angry voices accompanied by scuffling sounds on the stairs below, and he knew that mr. hunt had found dick, and was bringing him home. after theodore had gone out, nan had put all the flowers into two big dishes with plenty of water, and the next morning she was up early and separated them, putting together two or three pinks or a rose with its buds and a bit of foliage, or a cluster of geranium blossoms and green leaves. when theo came for them she laid the small clusters carefully in a basket, and sprinkled them with fresh water, then as she stooped and buried her face among the fragrant, beautiful things she exclaimed, "oh theo, i wish i had time to go with you, and see how happy you make them all with these beautiful, lovely flowers." "i'll begin with you," laughed the boy. "pick out the ones you like best." but nan put her hands resolutely behind her and shook her head. "no, i'm not sick and i've had the pleasure of seeing them all, and fixing them, beside my pot of geranium. that's plenty for me." theodore looked critically at her, then at the blossoms; then he picked out three delicate pink carnations. "no, no! please don't, theo," began the girl, but with a laughing glance at her, theodore laid the blossoms in little brother's small white fingers, and hurried away. he went first to tommy o'brien's room. the sick boy's weary face brightened at sight of him, but it fairly beamed when theodore held up the basket saying, "choose any one of 'em tommy--the very prettiest of all." "o-oh!" cried tommy. "i never saw so many. oh, theo, where did you get 'em all?" theo told him while the woman and the children crowded about the basket to see and exclaim over the contents. tommy chose a spray of lily of the valley and theo added a pink rose and bud. then he gave a blossom to each of the children and to their mothers as well, and went away leaving softened faces and smiles in place of frowns and sullen words. the old woman whose breakfast was so often forgotten was not alone to-day. her daughters were at home, but they were not paying much attention to her. at first she peered stupidly with her half-blind eyes into theo's basket, then suddenly she cried out, "oh, i smell 'em! i smell vi'lets. where be they? where be they?" there was one little bunch of violets in the basket. theo snatched it up and laid it in the wrinkled, trembling hands. the old woman held the blossoms against her withered cheek, then she pressed them to her lips, and two big tears rolled slowly down her face. "la! ma's cryin' over them vi'lets. here tode, gi' me some o' them bright ones. gi' me a rose!" cried one of the young women, and theo handed each of them a rose and went away in silence. he glanced back as he left the room. the old woman was still holding the violets to her cheek and it was plain, even to the boy, that her thoughts were far away. so, from room to room he went and nowhere did he fail of a glad welcome, because of the gifts he offered. in the dirtiest rooms, the most hardened of the women, the roughest and rudest of the children, seemed to become momentarily gentle and tender when the flowers were laid in their hands. when all had been given away except one rose, theodore paused and considered. there were several rooms that he had not visited. to which of these should he carry this last rose? not to old man schneider surely. he was standing at the moment outside old man schneider's door. the old man was the terror of all the children in the house, so ugly and profane was he, and so hideous to look at. fearless as theodore was--the sight of old man schneider always made him shudder, and the boy had never yet spoken to him. while he stood there trying to decide who should have the rose, he heard a deep, hollow groan, and surely it came from the room of old man schneider. theodore stood still and listened. there came another groan and another, and then he knocked on the door. there was no response and he opened it and went in. he had been in many dirty, dismal rooms, but never in one so dirty and so dismal as this. it looked as if it never had been clean. the only furniture was a tumble-down bed in one corner, a chair and a broken stove. on the bed, the old man was lying, covered with rags. he fixed his sunken eyes on the boy and roughly demanded what he wanted, but even as he spoke he groaned again. "you are sick--can't i do something for you?" asked the boy. the old man gazed at him for a moment, then he broke into a torrent of angry words, ending with, "get out o' my sight. i hate boys. i hate everybody an' everything." theodore stood still. the rose in his hand looked strangely out of place in that squalid room--but--beautifully out of place, for it seemed to shed light and color as well as perfume through the close, unhealthy atmosphere. "clear out, i say. why don't ye go?" the old man tried to shake a threatening fist, but his arm dropped weakly, and in spite of himself he moaned with pain. "can't i bring a doctor or somebody to help you?" the boy asked gently. "ain't nobody ter help me. don't i tell ye i hate everybody?" was the fierce reply. theodore gazed about him. there seemed nothing that he could do. he hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and laid the beautiful rose against the dark, knotted fingers on the ragged bed-covering, and then he went away, closing the door behind him. stopping only to put his basket into his room and lock the door, he hurried off to the dispensary and asked that a doctor be sent to old man schneider as soon as possible. he waited until the doctor was at liberty and then returned with him. there was no response to their knock, and again theodore opened the door and went in, the doctor following. the old man did not move or look up even when the doctor spoke to him. he lay as theo had last seen him only that his fingers were closed tightly over the stem of the rose, and one crimson petal lay on the pillow close to the sunken cheek. the old man was dead--but who could tell what thoughts of other days--of sinless days long past, perhaps--may have been awakened in his heart by that fragrant, beautiful bit of god's handiwork? as theodore went quietly up the stairs, he was glad that he had not passed by old man schneider's door. ix. theo in trouble theo went regularly now to the mission school on sunday afternoons, and mr. scott had become much interested in him. one day mr. scott pleased theo immensely by going to the boy's stand and getting his lunch there, and not long after he went one evening to the boy's room. he found the place dark and the door locked, but as he was turning away, theo came running up the stairs. "oh!" he cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise, as he saw his teacher. "wait a minute an' i'll get a light." having lighted his lamp, the boy sat down on the cot, giving the broken stool to his visitor. mr. scott's heart was full of sympathy as he glanced around the forlorn little room and remembered that it was all the home that the boy had. "theodore," he said, after talking a while, "what do you do evenings?" "oh, sometimes i stay in nan's room, an' sometimes i drop in an' talk to tommy o'brien or some of the other sick ones in the house, an' sometimes i go somewheres outside. saturday nights i help at a flower stand." "why don't you go to an evening school? i think that would be the best place for you to spend your evenings," said mr. scott. this was a new idea to the boy. he thought it over in silence. mr. scott went on, "it's not your fault, theodore, that you have had no schooling, thus far, but now, you can go to an evening school and it will be your fault if you grow up ignorant. you will be able to do far more and better work in the world, with an education, than without one. the more you know yourself the better you can help others, you see." "yes," sighed the boy. "i guess that's so, but i 'spect i'll find it tough work learning." "i'm not so sure of that. it will be rather hard at first, because you're not used to studying; but i think you are bright enough to go ahead pretty fast when you once get a good start. now who is this girl, that i've heard you mention several times--nan is her name?" "oh, yes, nan. come on, i want you to see her an' our baby," replied the boy, eagerly. somewhat uncertain as to what kind of a girl this might be, yet anxious to know as much as possible about theo's associates and surroundings, mr. scott followed the boy down the stairs. "nan, here's my teacher, mr. scott, come to see the baby," theodore exclaimed, as he unceremoniously pushed open the door and ushered in the visitor. mr. scott was more taken aback than was nan, at this abrupt introduction. the girl coloured a little, but quietly arose and shook hands with the gentleman, while theo exclaimed: "good! little brother ain't asleep yet. this is our baby, mr. scott. ain't he a daisy? take him." now, mr. scott was a young man and totally unused to "taking" babies, but the boy had lifted the little one from the bed and was holding him out to his teacher with such a happy face that the young man felt that it would never do to disappoint him. so he received the baby gingerly in both hands and set him on his knee, but he did not know what to say or do to amuse the child, and it was an immense relief to him when little brother held out his hands to theo, and the boy took him again saying, "ye don't know him yet, do ye, little brother? you will though, by 'n' by," wherein theo was more of a prophet than he imagined. relieved of the child, mr. scott turned to nan and the colour rose in his face as he saw a gleam of amusement in the girl's dark eyes, but theo's ready tongue filled up the momentary pause, and soon all three were chatting like old friends, and when mr. scott took his departure, it was with the conviction that his new scholar was fortunate in having nan for a friend. at the same time he realised that this great tenement with its mixed community was a most unsuitable place for a girl like nan, and determined that she should be gotten into better surroundings as soon as it could be accomplished. his interest in theodore was deepened by this visit to his room and friends. he felt that there was something unusual in the boy, and determined to keep watch of him and give him any needed help. it was november now and the night was chilly. as mr. scott left the tenement house he buttoned his thick overcoat about him, and shivered as he thought of theodore's bare cot, with not a pillow or a blanket even. "not a single bit of bedding," he said, to himself, "and no fire! that will never do, in weather like this." the next day he mentioned the case to the aunt with whom he lived, with the result that a couple of pillows and a warm comforter were sent before night to nan's room, addressed to theodore bryan, and for the remainder of the winter the boy at least did not suffer from cold at night. theodore grew to like his teacher much as the weeks passed, and often after sunday-school the two walked home together. some of the boys that had been longer in the class rather resented this friendship, the more so as theo was by no means popular among them just at this time. "he's gettin' too good, tode bryan is," one of them said, one sunday. "he walked home with teacher last week, an' now he's a doin' it again." he glanced gloomily after the two, as he spoke. "i'd like ter punch his head; that's what i'd like to do," put in another. "he pitched inter me for swearin' t'other day." "he's a fine one to talk 'bout swearin'," added a third. "i've heard him goin' it hot an' heavy many a time." "oh yes, but he's settin' up fer a saint now, ye know," said dick hunt, scornfully. "i owe him a lickin,' an' he'll get it too 'fore he's many days older." "what for, dicky?" questioned another. "what for? for blabbin' to my daddy an' sendin' him to todd's after me, the night he come sneakin' in there himself," cried dick. "i've been layin' for him ever since, an' i'll give it to him good, first chance i get." "he goes to night school now," remarked one. "oh, yes, he's puttin' on airs all 'round," returned dick. "i'll night school him!" he added, vengefully. it was not long before dick found an opportunity to execute his threats of vengeance. he was loafing on a street corner, with carrots and two other boys, one night, when theodore passed them on his way home from school. he nodded to them as he went by, but did not stop. dick's eyes followed him with a threatening glance until he saw him turn through a narrow street. then dick held a brief conference with carrots and the other two, and all four set off hastily in the direction that theodore had taken. he, meantime, went on whistling cheerily and thinking pleasant thoughts, for he was beginning to get on at the school, and better yet, he had in his pocket at that moment, a five-dollar bill that meant a great deal to him. ever since his return from the bishop's house, he had been working as he never had worked before, neglecting no opportunity to earn even a nickel, and every penny that he could possibly spare he had given to nan to keep for him. he had been perfectly frank with her, and she knew that as soon as he had saved up thirty-seven dollars he meant to carry it to the bishop for mrs. russell, and tell him the whole story. first, to stop all his wrongdoing and then as far as possible, to make up to those he had wronged--these were theodore's firm purposes now, but he felt that he could never bear to face the bishop again until he could take with him the proof of his genuine repentance. many and many a time in these past weeks, had the boy planned with nan how he would go to the house and what he would say to the bishop, and what he hoped the bishop would say to him, and nan had rejoiced almost as much as the boy himself as, week by week, the sum in her hands grew toward the desired amount. even nan did not know all the hard work and stern self-denial that had made it possible for theodore to put by that money out of his small earnings. the five in his pocket on this evening would complete the entire sum and the very next day he meant to carry it to the bishop. the mere thought of seeing again the face that was to him like no other face in all the world--filled the boy's heart with a deep, sweet delight. he was thinking of it as he hurried along through a short, dark alley, where were only two or three stables and one empty house. quick, stealthy footsteps followed him, but he paid no heed to them until a heavy blow on the back of his head made him suddenly turn and face four dark figures that were close at his heels. "who are you? what ye hittin' me for?" he demanded, angrily. there was no response, but dick struck at him again. this time, however, theodore was on his guard, and he caught dick's arm and gave it a twist that made its owner cry out. "oh ho, it's you, dick hunt. i might a' known nobody else would sneak up on a feller this way. well, now, what are ye after?" "i'm after givin' you the worst lickin' ever you had," muttered dick, trying in vain to free his arm from theo's strong grip. "what for?" demanded theodore. "for sneakin' into todd's and then runnin' to tell my father where i was. that's one thing, but there's plenty more't i'm goin' to settle with you for, to-night," shouted dick, as he pounded with his left hand, and kicked viciously at the other's shins. "i never spoke to your father that night," theo declared, but dick responded, scornfully, "tell that to a greenhorn! pitch into him, boys. he won't let go o' me." seeing the others start toward him, theo flung dick's arm aside, and bracing himself against a vacant house just behind him, faced them all in dogged silence. they hesitated for a moment, but dick cried out again, "come on, boys!" and the four flung themselves upon theo, striking, pounding and kicking all together. he defended himself as best he could, but the odds were too great. it was only when the boy slipped to the ground in a limp, motionless heap, that his assailants drew off, and looked uneasily at one another in the darkness. "what'll we do now?" whispered carrots. "cut it--somebody's comin'!" cried dick, in a low tone, and thereupon they took to their heels, leaving theo as he had fallen on the ground. the boys stopped running as soon as they reached a lighted street where the passers-by might notice them; but they walked on rapidly and discussed the affair in low, guarded tones. "you don't think he's done for, do ye, dick?" questioned carrots, uneasily. dick tried to laugh carelessly, but the effort was a failure. he was beginning to be anxious as to the result, though he was not ready to admit it. "done for? not much!" he answered, promptly. "more like he was shammin', an' wasn't hurt half so much as he'd ought ter be." "but if 'tain't so-if he's hurt bad, he may have us up for 'sault an' batt'ry," remarked another. "dick's the only one he could go for, 'cause 'twas so dark, he couldn't spot the rest of us," put in carrots, hastily. "ye needn't try to sneak out o' it that way," cried dick, sharply. "if i get took up, you'll be, too." "d'ye mean't you'd give us away after gettin' us into it, jest ter help you out?" demanded the other, in a threatening tone. "if he does, we'll make it hot fer _him_" put in another, as dick answered, doubtfully, "wal if he should make a fuss 'bout it, i can't take all the blame, can i? i didn't do all the whackin'." "well, i say, boys, he's a nice one, dick hunt is! after gettin' us to help him lick a feller 'cause he darsent do it alone, he talks of gettin' us took up for it," exclaimed the last speaker; "but see here, you," he added to dick, "bryan knew you an' he didn't know any the rest of us, an' i tell ye what--if you get inter trouble 'bout this job, you lug us into it 'f ye dare! i'll swear 't carrots an' jo here were down t' my place with me, 'n' they'll swear to it too; hey, boys?" "we will so!" "we'll do that ev'ry time!" they answered in one voice; and then with a few cutting words the three turned off together, leaving dick to pursue his way alone. and miserable enough dick was as he walked on alone. he was not in the least sorry for what had been done to theodore, but he was afraid of the consequences. he turned sick with dread as he remembered how the boy's body had slipped in a limp heap to the ground and lain there motionless. suppose they had killed him? it would be murder. somebody would have to answer for it and that somebody would be he--dick hunt. the cold perspiration started on his forehead and his heart throbbed heavily at the thought, and he felt a wild desire to run on and on till he had left that dark heap in the dark alley, miles and miles behind him. then came a flash of hope. perhaps after all tode was not so badly hurt. perhaps he had been shamming just to scare them. at this thought, dick's quick pace slackened and he had half a mind to go back and see if the body still lay there, but he could not bring himself to do that. he shivered and hurried on aimlessly, through the brightly lighted streets. he was afraid to go home, lest he be met there by the news that he dreaded. he was afraid to stay in the streets, for every moment he expected to feel the heavy hand of a policeman on his shoulder. he said to himself that carrots and the others might inform against him just to save themselves. so, as wretched as a boy well could be, he wandered about for an hour or two, stopping sometimes in dark corners and then hastening on again, stealing suspicious glances over his shoulders, and listening for pursuing footsteps. at last, he turned homeward, longing, yet dreading, to see his mother. it was nearly midnight when he crept softly up the stairs, but his mother had been unable to sleep, and as his hand touched the door in the darkness, she threw it open with a sigh of relief that her weary waiting was over for that night. she did not find fault with him. it seemed to her utterly useless now to complain or entreat. dick longed to ask if she knew anything about tode, but his tongue refused to utter the words and he tumbled into bed in gloomy silence. there had been no shamming when theo fell under the brutal blows of the four boys who had set upon him. they were all strong, well-grown lads, and striking blindly and viciously in the dark, had perhaps hit harder than they realised. at any rate theo had felt his strength failing even before a last blow on his head made him unconscious of what followed. the "somebody," whom the boys had heard, came slouching along through the dark alley and stumbled over the prostrate body. "hello! what's this?" he exclaimed, his nimble fingers running rapidly over the boy's face and figure. "somebody's been up to something here. let's see if--no! well, that's queer!" these disconnected remarks were the accompaniment to a rapid and skillful search through the boy's pockets, and the last emphatic expression was drawn forth by the discovery that there had been no robbery; whereupon the newcomer promptly proceeded to complete the job by emptying the said pockets in a manner that proved him no novice at such business. then he stole noiselessly away, leaving the boy again alone in the darkness, and now there was no good bishop at hand to take him in. meantime, at home, nan was wondering why theo did not come in as usual to tell her what he had been doing at the night school, and to get tag, who always staid with her when theo was at the school. tag was troubled and uneasy too. when it was time for the boy to come tag sat watching the door, his ears alert for a footstep outside. now and then he whined, and finally he showed so plainly his desire to go out that nan opened the door, saying, "go find him, tag." she stood in her doorway listening, and heard the dog scamper up to theo's door. there he listened and nosed about for a moment, then down he came again, and with a short, anxious bark, dashed down the stairs to the street. nan waited a long time but the dog did not return, and at last she put out her light and went to bed with a troubled heart. but tag could not sleep. he seemed to know that there was something wrong and something for him to attend to. he raced first to his master's stand, then to the mission school and to the night school, and finding all these places now dark and silent, he pattered through the streets, his nose close to the ground, his anxious, loving eyes watching everything that moved. so at last he came to that dark heap in the dark alley, and first he was wild with joy, but when his frantic delight failed to awaken his master and make him come away home, tag was sure that something was very wrong indeed and he began to run backward and forward between the motionless body and the corner, until he attracted the attention of a policeman who followed him around into the dark alley, and in a few minutes theodore was on his way to the emergency hospital with tag following after the ambulance at the top of his speed. but once again tag found himself rudely repulsed when he tried to slip in after his master. this time he felt that he really could not bear it, and so he stood on the hospital steps and lifting up his voice howled his protest until somebody came and drove him away. but he couldn't stay away, so he crawled into a dark corner up against the wall, and curling himself into the smallest possible space, lay there watchful and wretched until morning, when, after eyeing wistfully those who came out and went in past him, he trotted slowly home to nan, and did his poor best to tell her what had happened and where theo was. nan had passed an anxious night, for she was sure that there was something wrong, and since theo's return from the bishop's, he had been so changed, that she had grown very fond of him. being a year or two his senior, she felt a kind of elder sisterly responsibility in regard to him, knowing as she did, that he was even more alone in the world than she, for she had little brother, and theo had nobody at all. so she was at mrs. hunt's door, talking the matter over with her, when tag, with drooping head and tail, came slowly up the stairs. he wagged his tail faintly at sight of nan, and rubbed his head affectionately against her, and then stood looking up at her, as if waiting to be questioned. "he's been gone all night," nan was saying to mrs. hunt, and referring to the dog, "but i don't believe he found theo. he doesn't act as if he had. oh, mrs. hunt, where _do_ you suppose he is?" mrs. hunt shook her head. "the dear knows," she said, "but something must 'a' happened to him, sure. he's been steady as clockwork since ever he took that room upstairs, i'll say that for him." she sighed as she spoke, thinking of her dick. "but what can i do, mrs. hunt?" cried nan, her eyes full of tears. "it seems dreadful to keep right on, just as if he were here, as usual. isn't there any way to find out where he is?" "look here, nan," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "do you know where his teacher--that mr. scott--lives?" "yes." "well, why don't you send word to him? he seems to think a lot of tode an' dick. i guess he does of all his scholars. he would know what to do, an' where to look for the boy--don't you think so?" nan's face had brightened as her friend spoke. "i'm sure that's a good idea," she replied. "he's always been so nice and kind to theo. i most know he'll help find him." "that's right now, child, stop fretting, for i'll warrant he'll set things straight in no time. i'll let dick or jimmy go around to mr. scott's as soon as they've had their breakfast." relieved by this promise, and trying hard to be hopeful and not to worry, nan ran back to her room, while mrs. hunt called the boys. dick pretended to be very sound asleep, and it required more than one call and shake to arouse him, but in reality, he too had passed a most miserable night, and he had listened, with heart beating fast and hard, to his mother's colloquy with nan; and as he listened, ever before his mind's eye was that dark, motionless heap on the ground. in imagination, he saw theo's dead body on a slab in the morgue, and himself in a prison cell, condemned for murder. dick's worst enemy could not have wished him to be any more wretched than he was in that hour, as he cowered in his bed, and strained his ears to catch every word that was uttered. but when his mother shook him, he rubbed his eyes, and pretended to be still half asleep, and flatly refused to go to mr. scott's. "let jim go, 'f anybody's got to," he growled, as he began to pull on his clothes. "here you, jim, turn out lively now!" he added, yanking the bedclothes off his brother to emphasise his words. "he's always a-puttin' off on me--dick is," snarled jim, as he joined his mother in the other room a few minutes later, but when he learned why he was to go to mr. scott's he made no further objections, but swallowed his breakfast hastily, and went off on the run. jim did not share his brother's enmity toward the missing boy. jim liked theo. he liked nan too, and was always ready to do an errand for her, if she wanted him. mr. scott was just sitting down to breakfast when jim appeared, and he left his coffee to cool while he listened with keen interest to what the boy had to tell him. his face was very grave as he said, "tell miss nan that i will be around there within an hour. see here, though, jim,--have you had your breakfast?" "ye--yes, sir," jim answered, with a quick glance at the hot cakes and chops that had such an appetising odour. jim didn't have chops and hot cakes for breakfast. "aunt mary, can you put another plate here for jim?" mr. scott asked, and his aunt, with a smile, set another chair at the table, and piled a plate with eatables, of which the boy disposed as easily and speedily as if that had been his first meal that day. mr. scott likewise made a hasty breakfast, and then he sent jim back to nan, while he himself went to his place of business to arrange for his absence that morning. within the hour, as he had said, he knocked at nan's door. she welcomed him with a feeling of glad relief, assured that at least he would be able to find out where theo was. he waited only to get what little information she could give him, and then set forth, but before he had reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs, nan ran after him. "mr. scott," she called. "wouldn't it be a good plan to take tag--theo's dog--with you?" mr. scott thought it would, but now an unexpected obstacle was encountered. tag refused to go with him. he crept under nan's dress, and crouched there, looking quietly out at the gentleman, but making no movement toward him, though he called and whistled as persuasively as he could. "oh, tag, do go," pleaded nan, almost ready to cry at the dog's unexpected obstinacy. tag twisted his head and looked up at her, and it almost seemed as if he were moved by her pleading tone, for, after a moment's hesitation, he crept slowly out from his refuge, and followed mr. scott down the stairs. once outside the house he stopped and gazed with keen, questioning eyes at the gentleman, standing, meanwhile, ready to dart off, should any attempt be made to capture him, but mr. scott stopped too, and said quietly, "go find him, tag. find theo." that was enough for the intelligent little creature. with a quick, sharp yelp of satisfaction, tag set off at such a pace that mr. scott had hard work to keep him in sight. in fact, as soon as they turned into a thronged business street, he lost sight of his four-footed guide entirely, but the direction tag had taken was a sufficient clue. the young man was so certain that the emergency hospital was the place to which the dog was leading him, that he boarded a car and went directly there, and sure enough on the steps sat tag, his short ears erect, and his eager eyes watching impatiently for a chance to slip inside the doors. he seemed to know that his chance had come when he saw mr. scott running up the steps, for he frisked about and showed his delight in every conceivable fashion. dogs were not allowed in the hospital, but when mr. scott picked tag up in his arms and promised to keep him there, the attendant finally consented that he should do so. and so they went first to the waiting-room and then up the stairs and through the long corridors. x. a bitter disappointment theodore was still unconscious when he was lifted into the ambulance the night before, but on the way to the hospital he opened his eyes, wondering much to find himself flat on his back and being driven rapidly through the streets. in a few minutes he remembered what had happened, and guessed that he must have been stunned by a blow or a fall. as he reached this conclusion, the vehicle stopped, and he was lifted out and carried into the hospital in spite of his protests. he had a dread of entering a hospital as a patient, and he wanted to go home. but the doctors would not allow him to go home. they told him that if he would be quiet and do as they said, he would probably be able to go home the next morning, and with this promise he was obliged to be content, and allow himself to be undressed and put to bed. he was badly bruised and his right shoulder was very lame, but there was no serious injury, and it seemed to the boy very trying to be compelled to spend the night where he was. he did not sleep much, partly because of his strange surroundings, and partly because of his aching head and shoulder, and as he lay there in the dimly-lighted ward, his thoughts were busy. a hot anger burned in his heart as he recalled the cowardly attack in the dark alley. he saw that it had been deliberately planned by dick hunt, and that the four boys must have followed him from the corner where he saw them. "i'll pay that dick hunt for this," he muttered under his breath, "an' carrots, too. i know the chap that hit so hard was carrots. i'll make 'em suffer for it!" he lay there, his eyes flashing and his cheeks burning, as he thought over various schemes of vengeance. then suddenly he thought of mr. scott, and that brought something else to his remembrance. he seemed to see his teacher holding out his little bible and making him--theodore--read aloud those two verses: "dearly beloved avenge not yourselves." and "recompense to no man evil for evil." as he repeated these words to himself, the fire died slowly out of the boy's eyes and the angry colour faded from his cheeks. he turned restlessly in his bed and tried to banish these thoughts and bring back his schemes of vengeance, but he could not do it. he knew what was the right--what he ought to do--but he was not willing to do it. hour after hour he argued the matter with himself, finding all sorts of reasons why, in this case, he might take vengeance into his own hands and "learn that dick hunt a lesson," yet feeling and knowing in the depths of his heart that whatever the old tode bryan might have done, theodore bryan, who was trying to be the bishop's shadow, certainly had no right to do evil to somebody else simply because that somebody had done evil to him. it was nearly morning before the long battle with himself was over, but it ended at last, and it was theodore, and not tode who was victorious, and it was the memory of the bishop's face, and of the bishop's prayer that day in the poorhouse, that finally settled the matter. "he'd fight for somebody else, the bishop would, but he wouldn't ever fight for himself, an' i mustn't neither," the boy murmured, softly, and then with a long breath he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep, and he had but just awakened from that sleep when mr. scott, with tag under his arm, came through the long corridor to the ward where theodore was lying in the very last cot, next the wall. mr. scott had promised not to let the dog out of his arms, but if he had been better acquainted with tag he would never have made such a rash promise. as the gentleman followed the nurse into the ward, the dog's eyes flashed a swift glance over the long line of cots, and the next instant something dark went flying down the room and up on to that last cot in the row, and there was tag licking his master's face and hands, and wagging his tail, and barking like mad. "dear me!" exclaimed the nurse, running toward the corner. "this will never do. he'll drive the patients into fits! why didn't you keep hold of him?" she threw the question back in a reproachful tone to mr. scott. he laughed a little as he answered, "if you will try to pick him up now and hold him, you will understand why." even as he spoke, the nurse was making an attempt to capture and silence the noisy little fellow. she might as well have tried to pick up a ball of quicksilver. tag slipped through her fingers like an eel, scurrying from one end of the cot to the other, and barking excitedly all the time. "can't you stop him, theodore?" exclaimed mr. scott, as he reached the corner where the boy lay. "here, tag, lie down and be still," cried the boy, and with one last defiant yap at the nurse, tag nosed aside the bedclothes and snuggled down beside his master with a sigh of glad content. "well, if ever i let a dog into _my_ ward again!" exclaimed the nurse, in a tone of stern determination. "i'm sorry he made such a noise, ma'am. it was only because he was so glad to find me," said theodore, quickly. the nurse turned away in offended silence, and mr. scott sat down by the bed and began to talk with the boy. he listened with a grave face to theo's story. when it was ended, he asked, "did you recognise either of the boys?" "yes, sir; one, certainly, and i think i know one of the others." "well?" said the teacher, inquiringly. theodore hesitated a moment, then answered in a low tone, "you 'member them verses you showed me that first sunday, mr. scott?" the gentleman smiled down into the sober, boyish face. "i remember," he replied, "but, theo, this is a grave matter. to beat a boy until he is unconscious, and then leave him to live or die, is a crime. such boys ought not to be shielded." "mr. scott, i had an awful time over that last night," answered the boy, earnestly. "i wanted to pay them fellers for this job--you better b'lieve i did, but," he shook his head slowly, "i can't do it. you see, sir, i ain't tode no more--i'm theodore, now." there was a look on the homely, boyish face that forbade further discussion of the matter, and, after a moment's silence, mr. scott said in a different tone, "well, my boy, when are you going home? nan and the baby want to see you." theo glanced impatiently about the long room. "she said i'd got to stay in bed till the doctor had seen me," he replied, "'n the doctor'll be here 'bout nine o'clock." "she" was the nurse. "it's nearly nine now. i'll wait until the doctor comes, then," mr. scott said. the doctor pronounced the boy quite fit to leave the hospital, and his clothes being brought to him, the curtains were drawn around his cot and he dressed himself hastily. but as he pushed aside the curtains, mr. scott saw a troubled look on his face, and asked: "what's the matter, theodore?" without answering the boy crossed the room to the nurse. "where's the money that was in my pocket?" he asked, anxiously. the nurse looked at him sharply. "if there was any money in your pockets when you were brought here it would be in them now," she answered, shortly. "you can go to the office and ask any questions you like." theodore turned toward his teacher a very sorrowful face. "i've been robbed, too," he said. "oh, i'm sorry, theodore. how much have you lost?" "five dollars. she says to ask at the office, but 'twon't do no good, i s'pose." "no, nothing would have been taken from your pockets here, but we will stop at the office and see if we can learn anything," mr. scott said. tag had kept close to his master's heels, and now at his teacher's suggestion theodore picked up the dog, who went forth quietly enough in that fashion. inquiries at the office convinced the boy that he had been robbed before he was brought there, and naturally enough he came to the conclusion that his money had gone into the pockets of dick hunt and his companions. at the door of the tenement house mr. scott left theo, who hurried eagerly up the stairs. on the landing he met jimmy hunt, who called out: "hi--o, tode, where ye been all night? say, what was the matter? did mr. scott find ye?" "yes," was theo's only response, as he pushed open nan's door, to be greeted with such a warm welcome that he hardly knew what to say and had to hide his embarrassment by poking the baby's ribs to make him laugh. jimmy hunt had followed him into the room and listened with open mouth as well as ears to the brief story that the boy told in reply to nan's questions. "oh, 'twasn't much. i got knocked down an' carried to the hospital, an' they wouldn't let me come away till morning--that's all." "an' wasn't ye hurt?" cried jimmy, in a disappointed tone. it seemed to him altogether too tame an affair if nobody was hurt. "my shoulder's sprained, an' my head was hurt a little," theo answered. "say, jim, where's dick?" "i d'know. out somewheres," replied dick's brother, indifferently. "why ain't you in school, jimmy?" was theo's next question. "well, i like that!" exclaimed jimmy, in a tone of deep disgust. "ain't i been a-racin' all over town for you this mornin', a-gettin' mr. scott to hunt ye up, an' goin' ter see 'f your stand's open, an' carryin' things 'round fer nan, too? how could i do all that an' be in school, i'd like to know?" "'deed, you couldn't, jimmy," replied nan, soothingly. "i don't know what i should have done this morning without him, theo. he was my right hand man." jimmy coloured with satisfaction at this high praise, and his delight was complete when theodore added, "that so? well now, jimmy boy, i ain't goin' to forget this." "huh! twarn't nothin'. i liked to do it," replied jimmy, and then overcome by a sudden and unaccountable fit of bashfulness he ran hastily out of the room. then theodore told nan the details of his adventure, but not even to her would he tell the name of his enemy, and nan did not guess, for she would never have imagined that mrs. hunt's dick could have served theo so. dick had gone out as usual after breakfast and did not come home even to get his supper, but of late his habits had been so irregular that nothing was said at home about his absence. after supper jimmy was sent out on an errand and dick met him and questioned him in regard to theo's return, and what he had to say. jimmy waxed indignant over the story which he filled in from his own imagination with many vivid details. "some fellers pitched into him an' knocked him down an' beat him an' left him for dead an' they took him t' the hospital an' kep' him there all night. guess them fellers'll suffer for it! they robbed him, too. took five dollars out o' his pockets." "they didn't neither!" exclaimed dick, hastily, thrown off his guard by this unexpected statement. "come now, dick hunt, mebbe you know more'n i do about it," retorted jimmy, with withering sarcasm, little suspecting how much more his brother _did_ know. "mebbe you heard what nan said to ma 'bout it." "no, no! 'course i d'know nothin' 'bout it. how would i know?" replied dick, quickly and uneasily. "say, jimmy, is he--is tode goin' to have them fellers took up?" "'spect he is--i would," answered jimmy; then remembering his errand, he ran off, leaving dick looking after him with a haggard, miserable face. "robbed," dick said to himself, as he walked moodily and aimlessly on. "we didn't do that anyhow. somebody must 'a' gone through his pockets after we cleared out. nice box i'm in now!" dick did not go home at all that night. he was afraid that he might be arrested if he did. "he knows 'twas me did it, an' he's keepin' dark 'bout it till they can nab me," he thought. he hunted up the three boys who had been so ready to help him the night before, but he found them now firmly banded together against him. moreover, they had spread such reports of him among their companions, that dick found himself shunned by them all. he dared not go home, so he wandered about the streets, eating in out-of-the-way places, and sleeping where he could. one day carrots told him that tode bryan was huntin' everywhere for him. then dick, in desperation, made up his mind to go to sea--he could stand the strain no longer. he dared not go home, even to bid his mother goodbye. dick was selfish and cruel, but he had even yet a little lingering tenderness for his mother. it was not enough to make him behave himself and do what he knew would please her, but it did make him wish that he could see her just for a moment before going away. it was enough to make him creep cautiously to the house after dark, and stand in the shadow, looking up at her window, while he pictured to himself the neat, pleasant room, where at that hour, she would be preparing supper. while he stood there, theo came out of the house, with tag, as usual, at his heels. tag ran over to the dark corner and investigated dick, but cautiously, for there was no friendship between him and this member of the hunt family. dick stood silent and motionless afraid that the dog might bark and draw theo over there, but he stood ready for flight until theo whistled and tag ran back to him, and presently followed him off in another direction. then, with a breath of relief, dick stole off into the darkness, and the next day he left the city on a vessel bound for south america, rejoicing that at last he was beyond reach of tode bryan. dick was not mistaken in thinking that theo had been searching for him, but he was greatly mistaken as to the boy's purpose in it. theodore was entirely ready now to obey that command that mr. scott had shown him and to do his best to "overcome evil with good." he took it for granted that dick and the others had robbed as well as beaten him, but all the same, he felt that he was bound to forget all that and find some way to show them a kindness. but though theo was always on the lookout for him, dick managed to keep out of his sight while he remained in the city. after dick had sailed, some boy told jimmy where his brother had gone, and so at last the news reached theodore. since his return from the bishop's, theo had had few idle moments, but after losing the five dollars he worked early and late to make up the loss. he grew more silent and thoughtful, and when alone his thoughts dwelt almost continually on that happy day when he should look once more into the bishop's kind face. "i'll tell him all about it," he would say to himself, "how i saw that mrs. russell drop the pocketbook, an' how i slipped under the wagon an' snatched it up out o' the mud, an' used the money. i'll tell it all, an' ev'rything else bad that i can 'member, so he'll know jest what a bad lot i've been, an' then i'll tell him how sorry i am, an' how i'm a-huntin' ev'rywhere for that jack finney, an' how i'll keep a-huntin' till i find him." all this and much more theodore planned to tell the bishop, and, as he thought about it, it seemed as if he could not wait another hour, so intense was his longing to look once more into that face that was like no other earthly face to him, to listen again to the voice that thrilled his heart, and hear it say, "my boy, i forgive you." many a time he dreamt of this and started up from sleep with those words ringing in his ears, "my boy, i forgive you," and then finding himself alone in his dark, dismal little room, he would bury his wet cheeks in the pillow and try to stifle the longing in his lonely, boyish heart. even nan, who knew him better than did any one else, never guessed how his heart hungered to hear those words from the lips of the bishop. but little by little--in nickels and dimes and quarters--theodore laid by another five dollars. he knew to a penny how much there was, but when he brought the last dime, he and nan counted it all to make sure. there was no mistake. it amounted to thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents, and the boy drew a long, glad breath as he looked up at nan with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, saying, "to-morrow, nan, i can see--_him!_" "don't look so--so awfully glad, theo. i'm afraid something will happen," said nan, with a troubled expression in her eyes as she looked at him. "don't you worry. i ain't a-goin' to be robbed again--you better believe i ain't!" cried the boy. then he glanced at his worn suit and tried to pull down his jacket sleeves, as he added, wistfully, "d'you think i look well enough to go there, nan? i wanted to buy a collar an' necktie, but, i just _couldn't_ wait any longer." nan's private opinion was, that if the bishop could only see theo's face at that moment, the garments he wore would be a matter of small importance. she answered, quickly, "you look plenty well enough, theo. don't worry about that." she gathered up the money and put it back into the box in which it had been kept, and the boy went across the room to the bed where the baby lay asleep. "seems to me he looks kind o' peaked--don't he, nan?" he remarked, uneasily. nan cast an anxious glance at the little, thin face, and shook her head. "he doesn't get strong as i hoped he would," she answered, sadly. "oh well, he will, when it comes warmer, so he can get out doors oftener," the boy said, as he went away to his room. he hurried through his work the next day, closing his stand at the earliest possible moment, and rushing home to get ready for his visit. he always, now, kept his face and hands scrupulously clean. his hair might have been in better condition if he had had money to buy a comb or a brush, but those were among the luxuries that he felt he must deny himself until he had made all the restitution in his power. to-day, however, when he went to nan's room for his money, she offered him the use of her comb, and helped him reduce his rough, thick hair to some kind of order. even then he looked at himself somewhat doubtfully. his suit was so shabby in spite of nan's careful mending, and his shoes were worse than his suit, but they were polished to the last degree. he had exchanged a sandwich and two doughnuts for that "shine." "you look well enough, theo," nan said, "plenty well enough. now go on, and oh, i do _hope_ it will be all right." "i know 'twill," cried the boy, joyously, as he tucked the money carefully into an inside pocket. "oh, nan!" he looked at her with such a happy face that her own beamed a bright response. then he ran off and nan stood in the doorway watching him as he went down the stairs, closely followed by his inseparable companion, tag. "the dear boy! he is fairly pale," said nan, to herself, as she turned back into her room. "it is strange how he loves that bishop--and what a different boy he is, too, since he came home. i don't see how the bishop can help loving him. oh, i do hope nothing will happen to spoil his visit. he has looked forward to it so long." the boy felt as if he were walking on air as he went rapidly through the crowded streets, seeing nothing about him, so completely were his thoughts occupied with the happiness before him. as he got farther up town the crowd lessened, and when he turned into the street on which the bishop lived, the passers-by were few. at last he could see the house. in a few minutes he would reach it. then his joyous anticipations suddenly vanished and he began to be troubled. what if brown wouldn't let him in, he thought, or--what if the bishop should refuse to see him or to listen to his story? as these thoughts came to him his eager pace slackened and for a moment he was tempted to turn back. only for a moment, however. he _knew_ that the bishop would not refuse to see him, and as for brown, if brown refused to admit him, he would go to the servants' door and ask for mrs. martin. so thinking, he pushed open the iron gate and went slowly up the walk. "stay here, tag. lie down, sir!" he ordered, and the dog obediently dropped down on the steps, keeping his bright eyes fastened on his master, as the boy rang the bell. theo could almost hear his heart beat as he waited. suddenly the door swung open and there was brown gazing severely at him. "well--what do _you_ want?" questioned the man, brusquely. "i want--don't you know me, brown? i want to see--mrs. martin." the boy's voice was thick and husky, and somehow he could not utter the bishop's name to brown standing there with that cold frown on his face. "oh--you want to see mrs. martin, do you? well, i think you've got cheek to come here at all after leaving the way you did," brown growled. he held the door so that the boy could not enter, and seemed more than half inclined to shut it in his face. "oh, please, brown, _do_ let me in," pleaded the boy, with such a heart-broken tone in his voice, that brown relented--he wasn't half so gruff as he pretended to be--and answered, grudgingly, "well, come in, if you must, an' i'll find out if mrs. martin will see you." with a sudden gleam of joy in his eyes, theodore slipped in. "come along!" brown called over his shoulder, and the boy followed to the housekeeper's sitting-room. the door of the room stood open, and mrs. martin sat by the window with a newspaper in her hand. she glanced up over her spectacles as brown's tall figure appeared at the door. "mrs. martin, this boy says he wants to see you," he announced, and then sauntered indifferently away to his own quarters. mrs. martin took off her glasses as she called, "come in, boy, and tell me what you want." theo walked slowly toward her hoping that she would recognise him, but she did not. indeed it was a wonder that brown had recognised him, so different was his appearance in his rough worn clothes, from that of the handsomely dressed lad, whose sudden departure had so grieved the kindhearted housekeeper. "don't you know me, mrs. martin?" the boy faltered, sorrowfully, as he paused beside her chair. "no, i'm sure i--why! you don't mean to say that you are our deaf and dumb boy!" exclaimed the good woman, as she peered earnestly into the grey eyes looking down so wistfully into hers. "yes, i'm the bad boy you were so good to, but i've been keepin' straight ever since i was here, mrs. martin," he answered, earnestly. "i have, truly." "bless your dear heart, child," cried the good woman, springing up hastily and seizing the boy's hands. "i'm sure you have. i guess _i_ know a bad face when i see one, and it don't look like yours. sit down, dear, and tell me all about it." in the fewest possible words theo told his story, making no attempt to excuse anything. the housekeeper listened with keen interest, asking a question now and then, and reading in his face the confirmation of all he said. he did not say very much about the bishop, but the few words that he did say and the look in his eyes as he said them, showed her what a hold upon the boy's heart her master had so unconsciously gained, and her own interest in the friendless lad grew deeper. when his story was told, she wiped her eyes as she said, slowly, "and to think that you've been working all these weeks to save up that money! well, well, how glad the dear bishop will be! he's said all the time that you were a good boy." "oh, has he?" cried theo, his face all alight with sudden joy. "i was afraid he'd think i was all bad when he found out how i'd cheated him." "no, no!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "he was grieved over your going off so, and he has tried his best to find you, but you see he didn't know where to look for you." "did he try to find me, mrs. martin? oh, i'm so glad! and can i see him now, please?" the boy's voice trembled with eagerness as he spoke. the housekeeper's kind face was full of pity and sympathy as she exclaimed, "why, my boy, didn't you know? the bishop is in california. he went a week ago to stay three months." all the glad brightness faded from the boy's face as he heard this. he did not speak, but he turned aside, and brushed his sleeve hastily across his eyes. mrs. martin laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "i'm so sorry," she said, "and he will be too, when he knows of your coming. i will write him all about it." still the boy stood silent. it seemed to him that he could not bear it. it had not once occurred to him that the bishop might be away, and now there was no possibility of seeing him for three long months. it seemed an eternity to the boy. and to think that he was there--at home--a week ago! "if they hadn't stole that five dollars from me, i might 'a' seen him last week," the boy said to himself, bitter thoughts of dick hunt rising in his heart. at last he turned again to the housekeeper and at the change in his face her eyes filled with quick tears. he took from his pocket the little roll of money and held it out, saying in a low unsteady voice, "you send it to him--an' tell him--won't you?" "i'll write him all about it," the housekeeper repeated, "and don't you be discouraged, dear. he'll want to see you just as soon as he gets home, i know he will. tell me where you live, so i can send you word when he comes." in a dull, listless voice the boy gave the street and number, and she wrote the address on a slip of paper. "remember, theodore, i shall write the bishop all you have told me, and how you are trying to find the finney boy and to help others just as he does," said the good woman, knowing instinctively that this would comfort the boy in his bitter disappointment. he brightened a little at her words but he only said, briefly, "yes--tell him that," and then he went sorrowfully away. mrs. martin stood at the window and looked after him as he went slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, while tag, well aware that something was wrong, trotted beside him with drooping ears and tail. "tell me that that's a bad boy!" the good woman said to herself. "i know better! i don't care what that mr. gibson said. i never took much stock in mr. gibson myself, anyhow. he always had something to say against anybody that the bishop took an interest in. there--i wish i'd told theodore that he was here only as a substitute, and had to leave when the regular secretary was well enough to come back. i declare my heart aches when i think of that poor little fellow's face when i told him that the bishop was gone. ah well, this is a world of disappointment!" and with a sigh she turned away from the window. nan sat in a rocking-chair with little brother in her arms, when theodore opened her door. "oh theo--what is it? what is the matter?" she cried, as she saw his face. he dropped wearily into a seat and told her in a few words the result of his visit. "oh, i am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "and it seems so hard to think that you would have seen the bishop if you hadn't lost that five dollars!" the boy sighed, but made no reply. he could not talk about it then, and presently he got up and went out. xi. theo's new business theodore went slowly down the stairs, but stopped on the outside steps and stood there with his hands in his pockets looking listlessly up and down the street. there was another big tenement house opposite, and on its steps sat a girl of ten or eleven with a baby in her lap. the baby kept up a low wailing cry, but the girl paid no attention to it. she sat with her head leaning against the house, and seemed to notice nothing about her. theodore glanced at her indifferently. his thoughts were still dwelling on his great disappointment--the sorrowful ending of the hopes and longings of so many weeks. it seemed to him that he had now nothing to which to look forward; nothing that was worth working for. then suddenly there flashed into his mind the words he had heard the bishop speak to a man who came to him one day in great sorrow. "my life is spoiled," the man had said. "all my hopes and plans are destroyed. what shall i do?" and the bishop had answered, "my son, you must forget yourself, and your broken hopes and plans, and think of others. do something for somebody else--and keep on doing." "that's what he would say to me, i s'pose," thought the boy. "i wonder what i can do. there's tommy o'brien, i 'spect he'd be glad 'nough to see most anybody." he turned and went slowly and reluctantly back up the stairs. he didn't want to see tommy o'brien. he didn't want to see anybody just then, but still he went on to tommy's door. as he approached it, he heard loud, angry voices mingled with the crying of a baby. he knocked, but the noise within continued, and after a moment's pause he pushed open the door and went in. the three women who lived in the room were all standing with red, angry faces, each trying to outscold the others. three or four little children, with frightened eyes, were huddled together in one corner, while a baby cried unheeded on the floor, its mother being too much occupied with the quarrel to pay any attention to her child. the women glanced indifferently at theodore as he entered, and kept on with their loud talk. theo crossed over to tommy's cot. the sick boy had pulled his pillow over his head and was pressing it close to his ears to shut out the racket. "le'me 'lone!" he exclaimed, as theodore tried to lift the pillow. his face was drawn with pain and there were dark hollows beneath his heavy eyes. such a weary, suffering face it was that a great flood of pity surged over theodore's heart at sight of it. then tommy opened his eyes and as he saw who had pulled aside his pillow a faint smile crept around his pale lips. "oh!" he cried. "it's you. i thought 'twas some o' them a-pullin' off my piller. can't you make 'em stop, tode? they've been a-fightin' off an' on all day." he glanced at the noisy women as he spoke. "what's the row about?" asked theo. "'cause mis' carey said mis' green's baby was cross-eyed. mis' green got so mad at that that she's been scoldin' 'bout it ever since an' leavin' the baby to yell there by itself on the floor--poor little beggar! seem's if my head'll split open with all the noise," sighed tommy, wearily, then he brightened up as he inquired, "what d' you come for, tode?" "just to talk to you a little," replied theo. "s'pose you get awful tired layin' here all the time, don't ye, tommy?" the unexpected sympathy in the voice and look touched the lonely heart of the little cripple. his eyes filled with tears, and he reached up one skinny little hand and laid it on the rough, strong one of his visitor as he answered, "oh, you don't know--you don't know anything about it, tode. i don't b'lieve dyin' can be half so bad's livin' this way. she wishes i'd die. she's said so lots o' times," he nodded toward his aunt, who was one of the women in the room, "an' i wish so too, 'f i've got to be this way always." "ain't ye never had no doctor, tommy?" asked theo, with a quick catch in his breath as he realised dimly what it would be to have such a life to look forward to. "no--she says she ain't got no money for doctors," replied the boy, soberly. "i'll"--began theodore, then wisely concluding to raise no hopes that might not be realised, he changed his sentence to, "i'll find out if there's a doctor that will come for nothin'. i believe there is one. can ye read, tommy?" the sick boy shook his head. "how could i?" he answered. "ain't nobody ter show me nothin'." "wonder 'f i couldn't," said theo, thoughtfully. "i c'n tell ye the letters anyhow, an' that'll be better'n nothin'." a bit of torn newspaper lay on the floor beside the bed. he picked it up and pointed out a, o and s, to tommy. by the time the little cripple had thoroughly mastered those three letters so that he could pick them out every time, the women had given up their quarrel. mrs. green had taken up her baby and was feeding it, and the other women, with sullen faces, had resumed their neglected duties. "oh dear! must you go?" tommy exclaimed as theo got off the cot on which he had been sitting. "but you was real good to come, anyhow. when'll ye come again an' tell me some more letters?" "i'll show ye one ev'ry day if i can get time. then in three weeks you'll know all the big ones an' some o' the little ones that are just like the big ones. now don't ye forget them three." "you bet i won't. i shall say 'em a hundred times 'fore to-morrow," rejoined the little fellow, and his eyes followed his new friend eagerly until the door closed behind him. as for theodore himself, half the weight seemed to have been lifted from his own heart as he went down the stairs again. "i'll run outside a minute 'fore i go to supper," he said to himself. "the air was awful thick in that room. reckon that's one thing makes tommy feel so bad." he walked briskly around two or three squares, and as he came back to the house he noticed that the girl and the baby still sat where he had seen them an hour before. the baby's cry had ceased, but it began again as theo was passing the two. he stopped and looked at them. the girl's eyes rested on his face with a dull, indifferent glance. "what makes it cry? is it sick?" the boy asked, nodding toward the baby. the girl shook her head. "what ails it then?" "starvin'." the girl uttered the word in a lifeless tone as if it were a matter of no interest to her. "where's yer mother?" pursued the boy. "dead." "an' yer father?" "drunk." "ain't there nobody to look out for ye?" again the girl shook her head. "ain't ye had anything to eat to-day?" "no." "what d'ye have yesterday?" "some crusts i found in the street. do go off an' le'me 'lone. we're most dead, an' i'm glad of it," moaned the girl, drearily. "you gi' me that baby an' come along. i'll get ye somethin' to eat," cried theo, and as the girl looked up at him half doubtfully and half joyfully, he seized the bundle of shawl and baby and hurried with it up to nan's room, the girl dragging herself slowly along behind him. nan cast a doubtful and half dismayed glance at the two strangers as theodore ushered them in, but the boy exclaimed, "they're half starved, nan. we _must_ give 'em somethin' to eat," and when she saw the baby's little pinched face she hesitated no longer, but quickly warmed some milk and fed it to the little one while the girl devoured the bread and milk and meat set before her with a ravenous haste that confirmed what she had said. then, refreshed by the food, she told her pitiful story, the old story of a father who spent his earnings in the saloon, leaving his motherless children to live or die as might be. nan's heart ached as she listened, and theodore's face was very grave. when the girl had gone away with the baby in her arms, theo said, earnestly, "nan, i've got to earn more money." "how can you?" nan asked. "you work so hard now, theo." "i must work harder, nan. i can't stand it to see folks starvin' an' not help 'em. i'll pay you for what these two had you know." nan looked at him reproachfully. "don't you think i want to help too?" she returned. "do you think i've forgotten that meal you gave little brother an' me?" "that was nothin'. anyhow you've done lots more for me than ever i did for you," the boy answered, earnestly, "but, nan, how _can_ rich folks keep their money for themselves when there are people--babies, nan--starvin' right here in this city?" "i suppose the rich folks don't know about them," replied the girl, thoughtfully, as she set the table for supper. "i've got to talk it over with mr. scott," theo said, as he drew his chair up to the table. "you talk everything over with mr. scott now, don't you, theo?" "'most everything. he's fine as silk, mr. scott is. he rings true every time, but he ain't"-- he left his sentence unfinished, but nan knew of whom he was thinking. the next afternoon theodore walked slowly through the business streets, with eyes and ears alert, for some opening of which he might take advantage to increase his income. past block after block he wandered till he was tired and discouraged. finally he sat down on some high stone steps to rest a bit, and while he sat there a coloured boy came out of the building. he had a tin box and some rags in his hands, and he began in an idle fashion to clean the brass railing to the steps. theodore fell into conversation with him, carelessly and indifferently at first, but after a little with a sudden, keen interest as the boy began to grumble about his work. "i ain't a-goin' ter clean these yer ol' railin's many more times," he said. "it's too much work. i c'n git a place easy where the' ain't no brasses to clean, an' i'm a-goin' ter, too. all the office boys hates ter clean brasses." "what do ye clean 'em with?" theodore inquired. the boy held out the tin box. "this stuff an' soft rags. say--you want ter try it?" he grinned as he spoke, but to his surprise his offer was accepted. "gi' me your rags," cried theo, and he proceeded to rub and polish energetically, until one side of the railings glittered like gold. "yer a gay ol' cleaner!" exclaimed the black boy, as he lolled in blissful idleness on the top step. "now go ahead with the other rail." but theodore threw down the rags. "not much," he answered. "i've done half your work an' you can do the other half." "oh, come now, finish up the job," remonstrated the other. "'tain't fair not to, for you've made that one shine so. i'll have ter put an extry polish on the other to match it." but theodore only laughed and walked off saying to himself, "rather think this'll work first-rate." he went straight to a store, and asked for "the stuff for shining up brass," and bought a box of it. then he wondered where he could get some clean rags. "per'aps mrs. hunt'll have some," he thought, "an' anyhow i want to see jim." so home he hastened as fast as his feet would carry him. good mrs. hunt was still a little cool to theodore, though she could see for herself how steady and industrious he was now, and how much he had improved in every way; but she had never gotten over her first impression of him, founded not only on his appearance and manners when she first knew him, but also on dick's evil reports in regard to him. now that dick himself had gone so far wrong, his mother went about with a heartache all the time, and found it hard sometimes to rejoice as she knew she ought to do in the vast change for the better in this other boy. "is jim here?" theodore asked when mrs. hunt opened the door in response to his knock. "yes--what's wanted, tode?" jimmy answered for himself before his mother could reply. "can you stay out o' school to-morrow?" theo questioned. "no, he can't, an' you needn't be temptin' him," broke in the mother, quickly. "oh, come now, ma, wait till ye hear what he wants," remonstrated jimmy, in whose eyes theo was just about right. "i wanted him to run my stand to-morrow," said theodore. "i've got somethin' else to 'tend to. there's plenty o' fellers that would like to run it for me, but ye see i can't trust 'em an' i _can_ trust jim every time." jimmy drew himself up proudly. "oh, ma, do let me stay out an' do it," he cried, eagerly. "it's friday, an' we don't have much to do fridays anyhow, in our school." "we-ell, i s'pose then you might stay out just this once," mrs. hunt said, slowly, being fully alive to the advantages to jimmy of such a friendly feeling on theo's part. she recognized theodore's business ability, and would have been only too glad to see her own boy develop something of the same kind. she was haunted with a dread that he might become idle and vicious as dick had done. "all right, then," theodore responded, promptly. "you be ready to go down with me at seven o'clock, jim, an' i'll see you started all right before i leave you. oh, mrs. hunt, there's one more thing i want. have you any clean old rags?" "for what?" "any kind o' soft white cotton stuff or old flannel will do," replied the boy, purposely leaving her question unanswered. "i'll pay you for 'em, of course, if you let me have 'em." "well, i guess i ain't so stingy as all that comes to," exclaimed mrs. hunt, sharply. "d'ye want 'em now?" "i'll come for 'em after supper," answered the boy, thinking that it was best to make sure of them, lest he be delayed for want of them in the morning. when later that evening, he knocked at her door, mrs. hunt had the pieces ready for him, and the next morning, jimmy was waiting in the hall when theo came from nan's room with his big basket, and the two boys went down the street carrying the basket between them. as soon as its contents had been arranged as attractively as possible on the clean white marbled oilcloth with which the stand was covered, and the coffee made and ready to serve, theo handed jimmy two dollars in dimes, nickels and pennies, to make change, and set off with the box of paste in his pocket, and the roll of rags under his arm. jimmy watched him out of sight, and then with a proud sense of responsibility awaited the appearance of his customers. theodore walked rapidly on till he reached the business streets where most of the handsome stores and offices were. then he slackened his pace and went on slowly, glancing keenly at each building until he came to one that had half a dozen brass signs on the front. "here's a good place to make a try," he said to himself, and going into the first office on the ground floor he asked as politely as he knew how, "can i shine up your brass signs for you?" there were several young men in the outer office. one of them answered carelessly, "yes indeed, shine 'em up, boy, and see 't you make a good job of it." "i will that, sir," responded theodore, blithely, and set to work with a will. there had been much wet weather and the signs were badly discoloured. it took hard, steady rubbing for nearly an hour to get them into good shining order, but theodore worked away vigourously until they gleamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. then he went again into the office. "i've finished 'em, sir," he said to the young man to whom he had spoken before, "an' i think i've made a good job of it. will you step out an' see what you think?" "not at all necessary. if you're satisfied, i am," replied the man, bending over his desk and writing rapidly. theodore waited in silence. the young man wrote on. finally he glanced up and remarked in a tone of surprise, "oh, you here yet? thought you'd finished your job." "i have done my part. i'm waitin' for you to do yours," replied the boy. "mine? what's my part, i'd like to know?" demanded the young man, sharply. "to pay me for my work." replied theo, promptly, but with a shadow falling on his face. "pay you? well, if this isn't cheeky! i didn't agree to pay you anything." "but you knew that i expected to be paid for my work," persisted the boy, the angry colour rising in his cheeks. "you expected--pshaw! young man, you've had a lesson that is well worth the time and labour you've expended," remarked the clerk in a tone of great dignity. "hereafter you will know better than to take anything for granted in business transactions. good-morning," and he turned his back on the boy and began to write again. theodore glanced around the room to see if there was any one on his side, but two of the other clerks were grinning at his discomfiture, and the others pretended not to know anything about the affair. he saw now that he had been foolish to undertake the work as he had done, but he realised that it would not help his case to make a fuss about it. all the same he was unwilling to submit without a protest. "next time i'll take care to make my bargain with a gentleman," he said, quietly. he saw a singular change in the expression of the clerk's face at these words, and as he turned sharply about to leave the office he almost ran into a tall, grey-haired man who had just entered. "stop a bit, my boy. i don't understand that remark of yours. what bargain are you going to make with a gentleman?" the tone of authority, together with the disturbed face of one clerk and the quite evident amusement of the others, suddenly enlightened theodore. he knew instinctively that this man was master here and in a few quick sentences he told what had happened. the gentleman listened in silence, but his keen, dark eyes took note of the flushed face of one clerk and the amused smiles of his companions. "is this boy's story true, mr. hammond?" he asked, sternly. mr. hammond could not deny it "it was only a joke, sir," he said, uneasily. "a joke, was it?" responded his employer. "i am not fond of such jokes." then he turned again to the boy and inquired, "how much is due you for cleaning the signs?" "i don't know. i'm just starting in in this business, an' i'm not sure what i ought to charge. can you tell me, sir?" the gentleman smiled down into the young face lifted so frankly to his. "why, no," he answered, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "i believe our janitor usually attends to the signs." "guess he don't attend to 'em very well, for they were awful dirty," remarked the boy. "took 'me 'most an hour to shine 'em up. did you notice 'em, sir, as you came in?" "no, i did not. i'll look at them now," and theodore followed the gentleman out to the steps. "well, you have made a good job of it, certainly," the gentleman said. "the signs haven't shone like that since they were first put there. quite a contrast to the others on the building. come back into the office a moment." he went back to mr. hammond's desk and again theodore followed. "mr. hammond," said the gentleman, quietly, "you are willing of course to pay for your joke. the boy has done his work extremely well. i think he ought to have half a dollar for it." with anything but a happy expression, mr. hammond drew from his pocket a half dollar and handed it to theodore, who said, not to the clerk, but to the gentleman, "thank you, sir," and left the office. but he did not leave the building. he went to the owner of every brass sign in or on the building and asked to be allowed to make every other sign look as well as those of t.s. harris, which he had just polished. now, t.s. harris was the owner of the building and the occupants of the other offices considered that it would be wise to follow his example in this matter, so the result was that theodore spent all the morning over the signs on that one building, and mr. harris having set the price, he received twenty-five cents for each sign. he was just putting a finishing rub on the last one when the janitor discovered what had been going on. he came at the boy in a great rage for he wanted no one to have anything to do with the care of the building except those whom he chose to hire. "you take your traps an' clear out o' this now, an' don't you ever dare to show your face here again," he shouted, angrily. "if i catch ye here again i'll kick ye down the stairs!" "p'raps mr. harris will have a word to say about that," replied theodore, coolly, for in one and another of the offices he had picked up enough to convince him that the word of mr. harris was law in that building. then he added, in a much more friendly tone, "now, look here, mister. you're too busy a man to be cleaning signs--'course you are. you've got to hire somebody t' do it an' the' won't anybody do it better or fer less money 'n i will. i'm a-goin' to make a reg'lar business of cleanin' brasses all 'round this neighbourhood, an' if you'll stan' by me an' help me fix it all right with the other bosses 'bout here--i'll see 't you don't lose anythin' by it." the janitor's fierce frown had slowly faded as the boy spoke. nothing pleased him so much as to be considered a person of influence, and had theodore been ever so shrewd he could have adopted no other line of argument that would so quickly and effectually have changed an enemy into a friend as did this that he hit upon merely by chance. the man stepped down to the sidewalk and looked up at the signs with a critical air. "wai'," he answered, slowly, "i ain't a-goin' to deny that you've done your work well--yes a sight better'n any of the lazy rascals i've been hiring, an' if you could be depended on now, i d'know but what i might's well give the work to you as to anybody else. of course, as you say, 'tain't my place to do servant's work like brass cleanin'." "of course not," assented theo, promptly. "but then," the man went on, "if i should speak for ye t' the janitors of the other buildings 'long here, 'n' get ye a big line o' custom, 'course i sh'ld have a right t' expect a--er--a sort o' commission on the profits, so to speak?" "oh!" replied theodore, rather blankly. "what _is_ a commission, anyhow?" the man explained. "and how much of a commission would you expect?" questioned the boy. the janitor made a mental calculation. here on this one building, the boy had cleaned seven signs. that made a dollar and seventy-five cents that he had earned in one morning. of course he would not often get so much out of one building, but the man saw that there were good possibilities in this line of work. "s'pose we say ten per cent.--ten cents out of every dollar?" he ventured, with a keen glance at the boy. "you mean ten per cent, on all the work that i get through you?" theo replied. "oh no--on _all_ the work of this sort that you do. that's no more'n fair since you'll owe your start to me." "not much! i owe my start to myself, an' i'll make no such bargain as that," answered theo, decidedly. "i'm willin' to give you ten per cent. on all that i get through you, but not a cent more. you see i'm bound to put this thing through whether you help me or not," he added, quietly. the janitor saw that he had been too grasping and hastened to modify his demands lest he lose his commissions altogether. "well, well," he said, soothingly, "we won't quarrel over a little difference like that. let it be as you say, ten per cent. on all the jobs i get for ye, an' there's the janitor of the laramie building on the steps this minute. come along with me an' i'll give ye a start over there--or, first--ain't there a little matter to attend to," he added, with an insinuating smile. "you'll settle your bills fast as they come due, of course, an' you've got a snug little sum out of my building here." "yes, but no thanks to you for that," replied theo, but as the man's face darkened again, he added, "but never mind, i'll give you the commission on this work since it's in your building," and he handed eighteen cents to the janitor, who slipped it into his pocket with an abstracted air as if unconscious of what he was doing. the result of the man's recommendation to his brother janitor was that theodore secured the promise of all the brass cleaning in the laramie building also, and that with one or two small jobs kept him busy until dark when he went home with a light heart and with the sum of three dollars and fourteen cents in his pocket. to be sure he had worked hard all day to earn it, but theodore never had been lazy and he was willing enough to work hard now. he carried home some oranges as a special treat that night, for now he took his supper regularly with nan who was glad to make a return in this fashion for the help he was continually giving her in carrying out her food supplies, as well as many other ways. as they arose from the supper-table, theodore said, "i'll go across an' see how jimmy got on to-day, at the stand," but even as he spoke there came a low knock at the door and there stood jimmy--no longer proud and happy as he had been in the morning, but with red eyes and a face full of trouble. "why, jimmy, what's the matter?" cried nan and theo, in one voice. "come in," added nan, kindly pulling him in and gently pushing him toward a chair. jimmy dropped into it with an appealing glance at theo. "i'm--i'm awful sorry, tode," he began. "but i--i couldn't help it, truly i couldn't." he rubbed his sleeve hastily across his eyes as he spoke. "but what is it, jimmy? i'm sure you did the best you could whatever is wrong, but do tell us what it is," exclaimed theodore, half laughing and half impatient at the uncertainty. "'twas that mean ol' carrots," began jimmy, indignantly. "i was sellin' things off in fine style, tode, an' carrots, he came along an' he said he wanted three san'wiches in a paper. i put 'em up fer him, an' then he asked fer six doughnuts an' some gingerbread, an' a cup o' coffee--an' he wanted 'em all in a paper." "not the coffee, jimmy," said nan, laughingly, as the boy stopped to take breath. "no, 'course not the coffee. he swallered that an' put in a extry spoonful o' sugar too, but he wanted all the rest o' the things in a paper bag, an' i did 'em up good for him, an' then he asked me to tie a string 'round 'em, an' i got down under the stand for a piece of string, an' when i found it, an' looked up--don't you think tode--that rascal was streakin' it down the street as fast's he could go, an' i couldn't leave the stand to run after him, an' 'course the' wasn't any p'lice 'round, an' so i had to let him go. i'm awful sorry, theo, but i couldn't help it." "'course you couldn't, jimmy. and is that all the trouble?" "yes, that's 'nough, ain't it?" answered jimmy, mournfully. "he got off with more'n forty cents worth o' stuff--the old pig! i'll fix him yet!" "well, don't worry any more over it, jimmy. losin' th' forty cents won't break me, i guess," said theo, kindly. jimmy brightened up a little, but the shadow again darkened his face as he said, anxiously, "i s'pose you won't never trust me to run the stand again?" "trust you, jimmy? well, i guess i will. no danger of _your_ trusting carrots again, i'm sure." "not if i know myself," responded jimmy, promptly, and theo went on, "i s'pose your mother wouldn't want you to stay out of school mornin's for a week or two?" jimmy looked at him with sparkling eyes. "do you mean"--he began, breathlessly, and then paused. "i mean that i may want you to run the stand for me all next week, as well as to-morrow," theo answered. "oh--ee! that's most too good to b'lieve," cried the little fellow. "say! i think you're--you're prime, tode. i must go an' tell ma," and he dashed out of the door, his face fairly beaming with delight. "it's worth while to make anybody so happy, isn't it, theo?" nan said, then she added, thoughtfully, "do you think the brass-cleaning will take all your time, so you can't be at the stand any more?" "just at first it will. maybe i shall fix it differently after a while," he answered. on his way to the business district the next morning, he stopped and bought a blank book and a pencil, and wherever he cleaned a sign or a railing that day, he tried to make a regular engagement to keep the brasses in good condition. if he secured a promise of the work by the month he made a reduction on his price, and every business man--or janitor who regularly engaged him, was asked to write his own name in the new blank book. not on the first page of the book, however. that the boy kept blank until about the time when mr. harris had come to his office the day before. at that hour, theodore was waiting near the office door, and there mr. harris found him as he came up the steps. "good-morning, sir," said theo, pulling off his cap with a smile lighting up his plain face. "good-morning," returned the gentleman. "have you found something else to polish up here to-day?" "no, sir, but i wanted to ask you if you would sign your name here in my book," the boy replied. mr. harris looked amused. "come into my office," he said, "and tell me what it is that you want." theodore followed him across the outer office to the private room beyond. the clerks cast curious glances after the two, and hammond scowled as he bent over his desk. "now let me see your book," said mr. harris, as the door of the office swung silently behind them. theo laid his rags and paste box on the carpet, and then put the blank book on the desk as he said, earnestly, "you see, sir, i'm trying to work up a reg'lar business, an' so i want the business men i work for to engage me by the month to take care of their brass work--an' i guess i did learn a lesson here yesterday, for to-day i've asked every gentleman who has engaged me to sign his name in this book--see?" he turned over the leaves and showed three names on the second page. "and you want my name there, too? but i haven't engaged you. i only gave you a job yesterday." "but your janitor has engaged me," answered theodore, quickly. "well, then, isn't it the janitor's name that you want?" "oh, no, sir," cried the boy, earnestly. "nobody knows the janitor, but i guess lots o' folks know you, an' your name would make others sign--don't you see?" mr. harris laughed. "i see that you seem to have a shrewd business head. you'll make a man one of these days if you keep on. and you want my name on this first page?" he added, dipping his pen into the inkstand. "yes, because you was my first friend in this business," replied theodore. mr. harris glanced at him with that amused twinkle in his eye, but he signed his name on the first page. then he said, "i wish you success in your undertaking, and here's a trifle for a send-off." he held out a silver dollar as he spoke, but theodore did not take it. "thank ye, sir," he said, gratefully; "you've been real good to me, but i can't take any money now, 'cept what i earn. i c'n earn all i need." "so?" replied mr. harris, "you're independent. well, i like that, but i'll keep this dollar for you, and if you ever get in a tight place you can come to me for it." "thank you, mr. harris," said the boy again. "i won't forget, but i hope i won't need it," and then he picked up his belongings and left the office. as he passed mr. hammond's desk, he said, "good-morning, sir," but the clerk pretended not to hear. all through the next week and for weeks after, theodore spent his time from nine to five o'clock, cleaning brasses and making contracts for the regular care of them, until he had secured as much work as he could attend to himself. meantime, jimmy hunt had taken entire charge of the stand and was doing well with it. theo gave him four-fifths of the profits and he was perfectly satisfied, and so was his mother, who found his earnings a welcome addition to the slim family income, and it was so near the end of the school term that she concluded it did not matter if jimmy did stay out the few remaining weeks. but busy as theodore was, he still found time to carry out what nan cooked for the people in the two houses, as well as to drop in on one and another of his many neighbours every evening--for by this time the night school had closed for the season. his saturday evenings were still spent at the flower stand, and now that blossoms were more plentiful, he received more and better ones in payment for his work, and his sunday morning visits to the different rooms were looked forward to all the week by many of those to whom he went, and hardly less so by himself, for the boy was learning by glad experience the wonderful joy that comes from giving happiness to others. when he saw how the flowers he carried to stuffy, dirty, crowded rooms, were kept and cherished and cared for even until they were withered and dead--he was sure that his little flower mission was a real blessing. before the hot weather came, tommy o'brien was carried away out of the noisy, crowded room to the hospital for incurables. theo had brought one of the dispensary doctors to see the boy, and through the doctor's efforts and those of mr. scott, tommy had been received into the hospital. he had never been so comfortable in his brief life as he was there, but at first he was lonely, and so theodore went once or twice a week to see him, and he never failed to save out some flowers to carry to tommy on sunday. but, however full theodore's time might be, and however busy his hands, he never forgot the search for jack finney. his eyes were always watching for a blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy of sixteen, and he made inquiries for him everywhere. three times he heard of a boy named finney, and sought him out only to be disappointed, for the first jack finney he found was a little chap of ten or eleven, and the next was a boy of sixteen, but with hair and eyes as black as a jew's--and besides, it turned out that his name wasn't finney at all, but findlay; and the third time, the boy he found was living at home with his parents, so theo knew that no one of the three was the boy of whom he was in search and although he did not in the least give up the matter, he came to the conclusion at last that his jack finney must have left the city. mr. scott interested himself in the search because of his great interest in theodore, and he went to the reform school and the prison, but the name he sought was on neither record. although theodore said nothing to any one about it, he was also on the lookout for another boy, and that boy was carrots. ever since carrots had stolen the food from the stand, theo had wanted to find him. more than once he had caught a glimpse in the streets of the lank figure and the frowzy red head, but carrots had no desire to meet theo and he took good care to keep out of his way. xii. nan finds friends so the spring days slipped away until march and april were gone and the middle of may had come. theodore was counting the days now, for it was in may that the bishop was to return--so mrs. martin had told him--and the boy began to watch eagerly for the word that the housekeeper had promised to send him. so full of this were his thoughts and so busy was he with his work for himself and for others, that he spent much less time than usual with nan and little brother. about this time there was a week of extremely hot weather. one day toward the close of this week as theodore was passing mrs. hunt's door, she called him in. "you'd better come here for your supper to-night," she said. theodore looked at her with a quick, startled glance. "why--where's nan?" he inquired. "nan's in her room, but she can't get you any supper to-night. she's sick. i've seen for weeks past that nan was overworkin' with all that cooking she's been doin', and to-day she just gave out--an' she's flat on her back now." theodore was silent in blank dismay. until that moment he had not realised how much he had come to depend upon nan. "has she had a doctor, or anything?" he asked, in such a troubled voice that mrs. hunt could not but be sorry for him. "no, i offered to send jimmy for a doctor, but she said she only wanted to rest, but i tell you what, theo, she ain't goin' to get much rest in that room, hot's an oven with the constant cooking, an' what's more that baby can't stand it neither." "i'll go an' see her," replied the boy, slowly, "an'--i guess i don't want any supper to-night, mrs. hunt." "yes, you do want supper, too, theodore. you come back here in half an hour an' get it, an' look here--don't worry nan, talkin' 'bout her being sick," mrs. hunt called after him in a low voice, as he turned toward the girl's door. it seemed strange enough to theodore to see bright, energetic nan lying with pale face and idle hands on the bed. she smiled up at the boy as he stood silent beside the bed finding no words to say. "i'm only tired, theo," she said, gently. "it has been so hot to-day, and little brother fretted so that i couldn't get through my work so well as usual." "he's sick too," answered theodore, gravely. nan turned her head to look at the little white face on the pillow beside her. "yes, he's sick. oh theo"--and then the girl covered her face with her hands, and theodore saw the tears trickling through her fingers. "don't nan, don't!" he cried, in a choked voice, and then he turned and ran out of the room and out of the house. straight to his teacher he went, sure of finding there sympathy, and if possible, help. he was not disappointed. mr. scott listened to what he had to say, and wrote a note to a friend of his own who was a physician, asking him to see nan and the baby at his earliest convenience. then having comforted theodore, and compelled him to take some supper, mr. scott sent him away greatly refreshed, and proceeded to talk the matter over with his aunt, mrs. rawson. "those two children ought to be sent away into the country, aunt mary," he began. "nan and theodore, do you mean?" "no, no! theodore's all right. he's well and strong. i mean nan and her little brother. aunt mary, it would make your heart ache to see such a girl as that working as she has worked, and living among such people. i wish you would go and see the child." "i'll try to go to-morrow, allan. i've been intending to ever since you told me about her, but the days do slip away so fast!" answered the lady. but she found time to go the next day, and the first sight of nan's sweet face was enough to make her as deeply interested in the two as her nephew had long been. "but what an uncomfortable place for a sick girl!" mrs. rawson thought, as she glanced at the shutterless windows through which the sun was pouring, making the small room almost unbearably hot, although there was no fire in the stove. she noticed that the place was daintily clean and neat, though bare as it well could be, but noisy children were racing up and down the stairways and shouting through the halls, making quiet rest impossible. mrs. rawson's kind heart ached as she looked from the room to the pure face of the girl lying there with the little child beside her. "she must be a very unusual girl to look like that after living for months in this place," she thought to herself. while she was there the doctor came, and when he went away, mrs. rawson went with him that she might tell him what she knew about the girl's life and learn what he thought of the case. "it is a plain case of overwork," he said. "from what you tell me the girl has been doing twice as much as she was able to do, and living in that little oven of a room with nothing like the fresh air and exercise she should have had, and very likely not half enough to eat. the baby seems extremely delicate. probably it won't live through the summer, and a good thing too if there's no one but the girl to provide for them. what they need is--to go straight away into the country and stay there all summer, or better yet, for a year or two, but i suppose that is out of the question." "i must see what can be done, doctor. such a girl as that surely ought not to be left to struggle along unfriended." "no, but there are so many such cases. well, i hope something can be done for her. i'll call and see her again to-morrow, but medicine is of little use in a case like this," the doctor replied. mrs. rawson was not one to "let the grass grow under her feet," when she had anything to do, and she felt that she had something to do in this case. she thought it over as she went home, and before night she had written to a relative in the country--a woman who had a big farm and a big heart--to ask if she would board nan and her little brother for the summer. she described the two, and told how bravely the girl had battled with poverty and misfortune until her strength had failed. the letter went straight from the warm heart of the writer to that of her friend and the response was prompt. "send those two children right to me, and if rest and pure air and plenty of wholesome food are what they need, please god, they shall soon be strong and well. they are surely his little ones, and you know i am always ready and glad to do his work." such was the message that mrs. rawson read to her nephew two days after her visit to nan, and his face was full of satisfaction as he listened to it. "nothing could be better," he said. "it will be a splendid place for those children, and it will be a good thing too for mrs. hyde to have them there." "yes, i think so," replied mrs. rawson, "but now the question is--will nan consent to go? from what little i have seen of her i judge that she will not be at all willing to accept help from strangers." "she will shrink from it, perhaps, for herself, but for the sake of that little brother i think she will consent to go. theo tells me that she has been exceedingly anxious about the child for weeks past," answered mr. scott. "well, i'll go to-morrow and see if i can prevail upon her to accept this offer, but allan, one thing you must do, if nan does consent to go--and that is, you must break it to theodore. it's going to be a blow to him, to have those two go away from the city. he'll be left entirely alone." "so he will. i hadn't thought of that. i must think it over and see what can be done for him. he certainly must not stay there, with no place but that dark little closet in which he sleeps," replied the gentleman. mrs. rawson's kindly sympathy and gentle manners had quickly won nan's confidence and the girl welcomed her warmly when she appeared in the little room the next morning. she found nan sitting by the open window, with her pale little brother in her arms. "oh, i'm ever so much better," she said, in reply to mrs. rawson's inquiries. "the doctor's medicine helped me right away, but i don't feel very strong yet--not quite well enough to begin my cooking again. i'm going to begin it to-morrow," she added. "indeed, you'll not do any cooking to-morrow, nan," said the lady, decidedly. "you're not fit to stand over the stove or the mixing board, and besides, it would make the room too hot for the baby." nan glanced anxiously at the little face on her arm. "i can carry him in to mrs. hunt's. he's no trouble, and she's always willing to keep him," she answered. "now, my child, i want you to listen to me," mrs. rawson began, and went on to tell the girl about the plans she had made for her and her little brother. nan listened, with the colour coming and going in her face. "it is so good--so kind of you to think of this," she exclaimed, earnestly, "and i'd _love_ to go. mrs. rawson, you don't know how i hate living in a place like this," she shuddered, as she spoke, "and it would be like heaven to get away into the sweet clean country, with good people--but i can't go unless there is something i can do there. i _couldn't_ go and live on charity, you know." "it wouldn't be charity, nan; it would be love," answered mrs. rawson, gently. "mrs. hyde keeps one room in her house always ready for any guest whom the lord may send her and i think he is sending you there now. remember, my child, you have this dear sick baby to think of, as well as yourself. nan, the doctor thinks little brother will not live through the summer unless he is taken away from the city." nan gave a quick, gasping breath, as she drew the baby closer and bent her face over his. when she looked up again her eyes were wet, and she said, in a low tone, "if that is so, i can't refuse this kind offer, and i will try to find some way to make it right." "there's nothing to make right, dear; you've only to go and be just as happy and contented as you can be. i know you will be happy there. you can't help loving mrs. hyde. and now, my child, there's another matter." she paused and added, in a low tone, "i had a little girl once, but god took her away from my home. she would have been about your age now if she had staid with me. for her sake, nan, i want you to let me get a few things that you and the baby will need. will you, dear?" nan was proud. she had never gotten accustomed to poverty and its painful consequences, and she would have preferred to do without, any time, rather than accept a gift from those on whom she had no claim; but she realised that she could not go among strangers with only the few poor garments that she now had, so, after a moment's silence, she answered, in a voice that was not quite steady, "you are very, very good to me, mrs. rawson. i'll try to be good too, only, please don't get a single thing that i can do without." "nan, if you had plenty of money and you found a girl who had been left all alone in the world, with no one to do anything for her--would you think it was any wonderful kindness in you to spend a few dollars for her?" "n--no, of course not. i'd just _love_ to do it," replied nan, "but"-- "that's enough, then, and now there's only one more thing i have to speak about. i know some girls, who have formed themselves into a band called a 'king's daughter circle,' and they meet once a week to sew for somebody who is not able to do her own sewing. i've told these girls a little about you and they want very much to do some sewing for little brother and you. now, would you be willing to let them come here to-morrow afternoon? would it trouble you?" the colour rose in nan's cheeks and her lips trembled, and for a moment she seemed to shrink into herself as she thought what a contrast her poor surroundings would be to these other girls, who lived such different lives from hers, but she saw that mrs. rawson was really desirous that they should come, and she was not willing to disappoint one who was doing so much for her; so after a moment's silence she answered, "of course they can come, if you think they won't mind too much." she glanced about the room as she spoke. mrs. rawson leaned over and kissed her. "child," she said, "they know nothing about the trials that come into other lives--like yours. i want them to know you. don't worry one bit over their coming. they are dear girls and i'm sure you will like them--as sure as i am that they will all love you--and nan, one thing more, leave mr. scott to tell theodore about your going." then she went away, leaving nan with many things to think about. she could not help worrying somewhat over the coming of those girls. as she recalled her own old home, she realised how terribly bare and poor her one room would look to these strangers and she shrank nervously from the thought of meeting them. more than once, she was tempted to ask theo to go to mrs. rawson and tell her that the girls could not come there. mrs. rawson went straight from nan's room to the shopping district, where she purchased simple but complete outfits for nan and the baby. the under garments and the baby's dresses she bought ready-made and also a neat wool suit for the girl and hats and wraps for both, but she bought enough pretty lawn and gingham to make as many wash dresses as nan would require, and these she carried home and cut out the next morning. that evening too she sent notes to the members of the circle telling them to meet at her house before one o'clock the next day, which was saturday. they came promptly, eleven girls between fifteen and seventeen, each with her sewing implements. bright, happy girls they were, as nan might have been, had her life been peaceful and sheltered like theirs, mrs. rawson thought, as she welcomed them. "sit down, girls," she said, "i want to tell you more about my poor little nan before you see her." she told the story in such fashion that the warm, girlish hearts were filled with a sweet and tender sympathy for this other girl, and they were eager to do all that they could for her. not one of them had ever before been in a tenement house like the one to which mrs. rawson led them, and they shrank from the rude children and coarse women whom they encountered in the halls and on the stairs, and pressed closer together, grasping each other's hands. nan's face whitened and her thin hands were clasped tightly together as she heard them coming along the hall. she knew it was they, so different were their quiet footsteps from most that passed her door. nan opened the door in response to mrs. rawson's knock and the girls flocked in, looking so dainty and pretty in their fresh shirt-waists and dimities, and their gay ribbons. as nan looked at them she was painfully conscious of her own faded calico and worn shoes, and her cheeks flushed, but the girls gave her no time to think of these things. they crowded about her, introducing each other with merry laughter and gay little jokes, seeming to take nan right in among them as one of themselves, and taking prompt possession of the baby, who wasn't a bit shy, and appeared to like to be passed from one to another, and kissed, and called sweet names. nan had borrowed all mrs. hunt's chairs, but still there were not enough, and three or four girls gleefully settled themselves on the bed. every one of them had come with her hands full of flowers, and seeing these, mrs. rawson had brought along a big glass rose bowl, which the girls speedily filled and set in the middle of the table. a tap at the door announced the arrival of a boy with a box and a bag for mrs. rawson, and out of the box she lifted a baby sewing machine, which she fastened to the table. then from the bag she took the lawn and gingham as she said, "now, girls, your tongues can run just as fast as your fingers sew, but remember this tiny machine works very rapidly and you've got to keep it supplied. i'll hem this skirt first." in an instant every girl had on her thimble, and they all set to work with right good will. "can't i do some, too?" said nan. "i don't want to be the only idle one." "you can gather some ruffles in a few minutes--as soon as i have hemmed them," answered mrs. rawson, smiling to herself, as she saw how bright and interested nan looked already. all that long, bright afternoon tongues and needles were about equally busy. fortunately it was cooler, else the girls would have been uncomfortable in the small room, but as it was, not even nan gave more than a passing thought to the bare room and its lack of comfort. indeed, after the first few moments, nan forgot all about herself and just gave herself up to the delight of being once more a girl among girls. she thought them lovely, every one, and indeed they were lovely to her in every way, for her sweet face and gentle manners had won them all at first sight. how they did chatter! never before had that room--or indeed any room in that dreary building, held such a company as gathered there that day. at half-past five there came another rap on the door, and mrs. rawson exclaimed, "put up your sewing, girls. we've business of another sort to attend to now." the girls looked at her inquiringly as nan opened the door again. "bring them in," called mrs. rawson, and a man edged his way gingerly among the girls and set two big baskets and an ice cream freezer beside the table. "a house picnic! mrs. rawson, you're a darling!" called one and another of the girls. mrs. rawson nodded a laughing acknowledgment of the compliment, as she said, "open the baskets, girls. the dishes are in the round one. i thought nan might not be prepared for quite such a family party." with quick, deft fingers the girls swept aside the sewing, unscrewed the little machine, spread a fine damask cloth over the pine table, and on it arranged the pretty green and gold dishes and glasses, putting the big bowl of roses in the centre. then from the other basket they took tiny buttered biscuits, three-cornered sandwiches, tied with narrow green ribbons, a dish of chicken salad, and a big loaf of nut cake. all these quite covered the table so that the cream had to be left in the freezer until it was wanted. how nan did enjoy that feast! how her eyes shone with quiet happiness as she watched the bright faces and listened to the merry talk; not all merry either, for more than once it touched upon the deep things of life, showing that the girls had thought much, even if their lives had been happy, sheltered ones. when the feast was ended, the dishes repacked in the basket, and the unfinished work put away, the girls gathered about nan to say "good-bye," and she wondered how she could have dreaded their coming,--for now it seemed as if she could not let them go. she felt as if all the joyous brightness would vanish with them. the quick young eyes read something of this feeling in her face, and more than one girl left a kiss with her cordial farewell. the room seemed very still and lonely to nan when the last flutter of light dresses was gone and the last faint echo of girlish voices and footsteps had died on her eagerly listening ears. she dropped into the rocking-chair and looked about the room, trying to repeople it with those fair, young, friendly faces. she could almost have imagined it all a dream but for the cake and sandwiches and ice cream on the table. the sight of the fast melting cream suggested another thought to her. hastily filling a plate with portions of everything on the table, she set it away for theodore and then went across to mrs. hunt's rooms to tell her to come with the children and take all that was left. the eyes of the children gleamed with delight at sight of the unexpected treat, and they speedily emptied the dishes which their mother then carried home to wash, while the children took back the borrowed chairs. by this time nan began to feel very weary, and she threw herself down on the bed with the baby, but she kept in her hand some little scrips of the pretty lawns and ginghams that she had found on the floor. it seemed hardly possible to her that she could be going to have such dresses. why--one of the scrips was exactly like a waist that one of those girls had worn. nan gazed at it with a smile on her lips, a smile that lingered there until it was chased away by the remembrance of theo's loneliness when she and little brother should be far away. xiii. nan's departure theo was feeling that he needed sympathy about that time, for it seemed to him as if every one that he cared for was to be taken away from him. mr. scott had invited the boy to go with him for a row on the river and then to go home with him to supper. the river was beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, and theodore enjoyed the row and the friendly talk with his teacher, but he felt a little shy with mrs. rawson and was not sorry to find her absent from the supper-table. when the meal was over mr. scott took the boy up to his own room to see some of his curiosities. theo's quick eyes took silent note of everything, and he mentally decided that some day he would have just such a room as that. he was thinking thus, when mr. scott said, "theo, you haven't asked me what dr. reed thinks about nan and her little brother." "she's better to-day--nan is," exclaimed the boy, quickly. "yes, i suppose the medicine has toned her up a little, but the doctor says that she must have a long rest. she has been working too hard." "well, she can. i'm earnin' enough now to take care of 'em," interposed the boy. "nan would never be content to let you do that, i think, but, theo, that isn't all." theo said nothing, but his anxious eyes asked the question that his lips refused to utter. mr. scott went on, "the doctor says that the baby must go away into the country or--he will die." theodore walked quickly to the window, and stood there looking out in silence. after a moment, his teacher crossed the room and laid his arm affectionately over the boy's shoulders. "sit down, theodore," he said, gently, "i want to tell you what we have planned for nan and the little one." then in few words he told of mrs. rawson's letter and the reply, describing the beautiful country home to which nan and the baby were to go. "you will be glad to think of them in such a place during the hot summer days," he went on, "even though their going leaves you very lonely, as i know it will, theodore." "i ought to be glad, mr. scott," replied the boy, slowly, as his teacher paused, "an' i am, but ye see you don't know how hard 'tis for a feller to keep straight when he ain't got no home an' nobody to talk to after his work's done at night. nan--well _you_ know she ain't like the rest o' the folks down our way. she never scolds nor nags at me, but somehow i can't ever look her straight in the eye if i've been doin' anything mean." "nan has been a good friend to you, i'm sure, and i think you have been a good friend to her and the baby, theodore. i know that she will miss you sadly at first, and if she thinks you are to be very lonely without them, i'm afraid she will worry about it and not get as much good from the change as she might otherwise," mr. scott added. the boy drew a long breath. "i won't let her know 't i care much 'bout their goin'," he said, bravely. "nan will guess quite enough," answered the gentleman, "but, theodore, how would you like to come here? mrs. rawson has a little room over the l that she seldom uses, and she says that you can sleep there if you like, and pay for it the same that you pay for the dark room that you now have." the boy's eyes were full of surprise and pleasure as he answered, gratefully, "i'd like that fine!" "come on, then, and we'll take a look at the place. it has been used as a storeroom and will, of course, need some fixing up." as mr. scott threw open the door of the l room theodore stepped in and looked about him with shining eyes. it was a long, low room with windows on three sides. the floor was covered with matting and the walls with a light, cheerful paper. "this for me!" exclaimed the boy. "why, mr. scott, it's--it's too fine for a chap like me." "not a bit, my boy, but i think you can be very comfortable here, and you will know that you have friends close at hand. and now, theodore, i suppose you will want to get home, for we hope to get nan away next week." "so soon!" cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment before so bright. "yes, the sooner the better for the little one's sake," replied mr. scott, gravely. "you've been mighty good to me--an' to nan," said the boy, simply, and then he went away. he walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose nan and little brother out of his life even for a few weeks. his way led him across the common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. it was surely carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across the greensward to the street beyond. he did not notice theo's approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of him. "hold on, carrots--don't clear out. i want to tell you something," cried theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve. carrots looked at him suspiciously. "d'know what yer got ter say ter me," he growled. "sit down here, an' i'll tell ye." theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment's hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to "cut and run" at a moment's notice. "you look's if you were down on your luck," began theo, with a glance at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other. "'course--i'm always down on my luck," responded carrots, in a tone that implied, "what business is that of yours?" "sellin' papers now?" "yes, but a feller can't make a livin' out o' that. there's too many kids in the business, an' folks'll buy o' the kids ev'ry time, 'n' give us big fellers the go-by," carrots said, in a gloomy tone. "that's so. the little chaps always sell most," assented theodore. "why don't you get into some other business, carrots?" "can't--'cause my money's all tied up in railroad stock," retorted carrots, with bitter sarcasm. "carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on jim hunt the other day?" asked theodore, suddenly. carrots grinned. "hunt's a fool," he answered, "else he wouldn't 'a' give me a chance ter work him so slick." "well, i don't think you'll play it on him again. i think you were the fool, carrots, for you know well enough you can't get such good stuff anywhere else for your money, an' now ye can't go to my stand." "got it 'thout money that time," chuckled carrots, impudently, but still keeping a sharp eye on his companion. theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly, "what's the trouble with you, carrots? are you too lazy to work, or what?" the boy's eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, "see here, tode bryan--what ye pokin' yer nose int' my business for, anyhow?" "'cause i can put you in the way of earnin' honest money if you're willin' to do honest work." "what sort o' work?" carrots inquired, suspiciously. "i'll tell ye 'bout it when i'm sure you're ready to take hold of it, an' not before. see here, carrots, i've seen you lately loafin' 'round with some o' the meanest fellers in this town, an' if you don't keep away from them you'll find yourself where some of 'em have been a'ready--behind the bars. i mean well by ye, an' if you make up your mind to be a man instead of a tramp an' a loafer, you can come to me, an' i'll give ye a start. jim hunt'll tell ye where to find me." the night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already lighted, and seeing this, theodore started up, adding, "it's later'n i thought. i must be off," and he hurried away, leaving carrots looking after him in a much bewildered state of mind. theodore found nan sitting by the window in the dark. she had rocked the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that seemed now so like a beautiful dream. she lighted her lamp when theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. he did not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused and said, anxiously, "you aren't sick, are you, theo?" "no," he replied, gravely, "an' nan, i'm real glad you're goin' to such a nice place." but though he spoke earnestly, there was in his voice a ring of pain that nan detected instantly, and guessed its cause. "i'm going to miss you dreadfully, theo," she said, quickly, "and i don't know what little brother will do without you. that's the one thing about it that i don't like--to think of you all alone here with no place to stay evenings." "mr. scott says i can have a room where he lives--at mrs. rawson's," answered theodore. "it's a fine room--bigger'n this, an' it's got checked straw carpet an' three windows." "oh, theo, how glad i am!" cried the girl, delightedly. "that's just splendid. don't you like it?" she added, as the boy still sat with serious eyes fixed on the floor. "like it? the room you mean? oh yes, it's a grand room, but i don't think i'll go there," he answered, slowly. the gladness died out of nan's face. "oh, theo, why not?" she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone. he answered again, slowly, "i think i shall stay here an' take this room o' yours 'stead o' my little one." "this is ever so much better than yours, of course, an' if you do that you can keep my furniture, and i s'pose you'd be comfortable, but 'twould be lonesome all the same, and i shouldn't think you'd like it half so well as being with mr. scott." "'course i wouldn't like it half nor quarter so well, nan, but this is what i've been thinkin'. you know there's a good many boys in these two houses that don't have no place to stay evenin's, 'cept the streets, an' i was thinkin' as i came home to-night, how fine 'twould be if there was a room where they could come an' read an' play games an' talk, kind of a boys' club room, don't ye know, like the one mr. scott was tellin' 'bout they're havin' in some places. i think he'll help me get some books an' papers an' games, an' maybe he'll come an' give us a talk sometimes. it would be grand for fellers like jimmy hunt that ain't bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets every evenin'." "theo, i think it's a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such a room for the girls. they need it even more than the boys do." nan hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, "theo, i'm proud of you." theodore's face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at her. "proud--of me?" he gasped. "i'd like to know what for." "well, never mind what for, but i want to say, theo, what i've thought ever so many times lately. when i first knew you, you were good to little brother and me, so good that i can never forget it, but you weren't"-- "i was meaner'n dirt," interposed the boy, sorrowfully. "no, but you'd never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help you, and i used to hate to have you touch little brother, because i thought you were not good." "i wasn't," put in theodore, sadly. "but since you came back from the bishop's you've been so different, and it seems to me you're always trying to help somebody now. theo--if little brother lives, i hope he'll be like you." theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. "like me. little brother like me," he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour mounting in his cheeks. then he arose and walked over to the bed where the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the bedclothes. the soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist forehead, but the little face looked waxen white. theodore stood for a moment looking down at the baby, then suddenly he stooped and kissed the outstretched hand, and then without another word he went away. nan's eyes were full of tears as she looked after him. "how he does love little brother," she thought. "he's going to miss him awfully." monday was a busy day for mrs. rawson. she had engaged a seamstress to finish off nan's dresses, and having seen the woman settled to her work, she set off herself for the tenement house, a boy going with her to carry a small valise. she found nan busy baking bread. the place was very warm and the girl looked flushed and tired. mrs. hunt had carried the baby off to her cooler rooms. "nan, child, you've not taken up the cooking again?" exclaimed mrs. rawson. "i had to do some--not very much," replied the girl, gently. "but, my dear, i thought you understood that we didn't want you to do this any more." nan only smiled as she set the last loaf in the oven. the lady went on, "nan--we want you to go away to-morrow." nan looked up with startled eyes. "so soon!" she exclaimed as theodore had done. "why should there be any delay about it? every day that you stay here is so much actual loss to you and to the baby, too," added mrs. rawson. with a bewildered air nan dropped into a chair, saying, hesitatingly, "but how can i get ready to go to-morrow?" "easily enough, if you let the cooking go. i was wondering as i came along what you would do with your furniture." to mrs. rawson's eyes the few poor bits of furniture looked worthless enough, but she realised that it would seem quite otherwise to the girl who had bought them with her own hard earnings. but now nan looked up with shining eyes and in eager words told of theodore's plan and the lady's face brightened as she listened. "it's a fine plan," she replied, heartily, "and it means a deal for such a boy as theodore to have thought of it." "and when he might have gone to your house, too," added nan, softly. "mrs. rawson, he'll be very lonely when little brother is gone." "yes, he'll miss you both sadly, but nan, you mustn't worry about theodore. mr. scott loves the boy and will look out for him, you may be sure of that. but now we must talk about your journey. i've brought the things that i thought you would need on the way, and i'd like you to try on this dress." she lifted the pretty wool suit from the valise as she spoke, and nan began to take off her faded calico. the colour rose in her face as she did so, for she hated to have mrs. rawson see her poor under garments, but the lady seemed not to notice, as she chatted away about the dress. "fits you beautifully. i was sure it would, for i had all the measurements. i don't believe you will need to carry many of the things you have, for there are plenty of the new ones," she said. "i put into this little valise everything that will be needed for the journey, and the other things can go with mine." nan looked up quickly, crying out joyfully, "oh, mrs. rawson, are you going with us?" "to be sure. did you suppose i meant for you to travel alone with a sick baby? i'm going to stay a week." "that's lovely!" exclaimed the girl, with a sigh of relief. "i did dread to go among entire strangers alone." "mrs. hyde won't be a stranger two minutes after you meet her. you couldn't help loving her if you should try. now then, let me see. you are to be ready at half past nine to-morrow. the train goes at : . i'll stop here for you. now, child, don't work any more to-day. just rest so that you can enjoy the journey. oh, there's one thing i came near forgetting--shoes. those will have to be fitted. can you come with me now and get them?" "yes, if mrs. hunt can see to my baking," nan replied. mrs. hunt was very ready to do so, and nan and her new friend were soon in a car on their way to the shoe store. when she returned to her room alone, the girl took out the pretty serviceable garments from the valise and examined them all with mingled pain and pleasure. it was a delight to her to have once more such clothing as other girls wore, but to receive them from strangers, even such kind strangers as mrs. rawson and the girls, hurt nan more than a little. but she did not feel quite the same about the dainty garments for her little brother. over those her eyes shone with satisfaction. she could not resist the desire to see how he would look in them, and when he was dressed she carried him in for mrs. hunt to admire, and the two praised and petted the little fellow to their hearts' content. theodore had looked forward to a quiet evening with nan and the baby--that last evening that they were to spend together for so long--but it proved to be anything but a quiet one. it had leaked out that nan was going away, and all through the evening the women and girls in the house were coming to say "good-bye." nan had not expected this, for she had never had much to do with any of them, and it touched her deeply when in their rough fashion they wished her a pleasant summer and hoped that the baby would come back well and strong. theodore sat silent in a corner through all these leave-takings, and some of the women, as they went back to their own rooms, spoke of the loneliness the boy would feel without the baby that they all knew he loved so dearly. when the last caller had departed, theodore stood up and held out a little purse to nan. "ain't much in it, but i want ye to use it for anything _he_ wants," the boy said, with a gesture toward the child. nan hesitated. she would not have taken it for herself, but she knew that it would hurt theo sadly, if she refused his gift, so she took it, saying, "you've been so good to him always, theo. i shan't let him forget you ever." "no--don't," muttered the boy, and unable to trust himself to say more, he turned away in silence, and went to his own room. the little purse he had given nan contained five dollars. "the dear boy! how good he is to us," nan murmured, as she put the bill back into it, "but i hope i shall not need to use this." theodore ran in the next morning for a hasty good-bye before he went out to his work. he had waited purposely until the last moment, so that his leave-taking might be a brief one, and he said so little, and said that little so coldly that a stranger might have thought him careless and indifferent, but nan knew better. now that the time of departure was so close at hand, she shrank nervously from it and almost wished she had refused to go, but still she dressed little brother and herself in good season, and was all ready when at nine thirty, promptly, mrs. rawson appeared. the lady gave a satisfied glance at the two, and then insisted upon carrying the baby downstairs herself, while one of the hunt children followed with nan's valise. a cab was waiting at the door, and cabs being rarities in that locality, a crowd of curious children stood gaping at it, and waiting to see nan and the baby depart in it. "it is going to be a warm day. i shall be glad when we are fairly off," mrs. rawson said, with an anxious glance at the baby's face, as the cab rattled over the rough stones. as the little party entered the station, there was a flutter of light raiment and bright ribbons, and nan found herself fairly surrounded by the eleven king's daughters. they took possession of the baby, who brightened up wonderfully at the sight of them, and they seized the valise and mrs. rawson's handbag, and they trooped altogether through the great station to the waiting train, and instead of saying, "can't go through yet, ladies--not till the train's made up," the gatekeeper smiled in genial fashion into their bright faces and promptly unlocked the gate for them. that was because one of them was the daughter of a railroad official, but nan didn't know that. the train was not all ready, but two of the parlor cars were there, and into one of these the girls climbed, and then they found the seats belonging to mrs. rawson and nan, and put the extra wraps up in the rack for them and pushed up the window, and did everything else that they could think of for the comfort of the travellers. then one of them pinned a great bunch of deliciously fragrant violets to nan's dress, and another fastened a tiny silver cross above the violets, as she whispered, "we've made you a member of our circle, nan, dear, and this is our badge." and then nan noticed that every one of the girls wore the tiny, silver cross somewhere about her dress. she wondered what it meant and determined to ask mrs. rawson later, but she could not talk much just then--she was too happy with all those dear girls about her, chattering to her and counting her in with themselves. at last there was a rumble and a jar, and people began to fill up the seats in the car and one of the girls looked at her watch and exclaimed, "we must say 'good-bye' girls, or we shall be carried off." "wouldn't it be fun if we could all go too, and stay for the week with mrs. rawson?" cried another. "yes, indeed. if it weren't for school we might have done it." "now remember, nan, we're all going to write to you because you belong to our circle," whispered another, and then, some with a kiss, and some with a warm handshake, they said, "good-bye," and hastened out of the car and stood on the platform outside the car windows, calling out more farewells and last words, and waving hands and handkerchiefs, until the train drew out of the station. then nan settled back in her comfortable seat with a happy light in her dark eyes. "i didn't suppose there were any such girls in all the world, mrs. rawson," she said; "girls who would be so dearly kind to a stranger like me." "they certainly are dear girls. i think myself that there are not many like them," mrs. rawson answered. "some of them have been in my sunday-school class ever since they were nine years old." "perhaps that accounts for it," nan answered, shyly, with one of her quick, bright smiles. then she turned to look out of the window and her face changed, for there on a fence, close beside the track, stood theodore, eagerly scanning the windows as the train went by. nan snatched up little brother and held him to the window, and a smile broke over the boy's face as he waved his hat in response. then the train gathered speed and flew on, and the boy went slowly back to his work. it was nearly sunset when the station where the travellers were to stop, was reached. nan's heart began to beat fast and she glanced around somewhat anxiously as she stepped on to the platform, but the next moment she found herself looking into mrs. hyde's face, and from that instant all her fears and anxieties vanished. mrs. hyde had no children of her own, but the very spirit of motherliness seemed to look out of her eyes, and she took the two strangers into her heart at sight. the baby, wearied with the long journey had been fretting for the last hour, but no sooner did he find himself in mrs. hyde's arms, than he settled down comfortably and went to sleep and slept soundly through the three mile drive from the station. mrs. hyde did not say much to nan during the drive, only by an occasional word or smile, showing her that she was not forgotten, while the two ladies talked together, but at last she laid her firm, strong hand lightly on the girl's fingers, saying, "look, dear--you are almost home." and nan looked with happy eyes at a big, rambling, white house, shaded by tall elms, and with wide piazzas on three sides. an old-fashioned flower garden, with high box-bordered beds was at the back, and broad, rolling acres, spread out on every side but one, where there was a grove of grand old trees. the late afternoon sunlight was throwing long, level beams across the green lawn, touching everything with a golden light as they drove up to the side door, and nan said to herself, "i don't see how anybody could help being well and happy here." xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance theodore dreaded to go home that night. after his work was done he went to a restaurant for supper and then strolled on to the common. it was cool and pleasant there under the wide-spreading trees, and he sat down on one of the benches and wondered what nan was doing then and how little brother had borne the long hours of travel. when it was quite dark he went slowly homeward. mrs. hunt's door stood open and he stopped to get the key which nan was to leave there for him. jimmy sprang up and brought it to him, and mrs. hunt gave him a kind word or two and asked him to come in and sit awhile, but he said he was tired, and taking the key, he crossed the hall and unlocked nan's door. as he closed it behind him he gave a little start, for he saw something move over by the window. the next instant he realised that it was only nan's chair which had rocked a little from the jar of the closing door. the room was unlighted except for the faint glimmer near the open windows. as theo sat down in the rocking-chair, a wave of loneliness and homesickness swept over him. nan and little brother had made all the home feeling he had ever known, and never before had he felt so absolutely alone and friendless as he did to-night. tag seemed to share the feeling too. he went sniffing about the room, evidently searching for the two who were gone, and finally, with a long breath like a sigh, he dropped down beside the rocking-chair and rubbed his head against his master's hand with a low, troubled whine. theodore patted the rough head as he said, "pretty lonesome, ain't it, old fellow?" and tag rapped the floor with his tail and whined again. for a long time the boy sat there gravely thinking. at last, with a sigh, he said to himself, "might's well go to bed. don't feel like doin' anything to-night." he was used to undressing in the dark and he did not light the lamp, but as he was about to get into bed his hand touched something smooth and stiff that was lying on the pillow. "it's a letter," he exclaimed, wonderingly, and he hastened to light the lamp. "oh!" he cried, breathlessly, as he saw the bold, firm handwriting. "it's from the bishop." his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining and his fingers fairly shaking with excitement as he held the letter carefully in his hands, reading and rereading the address. "theodore bryan, care of mrs. martin." he thought how many times he had sat beside the bishop's desk and watched the pen travelling so rapidly across the paper. theodore would have known _that_ writing anywhere. for a long time he did not open the letter. it was happiness enough to know that it was there in his hands, the first letter he had ever received. and to think that the bishop should have written it--to him, theodore bryan! it was a pity that the bishop could not have seen the boy's face as he stood looking with glowing eyes at the envelope. at last he opened it and began to read the letter. it was a long one, and as the boy read on and on, his breath came quicker and his eyes grew dim, and when he had finished it his cheeks were wet, but he did not know it. he was not thinking of himself. there were many who would have given much for a letter from the bishop, but surely none could have appreciated one more than did the lonely boy who stood there that night in the dimly-lighted room poring over those closely written pages. again and again he read the whole letter, and many times he read over one passage until the words were written in letters of light on his heart. when at last he went to bed it was to lie awake for hours with the letter held tightly in his hand, while he repeated to himself those words that he was to remember as long as he lived. "mrs. martin writes me that you are anxious to be assured of my forgiveness. my dear boy, if you have ever wronged me i forgive you as freely and fully as i hope for forgiveness myself; but, theodore, had you wronged me ever so deeply, it would all be blotted out by the joy it gives me to know that you are a soldier of the cross. i know that you will be a faithful soldier--loyal even unto death--and may the great captain whom we both serve, have you ever in his holy keeping." over and over the boy repeated these words as he lay sleepless, but full of deep happiness and peace. "whom we both serve." the wise and holy bishop and he, a poor ignorant street boy, were soldiers now under the one great captain. faithful and loyal even unto death? ah yes, theodore pledged himself anew to such service in the watches of that night. nevertheless, the letter had brought to the boy a fresh disappointment, for it informed him that the bishop had been ill ever since he left the city, and that it had been decided that he should remain away until october. "five months longer before i can see him," theodore thought sorrowfully, yet he could not grieve as he had done before. it almost seemed as if he could feel the bishop's hand actually resting upon his head, and see the kind eyes looking down into his. the boy had not been so happy since he left the bishop's house as he was on this night when he had expected to be so lonely and miserable. "oh if nan only knew, how glad she would be," he thought more than once. he slept at last with the letter clutched tightly in his hand, and his fingers had not loosed their hold when he awoke the next morning, nor had the joy died out of his heart. his thoughts were very busy as he dressed, and suddenly he stopped short, with one shoe on and the other in his hand. "that's it!" he cried aloud. "that's what the bishop meant that sunday! 'ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price.' the great captain's bought me for one of his soldiers, an' i've got to do what he says. i never knew before just what that meant, but i do now." then he added, softly, "but i want to do what he says, anyhow." going forth in this spirit to his work, theodore could hardly fail to find something to do for his captain. mrs. hunt had decided to take up the work that nan had been doing, and to furnish supplies for the stand. she had the big basket all ready when theodore came from his room, and he and jimmy set off with it for the stand where both the boys now took their breakfasts. theodore was unusually quiet and thoughtful, and there was something in his face that silenced jimmy's lively tongue that morning. the two boys had just gotten their stand ready for business, when theodore exclaimed, eagerly, "there he is now!" and darted off. jimmy looked after him in wonder that turned to indignation, as he saw theo lay a detaining hand on the ragged jacket of carrots, who was slouching aimlessly along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, and, after a little talk with him, bring him back to the stand. "well now, i like that!" muttered jimmy under his breath. he glowered darkly at carrots as theo drew him up to the stand, but theodore looked into jimmy's face with a strange light in his eyes, as he filled a plate for carrots and poured him out a cup of coffee. "sh'ld think you'd better wait till he'd paid for what he jagged here that last time," jimmy muttered, with a scowling glance at the culprit. carrots, overhearing the remark, grinned, and then winked impudently at jimmy, while he disposed with all speed of the contents of the plate that theodore had set before him. once or twice he cast a puzzled glance at the latter as if trying to discover some hidden motive. "had 'nough?" theo questioned, when plate and cup were empty. "'spect i might get outside of one or two o' them doughnuts," carrots answered, with another wink at jimmy's clouded face. when the doughnuts also had disappeared, theo said, "come along a bit with me, carrots," and the two walked off together, leaving jimmy for the first time savagely angry with his friend theodore. carrots slouched along at theo's side, with his narrow eyes roving suspiciously from side to side in search of a possible policeman, into whose hands he suspected that his companion might be scheming to deliver him. he could not conceive the possibility of anybody's failing to avenge a wrong if he had the chance. "carrots," began theodore, "where do you sleep?" "can't catch me that way," thought carrots to himself, as he answered carelessly, "oh anywheres 't i happen ter find myself when i'm sleepy." "no reg'lar place--no home?" questioned theo. "nope." "well, i've paid rent up to the end of the month for the room i've been sleepin' in, an' i shan't use it any more. you can sleep there for nothin' for the next week if you like." carrots stopped short and gazed at his companion with his tongue in his cheek. "think i'm a fool?" he asked, shortly. "i do' know whether ye are or not. 'seems to me you will be 'f ye say 'no' to my offer," and theo looked straight into the shifty eyes of his companion. that straightforward look puzzled carrots. it was more convincing than any words. he studied theo's face for a moment, then he burst out, "what's your game, anyhow, tode bryan?" "carrots," exclaimed theo, earnestly, "there's no game at all about it. i've got the room, an' i don't need it, 'cause i've taken another one. you're welcome to use this till the month's up. now, what d'ye say? will ye take it or leave it?" "i'll--take--it," rejoined carrots, slowly. "all right." theo gave him the number, adding, "come to my room anytime 'fore ten for the key." then he hurried on, leaving carrots in a maze of wonder, doubt and indecision, for he could not yet believe that theo meant honestly by him. as for theo, he whistled cheerily as he hastened on, for he felt that he had been doing a bit of his captain's business. he was not in the least deceived. he knew that carrots was a "bad lot," as he expressed it, but he said to himself, "i was a bad lot, too, not so very long ago, an' i'll see if i can't do something for carrots while i'm a-huntin' for that jack finney." jimmy hunt was on the lookout for theodore that evening, and pounced upon him the moment he appeared. jimmy's face was still clouded, and he made no response to his friend's cheery greeting. "i say, theo," he began, "i'd like to know what you meant by it, anyhow." "what's the trouble, jimmy? what do you mean?" "what _d'you_ mean by luggin' that thievin', sarcy carrots over t' the stand this mornin' an' stuffin' him with grub, an' never askin' him for a red cent?" jimmy spoke in a deeply aggrieved tone. "you won't lose anything by it, jim. that comes out o' my share of the profits," theo answered, quickly. "'tain't that," responded jimmy, hastily. "i wouldn't 'a' minded if it had been any other feller but him. say, theo, what did make ye do it anyhow? think ye might tell me that." theodore looked down into the face lifted to his, half curiously, half impatiently. "jimmy," he said, gravely, "wouldn't you be glad if somebody would lend a hand to dick and help him make a man of himself?" jimmy flushed. he was ashamed of his brother and mortified by dick's evil reputation. "'course," he answered, shortly, dropping his eyes. "well, jimmy, i'd help dick if i could, an' there's another feller i've been huntin' for ever so long. 'seem's if i can't find him anywheres, an' so till i _do_ find him, i'm a-goin' to try to pull carrots up 'stead of him." "pull carrots up!" echoed jimmy, scornfully. "tode, you must be soft if you expect to make anything out o' such a bad lot as carrots." "there's a good spot in most chaps, i b'lieve, jimmy, an' i guess there's one in carrots, if i can only find it. anyhow, i'm a-goin' to try for a while." "huh!" growled jimmy. he said no more, but after this he watched theo and carrots closely, and did a deal of earnest thinking on the subject. carrots slept in theodore's room for the next week--slipping softly up and down the stairs, with furtive, suspicious glances into every dark corner in the halls at night, and departing in the same fashion before theo was up in the morning. he uttered no word of gratitude, but theo knew better than to expect anything of that sort. one night when he came in, theodore sat with his door wide open, and called out pleasantly, "come in a minute, carrots." the boy paused on the threshold until he had satisfied himself that there was no one else in the room, then he sidled in and dropped heavily on a chair. "wal', what's wanted?" he inquired, gruffly. "like to earn a little extra money to-morrow?" theodore began. "that depends." "depends on what?" "on the kind o' work." "well, i should think you'd be ready for any kind of work," theodore remarked, with a quick glance at the ragged garments of the other. carrots grinned, carelessly. "oh i ain't a swell like you," he replied, casting, what he meant for a scornful look at the other boy's clean outing shirt and decent suit. theodore had reached the point now where he had at least one clean shirt a week. he ignored the remark and went on, "there's plenty of fellers that would be glad of this job, but i want to give you the first chance at it. jimmy hunt's goin' on an excursion to-morrow, an' can't run the stand. you can run it if you want to." carrots gazed at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "me?" he exclaimed, incredulously. "you mean't you'll let me run it--alone--'thout you bossin' the job?" theo nodded. carrots' mouth slowly stretched into a grin of mingled satisfaction and derision, as he exclaimed, "all right. i'm your man!" "then be ready to go with me at half past six," replied theo. then he added, "look here--what's your real name? tain't carrots i know. if you'll tell me what 'tis i'll call you by it." "do' want none o' yer callin'! carrots's good 'nough for me, an' if i'm suited, other folks needn't ter interfere," growled the boy, with renewed suspicion. "no need to get huffy 'bout it," rejoined theodore. "it put me up a peg when folks begun to call me theodore 'stead of tode or toady, an' so i thought you'd feel the same way. 'course, if you like to be carrots, nobody cares." "humph!" grunted carrots, and departed without further discussion of the matter. he was waiting in the hall when theodore opened his door the next morning and assisted handily enough about carrying the big basket and arranging the stand. he did not, however, believe that theo meant to leave him actually in charge, until he found himself established behind the neat counter with fifty cents in nickels and pennies in his pocket, to make change. "wal', i'm blest!" he exclaimed, and then he grinned and chuckled and slapped his sides with glee, while theodore went off, thinking to himself, "it's a risk, but i had to give him his chance." many times during that morning he thought of carrots and wondered how he was getting on. it was a hot day and an unusually tiresome one for theodore, and it was later than usual when he returned to his room. before he had closed the door jimmy hunt ran across the hall calling out, "say, theo, where's the baskets an' things?" theodore's heart sank, but he answered quietly, "haven't they been brought back?" "no. who'd you get to run the stand, theo?" "carrots." "theodore bryan--you _didn't_!" exclaimed jimmy, in such a tragic tone, that theo almost laughed outright. his amusement was the last straw to jimmy. he burst into a storm of scornful blame in the midst of which theo quietly stepped into his room and shut the door, leaving jimmy to fume and storm as much as he chose. that brought the boy to himself. he began to cool down and to remember, that after all, the stand belonged to theodore, and he had a right to do as he pleased with it. so after standing in the hall, kicking at the banisters for a while, to relieve his feelings, jimmy knocked at the closed door and in response to theo's "come in," he went in, in a somewhat calmer state of mind. "what you goin' to do in the mornin', theo?" he began, in a subdued tone. "have you been to the stand, jim?" "yes, an' that scamp after he'd sold all the stuff went to work an' auctioned off the dishes an' coffee-urn an' everything. just skinned the place out slick," jimmy burst out, indignantly. "i went 'round to see where the baskets was, an' some fellers told me all about it. they said 'twas a red-headed chap done it, but i _couldn't_ b'lieve you'd be green 'nough to trust that carrots. say, theo, did you re'ely think he'd do the square thing, by you?" "not much. i hoped he would an' i had to give him a chance, jimmy?" "why'd you have to?" asked jimmy, curiously. "where would i be now if somebody hadn't given me a chance, jimmy?" "oh, you--you ain't carrots. you're another sort." "yes, i'm another sort now, but i was bad as carrots before i met nan an' little brother," answered theo, earnestly. then he added, "don't you worry 'bout the stand. i'll go out presently an' buy what's wanted." "an' ain't ye going to do nothin' ter that carrots for this, neither?" inquired jimmy, anxiously. "no, nothing. but, jimmy, don't fret yourself about him. if he keeps on as he's been doin', he'll soon find himself locked up." "'n' he'd oughter be too," muttered jimmy, as he went away, leaving theodore to think over the failure of his attempt. he was not much surprised, though he had not expected quite such a clean sweep on carrots' part, and the loss was not heavy enough to embarrass him at all. at mr. scott's suggestion, theo had begun to deposit his extra earnings in a savings bank and he had enough on hand to easily replace the dishes and utensils lost, but he was disappointed and disheartened. it seemed so useless to try to help one who would not try to help himself. and yet he could not be quite discouraged since he always remembered what he himself had once been. he went out and bought what was needed and when he came back he found mr. scott just turning away from his door. he hastened to unlock it and the gentleman turned back, saying, "i'm glad you came before i had got away, theodore, for i want to talk over that boys' club plan with you." "i thought you'd forgot all about it," replied the boy, his face brightening. he had spoken to his teacher about this plan, and mr. scott had answered, "yes, something of the sort may be done, but if i were in your place i wouldn't be in a hurry about it," and so the matter had been left. now mr. scott looked thoughtfully about the room, saying, "you must find this far more comfortable than the room you had before. don't you sleep better here, theo?" "oh, yes, i don't feel so tired in the morning." "no, because you have the windows here and can have better air; but, theo, do you realise how it would be if you should use this for a club-room? some of the boys would be here every evening, and you'd have to have lights burning, and by the time you were ready to go to bed, the room would be very hot and stuffy--full of bad air. besides you would have to be here all the time. you couldn't trust such boys in your room alone." theodore thought of carrots, and his face was grave and disturbed as he answered, slowly, "'spect you're right, mr. scott, but i do hate to give up the plan." "perhaps we won't give it up, only change it a little. have you ever been in the large front room, upstairs?" theodore shook his head, with a look of surprise, that his teacher should know anything about the rooms upstairs. mr. scott added, "well then, suppose you come up with me now, and take a look at it. i have the key." wondering much, the boy followed his teacher up the stairs to a large room with two windows on each side. "how would this do for your clubroom, theodore?" mr. scott inquired. "this? oh, this would be fine--but mr. scott, it would cost a pile for this." "rather more than for yours, of course, but now this is the way of it, theodore. i liked your plan about the club, but i didn't like the idea of your giving up your own room to it, so i spoke to several gentlemen of my acquaintance about the matter, and they all wanted to have a hand in it. so they each gave me a sum of money, and then i interviewed your landlord and rented this room. he is going to have it whitewashed, and then we shall have the floor thoroughly scrubbed and outside blinds put on these sunny windows. then we shall put in some tables and chairs and some plain pine shelves for the books and papers that we are going to collect from our friends, and if you like, some of us will give the boys a talk on current events once a week or so." "what's current events?" interposed theo, quickly. "you'll soon find out. now then, theo, we must have somebody to take charge of this room. can you do it?" "yes, indeed." "you know that means that you must be here every evening in the week, from half past seven to ten o'clock. you'll want to be away sometimes, theodore." "yes, i s'pose i will, but i'm ready to stay here all the same until night school begins again." "very well, then we'll let it be so, and we'll try to have the room ready for our opening in a week or two--as soon as we have enough books and papers to begin with." mr. scott locked the door as he spoke, and the two went downstairs. theodore's face was full of satisfaction over the promised reading-room, but it clouded a little as his teacher said, "you mustn't be disappointed, theodore, if very few boys spend their evenings in this room for a while. most of the boys in this neighbourhood are so used to loafing about the streets, that they like that best, especially in hot weather, and, of course, few of them care much for reading. they will have to be educated up to it." "s'pose that's so," replied the boy, thoughtfully, "but they'll like it next winter when it's cold an' stormy outside," he added. "yes," assented the gentleman, adding, as he turned to depart, "theo, mrs. rawson will be home to-morrow. don't you want to come and take supper with us, and hear what she has to say about nan, and the little one?" "oh, yes, thank you, sir," cried theodore, with a happy smile. "all right, then, we shall expect you," and with a pleasant "good-night," mr. scott went away. theodore rather dreaded the supper with mrs. rawson, but he forgot to be shy or ill at ease when she began to tell him about the delightful old farmhouse, and the happy times that nan and the baby were having there. she told him everything she could think of that would be of interest to him, and he listened to it all with an eager face, and a glad heart. if little brother must be far away from him, theodore was happy in the assurance that the child was in such a beautiful place, and that already he had begun to grow stronger and brighter. xv. a strike "no cars a-runnin'! what's up?" exclaimed jimmy, the next morning, as he and theodore passed down tremont street. "there's a strike on. didn't you hear 'bout it yesterday?" replied theo. "no. my! but there'll be a time if all the cars stop." "a pretty bad time--'specially for the folks that live outside the city," theodore answered, soberly. when, after taking his breakfast at the stand, he went back through tremont street, groups of men and boys were standing about in every corner, and everywhere the strike was the one topic of conversation. there were groups of motormen and conductors here and there, some looking grave and anxious, and some careless and indifferent. as the morning advanced the throngs in the streets increased. belated business men hurried along, and clerks and saleswomen with flushed faces and anxious eyes, tried impatiently to force their way through the crowds to get to their places of business. theodore noticed the large number of rough-looking men and boys on the streets, and that most of them seemed full of suppressed excitement. now and then as he passed some of these, he caught a low-spoken threat, or an exultant prophecy of lively times to come. it all made him vaguely uneasy, and he had to force himself to go about his work instead of lingering outside to see what would happen. in one office, while he was busy over the brasses, three gentlemen were discussing the situation, and the boy, as he rubbed and polished, listened intently to what was said. "what do the fellows want? what's their grievance, anyhow?" inquired one man, impatiently, as he flicked the ashes from his cigar. "shorter hours and better pay," replied a second. "of course. that's what strikers always want," put in a third. "they seem to think they're the only ones to be considered." "well, i must confess that i rather sympathise with the men this time," said the second speaker. "i hold that they ought to have shorter hours." "there are plenty that will be glad enough to take their places, though." "i suppose so, but all the same i maintain that these companies that are amply able to treat their men better, ought to do so. i believe in fair play. it pays best in the end to say nothing of the right and wrong of it." "think the company will give in?" questioned one. "guess not. i hear that the superintendent has telegraphed to new york and chicago for men." "there'll be trouble if they come!" exclaimed the first speaker. "i believe," said another man, joining the group, "i believe that sanders is responsible for all this trouble--or the most of it, anyhow. he's a disagreeable, overbearing fellow who--even when he grants a favor, which is seldom enough--does it in a mean, exasperating fashion that takes all the pleasure out of it. i had some dealings with him once, and i never want anything more to do with him. if he'd been half-way decent to the men there would never have been any strike, in my opinion." sanders was the superintendent of the road where the trouble was. "you're right about sanders," said another. "i always have wondered how he could keep his position. these strikes though, never seem to me to do any real good to the cause of the strikers, and a great many of the men realise that too, but these walking delegate fellows get 'round 'em and persuade 'em that a strike is going to end all their troubles--and so it goes. i saw that little sneak--tom steel--buttonholing the motormen, and cramming them with his lies, as i came along just now. there's always mischief where tom steel is." by this time theodore had finished his work, and he left the office, his head full of strikes, superintendents, and walking delegates, and wherever he went that day, the strike was the only subject discussed. he stopped work earlier than usual, finding himself infected with the prevailing unrest and excitement. he found the sidewalks of the principal business streets thronged with men, women and boys, all pressing in one direction. "come along, tode!" cried a shrill voice at his elbow, and he turned to find jimmy hunt, his round face all alight with anticipation of exciting episodes to follow. jimmy began talking rapidly. "they've been smashin' cars, tode, an' haulin' off the motormen an' conductors that want to keep on workin'. there's three cars all smashed up near the sheds, an' the strikers say they'll wreck every one that's run out to-day." "it's a shame!" declared theo, indignantly; yet boy-like, if there was to be a mob fight, he wanted to be on hand and see it all, and he took care not to let jimmy get far ahead of him. as they went on, the crowd continually increased until it became so dense that the boys had to worm their way through it inch by inch. they pressed on, however, and when further progress was impossible, they found standing room on the very front close to the car-track. it had been a noisy, blustering crowd as it surged along the street, but now that it had come to a standstill, a sudden breathless silence fell upon it, and all eyes turned in one direction, gazing eagerly, intently up the track. suddenly, a low, hoarse cry broke from a hundred throats. "it's comin'! it's comin'!" and far up the street a car appeared. the faces of the men grew more hard and determined. those of the women became pale and terrified. the two boys peered eagerly forward, their hearts beating quickly, with dread mingled with a sort of wild excitement. "look, theo--look!" whispered jimmy, pointing to some men who were hastily digging up cobble-stones from the street. "there's carrots, too," he added. "wonder who that little chap is--the one that seems to have so much to say to the car men," theo replied, thoughtfully. "that's tom steel. you've heard of him, hain't ye?" a man at theo's elbow was speaking. "he's responsible for this strike, i think, an' i hope he'll get his pay for it too," he added, grimly. theodore glanced up into the grave face of the speaker and recognised him as a motorman. evidently, he was more bitter against the strikers than against the company. the car was now close at hand, and all at once as with a single impulse, there was a surging forward, and the crowd closed in blocking the track with a solid mass of human beings. the motorman set his teeth hard, and rang the gong loudly, insistently. the conductor hastened through the car and stood beside him. the only passenger was a policeman, who stood on the rear platform calmly gazing at the sea of angry, excited faces on either side. "this car's got to stop!" shouted a big, brawny fellow, springing onto the step and giving the motorman a threatening glance. "this car ain't a-goin' to stop!" retorted the motorman, grimly, as he released the brake. "we'll see about that," and with the words the big fellow seized the man's arms and wrenched his hand off the lever. the conductor sprang to the assistance of his comrade while the policeman ran forward and pushed the man roughly off the car. in the same instant, theo saw carrots snatch a box from a bootblack near him and with a wild yell of defiance, hurl it through one of the car windows. the shrill, taunting cry of the boy, mingled with the crash of the breaking glass, and the sight of the policeman's upraised club, aroused the mob to sudden fury. at once there arose a wild hubbub of shouts, yells and cries, followed by a shower of cobble-stones, and a fierce rush upon the three men on the car, and in two minutes the car was a shattered wreck; the motorman and conductor were being hustled through the crowd with threats and warnings, while the policeman's club had been wrenched from his grasp. he drew his pistol, but with a howl of fury it was knocked from his hand, and the next moment he lay senseless upon the ground, felled by a savage blow from his own club. the taste of conflict, the sight of blood, had roused to a fierce flame the smouldering spirit of lawlessness and insurrection in the mob. a savage rage seemed to have taken possession of the men as, with frantic haste and mad delight, they tore up cobble-stones and built a huge barricade across the track. when it was completed, carrots darted up on top of it and waved a red handkerchief above his head. a hoarse roar of approval broke from the mob, but steel sternly ordered the boy down and hissed in his ear, "you fool! you might have spoiled everything by that! don't ye show that again till i give the signal--d'ye hear?" carrots nodded with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, that made theo shiver. "come on, now. we've done enough for once," steel added, and keeping his hand on the arm of the boy the two disappeared in the throng that was slowly melting away. then, with a long breath, jimmy turned to theodore. "my!" he exclaimed, in a tone of shuddering satisfaction. "it's awful, ain't it, theo! s'pose he's dead?" he gazed with half fearful interest toward the policeman who had been clubbed and about whom a group had gathered. "looks like it. there comes some more p'lice. they'll take care of him. come on, jimmy, le's go home." "oh, no, theo, don't go home, yet. le's go an' see what's goin' on over there," and jimmy turned into a cross street through which the greater portion of the crowd was pressing. "there's something the matter over at the depot," said theodore, as he followed, half willingly and half reluctantly, in jimmy's eager footsteps. about the depot there was usually a constant stream of cars coming and going, but to-day the streets looked bare and deserted. when the boys reached the square only two cars were in sight and these two were approaching, one behind the other, on the same track. as they drew near, they were seen to contain each six or eight policemen, fully armed and with stern, resolute faces. the mob again howled and hooted at the motormen and conductors, and showered them with dirt and small stones, but made no attempt to stop the cars. no cars were run after dark that evening, and the next day they were run only at intervals of an hour and each one carried a heavily armed guard. the strikers and their lawless sympathisers continued to throng the streets and to threaten all car-men who remained on duty. now and then a car window was broken or an obstruction placed on the tracks, but there was no serious outbreak, and it was rumoured that a compromise between the company and the strikers was under consideration and that the trouble would soon be at an end. so a week slipped away. one morning theodore was on his way from one office to another when he heard the sound of drum and fife and saw a body of the strikers marching up washington street. every boy within sight or hearing at once turned in after the procession, and theodore followed with the rest. it was about ten o'clock in the morning and the streets were full of shoppers, many of them ladies who had been afraid to venture out during the past week. as if they had risen out of the ground, scores of rough-looking men and street boys began to push and jostle the shoppers on the narrow sidewalks until many of the frightened women took refuge in the stores, and the shopkeepers, fearful of what might follow, began hastily putting up their shutters and making ready to close their stores, if necessary. these signs of apprehension gave great delight to the rougher element in the streets, and they yelled and hooted uproariously at the cautious shopkeepers, but they did not stop. steadily, swiftly they followed that body of men marching with dark, determined faces to the sound of the fife and the drum. "where are they going?" theo asked of a man at his side and the reply was, "to the car-house, i reckon. they're ripe for mischief now." "what's stirred 'em up again--anything new?" the boy questioned. "many of the strikers have been discharged and new men brought on--five hundred of them--from new york and chicago. i'm afraid we haven't seen the worst of the troubles yet." "look! look!" cried a boy, close beside theodore, and the latter looking ahead, saw a squad of mounted officers coming through a cross street. without stopping to parley they charged into the marching strikers and dispersed them, silencing the fife and drum, and when the furious mob of followers and sympathisers yelled threats and defiance at the officers, the latter charged into the mob riding up to the pavement and forcing the people back into the stores and dwellings behind them. this was as fuel to the fire of anger and insurrection. deep and dire threats passed from lip to lip, and evil purpose hardened into grim determination as the mob slowly surged in the direction of the car-house, after the officers had passed on. the throng was far more quiet now, and far more dangerous. again and again, theodore caught glimpses of tom steel's insignificant face, and like a long, dark shadow, carrots followed ever at his heels. no cars were running now, but the boy heard low-spoken references to new men and "scabs," and "the will of the people," as, almost without effort of his own, he was borne onward with the throng. at a little distance from the car-house the strikers again drew together and stood mostly in gloomy silence, their eyes ever turning toward the closed doors of the great building before them. the vast crowd waited, too, in a silence that seemed to throb and pulse with intense and bitter feeling. the strikers had stopped in the middle of the street, and around them on every side, except toward the car-house, the crowd pressed and surged like a vast human sea. there were not many women in the number gathered there, and the few who were there were of the lowest sort, but men and boys--largely tramps, roughs and street boys--were there in countless numbers, mingled with not a few of the better class. slowly the minutes passed, until an hour had gone by, and it began to be whispered about that the company dared not run any cars. still the men waited, and the crowd waited too. but at last some grew weary of inaction, and when steel proposed that they spend the time barricading the tracks, his suggestion met with a quick response. from a neighbouring street the men brought belgian blocks and piled them on the track. they pulled down tree boxes and broke off branches of trees, and when an ice wagon came along they took possession of the huge blocks of ice and capped their barricade with these. suddenly the doors of the car-house were thrown open, and a car rolled slowly out. there was an instant of breathless silence, followed by a roar like that of a thousand savage beasts, as the strikers saw that new men were running the car, and that it carried half a score of policemen, armed to the teeth. as it approached the barricade some of the officers sprang off and began to throw down the obstructions, the others standing ready to fire upon the mob if necessary. the crowd showered bitter words and taunts upon the officers, but did not venture to molest them. the motorman stood with his hand on the lever, ready to start the car the moment the track should be clear. carrots, with a pack of street arabs at his heels, jeered at the new motorman, climbing up on the car and taunting him, until, at last, his patience was exhausted, and he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked one of the boys off the car. the boy fell heavily to the ground, and instantly the shrill voice of carrots was uplifted, crying frantically, "he's killed billy green! he's killed billy green! pitch in to him, boys! pitch into him!" billy green was already picking himself up, with no worse injury than a cut in his cheek, but the mob took up the cry, and, "pitch into him! pitch into him! kill him! kill him!" was shouted by hundreds of savage voices as the crowd pressed about the car. they tried to drag the motorman off, in spite of the guards, they smashed the car windows, they tore out the cushions, they beat the policemen, and wrenched their clubs out of their hands. finally several of the officers drew their pistols and fired into the air. at this the crowd fell back for a second, and the turmoil of shouts and cries that had been deafening a moment before, died away in sudden silence--a threatening, dangerous silence as of a wild beast about to spring. into this instant of silence broke a new cry from the outskirts of the crowd. "it's the mayor. make way for the mayor!" "no, it's the bishop. make way for the bishop! stand back! stand back!" at this cry, theodore turned like a flash and gazed in the direction in which all eyes were turning. there was no mistake. the bishop was surely one of the occupants of a carriage that was slowly forcing its way through the throng. with his heart beating with a wild joy; his eyes glowing; the colour coming and going in his cheeks, theodore stood still until the carriage stopped. then sliding through the smallest spaces, darting between feet, this way and that, the boy managed somehow to reach the side of the carriage, where he stood with his hand on one of the wheels, his eager, burning gaze fastened on the face he loved so well. instinctively he pulled off his cap, but he made no attempt to attract the attention of the bishop. he uttered no word or sound. he only stood with all his loving heart in his eyes, and looked. the bishop's expression was very grave, as he gazed over that vast sea of faces. he turned to speak to the gentleman who sat beside him, and as he did so, his eyes fell on theodore's eloquent upturned countenance. a quick, bright smile flashed across his face, and reaching down, he laid his hand for a moment gently upon the boy's bared head. before he could speak the silence was again broken by a cry from many lips--a cry of warning now, rather than a threat, though again the words were, "stop the car! stop the car! the bishop! the bishop!" the bishop's carriage had come to a standstill directly across the track, the crowd being here so dense that it was impossible for the driver to go even a yard farther. the policemen had cleared the barricade from the track, and then sprung hastily on the car again. evidently they had not noticed the dangerous position of the carriage, and now the motorman started the car forward. the man was a stranger in the city. he knew nothing about the bishop--cared nothing about him. he was there to run that car, and he meant to do it or die in the attempt, so when the crowd shouted, "the bishop! the bishop!" he yelled in reply, "get out of the way then if you don't want him hurt. this car's a-going through, bishop or no bishop!" the car was already in motion. the crowd pushed and struggled and tried to fall back and let the carriage pass over the track, but it was impossible, so closely were the people packed together there. [illustration: "stop the car!"] on the car came, while for an instant the crowd waited with tense breath for what should follow. "loyal unto death." the words rang through theodore's brain, as in that instant he sprang swiftly forward and flung himself across the track directly in front of the slowly moving car. a cry of horror broke from the throng and a score of hands were stretched forth to draw the boy from his dangerous position, but he clung to the fender and would not be removed. "stop the car!" he pleaded. "oh stop the car or the bishop will be killed!" never a thought of his own danger had the boy,--for he would have given his young life freely and joyfully for his bishop, but the sacrifice was not needed. the police, now seeing the danger, forced the furious motorman to stop the car until the crowd had had time to fall back and the carriage had safely crossed the track. then the car passed on followed by threatening glances and menacing words from the angry throng. but now the bishop arose in the carriage, and as he stood in the majesty of his great height with the light of a pure heart and a holy life illumining his face--once again a hush fell upon that vast gathering, and when the rich voice rolled out upon the still air, uttering its message of heavenly love, and strong, sweet counsels of peace and justice, the hearts of the people were melted within them. hard, brutal men and rude street boys listened, feeling a strange power that they could not understand, thrilling their souls, and compelling them, in spite of their own wills, to follow the counsels of this servant of god. no other man in that great city was honoured and loved by rich and poor alike, as was the bishop. to no other would such a crowd in such a mood have hearkened, but they stood in silence and listened breathlessly as if they feared to lose a single word. they listened as if they knew that never again would such a message come to them from those lips. stern, bitter faces softened, and hard eyes dimmed with tears as the burning, melting words fell on the listening ears. women wept, and men forgot their hatreds and their grievances. only here and there an evil face grew more evil as the bishop's words worked upon the hearts and consciences of that vast throng. tom steel dropped his mask of careless indifference, as he tried to stem the tide by whispering sneers and taunts to one and another, but they would have none of his counsels now, and after a while he slunk away with a black scowl on his face and evil words on his lips, and still beside him slouched the gaunt, ragged figure with its crown of rough red hair; and no one bade them stay; no one listened to their wicked whispers, for the bishop's words were filling every ear and every heart. at last, the bishop stretched forth his hands and pronounced a tender blessing upon them all, and then he drove slowly away, and when he was gone rough men looked into each other's faces, half wondering, half ashamed, as they moved away. they had no desire now for rioting and lawlessness--for deeds of blood and violence. the spirit of god had touched their hearts. the atmosphere in which the bishop lived and moved and had his being had for the time enveloped even these. no wonder then, that it had wrought such a transformation in the heart and life of one little street boy. that same night two hundred of the city clergymen united in an appeal to the company to submit the troubles to arbitration, and to this both the company and the strikers agreed. the result was that although all that the men asked was not granted, yet their hours were shortened, and an increase of pay promised at the beginning of the year. xvi. called to go up higher as for theodore--when the bishop's carriage had driven away he went home in a state of joyous expectation. he thought how he would go, on the morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two would have together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so often longed to tell him. he knew well how interested the bishop would be in all that he--theodore--was trying to do for the great captain, and he longed to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and so experienced. on his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs and a neat necktie. "'cause i want to look as well's i can when he sees me," he said to himself. all that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the next day. he realty _could_ not wait any longer, but he found it hard to decide what would be the best hour for him to go. he knew that the bishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almost sure to have guests with him. in the afternoon, too, he seldom had a leisure moment. indeed he never had any leisure moments, but theodore decided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelve and one o'clock. all night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the house and once he awoke in great distress, imagining that brown had sternly refused him admittance. he could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else to share his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in the two houses, he carried some little gift. it was his thank-offering, though he did not know it. small gifts they were, all--a flower to one, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extra loaf to a hard-working mother--little things all, but given in the name of the great captain though his name was not once mentioned. so, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went once more through the streets toward the bishop's house. theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyes was honest and true. he was able now to possess two suits and he wore his best one with the clean linen and the new tie. many a mother might have been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son. the remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over theodore as he rang the bell at the bishop's door, but brown did not refuse him admittance. on the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the door as he said, in a low tone, "come to mrs. martin's room," and once again theodore followed him across the wide hall. mrs. martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell upon the boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when she said, "he talked about you last evening, theodore, and told us what you did for him. you've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heart sank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixed entreatingly on the housekeeper's face. his throat felt dry and stiff, and he dared not trust himself to speak. mrs. martin too, sat down and wiped her eyes as she went on, "he ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikers yesterday. he wasn't well enough, and i told the gentlemen so when they came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said he would go. he came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in the night." theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his trembling lips. the housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered as if he had spoken. "it's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live." at these words, theodore's head went down on the table and he sat as if stunned. his trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. eight months before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width of the continent separated him from his friend. now, what a joy it would have been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well in california. at last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice, "how long?" mrs. martin understood. she answered, sadly, "a few days--possibly only a few hours. he lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. i think," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "i think you can see him for a moment if you would like to." theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "come then," and led the way to an upper room. the boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imagined that a boy could have. the sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. theodore stood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and so changed even in the few hours since last he saw it. he longed to press his lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, but he did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room in silence. mrs. martin followed him down the stairs. at the door he stopped and looked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away without a word. he knew that never again should he see his friend alive, and he did not. before the next night, the bishop had been called to go up higher. when the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was a request that no flowers be sent. theodore did not notice this item, and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of the roses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and mrs. martin herself placed them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laid upon theodore's head. all the gold of the earth, had it been offered to the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of that last look and touch. on the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held was crowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast as that to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but what a difference was there in look and manner between the two great gatherings! here, every face was softened, every heart tender with grief. they called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lost one who loved them--one who was indeed their friend. but not one, whether within or without the church, not one grieved more deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than did the lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of the great organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-draped coffin was borne out to its burial. the boy stood there until the last of the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forward and, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery. when all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if there was a great blank in his life--a blank that could never be filled; that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that evening mr. scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's sore heart. his teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be "the bishop's shadow." to theodore, his small ministries to the forlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing when he recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the days went on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life. mr. scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became more unselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who needed his help. it was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed to help seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was carrots. four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike had been arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. of this number were tom steel, and carrots, whose red banner had more than once caught the eye of the police. jimmy hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that carrots had got his deserts at last, but theodore was troubled and disheartened over the matter. he went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff and surly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes of carrots followed him wistfully. he did not go again to the prison but, though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys of fourteen, yet, during those two years of carrots' imprisonment, never a month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter from theodore. he never replied to any of these letters, but as theodore expected no replies, that made no difference. xvii. final glimpses as the evenings lengthened, the club grew in favour among the boys of the neighbourhood, and often mr. scott wondered to see how theodore succeeded in maintaining good order and in keeping up the interest of the boys, without setting them against him. he was full of ingenious ideas for interesting them in something helpful, and, as he expressed it, "lifting 'em up a peg." he grew to be exceedingly popular in the neighbourhood that winter, but he never discovered the fact. he was too busy thinking of and for others, to think much about himself. after a while he gave up all interest in his stand to jimmy hunt and devoted himself wholly to his brass-polishing business. it outgrew his own time and strength before the new year, and then he hired boys to work for him, and he spent his time superintending their work and extending his list of employers. he paid the boys as liberally as he could, but he would tolerate no loafing or careless work, so that at first he had some trouble in getting satisfactory assistants, but once secured, they seldom left his employ. the time came when he had a long list of such employees, and when a large part of the brass work in the city was under his care--but this was later. nan and little brother did not come back to the city in the fall. mr. scott had never intended that they should if he could prevent it. long before the summer was over, nan had taken a daughter's place in mrs. hyde's childless home and little brother had become the cherished pet of the household. so warm and deep was the love given to them both that even nan's sensitive pride could not object to remaining there where she knew that she could give as much as she received in love and service, and with a glad and grateful heart she abandoned all thought of returning to the city, and knew that she had at last found a real home. but she did not forget her older friend, theodore, and she told her new friends so much about him that they desired to see and know him also. so it came about that one of her letters to him contained a cordial invitation from mrs. hyde for him to spend thanksgiving week at her home. mr. scott gladly agreed to attend to the club-room and to keep an eye on the polishing business as far as he could, so theodore accepted the invitation and began to look forward with delight to seeing little brother and nan again. he could hardly realise that it was he himself--poor theodore bryan--who, one bright november morning, sat in the swift-flying car and looked out on the autumn landscape on his way to spend thanksgiving as mrs. hyde's guest, and to see again the two whom he loved to call his "folks." [illustration: thanksgiving reunion.] as the train drew near the station at which he was to stop, theo wondered who would meet him. he hoped nan would. indeed, he felt sure that she would, for, of course, mrs. hyde would not know him any more than he would know her. so, as the cars ran along by the platform, he gazed eagerly out of the car window, and he felt a little chill of disappointment because nan was nowhere in sight. there was a comfortable carriage in waiting for somebody. he thought that it might be mrs. hyde's--but no, that could not be, either, for a big, rosy-cheeked laddie, with mischievous blue eyes, sat on the seat, flourishing a whip in true boyish fashion. that didn't look much like heavy-eyed, white-lipped little brother, and there was not a girl anywhere in sight, except a tall, handsome one in a beautiful grey suit, trimmed with fur. this girl stood near the carriage and seemed to be watching for some one. "i do wish nan had come to meet me," theo thought, as he stepped off the train, and then the tall girl in the grey suit was looking eagerly into his face, with both hands outstretched, crying, "oh, theo! how glad i am to see you!" and he was seated in the carriage with that rosy-cheeked, merry-faced little laddie, between him and nan, before he fairly realised that this was little brother, grown well and strong, as even nan had not dared hope he would do in so few months. and he had not forgotten his old friend either--little brother had not,--or, if he had, he renewed the friendship very speedily, and during theo's stay the two were as inseparable as of old. it was a happy week for nan, for she could see how theodore had been growing in the best ways during the months of their separation, and she was not a bit disappointed in him, but proud to have her new friends know him. and, as for the boy, it was a glimpse into a new life for him--that week in a lovely christian home. he made up his mind that, sometime, he would have just such a home of his own, and he went back to the city well content to leave these two in such tender hands and amid such delightful surroundings. through all the winter that followed, theodore was busy and happy. when the night-school began, he coaxed mr. hunt to take charge of the clubroom, for theodore wanted to learn and fit himself for better work by and by, and with such a purpose he made rapid progress in his studies. but, busy as he was, he still found time for his saturday evening work for the florist, that he might continue his sunday flower mission, for he knew that those few blossoms were all of brightness and beauty that ever entered into some of those shut-in, poverty-pinched lives about him. then, at christmas time, mr. scott and mrs. rawson and the king's daughters circle helped him prepare a christmas tree in the clubroom; a tree that bore a gift for every child and woman in the two houses. the children almost went wild over that, the first christmas tree that many of them had ever seen; and then the eleven girls in their pretty winter dresses served all the company with cake and cream. theodore was too happy and busy to eat his share, but that was all right, for teddy hunt had no trouble at all in disposing of two portions. when the last candle had ceased to glimmer among the green branches, and the last bit of cake and spoonful of cream had disappeared, the company slowly and lingeringly departed, already looking forward to just such another christmas three hundred and sixty-five days later. then with many a "merry christmas" to theodore, the girls and mrs. rawson took their departure, and mr. scott followed them, only stopping a moment, to say, "we left your christmas gift in your room, my boy. i hope you will like it." wondering what his gift might be, the boy put out the lights and locked the clubroom door and hurried down to his room, remembering then that his teacher had asked for his key earlier in the evening. the key was in the door now, and there was a light in the room. theodore pushed open the door and then stopped short with a cry of delighted surprise, for he never would have recognised this as the bare little room he had left. a neat rug covered the floor, fresh shades hung at the windows; a white iron bedstead with fluffy mattress and fresh white bedding stood where the old bedstead had been, and in place of the pine table and chairs were a neat oak bureau, and a washstand with toilet set and towels, three good, comfortable chairs and a desk that made theo's eyes shine with delight. but best of all was a picture that hung on the wall facing the door--a picture of the bishop with that tender look in the eyes that the boy remembered so well. on a card, slipped in the corner of the frame, was written, "from nan and little brother," and theodore, as he looked and looked, felt that there was nothing left for him to desire. he was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at the picture, when there was a knock at the door and as he opened it in flocked the eleven girls with mrs. rawson and mr. scott behind them. "do you like it, theodore?" "we _couldn't_ go home till we saw you here," they exclaimed, and laughed and chattered joyously when they saw that the boy was too pleased and delighted for any words, and then they went away with their own hearts full of the joy of giving, to write a circular letter to nan telling her all about it. after this the winter passed quietly to theodore. he was well and strong, and he was busy day and evening, and he was as happy a boy as could be found in all that city. and the weeks and months slipped away until two years had gone by, and it was time for carrots to be released. theodore ascertained the day and hour when he would leave the penitentiary and met him at the very gate with a warm and friendly greeting, and took him at once to his own room. he searched the pale face of the boy, wondering whether there really was in it a change for the better, or not. it seemed to him less sullen and more thoughtful than it had been two years before, but he was not sure. certainly, carrots was very quiet. it seemed almost as if he had forgotten how to talk. he looked about theo's neat, comfortable room, evidently noting the changes there, but he made no comment. theodore had set out a table with a good supper for the two, and carrots ate as if he enjoyed the food. when the meal was ended, he leaned back in his chair, and as he looked straight into theodore's eyes, said slowly, "what made ye do it, tode?" "do what--bring you here to supper?" "yes, an' write all them letters to me, an'--an' everything?" "why, carrots, it's this way. i served another fellow an' awful mean trick once, and i've been trying mighty hard to find him, and make it up to him, but i haven't found him yet, and so i've tried to do a little for you instead of him--don't you see?" carrots nodded, and theo fancied that he looked a little disappointed. "then 'twasn't really me you wanted to help?" he said, gravely. "yes, 'twas, too," answered theo, quickly. "i'd have done what i could for you, anyhow, carrots, but i do _wish_ i could find him," he added, sorrowfully. "what's his name?" inquired carrots. "jack finney." "what?" exclaimed the boy, staring at theodore as if he could not believe his ears. "jack finney," repeated theo, wonderingly. "well, i never! tode--_i'm_ jack finney." "you?" cried theodore, starting up excitedly. "you mrs. russell's jack finney?" the boy nodded again. "i guess so. i was in her class in the mission school." theo's face was all alight as he exclaimed, "oh, carrots--no, jack, i'll never call you carrots again--jack, i'm too glad for anything! and now look here, jack finney, you've _got_ to be the right kind of a chap from this on. i won't let you go wrong. i _can't_ let you go wrong, jack. it--it seems as if it'll be all my fault if you do." and jack, looking again straight into theodore's eyes, answered slowly, "i guess i've had 'bout enough o' crooked doin's. if you'll stand by me, i'll make a try on the other line, anyhow." "i'll stand by you every time, jack," cried theodore, earnestly. and he did, through months of alternate hope and discouragement, for jack did not find the upward road an easy one. there were the bad habits of years always pulling him down, and there were old companions in evil ever ready to coax him back to their company, and more than once they succeeded for a while; but theodore would not give him up, and in the end, the boy had his reward, for jack finney became his fellow-soldier under the great captain, and his faithful helper in his loving ministry among christ's little ones. little nettie. [illustration: mr. mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road.] little nettie; or, home sunshine. by the author of "the wide, wide world," etc., etc. london: frederick warne & co. and new york. contents. chapter page i.--_saturday evening's work_ ii.--_sunday's rest_ iii.--_nettie's garret_ iv.--_the brown cloak in november_ v.--_the new blanket_ vi.--_the house-raising_ vii.--_the waffles_ viii.--_the golden city_ little nettie; or, home sunshine. chapter i. _saturday evening's work._ "tender and only beloved in the sight of my mother."-- _prov._ iv. . down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. it ran over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one, as if there had been no water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it ran. on one side of the little stream a worn footpath took its course among the bushes; and down this path, one summer's afternoon, came a woman and a girl. they had pails to fill at the spring: the woman had a large wooden one and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with a little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used for that. the pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was singing; and the woman and girl turned and went up the path again. after getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright light from the window of a house on which the setting sun was shining. half-way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water is heavy, and the tin pail, which was so light before it was filled, had made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch all the way from the spring. they stopped to rest, and even the woman had a very weary, jaded look. "i feel as if i shall give up some of these days," she exclaimed. "oh, no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. she was panting, with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look; only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it. "i shall," said the woman. "one can't stand everything,--for ever." the little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there, she struck up the sweet air and words,-- "'there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for you.'" "yes, in the grave!" said the woman bitterly. "there's no rest short of that--for mind or body." "oh, yes, mother dear. 'for we which have believed do enter into rest.' the lord jesus don't make us wait." "i believe you eat the bible and sleep on the bible," said the woman, with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "i am glad it rests you, nettie." "and you, mother." "sometimes," mrs. mathieson answered with a sigh. "but there's your father going to bring home a boarder, nettie." "a boarder, mother!--what for?" "heaven knows!--if it isn't to break my back and my heart together. i thought i had enough to manage before, but here's this man coming, and i've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night." "who is it, mother?" "it's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said mrs. mathieson. "but where can he sleep?" nettie asked, after a moment of thinking. her mother paused. "there's no room but yours he can have. barry won't be moved." "where shall i sleep, mother?" "there's no place but up in the attic. i'll see what i can do to fit up a corner for you--if i ever can get time," said mrs. mathieson, taking up her pail. nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile again till they reached the house. they went round to the front door, because the back door belonged to another family. at the door, as they set down their pails again before mounting the stairs, nettie smiled at her mother very placidly, and said, "don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; i'll see to it in time. i can do it just as well." mrs. mathieson made no answer, but groaned internally, and they went up the flight of steps which led to their part of the house. the ground floor was occupied by somebody else. a little entry-way received the wooden pail of water, and with the tin one nettie went into the room used by the family. it was her father and mother's sleeping-room, their bed standing in one corner. it was the kitchen apparently, for a small cooking-stove was there, on which nettie put the tea-kettle when she had filled it. and it was the common living-room also; for the next thing she did was to open a cupboard and take out cups and saucers, and arrange them on a leaf table which stood toward one end of the room. the furniture was wooden and plain; the woodwork of the windows was unpainted; the cups and plates were of the commonest kind; and the floor had no covering but two strips of rag carpeting; nevertheless the whole was tidy and very clean, showing constant care. mrs. mathieson had sunk into a chair as one who had no spirit to do anything, and watched her little daughter setting the table with eyes which seemed not to see her. they gazed inwardly at something she was thinking of. "mother, what is there for supper?" "there is nothing. i must make some porridge." and mrs. mathieson got up from her chair. "sit you still, mother, and i'll make it. i can." "if both our backs are to be broken," said mrs. mathieson, "i'd rather mine would break first." and she went on with her preparations. "but you don't like porridge," said nettie. "you didn't eat anything last night." "that's nothing, child. i can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain wasn't quite so full." nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully. "i wish you had something you liked, mother! if only i was a little older, wouldn't it be nice? i could earn something then, and i would bring you home things that you liked out of my own money." this was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some fancied and pleasant possibility. the gleam was so catching, mrs. mathieson turned from her porridge-pot, which she was stirring, to give a very heartfelt kiss to nettie's lips; then she stirred on, and the shadow came over her face again. "dear," she said, "just go in barry's room and straighten it up a little before he comes in--will you? i haven't had a minute to do it, all day; and there won't be a bit of peace if he comes in and it isn't in order." nettie turned and opened another door, which let her into a small chamber used as somebody's bed-room. it was all brown like the other, a strip of the same carpet in the middle of the floor, and a small cheap chest of drawers, and a table. the bed had not been made up, and the tossed condition of the bed-clothes spoke for the strength and energy of the person that used them, whoever he was. a pair of coarse shoes were in the middle of the whole; another pair, or rather a pair of half-boots, out at the toes, were in the middle of the floor; stockings,--one under the bed and one under the table. on the table was a heap of confusion; and on the little bureau were to be seen pieces of wood, half-cut and uncut, with shavings, and the knife and saw that had made them. old newspapers, and school-books, and a slate, and two kites, with no end of tails, were lying over every part of the room that happened to be convenient; also an ink-bottle and pens, with chalk and resin and a medley of unimaginable things beside, that only boys can collect together and find delight in. if nettie sighed as all this hurly-burly met her eye, it was only an internal sigh. she set about patiently bringing things to order. first she made the bed, which it took all her strength to do, for the coverlets were of a very heavy and coarse manufacture of cotton and woollen mixed, blue and white; and then gradually she found a way to bestow the various articles in barry's apartment, so that things looked neat and comfortable. but perhaps it was a little bit of a sign of nettie's feelings, that she began softly to sing to herself,-- "'there is rest for the weary.'" "hallo!" burst in a rude boy of some fifteen years, opening the door from the entry,--"who's puttin' my room to rights?" a very gentle voice said, "i've done it, barry." "what have you done with that pine log?" "here it is,--in the corner behind the bureau." "don't you touch it, now, to take it for your fire,--mind, nettie! where's my kite?" "you won't have time to fly it now, barry; supper will be ready in two minutes." "what have you got?" "the same kind we had last night." "_i_ don't care for supper." barry was getting the tail of his kite together. "but please, barry, come now; because it will give mother so much more trouble if you don't. she has the things to clear away after you're done, you know." "trouble! so much talk about trouble! _i_ don't mind trouble. i don't want any supper, i tell you." nettie knew well enough he would want it by-and-bye, but there was no use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. barry got his kite together and went off. then came a heavier step on the stairs, which she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was ready. the tea was made, and mrs. mathieson put the smoking dish of porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in--a tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face enough if its expression had been different and if its hue had not been that of a purplish-red flush. he came to the table and silently sat down as he took a survey of what was on it. "give me a cup of tea! have you got no bread, sophia?" "nothing but what you see. i hoped you would bring home some money, mr. mathieson. i have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. i don't know what you expect a lodger to live on." "live on his board,--that'll give you enough. but you want something to begin with. i'd go out and get one or two things--but i'm so confoundedly tired, i can't." mrs. mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet for her bonnet. "i'll go, mother! let me go, please. i want to go," exclaimed nettie, eagerly. "i can get it. what shall i get, father?" slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things; as quickly the child put hers on. "what shall i get, father?" "well, you can go down the street to jackson's, and get what your mother wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of meal and a quart of treacle. and ask him to give you a nice piece of pork out of his barrel." "she can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go yourself, mr. mathieson. that would be a great deal more than the child can carry, or i either." "then i'll go twice, mother: it isn't far; i'd like to go. i'll get it. please give me the money, father." he cursed and swore at her for answer. "go along, and do as you are bid, without all this chaffering! go to jackson's, and tell him you want the things, and i'll give him the money to-morrow. he knows me." nettie knew he did, and stood her ground. her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and foolish. "you know i can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and to-morrow is sunday." he cursed sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket and threw some money across the table to her. he was just in a state not to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where, if he had been quite himself, he would have given shillings. nettie took them without any remark, and her basket, and went out. it was just sundown. the village lay glittering in the light that would be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing high, showed all bright in the sun-beams, from its sparkling vane at the top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. nettie's home was in a branch road, a few steps from the main street of the village, that led up to the church at one end of it. all along that street the sunlight lay, on the grass, and the roadway, and the side-walks, and the tops of a few elm trees. the street was empty; it was most people's supper-time. nettie turned the corner and went down the village. she went slowly: her little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and back and arms and head all seemed tired too. but nettie never thought it hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown and shawl she wore; for mrs. mathieson had seen better days. and besides that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this saturday night. nettie's gown was shabby too--yes, very shabby, compared with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow nettie was not ashamed. she did not think of it now, as her slow steps took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do about the money. her father had given her two or three times as much, she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just got in his week's wages. what should nettie do? might she keep and give to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and from her father they could never get it again. he had his own ways of disposing of what he earned, and very little indeed went to the wants of his wife and daughter. what might nettie do! she pondered, swinging her basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street turned off again, and where the store of mr. jackson stood. there she found barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for. "oh, barry, how good!" exclaimed nettie; "you can help me carry my things home." "i'll know the reason first, though," answered barry. "what are you going to get?" "father wants a bag of corn-meal, and a piece of pork, and some treacle; and you know i can't carry them all, barry. i've got to get bread and milk besides." "hurrah!" said barry; "now we'll have fried cakes! i'll tell you what i'll do, nettie--i'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some to-night for supper." "oh, i can't, barry! i've got so much else to do, and it's saturday night." "very good--get your things home yourself, then." barry turned away, and nettie made her bargains. he still stood by, however, and watched her. when the pork and the meal and the treacle were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to carry it. how many journeys to and fro would it cost her? "barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so, i'll make you the cakes." "be quick, then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for i'm getting hungry." nettie went a few steps farther on the main road of the village, which was little besides one long street, and not very long either, and went in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the rest. it admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop--at least there was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and before, not behind it, sat a spruce little woman sewing. she jumped up as nettie entered. by the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a frenchwoman. she spoke english quite well, but rather slowly. "i want two loaves of bread, mrs. august, and a pint of milk, if you please." "how will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the time." "oh yes, i can," said nettie, cheerfully. "i can manage. they are not heavy." "no, i hope not," said the frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but two loaves are not one, no more. is your mother well?" she then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out the milk. nettie answered, her mother was well. "and you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "somebody is tired this evening." "yes," said nettie, brightly; "but i don't mind. one must be tired sometimes. thank you, ma'am." the woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in her hands, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went up the street. "one must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her capable little head. "i should like to hear her say 'one must be rested sometimes;' but i do not hear that." so perhaps nettie thought, as she went homeward. it would have been very natural. now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the soft shades of evening were gathering, and lights twinkled in windows. nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. perhaps she wished her saturday's work was all done, like other people's. all i can tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street, all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,-- "no need of the sun in that day which never is followed by night;" and that when she got home she ran upstairs quite briskly, and came in with a very placid face, and told her mother she had had a pleasant walk--which was perfectly true. "god bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my heart!" there was only time for this little dialogue, for which mr. mathieson's slumbers had given a chance. but then barry entered, and noisily claimed nettie's promise. and without a cloud crossing her sweet brow, she made the cakes, and baked them on the stove, and served barry until he had enough; nor ever said how weary she was of being on her feet. there were more cakes left, and mrs. mathieson saw to it that nettie sat down and ate them; and then sent her off to bed, without suffering her to do anything more; though nettie pleaded to be allowed to clear away the dishes. mrs. mathieson did that, and then sat down to darns and patches on various articles of clothing, till the old clock of the church on the hill tolled out solemnly the hour of twelve all over the village. chapter ii. _sunday's rest._ "this is the day which the lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it."--_psalm_ cxviii, . nettie's room was the only room on that floor besides her mother's and barry's. it was at the back of the house, with a pleasant look-out over the trees and bushes between it and the spring. over these the view went to distant hills and fields, that always looked pretty in all sorts of lights, nettie thought. besides that, it was a clean, neat little room; bare, to be sure, without even barry's strip of rag carpet; but on a little black table lay nettie's bible and sunday-school books; and each window had a chair; and a chest of drawers held all her little wardrobe and a great deal of room to spare besides; and the cot-bed in one corner was nicely made up. it was a very comfortable-looking room to nettie. "so this is the last night i shall sleep here!" she thought as she went in. "to-morrow i must go up to the attic. well, i can pray there just the same; and god will be with me there just the same." it was a comfort; but it was the only one nettie could think of in connection with her removal. the attic was no room, but only a little garret used as a lumber-place; not boarded up nor plastered at all; nothing but the beams and the side boarding for the walls, and nothing but the rafters and the shingles between it and the sky. besides which, it was full of lumber of one sort and another. how nettie was to move up there the next day, being sunday, she could not imagine; but she was so tired that as soon as her head touched her pillow she fell asleep, and forgot to think about it. the next thing was the bright morning light rousing her, and the joyful thought that it was sunday morning. a beautiful day it was. the eastern light was shining over upon nettie's distant hills with all sorts of fresh, lovely colours, and promise of what the coming hours would bring. nettie looked at them lovingly, for she was very fond of them, and had a great many thoughts about those hills. "as the mountains are round about jerusalem, so the lord is round about his people;"--that was one thing they made her think of. she thought of it now as she was dressing, and it gave her the feeling of being surrounded with a mighty and strong protection on every side. it made nettie's heart curiously glad, and her tongue speak joyful things; for when she knelt down to pray she was full of thanksgiving. the next thing was that, taking her tin pail, nettie set off down to the spring to get water to boil her kettle. it was so sweet and pleasant--no other spring could supply nicer water. the dew brushed from the bushes and grass as she went by; and from every green thing there went up a fresh dewy smell, that was reviving. the breath of the summer wind, moving gently, touched her cheek and fluttered her hair, and said god had given a beautiful day to the world; and nettie thanked him in her heart, and went on rejoicing. sunday was nettie's holiday, and sunday school and church were her delight. and though she went in all weathers, and nothing would keep her, yet sunshine is sunshine, and she felt so this morning. so she gaily filled her pail at the spring and trudged back with it to the house. the next thing was to tap at her mother's door. mrs. mathieson opened it, in her night-gown; she was just up, and looked as if her night's sleep had been all too short for her. "why, nettie! is it late?" she said, as nettie and the tin pail came in. "no, mother; it's just good time. you get dressed, and i'll make the fire ready. it's beautiful out, mother!" mrs. mathieson made no answer, and nettie went to work with the fire. it was an easy matter to put in some paper and kindle the light wood; and when the kettle was on, nettie went round the room, softly setting it to rights as well as she could; then glanced at her father, still sleeping. "i can't set the table yet, mother." "no, child; go off, and i'll see to the rest.--if i can get folks up, at least," said mrs. mathieson, somewhat despondingly. sunday morning that was a doubtful business, she and nettie knew. nettie went to her own room to carry out a plan she had. if she could manage to get her things conveyed up to the attic without her mother knowing it, just so much labour and trouble would be spared her, and her mother might have a better chance of some rest that day. little enough, with a lodger coming that evening! to get her things up there,--that was all nettie would do to-day; but that must be done. the steep stairs to the attic went up from the entry-way, just outside of nettie's door. she went up the first time to see what room there was to bestow anything. the little garret was strewn all over with things carelessly thrown in merely to get them out of the way. there was a small shutter window in each gable. one was open, just revealing the utter confusion, but half showing the dust that lay on everything. the other window, the back one, was fairly shut up by a great heap of boxes and barrels piled against it. in no part was there a clear space or a hopeful opening. nettie stood aghast for some moments, not knowing what to do. "but if i don't, mother will have to do it," she thought. it nerved her little arm, and one thought of her invisible protector nerved her heart, which had sunk at first coming up. softly she moved and began her operations, lest her mother downstairs should hear and find out what she was about before it was done. sunday too! but there was no help for it. notwithstanding the pile of boxes, she resolved to begin at the end with the closed window; for near the other there were things she could not move: an old stove, a wheelbarrow, a box of heavy iron tools, and some bags of charcoal, and other matters. by a little pushing and coaxing, nettie made a place for the boxes, and then began her task of removing them. one by one, painfully, for some were unwieldy and some were weighty, they travelled across in nettie's arms, or were shoved and turned over and across the floor, from the window to a snug position under the eaves, where she stowed them. barry would have been a good hand at this business, not to speak of his father; but nettie knew there was no help to be expected from either of them, and the very thought of them did not come into her head. mr. mathieson, provided he worked at his trade, thought the "women folks" might look after the house; barry considered that when he had got through the heavy labours of school, he had done his part of the world's work. so nettie toiled on with her boxes and barrels. they scratched her arms; they covered her clean face with dust; they tried her strength; but every effort saved one to her mother, and nettie never stopped except to gather breath and rest. the last thing of all under the window was a great old chest. nettie could not move it, and she thought it might stay there very conveniently for a seat. all the rest of the pile she cleared away, and then opened the window. there was no sash--nothing but a wooden shutter fastened with a hook. nettie threw it open. there, to her great joy, behold, she had the very same view of her hills, all shining in the sun now. only this window was higher than her old one and lifted her up more above the tops of the trees, and gave a better and clearer and wider view of the distant open country she liked so much. nettie was greatly delighted, and refreshed herself with a good look out and a breath of fresh air before she began her labours again. that gave the dust a little chance to settle too. there was a good deal to do yet before she could have a place clear for her bed, not to speak of anything more. however, it was done at last, the floor brushed up, all ready, and the top of the chest wiped clean; and next nettie set about bringing all her things up the stairs and setting them here, where she could. her clothes, her little bit of a looking-glass, her bible and books and slate, even her little washstand, she managed to lug up to the attic, with many a journey and much pains. but it was about done before her mother called her to breakfast. the two lagging members of the family had been roused at last, and were seated at the table. "why, what have you been doing, child? how you look!" said mrs. mathieson. "how do i look?" said nettie. "queer enough," said her father. nettie laughed, and hastened to another subject: she knew if they got upon this there would be some disagreeable words before it was over. she had made up her mind what to do, and now handed her father the money remaining from her purchases. "you gave me too much, father, last night," she said, simply; "here is the rest." mr. mathieson took it and looked at it. "did i give you all this?" "yes, father." "did you pay for what you got, besides?" "yes." he muttered something which was very like an oath in his throat, and looked at his little daughter, who was quietly eating her breakfast. something touched him unwontedly. "you're an honest little girl," he said. "there! you may have that for yourself." and he tossed her a shilling. you could see, by a little streak of pink colour down each of nettie's cheeks, that some great thought of pleasure had started into her mind. "for myself, father?" she repeated. "all for yourself," said mr. mathieson, buttoning up his money with a very satisfied air. nettie said no more, only ate her breakfast a little quicker after that. it was time, too; for the late hours of some of the family always made her in a hurry about getting to sunday school; and the minute nettie had done, she got her bonnet--her sunday bonnet--the best she had to wear--and set off. mrs. mathieson never let her wait for anything at home _that_ morning. this was nettie's happy time. it never troubled her that she had nothing but a sun-bonnet of white muslin, nicely starched and ironed, while almost all the other girls that came to the school had little straw bonnets trimmed with blue and pink, and yellow and green ribbons; and some of them wore silk bonnets. nettie did not even think of it; she loved her sunday lesson, and her bible, and her teacher, so much; and it was such a pleasant time when she went to enjoy them all together. it was only a little way she had to go, for the road where mrs. mathieson lived, after running down a little farther from the village, met another road which turned right up the hill to the church; or nettie could take the other way, to the main village street, and straight up that. generally she chose the forked way, because it was the emptiest. nettie's class in the sunday school was of ten little girls about her own age; and their teacher was a very pleasant and kind gentleman, named mr. folke. nettie loved him dearly; she would do anything that mr. folke told her to do. their teacher was very apt to give the children a question to answer from the bible, for which they had to look out texts during the week. this week the question was, "who are happy?" and nettie was very eager to know what answers the other girls would bring. she was in good time, and sat resting and watching the boys and girls and teachers as they came in, before the school began. she was first there of all her class; and she watched so eagerly to see those who were coming, that she did not know mr. folke was near till he spoke to her. nettie started and turned. "how do you do?" said her teacher, kindly. "are you quite well, nettie, this morning?" for he thought she looked pale and tired. but her face coloured with pleasure, and a smile shone all over it, as she told him she was very well. "have you found out who are the happy people, nettie?" "yes, mr. folke; i have found a verse. but i knew before." "i thought you did. who are they, nettie?" "those who love jesus, sir." "ay. in the christian armour, you know, the feet are 'shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace.' with the love of jesus in our hearts, our feet can go over rough ways and hardly feel that they are rough. do you find it so?" "oh yes, sir!" he said no more, for others of the class now came up; and nettie wondered how he knew, or if he knew, that she had a rough way to go over. but his words were a help and comfort to her. so was the whole lesson that day. the verses about the happy people were beautiful. the seven girls who sat on one side of nettie repeated the blessings told of in the fifth chapter of st. matthew, about the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, those that hunger and thirst after righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, and the peacemakers. then came nettie's verse. it was this: "happy is he that hath the god of jacob for his help, whose hope is in the lord his god." the next girl gave the words of jesus, "if ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them." the last gave "blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." then came mr. folke's verse, and netty thought it was the most beautiful of all. "blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city." then mr. folke talked about that city--its streets of gold, and the gates of pearl, through which nothing that defileth can by any means enter. he told how jesus will make his people happy there; how they will be with him, and all their tears wiped away. and jesus will be their shepherd; his sheep will not wander from him any more; "and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads." from school they went to church, of course. a strange clergyman preached that day, and nettie could not understand him always; but the words of the hymn and mr. folke's words ran in her head then, and she was very happy all church-time. and as she was walking home, still the tune and the words ran in her ears,-- "jesus all the day long is my joy and my song; o that all his salvation might see!" so, thinking busily, nettie got home and ran upstairs. what a change! it looked like a place very, very far from those gates of pearl. her mother sat on one side of the stove, not dressed for church, and leaning her head on her hand. mr. mathieson was on the other side, talking and angry. barry stood back, playing ball by himself by throwing it up and catching it again. the talk stopped at nettie's entrance. she threw off her bonnet and began to set the table, hoping that would bring peace. "your father don't want any dinner," said mrs. mathieson. "yes, i do!" thundered her husband; "but i tell you i'll not take anything now; so leave your cooking till supper--when lumber will be here. go on, child, and get your work done." there were no preparations for dinner, and nettie was at a loss, and did not like to say anything for fear of bringing on a storm. her mother looked both weary and out of temper. the kettle was boiling, the only thing about the room that had a pleasant seeming. "will you have a cup of tea, father?" said nettie. "anything you like--yes, a cup of tea will do; and hark ye, child, i want a good stout supper got this afternoon. your mother don't choose to hear me. mr. lumber is coming, and i want a good supper to make him think he's got to the right place. do you hear, nettie?" "yes, father." nettie went on to do the best she could. she warmed the remains of last night's porridge, and gave it to barry, with treacle, to keep him quiet. meanwhile she had made the tea, and toasted a slice of bread very nicely, though with great pains, for the fire wasn't good; and the toast and a cup of tea she gave to her father. he ate it with an eagerness which let nettie know she must make another slice as fast as possible. "hallo! nettie--i say, give us some of that, will you?" said barry, finding his porridge poor in taste. "barry, there isn't bread enough--i can't," whispered nettie. "we've got to keep a loaf for supper." "eat what you've got, or let it alone!" thundered mr. mathieson, in the way he had when he was out of patience, and which always tried nettie exceedingly. "she's got more," said barry. "she's toasting two pieces this minute. i want one." "i'll knock you over if you say another word," said his father. nettie was frightened, for she saw he meant to have the whole, and she had destined a bit for her mother. however, when she gave her father his second slice, she ventured, and took the other with a cup of tea to the forlorn figure on the other side of the stove. mrs. mathieson took only the tea. but mr. mathieson's ire was roused afresh. perhaps toast and tea didn't agree with him. "have you got all ready for mr. lumber?" he said, in a tone of voice very unwilling to be pleased. "no," said his wife,--"i have had no chance. i have been cooking and clearing up all the morning. his room isn't ready." "well, you had better get it ready pretty quick. what's to do?" "everything's to do," said mrs. mathieson. he swore at her. "why can't you answer a plain question? i say, _what's_ to do?" "there's all nettie's things in the room at present. they are all to move upstairs, and the red bedstead to bring down." "no, mother," said nettie, gently, "all my things are upstairs already; there's only the cot and the bed, that i couldn't move." mrs. mathieson gave no outward sign of the mixed feeling of pain and pleasure that shot through her heart. pleasure at her child's thoughtful love, pain that she should have to show it in such a way. "when did you do it, nettie?" "this morning before breakfast, mother. it's all ready, father, if you or barry would take up my cot and the bed, and bring down the other bedstead. it's too heavy for me." "that's what i call doing business and having some spirit," said her father. "not sitting and letting your work come to you. here, nettie, i'll do the rest for you." nettie ran with him to show him what was wanted; and mr. mathieson's strong arms had it all done very quickly. nettie eagerly thanked him; and then seeing him in good humour with her, she ventured something more. "mother's very tired to-day, father," she whispered; "she'll feel better by-and-bye if she has a little rest. do you think you would mind helping me put up this bedstead?" "well, here goes!" returned mr. mathieson. "which piece belongs here, to begin with?" nettie did not know much better than he; but putting not only her whole mind but also her whole heart into it, she managed to find out and to direct him successfully. her part was hard work: she had to stand holding up the heavy end of the bedstead while her father fitted in the long pieces; and then she helped him to lace the cords, which had to be drawn very tight; and precious time was running away fast, and nettie had had no dinner. but she stood patiently, with a thought in her heart which kept her in peace all the while. when it was done, mr. mathieson went out, and nettie returned to her mother. she was sitting where she had left her. barry was gone. "mother, won't you have something to eat?" "i can't eat, child. have you had anything yourself?" nettie had seized a remnant of her father's toast, and was munching it hastily. "mother, won't you put on your gown and come to church this afternoon? do! it will rest you. do, mother!" "you forget i've got to get supper, child. your father doesn't think it necessary that anybody should rest, or go to church, or do anything except work. what he is thinking of, i am sure i don't know. there is no place to eat in but this room, and he is going to bring a stranger into it; and if i was dying i should have to get up for every meal that is wanted. i never thought i should come to live so! and i cannot dress myself, or prepare the victuals, or have a moment to myself, but i have the chance of mr. lumber and your father in here to look on! it is worse than a dog's life!" it looked pretty bad, nettie thought. she did not know what to say. she began clearing away the things on the table. "and what sort of a man this mr. lumber is, i don't know. i dare say he is like his name--one of your father's cronies--a drinker and a swearer. and mr. mathieson will bring him here, to be on my hands! it will kill me before spring, if it lasts." "couldn't there be a bed made somewhere else for barry, mother? and then we could eat in there." "where would you make it? i could curtain off a corner of this room, but barry wouldn't have it, nor your father; and they'd all want to be close to the fire the minute the weather grows the least bit cool. no; there is nothing for me but to live on till death calls for me!" "mother, jesus said, 'he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'" "oh, yes!" said mrs. mathieson, with a kind of long-drawn groan, "i don't know how it will be about that! i get so put about now in these times, that it seems to me i don't know my own soul!" "mother, come to church this afternoon." "i can't, child. i've got to put up that man's bed and make it." "that is all done, mother, and the floor brushed up. do come!" "why, who put it up?" "father and i." "well! you do beat all, nettie. but i can't, child; i haven't time." "yes, mother, plenty. there's all the hour of sunday school before church begins. now do, mother!" "well, you go off to school; and if i can, maybe i will. you go right off, nettie." nettie went, feeling weary and empty by dint of hard work and a dinner of a small bit of dry toast. but she thought little about that. she wanted to ask mr. folke a question. the lesson that afternoon was upon the peacemakers; and mr. folke asked the children what ways they knew of being a peacemaker. the answer, somehow, was not very ready. "isn't it to stop people from quarrelling?" one child asked. "how can you do that, jane?" jane seemed doubtful. "i could ask them to stop," she said. "well, suppose you did. would angry people mind your asking?" "i don't know, sir. if they were very angry, i suppose they wouldn't." "perhaps not. one thing is certain, jane; you must have peace in your own heart, to give you the least chance." "how, mr. folke?" "if you want to put out a fire, you must not stick into it something that will catch." "that would make the fire worse," said one of the girls. "certainly. so if you want to touch quarrelsome spirits with the least hope of softening them, you must be so full of the love of jesus yourself that nothing but love can come out of your own spirit. you see, it means a good deal to be a peacemaker." "i always thought that must be one of the easiest things of the whole list," said one of the class. "you won't find it so, i think; or rather you will find they are all parts of the same character, and the blessing is one. but there are more ways of being a peacemaker. what do you do when the hinge of a door creaks?" one said "she didn't know;" another said "nothing." "i stop my ears," said a third. mr. folke laughed. "_that_ would not do for a peacemaker," he said. "don't you know what makes machinery work smoothly?" "oil!" cried jane. "oil to be sure! one little drop of oil will stop ever so much creaking and groaning and complaining, of hinges and wheels and all sorts of machines. now, people's tempers are like wheels and hinges. but what sort of oil shall we use?" the girls looked at each other, and then one of them said, "kindness." "to be sure! a gentle word, a look of love, a little bit of kindness, will smooth down a roughened temper or a wry face, and soften a hard piece of work, and make all go easily. and so of reproving sinners. the psalmist says, 'let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head.' but, you see, the peacemaker must be righteous himself, or he hasn't the oil. love is the oil--the 'love of jesus.'" "mr. folke," said nettie, timidly, "wasn't jesus a peacemaker?" "the greatest that ever lived!" said mr. folke, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at her question. "he made all the peace there is in the world, for he bought it, when he died on the cross to reconcile man with god. all our drops of oil were bought with drops of blood." "and," said nettie, hesitatingly, "mr. folke, isn't that one way of being a peacemaker?" "what?" "i mean, to persuade people to be at peace with him?" "that is the way above all others, my child; that is truly to be the 'children of god.' jesus came and preached peace; and that is what his servants are doing, and will do, till he comes. and 'they shall be called the children of god.' 'beloved, if god so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'" mr. folke paused, with a face so full of thought, of eagerness, and of love, that none of the children spoke, and some of them wondered. and before mr. folke spoke again, the superintendent's little bell rang, and they all stood up to sing. but nettie mathieson hardly could sing; it seemed to her so glorious a thing to be _that_ sort of a peacemaker. could she be one? but the lord blessed the peacemakers; then it must be his will that all his children should be such; then he would enable her to be one! it was a great thought. nettie's heart swelled with hope and joy and prayer. she knew whose peace she longed for first of all. her mother had now come to church, so nettie enjoyed all the services, with nothing to hinder. then they walked home together, not speaking much to each other, but every step of the way pleasant in the sunday afternoon light, till they got to their own door. nettie knew what her mother's sigh meant, as they mounted the stairs. happily, nobody was at home yet but themselves. "now, mother," said nettie, when she had changed her dress and come to the common room, "what's to be for supper? i'll get it. you sit still and read, if you want to, while it's quiet. what must we have?" "there is not a great deal to do," said mrs. mathieson. "i boiled the pork this morning, and that was what set your father up so; that's ready; and he says there must be cakes. the potatoes are all ready to put down--i was going to boil 'em this morning, and he stopped me." nettie looked grave about the cakes. "however, mother," she said, "i don't believe that little loaf of bread would last, even if you and i didn't touch it; it is not very big." mrs. mathieson wearily sat down and took her testament, as nettie begged her; and nettie put on the kettle and the pot of potatoes, and made the cakes ready to bake. the table was set, and the treacle and everything on it, except the hot things, when barry burst in. "hallo, cakes!--hallo, treacle!" he shouted. "pork and treacle--that's the right sort of thing. now we're going to live something like." "hush, barry, don't make such a noise," said his sister. "you know it's sunday evening." "sunday! well, what about sunday? what's sunday good for, except to eat, i should like to know?" "o barry!" "o barry!" said he, mimicking her. "come, shut up, and fry your cake. father and lumber will be here just now." nettie hushed, as she was bidden; and as soon as her father's step was heard below, she went to frying cakes with all her might. she just turned her head to give one look at mr. lumber as he came in. he appeared to her very like her father, but without the recommendation which her affection gave to mr. mathieson. a big, strong, burly fellow, with the same tinges of red about his face that the summer sun had never brought there. nettie did not want to look again. she had a good specimen this evening of what they might expect in future. mrs. mathieson poured out the tea, and nettie baked the cakes; and perhaps because she was almost faint for want of something to eat, she thought no three people ever ate so many griddle cakes before at one meal. in vain plateful after plateful went upon the board, and nettie baked them as fast as she could; they were eaten just as fast; and when finally the chairs were pushed back, and the men went downstairs, nettie and her mother looked at each other. "there's only one left, mother," said nettie. "and he has certainly eaten half the piece of pork," said mrs. mathieson. "come, child, take something yourself; you're ready to drop. i'll clear away." but it is beyond the power of any disturbance to take away the gladness of a heart where jesus is. nettie's bread was sweet to her, even that evening. before she had well finished her supper, her father and his lodger came back. they sat down on either side the fire, and began to talk of politics, and of their work on which they were then engaged, with their employers and their fellow-workmen; of the state of business in the village, and profits and losses, and the success of particular men in making money. they talked loudly and eagerly; and nettie had to go round and round them to get to the fire for hot water, and back to the table to wash up the cups and plates. her mother was helping at the table, but to get round mr. lumber to the pot of hot water on the fire every now and then, fell to nettie's share. it was not a very nice ending of her sweet sabbath day, she thought. the dishes were done and put away, and still the talk went on as hard as ever. it was sometimes a pleasure to nettie's father to hear her sing hymns of a sunday evening. nettie watched for a chance, and the first time there was a lull of the voices of the two men, she asked softly, "shall i sing, father?" mr. mathieson hesitated, and then answered, "no,--better not, nettie: mr. lumber might not find it amusing;" and the talk began again. nettie waited a little longer, feeling exceedingly tired. then she rose and lighted a candle. "what are you doing, nettie?" her mother said. "i am going to bed, mother." "you can't take a candle up there, child! the attic's all full of things, and you would certainly set us on fire." "i'll take great care, mother." "but you can't, child! the wind might blow the snuff of your candle right into something that would be all a-flame by the time you're asleep. you must manage without a light somehow." "but i can't see to find my way," said nettie, who was secretly trembling with fear. "i'll light you then, for once, and you'll soon learn the way. give me the candle." nettie hushed the words that came crowding into her mouth, and clambered up the steep stairs to the attic. mrs. mathieson followed her with the candle till she got to the top, and there she held it till nettie had found her way to the other end where her bed was. then she said "good night!" and went down. the little square shutter of the window was open, and a ray of moonlight streamed in upon the bed. it was nicely made up: nettie saw that her mother had been there and had done that for her, and wrought a little more space and order among the things around the bed. but the moonlight did not get in far enough to show much more. just a little of this thing and of that could be seen; a corner of a chest, or a gleam on the side of a meal-bag: the half-light showed nothing clearly except the confused fulness of the little attic. nettie had given her head a blow against a piece of timber as she came through it; and she sat down upon her little bed, feeling rather miserable. her fear was that the rats might visit her up there. she did not certainly know that there were rats in the attic, but she had been fearing to think of them, and did not dare to ask, as well as unwilling to give trouble to her mother; for if they _did_ come there, nettie did not see how the matter could be mended. she sat down on her little bed, so much frightened that she forgot how tired she was. her ears were as sharp as needles, listening to hear the scrape of a rat's tooth upon a timber, or the patter of his feet over the floor. for a few minutes nettie almost thought she could not sleep up there alone, and must go down and implore her mother to let her spread her bed in a corner of her room. but what a bustle that would make! her mother would be troubled, and her father would be angry, and the lodger would be disturbed, and there was no telling how much harm would come of it. no; the peacemaker of the family must not do that. and then the words floated into nettie's mind again, "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." like a strain of the sweetest music it floated in; and if an angel had come and brought the words straight to nettie, she could not have been more comforted. she felt the rats could not hurt her while she was within hearing of that music; and she got up and kneeled down upon the chest under the little window, and looked out. it was like the day that had passed, not like the evening. so purely and softly the moon-beams lay on all the fields and trees and hills, there was no sign of anything but peace and purity to be seen. no noise of men's work or voices; no clangour of the iron foundry which on week-days might be heard; no sight of anything unlovely; but the wide beauty which god had made, and the still peace and light which he had spread over it. every little flapping leaf seemed to nettie to tell of its maker; and the music of those words seemed to be all through the still air--"blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." tears of gladness and hope slowly gathered in nettie's eyes. the children of god will enter in, by-and-bye, through those pearly gates, into that city of gold "where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the lord god giveth them light." "so he can give me light here--or what's better than light," thought nettie. "god isn't only out there, in all that beautiful moonlight world--he is here in my poor little attic too; and he will take just as good care of me as he does of the birds, and better, for i am his child, and they are only his beautiful little servants." nettie's fear was gone. she prayed her evening prayer, and trusted herself to the lord jesus to take care of her; and then she undressed herself and lay down and went to sleep, just as quietly as any sparrow of them all, with its head under its wing. "o day of rest and gladness! o day of joy and light! o balm of care and sadness, most beautiful, most bright! on thee the high and lowly, through ages join'd in tune, sing, holy, holy, holy, to the great god triune." chapter iii. _nettie's garret._ "i will fear no evil, for thou art with me."--_psalm_ xxiii. . nettie's attic grew to be a very pleasant place to her. she never heard the least sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. barry never came up there, and there she could not even hear the voices of her father and mr. lumber. she had a tired time of it down stairs. the first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on. nettie's mornings were always spent at school; mrs. mathieson would have that, as she said, whether she could get on without nettie or no. from the time nettie got home till she went to bed she was as busy as she could be. there was so much bread to make and so much beef and pork to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal-times there was often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations. mr. mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent should all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the difficulty was to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for now he brought none of his own earnings home, and mrs. mathieson had more than a sad guess where they went. by degrees he came to be very little at home in the evenings, and he carried off barry with him. nettie saw her mother burdened with a great outward and inward care at once, and stood in the breach all she could. she worked to the extent of her strength, and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of meals; and watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she would coax her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her testament. "it will rest you so, mother," nettie would say; "and i will make the bread just as soon as i get the dishes done. do let me! i like to do it." sometimes mrs. mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with the testament, and look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could she find rest or comfort any more. "it don't signify, child," said she, one afternoon when nettie had been urging her to sit down and read. "i haven't the heart to do anything. we're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go." "oh no, mother," said nettie, "i don't think we are." "i am sure of it. i see it coming every day. every day it is a little worse; and barry is going along with your father; and they are destroying me among them, body and soul too." "no, mother," said nettie, "i don't think that. i have prayed the lord jesus, and you know he has promised to hear prayer; and i know we are not going to ruin." "_you_ are not, child, i believe; but you are the only one of us that isn't. i wish i was dead, to be out of my misery!" "sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. do, mother! it will be an hour or more yet to supper, and i'll get it ready. you sit down and read, and i'll make the shortcakes. do, mother! and you'll feel better." it was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but mrs. mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her testament; and nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance over to the open book in her mother's hand, and the weary, stony face that was bent over it. nettie had not said how her own back was aching, and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. but cakes and table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and nettie stole up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder--leaned a little heavily. "don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered. "no. it don't seem to me as i've got any feeling left," said mrs. mathieson. it was the fourth chapter of john at which they were both looking. "don't it comfort you to read of jesus being wearied?" nettie went on, her head lying on her mother's shoulder. "why should it, child?" "i like to read it," said nettie. "then i know he knows how i feel sometimes." "god knows everything, nettie." with that mrs. mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a passion of weeping that nettie was frightened. it was like the breaking up of an icy winter. she flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud; till, hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase, she rushed off to barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if nothing had happened. from that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother; nettie saw, though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was now not often the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past. nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the testament; and of all things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with nettie, and hear her sing hymns. but both nettie and she had a great deal, as mrs. mathieson said, "to put up with." as weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. he and his friend lumber helped each other in mischief. the lodger's rent and board had been at first given for the household daily expenses; but then mr. mathieson began to pay over a smaller sum, saying that it was all that was due; and mrs. mathieson began to suspect that the rest had been paid away already for brandy. then mr. mathieson told her to trade at jackson's on account, and he would settle the bill. mrs. mathieson held off from this as long as it was possible. she and nettie did their very best to make the little that was given them go a good way: they wasted not a crumb nor a penny. by degrees it came to be very customary for mrs. mathieson and nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread, after all the more savoury food had been devoured by the others; and many a weary patch and darn filled the night hours because they had not money to buy a cheap dress or two. nettie bore it very patiently. mrs. mathieson was sometimes impatient. "this won't last me through the week, to get the things you want," she said one saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was lumber's payment to him. "you'll have to make it last," said he gruffly. "will you tell me how i'm going to do that? here isn't more than half what you gave me at first." "send to jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't i tell you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise." "when will you pay jackson?" "i'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. it was a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and mrs. mathieson was staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was determined to say. "may do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but i should think you would see for yourself that nettie has too much to get on with. she is getting just as thin and pale as she can be." "that's just your fool's nonsense!" said mr. mathieson; but he spoke it more quietly. nettie just then entered the room. "here, nettie, what ails you? come here. let's look at you. ain't you as strong as ever you was? here's your mother says you're getting puny." nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so fresh and well, that he was quieted. he drew her within his arms, for his gentle, dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and affection both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he kissed her. "there!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling me, for i don't like such doings. you tell me when you want anything." but with that mr. mathieson got up and went off out of the house; and nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. however, this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. it was the last she had from him in a good while. nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little of either she got. generally her father was rough, imperious, impatient, speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing in expressions of pleasure. sometimes a blessing did come upon her from the very depth of mrs. mathieson's heart, and went straight to nettie's; but it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited. as the summer passed away, it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret. nettie had never thought of that. as long as the summer sun warmed the roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out of her window at night, it was all very well, and nettie thought her sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the sky. but august departed with its sunny days, and september grew cool in the evening; and october brought still sunny days, it is true, but the nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and nettie was obliged to cover herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter. the stars looked very lovely to nettie, when they peeped at her so in her bed out of their high heaven; and she was very content. then came november; and the winds began to come into the garret, not only through the open window, but through every crack between two boards. the whole garret was filled with the winds, nettie thought. it was hard work managing then. shutting the shutter would bar out the stars, but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled through at her times of prayer, morning and evening, nettie used to take the blanket and coverlets from the bed, and wrap herself in them. it was all she could do. still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little garret chamber seemed to nettie very near heaven, as well as near the sky. but all this way of life did not make her grow strong or rosy; and though nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told. chapter iv. _the brown cloak in november._ "how long, o lord?"--_rev._ vi. . november days drew toward an end; december was near. one afternoon mrs. mathieson, wanting nettie, went to the foot of the garret stairs to call her. "yes, mother. coming." "fetch down your school cloak, child." she went back to her room, and presently nettie came in with the cloak, looking placid as usual, but very pale. "somebody's got to go to mr. jackson's, but you ain't fit, child; you ate next to nothing at noon. you can't live on porridge." "i like it, mother; but i wasn't hungry. what's wanting from jackson's?" nettie put on her cloak, and took her basket, and went out. it was after sundown already, and a keen wind swept through the village street, and swept through nettie's brown cloak too, tight as she wrapt it about her. but though she was cold and blue, and the wind seemed to go through _her_ as well as the cloak, nettie was thinking of something else. she knew that her mother had eaten a very scanty, poor sort of dinner, as well as herself, and that _she_ often looked pale and wan; and nettie was almost ready to wish she had not given the last penny of her shilling on sunday to the missionary-box. "what do you want?" said mr. jackson, rather curtly, when nettie's turn came to be served, and she had told her errand. "what!" he exclaimed, "seven pounds of meal, and a pound of butter, and two pounds of sugar! well, you tell your father that i should like to have my bill settled; it's all drawn up, you see, and i don't like to open a new account till it's all square." he turned away immediately to another customer, and nettie felt she had got her answer. she stood a moment, very disappointed, and a little mortified, and somewhat downhearted. what should they do for supper? and what a storm there would be when her father heard about all this, and found nothing but bread and tea on the table! slowly nettie turned away, and slowly made the few steps from the door to the corner. she felt very blue indeed; coming out of the warm store, the chill wind made her shiver. just at the corner somebody stopped her. "nettie!" said the voice of the little french baker, "what ails you? you look not well." nettie gave her a grateful smile, and said she was well. "you look not like it," said madame auguste; "you look as if the wind might carry you off before you get home. come to my house; i want to see you in the light." "i haven't time; i must go home to mother, mrs. august." "yes, i know! you will go home all the faster for coming this way first. you have not been to see me in these three or four weeks." she carried nettie along with her; it was but a step, and nettie did not feel capable of resisting anything. the little frenchwoman put her into the shop before her, made her sit down, and lighted a candle. the shop was nice and warm, and full of the savoury smell of fresh baking. "we have made our own bread lately," said nettie, in answer to the charge of not coming there. "do you make it good?" said madame auguste. "it isn't like yours, mrs. august," said nettie, smiling. "if you will come and live with me next summer, i will teach you how to do some things; and you shall not look so blue neither. have you had your supper?" "no; and i am just going home to get supper. i must go, mrs. august." "you come in here," said the frenchwoman; "you are my prisoner. i am all alone, and i want somebody for company. you take off your cloak, nettie, and i shall give you something to keep the wind out. you do what i bid you!" nettie felt too cold and weak to make any ado about complying, unless duty had forbade; and she thought there was time enough yet. she let her cloak drop, and took off her hood. the little back room to which madame auguste had brought her was only a trifle bigger than the bit of a shop; but it was as cozy as it was little. a tiny stove warmed it, and kept warm, too, a tiny iron pot and tea-kettle, which were steaming away. the bed was at one end, draped nicely with red curtains; there was a little looking-glass, and some prints in frames round the walls; there was madame's little table covered with a purple cloth, and with her work and a small clock and various pretty things on it. madame auguste had gone to a cupboard in the wall, and taken out a couple of plates and little bowls, which she set on a little round stand; and then lifting the cover of the pot on the stove, she ladled out a bowlful of what was in it, and gave it to nettie with one of her nice crisp rolls. "eat that!" she said. "i shan't let you go home till you have swallowed that to keep the cold out. it makes me all freeze to look at you." so she filled her own bowl, and made good play with her spoon, while between spoonfuls she looked at nettie; and the good little woman smiled in her heart to see how easy it was for nettie to obey her. the savoury, simple, comforting broth she had set before her was the best thing to the child's delicate stomach that she had tasted for many a day. "is it good?" said the frenchwoman, when nettie's bowl was half empty. "it's so good!" said nettie. "i didn't know i was so hungry." "now you will not feel the cold so," said the frenchwoman, "and you will go back quicker. do you like my _riz-au-gras_?" "_what_ is it, ma'am?" said nettie. the frenchwoman laughed, and made nettie say it over till she could pronounce the words. "now you like it," she said, "that is a french dish. do you think mrs. mat'ieson would like it?" "i am sure she would!" said nettie. "but i don't know how to make it." "you shall come here, and i will teach it to you. and now you shall carry a little home to your mother, and ask her if she will do the honour to a french dish to approve it. it do not cost anything. i cannot sell much bread the winters; i live on what cost me nothing." while saying this, madame auguste had filled a little pail with the _riz-au-gras_, and put a couple of her rolls along with it. "it must have the french bread," she said; and she gave it to nettie, who looked quite cheered up, and very grateful. "you are a good little girl!" she said. "how keep you always your face looking so happy? there is always one little streak of sunshine here"--drawing her finger across above nettie's eyebrows--"and another here,"--and her finger passed over the line of nettie's lips. "that's because i _am_ happy, mrs. august." "_always?_" "yes, always." "what makes you so happy always? you was just the same in the cold winter out there, as when you was eating my _riz-au-gras_. now, me--i am cross in the cold, and not happy." but the frenchwoman saw a deeper light come into nettie's eyes as she answered, "it is because i love the lord jesus, mrs. august, and he makes me happy." "_you?_" said madame. "my child! what do you say, nettie? i think not i have heard you right." "yes, mrs. august, i am happy because i love jesus. i know he loves me, and he will take me to be with him." "not just yet," said the frenchwoman, "i hope. well, i wish i was so happy as you, nettie. good bye!" nettie ran home, more comforted by her good supper, and more thankful to the goodness of god in giving it, and happy in the feeling of his goodness, than can be told. and very, very glad she was of that little tin pail in her hand she knew her mother needed. mrs. mathieson had time to eat the rice broth before her husband came in. "she said she would show me how to make it," said nettie, "and it don't cost anything." "why, it's just rice and--_what_ is it? i don't see," said mrs. mathieson. "it isn't rice and milk." nettie laughed at her mother. "mrs. august didn't tell. she called it reeso--i forget what she called it!" "it's the best thing i ever saw," said mrs. mathieson. "there--put the pail away. your father's coming." he was in a terrible humour, as they expected; and nettie and her mother had a sad evening of it. and the same sort of thing lasted for several days. mrs. mathieson hoped that perhaps mr. lumber would take into his head to seek lodgings somewhere else, or, at least, that mathieson would have been shamed into paying jackson's bill; but neither thing happened. mr. lumber found his quarters too comfortable; and mr. mathieson spent too much of his earnings on drink to find the amount necessary to clear off the scores at the grocer's shop. from that time, as they could run up no new account, the family were obliged to live on what they could immediately pay for. that was seldom a sufficient supply; and so, in dread of the storms that came whenever their wants touched mr. mathieson's own comfort, nettie and her mother denied themselves constantly what they very much needed. the old can sometimes bear this better than the young. nettie grew more delicate, more thin, and more feeble every day. it troubled her mother sadly. mr. mathieson could not be made to see it. indeed, he was little at home except when he was eating. "scarce discerning aught before us, on our weary way we go; but one guiding star is o'er us, beaming forth the way to show. "watch we, pray we, that we sink not, journeying on while yet we can; at a moment when we think not we shall meet the son of man." chapter v. _the new blanket._ "lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the lord." _ps._ cxxxiv. . it was very cold up in nettie's garret now; the winter had moved on into the latter part of december, and the frosts were very keen; and the winter winds seemed to come in at one end of the attic and to just sweep through to the other, bringing all except the snow with them. even the snow often drifted in through the cracks of the rough wainscoat board, or under the shutter, and lay in little white streaks or heaps on the floor, and never melted. to-night there was no wind, and nettie had left her shutter open, that she might see the stars as she lay in bed. it did not make much difference in the feeling of the place, for it was about as cold inside as out; and the stars were great friends of nettie's. how bright they looked down to-night! it was very cold, and lying awake made nettie colder: she shivered sometimes under all her coverings; still she lay looking at the stars in that square patch of sky that her shutter-opening gave her to see, and thinking of the golden city. "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and god shall wipe all tears from their eyes." "his servants shall serve him,"--thought nettie; "and mother will be there, and barry--and i shall be there! and then i shall be happy. and i am happy now. 'blessed be the lord, which hath not turned away my prayer, nor his mercy from me!'" and if that verse went through nettie's head once, it did fifty times: so did this one, which the quiet stars seemed to repeat and whisper to her, "the lord redeemeth the soul of his servants, and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate." and though now and then a shiver passed over nettie's shoulders with the cold, she was ready to sing for very gladness and fulness of heart. but lying awake and shivering did not do nettie's little body any good; she looked so very white the next day that it caught even mr. mathieson's attention. he reached out his arm and drew nettie toward him, as she was passing between the cupboard and the table. then he looked at her, but he did not say how she looked. "do you know the day after to-morrow is christmas day?" said he. "yes, i know. it's the day when christ was born," said nettie. "well, i don't know anything about that," said her father; "but what i mean is, that a week after is new year. what would you like me to give you, nettie,--hey?" nettie stood still for a moment, then her eyes lighted up. "will you give it to me, father, if i tell you?" "i don't know. if it is not extravagant, perhaps i will." "it will not cost much," said nettie, earnestly. "will you give me what i choose, father, if it does not cost too much?" "i suppose i will. what is it?" "father, you won't be displeased?" "not i!" said mr. mathieson, drawing nettie's little form tighter in his grasp: he thought he had never felt it so slight and thin before. "father, i am going to ask you a great thing!--to go to church with me new year's day." "to church!" said her father, frowning; but he remembered his promise, and he felt nettie in his arms yet. "what on earth good will that do you?" "a great deal of good. it would please me so much, father." "what do you want me to go to church for?" said mr. mathieson, not sure yet what humour he was going to be in. "to thank god, father, that there was a christmas, when jesus came, that we might have a new year." "what--what!" said mr. mathieson. "what are you talking about?" "because, father," said nettie, trembling, and seizing her chance, "since jesus loved us, and came and died for us, we all may have a new year of glory. i shall, father; and i want you too. oh do, father!" and nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson held her fast, and his face showed a succession of changes for a minute or so. but she presently raised her head and kissed him, and said, "may i have what i want, father?" "yes--go along," said mr. mathieson. "i should like to know how to refuse you, though. but, nettie, don't you want me to give you anything else?" "nothing else!" she told him, with her face all shining with joy. mr. mathieson looked at her, and seemed very thoughtful all supper-time. "can't you strengthen that child up a bit?" he said to his wife afterwards. "she does too much." "she does as little as i can help," said mrs. mathieson, "but she is always at something. i am afraid her room is too cold o' nights. she ain't fit to bear it. it's bitter up there." "give her another blanket or quilt, then," said her husband. "i should think you would see to that. does she say she is cold?" "no,--never, except sometimes when i see her looking blue, and ask her." "and what does she say then?" "she says sometimes she is a little cold," said mrs. mathieson. "well, do put something more over her, and have no more of it!" said her husband, violently. "sit still and let the child be cold, when another covering would make it all right!"--and he ended with swearing at her. mrs. mathieson did not dare to tell him that nettie's food was not of a sufficiently nourishing kind: she knew what the answer to that would be; and she feared that a word more about nettie's sleeping-room would be thought an attack upon mr. lumber's being in the house. so she was silent. but there came home something for nettie in the course of the christmas week, which comforted her a little, and perhaps quieted mr. mathieson too. he brought with him, on coming home to supper one evening, a great thick roll of a bundle, and put it in nettie's arms, telling her that was for her new year. "for me?" said nettie, the colour starting a little into her cheeks. "yes, for you. open it, and see." so nettie did, with some trouble, and there tumbled out upon the floor a great heavy warm blanket, new from the shop. mr. mathieson thought the pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long while. "is this for _me_, father?" "i mean it to be so. see if it will go on that bed of yours, and keep you warm." nettie gave her father some very hearty thanks, which he took in a silent, pleased way; and then she hastened off with her blanket upstairs. how thick and warm it was! and how nicely it would keep her comfortable when she knelt all wrapped up in it on that cold floor! for a little while it would; not even a warm blanket would keep her from the cold more than a little while at a time up there. but nettie tried its powers the first thing she did. did mr. mathieson mean the blanket to take the place of his promise? nettie thought of that, but like a wise child she said nothing at all till the sunday morning came. then, before she set off for sunday school, she came to her father's elbow. "father, i'll be home at a quarter after ten; will you be ready then?" "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson. "for my new year's gift," said nettie. "you know you promised i should go to church with you." "did i? and ain't you going to take the blanket for your new year's gift, and let me off, nettie?" "no, father, to be sure not. i'll be home at a quarter past; please don't forget." and nettie went off to school very thankful and happy, for her father's tone was not unkind. how glad she was new year's day had come on sunday! mr. mathieson was as good as his word. he was ready at the time, and they walked to the church together. that was a great day to nettie. her father and mother going to church in company with her and with each other! and when they got to church, it seemed as if every word of the prayers, and of the reading, and of the hymns, and of the sermon, struck on all nettie's nerves of hearing and feeling. would her father understand any of those sweet words? would he feel them? would they reach him? nettie little thought that what he felt most, what _did_ reach him, though he did not thoroughly understand it, was the look of her own face, though she never but once dared turn it toward him. there was a little colour in it more than usual; her eye was deep in its earnestness; and the grave set of her little mouth was broken up now and then in a way that mr. mathieson wanted to watch better than the straight sides of her sun-bonnet would let him. once he thought he saw something more. he walked home very soberly, and was a good deal on the silent order during the rest of the day. he did not go to church in the afternoon. but in the evening, as her mother was busy in and out getting supper ready, and mr. lumber had not come in, mr. mathieson called nettie to his side. "what were you crying for in church this forenoon?" he said low. "crying!" said nettie, surprised. "was i crying?" "if it wasn't tears i saw dropping from under your hands on to the floor, it must have been some drops of rain that had got there, and i don't see how they could very well. there warn't no rain outside. what was it for, hey?" there came a great flush all over nettie's face, and she did not at once speak. "hey?--what was it for?"--repeated mr. mathieson. the flush passed away. nettie spoke very low, and with lips all of a quiver. "i remember. i was thinking, father, how 'all things are ready'--and i couldn't help wishing that you were ready too." "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson, somewhat roughly. "all things ready for what?" "ready for you," said nettie. "jesus is ready to love you, and calls you--and the angels are ready to rejoice for you--and i----" "go on. what of you?" nettie lifted her eyes to him. "i am ready to rejoice too, father." but the time of rejoicing was not yet. nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson was not angry, yet he flung away from her with a rude "pshaw!" and that was all the answer she got. but the truth was, that there was something in nettie's look of tenderness, and purity, and trembling hope, that her father's heart could not bear to meet; and, what is more, that he was never able to forget. nettie went about her evening business, helping her mother, and keeping back the tears which were very near again; and mr. mathieson began to talk with mr. lumber, and everything was to all appearance just as it had been hitherto. and so it went on after that. "well i know thy troubles, o my servant true! thou art very weary-- i was weary too: but that toil shall make thee some day all mine own; and the end of sorrow shall be near my throne!" chapter vi. _the house-raising._[ ] "in your patience possess ye your souls."--_luke_ xxi. . it grew colder and colder in nettie's garret--or else she grew thinner and felt it more. she certainly thought it was colder. the snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof, and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better: then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter. footnote : a festival common in america on the completion of a house. one morning nettie went to barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. barry had no mind to the job. "why can't mother do it," he said, "if you can't?" "mother is busy and hasn't a minute. i always do it for her." "well, why can't you go on doing it? you're accustomed to it, you see, and i don't like going out so early," said barry, stretching himself. "i would, and i wouldn't ask you, only, barry, somehow i don't think i'm quite strong lately, and i can hardly bring the pail--it's so heavy to me. i have to stop and rest ever so many times before i can get to the house with it." "well, if you stop and rest, i suppose it won't hurt you," said barry. "_i_ should want to stop and rest too, myself." his little sister was turning away, giving it up, when she was met by her father, who stepped in from the entry. he looked red with anger. "you take the pail, and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! don't you let nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or i'll turn you out of the house. you lazy scoundrel! you don't deserve the bread you eat. would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?" barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that mr. mathieson in a rage advanced towards him with uplifted fist; but nettie sprang in between, and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother. "please, father, don't!" she cried;--"please, father, don't be angry! barry didn't think--he didn't----" "why didn't he?" said mr. mathieson. "great lazy rascal! he wants to be flogged." "oh, don't!" said nettie: "he didn't know why i asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me." "why did you, then?" "because it made my back ache so to bring it--i couldn't help asking him." "did you ever ask him before?" "never mind, please, father!" said nettie, sweetly. "just don't think about me, and don't be angry with barry. it's no matter now." "who does think about you? your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before." "mother didn't know my back ached. father, you know she hasn't a minute: she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know i wasn't strong enough. father, don't tell her, please, i asked barry. it would worry her so. please don't, father." "_you_ think of folks, anyhow. you're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed mr. mathieson, as he turned away and left her. nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side. "am i that?" she thought. "shall i be that? o lord, my saviour, my dear redeemer, send thy peace here!" she was still in the same place and position when barry came in again. "it's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "it's as slippery as the plague going down that path to the water: it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. i'm all froze stiff with the water i've spilt on me!" "i know it's very slippery," said nettie. "and then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it--it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. it's the most wretched work!" "i know it, barry," said nettie. "i am sorry you have to do it." "why did you make me do it, then?" said he angrily. "you got it your own way this time. but never mind; i'll be even with you for it." "barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till i get stronger and don't mind; and as soon as ever i can i'll do it again. but you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path." "stuff!" said barry. and from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. he was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling. so the winter slowly passed and the spring came. spring months came, at least; and now and then, to be sure, a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelt sweet with the opening buds. "there's that house-raising to-morrow, nettie," said mrs. mathieson; "it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me." "why, mother?" "i know how it will be," said mrs. mathieson: "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up, and your father'll be in the first of it; and i somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. i wish almost he'd get ill--or anything to keep him away. they make such a time after a house-raising." "oh, mother, don't wish that," said nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. mr. mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman, and always had plenty of work, and was much looked up to among his fellows. nettie began to think whether _she_ could make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging. hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him: could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? she thought and thought, and resolved that she must try. it did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure mr. mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing except her own timid affection and the one other thing it was possible to offer him--a good supper. how to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother. mrs. mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles[ ], and mr. mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made: now, if mrs. moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs, she believed she could manage it still. footnote : _waffles_, a species of sweet cake used on such festivals in america. "but we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and i don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic." nor did nettie. it was to no power _under_ heaven that she trusted. but she must use her means. she easily got the iron from mrs. moss. then she borrowed the eggs from madame auguste, who in lent-time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes, and many a heart-prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles. "how do you manage the iron, mother?" "why, it is made hot," said mrs. mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then, when the batter is light, you pour it in and clap it together, and put it in the stove." "but how can you pour it in, mother? i don't see how you can fill the iron." "why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. you'll see." the first thing nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light? she never saw any look better, mrs. mathieson said. "but i forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them. it was so that your father used to admire them; they won't be waffles without sugar and cinnamon. i'm afraid he'll think----but i don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them." mrs. mathieson ended with a sigh. nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order, then set the table. when all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that god would take care of her and bless her errand. she put the whole matter in the lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak, and went down to her mother. mr. mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and nettie was now on her way to do it. "it's turned a bad afternoon; i'm afraid it ain't fit for you to go, nettie." "i don't mind," said nettie. "maybe i'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before i come back." "well, you know where the raising is; it's out on the shallonway road, on beyond mrs. august's a good bit." nettie nodded and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, her mother felt a great strain on her heart. she would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. she went to the window and looked out at the weather. "lord, thy children guide and keep, as with feeble steps they press on the pathway rough and steep, through this weary wilderness. holy jesu, day by day lead us in the narrow way. "there are stony ways to tread; give the strength we sorely lack. there are tangled paths to thread; light us, lest we miss the track. holy jesu, day by day lead us in the narrow way." chapter vii. _the waffles._ "my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," saith the lord.--_isaiah_ lv. . the early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, march-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole skyful of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. the large feathery flakes were falling now fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. nettie had no overshoes: she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. she hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snow-flakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by-and-bye. nettie thought little of it. what was she thinking of? she was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed friend who has promised to be always with his servants, and remembering his promise, "they shall not be ashamed that wait for me." what did the snow and the wet matter to nettie? yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached mr. jackson's store and went in. the white frost had lodged all round her old black silk hood, and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure. mr. jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's-worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty, but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. so nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. her heart began to beat a little bit now. the feathery snowflakes fell thicker, and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. nettie went on, past the little bake-woman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. then came houses more scattered--large handsome houses, with beautiful gardens and grounds, and handsome palings along the road-side. past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here mr. jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. the wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. she went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. the men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rang sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on the ladders, some were below. nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. at last she found him. he and barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. she was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand: she waited. barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. if she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. mr. mathieson was looking the other way. "i say, mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "i s'pose 'tain't worth carrying any of this stuff--jackson'll have enough without it?" the words were explained, to nettie's horror, by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips. "jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a wet evening. but i've stood to my word, and i expect he'll stand to his'n." "he gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man, from the top of the ladder. "punch and oysters," said mathieson, hammering away, "or i've raised the last frame i ever _will_ raise for him. i expect he'll stand it." "oysters ain't much 'count," said another speaker. "i'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day." "father," said nettie. she had come close up to him, but she trembled. what possible chance could she have? "holloa!" said mr. mathieson, turning suddenly. "nettie!--what's the matter, girl?" he spoke roughly, and nettie saw that his face was red. she trembled all over, but spoke as bravely as she could. "father, i am come to invite you home to supper to-night. mother and i have a particular reason to want to see you. will you come?" "come where?" said mr. mathieson, but half understanding her. "come home to tea, father. i came to ask you. mother has made something you like." "i'm busy, child. go home. i'm going to supper at jackson's. go home." he turned to his hammering again. but nettie stood still in the snow and waited. "father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low. "what! ain't you gone?" exclaimed mr. mathieson. "father," said nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful, and just ready to bake. won't you come and have them with us? mother says they'll be very nice." "why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled barry, "when we weren't going to punch and oysters? that's a better game." if mathieson had not been drinking, he might have been touched by the sight of nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood, on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. she looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps mr. mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and barry's suggestion fell into ready ground. "i tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "what are you doing here? i tell you i'm _not_ coming home--i'm engaged to supper to-night, and i'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. go home!" nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. she would not have delayed to obey if her father had been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. she waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly, "father, i've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready." "cinnamon and sugar--" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "go home!" he repeated--"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon you to mind mine." nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. nobody saw her; but that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely; it hurt her bitterly. he had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to nettie's mind. she could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment nettie's faith trembled. feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, _would_ the lord not hear her, after all? it was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her ill. there was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. nettie walked slowly back on her road till she neared the shop of madame auguste, then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps. she did not remain there two seconds. madame auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. she saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see nettie fall down at her threshold. as instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. then madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy, and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands. she had laid nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse. "why, my nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?" "i don't know. but i must go home!" said nettie, trying to raise herself. "mother will want me--she'll want me." "you will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow; "and i will find some person to carry you home--or some person what will bring your mother here. i will go see if i can find some one now. you lie still, nettie." nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. she was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the lord's promises. she fully trusted them now. let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "for he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_." "our heart shall rejoice in him, _because we have trusted in his holy name_." prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled nettie's heart all the while the frenchwoman was gone. meanwhile madame auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to nettie. nettie was like herself now, only very pale. "i must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. how did i come in here?" "blood!" said the frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, nettie? let me look!" which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that nettie smiled at her. her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was. "how did i get in here, mrs. august?" the frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some _riz-au-gras_ again. "what did you have for dinner, nettie? you did not tell me." "not much--i wasn't hungry," said nettie. "oh, i must get up and go home to mother." "you shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "it is good for you. you must take it. where is your father? don't talk, but tell me. i will do everything right." "he is at work on mr. jackson's new house." "is he there to-day?" "yes." madame auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. it was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,--if they were not gone by already!--how should she know? even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. the men came along, a scattered group of four or five. "is mr. mat'ieson there?" she said. madame auguste hardly knew him by sight. "men, i say! is mr. mat'ieson there?" "george, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at madame's threshold. "are you mr. mat'ieson?" said the frenchwoman. "yes, ma'am. that's my name." "will you come in? i have something to speak to you. your little daughter nettie is very ill." "ill!" exclaimed the man. "nettie!--where is she?" "she is here. hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very ill. she is come fainting at my door, and i have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and i think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night." "where is she?" said mr. mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. he looked round the shop. "she is not here--you shall see her--but you must not tell her she is ill," said the frenchwoman, anxiously. "where is she?" repeated mr. mathieson, with a tone and look which made madame auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. she opened the inner door without further preparation, and mr. mathieson walked in. by the fading light he saw nettie lying on the floor at his feet. he was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. he stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word. "father," said nettie, softly. he stooped down over her. "what do you want, nettie?" "can't i go home?" "she must better not go home to-night," began madame auguste, earnestly, "it is so wet and cold! she will stay here with me to-night, mr. mat'ieson. you will tell her that it is best." but nettie said, "_please_ let me go home! mother will be so troubled." she spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. he stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up. "have you got anything to put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "i'll fetch it back." seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. she put on nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. as she folded and arranged the thick stuff round nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering, "i would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. i wish i could keep you. now she is ready, mr. mat'ieson." and mr. mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road with firm, swift steps, till, past jackson's, and past the turning, he came to his own door, and carried nettie upstairs. he never said a word the whole way. nettie was too muffled up and too feeble to speak; so the first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he did with nettie still in his arms. mrs. mathieson, standing white and silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a question. her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self, only exceedingly pale. as soon as she caught sight of her mother's face, nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held her fast. "what do you want, nettie?" he asked. it was the first word. "nothing, father," said nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and then you and mother have supper." mr. mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the wet counterpane which was round her. "what is the matter?" faltered mrs. mathieson. "nothing much, mother," said nettie, quietly; "only i was a little ill. won't you bake the waffles and have supper?" "what will _you_ have?" said her father. "nothing--i've had something. i feel nicely now," said nettie. "mother, won't you have supper, and let me see you?" mrs. mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but nettie's desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the bed-side, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. nettie's eyes watched her, and mr. mathieson, when he thought himself safe, watched _her_. he did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was the expression of his face. mrs. mathieson was devoured by fear, even in observing this; but nettie was exceedingly happy. she did not feel anything but weakness; and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat his supper there at home after all. she was the only one that enjoyed anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. mrs. mathieson had asked an account of nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory one. she had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at mrs. auguste's, and brought her home; that was about all. after supper he came and sat by nettie again, and said she was to sleep there, and he would go up and take nettie's place in the attic. nettie in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the question short, and bade mrs. mathieson go up and get anything nettie wanted. when she had left the room he stooped his head down to nettie and said low, "what was that about your lip?" nettie started: she thought he would fancy it had it been done, if done at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. but she did not, dare not, answer. she said it was only that she had found a little blood on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she fell on mrs. auguste's threshold, when she had fainted. "show me your handkerchief," said her father. nettie obeyed. he looked at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been wounded; and nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even looked pale himself as he turned away from her. but he was as gentle and kind as he could be! nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off up to bed, and nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep, she was very, very happy. but she did not tell her hopes or her joys to her mother; she only told her thanks to the lord; and that she did till she fell asleep. the next morning nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself. that was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. mr. mathieson sent barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while mrs. mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take nettie in his arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. he did not talk, and he kept barry quiet: he was like a different man. nettie, feeling indeed very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. she was very pale yet, and it distressed mr. mathieson to see that she could not eat. so he laid her on the bed when he was going to his work, and told her she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something good when he came home. he was as good as his word, and at night brought home some oysters, to tempt nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed quietly at home, and never made a move towards going out. eating was not in nettie's line just now; the kind little frenchwoman had been to see her in the course of the day, and brought some delicious rolls and a jug of _riz-au-gras_, which was what seemed to suit nettie's appetite best of all. chapter viii. _the golden city._ "blessed are the peacemakers."--_matt._ v. . several days went on. she did not feel ill, and she was a little stronger; but appetite and colour were wanting. her father would not let her do anything; he would not let her go up to her garret to sleep, though nettie pleaded for it, fearing he must be uncomfortable. he said it was fitter for him than for her, though he made faces about it. he always came home and stayed at home now, and especially attended to nettie; his wages came home too, and he brought every day something to try to tempt her to eat; and he was quiet and grave and kind--not the same person. mrs. mathieson, in the midst of all her distress about nettie, began to draw some free breaths. but her husband thought only of his child--unless, perhaps, of himself--and drew none. regularly after supper he would draw nettie to his arms, and sit with her head upon his shoulder; silent generally, only he would sometimes ask her what she would like. the first time he put this inquiry when mr. lumber was out of the way, nettie answered by asking him to read to her. mr. mathieson hesitated a little, not unkindly, and then read--a chapter in the bible, of course, for nettie wished to hear nothing else. and after that he often read to her; for mr. lumber kept up his old habits and preferred livelier company, and so was always out in the evenings. so several days passed; and when saturday came, mr. mathieson lost half a day's work, and took a long walk to a farm where the people kept pigeons, and brought home one for nettie's supper. however, she could fancy but little of it. "what shall i do for you?" said her father. "you go round like a shadow, and you don't eat much more. what shall i do that you would like?" this time there was nobody in the room. nettie lifted her head from his shoulders and met his eyes, "if you would come to jesus, father!" "what does that mean, nettie? you know i don't know." "it means, father, that jesus is holding out his hand with a promise to you. now, if you will take the promise,--that is all." "what is the promise, nettie?" nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat, and then said, "'this is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life.'" "how can a sinful man take such a promise?" said mr. mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "that is for people like you, nettie, not me." "oh, jesus, has bought it!" cried nettie; "it's free. it's without price. you may have it if you'll believe in him and love him, father.--i can't talk." she had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her. her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew, and yet more than at first. for two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. but except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. he read to her in the bible; nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. he went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first sunday. nettie stayed at home on the bed, and sang psalms in her heart. after those two weeks there was a change for the better. nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. the weather was changing too, now. april days were growing soft and green; trees budding and grass freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all, the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring, and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe. nettie went out and took little walks in the sun which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her, sent mr. lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again, and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. with windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too! nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. she gave her the best she could. her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. but when nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. so sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. the words were from a little bit of a book of translations of german hymns which mr. folke, her sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of nettie's hand. "as god leads me, so my heart in faith shall rest. no grief nor fear my soul shall part from jesus' breast. "in sweet belief i know what way my life doth go; since god permitteth so, that must be best." slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and mrs. mathieson was mute. for some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. mr. mathieson was never deceived. whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason, _he_ saw well enough, and saw constantly, that nettie was going to leave him. there was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. he went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought barry to his bearings. what more did nettie want? one sunday, late in may, her father came into her room to see her. he kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. both were silent for some time, while the birds sang on. "father," said nettie. he turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted. "father," said nettie, "the streets of the heavenly city are all of gold." "well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, nettie?" "only i was thinking, if the _streets_ are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!" he knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bed-side and laid his face in his hands. "i am a sinful man, nettie!" he said. "father, 'this is a faithful saying, that jesus christ came into the world to save sinners.'" "i don't deserve he should save me, nettie." "well, father, ask him to save you, _because_ you don't deserve it." "what sort of a prayer would that be?" "the right one, father; for jesus does deserve it, and for his sake is the only way. if you deserved it, you wouldn't want jesus; but now '_he_ is our peace.' oh, father, listen, listen to what the bible says." she had been turning the leaves of her bible, and read low and earnestly, "'now we are ambassadors for god, as though god did beseech you by us; we pray you, in christ's stead, be ye reconciled to god.' oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to him?" "god knows i am willing!" said mr. mathieson. "_he_ is willing, i am sure," said nettie. there was a long silence. mr. mathieson never stirred. nor nettie hardly. the words were true of her,--"he that believeth shall not make haste." she waited, looking at him. then he said, "what must i do, nettie?" "believe on the lord jesus christ." "how, child?" "father, the best way is to ask him, and he will tell you how. if you are only willing to be his servant, if you are willing to give yourself to the lord jesus--are you willing, father?" "i am willing--anything!--if he will have me," said mr. mathieson. "then go, father!" said nettie, eagerly, "go and ask him, and he will teach you how; he will! he has promised. go, father, and ask the lord--will you? go now." her father remained still a moment--then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. she was too much exhausted to pray otherwise than with a thought. then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke, and during that time read surely in nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour what was the sentence of separation. she read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for nettie's sake. the sun was descending toward the western hill country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when nettie awoke. "are you there, mother?" she said--"and is the sunday so near over? how i have slept!" "how do you feel, dear?" "why, i feel well," said nettie. "it has been a good day. the gold is all in the air here--not in the streets." she had half raised herself, and was sitting looking out of the window. "do you think of that city all the time?" inquired mrs. mathieson, half jealously. "mother," said nettie, slowly, still looking out at the sunlight, "would you be very sorry, and very much surprised, if i were to go there before long?" "i should not be very much surprised, nettie," answered her mother, in a tone that told all the rest. her child's eye turned to her sorrowfully and understandingly. "you'll not be very long before you'll be there too," she said. "now kiss me, mother." could mrs. mathieson help it? she took nettie in her arms, but instead of the required kiss, there came a burst of passion that bowed her head in convulsive grief against her child's breast. ashamed of her giving way, mrs. mathieson checked herself and dried her tears. nettie lay down wearily. "i will stay here, mother," she said, "till tea is ready; and then i will come." mrs. mathieson went to attend to it. when nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. she said nothing, however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. she took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and ate an egg that her mother had boiled for her. it was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table, and mrs. mathieson was busy about, that nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. he looked grave, subdued, tender--she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. he met her eyes and answered them. "i understand it now, nettie," he said; then drew her close within his arms; and without one word nettie sat there, till for very happiness and weariness she fell asleep, and he carried her to her room. there was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. it was like one of those spring days that were past--full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. it was a breath of rest. but they knew it would end--for a time; and one summer day the end came. it was a sunday again, and again nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. nettie knew it too. "how soon do you think father will be home?" she said. "not before another hour, i think," said mrs. mathieson. "why, what of it, nettie?" "nothing----" said nettie, doubtfully. "i'd like him to come." "it won't be long," said her mother. "mother, i am going to give you my little dear hymn-book," said nettie presently; "and i want to read you a hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. may i?" "read," said mrs. mathieson; and she put up her hand to hide her face from nettie. nettie did not look, however; her eyes were on her hymn, and she read it, low and sweetly--very sweetly--through. there was no tremor in her voice, but now and then a little accent of joy or a shade of tenderness. mrs. mathieson's head bowed as the hymn went on, but she dared not give way to tears, and nettie's manner half awed and half charmed her into quietness. when the reading ceased, and mrs. mathieson felt that she could look toward nettie again, she saw that the book had fallen from her hand, and that she was almost fainting. alarmed, instantly she called for help, and got one of the inmates of the house to go after mr. mathieson. but nettie sank so fast, they were afraid he would not come in time. the messenger came back without having been able to find him; for after the close of the services in the church mr. mathieson had gone out of his way on an errand of kindness. nettie herself was too low to ask for him, if indeed she was conscious he was not there. they could not tell; she lay without taking any notice. but just as the last rays of the sun were bright in the leaves of the trees and on the hills in the distance, mr. mathieson's step was heard. one of the neighbours met him and told him what he must expect; and he came straight to nettie's room. and when he bent down over her and spoke, nettie knew his voice, and opened her eyes, and once more smiled. it was like a smile from another country. her eyes were fixed on him. mr. mathieson bent yet nearer and put his lips to hers; then he tried to speak. "my little peacemaker, what shall i do without you?" nettie drew a long, long breath. "peace--is--made!" she slowly said. and the peacemaker was gone. "there's a rest for little children. above the bright blue sky, who love the blessed saviour, and to his father cry, a rest from every trouble, from sin and danger free, there every little pilgrim shall rest eternally. "there's a home for little children, above the bright blue sky, where jesus reigns in glory, a home of peace and joy; no home on earth is like it, nor can with it compare, for every one is happy, nor can be happier there. "there are crowns for little children, above the bright blue sky; and all who look to jesus shall wear them by-and-bye, yea, crowns of brightest glory, which he shall sure bestow on all who love the saviour and walk with him below." transcriber's note hyphenation is inconsistent, and some of the punctuation is non-standard. the helpful french lady appears as madame auguste in the narrative, but as mrs. august when she is addressed in english. one instance of mathison was changed to match all the mathiesons. one additional change was made to the text: "that would make the fire worse," said one of girls. now reads: "that would make the fire worse," said one of the girls. the character of the jew books being, a defence of the natural innocence of man, against kings and priests or tyrants and impostors by philanthropos london: printed and published by r. carlile, , fleet street. . price twopence. the character of the jew books justice is due to all men; it is a gem that sheds a brilliant radiance upon the tyrant and the slave, upon the rich and the poor; justice is in the moral world what the sun is in the physical, one illuminates the intellectual, the other the terrestrial system. by the standard of justice measure the rulers of the earth; try their actions, calculate their characters, weigh their governments in the balance of justice; when analyzed by this test and found unalloyed, grant unmeasured praise; if deficient, if tyranny, villainy, bigotry and cruelty preponderate, condemn them, and consign them to the execration of all mankind. notwithstanding the exertions of philosophy, and the undaunted perseverance of _a few men_, barbarity, cupidity and bigotry, generally prevail; the numerous devotees, the thronged congregation of rogues, slaves, and fools at the shrine of avarice, too frequently paralyze the efforts of liberal men; mean, pitiful, despicable traffic, has introduced mercantile ideas, and consequently _this nation of hucksters estimates merit in money_. the rich assume to be privileged, and unceasingly condemn and revile the industrious poor, as being vicious, immeasurably criminal, and abandoned to every moral offence: regardless of themselves, their families, their society, and their souls; let us enquire if those charges are just, if the poor are degenerated, if they have abandoned themselves to contempt, to degradation, to confinement, and to death; _let us endeavour to ascertain if the laws of nature are changed, let its endeavour to ascertain if the precepts of reason are revoked, let us endeavour to ascertain if death is preferred to life_. the poor are the most numerous, the most industrious, and the most useful part of society; should this portion, this staple part, this lever of the nation be so deserving of contempt, of execration, and of condemnation, as some puny-minded, rickety-headed fools would have us believe, much might be feared for the continued indissolubility of the nation; such as have monopolized the labour of the poor, and enjoy the rank of the privileged rich, incessantly insist that severe laws, vindictive tortures, and daily sanguinary executions would insure tranquility endangered, preserve religion scoffed, suppress blasphemy encouraged, strengthen monarchies loathed, despised, scorned, hated and execrated. the passions of distrust, revenge, fear, hatred, malice and cruelty distract the rich, that thrive by treachery, hypocrisy, tyranny and rapacity; conscious of turpitude, stung by remorse, alarmed for the safety of ill-gotten gains, the robbers and impostors are afraid the people will claim a restitution of rights and property. in investigating the origin of crime perhaps it will appear that the robbery and hypocrisy of king, and priests, and peers, have been the exciting cause, the immoderate agents, the operative principle, that called into action the criminal intention imputed to the poor; if such is proved, could any thing be more cruel, more shocking, more outrageous of common decency, than for the rich and privileged robbers, usurpers and impostors, to accuse the people of crimes they have been parties to, that they have promoted by rapine, encouraged by example; crimes that they may in effect have committed, for kings and peers and priests unblushingly practise trades of fraud, imposition, and rapine, their titles admit their separation from men; experience proves they have inclination and capacity for any degree of villainy, the worst, the vilest, and the most detestable of men can invent; no disgrace can move, no contempt can stagger, no scorn can lower such as pollute the sanctuaries of the church and throne, as certain places are called. survey man from his origin, from his birth, from his infancy, he enters the word without reflection, without will, without ideas; his mind can be formed, it can be moulded, it can be directed at pleasure; his ideas, his expressions, his actions, his life, are the result of his, education; his infancy, adolescence, his manhood, and his old age, are the consequence of his instruction; without internal or innate idea, without any indigenous or spontaneous mind he was nothing but from without: he has no ideas, no conceptions, but such as result from external impressions; if deficient organization has deprived him of sight, he knows nothing of colours; of hearing, nothing of sounds; of both, he is an idiot. if a male child is shut up in a dungeon and fed through a chink, from twelve months old, he would know nothing beyond his cell, nothing further than its walls; he would know nothing of kings, or priests, or peers, or prayers, or tithes, or taxes, or blasphemy; he would know nothing beyond softness and hardness, roughness and smoothness, heat and cold; he would know nothing beyond experience, nothing but by examination, and could have no conception of any thing beyond his hearing, seeing, touching, tasting and smelling; he would only have conception of such things as would be produced by a combination of his few ideas; even the man in the world without information knows nothing about the superstition of mahomet, of zoroaster, of brahma, and an _old jew_; the child in the dungeon would know nothing of the cruelty of _jew moses_, the licentious ferocity of david, or the amiable gallantry of solomon; he would know nothing about the incest, the polygamy and murder of the jew fellows, he would knew nothing beyond simple sensations; let the experiment be continued, let the subject be placed in another situation, let him be taken at ten years of age from his dungeon and placed in a disused cell unfrequented by any person but his keeper, his instructor, his director, a monk and a eunuch; let his keeper be directed to teach him nothing but the _jew books_, let all his information, let all his ideas, let all his impressions be from those famous books of law, of morality, and of religion; he will be taught that incest, adultery, fornication, hypocrisy, drunkenness, perjury, indecent exposure of women, rapine, and assassinations, are acts of religion, inculcated, enforced, patronized and practised, by jew kings and jew prophets, the chosen people of god; the subject could think of nothing but what resulted from his education, nothing but what was consistent with his theory; he could not speak of colours never seen, describe the people never known, prefer nations never heard of. arrived under those exclusive impressions at puberty, sexual organization would be developed, a new ardour, a new stimulus, a new inclination would act. his mind would be filled with assassinations, with butcheries, with seductions and with debaucheries; now prepared, now surcharged with religious precepts, let him enter the world; his mind, his impressions, his actions would be formed upon the most sacred models, such as moses, david and solomon; he would be religiously prepossessed in favour of fraud, perjury, hypocrisy, incest, lust, perfidy and homicide; impressed with experience, impregnated with religion, with jew morality and sacred gibberish, he would act according to his experience, to his education, to his religion, and to his god; now set at liberty, impelled by his passions, irritated by opposition to his lust, his avarice, or his petulancy, he would, acting consistently and religiously, commit a rape, a robbery, or a murder, and offend against _human laws or the laws of reason_, and not those of religion; it would avail nothing even among kings, priests and peers, to plead the injunctions, the precepts, the examples, and the dignity of moses, of abraham, of lot, of isaac, of david, or of solomon; suppose he is under sentence of death, who brought him into that situation? is he to blame, is he the architect of his case, is he the cause of his fate, is he the author of his misfortunes, is human nature to be blotted by such affairs, is he to be censured, execrated, and despised? oh no! he is the victim of iniquity, the martyr of wrong impressions, of wrong education and of bigotry, he acted according to his education, to his religion and to his experience; instruction in falsehood, in error, and in injustice has been the cause, and the blame could only be annexed to the authors of fallacious principles, interested bigots, and venal hypocrites. any one instructed to follow practically the horrid dogmas set forth in the _jew books_ would soon reach the gallows, would be soon covered with crimes, would be soon consigned to infamy, and the dignity of human nature would be traduced, would be vilified, would be denounced by every silly fool, every fanatical quack, every ignorant pretender to legislation, and every arch-hypocrite would call aloud for vengeance upon the seduced. man knows nothing of his infancy, he knows nothing but what he is taught, of the combination of ideas he has imbibed, consequently such as teach are answerable for the crimes, when the principles of education are false, and such are kings, priests and legislators. impostors unnecessarily make, religion an important feature in men's education, the people are obliged to hear, to read, told to reflect upon some ignorant, illiterate, confused, and cabalistical _jew books_*, as these books contain false, cruel; lying, bloody and obscene stories, and hold up, as religious and moral, most indecent examples of lechery and murder, so they are very improper, very dangerous books to put into the hands of the uneducated and of children. the _jew books_ will debauch the wife, seduce the maid, brutalize and mislead the son; the beastly maxims they inculcate, have been protected by the superstitious ignorance, and unreflecting barbarity of former venal bigoted parliaments, whose ignorance would now disgrace the awl, or the spade; the intelligence of the age, however deficient, scorns the gothic superstition of our forefathers; the hypocrites endeavour to enforce the jargon by the perversion of law, by the halter, by the torch, and by the sword; the intellectual dwarfs are laughed at when they call for everlasting wrath, and vow eternal perdition; anathemas, eliminations, and maledictions are ridiculed, as well as the rogue or fool that raves in the pulpit for his bread; where reason has not spread her rubies, false doctrines are dangerous; impressed upon vacant minds with such terrific emphasis and sordid assiduity, the youth and unsuspecting are corrupted; false doctrines are instilled into vacant minds, which are the precursors of crime. _eclat_ is given to the cruelties, of moses, the lewd butcheries of david, and the amours of solomon; the jew books say, "god approves such acts," and such heroes are said to be men after god's own heart: the statutes, blasphemously of course, proscribe such royal adventures. either the statutes, are irreverend and impious, or the jew book is irreverend; law, religion, reason, and the bible are the opposites of each other, so that the supporters of what is now called law, are the destroyers of the jew books; the destroyers of the jew books are statute lawyers, or blasphemers, as reasoners are termed in ant phraseology. rare inconsistency! * sometimes called bibles and testaments. man is the creature of the instruction received; intellectual impressions form his motives of action, he is necessitated to direct his life according to those impressions; the mind is moulded like clay by the potter, carved like marble by the sculptor; as the jew books contain the religion and morals of children, and as they are cruel, wicked, and vindictive, so children have criminal propensities excited by their existence; first impressions are adulterated, early habits are poisoned, and future life impregnated with villainy. so far from criminality being occasioned by neglect of bible reading, as the ignorant, sordid hypocrite pretends, if it was more read, and education less mixed, men would be more debased, more perfidious, and more sanguinary. it is a matter of fact, it is known by experience, that since bible societies have been instituted, and bible circulation widened, crimes have increased; the people have been more cruel, more brutal, more sanguinary, and more vindictive; the human mind has been poisoned, all the feelings of philanthropy have been blighted; if such gibberish should extend, the intelligence of the human mind will retrograde, and its element, a reign of gothic ignorance predominate, omit the bible part of education, and there will be fewer prostitutes, fewer debauchees, fewer perjurers, fewer tyrants, and fewer murderers; it is this part of education that pollutes and contaminates the essence of charity, and mildews all the flowers of intellectual cultivation; this is the source of the present barbarous schemes of government, idolized by rogues, and allowed by fools; the jew books are the prolific origin of the cruelty, the treachery, the avarice, and bloody-mindedness of kings, peers and priests, and all the _coterie_ of impostors; they collect, they coalesce, they conspire to mislead, to dupe, to rule, to rob and degrade an unsuspecting and innocent people; a spontaneous course, a common object, a fellow feeling, bind together the plunderers and oppressors of mankind. if the people were instructed in morality, in justice, and in equity, they would see the robbery, the oppression, the intolerance, and villainy of kings, priests and peers; if intelligence lead the people to see injustice, a spontaneous breath would remove it, and regal and sacked impostors cease to oppress; morality and justice should be the fundamental principles of education, then would men annihilate the baneful despotisms of kings, and priests; they would no longer support, no longer vindicate, no longer permit to exist, the canting slothful hypocrisy of voracious privileged impostors; such villains devour the produce of other men's toil, laugh at what themselves profess, without care, except to propagate and to continue, the simplicity, the ignorance, credulity and superstition, of a devoted, a plundered and inoffensive people; how can men listen to the precepts, or be persuaded by, the example of impostors, who spend their lives in licentiousness, in debauchery, in fornication, in drunkenness, and in sacred swindling? if men follow the example of impostors, abounding in nothing but infamy, they cease to have claims as citizens upon society, they forfeit every claim to credit, to justice, and the laws; they are the pests, the terror, and the disgrace of each other. the impostors demand the people to pay attention to the jew books, because the jew books recommend tribute and tithes; this code of the hypocrites is calculated to advance the intolerance of despots, and rapacity of priests; if the people followed some scripture examples, and adopted as perfection the models preached up by the priests, they would be daily conspiring against kings or tyrants, slaying their brothers, sleeping with their fathers' wives, debauching their sisters and daughters? in short, there would, be nothing but adultery, licentiousness, perjury, conspiracy, cruelty, perfidy, and murder; all those crimes would be the consequence of adhesion to the jew books; yet if the people do act like jew-book heroes, if they do commit any one crime, if either avarice or delusion excite to violence, they are accused of not having the fear of god before their eyes, of not having attended to the _tithe-catching_ advice of priests, and their books; but of being actuated by irreligious, profane, blasphemous, and diabolical motives; the dogmas of priests and the laws constantly dash, and while reason suffers the _tithe-eating corporation_ to exist, legislation must be necessarily imperfect; it is impossible for the people to follow the law and the bible; notwithstanding the suspicion of the priests, the laws will act in contradiction to the bible. men are the creatures of education, they act consistently with what they are taught; impostors and fools promulgating false principles are amenable to reason, and they should be to laws made by the whole of the people; men are criminal in consequence of a fallacious education adopted by regal and religious impostors, with a view of reaping other meu's harvests; the object is firstly, to debase, to enslave, to degrade the mind, and secondly, to plunder the victim; such scoundrels constantly preach up the deficiency of human nature, that more authority may be granted to those earthly saviours; a nation governed by kings and priests must be always in a state, of barbarism, of shameful indifference, and of crime; such nations are inhabited by an inferior race of men, when it may be presumed only a few scintillations of philosophy have reached; states governed by kings and priests show the sun of reason is still below the horizon; if human nature is criminal in appearance, it is not so in fact, such cases are confounded with the errors of educators, which are instilled into man from the moment of his birth; if he is ever revengeful, vindictive, and sanguinary, attribute it to the licensed villains that blot the face, of the earth; reflect upon this you pampered; you bloated impostors, who riot upon the poor man's industry; you hypocrites, who carouse upon the sweat of his brow, and who sack the spoil of the criminal your rapacity has created; _tyrants and impostors! remember you are splendid at the expence of honesty, pain, disease and death_; give the people justice, and they will be laborious; if they are laborious, they must have plenty; and if they have plenty, they will be honest; men are naturally innocent, passive and pacific; false information and injustice are the sources of violence and crime; remember this, you corporate impostors and tyrants, and correct your own errors before you brand the innocent with infamy. cast the beams out of your own eyes before you shed your acrimonious calumny upon the virtuous and the just. the river's children an idyl of the mississippi by ruth mcenery stuart author of "sonny," "holly and pizen," "moriah's mourning," "napoleon jackson," etc. with pictures by barry c. edwards new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. copyright, , by phelps publishing co. _published october, _ the de vinne press [illustration: "upon the brow of the levee"] list of illustrations upon the brow of the levee gangs of men, reinforcing suspicious danger points with pickax and spade sipped iced orange syrup or claret sangaree the brave, unthinking fellow, after embracing his beloved, dashed to the front her arms were about his knees the river's children an idyl of the mississippi part first the mississippi was flaunting itself in the face of opposition along its southern banks. it had carried much before it in its downward path ere it reached new orleans. a plantation here, a low-lying settlement there, a cotton-field in bloom under its brim, had challenged its waters and been taken in, and there was desolation in its wake. in certain weak places above and below the city, gangs of men--negroes mostly--worked day and night, reinforcing suspicious danger-points with pickax and spade. at one place an imminent crevasse threatened life and property to such a degree that the workers were conscripted and held to their posts by promises of high wages, abetted by periodical passage along the line of a bucket and gourd dipper. [illustration: "gangs of men, reinforcing suspicious danger points with pickax and spade"] there was apparently nothing worse than mirth and song in the bucket. concocted to appeal to the festive instinct of the dark laborers as much as to steady their hands and sustain courage, it was colored a fine pink and floated ice lumps and bits of lemon when served. yet there was a quality in it which warmed as it went, and spurred pickax and spade to do their best--spurred their wielders often to jest and song, too, for there was scarcely a secure place even along the brimming bank where one might not, by listening, catch the sound of laughter or of rhythmic voices: "sing, nigger, sing! sing yo' hymn! de river, she's a-boomin'--she's a-comin _che-bim_! swim, nigger, swim! "sing, nigger, sing! sing yo' rhyme! de waters is a-floodin'--dey's a-roarin' on time! climb, squirrel, climb!" at this particular danger-spot just below the city, a number of cotton-bales, contributed by planters whose fortunes were at stake, were placed in line against a threatening break as primary support, staked securely down and chained together. over these were cast everything available, to raise their height. it was said that even barrels of sugar and molasses were used, and shiploads of pig-iron, with sections of street railways ripped from their ties. then barrels of boiling tar, tarpaulins, and more chains. and then-- and then there were prayers--and messages to the priests up at the old st. louis cathedral, where many of the wives were kneeling--and reckless gifts of money to the poor. a few of the men who had not entered church for years were seen to cross themselves covertly; and one, a convivial creole of a rather racy reputation, was even observed, through the sudden turn of a lantern one night, to take from his pocket a miniature statue of st. joseph, and to hold it between his eyes and the sky while he, too, crossed himself. and the boon companion who smiled at the sight did himself make upon his own breast a tiny sign of the cross in the dark, even as he moved toward his friend to chaff him. and when, in turning, he dimly descried the outline of a distant spire surmounted by a cross against the stars, he did reverently lift his hat. "it can't do any harm, anyhow," he apologized to himself; but when he had reached his friend, he remarked dryly: "you don't mean to tell me, felix, dat you pray to st. joseph yet, you old sinner! excuse me, but dose passing lantern, dey give you away." "pray to st. joseph? i would pray to de devil to-night, me, adolphe, if i believed he would drive de river down." "sh! don't make comparison between st. joseph an' de devil, felix. not to-night, anyhow." "i di'n' done dat, adolphe. no! _pas du tout_. not at all. h'only, i say, me, i _would_ pray to de devil _if_ he could help us out." he laughed and shrugged his shoulders as he added recklessly: "yas, i would be one mud-catfish caught on his forked tail--just for to-night--an' let him drag me behind him in de river, if--" "but you mus' ricollec', de devil he don't play wid water, felix. fire is his--fire an' brimstone--" "ah-h-h! bah, adolphe! who is trying to talk sense to-night? dose row of warehouse yonder, dey are _all full_, an' on my one pair shoulder. _my_ li'l' crop is not'ing. i got in doze warehouse, waiting for a _sure_ rise in de market--all on my ob_stin_ate judgment--everyt'ing of _my brudder_, _my t'ree cousin_, _my wife_, _my mud'-in-law_,--just t'ink!--not to speak about t'irty-five or forty small consignment. sure! i would pray to _anyt'ing_ to-night--to save dem. i would pray to one _crawfish_ not to work dis way. dem crawfish hole is de devil. "but dat st. joseph in my pocket! my mudder, i am sure she put it dere. she an' my sisters, dey will all kneel many hours at deir _prie-dieux_ to-night--po' t'ings!" "an' yo' wife--she also, of co'se--" "my wife?" the man chuckled. "pff! ah, no! she is at de opera. she knows i am watching de river. she believe it cannot run over so long i watch it. i married her yo'ng. dat's de bes' way. "_mais_, tell de trut', adolphe, i am going to church, me, after dis. dere's not'ing, after all, like god to stand in wid you! you hear me, i tell you to-night de rizzen our women keep good an' happy--_it is faith_. you know da's true." "yas, i believe you, felix. an' me, i t'ink i will go, too. _any_'ow, i'll show up at easter communion. an' dat's a soon promise, too. t'ree week las' sunday it will be here. "all my yard is w'ite wid dem easter lilies already. dis soon spring compel dem. wen you smell doze bermudas above de roses in your garden in de middle of lent, look out for old lady mississippi. she is getting ready to spread her flounces over yo' fields--" "yas, an' to dance on yo' family graves. you may say w'at you like, adolphe--de ruling lady of dis low valley country, it is not de carnival queen; it is not de first lady at de governor's mansion. it is--let us raise our hats--it is old lady mississippi! _she is_ de ruling lady of de gulf country--old _mais_ forever yo'ng. "in my _ril_igion i have no superstition. i swallow it whole--even w'en i mus' shut my nose--i mean hol' my eyes. w'at is de matter wid me? i cannot talk straight to-night. _mais_ to speak of de river, i mus' confess to you dat even w'en it is midsummer an' she masquerade like common dirty waters, i _pro_pitiate her. "once, i can tell you, i was rowing one skiff across by de red church, an' suddenly--for w'y i di' n' see immediately--_mais_ out of de still water, mixed into bubbles only by my oars, over my hand came one _big wave_. i looked quick, but i could see only de sun to blind my eyes. _mais_ you know w'at i did? "dat bright sun, it _re_flect a small stone in my ring, one diamond, an' quick i slip it off an' drop it. it was de river's _pet_ition, an' w'at is a sixty-five-dollar diamond to a man w'en--" "dey ain' got no _in_sanity in yo' family, i don't t'ink, felix? otherwise--excuse me--i would be oneasy for you." adolphe was smiling, and he mischievously lifted one brow and drew up his lips as if to whistle. felix smiled, too, as he replied: "you needn't fear for me, adolphe. _mais_ strong-headed ancestors, dey are not'ing. me, i could _start_ a crazy line just as well as my great-gran'fodder. everyt'ing mus' _begin somewhere_." but he added more seriously: "_non_, i would do it again--_if_ i was on _such a trip_. i tell you w'at time it was; it was--" he dropped his voice and looked over his shoulder. "you want to know w'at, precisely, i was doing at de moment de river demand my ring? _i was praying to her! sure!_" (this last in a whisper.) "oh-h-h!" adolphe's face lit. "yas, i understand. i ricollec'. you mean about five year pas'--dat time yo' sister los' 'er firs' 'usband, w'en--?" "yas, _ex_ac'ly. so you see dat _pred_icament in w'ich i was placed wid de river. i never liked po' jacques renault--" he shrugged his shoulders. "i never _prof_ess to like him, _mais_ he was my brud'-in-law; an' my po' sister--you know felicité--she is my _twin_. she done not'ing but cry, cry, cry for fo' days an' nights, an' pay all 'er money in de poor-box _to find him_. an' dey tried every way to bring him up. so me, i say not'ing, _mais_ w'en de fif day is come i loan from my cousin achilles his wide skiff, an' i start out, an' i row two mile below w'ere dey foun' 'is clo'es an' hat, an' den i pull up again--an' wid every stroke i pray to de river to grant me dat satisfaction to find po' jacques an' to lay him in his grave. "tell you de trut', maybe i am a sinner to say it, _mais_ i was half afraid in my heart dat may_be_ jacques was playing 'possum an' some day he would come back; an' w'en somebody is dead--dat's one terrible dread, _yas_--to get such a surprise, _es_pecially for one widow, you understand. it is a _re_striction, more or less, according to--well, never mind. "you may b'lief me or not, _mais_ w'en de river she _re_quire of me dat ring, laying her wet hand over my hand like to take it, at de same time she turn it to de sun--well, i am not stupid. i dropped it _quick_ to her, an' den i looked _close_, yas, on de water, an' _im_mediately i see one--" "you said jus' now you saw only de glare of de sun--" "_ex_ac'ly--an' den, naturally, one black spot befo' my eye, an' i t'ink it is de sun; _mais_-- "well, 't is a _dis_agreeable picture. never mind! de river she _give me de swap_, an' we had one fine funeral de nex' day; an' my po' sister felicité had her consolation. "so, like i say, w'at consideration was one small diamond ring for such a pleasure? "a widow widout a grave is like a wind in feb'uary--crying always forever aroun' de house, wid nowhere to go, an' in her eyes are all kinds of weather. bff! "it is great consolation, a grave. it is a half-way station between de home an' de church; an' a widow she need dat--for a w'ile. "tell you de trut', w'en i take time to t'ink, adolphe, sometimes i am ashame'. so long i am prosperous i am all for dis worl'; den, w'en somet'ing come, like now, an' t'row me on my knees, i feel cheap befo' god, yas. _mais_, wid de river _so_, w'at can a man _do_ if he cannot _pray_? so, after to-night's _ex_perience, i am at home wid my li'l' family by eleven o'clock every night, _sure_." "'ow much chillen you got now, felix? you go too fas' for my 'rit'metic." "oh, no, not too fas'--just fas' enough. only nine in over ten year--mos' eleven year. only _six_, by _right_. i _engage_ for six; _mais_ w'at can a man do w'en his lady present him wid one _extra_, once in a w'ile! i am de las' one to make remark on her for dat, too, biccause i come dat way myself--following behind felicité. twins, dey run in some families; an' you know now i am coming to like dem. dey are so sociable, twins." "ah, my friend, you have plenty occasion to be one good man." "_occasion!_ i am blessed. t'ink all i have got to be t'ankful! i got my mudder, my mud'-in-law, my fad'-in-law--all _ril_igious people an' good--an' _nine li'tl' one_, like six stair-steps wid t'ree landings for de _ac_commodation of de twins." he chuckled. "yas, an' i am going to be good. no more dem soubrette supper for me. an' dem _danse de_-- "_mais wait! w'at is dat?_" a bell had rung, and a voice was calling out the depth of the water as shown upon a graduated scale marked low down against the pier. the announcement was half-hourly now. "w'at he say? t'irteen inches an' a--dat's a half-inch fall. t'ank god! maybe st. joseph an' our women dey save us yet, adolphe." "yas, may_be_. _mais_ i t'ink de winter is full broke in minnesota, too. no more dat confoun' ice to melt. i looked _sure_ for de water to fall down yesterday. any'ow, one half-inch is hope. here, take one cigar. i can smoke, me, on dat half-inch. you got any matches, felix?" in finding his match-box felix's fingers came in contact with the tiny statue of st. joseph in his pocket, but he was only half sensible of the fact in his nervous joy over the slight decline in the river. "hello! here is harold le duc!" he exclaimed, as, by the light of his match, he chanced to catch the presentment of a distant face in the darkness. "hello! come along, harry, an' smoke one cigar. we mus' celebrate dat insinuation dat de river is falling. less dan one inch, it does not count, except to prove she is hesitating; an' you know de ol' saying, 'she who hesitate'--'hello, young man! you are good for sore eyes!" the person addressed had come forward with extended hand. when another match, lighting adolphe's cigar, revealed the young man's face again, there was something so startling in its wonderful solemnity and beauty that both men were impressed. "you won't smoke? an'w'y? come! it is one great comfort, a li'l' smoke. here, let me--" he presented the cigars again. "well, i thank you, but excuse me now." young le duc took a cigar with a smile. "i'll enjoy it later, maybe; but not until we see a little further. as you say, a half-inch is only a hint, but it is a good one. i am going now up the coast, where trouble waits, and i may need a steady hand before morning. but i think the worst is over. good night--and thank you. the folks--they are all well?" "fine, all fine, and asking always for w'y you don't come to see dem." but he had gone. the eyes of both men followed the retreating figure in silence. it was adolphe who spoke at last. "ah-h-h!" he sighed. "an' yet we complain sometimes, you an' me, eh? i am t'irty-seven years old an' i got t'irteen healt'y chillen an' two gran'chillen, an' my wife--look at her, yo'nger an' happier wid every one-- "oh, i wonder, me, sometimes, dat god don't just snatch everyt'ing away jus' for spite, w'en we always complain so. "did you take occasion to notice dat w'ite hair against dat yo'ng face? an' dey say he never mention his trouble." "i tell you, like we said, adolphe, dat river she is--she is--" he threw up his right palm, as if in despair of adequate language. "_t'ink_ of coming home from de war, already robbed, to find _all_ gone--home, wife, child, family, servants, _all_ obliterate', an' only de river's mark, green mold an' mildew, on de walls above de mantel in de house; an' outside her still face under de sky to answer, an' she heed no questions. she is called de father of waters? in a sense, yas, may_be_. _mais_, no. she is, i tell you, de mother of trouble--_an'_ pleasure, too. "she is, after all, de queen of dis valley, an' no mistake--dat river. when she need fresh ermine for her robe, she throw it over our cotton fields--" "yas, an' de black spots, dey are our sorrows. dat's not a bad resemblance, no." the speaker looked at his watch. "pas' eleven," he said. "da' 's good luck w'en she start to fall befo' midnight. oh-h-h! _mais_ she is one great coquette, yas. she keep you crazy until she get tired wid you, an' den she slip away an' steal her beauty-sleep befo' de clock strike twelve." "you t'ink she is going to sleep now? may_be_ she fool us yet, adolphe." "well, may_be_. _mais_ i have great hope. she _beg_in to nod, and w'en dat happen to a woman or a riv--" conversation was suddenly interrupted here by a great crash. the two men started, and, turning, saw an entire section of the improvised embankment fall landward. had the stress of the moment been less, they would involuntarily have hastened to the spot, but terror fixed them where they stood. there was but a moment of suspense,--of almost despair,--but it seemed an eternity, before relief came in a great shout which sent vibrations of joy far along the bank, even to those who watched and worked on the right bank of the stream. it had been only a "dry break." the weights thrown in upon the cotton had been out of plumb, and had pitched the whole structure inward. the uproar following this accident was long and loud, and had not subsided when the bell rang again, and, with tense nerves strained to listen, the line of men dropped speech. instead of calling out the decreasing depth, as usual, the crier this time shouted: "_two inches down, thank god!_" screams of joy, not unmixed with tears, greeted this announcement. the strain was virtually over. the two rich men who had stood and talked together mopped their foreheads and shook hands in silence. finally it was the older, whom we have called adolphe,--which was not his name any more than was his companion's felix,--finally, then, adolphe remarked quite calmly, as he looked at his watch: "i am glad dat cotton in de pile is saved, yas. 't is not de first time de ol' city has fought a battle wid cotton-bales to help, eh, felix? all doze foundation bales dey belong to harold le duc. he _con_tribute dem, an' make no condition. all dat trash on top de cotton, it catch de tar; so to-morrow we dig it out clean an' give it to him again--an'--an'-- "well--" he looked at his watch again, keeping his eyes upon it for a moment before he ventured, in a lower tone: "well, i say, felix, my boy, w'at _you_ say?" "i di'n' spoke. w'at you say yourself, adolphe?" "'well,'--dat's all i said; jus' 'well.' _mais_ i di'n' finish. i _beg_in to say, i--well, i was just t'inking. you know to-night it is de _las'_ opera--don't you forget. no danger to make a _habit_ on a _las' night_; ain't dat true? for w'y you don't say somet'ing?" "ah-h-h! talk, ol' man! i am listening." felix looked at his watch now. "an' may_be_ i am t'inking a li'l' bit, too. _mais_ go on." "well, i am t'inking of doze strange ladies. i am _sure_ dey had many vacant box to-night. don't you t'ink dey need a little encouragement--not to leave new orleans wid dat _im_pression of neglect? we don't want to place a stigma upon de gay ol' town. my carriage is here, an' it is yet time. one hour, an' we will forget all dis trouble. i need me some champagne myself." felix chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "ah-h-h! yi! an' me, too, adolphe. i tol' you i was t'inking also. _mais_ let us sen' de good news home, an' let doze women off deir knees an' go to bed. my mud'-in-law she is de devil for prayin', an' she is poody stout, po' t'ing! "we telegram it. tell dem deir prayers are answered--de water is down--" "an' our spirits are up, eh? an' we will be home in de morning, _w'en de valuable débris is removed_." felix laughed and touched his friend in the ribs. "you are one devil, adolphe. _mais_ we mus' be good to our women." "sure! i am going to return dat compliment you paid me jus' now. you say i am one devil, eh? _bien!_ an' in response, i say, felix, you are one _saint_. you hear me! i say, one _saint_--_un_canonized! any man dat will telegram a message to save his rich mud'-in-law from maybe sudden apoplexy, he is one saint, _sure_! _mais_ you are right. we mus' be good to our women. a happy wife is a joy forever!" he laughed again as he added: "_mais_ de débris! yi, yi! dat make me smile. you ricollec' de las' débris, w'en ma'm'selle koko--" "ah, yes, felix! sure, i remember. i paid, me, i know, one good round sum for my share. dat was one terrible smash-up. two dozen champagne-glass; one crystal decanter; one chandelier, also crystal, every light on it broke, so we had to put off de gas; an'--well, de devil knows w'at else. "tell de trut', i don't like dat dancing on de supper-table, felix. 't is super_flu_ous. de floor is good enough. an' you know, w'en a lady is dancing on a table, after a good supper, of co'se every glass is a temptation to her slipper. an' slippers an' wine-glasses--well, to say de least, de combination it is disastrous. "so, i say, de floor it is good enough for me. it seem more _comme il faut_. "_mais_ come along. we will be late." part second i "sing, nigger, sing! sing yo' rhyme! de waters is a-floodin'--dey 's a-roarin' on time! climb, squirrel, climb!" for several miles, when the night was still or the wind favorable, one could follow the song, accented by simultaneous blows of implements of defense marking the measure. "sing, nigger, sing! sing an' pray! ol' death is on de water--he's a-ridin' dis way! pray, nigger, pray!" some of the words might have been elusive had they been unfamiliar, but the annual agitation kept the songs of the river in mind; and even in safe sections, where many sat in peace beside the rising waters, they would take their pipes from their lips to catch up the danger-songs and sympathetically pass them along. many a prayer went with them, too, from humble petitioners who knew whereof they prayed. such were an old black couple who sat one night upon the brow of the outer levee at carrollton, since become an upper district of far-reaching new orleans. in strong contrast to the stirring scenes enacting below the city, all was peace and tranquillity here. a strong, new embankment, securely built several hundred feet inland, had some years before supplanted the outer levee, condemned as insecure, so that the white inhabitants of the suburb slept, intelligently safe behind a double barrier, for the condemned bank had stood the stress of so many seasons that much of the low land lying between the two levees was finally occupied by squatters, mostly negroes, this being free space, taking no rent of such as did not fear the ever-impending mortgage which the river held. of this class, quite apart from others, might have been seen almost any evening the old couple, hannah and israel, sitting upon the brow of the levee near the door of their low cabin, while, always within call, there played about them a fair-haired little girl and a dog. when the beautiful child, followed by the dog, a fine irish setter, would suddenly emerge in a chase from among the woodpiles about the cabin, there was a certain high-bred distinction in them both which set them apart from the rest of the picture. sometimes they would "play too hearty," as mammy expressed it, and she would call: "dat 'll do now, blossom! come lay down, blucher!" and, followed closely by the dog, the child would coddle at the knees of the woman, who "made the time pass" with stories. sometimes these would be folk-tales brought over from africa, or reminiscences of plantation life, but more often, feeling her religious responsibility to the little one, old hannah would repeat such bible stories as "befitted a child's mind," such as "ab'um an' isaac," "eden's gyarden," or "de prodigum son." of them all, the eden story was easily favorite, its salient mystery features affording fine scope for the narrator's power, while they held the imaginative child with the spell of all good wonder-tales. we get these stories so young and grow up with them so familiarly that when we finally come into a realization of them they hold no possible surprise and so their first charm is lost. think of one story with such elements as a wonder-woman rising from a man's side while he slept--a talking serpent, persuasive in temptation as insidious in easy approaches--a flaming sword of wrath--a tree of knowledge--and the sounding voice of god as he walked through the garden "in the cool of the day"! is not a single colloquialism of so venerable ancestry sufficient to dignify a language? herself a classic in that she expressed the eternal quality of maternal love incarnate, the old woman thus unconsciously passed along to the object of her devotion the best classic lore of the ages. and sunrise and sunset, star- and moon-land, and their reflection in the great water-mirror, were hers and the child's, without the asking. nor were they lost, although to both child and woman they were only common elements in life's great benediction. during the story-telling, which generally lasted until the sun sank across the river, but while its last rays still made "pictures of glory in the heavens" with the water's reflection,--pictures which served to illustrate many a narration, to inspire the speaker and impress a sensitive child,--the dog would stretch himself facing the two, and his intelligent and quizzical expression would sometimes make mammy laugh in a serious place or change the drift of her story. often, indeed, this had happened in the telling of certain animal tales which mammy declared blucher knew better than she and she even insisted that he occasionally winked at her and set her right when she went wrong. in the early dusk, the old man israel would come trudging in from the water and sometimes he would light his pipe and join mammy's audience. occasionally mammy would cook the supper in the open, upon a small charcoal furnace, and the "little miss" would sup from a tiny low table brought from the cabin. here she was served by the old people in turn, for they never ate until she had finished. then the little girl was carefully undressed and sung to sleep with one of mammy's velvet lullabies, in a dainty bed all her own, a berth which hung, shelf-like, against the wall; for the home of this incongruous family was quite as novel as the family itself. part of the ladies' cabin of an old mississippi steamboat, still shabbily fine in white paint and dingy gilding, which israel had reclaimed from an abandoned wreck, formed a wing of the building. this, which, with its furnishings, mammy called "blossom's lay-out," communicated by a door with a "lean-to" of weather-stained boards, whose mud chimney and homely front formed a strong contrast to the river entrance of white and gold. this grotesque architectural composite would have attracted attention at another time or place, but as one of a class, made to its need of any available material, it passed unnoticed beyond an occasional casual smile of amusement and sympathy. it was like the composite toilets of the poor blacks during the hard times suggestively called the "reconstruction period," when old women in soldier coats and boots, topped by third-hand feathered finery, waited at the distributing-station for free rations. no one ever thought of laughing at these pathetic grotesques, technically freed but newly enslaved by bitter circumstance. on the night with which this tale begins, when mammy had put blossom to sleep and tucked the mosquito-bar snugly around her, she went back to her place beside her husband, and, lighting her pipe, sat for a long time silent. this was so unusual that presently israel said: "what de matter wid you dis evenin', hannah? huccome you ain't a-talkin'?" hannah did not answer immediately. but after a time she said slowly: "i 's jes a-speculatin', isrul--jes speculatin'." and, after another pause, she added, quite irrelevantly: "is you got yo' swimp-sacks all set?" "in co'se i is." israel's words came through a cloud of smoke. "an' yo' oars brung in?" "in co'se i is!" "an' de skift locked?" "in co'se i is!" "an' blucher fed?" "what's de matter wid you, hannah? you reckon i gwine forgit my reg'lar business?" the old woman smoked in silence for some minutes. then she said: "isrul!" "what you want, hannah?" "i say, isrul, i got some'h'n' on my mind. hit 's been on my mind more 'n a yeah, an' hit 's a-gittin' wuss." "what is it, hannah?" "you an' me we 's growin' ole, isrul--ain't dat so?" "yas, hannah." "an' we ain't got long to stay heah, hey, isrul?" "yas, ol' 'oman--can't dispute dat." "an'"--hesitatingly. "_you_ knows what 's on my mind, isrul!" "hit 's on my mind, too, hannah. you don't need to 'spress yo'se'f. hit 's on my mind, day an' night." "_what_'s on yo' mind, isrul?" the old man began stirring the bowl of his pipe absently. "'bout we gittin' ol', hannah, an' maybe some day we'll drap off an' leave marse harol's chile all by she se'f, like de chillen in de wilderness. "what mek you mek me say it, hannah? _you_ knows what 'sponsibility gord done laid on we two. ain't we done talked it over a hond'ed times 'fo' now?" "dat ain't _all_ what 's on my mind, isrul." "what else is you got to fret yo'se'f about, hannah? ain't i mekin' you a good livin'? ain't you had de money to put a new little silk frock away every yeah for de blossom, and ain't dey all folded away, one a-top de yether, 'g'inst de answer to our prayers, so her daddy'll see her dressed to her station when he comes sudden? ain't you got a one-way-silk alapaca frock an' a good bonnet for yo'se'f to tek de chile by de han' wid--when gord see fitten to answer us? you ain't _hongry_--or _col'_, is yer?" "g' way, isrul! who's studyin' about victuals or clo'es! i 's ponderin' about de chile, dat 's all. 't ain't on'y 'bout we gittin' ol'. _she_ 's gittin' _tall_. an' you know, isrul, you an' me we ain't fitten to raise marse harol's chile. she's big enough to study quality manners an' white behavior. all marse harol's fam'ly's chillen knowed all de fancy high steps an' played scales on de pianner wid bofe hands at once-t, time dey was tall as blossom is--an' dey made dancin'-school curtsies, too. i taken notice, blossom is sort o' shy, an' she gittin' so she'll stand off when anybody speaks to her. dis heah cabin on de river-bank ain't no place for my white folks. i sho' is pestered to see her gittin' shy an' shamefaced--like po' folks. modest manners and upright behavior is her portion. i _know_ it by heart, but i can't _show_ it to her--i know it by knowledge, but of co'se i can't perform it; an' it frets me." "hannah!" "what is it, isrul?" "who gi'n us dis 'sponsibility? is we axed for it?" "no, isrul, we ain't axed for it." "ain't you an' me promised mis' agnes, de day she died, to keep his chile, safe-t an' sound, tell marse harol' come?" "dat 's six yeahs past, dis comin' christmus, isrul. i b'lieve marse harol' done dead an' gone." "huccome you believe he dead? is he come to you in de sperit?" "no, he ain't come, an' dat 's huccome hope stays wid me. if he was free in de sperit lan' he sho' would come an' gimme a sign. but reason is reason, an' ef he _ain't_ dead, huccome he don't come an' look arter his chile? my white folks warn't nuver shirkers--nor deserters. so, when i stays off my knees awhile an' casts away faith in de unseen, seem dat my horse-sense hit gives me trouble. an' den, like to-night, somehow my courage sinks, an' look like i kin see him dead an' forgot in some ol' ditch on de battle-field. "jes _s'posin'_ dat 's de trufe, isrul, what we boun' to do wid blossom?" "hannah!" "yas, isrul." "you done heared a plenty o' preachin', ain't yer?" "yas, isrul." "is you ever heared a preacher preach 'bout _s'posin'_?" "no, isrul." "but i tell you what you _is_ hearn 'em preach about. you hearn 'em preach about _watchin'_ an' _prayin'_." "dat 's so, isrul, but yit'n still, you know de scripture say 'hope referred meketh de heart sick.' you ricollec' dat, don't you?" "yas, but dat 's a side-track. dat ain't got nothin' to do wid answer to prayer. dat 's jes to give comfort to weary souls, when de waitin'-time is long; dat 's all. dey may git sick at heart--jes' waitin'." "you right, isrul." "well, an' arter watchin' an' prayin', dey 's one mo' thing needful. an' dat 's _faith_. "ef we _watches_ for marse harol' to come, an' _prays_ for 'im to come, an' don't _trus'_, you reckon gord gwine to bother wid us?" "i _tries_ to trus', isrul, an' mos' days i does look for marse harol'. many 's de time i done taken blossom by de hand an' walked along de levee an' looked down in de ca'ollton gyarden while de ban' played, an' jes fairly scroochinized my ol' eyes out, hopin' to reconnize 'im in de dance. i'm dat big a fool in faith--i sho' is. an' i tries de best i kin to keep my faith warm, so de good lord 'll see it glowin' like a live coal in my heart an' he 'll 'member hisse'f about de chile an' sen' 'er daddy home, _sen' 'er daddy home_! my gord, i say, sen' 'er daddy home! i tries continu'sly, isrul." "you must n't talk about tryin', hannah. you mus' jes b'lieve it, same as a little chile--same like you see it; an' den you does see it. an' when you git along so fur dat you _sees_ wid de neye o' faith, gord 'll sho' mek yo' faith good. ef faith kin h'ist a mountain an' shove it along, hit can fetch a man home whar he b'longs; an' hit 'll do it, too." "isrul!" "what is it, hannah?" "gord ain't nuver _promised_ to sen' marse harol' home, as i knows on." "he's promised to answer de prayer o' faith, ain't he?" "yas, isrul, dat 's so. pray him to strenken my faith, ol' man. you stays so much on de water wid de sky in yo' eyes, whilst i works 'mongst de woodpiles, so close to de yearth--seem like maybe you mought git nigher to gord 'n what i'm enabled to do. pickin' up chips, hit 's lowly work an' hit keeps yo' face down, an'--" "don't say dat, ol' 'oman! use yo' fo'sight an' 'stid o' you seein' _chips_ you'll see _kindlin'-wood_. dat what dey _is_. dey 'll lead yo' heart upward dat-a-way. heap o' folks don't see nothin' but money in de river--money an' mud; an' dey don't know it's a merror sometimes, full o' stars an' glory. i done read gord's rainbow promises on de face o' dat muddy river more 'n once-t, when i lifted out my swimp-nets on a still mornin' whilst de sun an' de mist consulted together to show a mericle to a ol' dim-eyed nigger." "you sho' does help me when you 'splains it all out dat-a-way, isrul. pray like a gordly man, ol' pardner, an' yo' ol' 'oman she gwine talk faith strong as she kin--widout turnin' hycoprite." "dat's right, honey--ol' 'oman--dat's right. _you_ pray an' _i'll_ pray--an' we'll _watch_ wid _faith_. an' ef gord don't sen' marse harol', he'll git a message to us some way, so we'll be guided." the sound of a horn from across the river put an end to the conversation. some one was blowing for the ferryman. "pity you tied _wood-duck_ up so soon to-night," said the old wife, following israel with her eyes as she spoke, while he rose slowly and taking the oars down from the rafters started to the river. in a moment the old man's answering horn sounded clear and loud in response, and the clank of the chain as it dropped in the bow of the skiff, followed by the rhythmic sound of the oar-locks, told his listening mate that the ferryman was on his way. ii besides plying the ferry-skiff at which israel earned odd dimes--every day a few--he turned many an honest penny with his shrimp-nets. the rafts of logs chained together at the landing were his, and constituted the initial station of a driftwood industry which was finally expressed in the long piles of wood which lay stacked in cord measures on either side of the cabin. the low and prolonged talk of the old people to-night had been exceptional only in its intensity. the woman's reluctant almost despair of a forlorn hope was pathetic indeed. still it was but momentary. they had gone over the same ground many times before, and fear and even foreboding had occasionally clouded their vision in reviewing the situation. the woman's observation in regard to the child's growing tall was the first suggestion to israel's mind of the urgency of immediate relief. in the stress of material provision, men may be forgiven if they sometimes overlook life's abstract values. israel was so startled by this new thought that when he had rowed his boat out into the clearing which the broad river afforded, he involuntarily pressed the handles of his oars, lifting their blades from the water, while he turned his eyes in one direction and another and then upward. he had a hard problem to solve. here was a great thinking space, and yet, although he stopped for the length of several strokes, and the night was mild and still,--although every condition was favorable for clear thought,--his mind seemed lost in a sort of maze, and it was only when he discovered by a familiar landmark that he was drifting fast down-stream, only with this obtrusion of the actual, that he rallied quickly, and with a deft stroke or two recovered his course. and as the oar-locks measured time again he chuckled: "i got my lesson, yas, i got my lesson. _work!_ dat 's my po'tion. quick as i gits biggoty and tries to read above my head, i goes de downward way." he said it aloud, to himself, and the words gave him renewed energy, for, even as he spoke, the _duck_, with oars for wings, plunged lightly forward over the water to a quickened measure. * * * * * the old wife, sitting alone, sleepless always when her man was making a night trip, was even before his summons to-night painfully awake. it was as if the outcry which had burst the door of patience had set her old mind free to wander. she seemed to have a broader vision, a new perspective upon a situation in which she was herself the chief conserving factor. while she kept the child within her door well in her subconscious care, and knew by her regular breathing that she slept: while she felt the near presence of the dog on guard at her skirts' hem, her conscious thoughts were far away. quickly even as lightning darts, zigzagging a path of light from one remote point to another in its eccentric course--her dim eyes actually resting upon the night skies where the lightnings play--she traveled again in her musings the arbitrary paths of fate from one crisis to another in the eventful latter years of her life. then she would seem to see clear spaces, and again the bolts of misfortune which presaged the storm of sorrow out of which had come her present life. first in the anxious retrospect there was the early break in the family when the boys began going away to college; then the sudden marriage of the youngest of the three; the declaration of war; the enlistment of the two elder students in the voluntary service which had transferred their names from the university roster to the list of martyrs. another dart as of lightning, and she saw this youngest come home with his fair new england bride, to depart with her and israel for an island home beyond the canebrakes, and on the heel of this divided joy came his passionate enlisting "to avenge the death of his brothers." and then--ah! and then--how fast the zigzags dart! rapid changes everywhere traced in fire, and, as memory recalled them, throughout the whole was ever the rolling thunder of artillery, completing the figure. the story is one of thousands, individualized, of course, each, by special incidents and personalities, but the same, every one, in its history of faithfulness of the slave people during the crucial period when the masters had gone to battle, leaving their wives and babies in the care of those whose single chance of freedom depended on the defeat of the absent. hannah and israel had been loved and trusted servants in the family of old colonel le duc. the woman had nursed all the babies in turn, harold being the last, and hence her own particular "baby" for all time. * * * * * brake island, so called because of its situation in a dense cane-brake, which was at once a menace and a guard, was the most unpopular part of the colonel's large estate, albeit there was no land so rich as its fields, no wood better stocked with game than the narrow forest lying close along its northern limit, no streams more picturesque in their windings or better equipped for the angler's art than that of the bayou d'iris, whose purple banks declared the spring while the robins were calling, and before the young mocking-birds in the crape myrtles opened their great red mouths for the wriggling song-food of the bayou's brim. all the le duc sons had loved to go to the island to shoot and to fish while they were lads, but upon attaining the social age they had grown to despise it for its loneliness. the brake which fringed its borders had long been a refuge for runaway negroes, who were often forced to poach upon its preserves for food, even to the extent of an occasional raid upon its smoke-houses and barns, so that women and children were wont to shudder at the very idea of living there. still it had always been the declared "favorite spot on earth" to the colonel, who had often vowed that no son of his should own it and spurn it. he lived like a lord himself, it is true, on a broader place of less beauty on the bank of the great river,--"keeping one foot in new orleans and one on the plantation," as he expressed it,--and it is not surprising that his children had laughingly protested against being brought up on house-parties and the opera as preparation for a hermit's life, even in "paradise." all excepting harold. while the brothers had protested against the island home, he had said little, but when he had brought his bride home, and realized the scant affection that stirred the hearts of his family at sight of her placid new england face, even while he himself suffered much, knowing that her brothers were enlisting in the opposing armies and that her family felt her marriage at this time to a slaveholder as a poignant sorrow--while the father seemed hesitating as to just what paternal provision he should make for his impulsive boy, the boy himself, in a sudden towering declaration of his manhood and of resentment and pride, turned upon him: "give us brake island and mammy and israel, and cut us loose! and i'll show my people a new variety of hermit life!" the thing was quickly done. a deed of gift made on the spot conveyed this eden of modern times, with its improvements, full working force and equipment, to harold guyoso le duc, who in accepting it assumed the one condition of making it his home. iii harold was a brilliant fellow, impulsive and extravagant as he was handsome and loving, and he had no sooner taken possession of his eden than he began to plan, by means of a system of engineering, to open it up by a canal which should "span the brake and tap the bayou," so that boats of size and circumstance might enter. here he would have a launch and a barge, and the great world of culture, of wit, of pleasure, and of affluence should come in splendor "to watch a hermit herm," or, as he as often put it, "to help a hummit hum." a great house-party was quickly arranged--a party of gay friends, engineers chiefly, bidden for a freely declared purpose--a party which is still cherished in the annals of local social history as a typical example of affluent ante-bellum hospitality, and is even yet personally recalled by a few old men who sit and seem to wait, mostly, in shabby clothing incongruously ill fitting their gilded reminiscence, at certain dozing business resorts in old new orleans. most of these venerables still live in their shabby ancestral homes, although it may be their women take boarders or their best rooms are let for business purposes--cleared of their cumbersome furnishings of mahogany and rosewood by the rising waters of misfortune which have gradually carried them into the "antique-shops" of the vicinity. a place of honor on the tax-lists and a waiting palace of white marble in the cemetery--these querulous witnesses to distinction and of permanency are in some cases the sole survivors of the many changes incident upon a reconstruction. to these gentle reminiscers the "brake island house-party of harold le duc" is even yet the procrustean bed against which they measure all the ostentatious pageantry of a new and despised social order. for the possible preservation of a bit of local color--gone out in the changed light of a new dispensation--behold a hasty sketch of this long-ago playtime. the invitations which were sent out, naming a single date only, with the flattering implication that the visit so urgently desired might never come to an end,--one of the easy fashions of the old régime,--promptly brought a dozen men, with as many women, wives and sweethearts, to the "big house" beyond the swamp. this southern home, which was broadly typical of its class, simple enough in its architecture in that its available space, barring the watch-tower in the center of its roof, was all upon a single floor and its material the indigenous woods of the forest, yet suffered no diminution in being called the "big house"--a name which has been made to serve many a lesser structure for purposes of distinction. set high upon brick pillars,--there are no cellars possible in the mississippi valley country,--its low, spreading form graced the easy eminence upon which it stood, dominating its wide demesne with a quiet dignity superior to that of many a statelier home. in design it was a greek cross. surrounded on all sides by deep balconies, ornate with cornice and corinthian columns, its four arms afforded as many entrances, of which the southern portal was formal front, from which an avenue of arbor-vitæs led down to the canopied landing at the bayou's bank at the foot of the decline. the house had been designed and built by harold's father, in an exuberance of youthful enthusiasm, upon his early marriage. he it was who had planted the trailing roses and wistaria-vines, whose gnarled trunks, now woody and strong as trees, topped the balconies, throwing profusions of bloom adown their pillars and along their balustrades. here lamarque, solfaterre, cloth-of-gold, musk-cluster, lady-bank, multi-flora--all the cherished climbing roses of an earlier period--mingled in harmonious relations with honeysuckle, woodbine, and clematis. the most beautiful of them all, the single yellow-centered cherokee rose of the soil,--good enough in itself for anywhere, but ostracized through caste exclusion from distinction of place about the home,--lay in heavy tangles in the tall, impenetrable hedges which bounded the garden on three sides meeting the bayou at the base of the knoll. within its inclosure a resident colony of choice flowers--exotics mainly, but domiciled and grown hardy in this protected spot--had waxed riotous in the license of years of neglect, and throwing off traditions, as many another aristocrat in like circumstances has done before, appeared now in novel forms developed in life's open race with children of the soil. here in season were great trees of camellia, white and red, with each a thousand waxen blooms, stalwart woody growths of lemon-verbena, topping sweet olives and answering the challenge of the stately oleanders, which, in turn, measured heads against the magnolias' shoulders. appropriating any available support, great scarlet geraniums ten feet high, knowing no winters, laid hands upon the trellises and matched pennies with the locust blooms, red petal against white, affiliating, weak-spined as they were, with scrub-trees which counted real trees at least in their louisiana pedigrees. "cape jasmine borders" had risen into hedges, fencing in certain beds, while the violets, which originally guarded fantastic forms in outline, had gregariously spread into perennial patches of green and purple. and everywhere there were orange-trees--not a grove here, but always one or more in the range of vision. their breath was over the garden, and even the bees in the locust-trees, with all their fuss and scattering of honey sweets, could not dispel their all-pervading suggestion of romance--the romance of life incarnate ever expressed in their peerless exhibits of flower, fresh fruit and yellow, all growing together upon a maternal tree rich in life and tone. too many words about an old garden? perhaps so, and yet-- the spirit of a venerable garden as it rises and shows itself to memory is such a benediction that one seeing the vision may sometimes wonder if, if _life_, _per se_, be eternal, and the resurrection of _certain_ so-called "dead" a _fact_, we may not some day wander again in the risen gardens of our childhood, recognizing them by verification of certain familiar faces of flowers who may know us in turn and bloom again--taking up life, which ever includes love and immortality, at the point of suspension, as a mother, waking from a nap, goes back to her window, and catching up her broken song held in the cobwebs of sleep, sings it through, while she finishes a little sleeve, her foot again upon the cradle at her side. life is the great serial--one chapter printed here, another there--a seemingly finished comedy crowding a tragedy unrelated, yonder. the discerning artist who, reading as he runs, brings these parts into line will have begun the great book. until gabriel wills, it may not be finished. iv it was, no doubt, but natural that the man of the world, who had deserted such an eden of his own designing for the ostensible excuse of business convenience, should have resented in his sons their inherited repugnance to the retired life. what more formidable combatant than one's own stubbornness, turned to confront him, in his children? * * * * * the broken trip from new orleans to the island took nearly two days, although the crow does it easily in a few hours. the initial munificence of chartering one of the great mississippi steamboats for the first stage of the journey set the pace for the entire occasion. host and hostess met their guests at the river landing with carriages and cane wagons gaily bedecked with evergreens, mosses, and dogwood branches in flower, and a merry drive through several miles of forest brought them to the banks of the bayou, where a line of rowboats awaited them. the negro boatmen, two to man each skiff, wearing jumpers of the harvard crimson, stood uncovered in line at the bayou's edge, and as the party alighted, they served black coffee from a fire in the open. the negro with a cup of coffee his own hue and clear as wine is ever an ubiquitous combination in the louisiana lowlands. he bobs up so unexpectedly in strange places balancing his tiny tray upon his hand, that a guest soon begins to look for him almost anywhere after an interval of about three dry hours, and with a fair chance of not being disappointed. * * * * * when finally the party had embarked, the hostess riding in the first boat with the governor of the state, while harold brought up the rear with the governor's lady, the sun was low in the west, and narrow search-lights, piercing the wood for a brief moment, revealed a great wonder-world of dank growths so fairly alive with creeping, flying, darting things--chirping, calling, singing, croaking, humming, and hooting--that when in a twinkling the light suddenly went out, many of the women shuddered with a shrinking sense of the uncanny. before this intangible emotion had time to crystallize into fear, however, each pilot who manipulated the rudder astern had drawn from under his seat a great torch of pine and set it ablaze. under festoons of gray spanish moss, often swung so low that heads and torches were obliged to defer to them, and between flowering banks which seemed sometimes almost to meet in the floating growths which the dividing bows of the boats plowed under, the little crafts sped lightly along. occasionally a heavy plunging thing would strike the water with a thud, so near a boat that a girlish shriek would pierce the wood, spending itself in laughter. a lazy alligator, sleepily enjoying a lily-pool, might have been startled by the light, or a line of turtles, clinging like knots to a log over the water, suddenly let go. streaks of darting incandescence marked the eccentric flights of a million fireflies flecking the deep wood whose darkness they failed to dispel; and once or twice two reflected lights a few inches apart, suggesting a deer in hiding, increased the tremulous interest of this super-safe but most exciting journey. but presently, before impressions had time to repeat themselves, and objects dimly discerned to become familiar, a voice from the leading boat started a song. it was a great voice, vibrant, strong, and soft as velvet, and when presently it was augmented by another, insidiously thrown in, then another in the next boat, until all the untutored harvard oarsmen were bravely singing and the dipping oars fell into the easy measure, all sense of fear or place was lost in the great uplift of the rhythmic melody. at special turns through the wood ringing echoes gave back the strains. a mocking-bird, excited by the unusual noise, poured forth a rival disputatious song, and an owl hooted, and something barked like a fox; but it was the great singing of the men which filled the wood. common songs of the plantation followed one another--songs of love, of night and bats, of devils and hobgoblins, selected according to the will of the leader--all excepting the opening song, which, although of the same repertoire, was "by request," and for obvious reasons. it was called "when de sun swings low," and ran something like this: look out for mister swaller when de sun swings low-- watch him swoop an' sway! he keeps a mighty dippin', like he don' know whar to go, a-saggin' every way. he starts sort o' nimbly, but he settles mighty wimbly when he scurries for de chimbley when de sun swings low. does you see a cloud a-risin' when de sun swings low? listen ef it sings. hit 's a swarm o' gray muskitties, 'bout a million strong or so, a-sharpenin' up der stings. dey keeps a mighty filin', an' dey tries to sing beguilin', but de 'skitties' song is rilin' when de sun swings low. oh, de woods is all conversin' when de sun swings low-- bird an' beast an' tree; dey all communes together in de languages dey know, an' sperits rise to see. de nightmares prances, an' de will-o'-wisp dances, when de moonlight advances an' de sun swings low. but most naïve and characteristic of them all perhaps was "ol' marse adam." ole mister devil took a walk in paradise-- lady mis' eve she's a-walkin', too-- hoped to meet mars' adam, she was steppin' mighty nice-- lady mis' eve she's a-walkin', too. dis was 'fo' de fig-time, so my lady picked a rose-- lady mis' eve she's a-walkin', too-- an' she helt it 'g'inst de sunlight, as she felt de need o' clo'es-- lady mis' eve she's a-walkin', too. den she shuk 'er yaller ringlets down an' 'lowed dat she was dressed-- lady mis' eve, she's a-walkin', too-- mister devil he come quoilin'--everbody knows de rest-- lady mis' eve she's a-walkin', too. then, changing to a solemn, staccato measure, it went on: ole marse adam! ole marse adam! et de lady's apple up an' give her all de blame. greedy-gut, greedy-gut, whar is yo' shame? ole marse adam, man, whar is yo' shame? ole marse adam! ole marse adam! caught de apple in 'is neck an' made it mighty so'e, an' so we po' gran'chillen has to swaller roun' de co'e. ole marse adam, man, whar is yo' shame? ole marse adam! ole marse adam! praised de lady's attitudes an' compliment 'er figur'-- didn't have de principle of any decent nigger. ole marse adam, man, whar is yo' shame? it was a long pull of five miles up the winding stream, but the spirit of jollity had dispelled all sense of time, and when at last the foremost boat, doubling a jutting clump of willows, came suddenly into the open at the foot of the hill, the startling presentment of the white house illuminated with festoons of chinese lanterns, which extended across its entire width and down to the landing, was like a dream of fairyland. it was indeed a smiling welcome, and exclamations of delight announced the passage of the boats in turn as they rounded the willow bend. the firing of a single cannon, with a simultaneous display of fireworks, and music by the plantation band, celebrated the landing of the last boat. servants in the simple old-fashioned dress--checked homespun with white accessories, to which were added for the occasion, great rosettes of crimson worn upon the breast--took care of the party at the landing, bringing up the rear with hand-luggage, which they playfully balanced upon their heads or shifted with fancy steps. the old-time supper--of the sort which made the mahogany groan--was served on the broad back "gallery," while the plantation folk danced in the clearing beyond, a voice from the basement floor calling out the figures. this was a great sight. left here to their own devices as to dress, the negroes made so dazzling a display that, no matter how madly they danced, they could scarcely answer the challenge of their own riotous color schemes. single dancers followed; then "lad_y_es and gentiles" in pairs, taking fantastic steps which would shame a modern dancing-master without once awakening a blush in a maiden's cheek. the dancing was refined, even dainty, to-night, the favorite achievement of the women being the mincing step taken so rapidly as to simulate suspension of effort, which set the dancers spinning like so many tops, although there was much languid posing, with exchange of salutations and curtsying galore. yet not a twirl of fan or dainty lift of flounce--to grace a figure or display a dexterous foot--but expressed a primitive idea of high etiquette. the "fragments" left over from the banquet of the upper porch--many of them great unbroken dishes, meats, game, and sweets--provided a great banquet for the dancers below, and the gay late feasters furnished entertainment, fresh and straight from life, to the company above, for whose benefit many of their most daring sallies were evidently thrown out--and who, after their recent experiences, were pleased to be so restfully entertained. toasts, drunk in ginger-pop and persimmon beer innocent of guile, were offered after grace at the beginning of the supper, the toaster stepping out into the yard and bowing to the gallery while he raised his glass or, literally, his tin cup--the passage of the master's bottle among the men, later in the evening, being a distinct feature. the first toast was offered to the ladies--"mistus an' company-ladies"; and the next, following a suggestion of the first table, where the host had been much honored, was worded about in this wise: "we drinks to de health, an' wealth, _an'_ de long life of de _leadin' gentleman_ o' _brake island_, who done put 'isself to so much pains an' money to give dis party. but to make de toast accordin' to manners, so hit'll fit de gentleman's visitors long wid hisself, i say let's drink to who but 'ole marse adam!'" it is easy to start a laugh when a festive crowd is primed for fun, and this toast, respectfully submitted with a low bow by an ancient and privileged veteran of the rosined bow, was met with screams of delight. v a resourceful little island it was that could provide entertainment for a party of society folk for nearly a fortnight with never a repetition to pall or to weary. the men, equipped for hunting or fishing, and accompanied by several negro men-servants with a supplementary larder on wheels,--which is to say, a wagon-load of bread, butter, coffee, condiments, and wines, with cooking utensils,--left the house early every morning, before the ladies were up. they discussed engineering schemes over their fishing-poles and game-bags, explored the fastnesses of the brake, eavesdropped for the ultimate secret of the woods, and plumbed for the bayou's heart, bringing from them all sundry tangible witnesses of geologic or other conditions of scientific values. most of these "witnesses," however, it must be confessed, were immediately available for spit or grill, while many went--so bountiful was the supply--to friends in the city with the cards of their captors. there are champagne bottles even yet along the marshes of brake island, bottles whose bellies are as full of suggestion as of mud, and whose tongueless mouths fairly whistle as if to recount the canards which enlivened the swampland in those halcyon days of youth and hope and inexperience. until the dressing-hour, in the early afternoons which they frankly called the evening, the young women coddled their bloom in linen cambric night-gowns, mostly, reading light romance and verse, which they quoted freely under the challenge of the masculine presence. or they told amazing mammy-tales of voudoo-land and the ghost-country for the amused delectation of their gentle hostess, who felt herself warmed and cheered in the sunshine of these southern temperaments. it seemed all a part of the poetry and grace of a novel and romantic life. here were a dozen young women, pretty and care-free as flowers, any one of whom could throw herself across the foot of a bed and snatch a superfluous "beauty-sleep" in the midst of all manner of jollity and laughter. most of them spoke several languages and as many dialects, frequently passing from one to another in a single sentence for easy subtlety or color, and with distinct gain in the direction of music. possibly they knew somewhat of the grammar of but a single tongue beside their own, their fluency being more of a traditional inheritance than an acquisition. such is the mellow equipment of many of our richest speakers. not one but could pull to pieces her olympe bonnet and nimbly retrim it with pins, to match her face or fancy--or dance a highland fling in her 'broidered nightie, or sing-- how they all did sing--and play! several were accomplished musicians. one knew the latin names of much of the flora of the island, and found time and small coins sufficient to interest a colony of eager pickaninnies to gather specimens for her "herbarium." without ever having prepared a meal, they could even cook, as they had soon amply proven by the heaping confections which were always in evidence at the man-hour--bon-bons, kisses, pralines, what not?--all fragrant with mint, orange-flower, rose-leaf, or violet, or heavy with pecans or cocoanut. in the afternoon, when the men came home, they frequently engaged in contests of skill--in rowing or archery or croquet; or, following nature's manifold suggestions, they drifted in couples, paddling indolently among the floating lily-pads on the bayou, or reclining among the vines in the summer-houses, where they sipped iced orange syrup or claret sangaree, either one a safe lubricator, by mild inspiration or suggestion, of the tongue of young love, which is apt to become tied at the moment of most need. [illustration: "sipped iced orange syrup or claret sangaree"] with the poems of moore to reinforce him with easy grace of words, a broad-shouldered fellow would naïvely declare himself a peri, standing disconsolate at the gate of his lady's heart, while she quoted fanny fern for her defense, or, if she were passing intellectual and of a broader culture, she would give him invitation in form of rebuff from "the lady of the lake," or a scathing line from shakspere. of course, all the young people knew their shakspere--more or less. they had their fortunes told in a half-dozen fashions, by withered old crones whose dim eyes, discerning life's secrets held lightly in supension, mated them recklessly _on suspicion_. visiting the colored churches, they attended some of the novel services of the plantation, as, for instance, a certain baptismal wedding, which is to say a combined ceremony, which was in this case performed quite regularly and decorously in the interest of a coal-black piccaninny, artlessly named lily blanche in honor of two of the young ladies present whom the bride-mother had seen but once out driving, but whose gowns of flowered organdy, lace parasols, and leghorn hats had stirred her sense of beauty and virtue to action. although there was much amusement over this incongruous function, the absence of any sense of embarrassment in witnessing so delicate a ceremony--one which in another setting would easily have become indelicate--was no doubt an unconscious tribute to the primitive simplicity of the contracting parties. and always there were revival meetings to which they might go and hear dramatic recitals of marvelous personal "experiences," full of imagery,--travels in heaven or hell,--with always the resounding human note which ever prevails in vital reach for truth. through it all they discerned the cry which finds the heart of a listener and brings him into indissoluble relation with his brother man, no matter how great the darkness out of which the note may come. it is universal. the call is in every heart, uttered or unexpressed, and one day it will pierce the heavens, finding the blue for him who sends it forth, and for the listener as well if his heart be attuned. let who will go and sit through one of these services, and if he does not come away subdued and silent, more tender at heart, and, if need be, stronger of hand to clasp and to lift, perhaps--well, perhaps his mind is open only to the pictorial and the spectacular. * * * * * there is no telling how long the house-party would have remained in paradise but for the inexorable calendar which warned certain of its members that they would be expected to answer the royal summons of comus at the approaching carnival; and of course the important fact that certain bills from the legislature affecting the public weal were awaiting the governor's signature. a surprising number of marriages followed this visit, seeming to confirm a report of an absurd number of engagements made on the island. there is a certain old black woman living yet "down by the old basin" in french new orleans, a toothless old crone who, by the irony of circumstance, is familiarly known as "ol' mammy molar," who "remembers" many things of this time and occasion, which she glibly calls "de silveringineer party," and who likes nothing better than an audience. if she is believed, this much too literal account of a far-away time is most meager and unfaithful, for she does most strenuously insist that, for instance, there was served at the servants' table on that first night-- but let her have her way of it for a moment--just a single breath: "why, honey," she closes her eyes as she begins, the better to see memory behind them. "why, honey, de champagne wine was passed aroun' to de hands all dat indurin' infair in _water-buckets_, an' dipped out in _gou'd dippers-full_, bilin' over so fast an' fizzin' so it'd tickle yo' mouf to drink it. an' marse harol' le duc, he stood on a _pi_anner-stool on de back gallery an' th'owed out gol' dollars by de hatful for any of us niggers to pick up; an' de guv'ner, ol' marse abe lincolm, he fired off sky-rockers an' read out freedom papers. "an' mids' all de dance an' reveltry, a bolt o' thunder fell like a cannon-ball outen a clair sky, an' we looked up an' lo an' beholst, here was a vision of a big hand writin' on de sky, an' a voice say, '_eat up de balance ef anything is found wantin'_!' an' wid dat, dey plunged in like a herd o' swine boun' for de sea, an' dey devoured de fragmints an' popped mo' corks, an' dipped out mo' champagne wine, an' de mo' dey dipped out champagne wine, de mo' dey 'd dance. an' de mo' dey 'd dance, de mo' de wine would flow." possibly the old woman's obvious confusion of thought has some explanation in the fact of the presence of the governor of the state, who, introduced as a high dignitary, did make a little speech late that night, thanking the colored people in terms of compliment for their dancing; and any impression made here was so quickly overlaid by the deeper experiences of the war that a blending can easily be explained. there was a shower of coins--"picayunes" only--thrown during the evening by the master, a feature of the dance being to recover as many of them as possible without breaking step. so the old woman's memory is not so far afield, although as a historian she might need a little editing. but such even as this is much of the so-called "history" which, bound in calf, dishonors the world's libraries to-day. it is so easy, seeing cobwebs upon a record,--cobwebs which may not be quite construed as alphabet,--to interpret them as hieroglyphics of import, instead of simply brushing them away, or relegating them, where they belong, to the dusky domain of the myth out of which we may expect only weird suggestion, as from the mold of pressed rosemary, typifying remembrance dead. * * * * * the house-party, which in this poor retrospect seems to have devoted itself almost wholly to pleasure, was nevertheless followed by immediate work upon the project in behalf of which it was planned. with this main motive was also the ulterior and most proper one in harold's mind of introducing his wife in so intimate a fashion to some of the important members of society, who would date life-friendships from the pleasant occasion of helping him to open his own door to them. some thousands of dollars went into the quicksands of the marshes before the foundations were laid for the arch of a proposed great bridge, beneath which his boats should sail to their landing. with the arrogant bravado of an impulsive boy challenged to action, he began his arch first. its announcement of independence and munificence would express the position he had taken. sometimes it is well to put up a bold front, even if one needs work backward from it. harold moved fast--but the gods of war moved faster! scarcely had a single column of solid masonry risen above the palmetto swamp when fort sumter's guns sounded. the smell of gunpowder penetrated the fastnesses of the brake, and yet, though his nostrils quivered like those of an impetuous war-horse, the master held himself in rein with the thought of her who would be cruelly alone without him. and he said to himself, while he reared his arch: "two out of three are enough! i have taken their terror island for my portion. they may have garlands upon my bridge--when they come sailing up my canal as heroes!" but the next whiff from the battleground stopped work on the arch. the brothers had fallen side by side. [illustration: "the brave, unthinking fellow, after embracing his beloved, dashed to the front"] madly seizing both the recovered swords, declaring he would "fight as three," the brave, unthinking fellow, after embracing his beloved, put one of her hands in hannah's and the other in israel's, and, commending them to god by a speechless lift of his dark eyes, mounted his horse and dashed, as one afraid to look back, to the front. vi every one knows the story of "poor harold le duc"--how, captured, wounded, he lay for more than a year on the edge of insanity in a federal hospital. every one knows of the birth of his child on the lonely island, with only black hands to receive and tend it, and how the waiting mother, guarded by the faithful two, and loved by the three hundred loyal slaves who prayed for her life, finally passed out of it on the very day of days for which she had planned a great christmas banquet for them in honor of their master's triumphant return. the story is threadbare. everyone knows how it happened that "the old people," colonel and madame le duc, having taken flight upon report of a battle, following their last son, had crossed the lines and been unable from that day to communicate with the island; of the season of the snake-plague in the heart of the brake, when rattlers and copperheads, spreading-adders, moccasins, and conger-eels came up to the island, squirming, darting, or lazily sunning themselves in its flowering grounds and lily-ponds, some even finding their way into the very beds of the people; when the trees were deserted of birds, and alligators prowled across the terraces, depredating the poultry-yard and even threatening the negro children. in the presence of so manifold disaster many of the negroes returned to voodooism, and nude dances by weird fires offered to satan supplanted the shouting of the name of christ in the churches. a red streak in the sky over the brake was regarded as an omen of blood--the thunderbolt which struck the smoke-stack of the sugar-house a command to stop work. old women who had treated the sick with savory teas of roots and herbs lapsed into conjuring with bits of hair and bones. a rabbit's foot was more potent than medicine; a snake's tooth wet with swamp scum and dried in the glare of burning sulphur more to be feared than god. war, death and birth and death again, followed by scant provender threatening famine, and then by the invasion of serpents, had struck terror into hearts already tremulous and half afraid. the word "freedom" had scarcely reached the island and set the air vibrating with hope, commingled with dread, when the reported death of the master came as a grim corroboration of the startling prospect. all this is an open story. but how israel and hannah, aided in their flight by a faithful few, slipped away one dark night, carrying the young child with them to bear her safely to her father's people, knowing nothing of their absence, pending the soldier's return--for the two never believed him dead; how, when they had nearly reached the rear lands of the paternal place, they were met by an irresistible flood which turned them back; and how, barely escaping with their lives, they were finally rowed in a skiff quite through the hall of the great house--so high, indeed, that mammy rescued a family portrait from the wall as they passed; how the baby slept through it all, and the dog followed, swimming-- this is part of the inside history never publicly told. the little party was taken aboard a boat which waited midstream, a tug which became so overcrowded that it took no account of passengers whom it carried safely to the city. of the poor forlorn lot, a few found their way back to the plantations in search of survivors, but in most instances, having gone too soon, they returned disheartened. madame le duc, who, with her guests and servants, had fled from the homestead at the first warning, did not hear for months of the flight of the old people with her grandchild, and of their supposed fate. no one doubted that all three had perished in the river, and the news came as tardy death tidings again--tidings arriving after the manner of war news, which often put whole families in and out of mourning, in and out of season. vii there is not space here to dwell upon harold's final return to brake island, bent and broken, unkempt,--disguised by the marks of sorrow, unrecognized, as he had hoped to be, of the straggling few of his own negroes whom he encountered camping in the wood, imprisoned by fear. these, mistaking him for a tramp, avoided him. he had heard the news _en route_,--the "news," then several years old,--and had, nevertheless, yielded to a sort of blind, stumbling fascination which drew him back to the scene of his happiness and his despair. here, after all, was the real battle-field--and he was again vanquished. when he reached the homestead, he found it wholly deserted. the "big house," sacred to superstition through its succession of tragedies, was as mammy and israel had left it. even its larder was untouched, and the key of the wine-cellar lay imbedded in rust in sight of the cob-webbed door. it was a sad man, prematurely gray, and still gaunt--and white with the pallor of the hospital prison--who, after this sorrowful pilgrimage to brake island, appeared, as from the grave, upon the streets of new orleans. when he was reinstated in his broken home, and known once more of his family and friends, he would easily have become the popular hero of the hour, for the gay world flung its gilded doors open to him. the latin temperament of old new orleans kept always a song in her throat, even through all the sad passages of her history; and there was never a year when the french quarter, coquette that she was, did not shake her flounces and dance for a season with her dainty toes against the lower side of canal street. but harold was not a fellow of forgetful mind. the arch of his life was broken, it is true, but like that of the bridge he had begun--a bridge which was to invite the gay world, yes, but which would ever have dominated it, letting its sails pass under--he could be no other than a worthy ruin. had his impetuous temper turned upon himself on his return to the island, where devastation seemed to mock him at every turn, there is no telling where it might have driven him. but a lonely mother, and the knowledge that his father had died of a broken heart upon the report of his death, the last of his three sons--the pathetic, dependence of his mother upon him--the appeal of her doting eyes and the exigencies of an almost hopeless financial confusion--all these combined as a challenge to his manhood to take the helm in the management of a wrecked estate. it was a saving situation. how often is work the great savior of men! once stirred in the direction of effort, harold soon developed great genius for the manipulation of affairs. reorganization began with his control. square-shouldered and straight as an indian, clear of profile, deep-eyed, and thoughtful of visage, the young man with the white hair was soon a marked figure. when even serious men "went foolish over him," it is not surprising that ambitious mothers of marriageable daughters, in these scant days of dearth of men, should have exhibited occasional fluttering anxieties while they placed their broken fortunes in his hands. reluctantly at first, but afterward seeing his way through experience, harold became authorized agent for some of the best properties along the river, saving what was left, and sometimes even recovering whole estates for the women in black who had known before only how to be good and beautiful in the romantic homes and gardens whose pervading perfume had been that of the orange-blossom. it was on returning hurriedly from a trip to one of these places on the upper river--the property of one marie estelle josephine ramsey de la rose, widowed at "yellow tavern"--that he sought the ferry skiff on the night old man israel answered the call. viii little the old man dreamed, while he waited, midstream, trying to think out his problem, that the solution was so near at hand. we have seen how the old wife waited and prayed on the shore; how with her shaded mind she groped, as many a wiser has done, for a comforting, common-sense understanding of faith, that intangible "substance of things hoped for," that elusive "evidence of things not seen." in a moment after she heard the creaking of the timbers as the skiff chafed the landing, even while she rose, as was her habit, to see who might be coming over so late, she dimly perceived two men approaching, israel and another; and presently she saw that israel held the man's hand and that he walked unsteadily. she started, fearing that her man was hurt; but before she could find voice of fear or question, israel had drawn the stranger to her and was saying in a broken voice: "hannah! hannah! heah mars' harol'!" only a moment before, with her dim eyes fixed upon the sky, she had experienced a realization of faith, and believed herself confidently awaiting her master's coming. and yet, seeing him now in the flesh before her, she exclaimed: "what foolishness is dis, ole man? don't practice no jokes on me to-night, isrul!" her voice was almost gruff, and she drew back as she spoke. but even while she protested, harold had laid his hand upon her arm. "mammy," he whispered huskily, "don't you know your 'indurin' devil'--?" (this had been her last, worst name for her favorite during his mischief period.) harold never finished his sentence. the first sound of his voice had identified him, but the shock had confused her. when at last she sobbed "hush! i say, hush!" her arms were about his knees and she was crying aloud. [illustration: "her arms were about his knees"] "glo-o-o--oh--glo-o-o--glo-o-ry! oh, my gord!" but presently, wiping her eyes, she stammered: "what kep' you so, baby? hol' me up, chile--hol' me!" she was falling, but harold steadied her with strong arms, pressing her into her chair, but retaining her trembling hand while he sat upon the low table beside her. he could not speak at once, but, seeing her head drop upon her bosom, he called quickly to israel. for answer, a clarion note, in no wise muffled by the handkerchief from which it issued, came from the woodpile. israel was shy of his emotions and had hidden himself. by the time he appeared, sniffling, hannah had rallied, and was pressing harold from her to better study his face at long range. "what happened to yo' hair, baby?" she said presently. "hit looks as bright as dat flaxion curl o' yoze i got in my testamen'. i was lookin' at it only a week ago las' sunday, an' wishin' i could read de book 'long wid de curl." "it is much lighter than that, mammy. it is whiter than yours. i have lived the sorrows of a long life in a few years." israel still stood somewhat aside and was taking no note of their speech, which he presently interrupted nervously: "h-how you reckon mars' harol' knowed me, hannah? he--he reco'nized his horn! you ricollec' when i fotched dat horn f'om de islan' roun' my neck, clean 'crost de flood, you made game o' me, an' i say i mought have need of it? but of co'se i didn't ca'culate to have it ac-_chilly_ call mars' harol' home! i sho' didn't! but dat's what it done. cep'n' for de horn's call bein' so familius, he'd 'a' paid me my dime like a stranger an' passed on." at this harold laughed. "sure enough, uncle israel; you didn't collect my ferriage, did you? i reckon you'll have to charge that." israel chuckled: "lord, hannah, listen! don't dat soun' like ole times? dey don't charge nothin' in dese han'-to-mouf days, marse harol'--not roun' heah." "but tell me, uncle israel, how did you happen to bring that old horn with you--sure enough?" harold interrupted. "i jes fotched it _'ca'se i couldn't leave it_--de way hannah snatched yo' po'trit off de wall--all in dat deluge. hit's heah in de cabin now to witness de trip. but in co'se o' time de horn, hit come handy when i tuk de ferry-skift. "well, hannah, when he stepped aboa'd, he all but shuk de ole skift to pieces. i ought to knowed dat le duc high-step, but i didn't. i jes felt his tread, an' s'luted him for a gentleman, an' axed him for gord sake to set down befo' we'd be capsided in de river. i war n't cravin' to git drownded wid no aristoc'acy. "de moon she was hidin', dat time, an' we couldn't see much; but he leant over an' he say, 'uncle,' he say, 'who blowed dat horn 'crost de river?' an' i say, 'me, sir. i blowed it.' den he say, 'whose horn _is_ dat?' an' i 'spon', 'hit's _my_ horn, sir.' den my conscience begin to gnaw, an' i sort o' stammered, 'leastways, it b'longs to a frien' o' mine wha' look like he ain't nuver gwine to claim it.' i ain't say who de frien' was, but d'rec'ly he pushed me to de wall. he ax me p'intedly to my face, 'what yo' frien' name, uncle?' an at dat i got de big head an' i up an' snap out: "'name le duc, sir, harry le duc.' "jes free an' easy, so, i say it. lord have mussy! ef i'd s'picioned dat was mars' harol' settin' up dar listenin' at me callin' his name so sociable an' free, i'd 'a' drapped dem oa's overbo'ad. i sho' would. "well, when i say 'harry le duc,' seem like he got kind o' seasick, de way he bent his head down, an' i ax him how he come on--ef he got de miz'ry anywhars. an' wid dat he sort o' give out a dry laugh, an' den what you reckon he ax me? he say, 'uncle, is you married?' an' wid dat _i_ laughed. 't war n't no trouble for me to laugh at dat. i 'spon', 'yas, sirree! you bet i is! does i look like air rovin' bachelor?' i was jes about half mad by dis time. "well, so he kep' on quizzifyin' me: ax me whar i live, an' i tol' 'im i was a ole risidenter on de levee heah for five years past; an' so we run on, back an' fo'th, tell we teched de sho'. an' time de skift bumped de landin' he laid his han' on me an' he say, 'unc' isrul, whar's mammy hannah?' an' den--bless gord! i knowed him! but i ain't trus' myself to speak. i des nachelly clawed him an' drug him along to you. i seen de fulfilment o' promise, an' my heart was bustin' full, but i ain't got no halleluiah tongue like you. i jes passed him along to you an' made for de woodpile!" it was a great moment for harold, this meeting with the only people living who could tell all there was to know of those who were gone. hannah's memory was too photographic for judicious reminiscence. the camera's great imperfection lies in its very accuracy in recording non-essentials, with resulting confusion of values. so the old woman, when she turned her mental search-light backward, "beginning at the beginning," which to harold seemed the end of all--the day of his departure,--recounted every trivial incident of the days, while harold listened through the night, often suffering keenly in his eagerness to know the crucial facts, yet fearing to interrupt her lest some precious thing be lost. a reflected sunrise was reddening the sky across the river when she reached the place in the story relating to the baby. her description needed not any coloring of love to make it charming, and while he listened the father murmured under his breath: "and then to have lost her!" "what dat you say, marse harol'?" hannah gasped, her quick ears having caught his despairing tone. "oh, nothing, mammy. go on. it did seem cruel to have the little one drowned. but i don't blame you. it is a miracle that you old people saved yourselves." the old woman turned to her husband and threw up her hands. "wh-why, isrul!" she stammered. "what's de matter wid you--to set heah all night an' listen at me talkin' all roun' de baby--an' ain't named her yit!" she rose and, drawing harold after her, entered the door at her back. as she pulled aside the curtain a ray of sunlight fell full upon the sleeping child. "heah yo' baby, baby!" her low voice, steadied by its passages through greater crises, was even and gentle. she laid her hand upon the child. "wek up, baby! wek up!" she cried. "yo' pa done come! wek up!" without stirring even so much as a thread of her golden hair upon the pillow, the child opened a pair of great blue eyes and looked from mammy's face to the man's. then,--so much surer is a child's faith than another's,--doubting not at all, she raised her little arms. her father, already upon his knees beside her, bent over, bringing his neck within her embrace, while he inclosed her slender body with his arms. thus he remained, silent, for a moment, for the agony of his joy was beyond tears or laughter. but presently he lifted his child, and, sitting, took her upon his lap. he could not speak yet, for while he smoothed her beautiful hair and studied her face, noting the blue depths of her darkly fringed eyes, the name that trembled for expression within his lips was "agnes--agnes." "how beautiful she is!" he whispered presently; and then, turning to hannah, "and how carefully you have kept her! everything--so sweet." "oh, yas!" the old woman hastened to answer. "we ain't spared no pains on 'er, marse harol'. she done had eve'ything we could git for her, by hook or by crook. of co'se she ain't had no _white kin_ to christen her, an' dat was a humiliation to us. she didn't have no to say legal person to bring 'er for'ard, so she ain't nuver been _ca'yed up in church_; but she's had every sort o' christenin' we could reach. "i knowed yo' pa's ma, ole ma'am toinette, she'd turn in her grave lessen her gran'chil' was christened cat'lic, so i had her christened dat way. dat ole half-blind priest, father some'h'n' other, wha' comes from bayou de glaise, he was conductin' mass meetin' or some'h'n' other, down here in bouligny, an' i took de baby down, an' he sprinkled her in latin or some'h'n' other, an' ornamented behind her ears wid unctious ile, an' crossed her little forehead, an' made her eat a few grains o' table salt. he _done it straight_, wid all his robes on, an' i g'in him a good dollar, too. an' dat badge you see on her neck, a sister o' charity, wid one o' dese clair-starched ear-flap sunbonnets on, she put dat on her. she say she give it to her to wear so 's she could n't git drownded--_like as ef i'd let her drownd_. yit an' still i lef' it so, an' i even buys a fresh blue ribbin for it, once-t an'a while. i hear 'em say dat blue hit's de hail mary color--an' it becomes her eyes, too. dey say what don't pizen fattens, an' i know dem charms couldn't do her no hurt, an', of 'co'se, we don't know all. maybe dey mought ketch de eye of a hoverin' angel in de air an' bring de baby into heavenly notice. of co'se, i wouldn't put no sech as dat on her. i ain't been raised to it, an' i ain't no beggin' hycoprite. but i wouldn't take it off, nuther. "den, i knowed ole mis', yo' ma, she was 'pistopal, an' miss aggie she was numitarium; so every time a preacher'd be passin' i'd git him to perform it his way. me bein' baptis' i didn't have no nigger baptism to saddle on her. "so she's bounteously baptized--yas, sir. i reasoned it out dat ef dey's only one _true_ baptism, an' i war n't to say _shore_ which one it was, i better git 'em all, an' only de _onlies'_ true one would _count_; an' den ag'in, ef all honest baptisms is good, den de mo' de merrier, as de book say. of co'se i knowed pyore rain-water sprinkled on wid a blessin' couldn't hurt no chile. "you see, when one side de house is _french distraction_ an' de yether is _english to-scent_, an' dey's a dozen side-nations wid _blood to tell_ in all de branches,--well, hit minds me o' dis _ba'm of a thousan' flowers_ dat ole mis' used to think so much of. hits hard to 'stinguish out any one flagrams. "but talkin' about de baby, she ain't been deprived, no mo' 'n de lord deprived her, for a season, of her rights to high livin' an'--an' aristoc'acy--an'--an' petigree, an' posterity, an' all sech as dat. "an'-- "what dat you say, mars' harol'? what _name_ is we--' "we ain't dast to give 'er no name, baby, no mo' 'n jes blossom. i got 'er wrote down in five citi_fic_ates 'miss blossom,' jes so. no, sir. i knows my colored place, an' i'll go so far, an' dat's all de further. she was jes as much a blossom befo' she was christened as she was arterwards, so my namin' 'er don't count. i was 'mos' tempted to call out 'agnes' to de preachers, when dey'd look to me for a name, seem' it was her right--like as ef she was borned to it; but--i ain't nuver imposed on her. no, sir, we ain't imposed on her noways. "de on'iest wrong i ever done her--an' gord knows i done it to save her to my arms, an' for you, marster--de on'iest wrong was to let her go widout her little sunbonnet an' git her skin browned up so maybe nobody wouldn't s'picion she was clair white an' like as not try to wrest her from me. an' _one_ time, when a uppish yo'ng man ast me her name, i said it straight, but i see him look mighty cu'yus, an' i spoke up an' say, 'what other name you 'spect' her to have? my name is hannah le duc, an' i's dat child's daddy's mammy.' excuse me, mars' harold, but you know i _is_ yo' _black_ mammy--_an' i was in so'e straits_. "so de yo'ng man, well, he didn't seem to have no raisin'. he jes sort o' whistled, an' say i sho is got one mighty blon' gran'chil'--an' i 'spon', 'yas, sir; so it seems.' "an' dat's de on'ies' wrong i ever done her. she sets up at her little dinner-table sot wid a table-cloth an' a white napkin,--an' i done buyed her a ginuine silver-plated napkin-ring to hold it in, too,--an' she says her own little blessin'--dat short 'grace o' gord--material binefets,' one o' miss aggie's; i learned it to her. no, she ain't been handled keerless, ef she is been livin' on de outside o' de levee, like free niggers. but we ain't to say _lived_ here, 'not perzackly, marster. we jes been waitin' along, _so_, dese five years--waitin' for to-night. "i ain't nuver sorted her clo'es out into no bureau; i keeps 'em all in her little trunk, perpared to move along." for a moment the realization of the culmination of her faith seemed to suffuse her soul, and as she proceeded, her voice fell in soft, rhythmic undulations. "ya-as, mars' harol', mammy's baby boy, yo' ol' nuss she been waitin', an' o-ole man isrul _he_ been waitin', an' de blossom _she_ been waitin'. i 'spec' she had de firmes' faith, arter all, de baby did. day by day we all waited--an' night by night. an' sometimes when courage would burn low an' de lamp o' faith grow dim, seem like we'd a' broke loose an' started a-wanderin' in a sort o' blind search, _'cep'n' for de river_. "look like ef we'd ever went beyan' de river's call, we'd been same as de chillen o' isrul lost in de tanglement o' de wilderness. all we river chillen, we boun' to stay by her, same as toddlin' babies hangs by a mammy's skirts. she'll whup us one day, an' chastise us severe; den she'll bring us into de light, same as she done to-night--same as reel mammies does. "an', mars' harol'--" she lowered her voice. "mars' harol', don't tell me she don't know! i tell yer, me an' dis river we done spent many a dark night together under de stars, an' we done talked an' answered one another so many lonely hours--an' she done showed us so many mericles on land _an'_ water-- "i tell yer, i done found out some'h'n' about de river, mars' harol'. she's--why, she's-- "oh, ef i could only write it all down to go in a book! we been th'ough some _merac'lous_ times together, sho' 's you born--sho' 's you born. "she's a mericle mystery, sho'! "you lean over an' dip yo' han' in her an' you take it up an' you say it's _wet_. you dig yo' oars into her, an' she'll spin yo' boat over her breast. you dive down into her, an' you come up--_or don't come up_. some eats her. some drinks her. some gethers wealth outen her. some draps it into her. some drownds in her. "an' she gives an' takes, an' seem like all her chillen gits satisfaction outen her, one way an' another; but yit an' still, she ain't nuver flustered. on an' on she goes--rain or shine--high water--low water--all de same--on an' on. "when she craves diamonds for her neck, she reaches up wid long onvisible hands an' gethers de stars out'n de firmamint. "de moon is her common breastpin, an' de sun-- "even he don't faze her. she takes what she wants, an' sends back his fire every day. "de mists is a veil for her face, an' de showers fringes it. "sunrise or dusklight, black night or midday, every change she answers _whilst she's passin'_. "but who ever _in_ticed her to stop or to look or listen? nobody, baby. an' why? "oh, lord! ef eve'ybody only knowed! "you see, all sech as dat, i used to study over it an' ponder befo' we started to talk back an' fo'th--de river an' me. "one dark night she heared me cryin' low on de bank, whilst de ole man stepped into de boat to row 'crost de water, an' she felt wood-duck settle heavy on her breast, an' she seen dat we carried de same troublous thought--searchin' an' waitin' for the fulfilment o' promise. "an' so we started to call--an' to answer, heart to heart." * * * * * the story is nearly told. no doubt many would be willing to have it stop here. but a tale of the river is a tale of greed, and must have satisfaction. while father and child sat together, israel came, bringing fresh chips. he had been among the woodpiles again. this time there followed him the dog. "why, blucher!" harold exclaimed. "blucher, old fellow!" and at his voice the dog, whining and sniffing, climbed against his shoulder, even licking his face and his hand. then, running off, he barked at israel and hannah, telling them in fine dog latin who the man was who had come. then he crouched at his feet, and, after watching his face a moment, laid his head upon his master's right foot, a trick harold had taught him as a pup. ix of course harold wished to take the entire family home with him at once, and would hear to nothing else until hannah, serving black coffee to him from her furnace, in the dawn, begged that she and israel might have "a few days to rest an' to study" before moving. it was on the second evening following this, at nightfall, while her man was away in his boat, that the old woman rose from her chair and, first studying the heavens and then casting about her to see that no one was near, she went down to the water, slowly picking her way to a shallow pool between the rafts and the shore. she sat here at first, upon the edge of the bank, frankly dropping her feet into the water while she seemed to begin to talk--or possibly she sang, for the low sound which only occasionally rose above the small noises of the rafts was faintly suggestive of a priest's intoning. for a moment only, she sat thus. then she began to lower herself into the water, until, leaning, she could lay her face against the sod, so that a wave passed over it, and when, letting her weight go, she subsided, with arms extended, into the shallow pool, a close listener might have heard an undulating song, so like the river's in tone as to be separable from it only through the faint suggestion of words, interrupted or drowned at intervals by the creaking and knocking of the rafts and the gurgling of the sucking eddies about them. the woman's voice--song, speech, or what not?--_seemed_ intermittent, as if in converse with another presence. suddenly, while she stood thus, she dropped bodily, going fully under the water for a brief moment, as if renewing her baptism, and when she presently lifted herself, she was crying aloud, sobbing as a child sobs in the awful momentary despair of grief at the untwining of arms--shaken, unrestrained. while she stood thus for a few minutes only,--a pathetic waste of sorrow, wet, dark and forlorn, alone on the night-shore,--a sudden wind, a common evening current, threw a foaming wave over the logs beside her so that its spray covered her over; while the straining ropes, breaking and bumping timbers, with the slow dripping of the spent wave through the raft, seemed to answer and possibly to assuage her agitation; for, as the wind passed and the waters subsided, she suddenly grew still, and, climbing the bank as she had come, walked evenly as one at peace, into her cabin. no one will ever know what, precisely, was the nature of this last communion. was it simply an intimate leave-taking of a faithful companionship grown dear through years of stress? or had it deeper meaning in a realization--or hallucination--as to the personality of the river--the "secret" to which she only once mysteriously referred in a gush of confidence on her master's return? perhaps she did not know herself, or only vaguely felt what she could not tell. certainly not even to her old husband, one with her in life and spirit, did she try to convey this mystic revelation. we know by intuition the planes upon which our minds may meet with those of our nearest and dearest. to the good man and soldier, israel,--the prophet, even, who held up the wavering hands of the imaginative woman when her courage waned, pointing to the hour of fulfilment,--the great river, full of potencies for good or ill, could be only a river. as a mirror it had shown him divinity, and in its character it might _typify_ to his image-loving mind another thing which service would make it precious. but what he would have called his sanity--had he known the word--would have obliged him to stop there. the stars do not tell, and the poor moon--at best only hinting what the sun says--is fully half-time off her mind. and the soul of the river--if, indeed, it has once broken silence--may not speak again. and, so, her secret is safe--safe even if the broken winds did catch a breath, here and there, sending it flurriedly through and over the logs until they trembled with a sort of mad harp-consciousness, and were set a-quivering for just one full strain--one coherent expression of soul-essence--when the wave broke. perhaps the arms of the twin spirits were untwined--and they went their separate ways smiling--the woman and the river. when, after a short time, the old wife came out, dressed in fresh clothing, her white, starched tignon shining in the moonlight, to sit and talk with her husband, her composure was as perfect as that of the face of the water which in its serenity suggested the voice of the master, when peter would have sunk but for his word. this was to be their last night here. harold was to bring a carriage on the next day to take them to his mother and blossom, and, despite the joy in their old hearts, it cost them a pang to contemplate going away. every woodpile seemed to hold a memory, each feature of the bank a tender association. blucher lay sleeping beside them. israel spoke first. "hannah!" he said. "what, isrul?" "i ready to go home to-night, hannah. marse harol' done come. we done finished our 'sponsibility--an' de big river's a-flowin' on to de sea--an' settin' heah, i 'magines i kin see mis' aggie lookin' down on us, an' seem like she mought want to consult wid us arter our meetin' wid marse harol' an' we passin' blossom along. what you say, hannah?" "i been tired, ole man, an' ef we could 'a' went las' night, like you say, seem like i 'd 'a' been ready--an', of co'se, i'm ready now, ef gord wills. peace is on my sperit. yit an' still, when we rests off a little an' studies freedom free-handed, we won't want to hasten along maybe. ef we was to set heah an' wait tell gord calls us,--he ain't ap' to call us bofe together, an' dey'd be lonesome days for the last one. but ef we goes 'long wid marse harol', he an' blossom'll be a heap o' comfort to de one what's left." "hannah!" "yas, isrul." "we's a-settin' to-night close to de brink--ain't dat so?" "yas, isrul." "an' de deep waters is in sight, eh, hannah?" "yas, isrul." "an' we heah it singin', ef we listen close, eh, hannah?" "yas, isrul." "well, don't let 's forgit it, dat 's all. don't let's forgit, when we turns our backs on dis swellin' tide, dat de river o' jordan is jes befo' us, all de same--an' it can't be long befo' our crossin'-time." "amen!" said the woman. * * * * * the moon shone full upon the great river, making a shimmering path of light from shore to shore, when the old couple slowly rose and went to rest. toward morning there was a quick gurgling sound in front of the cabin. blucher caught it, and, springing out, barked at the stars. the sleepers within the levee hut slept on, being overweary. the watchman in the carrollton garden heard the sound,--heard it swell almost to a roar,--and he ran to the new levee, reaching its summit just in time to see the roof of the cabin as it sank, with the entire point of land upon which it rested, into the greedy flood. * * * * * when harold le duc arrived that morning to take the old people home, the river came to meet him at the brim of the near bank, and its face was as the face of smiling innocence. while he stood awe-stricken before the awful fact so tragically expressed in the river's bland denial, a wet dog came, and, whining, crouched at his feet. he barked softly, laid his head a moment upon his master's boot, moaned a sort of confidential note, and, looking into the air, barked again, softly. did he see more than he could tell? was he trying to comfort his master? he had heard all the sweet converse of the old people on that last night, and perhaps he was saying in his poor best speech that all was well. mammy hannah and uncle israel, having discharged their responsibility, had crossed the river together. part third "oh, it 's windy, sweet lucindy, on de river-bank to-night, an' de moontime beats de noontime, when de trimblin' water 's white." so runs the plantation love-song, and so sang a great brown fellow as, with oars over his shoulder, he strolled down "lovers' lane," between the _bois d'arcs_, toward the mississippi levee. he repeated it correctly until he neared the gourd-vine which marked the home of his lady, when he dropped his voice a bit and, eschewing rhyme for the greater value, sang: "oh, it 's windy, sweet maria, on de river-bank to-night--" and slackening his pace until he heard footsteps behind him, he stopped and waited while a lithe yellow girl overtook him languidly. "heah, you take yo' sheer o' de load!" he laughed as he handed her one of the oars. "better begin right. you tote half an' me half." and as she took the oar he added, "how is you to-night, anyhow, sugar-gal?" while he put his right arm around her waist, having shifted the remaining oar to his left side, the girl instinctively bestowed the one she carried over her right shoulder, so that her left arm was free for reciprocity, to which it naïvely devoted itself. "i tell yer, hit 's fine an' windy to-night, sho' enough," he said. "de breeze on de levee is fresh an' cool, an' de skift she's got a new yaller-buff frock, an' she--" "which skift? de _malviny_? is you give her a fresh coat o' paint? an' dat's my favoryte color--yaller-buff!" this with a chuckle. "no; dey ain't no _malviny_ skift no mo'--not on dis plantation. i done changed her name." "you is, is yer? what is you named her dis time?" she was preparing to express surprise in the surely expected. of course the boat was renamed the _maria_. what else, in the circumstances? "i painted her after a lady-frien's complexion, a bright, clair yaller; but as to de name--guess!" said the man, with a lunge toward the girl, as the oar he carried struck a tree--a lunge which brought him into position to touch her ear with his lips while he repeated: "what you reckon i named her, sweetenin'?" "how should i know? i ain't in yo' heart!" "you ain't, ain't yer? ef you ain't, i'd like mighty well to know who is. you's a reg'lar risidenter, you is--an' you knows it, too! guess along, gal. what you think de boat's named?" "well, ef you persises for me to guess, i'll say _silv' ann_. dat 's a purty title for a skift." "_silv' ann!_" contemptuously. "i 'clare, m'ria, i b'lieve you 's jealous-hearted. no, indeedy! i know i run 'roun' wid silv' ann awhile back, jes to pass de time, but she can't name none o' my boats! no; ef you won't guess, i'll tell yer--dat is, i'll give you a hint. she named for my best gal! _now guess!_" "i never was no hand at guessin'." the girl laughed while she tossed her head. "heah, take dis oah, man, an' lemme walk free. i ain't ingaged to tote no half-load _yit_--as i knows on. lordy, but dat heavy paddle done put my whole arm to sleep. ouch! boy. hands off tell de pins an' needles draps out. i sho' is glad to go rowin' on de water to-night." so sure was she now of her lover, and of the honor which he tossed as a ball in his hands, never letting her quite see it, that she whimsically put away the subject. she had been to school several summers and could decipher a good many words, but most surely, from proud practice, she could spell her own name. as they presently climbed the levee together, she remarked, seeing the water: "whar is de boat, anyhow--de what-you-may-call-it? she ain't in sight--not heah!" "no; she's a little piece up de current--in de willer-clump. i didn't want nobody foolin' wid 'er--an' maybe readin' off my affairs. she got her new intitlemint painted on her stern--every letter a different color, to match de way her namesake treats me--in a new light every day." the girl giggled foolishly. she seemed to see the contour of her own name, a bouquet of color reaching across the boat, and it pleased her. it would be a witness for her--to all who could read. "i sho' does like boats an' water," she generalized, as they walked on. "me, too," agreed her lover; "but i likes anything--wid my chosen company. what is dat whizzin' past my face? look like a honey-bee." "'t is a honey-bee. dey comes up heah on account o' de chiny-flowers. but look out! dat's another! you started 'em time you drug yo' oah in de mids' o' dem chiny-blossoms. whenever de chiny-trees gits too sickenin' sweet, look out for de bees!" "yas," chuckled de man; "an' dey's a lesson in dat, ef we'd study over it. whenever life gits too sweet, look out for trouble! but we won't worry 'bout dat to-night. is you 'feared o' stingin' bees?" "no, not whilst dey getherin' honey--dey too busy. hit 's de idlers dat i shun. an' i ain't afeared o' trouble, nuther. yit an' still, ef happiness is a sign, i better look sharp." "is you so happy, my sugar?" the girl laughed. "i don't know ef i is or not--i mus' see de name on dat skift befo' i can say. take yo' han' off my wais', boy! ef you don't i'll be 'feared o' stingin' bees, sho' enough! don't make life _too_ sweet!" they were both laughing when the girl dashed ahead into the willow-clump, love close at her heels, and in a moment the _maria_, in her gleaming dress of yellow, darted out into the sunset. a boat or two had preceded them, and another followed presently, but it takes money to own a skiff, or even to build one of the driftwood, which is free to the captor. and so most of the couples who sought the river strolled for a short space, finding secluded seats on the rough-hewn benches between the acacia-trees or on the drift-dogs which lined the water's edge. it was too warm for continued walking. from some of the smaller vessels, easily recognizable as of the same family as the fruit-luggers which crowd around "picayune tier" at the french market, there issued sweet songs in the soft italian tongue, often accompanied by the accordeon. young love sang on the water in half a dozen tongues, as he sings there yet at every summer eventide. the skiffs for the most part kept fairly close to the shore, skirting the strong current of the channel, avoiding, too, the large steamboats, whose passage ever jeopardized the small craft which crossed in their wake. indeed, the passage of one of these great "packets" generally cleared the midstream, although a few venturesome oarsmen would often dare fate in riding the billows in her wake. these great steamboats were known among the humble river folk more for their wave-making power than for the proud features which distinguished them in their personal relations. there were those, for instance, who would watch for a certain great boat called the _capitol_, just for the bravado of essaying the bubbling storm which followed her keel, while some who, enjoying their fun with less snap of danger, preferred to have their skiffs dance behind the _laurel hill_. or perhaps it was the other way: it may have been the _laurel hill_, of the sphere-topped smoke-stacks, which made the more sensational passage. it all happened a long time ago, although only about thirteen years had passed since the events last related, and both boats are dead. at least they are out of the world of action, and let us hope they have gone to their rest. an old hulk stranded ashore and awaiting final dissolution is ever a pathetic sight, suggesting a patient paralytic in his chair, grimly biding fate--the waters of eternity at his feet. at intervals, this evening, fishermen alongshore--old negroes mostly--pottered among the rafts, setting their lines, and if the oarsmen listened keenly, they might almost surely have caught from these gentle toilers short snatches of low-pitched song, hymns mostly, of content or rejoicing. there was no sense of the fitness of the words when an ancient fisher sang "sweet fields beyan' de swelling flood," or of humor in "how firm a foundation," chanted by one standing boot-deep in suspicious sands. the favorite hymn of several of the colored fishermen, however, seemed to be "cometh our fount of every blessin'," frankly so pronounced with reverent piety. at a distant end of his raft, hidden from its owner by a jutting point from which they leaped, naked boys waded and swam, jeering the deaf singer as they jeered each passing boat, while occasionally an adventurous fellow would dive quite under a skiff, seizing his opportunity while the oars were lifted. none of the little rowboats carried sail as a rule, although sometimes a sloop would float by with an air of commanding a squadron of the sparse fleet which extended along the length of the river. the sun was fallen nearly to the levee-line this evening when one of the finest of the "river palaces" hove in sight. the sky-hour for "dousing the great glim" was so near--and the actual setting of the sun is always sudden--that, while daylight still prevailed, all the steamer's lights were lit, and although the keen sun which struck her as a search-light robbed her thousand lamps of their value, the whole scene was greater for the full illumination. the people along shore waved to the passing boat--they always do it--and the more amiable of the passengers answered with flying handkerchiefs. as she loomed radiant before them, an aged negro, sitting mending his net, remarked to his companion: "what do she look like to you, br'er jones?" "'what she look like to me?'" the man addressed took his pipe from his lips at the question. "what she look like--to me?" he repeated again. "why, tell the trufe, i was jes' studyin' 'bout dat when you spoke. she 'minds me o' heaven; dat what she signifies to my eyes--heavenly mansions. what do she look like to _you_?" "well," the man shifted the quid in his mouth and lowered his shuttle as he said slowly, "well, to my observance, she don't answer for heaven; i tell yer dat: not wid all dat black smoke risin' outen 'er 'bominable regions. she's mo' like de yether place to _me_. she may have heavenly gyarments on, but she got a hell breath, sho'. an' listen at de band o' music playin' devil-dance time inside her! an' when she choose to let it out, she's got a-a-nawful snort--she sho' is!" "does you mean de cali-ope?" "no; she ain't got no cali-ope. i means her clair whistle. hit's got a jedgment-day sound in it to my ears." "dat music you heah', dat ain't no dance-music. she plays dat for de passengers to eat by, so dey tell me. but i reckon dey jes p'onounces supper dat-a-way, same as you'd ring a bell. an' when de people sets down to de table, dey mus' sho'ly have de manners to stop long enough to let 'em eat in peace. yit an' still, whilst she looks like heaven, i'd a heap ruther set heah an' see her go by 'n to put foot in her, 'ca'se i'd look for her to 'splode out de minute i landed in her an' to scatter my body in one direction an' my soul somewhars else. no; even ef she was heaven, i'd ruther 'speriment heah a little longer, settin' on de sof' grass an' smellin' de yearnin' trees an' listenin' at de bumblebees a-bumblin', an' go home an' warm up my bacon an' greens for supper, an' maybe go out foragin' for my sunday chicken to-night in de dark o' de moon. hyah! my stomach hit rings de dinner-bell for me, jes as good as a brass ban'." "me, too!" chuckled the smoker. "i'll take my chances on dry lan', every time. i know i'll nuver lead a p'ocession but once-t, and dat'll be at my own fun'al, an' i don't inten' to resk my chances. but she is sho' one noble-lookin' boat." by this time the great steamboat--the wonderful apparition so aptly typifying heaven and hell--had passed. she carried only the usual number of passengers, but at this evening hour they crowded the guards, making a brilliant showing. family parties they were mostly, with here and there groups of young folk, generally collected about some popular girl who formed a center around which coquetry played mirthfully in the breeze. a piquant arcadian bride, "pretty as red shoes," artlessly appearing in all her white wedding toggery, her veil almost crushed by its weight of artificial orange-flowers, looked stoically away from the little dark husband who persisted in fanning her vigorously, while they sat in the sun-filled corner which they had taken for its shade while the boat was turned into the landing to take them aboard. and, of course, there was the usual quota of staid couples who had survived this interesting stage of life's game. nor was exhibition of rather intimate domesticity entirely missing. infancy dined in nature's own way, behind the doubtful screening of waving palmetto fans. while among the teething and whooping-cough contingents the observer of life might have found both tragedy and comedy for his delectation. mild, submissive mothers of families, women of the creole middle class mainly,--old and withered at thirty-five, all their youthful magnolia tints gone wrong, as in the flower when its bloom is passed--exchanged maternal experiences, and agreed without dissent that the world was full of trouble, but "god was good." even a certain slight maternal wisp who bent over a tiny waxen thing upon her lap, dreading each moment to perceive the flicker in her breath which would show that a flame went out--even she, poor tear-dimmed soul, said it while she answered sympathetic inquiry: "oh, yas; it is for her we are taking de trip. yas, she is very sick, _mais god is good_. it is de eye-teet'. de river's breath it is de bes' medicine. de doctor he prescribe it. an' my father he had las' winter such a so much trouble to work his heart, an' so, seeing we were coming, he is also here--yas, dat's heem yonder, asleep. 't is his most best sleep for a year, lying so. de river she give it. an' dose ferryboat dey got always on board too much whooping-cough to fasten on to eye-teet." * * * * * somewhat apart from the other passengers, their circle loosely but surely defined by the irregular setting of their chairs toward a common center, sat a group, evidently of the great world--most conspicuous among them a distinguished-looking couple in fresh mid-life, who led the animated discussion, and who were seen often to look in the direction of a tall and beautiful girl who stood in the midst of a circle of young people within easy call. it was impossible not to see that their interest in the girl was vital, for they often exchanged glances when her laughter filled the air, and laughed with her, although they knew only that she had laughed. the girl stood well in sight, although "surrounded six deep" by an adoring crowd; nor was this attributable alone to her height which set her fine little head above most of her companions. a certain distinction of manner--unrelated to haughtiness, which may fail in effect, or arrogance, which may over-ride but never appeal; perhaps it was a graciousness of bearing--kept her admirers ever at a tasteful distance. there was an ineffable charm about the girl, a thing apart from the unusual beauty which marked her in any gathering of which she became a part. descriptions are hazardous and available words often inadequate to the veracious presentment of beauty, and yet there is ever in perfection a challenge to the pen. as the maiden stood this evening in the sunlight, her radiant yellow hair complementing the blue of her sea-deep eyes, her fair cheeks aglow, and one color melting to another in her quick movements, the effect was almost like an iridescence. tender in tints as a sea-shell, there might have been danger of lapse into insipidity but for the accent of dark rims and curled lashes which individualized the eyes, and, too, the strong, straight lines of her contour, which, more than the note of dark color, marked her a le duc. there are some women who naturally hold court, no matter what the conditions of life, and to whom tribute comes as naturally as the air they breathe. it often dates back into their spelling-class days, and i am not sure that it does not occasionally begin in the "perambulator." this magnetic quality--one hesitates to use an expression so nervously prostrated by strenuous overwork, and yet it is well made and to hand--this magnetic quality, then, was probably, in agnes le duc, the gift of the latin strain grafted upon new england sturdiness and reserve, the one answering, as one might say, for ballast, while the other lent sail for the equable poising of a safe and brilliant life-craft. so, also, was her unusual beauty markedly a composite and of elements so finely contrasting that their harmonizing seemed rather a succession of flashes, as of opposite electric currents meeting and breaking through the caprice of temperamental disturbance; as in the smile which won by its witchery, or the illumination with which rapid thought or sudden pity kindled her eye. educated alternately in louisiana where she had recited her history lessons in french, and in new england, the pride and pet of a charmed cambridge circle, with occasional trips abroad with her "parents," she was emerging, all unknowingly, a rather exceptional young woman for any place or time. seeing her this evening, an enthusiast might have likened her to the exquisite bud of a great tea-rose, regal on a slender stem--shy of unfolding, yet ultimately unafraid, even through the dewy veil of immaturity--knowing full well, though she might not stop to remember, the line of court roses in her pedigree. watching her so at a safe distance, one could not help wondering that she thought it worth her while to listen at all, seeing how her admirers waited upon her every utterance. to listen well has long been considered a grace--just to listen; but there is a still higher art, perhaps, in going a step beyond. it is to listen with enthusiasm, yes, even with _eloquence_. one having a genius for this sort of oratory, speaking through the inspired utterance of another, and of course supplying the inspiration, gains easily the reputation of "delightful conversational powers." and this was precisely an unsuspected quality which made for the sweet girl much of the popularity which she had never analyzed or questioned. she _could_ talk, and in several languages, familiarly, and when the invitation arrived, she did--upward, with respect, to her elders (she had learned that both in new orleans and in boston); downward to her inferiors--with gentle directness, unmixed with over-condescension; to right and to left among her companions, quite as a free-hearted girl, with spirit and _camaraderie_. a quality, this, presaging social success certainly, and, it must be admitted, it is a quality which sometimes adorns natures wanting in depth of affection. that this was not true of agnes le duc, however, seems to be clearly shown in an incident of this trip. as she stood with her companions this evening, while one and another commented upon this or that feature of the shore, they came suddenly upon a congregation of negroes encircling an inlet between two curves in the levee, and, as the low sun shone clearly into the crowd, it became immediately plain that a baptism was in progress. a line of women, robed in white, stood on one side; several men, likewise in white, on the other, while the minister, knee-deep in the water, was immersing a subject who shouted wildly as he went under and came up struggling as one in a fit, while two able-bodied men with difficulty bore him ashore. the scene was scarcely one to inspire reverence to a casual observer, and there was naturally some merriment at its expense. one playful comment led to another until a slashing bit of ridicule brought the entire ceremony into derision, and, as it happened, the remark with its accompanying mimicry was addressed to agnes. "oh, please!" she pleaded, coloring deeply. "i quite understand how it may affect you; but--oh, it is too serious for here--too personal and too sacred--" while she hesitated, the culprit, ready to crawl at her feet,--innocent, indeed, of the indelicacy of which he had become technically guilty,--begged to be forgiven. he had quite truly "meant no harm." "oh, i am quite sure of it," the girl smiled; "but now that i have spoken,--and really i could not help it; i could not wish to let it pass, understand,--but now that i have spoken--oh, what shall i say! "perhaps you will understand me when i tell you that i should not be with you here to-day but for the devoted care of two old christian people who dated their joy in the spiritual life from precisely such a ceremony as this. they are in heaven now. "my dear old mammy often said that she 'went under the water groaning in sin, and came up shouting, a saved soul!' i seem to hear her again as i repeat the words, on this same river, in sight of her people and within the sound of their voices. i was small when she died, and i do not clearly remember many of her words; but this i do well recall, for we lived for some years on the river-bank, only a few miles from the spot where in her youth she had been immersed. she taught me to love the river, and perhaps i am a little sentimental over it. i hope always to be so. my father remembers many of her words. she was his nurse, too. she told him as a boy that she had insisted on being baptized in flowing water, so that her sins might be carried away to the sea. it was all very sacred to her." of course the romantic story of agnes's youth was known to every one present, and this unexpected allusion awakened immediate interest. "oh, yes," she replied to a question; "i suppose i do remember a good deal, considering how very young i was, and yet i often wonder that i do not remember more, as it was all so unusual;" and then she added, laughing: "i seem to forget that no event could surprise a child _in her first experiences of life_. yet i remember trivial things, as, for instance, the losing of a hat. i clearly recall our watching my hat on one occasion when it blew into the river, _and was never recovered_! think of the tragedy of it! i can see it now, tossing like a little boat, as it floated away. "and the funny little cabin i remember--i know i do, for there were things which papa never saw, on the inside, in what he calls my 'boudoir,' the white cabin, which i shall never forget. when anything is kept ever in mind by constant description, it is hard to know how much one really remembers. you know, papa spent only one night there and his thoughts were turned backward, so that he naturally kept only vague impressions of the place. "yes, he has made a sketch of it from memory, and i am sorry. why? oh, because i was sure at first that it was not correct, and now it has come to stand to me in place of the true picture, which has faded. it is a way with pictures if we let them over-ride us. why, my grandmother in boston has a friend who had his wife's portrait painted after she was lost at sea. he spent all the money he had to have it done by a 'best artist who had made a hasty sketch of her in life,' and when it came home he did not recognize it--really thought a mistake had been made. then, seeing that it _was she_ as authoritatively pictured, and that he had paid his all to get it, he bethought him to study it, hoping some day to find her in it. and so he did, gradually. "he had it hung over his smoking-table, and every evening he scrutinized it until its insistence conquered. for a whole year he lived in the companionship of an absent wife as seen in an artist's mood (this last sentence is a direct quotation from my boston grandmama, who is fond of the story). and--well, 'what happened?' why, _this_: one day the woman came home. people 'lost at sea' occasionally do, you know. and would you believe it? her widower--i mean to say her husband--refused to receive her. _he did not know her!_ he simply pointed to the painting and shook his head. and if she hadn't been a person of resolution and resource,--descended from the _mayflower_,--why, she would have had to go away. but she had her trunk brought in and quietly paid the expressman and took off her bonnet--_and stayed_. but it was an absurdly long time before her husband was wholly convinced that he was not the victim of an adventuress. and she says that even now he sometimes looks at her in a way she does not like. "so, you see, we cannot always believe our own eyes, which are so easily tricked. "still, even knowing all this, we consent to be duped. now i like the picture of the cabin, even while i regret it, and, _although i know better_, i accept it. "what is truth, anyway? that is what you hear said so often in boston, where we are said to try to make pivots of it for the wheels of all our little hobbies. "'do i like boston?' _like boston? no. i adore it!_ oh, yes! but yet, when i am there, i am a little rebel. and at each place i am quite honest, i assure you. you see, i have a grandmother at both places--here and there. such dears, they are--adorable, both, and _so different_! "yes, that is true. papa's portrait, the one mammy had in the cabin,--yes, we have it,--twice recovered from the river. my father offered a reward, and a man brought it out of the mud, a little way down the levee, and not seriously hurt. it is a funny little picture of papa at six, in a highland costume, with his arm over a strange dog which belonged to the artist. he looks in the picture as if he were stuffed--the dog does; but papa denies that. i believe this same dog appeared in most of the portraits done by this man, in all of those of boys, at least. for the girls he supplied a cat, or occasionally a parrot. the bird _was_ stuffed, i believe. he did my stepmother at five, and she holds the cat. the portraits hang side by side now. if we could find him, and the parrot, he should paint me, and we would start a menagerie. "oh, yes; going back to the subject, there are many little things which i remember, without a doubt, for i could never imagine them. for instance, i remember at least one of my baptisms--the last, i suppose. i know i was frightened because the minister shouted, and mammy kept whispering to me that he wouldn't harm me; and then he suddenly threw water all over me and i bawled. no, i have no idea who he was; but it was out of doors, and there was a rooster in it someway. i suppose it was on the levee and the rooster came to see what was happening. "there is a picture which always reminds me of the time we lived behind the woodpiles, that called 'the soldier's dream,' in which a poor fellow, asleep on the battle-field, sees dimly, as in the sky, a meeting between himself and his family. "i am sure that while we sat on the levee and mammy talked to me of papa's coming, i used to picture it all against the sunset sky. just look at it now. was anything ever more gorgeous and at the same time so tender? one could easily imagine almost any miracle's happening over there in the west. "yes, i know the skies of italy, and they're no better. they are bluer and pinker, perhaps, in a more paintable way; but when the sun sets across the mississippi, especially when we have their dreamy cloud effects, it goes down with variation and splendor unmatched anywhere, i do believe. but," she added with a frenchy shrug, "you know i am only a river child, and everything belonging to the old muddy stream is dear to me. "i beg your pardon--what did you ask?" this to a very young man who colored after he had spoken. "did we ever recover--? oh, no. their bodies went with the waters they loved--and it was better so. certainly, papa used every effort. i hope the current carried them to the sea. she would have liked to have it so, i am sure, dear, dear mammy hannah! "oh, yes. the little monument on brake island is only 'in memory,' as its inscription says." * * * * * this was rather thoughtful talk for a girl scarcely eighteen, but agnes had ever been thoughtful, and by common inheritance--from her mother and her father. as the scene shifted, and conversation passed to lighter things, and her laughter rippled again as a child's, its range was sometimes startling. it was as brilliant as a waterfall seen in the sun, and often while her fond father watched her, as now, he wondered if, perchance, her laughter might not be prophetic of a great career for which eyes less devoted than his perceived her eminently fitted. * * * * * it is beyond the province of this tale of the river to follow agnes le duc through life. some day, possibly, her story may be fully told; but perhaps a foreshadowing of her future, in one phase of it at least, may be discerned in an intimation let fall by one of the passengers who sat with his companions at a card-table in the fore cabin. at least, they had spent the day there, stopping not even for dinner, and now they were moving away. as they found seats out on the guards, he was saying: "'_rich!_' well, i would say so! he own all doze plantation around de town of waterproof, and de strange part is _he paid twice for some of dem_! of co'se he could not do such a so-foolish t'ing except he made dat _in_vention. w'en you _be_gin to collec' so much on every one of anyt'ing dat fill a want, _you get rich, sure_! "no matter if it jus' _one picayune_--w'en dey sell enough. dey say you can make sugar so quick by dat _mach_ine he _in_vent--it is like conjuring--a sort of hoodoo!" "yes," said his companion, an american, "so i understand; and there is no man i would rather see rich than harold le duc. his marriage, so soon after the recovery of his child, surprised some of us, but no doubt it was a good thing." "a good t'ing! it was _magnificent_! if he is one of de finest men in louisiana, she is equal to him. dat remark dat he married only for a mudder for his child--dat's all in my heye! i am sure he was in love to her one year, maybe two, _be_fo' dat--_mais_, i am not sure he would have asked any woman to marry him. he had not de courage. for him love was past--and he was afraid of it. _mais_ de chil' she wake him up again! oh, it is a good t'ing, _sure_! an' de strange part, she t'ought she wou'n' never love again, jus' de same as him--until--" "until what?" "well, _until he spoke_! until w'at you t'ink?" "not'ing. i t'ought _maybe_ it was somet'ing unusual." "well, an' is dat not somet'ing unusual--w'en a widow is _sure_ she will not love again? dey often _t'ink_ so, _mais_ she was _absolutely sure_! you see, her first husband he was one hero; he fell on de same battle-field wid gallant 'jeb' stuart--from a stray shot w'en de fighting was over, carrying dat poor _imbecile_, philippe delmaire, off de fiel', biccause he was yelling so, wid dat one li'l' toe he los'! a good fellow, yas, _mais no account_! yas, he drank himself to deat', all on account for de loss of dat toe, so he say. excuses dey are cheap, yas. if it was not his toe it would have been somet'ing else. you know, his figure, it was really perfection, no _mis_take, an' to lose perfection, even in so small a matter as one toe--it prey on his mind. tell de trut', i used to feel sorry for him, an'--an'--w'en he always would touch his glass an' drink dat favorite toast, 'to my big toe!' well, dere was somet'ing pitiful in it. i used to drink it wid him. it was no harm, an' he had always good wine, poor fellow. _mais to t'ink of paul de la rose dying for him!_ it make me mad, yet w'en i t'ink so, i am almos' sorry to reflect i have drunk to his toe! bah--a valu'ble man--to die like dat! wat you say? yas, da's true. it makes not _how_ de soldier fall--de glory is de same. well, any'ow, if he could have picked out a successor, he could not have done better dan yo'ng le duc--sure! w'at you say? '_'ow_ is he bought doze plantation twice?' well, dis way: w'en he had to take dem on mortgage, an' dey were sold at de door of de court-house--bidding against him, understand--no rainy-day sale--he paid _double_--i mean to say he paid so much as de mortagage _again_. not in every case, _mais_ in many--to widows. i know two cousin of mine, he paid dem so. i ricollec' dey tol' me dat he was de mos' remembering man to look out for dem, an' de mos' forgetting to sen' de bills. "oh, yas. an' his daughter, dey say she is in love to her stepmother--an' she is jus' so foolish about de chil'--an' wid good reason. she had never children--an' she is proud for dat daughter, an' jealous, too, of dose yankee _ril_lation. still, she _in_vite dem to come every year, so the chil' can stay--an' now, would you believe it? dey are come to be great friends, _mais_, of co'se, her father sends her every year at boston to her grandmother. dey all want her, an' no wonder. if she was one mud fence, i suppose it would be all de same, _mais_ you know, she is _one great beauty_! i say one gr-r-r-reat beauty! wh! an'w'en i whistle so 'wh!' i mean w'at i say. you see me so, i am one ol' man, now--pas' forty--an' rich in children, an' not bad-looking children, neither; _mais_ i would walk, me, all de way from de barracks up to bouligny, _an' back_, just to see her pass in de street an' smile on me. you take my word, _if_ she is not snapped up by some school-boy, she can marry _anyt'ing_--_a coronet_! an' i know somet'ing about women--not to brag." "if you are so anxious to see dat young lady, felix," said another, "you don't need to walk so far. she is, at dis moment, wid her father an' her stepmudder, on dis trip." "_w'at_! w'at you say? well, wait. i di'n' inten', me, to dress for de ladies' cabin to-night, _mais_ w'en i have my supper i will put on my sunday t'ings--jus' to go an' sit down in de cabin w'ere--i--can--look--at _innocent_--_beauty_! it pleasure me, yas, to see some t'ing like dat. may_be_ i am not all good, _mais_ i am not all given over for bad so long i can enjoy a rose-vine all in pink, or a fair yo'ng girl more beautiful yet. "i tell you, my friends, i was sitting, week before las', at my 'ouse on esplanade street, on de back gallerie, w'ere de vines is t'ick, an' dey were, as you might say, honey-suckling de bees--an' de perfume from my night-bloomin' jasmine filled my nose. it was in de evening, an' de moon on de blue sky was like a map of de city, jus' a silver crescent, an' close by, one li'l' star, shining, as de children say, 'like a diamond in de sky,' an' i tell you--i tell you-- "well, i tell you, _i wished i had been a good man all my life_!" his friends laughed gaily at this. "you don' say!" laughed one. "well, you fooled us, any'ow! i was holding my breat'. i t'ought somet'ing was getting ready to happen!" "well--an' ain't dat somet'ing?--w'en a hard ol' sinner like me can see in nature a t'ing sweet an' good an'--_an' resolute himself_!" "sure, dat is a great happening; _mais_ for such a _be_ginning, so dramatic, we expected to see hamlet--or maybe his father's ghost--or _somet'ing_!" "i am thinking more of this exceptional beauty"--it was the american who interrupted now--"i am more interested in her than in the confessions of old sinners like ourselves. i am rather practical, and beauty is only skin-deep--sometimes at least. i should like to take a peep at this rare product of our state. louisiana's record up to date is hard to beat, in this respect." "well," slowly remarked the man known throughout as felix, "i am not telling! if i _knew_, i could not _tell_, and, of co'se, it is all guess-work, _mais_ you may believe me or not--" he lowered his voice, suggesting mystery. "i say you can _rif_fuse to believe me or not, i was--well, i was not long ago, one day, sitting at de table down at leon's,--eating an oyster wid a friend of mine, and, looking out of de window, i happened to see, sitting in a tree, _one li'l' bird_--jus' one small li'l' bird, no bigger dan yo' t'umb. "i was not t'inking about de bird, mind you. we were jus' talking about anyt'ing in partic'lar--i mean to say not'ing in general. _w'at_ is de matter wid me to-day? i cannot talk straight--my tongue is all twis'. i say we were speaking of partic'lar t'ings in general, an' he remarked to me, '_who you t'ink will be de queen of de carnival dis coming mardi gras?_' "i was pouring a glass of château yquem at de time,--to look after de oysters,--an' i di'n' pay so much attention to w'at he was saying--i can never pour a glass an' speak at de same time. i spill my words or de wine, sure. so it happened dat w'en i put me de bottle down, my eye passed out de window. oh, hush! no, not my eye, of co'se--i mean my sight. well, dat li'l' bird it was still waiting in the same place, in de magnolia-tree, an' w'en i looked, it give me one glance, sideways, like a finger on de nose, an' it opened wide its bill, an' just so plain as i am speaking now, _it spoke a name_." this in still lower voice. "but i said nothing, immediately. a little wine, for a few glasses, it make me prudent--_up to a certain point_, of co'se. _mais_, direc'ly, i looked at my friend, an' wid w'at you might call an air of _nonchalance_, i repeat to him de name _ex_ac'ly as it was tol' to me by de li'l' bird in de magnolia-tree. an' wa't you t'ink he said?" "oh, go on. w'at he say?" "you want to know w'at he said? well, dat i can tell you. he was greatly astonish', an' he whispered to me, '_who tol' you? you are not in de pickwick?_'" "oh, a little bird tol' me!" i answered him. "_no, i am not in de club._" "_but the name? do tell us!_" "oh, no. i cannot. if i _told_, dat would be _telling_, eh?" "sure! it is not necessary," said another. "well, i am pleased, me." "_an'_ me!" "i like always to listen w'en you tell somet'ing, felix. your story is all right--an' _i believe you_. i always believe any man in de pickwick club--_on some subjects_! _mais_, ol' man, de nex' time you make a story at leon's restaurant, suppose you move off dat magnolia-tree. a bird could stand on de window-sill across de street jus' as well--a real window-sill." "t'ank you. i am sure a _real_ somet'ing-to-stand-on would be better for _a real bird_. _mais_, for dis particular bird, i t'ink my magnolia is more suitable. don't forget de story of de mongoose!" "nobody can get ahead of you, felix. well, it is a good t'ing. it is true, her fodder was de king at las' year's carnival--an' it is lightning striking twice in de same place; an' yet--" "and yet," the american interrupted, "and yet it will sometimes strike twice in the same place--if the attraction is sufficient. i have a friend who has a summer home in the tennessee mountains which was twice struck--three times, nearly. that is the house next door got it the third time. and then they began to investigate, and they found the mountain full of iron--iron convertible into gold." "well, and our man of iron, let us hope he may prove always an attraction--for bolts of good fortune!" "a wish that may come true; if reports be correct, he is rapidly turning into gold," said the american. "i am told that he has found salt in immense deposits on his island--and that he has resumed the work begun just before the war--that of opening up the place." "oh, yas. 'tis true. over a hundred t'ousand dollars he has already put in--an' as much more ready to drop. _mais_ it is _fairyland_! an' me, _i_ was t'inking too--sometimes i t'ink a little myself--i was t'inking dat if--i say _if_ sometime his daughter would be de comus queen, not insinuating anything, you know--no allusion to de bird--w'at a fine house-party dey could have _now_, eh? dey could invite de royal party, maids of honor, and so fort'--whoever is rich enough to lose so much time-- "t'ink of sailing up de new canal on de barge--" "an' under de bridge--" "no, not de bridge. he will never touch dat. he has made a new plan, entering another way. dat span of de bridge he commenced--it is standing beside de beautiful w'ite marble tomb--to hold his family. his wife she is dere, an' de ol' negroes w'at care for his chil'--dey are laying in one corner, wid also a small monument." "are you _sure_ dey are dere?" "i have seen de monument, i tell you." "well, harold he was always sentimental, if you will. i suppose dat broken bridge is, as he says--it is history, and he needs to keep it before him, not to be too rash. maybe so. who can tell? two boys in de war, it was enough--if he had stopped to t'ink." "yas--_mais_ de barge, de cleopatra; dey say she is be'-u-tiful!" "cleopatra! for w'at he di'n' name her somet'ing sensible?" "dat is not only sensible--it is diplomatic. you know, w'en a man has only a daughter and a step-wife--_w'at_ is de matter wid me to-night? you understand me. i say, in--well, in some cases, to _dis_criminate, it is enough to drive a man to--" "oh, don't say dat, felix." "let me _finish_, will you? i say it is one of dose _in_delicate situations dat drive a man to _dodge_! an' w'en he can dodge into history and romance at once, so much de better! an' _cleopatra_, it sound well for a barge. an' so, really, _if_ de beautiful daughter _should_ be de queen an' dey could arrange one house-party--" "suppose, felix, ol' man, you would bring out yo' magnolia-tree once more, you don't t'ink de li'l' bird would come again an' stan' on one limb an' may_be_--" "ah, no. i am sure not. if dey had a grain of salt in dat story, i would try. i would put it on his tail. _mais_, how can you catch a bird widout salt?" * * * * * so idly, playfully, the talk rippled on, ever insensibly flavored with rich romance of life, even as the fitful breeze skirting the shores held, in shy suspension, an occasional hint of orange-blossoms or of the cuban fruits which, heaping the luggers in the slanting sun, laid their gay bouquets of color against the river's breast. it is many years since the maid agnes le duc, on her way to coronation at the carnival, stood while the sun went down in all her vestal beauty on deck of the _laurel hill_, and smiled through tears of tenderness at life as half revealed to her. many things are changed since then, and yet the great river flows on, all unheeding. laden to their guards, so that their weighty cargoes of cotton and sugar, traveling to mill and to market, are wet with the spray of playful condescension, panting ships of commerce, some flying foreign colors, still salute each other in passing, with ever a word of solicitude as to milady's health. old lady mississippi, is she high or low in spirits? and will her hand of benediction turn to smite and to despoil? but, whether she be obdurate or kindly, hysterical or melancholy, or so serene as to invite the heavens, life and love and song are hers. uniting while she seems to divide, bringing together whom she appears to separate, a raft of logs contributed by her grace affording free passage the length of her realm to whoever will take it, paying no toll, she invites romance to set sail under the stars in primal simplicity, eschewing the "bridal chambers" of white and gold which lie in the hearts of all the busy steamers, no matter how otherwise prosaic their personalities. and still, afloat and alongshore, astride a molasses-barrel or throwing dice between the cotton-bales, taking no thought of the morrow, the negro sings: "cometh our fount of every blessing!" scamp and i a story of city by-ways by l.t. meade published by john f. shaw and co, paternoster row, london ec. this edition dated . scamp and i, by l.t. meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ scamp and i, by l.t. meade. chapter one. i'd choose to be a queen. the time was the height of the london season for ; the height of that gay time when the parks, and streets, and shops are full, when pleasure-promoters are busy keeping up a fresh supply of every form of entertainment, when pleasure-seekers are flocking to the garden parties, and strawberry parties, the operas, and theatres, and all other amusements provided for them; when the world--the world at least of regent street, and piccadilly, of eaton square, and all belgravia--looks so rich and prosperous, so full of life and all that makes life enjoyable. it was that gay time when no one thinks of gloom, when ambitious men dream of fame, and vain women of vanity, when the thoughtless think less than any other time, and when money seems to be the one god that rules in every breast. this was the time in the merry month of may, when one afternoon, at the hour when regent street is brightest and fullest, a little ragged urchin of about ten pushed his way boldly through the crowd of carriages and people surrounding swan and edgar's, and began staring eagerly and fearlessly in at the windows. he was the only ragged child, the only representative of poverty, within sight, and he looked singularly out of place, quite a little shadow in the midst of the splendid carriages, and brilliant and prosperous men and women. the few who noticed him wondered languidly what brought him there, why he intruded his disreputable little person in the midst of scenes and people with which he never had, and never could have, anything in common. the little fellow seemed to guess the thoughts which a few in the crowd favoured him with, and in his own way to resent them. in and out among the rich and fashionable people his small head kept bobbing, his agile body kept pushing. he avoided the police, he escaped unhurt from under the impatient horses' legs, he was never stationary, and yet he was always there. he pressed his dirty little form against more than one fine lady's dress, and received more than one sharp reprimand, and sharper tap on the head, from the powdered and liveried footmen. still he held his ground and remained faithful to swan and edgar's. he was a dirty, troublesome little imp, but on his worn and prematurely old face might have been seen a curious, bright expression. those who looked at him might have pronounced him hungry, certainly poor, but, for the time being, not at all unhappy. round and round the splendid establishment he dodged rather than walked, examining with a critical eye the mantles and costumes on view in the windows; then he carefully looked over and reckoned the carriages, gazed up with a full, bright, impudent stare into the face of more than one proud and titled dame, and at last, apparently satisfied, turned his back on the gay shop and gay crowd, and set off down regent street at a swinging pace. presently, by means of a series of short cuts, he found himself in old compton street, from thence he proceeded through seven dials into a street which we will call duncan street. he had come this distance very quickly, and had withstood several temptations to linger on his road. a band of musical niggers, who danced, and sang, and played the bones, had waylaid him in vain; his own particular chum, jenks, had met him, and called to him to stop, but he had not obeyed; the shrimp man, who always gave him a handful, had come directly in his path. he had paused for nothing, and now dashing headlong, not into a house, but through a hole in the pavement, down a slippery ladder, into a cellar, he called out "flo." from the bright sunshine outside, the gloom of this place, lit by the flickering flame of one tallow candle, was profound. its roof was on a level with the road, its floor several feet below the gas-pipes and sewage; it had no window, and its only means of light and ventilation was through the narrow opening in the pavement, against which a ladder was placed. the ragged boy, rushing down these steps, made his way to a cobbler's stool, in the middle of the room, on which was seated a little girl busily repairing an old boot, while a heap of boots and shoes, apparently in the last stage of decay, were scattered round her. this child, a year or so younger than the boy, had the utterly colourless appearance of a flower shut away from the sunshine. "flo," said her companion eagerly. a little voice, very thin, but just as eager, responded with,-- "yes, dick dear." "is you up to a bit o' 'joyment this 'ere blessed minit, flo?" "oh, dick! _is_ it the shops, and the picters, and the fine ladies? _is_ it, dick?" "yes; queens, and ladies, and lords goin' about in golden carriages, and shops full up to bustin', and we a standin' and a lookin' on. better'n wittles, eh?" "oh yes, dick!" she threw aside the old boot, held out her dirty little hand to dick, and together the children scampered up the broken, rickety ladder into the air and light of day. "now, flo, you 'as got to put your best foot forrard, 'cos we 'as a goodish bit o' a way to tramp it. then i'll plant you front o' me, flo; and when we gets there, you never mind the perleece, but look yer fill. oh, my heyes! them is hosses!" flo, seen by daylight, had brown eyes, very large and soft; curling, golden brown hair, and a sweet gentle little face. had she been a lady she would have been pronounced a lovely child, and in all probability would have been a lovely child, but her cellar-life had produced sharp shoulders, a complexion of greyish-white, and a certain look of premature age and wisdom, which all children so brought up possess. she raised her hand now to shade her face, as though the daylight pained her, looked round eagerly, then tightened her clasp of dick. "is there blue, and yaller, and red, and majinta dresses in them 'ere winders, dick? and is there lace on 'em? and is there welwet and silk dresses, dick?" dick winked, and looked mysterious. "silk gownds, and satin gownds, and welwet gownds," he replied, "and gownds--some trimmed with wot looks like paper cut into 'oles, and gownds made o' little round 'oles hall over. and the bonnets in them shops! my heyes, flo! them bonnets 'ave got about hevery bird in saint martin's lane killed and stuffed, and stuck in 'em. but come," he added, hastily bringing his vivid description to a close, "the lords and ladies will be gone." he held the slight little fingers placed in his, with a firm hold, and together they trotted swiftly from their dark saint giles's cellar, to the bright fairy-land of regent street. there were plenty of people, and carriages, and grand ladies and gentlemen still there; and the dresses were so fine, and the feathers so gay, that flo, when she found herself really in their midst, was speechless, and almost stunned. she had dreamed of this day for months--this day, when dick was to show her the other side of london life, and she had meant when the time came to enter into it all, to realise it if possible. she and dick were to carry out quite a pretty play; they were to suppose _themselves_ a grand lady and gentleman; flo was to single out the nicest looking and most beautifully dressed lady present, and imagine _herself_ that lady; those clothes were _her_ clothes, those silken dresses, those elegant boots and gloves, that perfect little bonnet, were all flo's; the carriage with its spirited horses was hers, and the fine gentleman with the splendid moustache seated by her side, was none other than dick. they had arranged the whole programme; the carriage was to drive off rapidly--where? well, _first_ dick said they would stop at a restaurant, and instead of, as the real flo and dick did, standing a sniffin' and a sniffin' outside, they would walk boldly in, and order--well, beef, and potatoes, and plum-pudding were vulgar certainly, but once in a way they _would_ order these for dinner. then back in the carriage to swan and edgar's, where flo would have the creamiest of silk dresses, and a new bonnet with a pink tip, and dick, who was supposed to be in perfect attire as it was, would talk loudly of "my tailor," and buy the most beautiful flower, from the first flower-girl he met, to put in his button-hole. then at night they would have a box at the theatre. their whole plan was very brilliantly constructed, and dick, having got flo into a capital position, just opposite a row of lovely dresses, with carriages close up to the footway, and grand ladies sweeping against her tattered gown each moment, was very anxious for her to begin to carry out their play. "come, flo," he said, giving her a nudge. "s'pose a bit, flo. which fine lady'll yer be? look at that 'ere little 'un, in blue and white, i guess she's an hearl's wife. come, flo, choose to be her. i'll be the hearl, and you the hearl's wife, flo." "be hearls the biggest swells?" asked flo. dick opened his eyes. "bless us!" he said. "why, flo, i'm 'shamed o' yer hignorance. why there's markises, and dooks, and there's kings and queens--all them's bigger than hearls, flo." "is queens the biggest of all swells?" asked flo. "sartinly, they be the biggest woman swells." "then, dick, i'll s'pose to be the biggest swell, i'll s'pose to be a queen. find me hout a queen to take pattern of, dick." "oh! flo, there ain't none yere, there be but one queen, flo, and 'ers away, locked hup at bucknam palace. you can't s'pose to be the queen, flo, but i guess we'll be the hearl and the hearl's wife, and let us s'pose now as we is turnin' in fur our dinners, and the kivers is orf the roast beef, and the taters is 'ot and mealy, and a whackin' big puddin' is to foller." at this juncture, when dick's imagination was running riot over his supposed dinner, and flo's little face was raised to his with a decided gesture of dissent, a hand was laid familiarly on his shoulder, and turning quickly he discerned the smiling, mischievous face of his friend jenks. "wot ails the young 'un?" said jenks. dick was ashamed of his play beside his tall friend (jenks was fourteen), and answered hastily-- "nothing." but flo replied innocently, and in an injured tone-- "i wants fur to be a queen, and there is no queens hout this arternoon fur me to take pattern of." the black eyes of jenks sparkled more mischievously than ever; but he liked flo, and knew she was fond of supposing herself a great lady. "look at that 'ere 'oman," he said, pointing to a stout old lady in black velvet and white lace shawl; "s'pose you is 'er, flo. my heyes! wot a precious big swell you would look in that 'ere gownd." here dick and jenks both laughed uproariously, but the ambitious little flo still answered in a fretful tone-- "i'll not be that 'ere swell, i'll choose to be a queen." "then come along both o' yers," said jenks, "and see the queen. she 'ave got to pass hout of bucknam palace in arf an 'our, on 'er way to victoria station. come, flo, i'll 'old yer 'and. come, dick, old pal." the children, only too delighted to be seen anywhere in jenks's company, followed eagerly, and led by their clever friend down several by-ways, soon found themselves in the midst of the crowd which had already collected outside buckingham palace gates to see the queen. flo was excited and trembling. _now_ she should behold with her own eyes the biggest swell in all the world, and for ever after in her dark saint giles's cellar she could suppose, and go over in her imagination, the whole scene. no vulgar "dook" or "markis" could satisfy flo's ambition; when she soared she would soar high, and when she saw the queen she would really know how to act the queen to perfection. so excited was she that she never observed that she was really alone in the crowd, that jenks and dick had left her side. she was a timid child, not bold and brazen like many of her class, and had she noticed this she would have been too frightened even to look out for the greatest woman in the world. but before she had time to take in this fact there was a cheer, a glittering pageant passed before flo's eyes,--she had never seen the life guards before!--a carriage appeared amidst other carriages, a lady amidst other ladies, and some instinct told the child that this quietly-dressed, dignified woman was the queen of england. the eager crowd had pushed the little girl almost to the front, and the queen, bowing graciously on all sides, looked for an instant full at flo. she was probably unconscious of it, but the child was not. her brown eyes sparkled joyfully; she had seen the queen, and the _queen had seen her_. they were to meet again. chapter two. a hot supper. when the royal carriage had passed by, the crowd immediately scattered, and then for the first time flo perceived that she was deserted by her companions. she looked to right and left, before and behind her, but the little rough and ragged figures she sought for were nowhere visible. she was still excited by the sight she had witnessed, and was consequently not much frightened though it did occur to her to wonder how ever she should find her way home again. she turned a few steps,-- saint james's park with the summer sunshine on it lay before her. she sat down on the grass, and pulled a few blades and smelt them--they were withered, trampled, and dry, but to flo their yellow, sickly green was beautiful. she gathered a few more blades and tucked them tenderly into the bosom of her frock--they would serve to remind her of the queen, they had sprouted and grown up within sight of the queen's house, perhaps one day the queen had looked at them, as to-day she had looked at flo. the child sat for half-an-hour unperceived, and therefore undisturbed, drinking in the soft summer air, when suddenly a familiar voice sounded in her ears, and the absent figures danced before her. "i say, flo, would yer like somethink _real_, not an ony s'pose?" flo raised her eyes and fixed them earnestly on dick. "no, dick," she replied slowly, "there beant but one queen, and i've seen the queen, and she's beautiful and good, and she looked at me, dick, and i'm not a goin' to take 'er place, so i'll be the hearl's wife please, dick dear." the two boys laughed louder than ever, and then jenks, coming forward and bowing obsequiously, said in a mock serious tone-- "will my lady countess, the hearl's wife, conderscend to a 'elpin' o' taters and beef along o' her 'umble servants, and will she conderscend to rise orf this 'ere grass, as hotherwise the perleece might feel obligated to give 'er in charge, it being contrary to the rules, that even a hearl's wife should make this 'ere grass 'er cushion." considerably frightened, as jenks intended she should be, flo tumbled to her feet, and the three children walked away. dick nudged his sister and looked intensely mysterious, his bright eyes were dancing, his shock of rough hair was pushed like a hay-stack above his forehead, his dirty freckled face was flushed. jenks preceded the brother and sister by a few steps, getting over the ground in a light and leisurely manner, most refreshing to the eyes of dick. "ain't 'ee a mate worth 'avin'?" he whispered to flo. "but wot about the meat and taters?" asked flo, who by this time was very hungry; "ain't it nothink but another `s'pose' arter all?" "wait and you'll see," replied dick with a broad grin. "here we 'ere," said jenks, drawing up at the door of an eating-house, not quite so high in the social scale as verrey's, but a real and substantial eating-house nevertheless. "now, my lady countess, the hearl's wife, which shall it be? smokin' 'ot roast beef and taters, or roast goose full hup to chokin' o' sage and onions? there, flo," he added, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking and looking like a different jenks, "you 'as but to say one or t'other, so speak the word, little matey." seeing that there was a genuine eating-house, and that jenks was in earnest, flo dropped her assumed character, and confessed that she had _once_ tasted 'ot fat roast beef, long ago in mother's time, but had never so much as _seen_ roast goose; accordingly that delicacy was decided on, and jenks having purchased a goodly portion, brought it into the outer air in a fair-sized wooden bowl, which the owner of the eating-house had kindly presented to him for the large sum of four pence. at sight of the tempting mess cooling rapidly in the breeze, all flo's housewifely instincts were awakened. "it won't be _'ot_ roast goose, and mother always did tell 'as it should be heat up 'ot," she said pitifully. "'ere, dick, 'ere's my little shawl, wrap it round it fur to keep it 'ot, do." flo's ragged scrap of a shawl was accordingly unfastened and tied round the savoury dish, and dick, being appointed bowl-bearer, the children trudged off as rapidly as possible in the direction of duncan street. they were all three intensely merry, though it is quite possible that a close observer might have remarked, that dick's mirth was a little forced. he laughed louder and oftener than either of the others, but for all that, he was not quite the same dick who had stared so impudently about him an hour or two ago in regent street. he was excited and pleased, but he was no longer a fearless boy. an hour ago he could have stared the world in the face, now even at a distant sight of a policeman he shrank behind jenks, until at last that young gentleman, exasperated by his rather sneaking manner, requested him in no very gentle terms not to make such a fool of himself. then dick, grinning more than ever, declared vehemently that "_'ee_ wasn't afraid of nothink, not 'ee." but just then something, or some one, gave a vicious pull to his ragged trouser, and he felt himself turning pale, and very nearly in his consternation dropping the dish, with that delicious supper. the cause of this alarm was a wretched, half-starved dog, which, attracted doubtless by the smell of the supper, had come behind him and brought him to a sense of his presence in this peremptory way. "no, don't 'it 'im," said flo, as jenks raised his hand to strike, for the pitiable, shivering creature had got up on its hind legs, and with coaxing, pleading eyes was glancing from the bowl to the children. "ain't 'ee just 'ungry?" said flo again, for her heart was moved with pity for the miserable little animal. "well, so is we," said dick in a fretful voice, and turning, he trudged on with his load. "come, flo, do," said jenks, "don't waste time with that little sight o' misery any more, 'ees ony a street cur." "no 'ee ain't," said flo half to herself, for jenks had not waited for her, "'ees a good dawg." "good-bye, good dawg," and she patted his dirty sides. "ef i wasn't so werry 'ungry, and ef dick wasn't the least bit in the world crusty, i'd give you a bite o' my supper," and she turned away hastily after jenks. "wy, i never! 'ee's a follerin' o' yer still, flo," said jenks. so he was; now begging in front of her, paying not the least attention to jenks--dick was far ahead--but fixing his starved, eager, anxious eyes on the one in whose tone he had detected kindness. "oh! 'ee _is_ starvin', i must give 'im one bite o' my supper," said flo, her little heart utterly melting, and then the knowing animal came closer, and crouched at her feet. "poor brute! hall 'is ribs is stickin' hout," said jenks, examining him more critically. "i 'spects 'ees strayed from 'ome. yer right, flo, 'ees not such a bad dawg, not by no means, 'ee 'ave game in 'im. i ses, flo, would you like to take 'im 'ome?" "oh, jenks! but wouldn't dick be hangry?" "never you mind dick, i'll settle matters wid 'im, ef you likes to give the little scamp a bite o' supper, you may." "may be scamp's 'ees name; see! 'ee wags 'is little tail." "scamp shall come 'ome then wid us," said jenks, and lifting the little animal in his arms, he and flo passed quickly through seven dials, into duncan street, and from thence, through a gap in the pavement, into the deep, black cellar, which was their home. chapter three. what the children promised their mother. in the cellar there was never daylight, so though the sun was shining outside, flo had to strike a match, and poking about for a small end of tallow candle, she applied it to it. then, seating herself on her cobbler's stool, while jenks and dick squatted on the floor, and scamp sat on his hind legs, she unpacked the yellow bowl; and its contents of roast goose, sage and onions, with a plentiful supply of gravy and potatoes, being found still hot, the gutter children and gutter dog commenced their supper. "i do think 'ees a dawg of the right sort," said jenks, taking scamp's head between his knees. "we'll take 'im round to maxey, and see wot 'ee ses, dick." "arter supper?" inquired dick indistinctly, for his mouth was full. "no, i wants you arter supper for somethink else; and look yere, dick, i gives you warning that ef you gets reg'lar in the blues, as you did this arternoon, i'll 'ave no callin' to you." "i'll not funk," said dick, into whose spirit roast goose had put an immense accession of courage. "lor! bless yer silly young heyes, where 'ud be yer supper ef you did? no, we'll go on hour bis'ness to-night, and we'll leave the little dawg with flo. he's lost, por little willan, and 'ave no father nor mother. he's an horfan, is scamp, and 'as come to us fur shelter." the boys and girl laughed, the supper, however good and plentiful, came to an end, and then dick in rather a shamefaced way prepared to follow jenks; the two lads ran up the ladder and disappeared, and flo stood still to watch them with a somewhat puzzled look on her woman's face. she was eight years old, a very little girl in any other rank of life, but in this saint giles's cellar she was a woman. she had been a woman for a whole year now; ever since her mother died, and she had worked from morning to night for her scanty living, she had put childish things away, and taken on herself the anxieties, the hopes, and fears, of womanhood. dick was ten, but in reality, partly on account of her sex, partly on account of the nature within her, flo was much older than her little brother. it was she who worked all day over those old shoes and boots, translating them, for what she called truly "starvegut" pay, into new ones. it was dick's trade, but flo really did the work, for he was always out, looking, as he said, for better employment. but the better employment did not come to dick, perhaps because dick did not know how to come to it, and flo's little fingers toiled bravely over this hard work, and the wolf was barely kept from the door. her mother had taught her the trade, and she was really a skilful little work-woman. comforted now by her good meal, by her run in the open air, by the wonderful sights, and by the crowning sight of all she had seen; comforted also not a little by scamp's company, she resumed her employment. the dog, satisfied and well pleased, rolled himself up as close as possible to her ragged gown, and went to sleep; and flo, feeling sure that she would be now undisturbed, arranged quite a nice amusement for herself. she would begin supposing now in earnest. she had seen the queen, she had seen fine ladies, she knew at last what velvet and silk, what lace and feathers, what horses and carriages were like. she could suppose to any amount. she had no longer need to draw wholly on her own resources, she knew what the real things were, at last. she had a very vivid imagination, and she dropped her work, and her big brown eyes looked far away from the real and ugly things about her, to beautiful things elsewhere. but somehow, and this was strange, unpleasant thoughts would intrude, a present anxiety would shut away imaginary joys, and with a sigh the little girl resumed her work and her cares. her trouble was this. what railed dick? his embarrassment, his fear of the police, his forced mirth, had none of them escaped flo's observant eyes. generally he was the merriest little fellow in the world, but to-night, even while partaking of a supper that would have rejoiced any heart, even while eating those exasperatingly delicious morsels, he had been grave, subdued, and his laugh (for through it all he laughed constantly) had no true ring in it. he was also the bravest little boy possible; he had never in all his life funked any one or anything, and yet to-night at the sight of a policeman even in the far distance he had got in the most cowardly way behind jenks. there was some cause for this. there was also something else to be accounted for. how was that supper bought? where had the money come from? flo knew well that 'ot roast goose, with sage and onions, with taters and gravy, not to make any mention of the bowl that held them, had not been purchased for a few pence; so where, where had the money come from? dick had it not, and jenks, though _werry_ liberal, liberal to the amount of now and then presenting her with a whole red herring for their supper, was to all appearance as poor and as hard up as themselves. true, flo did not know how jenks made his living; his trade--for he told her he had a trade--was a secret, which he might enlighten her about some time, but certainly not at present. jenks got his money, what little money he had, in some mysterious way, of that there was no doubt. she thought over it all to-night, and very grave were her fears and suspicions. was it possible that jenks was a bad boy, and that he was teaching dick to be a bad boy? was it possible that jenks was not honest, and that the delicious supper they had just eaten was not honestly come by? what a pity if this was so, for 'ot roast goose _was_ so good. perhaps dick had helped some old lady to find a cab, and she had given him a shilling, and perhaps jenks, who was _werry_ good-natured, had kindly assisted some other body, and thus earned 'arf-a-crown; this sum would pay for their supper, good as it was! but no; had they earned the money in that way, they would have told flo, they would have been proud to tell flo, whereas the word money had never been mentioned at all between them! had dick got the money rightly he would have been only too glad to speak of it; so it was clear to flo that in some wrong manner alone had it come into his possession! well! why should she care? they were very poor, they were as low down in the world as they well could be; nobody loved them, nobody had ever taught them to do right. dick and flo were "horfans," same as scamp was an orphan. the world was hard on them, as it is on all defenceless creatures. if dick _could_ "prig" something from that rich and greedy world that was letting them both starve, would it be so very wrong? if he could do this without the police finding out, without fear of discovery, would it not be rather a good and easy way of getting breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers? for surely some people had _too_ much; surely it was not fair that all those buns and cakes, all those endless, countless good things in the west end shops should go to the rich people; surely the little hungry boys and girls who lived, and felt, and suffered in the east end should have their share! and if only by stealing they could taste roast goose, was it very wrong, was it wrong at all to steal? flo knew nothing about god, she had never heard of the eighth commandment, but nevertheless, poor ignorant little child, she had a memory that kept her right, a memory that made it impossible for her, even had she really starved, to touch knowingly what was not her own. the memory was this. a year ago flo's mother had died in this cellar. she was a young woman, not more than thirty, but the damp of the miserable cellar, together with endless troubles and hardships, had fanned the seeds of consumption within her, and before her thirty-first birthday she had passed away. she knew she was dying, and in her poor way had done her best to prepare her children for her loss. she taught them both her trade, that of a translator,--not a literary translator, poor mrs darrell could not read,--but a translator of old boots and shoes into new; and flo and dick, young as they were, learned the least difficult and lighter parts of the business before her death. she had no money to leave them, no knowledge beyond that of her trade; she knew nothing of god or of heaven, but she had one deeply-instilled principle, and this she endeavoured by every means in her power to impart to the children. living in a place, and belonging to a grade of society, where _any_ honesty was rare, she was nevertheless a perfectly honest woman. she had never touched a penny that was not her own, she was just and true in all her dealings. she was proud of saying--and the pride had caused her sunken, dying eyes to brighten even at the last--that none of her belongings, however low they had fallen, had ever seen the inside of a prison, or ever stood in a prisoner's dock. they were honest people, and dick and flo must keep up the family character. come what might, happen what would, they must ever and always look every man in the face, with the proud consciousness, "i have stolen from none." on the night she died, she had called them both to her side, and got them to promise her this. with pathetic and solemn earnestness, she had held their little hands and looked into their little faces, and implored of them, as they loved their dead father and mother, never, never to disgrace the unstained name they had left to them. "'tis just hevery think," said the dying woman. "arter hall my 'ard life, 'tis real comfa'ble to look back on. remember, dick and flo, i dies trustin' yer. you'll never, wot hever 'appins, be jail-birds-- promise me that?" "never, mother," said flo, kissing her and weeping; and dick promised, and kissed her, and wept also, and then the two children climbed up on the bed and lay down one at each side of her, and the poor dying woman closed her eyes and was cheered by their words. "is you dying to-night, mother?" asked flo, gazing with awe at her clammy cold face. "yes, dearie." "where'll you be to-morrer, then, mother?" a shadow passed over the peaceful, ignorant face, the brown eyes, so like her little daughter's, were opened wide. "oh! i doesn't know--yes, it be _werry_ dark, but i guess it 'ull be all right." then after a pause, very slowly, "i doesn't mind the grave, i'd like a good bit o' a rest, for i'm awful--awful tired." before the morning came the weary life was ended, and dick and flo were really orphans. then the undertaker's men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more. but they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves. this was no easy task; it sent them supperless to bed, it gave them mouldy crusts for dinner, it gave them cold water breakfasts; still they persevered, flo working all day long at her cobbling, while dick, now tried a broom and crossing, now stood by the metropolitan stations waiting for chance errands, now presented himself at every shop where an advertisement in the window declared a boy was wanting, now wandered about the streets doing nothing, and occasionally, as a last resource, helped flo with her cobbling. but the damp, dark cellar was unendurable to the bright little fellow, and he had to be, as he himself expressed it, a goodish bit peckish before he could bear it. so flo uncomplainingly worked in the dismal room, and paid the small rent, and provided the greater part of the scanty meals, and dick thought this arrangement fair enough; "for was not flo a gel? _she_ could bear the lonely, dark, unwholesome place better'n him, who was a boy, would one day be a man, and--in course it was the place of womens to kep at 'ome." so flo stayed at home and was honest, and dick went abroad and was honest, and the consciousness of this made them both happy and contented. but about a month before this evening dick returned from his day's roaming very hungry as usual, but this time not alone, a tall boy with merry twinkling eyes accompanied him. he was a funny boy, and had no end of pleasant droll things to say, and dick and flo laughed, as they had not laughed since mother died. he brought his share of supper in his pocket, in the shape of a red herring, and a large piece of cold bacon, and the three made quite merry over it. before the evening came to an end he had offered to share the cellar, which was, he said, quite wasted on two, pay half the rent, and bring in his portion of the meals, and after a time, he whispered mysteriously, he would go "pardeners" with dick in his trade. "why not at once?" asked dick. "i'd like to be arter a trade as gives folks red 'errings and bacon fur supper." but jenks would neither teach his trade then, nor tell what it was; he however took up his abode in the cellar, and since his arrival flo was much more comfortable, and had a much less hard time. scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of jenks's pocket. such funny things too. now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. but this unfortunately flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs. on the whole she and dick enjoyed his society very much. dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl's trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught dick to teach her also. "wot?" said jenks eagerly; "you'd like to be bringin' carrots and heggs out o' yer pocket fur supper? eh!" "yes, jenks, i fell clemmed down yere, fur ever 'n ever." then jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that "she'd do; and he'd be blowed ef she wouldn't do better'n dick, and make her fortin quite tidy." so it was arranged that when dick learned, flo should learn also. she had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night. but now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. that supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. once in his life dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. this accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. he and jenks had stolen something, they were thieves. but perhaps--and here flo trembled and turned pale--perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. she shivered again at the thought. flo was, as i said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of god, of christ, of the gospel. nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. that law was honesty, that gospel was her mother. she had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. nevertheless for her mother's sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it. dick had loved it also. dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty. in the end they felt sure honesty would pay. and dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women's stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers' shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts. and dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a "p'leece-man" out of countenance. but to-night dick had been afraid of the "p'leece." tears rolled down flo's cheeks at the thought. how she wished she had never tasted that 'ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard! "i'm feared as mother won't lay com'fable to-night," she sobbed, "that is, ef mother knows. oh! i wish as dick wasn't a thief. s'pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired." the little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with dick to regent street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl's wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when flo had seen the great queen of england going by, then must have been the moment when dick first learned to be a thief. chapter four. a dog and his story. if ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated "knowing," the dog scamp was that creature. it shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. his career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it. only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. but as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones. on this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. he had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. by birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking. he had however good eyes and teeth, and both these advantages of nature he was not slow in availing himself of. by the pathos of his eyes, and a certain knack he had of balancing himself on the hinder part of his body, he had won flo's pity, and secured a shelter and a home. he guessed very accurately the feelings of his hosts and hostess towards him. dick's hospitality was niggardly and forced, jenks made him welcome to his supper, for he regarded him with an eye to business, but flo gave him of her best, from pure kindness of heart. the wise dog therefore resolved to take no notice of dick, to avoid jenks, and as much as possible to devote himself to flo. he had passed through a terrible day, had scamp. in the morning he had been led out to execution. to avoid the dog-tax, his master, who truth to tell had never regarded him with much affection, had decreed that scamp should be drowned. in vain had the poor faithful creature, who loved his brutal master, notwithstanding the cruel treatment to which he so often subjected him, looked in his face with all the pathetic appeal of his soft brown eyes, in vain he licked his hand as he fastened the rope with a stone attached to it round his neck. drowned he was to be, and drowned he would have been, but for his own unequalled knowingness. scamp guessed what was coming, hence that appeal in his eyes; but scamp was prepared for his fate, rather he was prepared to resist his fate. as his master was about to raise him in his arms and fling him far into the stream, he anticipated him, and leaped gently in himself, when, the stone being round his neck, he sank at once to the bottom. his master, well pleased, and thinking how nicely he had "done" scamp, laughed aloud, and walked away. the dog, not wasting his breath in any useless struggles, heard the laugh as he lay quietly in the bottom of the stream, he heard also the retreating footsteps. now was _his_ time. he had managed to sink so near the edge of the stream as to be barely out of his depth, he dragged himself upright, pulled and lurched the heavy stone until his head was above water, and then biting through the rope with those wonderful teeth, was a free dog once more. quite useless for him to go home; he must turn his back on that shelter, and come what may, face the great world of london. so all day long he had wandered, foot-sore, exhausted, and hungry, over many a mile of street, until at last the smell of hot roast goose had so overcome him, that he had in his desperation fastened his teeth into dick's trousers, thereby ultimately securing for himself a supper, and another home. now after all his troubles, hardships, and alarms, he was sleeping sweetly, enjoying the repose of the weary. it was unpleasant to be disturbed, it was truly annoying to have to open those heavy brown eyes, but scamp had a heart, and sobs of distress had roused him from his pleasant dreams. he cocked his ears, stretched himself, rose, and pushing his big awkward head against flo's, bent low in her hands, began licking her face with his small, rough tongue. finding she took no notice of this, he forced her to look up and attend to him, by jumping wholesale into her lap. "oh! scamp," said the child, putting her arms round him, "does _you_ know as dick isn't an honest boy no more." had scamp comprehended the words addressed to him, he would not have considered them a subject for sorrow, as any means by which such a supper as they had just eaten was attained would have been thought by him quite justifiable. it was however his wisest course at present to sympathise with flo, and this he did by means of his tail, tongue, and eyes. "oh! you _be_ a nice dawg," said the little girl, comforted by his caressing. she laid her head on his shaggy coat, and in a few moments both were asleep. two hours later jenks and dick returned. dick's cheeks were now flushed, and his eyes bright. jenks, on the contrary, was as cool as usual. "shall we take orf the dawg now, or in the mornin'?" asked the little boy of his companion. "no, no, in the mornin', or maybe to-morrow night; old maxey's sure ter be shut up afore now." "how much 'ull he give us, jenks?" "well, scamp's a likely lookin' tyke, and good size. i 'spect he'll about suit fur 'is young 'un. maybe, ef we're lucky, we may get a matter o' a bob, or a bob and a tanner, but wot i'll count on more, and bargain fur, is a sight o' the fight." "oh, jenks! is it werry jolly?" "awful--real pretty sport," said jenks, "partic'lar ef yer cur 'ave a bit of blood in 'im, as i 'spects this 'un 'ave." "will you bring me to see it, jenks?" "i can't rightly say yet, but don't tell nothink to the little 'un," jerking his thumb over his shoulders at flo. "now come to bed, and don't let us talk no more." they lay down, and soon jenks was asleep. yes, jenks was asleep--his hardened heart knew no fears, his conscience did not trouble him. flo, wearied with her sorrow, was also slumbering, and gentle breathings of sweet content and rest came from scamp, who knew nothing of his impending fate, and felt that he had done his duty. but dick could not sleep; he lay in the dark tired enough, but wide awake and trembling. on that very bed in this cellar had lain not quite a year ago the still, stiff, and cold form of his mother; of the mother who, with her thin arms round his neck, and her beseeching eyes looking into his, had begged of him to keep from bad ways, and to be honest. he had promised that never, happen what might, would he touch what was not his own, he had promised her solemnly, as even such ignorant little children will promise their dying mothers, that he would ever and always be an honest boy; and until to-day he had kept his word bravely, kept it too in the midst of very great temptations, for he was only a street arab, a gutter child, living on his wits, and for such children to live on their wits without prigging off stalls and snatching off counters, is very hard work indeed. he was such a clever little fellow too, and had such a taking innocent face, that he could have made quite a nice living, and have had, as he expressed it, quite a jolly time, if only he had consented to yield to his many temptations, and do as his companions did. but he never had yielded. one by one, as the temptations arose, as the opportunities for thieving came, he had turned from them and overcome them. not that he thought thieving wrong--by no means. whatever he might say to flo, he had in his heart of hearts a strong admiration for those plucky young thieves, his companions, and though they _were_ afraid of the "p'leece," and often did disappear for longer or shorter periods altogether from their gay life, yet still they had a jolly time of it on the whole. then, how splendidly the robbers acted at those delightful 'penny gaffs!--oh, yes! it was nonsense to starve rather than take from those who had more than they could use themselves. nevertheless dick had often passed a day from morning to night without food rather than steal--why was that? ah! how strongly we cling to our first and tenderest memories! dick could never forget the time when poor as they were, when, struggling as they were, he and flo were rich, as the richest of all children, in love. he could never forget the pressure of his mother's arms, he could never forget the sweetness of the dry crust eaten on his mother's knee. had he an ache or a trouble, his mother was sorry for him. even when he was bad and vexed her, his mother forgave him. she was always working for her children; never resting on account of her children. she stood between them and the cold world, a great shelter, a sure refuge. they thought it mighty and everlasting, they did not know that it was mortal, and passing away. she grew tired--awful tired, as she herself expressed it, so weary that not even her love for dick and flo could keep her with them, so exhausted that no rest but the rest of the grave could do her any good. so she went to her grave, but before she went her children had promised her to keep honest boy and girl, to grow up honest man and woman, and this promise was to them both more precious than their lives. they kept it faithfully,--it was a great principle for light in the minds of these little children. yes, they had both kept their promise carefully and faithfully until to-day; but to-day, in a moment of great and sudden temptation, goaded and led on by jenks, dick had slipped his clever little hand into a lady's pocket, and drawn out a purse with six bright new shillings in it. the theft had been most cleverly done, and triumphant with his success, and elated by the praise jenks had lavished on him, he had felt little compunction until now. but remorse was visiting him sternly now. he was frightened, he was miserable; he had let go the rudder that kept him fast to anything good,--he was drifting away. but the act of thieving gave him no pain, he was not at all sorry for that smiling, good-natured looking woman whose purse he had taken; he was quite sure _she_ never knew what hunger was; he quite agreed with jenks in his remark, that "'ee and dick and flo wanted 'ot roast goose more'n 'er." no; the agony was the memory of his mother's face. he was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day's deed. he was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. and he loved his mother,--oh, how he loved his mother! a second time that night was scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from flo this time. the tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog's neck. scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake flo. the sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off flo's lap and on the bed with dick,--he was cuddling down by dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face. the boy repulsed him rudely. it was quite beyond the capacity of scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. nevertheless, scamp had again done his duty. in his rude exit from flo's lap he had effectually awakened her. she, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler's stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother. "i'm real glad as you is cryin', dick," said flo. this speech of flo's was an immense relief to dick. of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft. he dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. he nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck. "is mother in the room, flo?" "no, no, dick; wot makes you say that? mother's in her grave, 'avin' a good tidy bit o' a sleep." "you ain't sure," said dick, half-defiantly, "you ain't sure but ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you mightn't see mother--just there, acrost our bed and jenks'--standin' and a shakin' her 'ead." "why, ef she were i couldn't see," said flo. "it be as dark as dark,--i couldn't see nothink ef i was to look ever so." "oh yes, you could," said dick, "you could see ghosts, and mother's a ghost. i seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about 'em. ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, flo." "well, i 'as 'em open," said flo, "and i tell you there ain't no ghosts, nor nothink." "are you sure?" asked dick. "no doubt on it," responded flo encouragingly. "mother ain't yere, mother's in 'er grave, 'avin' a good time, and restin' fine." "are you quite sure?" persisted dick. "are you quite sartin as she ain't turnin' round in 'er corfin, and cryin'?" "oh no; she's restin' straight and easy," said flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case. "then she don't know, flo?" "it ain't reached 'er yet, i 'spect," said flo. then hastening to turn the conversation-- "wot was it as you took, dick?" "a purse," said dick. "a purse full o' money?" questioned flo. "there was six bobs and a tanner," said dick, "and jenks said as i did it real clever." "that was wot bought us the 'ot roasted goose," continued flo. "yes. jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should 'ave a rare treat. they cost three bobs, that 'ere goose and taters. i say, worn't they jist prime?" "'ave you any more o' that money?" asked flo, taking no notice of this last query. "yes, i 'ave a bob and i 'ave the purse. jenks said as i was to have the purse, and i means the purse for you, flo." "you needn't mean it for me, then," said flo, raising her gentle little voice, "fur i'd rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you 'as got to give back that 'ere bob to jenks, dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won't neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. i thought as you was sorry, dick, when i heard you cryin', but no, you ain't, and you 'ave furgot mother, that you 'ave." at these words dick burst out crying afresh. flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise. "no, i 'aven't forgot, flo--i be real orfle sorry." "you won't never do it again?" "no." "and you'll give back the purse and bob to jenks, and tell 'im yer'll 'ave no more to do wid 'is way?" "oh! i doesn't know," said dick, "'ee would be real hangry." "very well," replied flo; "good-night to you, dick. i ain't goin' to sleep 'long of a thief," and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler's stool. but this proposal filled dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him. "'zactly wot i ses?" asked flo. "yes, flo, i'll stick fast to you and never funk." "you'll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?" "yes." "and you'll break orf wid jenks, and be his pardener no more?" "yes," with a sinking heart. "werry well--good-night." "but, flo," after a long pause, "is you _sure_ as mother isn't ris from her grave?" "no, i'm not sure," answered flo slowly, "but i thinks at the most, she 'ave on'y got a sort o' a wake, and i thinks, dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother'll 'ave a good longish rest yet." chapter five. jenks passes his word. but flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for dick to steal the second time than the first. very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers' shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen's pockets, when once they had begun to do so. not punishment, not even prison, could break them. they had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever. her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with--penal servitude for life--sometimes even the gallows. she had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers' cells--how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves. and children once as innocent as flo and dick had come to this. now flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief. the only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from jenks. flo liked jenks very much--he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings. still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better. she knew well that dick would never have courage to say to jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers. accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, flo, rising softly, for fear of waking dick, followed him. "jenks," she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, "i wants fur to speak to you." jenks turned round with merry eyes. "i'm yer 'umble servant, my lady, the hearl's wife," he said, with a mock bow to flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. "why, wot hever ails you, young 'un? you is all of a tremble. come along and 'ave a drop of 'ot coffee at the stalls." "no, jenks, i doesn't want to. jenks, i come fur to say as you, and me, and dick mustn't be pardeners no more. you mustn't come no more to this yere cellar, jenks." jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone. "my lady, you is alwis werry perlite--you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too 'igh and mighty to speak to a chap. might a poor and 'umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin' as to tell 'im the reason of this 'eart-breakin' horder." here jenks pretended to whimper. "yes, jenks, i'll tell you," said flo; "'tis because dick and me isn't never goin' to be _thiefs_, jenks. dick did prig the purse yesterday, but 'ees never, never goin' to do so no more." jenks was silent, and flo after a pause continued--"i wants fur to be perlite to you, jenks. i likes you, jenks, and now i'm goin' to tell you why." "oh! my heyes," said jenks, "that's an honour. oh! my stars! can i abear so big an honour? 'old me, flo, i feels kind of top 'eavy. now then, break it heasy, flo." "i never know'd as yer trade was that of a thief, jenks," quietly continued the little girl. "i thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and dick might larn, and we mustn't larn that, not ef we was to starve. dick and me must never be thiefs. but, jenks, i'm not a blamin' you--it ain't wrong fur you, jenks--you 'adn't never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy." at these words jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky. "why does you say that?" he asked rather savagely. "how does yer dare say as i 'av'n't a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked." "i doesn't say it, jenks. i on'y ses that _if_ you 'ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin' would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin', and she axed yer werry soft and lovin' to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother 'cause you loved 'er; would you be a thief then, jenks?" "moonshine!" growled jenks. "no, but _would_ you, jenks?" "how can i tell?" replied jenks. "look yere, flo, leave _off_ about mothers, do. wot does i know of such? say wot yer 'as to say, as i must be gone." "i wants you not to come back no more, dear jenks, and never, never to speak to dick no more." "_dear_ jenks, come back no more," mimicked the boy. "and why not, little sweetheart?" "'cause you is a thief, and you is larnin' thiefin' to dick." "oh my! the precious young cove, i didn't know as 'ee was to be reared hup so tender. but why does you say as _i_ am a thief, flo--it wor dick tuk the purse yesterday." "but you larned 'im _'ow_ to take it, jenks." "no, i didn't, 'ee larned 'imself, 'ee wanted none of my coddlin' and dressin'. tell yer 'ee'd make a real stunnin' thief arter a bit. but i'll not teach 'im nothink, not i. no, flo," (this gravely), "i'll promise yer this, and yere's my 'and on it, ef i sees 'im touch so much as a brass farthing, i'll give 'im a whackin' as 'ull soon teach 'im to be an honest boy." "and you won't come back no more?" "i won't say that--the cellar's conwenient, and i pays fur 'arf. yes, i'll turn in to-night, and as long as i 'ave a mind to. now i'm orf to my work--wot _ain't_ that of a thief," and snapping his fingers disdainfully, jenks disappeared. flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking. flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her. chapter six. give the poor dog a bone. that knowing dog scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of dick and jenks towards him. clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. not a bit of it. here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while flo and dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play. "flo," said jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, "ef you'll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, i'll pay 'em." and then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog's nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. as scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world's end. and so jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called scamp, and the boys and the dog went out. they walked nearly to the end of the street, and then jenks caught up scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. this was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly--too large in one part, too small in another. impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. as it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so. the boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with jenks; on which jenks and scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, jenks and scamp would once more make their appearance. at last they came to streets of so low a character, where the "nippers," as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation. dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. he had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. the dog was theirs, had come to them. if they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? _they_ were too poor to keep scamp. just then dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature's affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for _he_ knew to _what_ they were selling scamp. "s'pose as scamp beats maxey's young 'un?" he questioned to his companion. "not 'ee," said jenks contemptuously, "'ee's nothink but a street cur, and that young 'un is a reg'lar tip-topper, _i_ can tell yer." "well, scamp 'ave sperrit too," said dick. "and ef 'ee 'adn't, would i bring 'im to maxey? would i insult maxey's young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? why, maxey wouldn't give a tanner fur a cur _widout_ sperrit, you little greenhorn." here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly "doggy." jenks transferred scamp to dick's care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect. "i 'ave named my price," said jenks, putting scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. "two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o' the fight fur me and this 'ere chap." "come, that's werry fine," said the man addressed as maxey; "but 'ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as _i_ 'ave dog-fights? doesn't you know as dog-fight's 'gainst the law of the land? you wouldn't like to see the hinside of newgate fur bringin' this 'ere dog to me fur the purpose o' fightin' another dog? you didn't reckon _that_ in the price of the dog. come now, ef i doesn't give you into the hands of the perleece, and ef i takes the dog, and puts 'im away tidy, and gives you and yer pardener a tanner between yer? come, that's lettin yer off cheap, ain't it?" dick was considerably frightened, but jenks, taking these threats for what they were worth, held out firmly for two bobs and a tanner, which in the end he obtained a promise of, on condition that for one week he should tie up scamp at home and feed him well. at the end of that time maxey was to have him back, who further promised that jenks and dick should see the fight. "and that 'ere's pretty sport," said jenks, as well satisfied he turned away. "maxey's young 'uns are alwis tip-toppers. won't 'ee just give it to this willan! i guess there'll be an hawful row, and not much o' scamp left, by the time 'tis hover." but the further details with which jenks favoured his young companion are too horrible to relate here. in our christian england these things are done--done in the dark it is true, but still done. dog-fights, though punishable by law, are still held, and young boys and old men flock to them, and learn to be lower than the brutes in diabolical cruelty because of them. it may still however puzzle those who read scamp's history to know of what use he could be in a dog-fight, as only thorough-bred dogs can fight well. alas! scamp could be made use of; such dogs as scamp can further this wicked sport. such dogs are necessary in the training of the fighting-dogs. jenks knew this well, hence his desire to obtain the poor animal. his use was this--i here quote from mr greenwood's well-known "low life deeps." "he at once good-naturedly explained to me the way in which a young (fighting) dog is trained. "i was given to understand that the first practice a fighting pup had was with a `good old gummer,' that is to say, with a dog which had been a good one in his day, but was now old, and toothless, and incapable of doing more than `mumble' the juvenile antagonist that was set against him, the one great advantage being that the young dog gained practical experience in the making of `points.' "the next stage, as i was informed, in training the young aspirant for pit-honours was to treat him to a `real mouthful,' or, in other words, `to let him taste dog'..." what this means, mr greenwood goes on partially to explain, but the explanation is too fearful to be repeated here; suffice it to say that scamp was the dog that maxey's young 'un was to taste. considerably elated, the boys started off on their way home. the thought of two-and-sixpence, and a sight of a real dog-fight, was quite enough to silence all dick's scruples, and jenks never had any. yet once, long ago now, jenks had cried when the cat pounced on his canary, once jenks had a kind heart. it was not all hard yet, though very nearly so. still some things could touch him, some faces, some words, some tones, could reach a vulnerable part within him. he hardly knew himself that the better part of him, not yet quite dead, was touched, he only called it being in a fix. he was in a fix about dick. it had been his intention, it had been his motive, in coming to live in the saint giles's cellar, to train dick as a thief, and if possible flo also. he was a very expert young hand himself,--no boy in london with lighter fingers, or more clever in dodging the police, than he. he knew that the first requisite for any successful thief was to possess an innocent appearance, and the moment he saw dick and flo he knew that their faces would make their own, and probably his fortune, in this criminal trade. he had gone cautiously about his work, for eyes much less sharp than his must have perceived that the children were strictly honest. their honesty, their horror of theft, had filled him with surprise, and added greatly to his difficulties. he saw, however, that dick was the weaker of the two, and his scruples he determined first to overcome. it took him some time, a whole month, but at last dick fell, and jenks was triumphant. all now was smooth sailing with him, he was in high, the highest spirits. dick should be taken down skilfully step by step the broad descent, and presently flo would follow. the bad boy's plans were all laid, when suddenly there came an obstacle--such an obstacle too--such a feather of a thing,--only a child's pleading voice and tearful eyes. what a fool jenks was to mind so slight a thing! he _was_ a fool then, for mind it he did. he liked flo, in his way he was fond of flo, but she herself might go to ruin sooner than have any of his plans injured. it was not for her sake he hesitated. no. but she had told him _why_ they were honest, why hard crusts and lives full of hunger and want were sweeter to them than luxuries unfairly come by; and strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this motive for honesty approved itself to the boy, for some reason known only to himself it raised a pain in his hardened heart, it roused the nearly dead conscience within him. he said to himself that the children's conduct was plucky--real, awful plucky; that it would be a mean act of him to make thieves of them. for ten minutes after his interview with flo he resolved that nothing in the world should induce him to do so; he resolved to go away as she had asked him to go away, and leave them to pursue their honest career unmolested, untempted by such as he. but in half-an-hour he had wavered, had partly laughed off flo's words, and had called all that stuff about mothers--dead mothers--nonsense. all day long he was undecided--he came back to the cellar at night undecided; he had gone out with dick and scamp still not sure whether to keep his promise to flo or to break it. how was it that in returning from his interview with maxey his resolutions to do right wavered more and more? perhaps it was because he had committed another cruel and evil deed, and so the little good in him died quickly out; perhaps, as certainly was the case, satan was tempting him more than ever. be this as it may, before jenks fell asleep that night his mind was made up. flo's scruples were all folly, dick had yielded once, he could, would, and should yield again. if he proved obstinate jenks had means in his possession which would compel him to lead the life he wished. yes, jenks resolved that before many months were over their heads, not only dick, but flo herself should be a thief. it should not be his fault if dick and flo were not two of the cleverest little thieves in london. chapter seven. at the derby. scamp had spent a very patient but not unhappy week in the cellar. he knew nothing of his impending fate, consequently, as he had his meals regularly, he felt himself troubled by no present cares. _had_ he known of his fate it is doubtful whether it would have caused him uneasiness. "fight with another dog! with pleasure; with all the good will in the world, and never show signs of flight, or turn felon." so would have thought the dog whose father and mother were curs, but in whose breast reigned as brave a spirit as ever one of the canine species possessed. but scamp, alas for you, poor fellow! you are inexperienced, and you do not know how the trained bull-dog can fight. jenks had secured him with a piece of rope to the broken table, but when jenks and dick were out flo would unfasten him, and he would lie at her feet and never attempt to run away. flo felt happy too at her hard work, for scamp was such good company, and since his arrival none of the wicked boys and girls dared to throw down broken bits of crockery, or sticks, or other rubbish at her. knowing she was timid they had often led her a sorry life, but now one note of scamp's fine deep bay (a gift from an old ancestor) would send them flying, and flo could pursue her work in peace. for the present, too, her mind was at rest about dick--he was not only not thieving, but he was doing quite a profitable business in another way. every morning he carried away his broom, and every evening, the weather being rather wet, he brought her in a nice little handful of coppers, as the result of his day's brooming; quite enough money to buy honest red herrings and other dainties for supper and even breakfast. flo began to consider a broom and crossing quite a good trade, and rather contemplated taking it up herself. but in this desire both jenks and dick quite vehemently opposed her, and for the present she was happy over her never-ending cobbling. scamp's company was so pleasant, and so soothed the tedium of her life, that now and then little snatches of mother's old songs would rise to her lips. she was walking down duncan street one day singing one of these in quite a sweet, clear voice, when a little pale girl on crutches, who lived in a cellar some six doors off, stopped her with the question-- "does yer know the glory song?" "no," said flo; "wot is it?" "i doesn't know it hall," said the little pale girl, "on'y a bit. yere it is: "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.'" "go on," said flo, "that's pretty--that is." "oh! i doesn't know any more," said the little girl. "i larned that bit wen i wor in 'orspital, time my leg was tuk orf. sister evelina taught it to me. there wor a lot more, and it wor werry pretty, but i on'y 'members that bit." "well, sing it agen," said flo. the little girl sang. "wot's `read and pray'?" asked flo. "oh! doesn't you know? read! hout o' books of course; and pray! pray to god--you knows that?" "no, i doesn't," said flo. "oh dear," said the other child rather patronisingly, "doesn't you know, `our--father--chart--'eaven'? why, yer _be_ hignorant." "yes, i be," said flo, no way offended. "i knows nothink 'cept being honest. wot's `our father,' janey?" "oh! 'tis quite long," said janey, "you couldn't 'member it a bit. `our--father--chart 'eaven.' our father lives in 'eaven. there! that's hall--i'm in a 'urry." "then that ain't true," said flo, "that ain't a bit o' it true. my father ain't in 'eaven, wherehever that is, 'ee's dead and in 'is grave, and yer father is at the dolphin most times i guess. i wouldn't tell lies ef i was you." the pale girl flushed up angrily. "there now, yer real oncivil," she said, "and i'll 'ave no more words wid yer." and she disappeared down the ladder into her cellar. flo went back also to hers and resumed her work. she had a great deal to do, for that evening she, and dick, and jenks, were to start on foot for the derby. jenks went every year as long as he could remember, but dick and flo had never been. they had heard of it of course, as what london child has not? and were much excited at the prospect of at last joining the great and vast army of tramps who year by year find their way to epsom downs. jenks assured them, too, that money honestly come by was made wholesale at the derby. money come to you almost for the asking; sixpences were changed into sovereigns by some magic art at that wonderful place. the children were not going empty-handed. flo was to be a "little-doll" girl. some dozens of these bought for twopence a dozen were to be sold to-morrow for a penny a-piece, or perhaps for more. flo counted how much she could make on her six dozen of dolls, and quite expected to realise a sum that would make things comfortable in the cellar for some weeks. dick was to sell fusees, and jenks was to appear on the scenes in the character of a boot-cleaning boy, balancing a black-box and brushes on his head, and scamp was to stay at home and keep house. flo had proposed his coming with them, but to this the boys objected, and she, considering she would have more than enough use for her legs, hands, voice, and eyes, and _might_ find scamp an extra care, did not grieve much over their decision. what walking she would have, all the way from london to epsom downs; what use for her hands in holding her tray of dolls for so many hours; what use for her voice in advertising her property, in properly proclaiming the value of her property, and endeavouring to attract the gents with white hats, who were fond of wearing such goods in their button-holes, or stuck in a row round their head gear; above all, and this was the pleasant part, what use for her eyes! right and left, before and behind, pretty things would surround her, and flo _did_ so love pretty things. it would be a grander sight than regent street, or swan and edgar's, grander, because the fine ladies, and the smart dresses, and the lovely spirited horses would be there in such much vaster numbers! she had her own slight but essential toilet preparations too to make. her poor ragged cotton frock had got a rinse, and was drying by a small fire, which, hot as the day was, was lit for the purpose, and she meant to look up mother's old bonnet, and if it _could_ be made presentable, wear it. she hauled it out of a pasteboard band-box, and sat down on her cobbler's stool to contemplate it. it was a very shaky, indeed fall-to-pieces, affair. a bonnet that had once been of a delicate white, but in its journey through life, having had to put up at several pawn-shops, had now reached a hue as far removed from that colour as possible. flo, however, thought it quite fit to wear. she snipped it, and dusted it, and by the aid of some pins secured the battered old crown in its place. she unfolded carefully every leaf of the gorgeous bunch of artificial flowers with which mother had ornamented it before she died. that bunch, consisting of some full-blown roses, tulips, and poppies, which at a second-hand finery establishment had cost twopence, and to purchase which mother had once done without her dinner, that bunch was placed so as to rest on flo's forehead, while two dirty ribbons of flaming yellow were to do duty under her chin. but while she worked she thought of janey's words. she was sorry janey had turned crusty, for undoubtedly the words were pretty, prettier than any of mother's old songs. she would have liked to know more about them! "`i'm glad i hever saw the day,'" sang flo, catching the air with her quick ear and voice. but then she stopped to consider. what day was she glad to see? well! no day that she knew of, unless it was to-morrow, the derby day. she was not glad of the day she could read and pray, for that day had never come to her. in her duncan street cellar, "the board," that object of terror, had never reached her, therefore she could not read--and pray?--she did not even know what "pray" meant. why did janey go about singing such songs as nobody could understand? just then jenks and dick came rattling down the ladder crying noisily that it was full time to be off; and flo had to bustle about, and pack her dolls, and put on her clean frock and wonderful bonnet, and finally, when she thought no one was looking, to stoop down and kiss scamp on his forehead, in return for which he washed her face quite over again with his tongue. a basin of broken bread was set near the dog, then the children ran up the ladder, fastened down the door of the cellar, and set off. "will maxey know which is _hour_ cellar wid the door shut?" asked dick. this remark flo could make nothing of, but she was too much excited then to ask an explanation. it was eight o'clock when the children started, therefore the great heat was over. at first they walked alone, then two or three, going in the same direction, joined them, then half-a-dozen more, and so on, until they found themselves with quite a number of people all epsom bound. at first flo did not like this, she would have much preferred to trudge along, away past hot and dismal london, with only dick and jenks for company, but after a time she saw the advantage of this arrangement, for she was unaccustomed to walking, and soon her little feet grew very, very weary, and then the good-natured cadgers and tramps turned out agreeable acquaintances. one woman kindly carried her tray of dolls, and some men with a large barrow of fried fish, taking pity on her weary little face, allowed her to have a seat on one corner of their great barrow, and in this way she got over many a mile. but the way was very long, and by the time the weary multitude had reached epsom town it was nearly one in the morning. no rest for them here, however; whether they wished it or not, whether they could pay for food and shelter or not, the vigilant police would allow no halt in the town, they must move on. so on they moved, until at last flo and dick and jenks, with many other worn-out tramps, were very glad to huddle together against the walls of the grand stand, which, quiet enough now, would in a few hours blaze with such life and beauty. the little girl was in a sound sleep, dreaming confused dreams, in which janey's songs, scamp's face, and the epsom races were all mingled, when a hand laid on her shoulder roused her from her slumbers. "wot is it, jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin'?" she exclaimed with a confused start. "no, no," said jenks, "it ain't time fur hages yet. wait till the folks begin to come. why, there's on'y us tramps yere yet." "then why did you wake me, jenks? i was so werry sound asleep." "well--see, flo--i wanted fur to tell yer--you see this is a big place, and we 'as come, you and me and dick, to do a trade yere, and wot i ses is this, as we mustn't keep together, we mustn't on no 'count keep together. you go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny _they'll_ fetch this blessed day, i hears said; dick 'ull start in another 'rection wid the fusees, and i must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents' boots bright. so good mornin' to yer, flo; you meet us yere in the evenin' wid a good pocket full, and yere's sixpence fur yer breakfast," and before flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, jenks was gone. she was alone, alone on epsom common. with that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone. very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. however tender their hearts may be--and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, god bless them!--there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears. but something very smarting did come up now to the little girl's eyes. she sat down wearily,--so much fun had she expected roaming about with dick and jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun--he never shone like that in the town--shining on her face. and now she would be afraid--for she was a timid child--to stir. oh, it was wrong of jenks, though jenks was only her friend, but how truly _unkind_ it was of dick to leave her! just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said-- "is anything the matter, little child?" flo raised her eyes, and a middle-aged woman, with a face as kind as her voice, and an appearance very much more respectable than the crowds about her, stood by her side. "are you waiting for your mother, my dear?" said the woman again, finding that flo only gazed at her, and did not speak. "or don't you want to come and get some breakfast?" "please, mum," said flo, suddenly starting to her feet, and remembering that she was very hungry, "may i go wid you and 'ave some breakfast? i 'ave got sixpence to buy it, mum." "come, then," said the woman, "i will take care of you. here, give me your dolls," and holding the dolls' tray in one hand, and the child herself by the other, she went across to where a bustling, hungry throng were surrounding the coffee-stalls. flo and her companion were presently served, and then they sat down on the first quiet spot they could find to enjoy their meal. "is you in the small-dolls, or the aunt sally, or the clothes' brusher's, or the shoe-blacker's line, mum?" asked flo, who observed that her companion was not carrying any goods for sale. "no, child, i don't do business here--i only come to look on." "oh, that's werry fine fur you!" said flo; "but is it as yer don't find sellin' make? why, i 'spects to make a penny, and maybe tuppence, on hevery one of these blessed dolls." "is this the first time you have been here?" asked the woman. "yes, mum." "and have you come alone?" "oh no, mum; i come along o' my brother, a little chap, and a bigger feller." "then you ought to be with them. this is not a safe place for a little girl to be all alone in." "oh, they doesn't want me," said flo; "the little chap's in the fusee line, and the big 'un's in the blackin' line, and they says as it 'ud spile the trade fur a small-dolls seller to be along o' them. that's 'ow i'm alone, ma'am," and here veritable tears did fill the child's eyes to overflowing. "well, i am alone too," said her companion in a kinder tone than ever; "so if you wish to stay with me you may; i can show you the best parts to sell your dolls in." and this was the beginning of one of the brightest days flo had ever yet spent. how she did enjoy the breezes on the common now that she had a companion, how she did gaze at the wonderful, ever-increasing crowd. she had soon told her story to her new friend; all about dick and herself, and their mother, and their promise to be honest; something too about scamp, and also about the big feller who she was afraid was a thief, but whose name somehow she forgot to mention. in return her companion told her something of her own story. "i come year after year out here," she said sadly. "not that i sells here, or knows anything of the derby; but i come looking for one that i love--one that has gone like the prodigal astray, but like the prodigal he'll come back--he'll come back." this speech was very strange and incomprehensible to flo; but she liked her companion more and more, and thought she had never met so kind a woman, she looked at her once or twice nearly as nicely as mother used to look. but now the business of the day began in earnest. the grand stand was filled; the men with betting lists were rushing with heated faces here and there; the cadgers and tramps, the vendors of small dolls, of pails of water, of fried fish, of coffee and buns, of ices, of fruit and sweeties, the vendors of every conceivable article under the sun were doing a roaring trade; and even flo, aided by her kind companion, made several shillings by her dolls. the races went on, and at last the great event of the day, the derby race, was to be run. by this time flo had sold all her dolls, and stood in the midst of the heaving, swaying mass of people, as eager as anybody else. an unwonted excitement had taken possession of the little girl, the joy of a fresher, brighter life than she had hitherto ever felt, drove the blood quickly through her languid veins, she stood by her companion's side, her large bonnet thrown back from her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes quite bright with interest and pleasure. perhaps to her alone the beautiful, wonderful sight came without alloy-- she had no high stakes at issue, nothing either to gain or to lose. but when the race was over, and the name of _galopin_, the winning horse, was in everybody's mouth, and men, some pale and some flushed with their losses, turned broken-hearted away; and men, some pale and some ruddy with their gains, joined in the general cheer; then flo began again to think of and miss her absent companions. already vast numbers of tramps were returning to london--the kind little woman by her side had also expressed a wish to go, but nowhere were jenks and dick in sight. they had promised to meet her in the evening, but she could neither ask her companion to wait until then, nor wait herself alone in the midst of the vast, unruly multitude. "i will see you safe as far as our roads lie together," said the little woman, and flo, without a word, but no longer with an exultant, joyful heart, accompanied her. they walked slowly, keeping close to the other walkers, but still a little apart, and by themselves. now and then a good-natured neighbour gave them a lift, but they walked most of the way. "'as you found 'im whom you loves, mum?" questioned flo once; but the little woman shook her head, and shook it so sorrowfully that flo ventured to say no more. it was quite dusk when they got to london, or rather to the outskirts of london, for they went very slowly, and often paused on the road. by this time they were quite a vast army, fresh tramps arriving to swell their ranks each moment. here too they were met by numbers of londoners who had not gone to the races, but who now thronged the footways to see them return. at one particular angle of the road these crowds congregated so thickly that for a few moments there was quite a block, and neither multitude could proceed. as flo stood by her companion's side, two boys pushed quickly and roughly against her. they did not recognise or look at her, but she did them--they were jenks and dick. she was quite overjoyed at seeing them so near her, but how funny they looked! or rather, how funny dick looked! his face was blackened, and he had on a false nose; he carried a little fiddle which he capered about with, and pushing his way fearlessly into the very heart of the throng, made altogether such a droll appearance that many people looked at him, and laughed very heartily, and shied him halfpence jenks, on the contrary, was grave and sober, no one minding him. but suddenly, while all eyes and tongues were eagerly greeting some fresh arrivals, flo observed dick give a red-faced, stout old gentleman a tremendous push, and quick as lightning jenks had his hand in the old man's pocket, and out had come his purse and gold watch. and before the terrified and astonished child had time to utter an exclamation, or to draw a breath, police constable b. laid his hand heavily on jenks' shoulders, and with the other drawing dick towards him, informed them both that they were his prisoners. chapter eight. a ghost in the cellar. in the confusion that immediately ensued, flo found herself torn away from her kind companion, and brought very near to police constable b. and his charge. like most children of her class she had been taught to consider policemen very dreadful people, but she had no fear of this one now: her whole desire was to save dick. she went boldly up and laid her little dirty hand on the great tall man's arm. "please--please," said flo, "it ain't dick as tuk them things. indeed i thinks as dick _is_ an honest boy." "oh! yes, and i suppose you are an honest girl," said the policeman, looking down with some contempt at the queer disreputable-looking little figure. "tell me now, what do you know about dick? and which of the two is dick to begin with?" "that 'ere little chap wot yer 'ave such a grip of," said flo, "that's dick, and i be 'is sister, i be." "oh! so you are his sister. and what's the name of the big fellow? you are his sister too?" "no, i ain't," said flo, "i ain't that, but 'ee lives wid dick and me." "he does--does he? perhaps you saw what he did just now?" flo had seen--she coloured and hesitated. "you need not speak unless you wish to," said the policeman more kindly, "but i perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. see! where do you live?" "cellar number , duncan street, saint giles," said flo promptly. "ah!" said the policeman, "i thought those cellars was shut up. they ain't fit for pigs. well, my dear, 'tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and i'll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. don't you go hiding, for wherever you are i'll find you. on thursday morning at o'clock at q--police-station." and nodding to flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him. "come 'ome wid me, dear," said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another duncan street cellar. "come 'ome wid me," she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; "i'll take care of yer the rest of the way," and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd. "there now," said the woman kindly, "don't yer fret, dearie--it ain't so bad, and it won't be so bad. dick, 'ee'll on'y get a month or two at the 'formatary, and t'other chap a bit longer, and hout they'll come none the worse. don't yer fret, dearie." "no, ma'am," answered flo with a little smile, "i ain't frettin'." nor was she exactly. she had an awful vision before her of mother's dead face, that was all. during the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. she was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet--that would come by and by. her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. it was quite dusk, past o'clock, when they reached duncan street, and the cellar door of number , which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the derby the day before, was now open. flo hardly noticed this. she ran down, eager to throw her arms round scamp's neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom. "but--what had happened?" flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. she called to him, no answer. she struck a match and lit the tallow candle,--scamp's place was empty, scamp was gone. she stooped down and examined the spot carefully. if he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone. it was quite plain, then, some one had come and stolen scamp, some one had come meanly while they were away and carried him off--he was gone. one extra drop will overflow a full cup, and this extra trial completely upset the little tired, sad child. she sat down on the floor, that damp wretched floor, surely an unfit resting-place for any of god's creatures, and gave way to all the agony of intense desolation. had the dog been there he would have soothed her: the look in his eyes, the solemn slow wag of his unwieldy tail, would have comforted her, would have spoken to her of affection, would have prevented her feeling utterly alone in the world. and this now was flo's sensation. when this awful storm of loneliness comes to the rich, and things look truly hard for them, they still have their carpeted floors, and easy-chairs, and soft beds, and though at such times they profess not to value these things in the least, yet they are, and are meant to be, great alleviations. only the poor, the very, very poor know what this storm is in all its terrors, and the desolate little child sitting there in this dark cellar felt it in its full power that night. dick was gone from her, dick was a thief, he was in prison, gone perhaps never to come back--and jenks was gone, he had done wrong and tempted dick, and broken his word to her, so perhaps it was right for him to go--and scamp, dear scamp, who had done no harm whatever, was stolen away. yes, she was alone, alone with the thought of her mother's face, all alone in the damp, dark, foul cellar, and she knew nothing of god. just then a voice, and a sweet voice too, was heard very distinctly at the mouth of the cellar. "sing glory, glory, glory," tuned the voice. "janey," said flo, starting to her feet and speaking eagerly. "oh dear!" said the voice at the cellar door, "ain't you a fool to be settin' there in the dark. strike a light, do--i'm a comin' down." flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side. "oh dear!" she said, "ain't this a stiflin' 'ole? why 'tis worse nor 'ourn." "wot's `read and pray,' janey?" asked flo. "my!" said janey, "ef yer ain't a real worry, flo darrell. read--that's wot the board teaches--and pray--our--father--chart--'eaven--that's pray." "and `sing glory,' wot's that?" continued flo. "that!" laughed janey, "why that's a choros, you little goose. niggers 'ave alwis choroses to their songs--that ain't nothink else." "well, 'tis pretty," sighed flo, "not that i cares for nothink pretty now no more." "oh! yes yer will," said janey with the air of a philosopher. "yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as i wor wen i broke my leg, and i wor lyin' in the 'orspital, all awful full o' pain hup to my throat, but now i 'as on'y a stiff joint, and i doesn't mind it a bit. that's just 'ow you'll feel 'bout dick by and by. 'ee'll be lyin' in prison, and you won't care, no more nor i cares fur my stiff joint." flo was silent, not finding janey's conversation comforting. "come," said that young person after a pause, "i thought you'd want a bit o' livenin' hup. wot does yer say to a ghost story?" flo's eyes, slightly startled, were turned on her companion. "as big a ghost story as hever was got up in any gaff," continued janey, her naughty face growing full of mischief, "and it 'appened in this 'ere cellar, flo." "oh! it worn't mother come back, wor it?" asked flo. "just you wait heasy. no, it worn't yer mother, ef you _must_ know, but as real a ghost as hever walked fur all that." "tell us," said flo, really roused and interested. "oh, you wants fur to know at last! well, i must be paid. i'm poor and clemmed, and i can't tell my tale fur nothink, not i." "'ow can i pay you, janey?" "oh, yer can, heasy enough. why mother said as yer sold quite a 'eap o' dolls to-day at the races, there! i'll tell 'bout the ghost fur a penny, no fur three ha'pence--there!" "well, tell away," said flo, throwing the coins into her companion's lap. janey thrust them into her mouth, then taking them out rubbed them bright with her pinafore, and held them firmly in her bony little hand. "pease puddin' fur the ha'penny," she said, "meat and taters fur the penny--'tis real mean o' yer not to make it tuppence. now i'll begin. were's that ere dawg? were's that hawful, 'owlin' dawg?" "oh! i don't know," said flo, "i don't know nothink 'bout my dear scamp." "oh yes, 'ees dear scamp to be sure," said janey. "well, _i'll_ tell yer 'bout scamp, and hall i 'opes is that we may never lay heyes on 'im no more." "why?" asked flo. "there! i'm a comin' to wy. last night wen you, and dick, and jenks, and mother was orf to the derby, and i mad like at bein' left, which mother _would_ do 'cause i was lame, i came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin' to scamp, who was 'owlin' real orfle, and i thought as it 'ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur i knew he wor tied, and hanger 'im a bit, and i tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit i went away, and i got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there i dropped orf asleep. and wen i 'woke it wor dark, and on'y the `twinkle, twinkle, little stars' hout, and there wor a noise, and i looked, and hout o' your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man's 'ead a comin'--a man wid a round 'ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in 'is arms, a 'owlin' and a struggling that 'ere blessed dawg." "oh! the willan!" said flo. "'ee stole my dawg. did yer foller 'im, janey?" "no, i didn't," said janey; "_i_ foller 'im--i'd like it. wy, flo darrell, 'ee worn't a man at all. 'ow was a _man_ in yer locked hup cellar? no, 'ee wor a ghost--_that's_ wot 'ee wor. and scamp ain't a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o' 'im, flo darrell." chapter nine. flo in the witness-box. a small knot of policemen stood outside q--police-court. they chatted and talked one to another, now and then alluding to the different cases to be tried that day, now and then dwelling on the ordinary topics of the times, now and then, too, speaking to a companion of home interests, and home, and personal hopes and fears. for these stalwart-looking myrmidons of the law are just human beings like the rest of mankind, and they are quite capable now and then even of feeling and showing pity for a prisoner. "any cases of interest coming on to-day?" asked a young policeman of constable b. "nothing of moment--a few thefts committed on the derby day. by the way, i have just brought in the drollest figure of a child to appear as witness in one of these cases." just then a little woman in a black dress, black, tight-fitting bonnet, and black veil, came up timidly to the constable and asked if she might see the trials. "certainly, missis; you have nothing to do but to walk in. stay, i will show you the way to the court. may i ask if there is hany particular case as you is wanting to hear?" "not--not--that is, i am not a witness," replied the little woman, whose lips trembled. "i have a curiosity to see the proceedings." "well, ma'am, the affairs coming on are mostly hacts of robbery committed on the derby day--but some of them may interest you. walk this way, ma'am," and the constable preceded the little woman into the court. "there," he said kindly, seeing that for some reason she appeared a good deal either upset or excited, "you need not stand where the crowd are, you may go up and seat yourself on that bench where the witnesses be. you'll be more quiet and comfortable hup there, and will see heverything." "thank you," replied the little woman, and she placed herself on the extreme edge of the witnesses' bench. there was a case then on hand, one of those sad cases which police-courts see so many of. a woman had been brought up to be tried for that sin which, more than any other, blights homes, ruins children, spreads destruction through the land, sends souls to hell,--she was accused of drunkenness and disorderly conduct. she stood in the prisoner's dock with a sullen, bleared, indifferent face, her half-dead, listless eyes gazing vacantly at the magistrate. she had appeared in that court charged with the same offence forty times. mr vernon, the gentleman before whom she was accused, asked her what she had to say for herself. even at this question the indifferent countenance never woke into life. "nothing," she answered listlessly, for the love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman's breast. she hardly listened as mr vernon addressed her in a few solemn but kindly words, and when her sentence--a month at wandsworth with hard labour--was pronounced, received it with the same stoical indifference. then two boys were led in by the jailor, and constable b. appeared as the first witness against them. as he passed into his place in the witnesses' box he gave the little woman in black a nudge and an intelligent look, which would have told her, even if she had not known it before, that one of the derby robbery cases had come on. through her thick veil she looked at the two lads; one hung down his face, but the other gazed about him, apparently untroubled and unashamed. this hardened expression on the elder boy's face seemed to cause her much pain, she turned her head away, and some tears fell on her hands. and yet, could she but have seen into their hearts, she would have perceived something which would have kindled a little hope in her soul. each boy, standing in this dreadful position, thought of his mother. dick, with that sea of faces about him, with the eyes of the judge fixed on him, felt that the memory of his mother was the hardest thing of all to bear, for the conscience of the child who had stood out against temptation for so long was by no means yet hardened, and though he knew nothing of god, his mother's memory stood in the place of god to him. so the most ignorant among us have a light to guide us. let us be thankful if it is a star so bright as that of mother's love. for, strange to say, the older lad, the boy who stood in the dock with that brazen, unabashed face, the clever, accomplished london thief, who though not unknown to the police, had hitherto by his skill and cunning almost always escaped the hands of justice, he too, down deep in his heart of hearts, thought of his mother; he took one quick, furtive glance around as if to look for her, then, apparently relieved, folded his arms and fixed his bold eyes on mr vernon. then the trial, in the usual form in which such trials are conducted in police-courts, went on. the prisoners' names and ages were first ascertained. "william jenks, aged fourteen; richard darrell, aged ten," sounding distinctly in the small room. then police constable b. identified the boys as the same whom he had caught in the act of removing a gold watch and purse from a gentleman's pocket in the midst of the crowds who thronged the streets on tuesday. he described very accurately the whole proceedings, stating how and why his suspicions had been aroused--how he had dodged the boys for some little time, had observed them whispering together, had seen dick buy his false nose and sixpenny fiddle, had overheard a few words which gave him a further clue to some mischief, had seen them separate, had closely noticed dick's antics, had watched the violent push he gave the old gentleman, and finally had laid his hand on jenks as he drew forth the watch and purse from his victim's pocket. his statements, delivered slowly and impressively, were taken down by a clerk of the court, and then read over to him, and signed as quite correct; then the constable retiring, the old gentleman who had been the victim of the robbery appeared in the witness-box. very irate was this witness, and very indignant the glances he gave over his spectacles at the prisoners. those were the boys of course! well, he had been befooled by the small chap's funny nose and absurd antics--any one else would have been the same. well, he _had_ a personal interest in the great race, and had come out to meet some friends who were returning from epsom, he had given the small boy only a passing thought. when violently knocked by him, he had believed it to be accidental, and caused by the eagerness and swaying of the crowd--his was not a suspicious nature. no, he had felt no hand in his pocket--and knew nothing of any robbery until the policeman showed him his own purse and watch in the elder prisoner's hand. though obliged to the constable for his zeal, he must add he thought it _shameful_ that such a thing could happen in any well-governed land! "will you tell us precisely what your purse contained, and describe its appearance?" asked mr vernon. "i can do that to the letter," replied the angry man. "i am not likely to forget my own purse or my own money." "we must ask you to confine your remarks to answering the questions put to you," interfered the magistrate. "how much did your purse contain, and what kind of purse was it?" "the purse you wish me to describe, and which i repeat i _can_ describe, was a green russian leather one, with silver fastenings. it contained (i know to a farthing what it contained) five sovereigns in gold, a half-sovereign, two florins, and sixpence, besides in one pocket a cheque for twenty pounds on the city bank. the cheque was not signed." the purse being opened, and its contents found to answer to this description, it was handed back to the old gentleman, who was then requested to describe his watch; and on his doing so, and also getting back this property, he became much more gracious, and retired, with his anger considerably cooled, to his former place beside the little woman in black. "if you have a watch, ma'am, hold it safely," he whispered to her. "even here, and surrounded by the officers of the law, we are not safe from the light fingers of these young ruffians." just then there was a bustle, and a movement of fresh interest in the court. another witness was appearing. led by the hand of constable b. a little girl was led into the witnesses' box, a little girl with an old woman's face, grave, worn, pale. at the sight of this witness dick changed colour violently, and even jenks gave way to some passing emotion. for an instant a pair of sad dark eyes gazed steadily at both the boys. they were speaking eyes, and they said as plainly as possible--"i cannot save you. i would help you, even _you_, jenks, out of this, but i cannot. i have come here to speak the truth, and the truth _will_, the truth _must_ do you harm." flo, with all her deep ignorance, had one settled conviction, that no one was ever yet heard of who told a lie in the witnesses' box. "how old is the little girl?" asked mr vernon. the question was repeated to her. "don't know," she answered promptly. "have you no idea, child? try and think!" "no, i doesn't know," said flo. then she added after a pause, "_mother_ knowed me age, and she said ef i lived till this month (ain't this month june?) as i'd be nine." "nine years old," said the magistrate, and the clerk of the court took a note of the fact. "now, little girl, what is your name?" "darrell." "darrell, do you know the nature of an oath?" "eh?" questioned flo. "do you know who god is? you have got to take a solemn oath to god that you will speak nothing but the truth while you stand there." "yes," said flo, "i'll on'y speak the truth." "do you know about god?" "mother used to say `god 'elp me.' i don't know nothink else--'cept 'bout heve," she added after another pause. "what do you know about eve?" "she wor the first thief, she wor. she prigged the apple off god's tree." a laugh through the court; but the odd little figure in mother's old bonnet never smiled, her eyes were turned again reproachfully on dick-- he was following in the footsteps of "heve." "you may administer the oath," said the magistrate to the usher of the court, and then the bible was placed in flo's hands and the well-known solemn words addressed to her. "the evidence you shall give to the court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, so help you god." "yes," answered flo. "kiss the book," said the usher. she did so gravely, and handed it back to him. "now, darrell, just answer the questions put to you, and remember you are on your oath to speak the truth. who are these boys? do you know them?" "yes, yer washup." flo had heard mr vernon spoken to as "your worship," and had adopted the name with avidity. "what are they called?" "little 'un's dick--t'other jenks." "which of the two is your brother?" "little chap." "do you live together--you and your brother and jenks?" "yes; number seven, duncan street." "have you a father and mother?" "no. father fell from a 'ouse and wor killed--he wor a mason; and mother, she died a year ago. we 'ad scamp wid us too," added flo; "leastways we 'ad till the night o' the derby." "who is scamp?" "my dawg." a laugh. "do not mind about your dog now, darrell," said the magistrate. "tell me how you live." "'ow i lives? course i lives on wittles; and when i can't get wittles i lives on nothink." "mr vernon means, what do you do to earn money?" explained the constable. "oh! i translates." "you translate!" said mr vernon, raising his eye brows in wonder that anything literary should find its way to flo's hands; "i did not know that you could read." "no, more i can--i knows nothink 'bout `read and pray.' i never was glad to see that 'ere day. no--i translates; and ef they is down at the 'eel, and bust at the sides, and hout at the toes, wy i makes 'em as good as new fur hall that." "she cobbles old boots and shoes, your worship," explained the amused constable. "they call it translating down in duncan street." "oh! does your brother translate also, darrell?" "no, yer washup; dick 'ave a broom and crossin'. 'ee wor doin' a tidy lot lately wid 'is broom and crossin'." "now remember you are on your oath. how did you spend your time on the derby day?" "i sold small dolls to the gents." "were you with your brother and the other prisoner?" "no, yer washup. jenks 'ee said as we worn't to keep company." "did he tell you why?" "'ee said as we'd do better bis'ness apart. 'ee was in the blackin' line, and dick in the fusee line." "where were you at the time of the robbery?" "close ahint jenks and dick." "did they see you?" "no." "what were they doing? what did you see them do?" "dick, 'ee 'ad a funny little red nose on, and 'ee capered about, and played the fiddle." "well, go on." "the people, they was pressing hevery way, and the folks was cheerin', wen--hall on a sudden--" "well?" "dick--'ee gave a great leap in the hair, and down 'ee come slap-bang 'gainst that 'ere gent," pointing to the red-faced gentleman; "and jenks--" "what about jenks? don't forget your oath, darrell." "i'm not a forgettin'--i'm a comin' to jenks. no, jenks," suddenly turning round and addressing him, "i wouldn't tell on you ef i wasn't standin' yere where no lies was hever spoke. 'ee stepped forrard as soft as soft, and pulled hout a purse and a watch hout o' the gent's pocket." "are these the watch and purse?" "yes." the clerk of the court then read over flo's evidence, and as she could neither read nor write, she was shown how to put her mark to the paper. "you may go now," said the magistrate; "i don't wish to ask you anything further." constable b. took her arm, but she struggled against him, and held her ground. "please, yer washup, i 'ave spoke the truth." "indeed, i hope so." "may the little chap come 'ome wid me, and i'll--" but here official authority was called to interfere, and flo was summarily ejected from the witness-box. she found a seat at the other side of the little woman in black, who took the child's trembling hand in hers. a few moments of patient summing up of evidence, and then the magistrate asked the prisoners if they had anything to say for themselves. "please, i'll never do it no more," said poor little dick, in a tone which nearly broke his sister's heart; but jenks, the older and more hardened offender, was silent. then the sentence was made known. dick, in consideration of his youth, and its being a first offence, was only to go to a reformatory school, but jenks was doomed to wandsworth house of correction for nine long months. chapter ten. the little woman in black. "come home with me," said the little woman by flo's side. she had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as pale and sad as her own. she hardly noticed it, however, she was absorbed in a recognition. the little woman in black had the gentle voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black _was_ her friend of the derby day. "my dear, i am real glad to find you again. you shall come to my house and have a bit of dinner." "no, ma'am," said flo, shaking away her hand, "i knows yer, ma'am, and you is werry kind. but i'm not a goin' 'ome wid yer, missis; i'm not 'spectable to be in yer 'ouse. dick, 'ee be a thief and in prison, i'm not 'spectable no more." flo said this without tears, and defiantly. "oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. you are poor and in trouble, child--just the one that jesus christ wants; and surely if the king of glory wants you, i may want you too." "wot's glory?" asked flo. "glory, child; that's where the king lives." "ain't kings and queens the same?" "oh! now, my dear, i see you don't know nothing about the matter, or you wouldn't speak of any king or queen in the breath with my king. come and have a bit of dinner with me, and then i'll tell you about my king." "i ain't 'ungry," said flo; "but i'd real like to 'ear o' that king as wants me. would 'ee make a swell o' me, missis?" "he can raise you very high, little girl," said the woman; and taking flo's hand, they walked together in silence. "you was fond of poor jenks?" said the little woman at last. "yes, ma'am; 'ee wasn't a bad sort o' a feller. but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted the little chap. i don't go fur to blame jenks, ma'am, fur 'ee 'adn't no mother--but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted dick." at these words the little woman withdrew her hand from flo's, and pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and flo, wondering what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked again by her side in silence. they passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to london district visitors. there are sun streets in london, where the sun never shines--there are jubilee courts, where feasts are never held, where satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice. this place was called pine apple court, and doubtless a few years ago it as nearly resembled cherry court and may-blossom court as three peas resemble each other; but now, as flo and the little woman walked into it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy of its name. here, in the midst of london, was actually a place where the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. [one of miss octavia hill's courts.] the freshly-painted, white-washed houses had creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the children could play. the little woman conducted flo across this pleasant court into one of the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. the polished steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the fire-place. the window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full blossom. the rose was ticketed, prize st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot, doubtless its prize at the last poor people's flower show. had flo ever heard of paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose. she sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her hostess and gazed around. "please, ma'am," she said presently, "wot am i to call yer?" at this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. "why, now," she said, "that's a curious thing, but my name's jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning--mrs jenks is my name, little darrell." "yes, missis," replied flo respectfully. she had admired mrs jenks very much on the derby day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. for aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a "dook's" wife in disguise. "you sit in this chair and rest," said mrs jenks, "and i'll see about dinner." and flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her. mrs jenks had made her take off mother's old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes. there were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and mrs jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for flo, and another for herself. but before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. the little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words:-- "i thank thee, my god, for the dinner thou hast given me; but more than all i thank thee that thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little ones to share it with." then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped flo. and flo, who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of mrs jenks' liberal helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of her eyes. "now," said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were washed up and put away, "now," she said, "i will get to my work, and you shall tell me all that story over again. all about your poor dear mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as mine came to live with you." "yes," answered flo, whose little heart was so drawn to mrs jenks, and so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to her lips; and the story of the derby day was repeated with fuller confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on the part of her kind listener. flo told over again all about her mother, and mother's death, and the promise they had given mother--then of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little dick earned by his broom and crossing--finally how jenks came, and how good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach them both his trade. then at last, on the day she saw regent street and the queen, and tasted 'ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that jenks was a thief. then she related her interview with jenks, and how he had promised to leave dick alone, and _not_ to teach him his wicked trade, and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any more. here flo broke down and sobbed bitterly. "i think if i were you, i would leave all that about your dear mother to god, my child," said little mrs jenks. "his ways are not as our ways. if i were you, i would not fret about your mother--i would just leave her to god." "who is god?" asked flo, stopping her tears and looking up. "who is god?" repeated mrs jenks. "why, he's the king of glory i had to tell you about; and now i remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to know very little about him--nothing, in fact. well, you shall not leave this house without knowing, i promise you that. why, god--god, little darrell, he's your best friend, and your poor mother's best friend, and dick's best friend, and my--that is, jenks' best friend too. he loves you, child, and some day he'll take you to a place where many poor people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down here, are having rest, and good times for ever." "and will god give me a good time in that place?" asked flo. "yes. if you love him he will give you a better time than the queen has on her throne--a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world." "tell me about god," asked flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at mrs jenks' feet. "god," said little mrs jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, "god--he's the father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. god's your father, child." "our--father--chart--'eaven," repeated flo. "your father in heaven--yes, that's it." then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. words came to her at last, and flo learned what every child in our england is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of. do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime? doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. in church we thank god that we are not as these men are--murderers--thieves--unclean--unholy. let them go to prison, and to death--fit ends for such as they. true! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all. the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in _their_ path. their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned. christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a place in his kingdom; but they know nothing of christ, and we who do know, to whom his name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention, his story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion--we are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance, to tell them of him. now for the first time flo learned about god, and about god's dear son, our saviour. a little too about heaven, and a very little about prayer. if she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, god would hear her, and some day, mrs jenks said, he would come for her, and carry her away to live with him in heaven. only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the child's dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and thick darkness, and this difference took place in flo's mind that day. she listened with hardly a question--a breathless, astonished look on her face, and when mrs jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and tied on mother's old bonnet. "may i come again?" asked flo, raising her lips to kiss the little woman. "yes, my child, come again to-morrow. i shall look out for you to-morrow." and flo promised to come. chapter eleven. maxey's young 'un. as flo walked down the street, the wonderful news she had heard for the first time completely absorbed her mind, so much so that she forgot that dick was a thief, that dick and jenks were both suffering from the penalty of their crime, that she was returning to her cellar alone, without even scamp to keep her company. the news she had heard was so great, so intensely interesting in its freshness and newness, that she could think of nothing else. she walked down, as her wont was, several by-streets, and took several short cuts, and found herself more than once in parts of the town where no respectable person was ever seen. the gutter children working at their several wretched trades called after her as she passed, one addressing her as "old bonnet," another asking how much she wanted a-piece for the flowers that dangled so ludicrously on her forehead. and being a timid child, and, london bred as she was, sensitive to ridicule, she walked on faster and faster, really anxious to find any quiet place where she could sit down and think. at last, as she was passing a more open piece of ground, where a group of boys were playing pitch-and-toss, they, noticing her quickened movements, and rather frightened face, made a rush at her, and flo, losing all presence of mind, began to run. little chance would she have had against her tormentors, had not just then a tall policeman appeared in sight, whereupon they considered it more prudent to give up their chase, and return to their interrupted amusements. poor flo, however, still believing them to be at her heels, ran faster than ever down a narrow lane to her right, turned sharp round a corner, when suddenly her foot tripped against a cellar grating, the grating, insecurely fastened, gave way, and the child, her fall partly broken by a ladder which stood against the grating, found herself bruised, stunned, almost unconscious, on the ground several feet below the street. for some moments she lay quiet, not in pain, and not quite insensible, but too much frightened and shaken to be capable of movement. then a sound within a foot or two of her caused her heart to leap with fresh fear. she sat up and listened intently. it was a stifled sound, it was the whine of a dog. for scamp's sake flo had learned to love all dogs. she made her way, though not without pain, to this one now, and put her hand on its head. instead of being angry and resenting this freedom, as a strange dog might, a quiver of joy went through the animal, its tail wagged violently, its brown eyes cast melting glances of love at flo, its small rough tongue tried to lick her face and hands, and there, gagged and tied, but well fed, as yet unhurt, and a platter of broken meat by its side, was her own dog, her lost dog, scamp. flo laid her head on the head of the dog, and burst into tears of joy. the pain of her fall was forgotten, she was very glad she had knocked against that broken grating, that by this means she had stumbled into this cellar; her dog could accompany her home--she would not be so lonely now. with her own hands she unfastened the gag, and loosened the chain from scamp's neck, and the dog, delighting in his recovered freedom, danced and scampered madly round her, uttering great, deep bays of joy. alas! for scamp, his foolish and untimely mirth excited undue attention to him. his loud and no longer muffled bark brought two men quickly into the cellar. flo had the prudence of mind to hide behind some old boards, and scamp with equal prudence did not follow her. "down, you brute," said the short thick-set man whom jenks on a former occasion had addressed as maxey. "wot a noise, 'ee's makin'; the perleece'll get scent of the young dawg wid his noise," and the cruel wretch shied a great blow at scamp, which caused the poor animal to quiver and cry out with pain. "'ee'll be quiet enough afore the night is hover," said the man's companion, with a loud laugh. "lor! won't it be fun to see the bull-dawg a tearin' of 'im? i'm comin' to shave and soap 'im presently; but see, maxey, some one 'as been and tumbled inter the cellar, down by the gratin', as i'm alive! see! them two bars is broke right acrost." "run and put them together, then, the best way possible," called out maxey, "and i'll look round the cellar to give it to any one as is in hidin'." how fast flo's heart beat at those words, but maxey, though he imagined he had searched in every available nook, never thought of examining behind the three thin boards almost jammed against the wall, and behind which the child had crushed her slight frame. he believed that whoever had fallen into the cellar had beaten a hasty retreat, and after tying up scamp more firmly than ever, took his departure. now was flo's time. she had only a few moments to effect her escape and the dog's escape. a dreadful meaning had maxey's words for her--her dog's life was in peril. never heeding an acute agony which had set in by this time in her right foot, she made her way to scamp's side, and first putting her arms round his neck, entreated him in the most pathetic voice to be quiet and not to betray them by any more barking. if dogs cannot understand words and their meanings, they are very clever at comprehending tones and _their_ meanings. perfectly did this dog's clear intelligence take in that flo meant them both to escape, that any undue noise on his part would defeat their purpose. he confessed to himself that in his first joy at seeing her he had acted foolishly, he would do so no more. when she unfastened him he bounded up the ladder, and butting with his great strong head against the broken grating, removed it again from its place, then springing to the ground, was a free dog once more. half a moment later flo was by his side. there were plenty of people, and idle people too, in the streets, but, strange to say, no one noticed the child and dog, and they passed on their way in safety. a few moments' walking brought them to duncan street, then to their own cellar, down the ladder of which scamp trotted with a happy, confident air. flo followed him feebly, and tottering across the floor, threw herself on her straw bed. not another step could she go. she was much hurt; she was in severe pain. was her foot broken? hardly that, or she could not have walked at all, but her present agony was so great, that large drops stood on her brow, and two or three sharp cries came from her patient lips. how she longed for dick then, or jenks then, or janey then. yes, she had scamp, and that was something--scamp, who was lying abject by her side, pouring out upon her a whole wealth of love, who, knowing what she had done for him, would evermore do all that dog could do for her sake. she raised her hand to his head and patted him, glad, very glad that she had rescued him from an unknown but dreadful fate. but she wanted something else, something or some one to give her ease in her terrible agony, and god, her loving father, looking down from heaven, saw his little child's sore need, and though as yet he sent her no earthly succour, he gave to her the blessed present relief of unconsciousness. flo fainted away. when she recovered an hour or two later, the scanty light that ever penetrated into the cellar had departed, and at first, when the child opened her eyes in the darkness, pain and memory of all recent events had completely left her. she fancied she was lying again by her mother's side on that very straw mattress, she stretched out her arms to embrace her, and to ask her the question with which she had greeted her for the last three months of her life. "be yer werry tired, mother?" but then the empty place, the straw where the weary form was no longer lying, brought back remembrance; her mother was not there--her mother was gone. she was resting in her quiet grave, and could never help, or succour, or protect her more. but then again her thoughts were broken. there were rude noises outside, a frightened cry from scamp at the foot of the bed, the cellar door was violently opened, two men scrambled down the ladder, and with many oaths and curses began tossing about the wretched furniture, and calling loudly for the missing dog. where was he? not on flo's bed, which they unmercifully raked about, unheeding her moans of pain; not anywhere apparently. vowing vengeance on _whoever_ had stolen the dawg, the men departed at last. then again all was silence, and in a few moments a cowed-looking and decidedly sooty animal might, had any light been there to see, have been observed descending from the chimney where he had lain _perdu_. of the life-preserving qualities scamp possessed a large share, as doubtless before this his story proves. perhaps his cur mother had put him up to a wrinkle or two in his babyhood; at any rate, fully determined was he to meet no violent end, to live out his appointed time, and very clever were the expedients he used to promote this worthy object. now he shook himself as free as he could of the encumbrances he had met with in the smoky, sooty chimney, and again approached flo's side. she laid her hand on his head, praised him a little for the talent he had shown in again escaping from maxey, and the dreadful fate to which maxey meant to consign him; then the two lay quiet and silent. a child and a dog! could any one have looked in on them that night they would have said that in all the great city no two could be more utterly alone and forsaken. that individual, whoever he might have been, would have gone away with a wrong impression--they were not so. any creature that retains hope, any creature that retains faith, which is better, than hope, cannot be really desolate. the dog had all the large, though unconscious faith of his kind in his creator. it had never occurred to him to murmur at his fate, to wish for himself the better and more silken lives that some dogs live. to live at all was a blessed thing, to love at all a more blessed thing--he lived and he loved--he was perfectly happy. and the child--for the first time she knew of and had faith in a divine father, she had heard of some one who loved her, and who would make all things right for her. she thought of this love, she pondered over it, she was neither desolate nor unhappy. god and god's son loved her, and loved dick--they knew all about her and dick; and some day their father would send for them both and give them a home in his house in heaven. flo had at all times a vivid imagination, since her earliest days it had been her dear delight to have day dreams, to build castles in the air. no well-dressed or happy-looking child ever crossed her path that she did not suppose herself that child, that she did not go through in fancy that child's delightful life. what wardrobes had flo in imagination, what gay trinkets adorned her brow, her arms, her neck! what a lovely house she lived in, what heaps of shillings and sovereigns she possessed! now and then, in her moments of most daring flight, she had even a handle to her name, and people addressed her as "lady flo." but all the time, while happy in these dreams, she had always known them to be but dreams. she was only flo, working as a translator of old boots and shoes, down in a dark cellar--she had no fine dresses, no pretty ornaments, no money, she was hungry and cold, and generally miserable, and as far as she could possibly see there was never any chance of her being anything else. she generally came down from her high imaginings to this stern reality, with a great burst of tears, only one sad thought comforting her, to be alive at all she could never be worse than she was, she could never sink any lower. she was mistaken. last night, lying all alone and waiting for dick's trial, lying hour after hour hoping and longing for sleep to visit her, and hoping and longing in vain, she had proved that she was mistaken. lower depths of sorrow and desolation could be reached, and she had reached them. through no fault of hers, the stern hand of the law was stretched out to grasp her one treasure, to take her brother away. dick had broken a promise sealed on dying lips--dick was a thief. henceforth and for ever the brand of the prison would be on him. when, their punishment over, he and jenks were free once again, nothing now, no power, or art, or persuasion, on her part could keep those two apart. together they would plunge into deeper and more daring crime, and come eventually to the bad and miserable end her mother had so often described to her. it was plain that she and dick must separate. when the boys were released from prison, it was plain that she and they could not live together as of old. the honest could not live with the dishonest. her mother had often told her that, had often warned her to be sure, happen what might, to choose honest companions. so flo knew that unless _she_ too broke her word to mother, they must part--dick and she must part. and yet how much she loved him--how much her mother had loved him! he was not grave like her; he had never carried an old head on young shoulders; he was the merriest, brightest, funniest boy in the world-- one of those throw-all-care-to-the-winds little fellows, who invariably give pleasure even in the darkest and most shady homes. his elastic spirits never flagged, his gay heart never despaired, he whistled over his driest crusts, he turned somersaults over his supperless hours--he had for many a day been the light of two pairs of eyes. true, he had often been idle, and lately had left the brunt of the daily labour, if not all of it, to flo. but the mother heart of the little sister, who was in reality younger than himself, accepted all this as a necessity. was he not a boy? and was it not one of the first laws of nature that all girls should work and all boys should play? but now dick must work with the hard labour the law accords to its prisoners. that bright little face must look out behind a prisoner's mask, he must be confined in the dark cell, he must be chained to the whipping-post, he must be half-starved on bread and water. out of prison he was half his time without the former of these necessities of life, and at his age he would not be subjected to hard labour. but flo knew nothing of these distinctions, and all the terrible stories she had ever heard of prisoners she imagined as happening to dick now. so the night before the trial had been one long misery to the sensitive, affectionate child. now the trial was over, now dick was really consigned to prison, or to what seemed to flo like prison. with their eyes they had said good-bye to each other, he from the prisoners' dock, she from her place in the witnesses' box. the parting was over, and she was lying alone in her dark cellar, on her straw pallet, bruised, hurt, faint, but strange to say no longer unhappy, strange to say happier than she had ever been in her life before. she had often heard of bright things--she had often imagined bright things, but now for the first time she heard of a bright thing for her. she was not always to be in pain, she had heard to-day of a place with no pain; she was not always to be hungry, poor, and in rags--she had heard to-day of food enough and to spare, of white dresses, of a home more beautiful than the queen's home, of a good time coming to her who had always, always, all her life had bad times. and dick, though he was a thief, might share in the good time, and so might jenks. our saviour gave of his good times to thieves, and sinners, and poor people, if only they wanted them, and of course they had only to hear of them to want them. "may i come down, flo?" called out janey's voice at this juncture, at the cellar door. "father 'ave beat me hawful; may i come down and set by yer a bit?" the lame girl was sobbing loudly, and without waiting for flo's reply she scrambled down the ladder and threw herself on the bed by the child's side. "there now," she said, panting out her passionate words, "'ee 'ave me hall black and blue, and my lame leg 'urt worse nor hever; and i wish 'ee wor in prison, i do; and i wish i wor dead, i do." "oh! janey," said flo, with a great gasp of longing, "_wouldn't_ it be nice to be dead?" this corroboration of her desire startled janey into quiet, and into a subdued-- "_what_, flo darrell?" "to be dead, janey, and 'avin' a good time?" "well," said janey, recovering herself with a laugh, "wen i'm down haltogether in the dumps, as i wor a minute ago, i wishes fur it, but most times i 'ates the bear thought o' it--ugh!" "that's cause yer doesn't know, janey, no more nor i did till to-day. plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead." janey gave her companion an angry push. "there now, ef yer ain't more than hagriwating, a comin' on me wid yer old game of s'posin', and me fairly clemmed wid the 'unger. there's no good time fur me, nor never will be, i reckon," and she again lifted up her voice and wept. "there's our--father--chart--'eaven," began flo, but janey stopped her. "i don't want 'im--one father's too much fur me." flo was silent--she would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears. after a time she spoke in a different tone. "janey?" "well?" "i'd like fur to 'ear the glory song." janey had a good voice, and desired nothing better than to listen to herself. she complied readily. "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.' "why, flo! my 'eart alive! flo, 'ere's scamp." "sing it again," murmured flo. and janey did sing it again, and again, and yet again, until the dark cellar seemed to grow full of it, and to be lit up and brightened by it, and to its music the sick and weary child went to sleep. chapter twelve. i was an hungered and ye gave me meat. all through the night flo had visions of bright, and clean, and lovely things. she dreamt that she had left the cellar for ever, that all the musty, ragged boots and shoes were mended, and paid for, and gone, and that instead of earning her bread in that hard and wretched way, god had come and placed her in a beautiful room, looking out on green fields, such as mother had told her of, and given her pure white dresses to make for the angels. and god looked so kind, and so like what she had imagined her own father to look like, that she had ventured to ask him what had become of dick, and god had told her that he himself was taking care of dick, and he himself had placed him in a good school, and all would be well with him. and she thought she sat by the open window and made the angels dresses, and was, oh! so very, very happy; and scamp lay at her feet, and was also happy; and mrs jenks was in the room, ready whenever she liked to tell her more about god, and she too was happy. yes, they all were happy, with a happiness flo had never conceived possible hitherto, and she felt that it was not the nice room, nor the lovely view, nor the pleasant occupation that made her happy, but just because god was near. at last the morning came, and she awoke to find that it all was only a dream. she was still in the cellar, she must get up as usual, she must work as usual at her old thankless work, the work that barely kept starvation from the door. she felt very faint and hungry, but she remembered that she had two shillings of the money she had earned on the derby day locked away in the box where she usually kept mother's old bonnet. she would get up at once and buy some breakfast for herself and scamp. she called the dog and told him what she was about to do, and, to judge from the way he wagged his tail and rubbed his head against her hands, he understood her, and was pleased with her intention. nay, more, to hurry her movements, he placed himself under the ladder, mounted a few rungs, came down again, and finally darted from the ladder to her, and from her to the ladder, uttering short impatient barks. what ailed flo? she was hungry, very hungry, but how slowly she rose from her bed. she removed her head from the pillow, she steadied herself on her elbow--how strange, and weak, and giddy she felt. she lay down again, it was only a passing weakness; then once more she tried, back came that overpowering sense of sickness and giddiness. well, it _should_ not conquer her this time; happen what might, she _must_ get up. she tried to put her right foot to the ground, but a great, sharp cry of agony brought scamp to her side in consternation, and brought also beads of pain to her brow. no, hungry as she was, she could not walk, by no possible means could she even stand. she lay perfectly still for a moment or two, suffering so intensely that every breath was an agony. at last this passed, and she was able to realise her position a little. in truth it was not a pleasant one. even the night before, she had been in great need, she had longed much for a drink, her pain had brought on intense thirst, she had meant to ask janey to put a cup, and a jug of cold water, by her side before she left, but the sweetness of janey's song had caused her to fall asleep before she had made known her request, and the lame girl had gone away unconscious that anything was the matter with her. it was highly probable that she might not pay flo a visit for days; unless her father gave her another beating, or some quite unexpected event occurred, the chances were that she would not come. and now flo needed meat and drink, and nursing, as she had never needed them in all her life before. though pale and delicate-looking, she had hitherto been possessed of a certain wiry strength, which those little withered city children, with every one of health's necessaries apparently denied them, in some strange way seem to have. she had never gone through severe pain before; and never, with all her privations, had she known the hunger and thirst which now tormented her. scamp, seeing that she had changed her mind about going out, fixed on her one or two reproachful glances, and then in a very discontented manner resigned himself to his fate, and to a few more hours' sleep. and flo lay and wondered what was going to become of her. she was very ill, she knew. she was alternately hot and then cold, she was alternately tortured by pangs of the most acute hunger, and then deadly sickness seemed to make the bare thought of food insupportable. she wondered what was to be her fate. was she to lie there, a little more sick, a little more weak, a little more hungry and thirsty, in a little more pain, until at last she died, as mother had died? well, what then? only last night she had thought dying a good thing, the best thing. it was bidding good-bye to all that now troubled her, it was beginning at once the good time god had put by so carefully for little outcast children like her. if only it would come at once, this kind, beautiful death--if only she had not to walk the dark bit of road between now and then, between now and the blessed moment when god would take her in his arms to heaven. but flo had been too long with the poor, with the very, very poor, had seen too many such die, not to know well that dying was often a very long business, a business so long, and so sad, that, though the dying were suffering just as much as she now suffered, yet many weary hours, sometimes many weary days, had to be passed before relief and succour came to them; before kind death came and took away all their sorrows and gave them rest, and sleep, and a good time. and this long period of waiting, even though the end was such brightness, felt very terrible to the lonely child. then, suddenly, words mrs jenks had said to her yesterday came into her head. "when you want food, or anything else very bad, and you don't know how to get it, then is the time to ask god for it. all you have to do is to say up your want, whatever it be, in as few, and small, and simple words as you like, and though you speaks down in your dark cellar, god will hear you up in heaven, and if 'tis any way possible he'll give you what you want." flo remembered these words of mrs jenks' now with great and sudden gladness. if ever a time of need and sore want had come to any one it had come to her now. what a good thing to have a father like god to tell it all to, what a wonderful thing that he could hear her, without her having to get up to go to him. her ideas of god were misty, very misty, she had not the least conception where heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there _was_ a god, there _was_ a heaven--a god for her, a heaven for her; and with all her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth do not know as much. now for the first time she would pray. she thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to god. no more hard to tell him of a want than it was, when her mother lived, to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her. "please, i wants fur janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore long," she said; "i wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to eat. and there is two shillings stored away in mother's old bonnet-box. janey'd buy lots of wittles wid it. she'd be glad to come, 'cause i'd pay 'er, and i'm werry faint like. you'd 'ave to fetch 'er, please, god, 'cause she's not at 'ome, but away to the paper factory--but you that is real kind won't mind that." then flo lay still and listened, and waited. she had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment. any instant janey's quick step and the sound of her crutch might be heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say that notwithstanding her employer's anger she had been fetched away by god himself, and meant to wait on flo all day. and then flo pictured how quickly she would send janey out, and how eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little hand, janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large mutton bones for scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice--for flo felt more thirsty than hungry now--for herself. for half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch janey's expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. she had never prayed before, but mrs jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an answer would come. well, she had prayed, she had spoken to god very distinctly, and told him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. he was to fetch janey to her, and no janey arrived. she had not made a hard request of him,-- she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come and give her a cup of cold water,--but the child never appeared, and flo's parched lips were still unmoistened. how strange of mrs jenks to tell her god would hear and answer prayer--not a bit of it. at least he would not hear little prayers like hers. very likely he was too busy listening to the queen's prayers, and to the great people's prayers. the great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should they not have the best of god's time too? or, perhaps--and this was a worse and darker thought--perhaps there was no god; perhaps all mrs jenks' talk of yesterday had been just a pretty fable--perhaps wicked mrs jenks had been deceiving her all the time! the more flo considered, the more did she believe this probable. after all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and never, until yesterday, have heard anything of god and heaven, very unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without knowing of these things! if there was a good time coming, was it likely that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it? slowly and reluctantly flo gave up the hope that had brightened and rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. she had no father in heaven, there was no god! great sobs broke from the poor little thing, a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two. she cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. all through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. at last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. be her agony what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard, where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. she rolled herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three feet on the damp floor. but further movement of any description was impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of her hunger; she must stay still--by no possible means could she even get back to her wretched bed. she was past all reasoning or any power of consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily suffering. every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished. in a much milder degree, it is true, scamp had also spent an uneasy day--scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. it was at its height now, as he crouched by flo's side on the floor. during the time of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large platter of broken meat; since flo had set him free neither bite nor sup had passed his lips. hungry in the morning, without doubt he was ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated "knowing," saw clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. as a rule he partook of flo's spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself. he had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and accomplished thief. he had some butchers' shops in his mind's eye now, some tempting butchers' shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with flo yesterday. from those butchers' stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. a leisurely walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize would be his. should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once more? why did he not go? why did he not at once go? why? because he had a heart,--not a human heart, which often, notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog's heart. with considerable disquietude he had watched flo all day. not for nothing had she lain so still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now. drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected, in dog-fashion, how flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that day. she too was hungry and in a worse plight than him--it was his bounden duty to provide her with food. what should he bring her? a bone? bones were delicious, but strange to say neither flo, nor dick, nor jenks ever ate them! a nice pork or mutton chop: how good they were--too good for a hungry dog to think about patiently, as he reflected that a chop, if he could get it, would be only supper, and not too large a supper, for one. no, he must give up that butcher's meat in which his spirit delighted and attack the bread shops. a loaf of bread would satisfy them both! rising to his feet, and bestowing on flo one or two looks of intense intelligence, looks which said as plainly as possible, "i have not an idea of deserting you, i am going for our supper," he started off. up the ladder with nimble steps he went, and then, by a succession of cunning dives, along the street, until he came to the butchers' stalls. here his demeanour totally changed, he no longer looked timid and cowed: the currish element very prominent when, with his tail between his legs, he had scuttled up duncan street, now had vanished; he walked along the centre of the road soberly and calmly, a meditative look in his eyes, like a dog that has just partaken of a good dinner, and is out for a constitutional: not one glance did he cast at the tempting morsels, so near and yet so far. a baker's cart turned the corner--this was what scamp wanted, and expected. he joined the cart unknown to the baker's boy, he walked demurely behind, to all appearance guarding the tempting, freshly-baked loaves. his eye was on them and yet not on them. to the passers-by he looked like a very faithful, good kind of dog, who would fasten his teeth into the leg of any one who attempted to appropriate his master's property. more than one little hungry street _gamin_, on thieving intent, wished him anything but well as he passed. the cart stopped at several doors, the bread was delivered, but still no opportunity of securing a supper for himself and flo arose. scamp's lucky star was, however, in the ascendant. at number , q--street, jerry, the baker's boy, had brought mrs simpson's little bill, and evinced to that worthy woman a very righteous desire to have it settled. mrs simpson, whose wishes differed from jerry's, thought mercy, not justice, should be exercised in the matter of bills owing _from_ herself, when owing _to_ herself the case was different. in the dispute that ensued, jerry stepped into the house. here was scamp's golden opportunity. did he lose it? not he. half a moment later he might have been seen at his old game of diving and scuttling, his tail again tucked under his legs, a hangdog look on his face, but victorious for all that, for jerry's brownest and most crusty loaf was between his teeth. woe to any one who attempted to dispossess scamp of that loaf; his blood would have been up then, and serious battle would have ensued. in safety he bore it through the perilous road, down the ladder into the cellar, and panting and delighted, looking like one who had done a good deed, which indeed he had, he laid the bread under flo's nose. the smell of the good food came sweetly to the nostrils of the starving child, it roused her from the stupor into which she had been sinking, she opened her eyes, and stretched out her hot little hand to clutch at it eagerly. the dog crouched at her side, his lips watering, his teeth aching to set themselves once more into its crisp brown crust. just then footsteps stopped in reality at the cellar door, footsteps that had no idea of going away, footsteps that meant to come right in and find out about everything. for a moment flo's heart stood still, then gave a great cry of joy, for little mrs jenks stood by her side. "who sent you?" asked the trembling child. "god sent me, little darrell," said the woman, bending over her with, oh! such a tender, loving face. "then there be a god, after all," said flo, and in her weakness and gladness she fainted away. chapter thirteen. the bed god lent to flo. yes, there was a god for flo--a god and a father. for some wise and loving reason, all of which she should know some day, he had tested her very sorely, but in her hour of extremest and darkest need he sent her great and unexpected succour, and that night flo left the gloomy and wretched cellar in duncan street, never to return to it. she was unconscious of this herself, and consequently gave the miserable place no farewell looks. from that long swoon into which she sank she awoke with reason quite gone, so was unaware of anything that happened to her. she knew nothing of that drive in the cab, her head pillowed on mrs jenks' breast; nothing of that snowy little bed in mrs jenks' room where they laid her; nothing of the kind face of the doctor as he bent over her; nothing of anything but the hard battle with fever and pain, the hard and fierce conflict with death she had got to fight. for a week the doctor and mrs jenks both thought that she must die, and during all that time she had never one gleam of reason, never one instant's interval from severe pain. at the end of that time the crisis came, as it always does, in sleep. she fell asleep one evening moaning with all the exhaustion caused by fever and suffering, but the faithful little woman who sat by her side marked how by degrees her moans grew less, then ceased; her breathing came slower, deeper, calmer. she was sleeping a refreshing, healing sleep. late that night flo awoke. very slowly her eyes, the light of consciousness once more in them, travelled round the apartment. the last thing she remembered was lying very ill and very hungry on the damp cellar floor, the dog's faithful face close to her, and a loaf of bread within reach of her starving lips. where was she now? in a pure, white, delicious bed, in a room that might have been a little room out of heaven, so lovely did it look in her eyes. perhaps she was dead and was in heaven, and god had made her lie down and go to sleep and get rested before she did anything else. well, she had not had enough sleep yet, she was dreadfully, dreadfully tired still. she turned her weary head a very little--a dog was lying on the hearth-rug; a dog with the head, and back, and eyes of scamp, and those eyes were watching her now lazily, but still intently. and seated farther away was mrs jenks, darning a boy's sock, while a boy's jacket lay on her lap. the sight of the little woman's pale face brought back further and older memories to flo, and she knew that this little room was not part of heaven, but was just mrs jenks' beautiful little earthly room. how had she got here? however had she got here from that cellar where she had lain so ill and unable to move? perhaps after eating that bread that scamp had brought her she had got much stronger, and had remembered, as in a kind of dream, her appointment with mrs jenks, and still in a dream, had got up and gone to her, and perhaps when she reached her room she had got very faint again and tired, and mrs jenks had put her into her little bed, to rest for a bit. but how long she must have stayed, and how at home scamp looked! it was night now, quite night, and mrs jenks must want to lie down in her own nice pleasant bed; tired and weak as she was, she must go away. "please, mum," she said faintly, and her voice sounded to herself thin, and weak, and miles off. in an instant the little pale woman was bending over her. "did you speak to me, darling?" "please, mum," said flo, "ef you was to 'old me werry tight fur a bit, i'll get up, mum." "not a bit of you," said mrs jenks, smiling at her, "you'll not get up to-night, nor to-morrow neither. but you're better, ain't you, dearie?" "yes, mum, but we mustn't stay no later, we must be orf, scamp and me. 'tis werry late indeed, mum." "well, so it be," said mrs jenks, "'tis near twelve o'clock, and wot you 'as got to do is not to stir, but to drink this, and then go to sleep." "ain't this yer bed, mum?" asked flo, when she had taken something very refreshing out of a china mug which mrs jenks held to her lips; "ain't this yer bed as i'm a lyin' in, mum?" "it is, and it isn't," replied mrs jenks. "it ain't just that exactly now, fur god wanted the loan of it from me, fur a few nights, fur one of his sick little ones." "and am i keepin' the little 'un out o' it, mum?" "why no, flo darrell, you can hardly be doing that, for you are the very child god wants it fur. he has given me the nursing of you for a bit, and now you have got to speak no more, but to go to sleep." flo did not sleep at once, but she asked no further questions; she lay very still, a delicious languor of body stealing over her, a sense of protection and repose wrapping her soul in an elysium of joy. there was a god after all, and this god had heard her cry. while she was lying in such deep despair, doubting him so sorely, he was busy about her, not fetching janey, who could do so little, but going for mrs jenks, who was capable, and kind, and clever. he had given mrs jenks full directions about her, had desired her to nurse and take care of her. she need have no longer any compunction in lying in that soft bed, in receiving all that tender and novel treatment. god meant her to have it--it was all right. when to-morrow, or the day after, she was quite well and rested again she would try and find out more about god, and thank him in person, if she could, for his great kindness to her, and ever after the memory of that kindness would be something to cheer and help her in her cellar-life. how much she should like to see god! she felt that god must be beautiful. before her confused and dreamy eyes the angels in their white dresses kept moving up and down, and as they moved they sang "glory, glory, glory." and flo knew they were surrounding god, and she tried to catch a glimpse of god himself through their shining wings. she was half asleep when she saw them, she was soon wholly asleep; she lay in a dreamless, unbroken slumber all night. and this was the beginning of her recovery, and of her knowledge of god. when the doctor came the next day he said she was better, but though the fever had left her, she had still very much pain to suffer. in her fall she had given her foot a most severe sprain, and though the swelling and first agony were gone, yet it often ached, without a moment's intermission, all day and all night. then her fever had turned to rheumatic, and those little thin bones would feel for many a day the long lie they had had on the damp cellar floor. but flo's soul was so happy that her body was very brave to bear this severe pain; such a flood of love and gratitude was lighting up her heart, that had the ceaseless aching been worse she would have borne it with patient smiles and unmurmuring lips. for day after day, by little and little, as she was able to bear it, mrs jenks told her what she herself called the story of god. she began with adam and eve, and explained to her what god had done for them; she described that lovely garden of eden until flo with her vivid imagination saw the whole scene; she told how the devil came and tempted eve, and how eve fell, and in her fall, dishonesty, and sin, and misery, all came into the world. and because sin was in the world--and sin could not remain unpunished--adam and eve must die, and their children must die, and all men must die. and then she further explained to the listening child how, though they were sinners, the good god still cared for them, and for their children, and for all the people that should come after them; and because he so loved the world he sent his only begotten son into the world, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. and because little mrs jenks loved god and christ with all the strength of her nature in return, she told the story of the birth of jesus, of his life, of his death, so tenderly and so solemnly, that the child wept, and only the knowledge that his sufferings were now over, that he was happy now, and that he loved her, could stay her tears. what could she give him in return? why, all he asked for, all he needed. lying there on mrs jenks' little white bed which god had lent her, she offered up to the father, to the son, and to the spirit, the love and obedience of her whole heart and life for time and for eternity. chapter fourteen. the best robe. it took flo a long time to get well, but when the autumn came, and the fierce summer heat had passed away, she began to pick up strength, to leave her little white bed, to hobble on her lame foot across the floor, to sit on the crimson hearth-rug and fondle scamp; and after pondering on the fact for many days, and communicating her feelings on the subject to the dog in mrs jenks' absence, she felt that, painful as it would be to them both, they must now once more go out into the world. they must say good-bye to this bright little room and its much-loved inmate, and face once more the old days of poverty and privation. not that they ever would be quite the old days back again. however cold she now was, however hungry she now was, she had a hope which would charm away the hunger and cold, she had a strong friend who in her hour of extreme need would come again, as he had come once, to her succour. but must they both go out into the world again? this question perplexed her very often. that scamp should love quarters where beef and mutton bones were at least _sometimes_ tasted, where his bed was warm, and his life easy, was not to be wondered at. under his present gentle treatment he was growing into quite a handsome dog, a dog that really did credit to his friends. his ribs no longer stuck out in their former ungainly manner, his coat was thick and good, his eyes bright. of course he liked the comfortable feelings which accompanied these outward signs of prosperity: still he was not the dog to desert his mistress in her need; and cheerfully, and without a murmur, would he have followed her through hunger and privation, to the world's end. but the question was not, would he go, but should she take him? had she, who could do so little for him, any right to take him? perhaps when she had him back in her cellar, that dreadful maxey would again find him, and carry him away to fight with his bull-dogs, and his life would be sacrificed to her selfishness. the desolate side of the picture, which represented herself in the cellar without scamp, she resolutely turned away from, and determined that if mrs jenks would be willing to keep her dog, she should have him. and mrs jenks loved him, and had already paid the dog-tax for him, so it was very unlikely that she would refuse his society. flo thought about this for several nights while lying, awake in bed, and for several days when mrs jenks was out, and at last one evening she spoke. "mrs jenks, ma'am, is you fond of scamp?" mrs jenks had just returned after a day's charing, and now, having washed up, and put away the tea-things, and made herself clean and comfortable, she was seated in her little arm-chair, a tiny roll of coloured calico in her lap, and a mysteriously small thimble in her hand. at flo's question she patted the dog's head, and answered gently-- "yes, dear, i loves all dumb creatures." "then, mrs jenks, may be yer'd like fur to keep scamp?" "why, my child, of course you are both on a little visit with me for the present. see, flo, i am going to teach you needlework--it is what all women should be adepts in, dear." at another time flo could not have resisted this appeal, but she was too intensely in earnest now to be put off her subject. "i means, ma'am," she said, rising to her feet and speaking steadily, "i means, ma'am, wen my little wisit is hover, and you 'as back yer bed, ma'am, as god gave me the loan of--i means then, ma'am, seeing as you loves my dawg, and you'll be kind to 'im, and hall 'ee wants is no bed, but to lie on the rug, why, that you might keep my dawg." flo's voice shook so while renouncing scamp, that the animal himself heard her, and got up and thrust his great awkward head between her hands. she had hard work to restrain her tears, but did so, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on mrs jenks. that little woman sat silent for fully a moment, now returning flo's gaze, now softly stroking scamp's back--at last she spoke. "no, flo," she said, "i won't part you and scamp--you love each other, and i think god means you to stay together. he has made you meet, and let you pass through a pretty sharp little bit of life in company, and i have no idea but that he sent you his dumb creature to be a comfort to you, and if that is so, i won't take him away. as long as you stay he shall stay, but when you go back to your cellar he shall go too." scamp, whose eyes expressed that he knew all about it, and fully believed that mrs jenks understood his character, looked satisfied, and licked her hand, but flo had still an anxious frown on her face. "ef you please, ma'am," she said, "'tis better fur me to know how much longer am i to have the loan of your bed, ma'am?" "why, flo, my dear, mrs potter, who lent me the mattress i sleeps on, sent me down word that she must have it to-morrow morning for her niece, who is coming to live with her, so i'll want my bed, flo, and 'tis too little for both of us." mrs jenks paused, but flo was quite silent. "well, dear," she said cheerfully, "we'll all three lie warm and snug to-night, and we needn't meet to-morrow's troubles half way. now come over, child, and i'll give you instruction in needlework, 'tis an hart as all women should cultivate." flo, still silent and speechless, went over and received the needle into her clumsy little fingers, and after a great many efforts, succeeded in threading it, and then she watched mrs jenks work, and went through two or three spasmodic stitches herself, and to all appearance looked a grave, diligent little girl, very much interested in her occupation. and mrs jenks chatted to her, and told her what a good trade needlework was, and for all it met so much abuse, and was thought so poor in a money-making way, yet still good, plain workers, not machinists, could always command their price, and what a tidy penny she had made by needlework in her day. and to all this flo replied in monosyllables, her head hanging, her eyes fixed on her work. at last mrs jenks gave her a needle freshly threaded, and a strip of calico, and bade her seat herself on the hearth-rug and draw her needle in and out of the calico to accustom her to its use, and she herself took up a boy's jacket, and went on unpicking and opening the seams, and letting it out about an inch in all directions. night after night she was engaged over this work, and it always interested flo immensely: for mrs jenks took such pains with it, she unpicked the seams and smoothed them out with such clever fingers, then she stitched them up again with such fine, beautiful stitching, and when that was done, she invariably ironed them over with a nice little iron, which she used for no other purpose, so that no trace of the old stitching could be seen. she had a very short time each day to devote to this work, seldom more than ten minutes, but she did it as though she delighted in it, as though it did her heart and soul good to touch that cloth, to draw those careful, beautiful stitches in and out of it. and every night, while so engaged, she told flo the story of the prodigal son. she began it this night as usual, without the little girl looking up or asking for it. "once there was a man who had two sons--they were all the children he had, and he held them very dear. one--the eldest--was a steady lad, willing to abide by his father, and be guided by him, but the other was a wild, poor fellow, and he thought the home very small and narrow, and the world a big place, and he thought he'd like a bit of fun, and to see foreign parts. "so he asked his father for all the money he could spare, and his father gave him half his living. and then the poor foolish boy set off, turning his back on all the comforts of home, and thinking now he'd see life in earnest; and when he got to the far-off lands, wild companions, thieves, and such, came round him, and between them the good bit of money his father had given him melted away, and he had not a penny to call his own. then he began to be hungry, to want sore, and no man gave to him, and no man pitied him; and then, sitting there in the far country, came back to the poor, desolate, foolish lad the thoughts of home, and the nice little house, and the father's love, and he thought if he was there again, why, he'd never be dying of hunger, for in the father's house even the servants had enough and to spare. "and he thought, why should he not go back again? and he said to himself, `i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son.' "and he got up and went back to his father. but the loving father was looking out for him, and when he saw him coming over the hill-top, he ran to meet him, and threw his arms about him; and the son said-- "`father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' "but the father said, `bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and let us make a feast and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'" night after night flo had listened to this story, always with a question at the top of her lips, but never until to-night had she courage to put it. "was the best robe, a jacket and trousers and little weskit, ma'am?" "very like," said mrs jenks, bending over a fresh seam she was beginning to unpick. "but you hasn't no lad comin' back fur that 'ere jacket, ma'am?" mrs jenks was silent for fully two minutes, her work had fallen from her hands, her soft, gentle eyes looked afar. "yes, flo dear," she said, "i have such a lad." "wot's 'is name, ma'am?" "willie," said mrs jenks, "willie's 'is name--leastways 'is home name." "and is he a comin' back any day, ma'am? is you a lookin' hout o' the winder fur 'im any day?" "no, flo, he won't come any day, he won't come fur a bit." "wen 'is best robe is ready, ma'am?" "yes; when he comes it shall be ready." "'ow soon is 'ee like to walk in, ma'am?" "i don't know exact," said mrs jenks, "but i'll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out--he's very like to turn up then." as mrs jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged flo's foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly. "god has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that i am, i was near going to sleep without yer 'aving it." "wot's the message, mum?" "the message is this, straight from god himself--`certainly i will be with thee.' do you know what that means, my child?" "i can part guess, ma'am." "ay, i dare say you can part guess, but you may as well know the whole sweet meaning of it. 'tis this, flo darrell--_wherever_ you be, god will be with you. back in your cellar, dark as it is, he'll come and keep you company. if you stay with me, why he's here too. when you go to sleep his arm is under your head; when you walk abroad, he's by your side--he's with you now, and he'll be with you for ever. when you come to die he'll be with you. you need never fear for nothing, for god will be always with you. he says `certainly,' and his certainly, is as big, and wide, and strong as eternity, flo darrell." "yes, ma'am," replied flo very softly, and then mrs jenks went and lay down on her mattress, and was presently sleeping the sweet and heavy sleep of the hard worker. but flo could not sleep--she lay awake, feeling the soft white sheets with her fingers, looking with her brown eyes all round the pretty room. how bright, and pure, and fresh it all looked, with the firelight flickering over the furniture, to the beauty-loving child. she was taking farewell of it then--she must go away to-morrow; back again to their cellar the dog and she must go--away from the sunlight of this bright little home, into the homeless darkness of their duncan street life. she had not expected it quite so soon, she had thought that god would give her a little more notice, a little longer time to prepare, before he asked her to return that comfortable bed to mrs jenks. well, the time had come for her to do it, and she must do it with a good grace, she must not show dear mrs jenks even half how sorry she was. that little woman had done so much for her, had changed and brightened her whole existence, had been specially chosen by god himself to do all this for her, to save her life. not for worlds would she look as though she expected more from mrs jenks. she must go away to-morrow, very, very thankful, and not too sad, otherwise the little woman would feel uncomfortable about her. she resolved that in the morning she would wear quite a cheerful face, and talk brightly of all people _had_ made by translating. she would walk away when the time came, as briskly as her lame foot would permit, scamp wagging his tail, and supposing he was only going for an ordinary walk, by her side. then they would reach the cellar, and janey's mother, who kept the key, would open it for them, and, perhaps janey herself would come down and listen to all flo's wonderful stories. well; these were for to-morrow, to-night she must say farewell; to-night, with eyes too sad, and heart too heavy for childish tears, she must look around at this cleanliness, this comfort, this luxury for the last time. flo was a poor child, the child of low people, but she had a refined nature, a true lady's heart beat in that little breast. all the finer instincts, all the cravings of a gentle and high spirit, were hers. pretty things were a delight to her, the sound of sweet music an ecstasy. born in another sphere, she might have been an artist, she might have been a musician, but never, under any circumstances, could she have led a common-place life. the past six weeks, notwithstanding her anxiety and sorrow about dick, had been one bright dream to her. the perfect neatness, the little rough, but no longer tattered, dress mrs jenks had made for her, the sense of repose, the lovely stories, had made the place little short of paradise to the child. and now by to-morrow night it would all be over, and the old dark life of poverty, hunger, and dirt would begin again. as flo was thinking this, and, leaning on her elbow, was looking sadly around, suddenly the verse mrs jenks had said good-night to her with darted like a ray of brightest sunshine into her soul. "certainly, i will be with thee." what a fool she was, to think janey's company necessary, to have any fear of loneliness. god would be with her. though unseen by her (she knew that much about god now), he would still be by her side. was it likely, when he was down with her in the dark cellar, that he would allow her to want, or even have things very hard for her? or suppose he did allow her to go through privations? suppose he asked her to bear a few short, dark days for him down here, he would give her a for-ever and for-ever of bright days, by and by. after a time she grew weary, and her heavy lids closed, and she went to sleep, but her face was no longer sad, it was bright with the thought of god. chapter fifteen. miss mary. the next morning flo watched mrs jenks very narrowly, wondering and hoping much that she would show some sorrow at the thought of the coming parting. a shade, even a shade, of regret on the little woman's face would have been pleasing to flo; it would have given her undoubted satisfaction to know that mrs jenks missed her, or would be likely to miss her, ever so little. but though she watched her anxiously, no trace of what she desired was visible on the bright little woman's features. she was up earlier than usual, and looked to flo rather more brisk and happy than usual. she went actively about her work, singing under her breath for fear of disturbing flo, whom she fancied was still asleep, some of the hymns she delighted in. "christ is my saviour and my friend, my brother and my love, my head, my hope, my counsellor, my advocate above," sang mrs jenks, and while she sang she dusted, and tidied, and scrubbed the little room; and as she polished the grate, and lit the small fire, and put the kettle on for breakfast, she continued-- "christ jesus is the heaven of heaven; my christ, what shall i call? christ is the first, christ is the last, my christ is all in all." no, mrs jenks was not sorry about anything, that was plain; there was a concealed triumph in her low notes which almost brought tears to the eyes of the listening child. perhaps she would have sobbed aloud, and so revealed to mrs jenks what was passing in her mind, had not that little woman done something which took off her attention, and astonished her very much. when she had completed all her usual preparations for breakfast, she took off her old working gown, and put on her best sunday-go-to-meeting dress. this surprised flo so utterly that she forgot she had been pretending to be asleep and sat up on her elbow to gaze at her. over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally a clean widow's cap, drew up the blinds and approached flo's side. "i'll just see about that poor foot now," she said, "and then, while i am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself, dearie." but poor flo could not help wondering, as mrs jenks in her brisk clever way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion, who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion to put. she longed to find courage to ask mrs jenks to allow her to take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was finished her foot would be well. and flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. she remembered only too vividly what hard times janey, even with a father and mother living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find courage to ask for the lotion, and mrs jenks, after using a sufficient quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away. "there's an improvement here," said the little woman, touching the injured ankle. "there's more nerve, and strength, and firmness. you'll be able to walk to-day." "i'll try, ma'am," said flo. "so you shall, and you can lean on me--i'll bear your weight. now get up, dearie." as flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. it was very evident from mrs jenks' words, that she intended going with her to her cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home. to do this she must give up her day's charing, so flo knew that her going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought, as i have said, comforted her greatly. she dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and repeating "our father" quite through very softly under her breath, the three--the woman, child, and dog--sat down to breakfast. it would be absurd to speak of it in any other way. in that household scamp ate with the others, he drew up as gravely to every meal as mrs jenks did herself. his eyes were on a level with the table, and he looked so at home, so assured of his right to be there, and withal so anxious and expectant, and he had such a funny way of cocking his ears when a piece of nice fried herring was likely to go his way, that he was a constant source of mirth? and pleasure to the human beings with whom he resided. mrs jenks was one of the most frugal little women in the world; never a crumb was wasted in her little home, but she always managed to have something savoury for every meal, and the savoury things she bought were rendered more so by her judicious cooking. her red herrings, for instance, just because she knew where to buy them, and how to dress them, did not taste at all like poor flo's red herrings, cooked against the bars, and eaten with her fingers in the duncan street cellar. so it was with all her food; it was very plain, very inexpensive, but of its kind it was the best, and was so nicely served that appetites far more fastidious than flo's would have enjoyed it. on this morning, however, the three divided their herring and sipped their tea (scamp had evinced quite a liking for tea) in silence, and when it was over, and flo was wondering how soon she could break the ice and ask mrs jenks _when_ she meant to take her to duncan street, she was startled by the little woman saying to her in her briskest and brightest tones-- "i wonder, child, whether i'd best trim up that old bonnet of your mother's for you to wear, or will you go with yer little head exposed to the sun? "the bonnet's very old, that's certain, but then 'tis something of a protection, and the sun's 'ot." "please, ma'am," said flo, "i can walk werry well wid my head bare; but ef you doesn't mind i'd like to carry 'ome the bonnet, fur it was mother's sunday best, it wor." "lor, child, you're not going home yet awhile, you've got to go and pay a visit with me. here, show me the bonnet--i'll put a piece of decent brown upon it, and mend it up." which mrs jenks did, and with her neat, capable fingers transformed it into by no means so grotesque-looking an object. then when it was tied on flo's head they set off. "a lady wishes to see you, flo, and she wishes to see scamp too," explained mrs jenks; and calling the dog, they went slowly out of the court. flo had very little time for wonder, for the lady in question lived but a few doors away, and notwithstanding her slow and painful walking she got to her house in a very few moments. it was a tiny house, quite a scrap of a house to be found in any part of the middle of london--a house back from its neighbours, with little gothic windows, and a great tree sheltering it. how it came to pass that no railway company, or improvement company, or company of something else, had not pounced upon it and pulled it down years ago remained a marvel; however, there it stood, and to its hall door walked mrs jenks, flo, and scamp, now. the door was opened by a neat little parlour-maid, who grinned from ear to ear at sight of mrs jenks. "is your mistress at home, annie?" "that she is, ma'am, and looking out for you. you're all to come right in, she says--the dog and all." so flo found herself in a pretty hall, bright with indian matting, and some fresh ferns towering up high in a great stone jar of water. "we was in the country yesterday, ma'am, miss mary and me, and have brought back flowers, and them 'igh green things enough to fill a house with 'em," explained the little handmaid as she trotted on in front, down one flight of stairs and up another, until she conducted them into a long low room, rendered cool and summery by the shade of the great tree outside. this room to-day was, as annie the servant expressed it, like a flower garden. hydrangeas, roses, carnations, wild flowers, ferns, stood on every pedestal, filled twenty, thirty vases, some of rarest china, some of commonest delf, but cunningly hid now by all kinds of delicate foliage. it was a strange little house for the midst of the city, a strange little bower of a room, cool, sweet-scented, carrying those who knew the country miles away into its shadiest depths--a room furnished with antique old carvings and odd little black-legged spindle chairs. on one of the walls hung a solitary picture, a water-colour framed without margin, in a broad gilt frame. a masterpiece of art it was--of art, i say? something far beyond art-- genius. it made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore. those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy days when they were young. it was a picture of waves--waves dancing and in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight glancing on their tops. no other life in the picture, neither ship nor bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed. the effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that flo and mrs jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories, and went and stood under the picture. "ah! there's the sea," said mrs jenks with a great sigh, and a passing cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face. "the sea shall give up her dead," said a young voice by her side, and turning quickly, flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. was she old? the hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. was she young? her voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of generous youth. she might be thirty--forty--fifty--any age. she had a story--who hasn't? she had met with sorrow--who hasn't? but she had conquered and risen above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. she was a brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out at you from under their straight black brows, declared. long afterwards she told flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history. "god took away from me all, child--father--mother--lover--home. he made me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel what it was like: but when i had tasted the full bitterness, he came and filled me with himself--brim full of himself. then i had my mission from him. go feed my sheep--go feed my lambs. is it not enough?" "you like my picture, mrs jenks," she said now, "and so does the child," touching flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers. "come into this room and i will show you another--there." she led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree, but by venetian blinds. over the mantel-piece was another solitary picture--again a water-colour. some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background-- over all the evening sky. "that picture," said the lady, "is called `repose,'--to me it is repose with stagnation; i like my waves better." "and yet, miss mary," replied the widow, "how restful and trustful the dumb creatures look! i think they read us a lesson." "so they do, mrs jenks; all his works read us a lesson--but come back to my waves, i want their breezes on my face, the day is stifling." she led the way back into the first room, and seated herself on a low chair. "this is your little girl, and this the dog--scamp, you call him. why did you give him so outlandish a name? he does not deserve it, he is a good faithful dog, there is nothing scampish about him, i see that in his face." "yes, ma'am, he's as decent conducted and faithful a cretur as ever walked. wot scamp he is, is only name deep, not natur deep." "well, that is right--what's in a name? come here, scamp, poor fellow, and you, little flo, you come also; i have a great deal to say to you and your dog." the child and the dog went up and stood close to the kind face. miss mary put her arm round flo, and laid one shapely white hand on scamp's forehead. "so god has taken away your little bed," she said to the child, "and you don't know where to sleep to-night." "oh! yes, mum, i does," said flo in a cheerful voice, for she did not wish mrs jenks to think she missed her bed very much. "scamp and me, we 'as a mattress in hour cellar." miss mary smiled. "now, flo," she said, "i really don't wish to disappoint you, but i greatly fear you are mistaken. you may have a mattress, but you have no mattress in number , duncan street, for that cellar, as well as every other cellar in the street, has been shut up by the police three weeks ago. they are none of them fit places for human beings to live in." if miss mary, sitting there in her summer muslin, surrounded by every comfort, thought that flo would rejoice in the fact that these places, unfit for any of god's creatures, were shut up, she was vastly mistaken. dark and wretched hole of a place as number , duncan street, was, it was there her mother had died, it was there she and dick had played, and struggled, and been honest, and happy. poor miserable shred of a home, it was the only home she had ever possessed the only place she had a right to call her own. now that it was gone, the streets or the adelphi arches stared her in the face. veritable tears came to her eyes, and in her excitement and distress, she forgot her awe of the first lady who had ever spoken to her. "please, mum, ef the cellar is shut up, wot 'ave come of my little bits o' duds, my mattress, and table, and little cobbler's stool?--that little stool wor worth sixpence any day, it stood so steady on its legs. wot 'ave come o' them, mum, and wot's to come o' scamp and me, mum?" "ah!" said the lady more kindly than ever, "that is the important question, what is to become of you and scamp? well, my dear, god has a nice little plan all ready for you both, and what you have to do is to say yes to it." "and i 'ave brought you here to learn all about it, flo," said mrs jenks, nodding and smiling at her. then miss mary made the child seat herself on a low stool by her side, and unfolded to her a wonderful revelation. she, flo, was no stranger to this lady. mrs jenks once a week worked as char-woman in this house, and had long ago told its mistress of her little charge; and miss mary was charmed and interested, and wanted to buy scamp, only mrs jenks declared that that would break flo's heart. so instead she had contributed something every week to the keep of the two. now she wished to do something more. miss mary graham was not rich, and long ago every penny of her spare money had been appropriated in various charitable ways, but about a fortnight ago a singular thing had happened to her. she received through the post a cheque for a small sum with these words inside the envelope-- "_to be spent on the first little homeless london child you care to devote it to_." the gift, sent anonymously, seemed to point directly to flo, and miss graham resolved that she should reap the benefit. her plan for her was this,--she and scamp were to live with mrs jenks for at least a year, and during that time mrs jenks was to instruct flo in reading and writing, in fine sewing, and in all the mysteries of household work and cooking, and when flo was old enough and strong enough, and if she turned out what they earnestly trusted she would turn out, she was to come to miss mary as her little servant, for miss mary expected that in a year or two annie would be married and have a home of her own. "does this plan suit you, flo? are you willing when the time comes to try to be a faithful little servant to any master or mistress you may be with?" whatever flo's feelings may have been, her answer was a softly, a very softly spoken-- "yes, ma'am." "do you know how you are to learn?" "no, ma'am; but mrs jenks, she knows." "mrs jenks knows certainly, and so may you. you must be god's little servant first--you must begin by being god's little servant to-day, and then when the time comes you will be a good and faithful servant to whoever you are with." "yes, ma'am," answered flo, a look of reverence, of love, of wonder at the care god was taking of her, stealing over her downcast face. miss mary saw the look, and rose from her seat well satisfied, she had found the child her heavenly father meant her to serve. "but please, mum," said flo, "does yer know about dick?" "yes, my dear, i know all about your little brother. mrs jenks has told me dick's story as well as yours. and i know this much, which perhaps you may not know; his stealing was a bad thing, but his being taken up and sent, not to prison, but to the good reformatory school where he now is, was the best thing that could happen to him. i have been over that school, flo, and i know that the boys in it are treated well, and are happy. they are taught a trade, and are given a fair start in life. "many a boy such as dick owes his salvation to the school he now is in. "by the way, did you notice annie, my little servant?" "yes, ma'am," and a smile came to flo's face at the remembrance of the bright, pleasant-looking handmaiden. "she has given me leave to tell you something, flo; something of her own history. "once my dear, faithful annie was a little london thief--a notorious little london thief. she knew of no god, she knew of nothing good--she was not even as fortunate as you and dick were, for she had no mother to keep her right. when not quite ten years old she was concerned in a daring city robbery--she was taken up--convicted--and at last sentenced, first for a month to wandsworth house of correction, afterwards for four years to the girls' reformatory school at that place. "she has often told me what happened to her on the day she arrived at this school. she went there hating every one, determined never to change her ways, to remain for ever hardened and wicked. "the matron called her aside and spoke to her thus: "`i know what is said of you, but i do not believe half of it--_i am going to trust you_. "`here is a five-pound note; take this note to such a shop, and bring me back four sovereigns in gold, and one in silver.' "that noble trust saved the girl. at that moment, as she herself said, all inclination for thieving utterly left her. [a fact.] from that day to this she has never touched a farthing that is not strictly her own. you see what she is now in appearance; when you know her better, you will see what she is in character--a true christian--a noble woman. all the nobler for having met and conquered temptation." miss mary paused, then added softly, "what she has become, dick may become." when mrs jenks, and flo, and scamp came home that morning, flo, who after all that had happened felt sure that nothing ever _could_ surprise her again, still could not help, when she entered the neat little room-- her _real_ home now--starting back and folding her hands in mute astonishment. the rough-looking, untidy mattress was gone, and in its place stood a tiny, bright-looking iron bedstead, on which the smallest of snowy beds was made up. over the bedstead, pinned against the wall, was a card with these words printed on it-- "god's gift to flo." chapter sixteen. bright days. and now began a happy time in a hitherto very dark little life. all her cares, her anxieties for dick even, swept away, flo had stept into a state of existence that to her was one of luxury. the effect on many a nature, after the first burst of thankfulness was over, would have been a hardening one. the bright sunshine of prosperity, without any of the rain of affliction, would have dried up the fair soil, withered, and caused to die, the good seed. but on flo the effect was different; she never forgot one thing, and this memory kept all else straight within her. in counting up her mercies, she never forgot that it was god who gave them to her; and in return she gave him, not love as a duty, but love rising free and spontaneous out of a warm, strong heart. and he whom she loved she longed to hear more of, and mrs jenks, whose love for god and faith in god was as great as her own, loved to tell her of him. so these two, in their simple, unlearned way, held converse often together on things that the men of this world so seldom allude to, and doubtless they learned more about god than the men of this world, with all their talents and cultivated tastes, ever attain to. it was mrs jenks' simple plan to take all that the bible said in its literal and exact meaning, and flo and she particularly delighted in its descriptions (not imagery to them) of heaven. and when mrs jenks read to flo out of the st and nd chapters of the revelation, the child would raise her clear brown eyes to the autumn sky, and see with that inner sense, so strong in natures like hers, the gates of pearl and golden streets. god lived there--and many people who once were sad and sorrowful in this world, lived there--and it was the lovely happy home where she hoped she and dick should also live some day. "and you too, mrs jenks, and that poor lad of yours," she would say, laying her head caressingly on the little woman's knee. but mrs jenks rather wondered why flo never mentioned now that other jenks, her namesake, who was wearing out his slow nine months' imprisonment in the wandsworth house of correction. once flo had been very fond of him, and his name was on her lips twenty times a day, now she never spoke of him. why was this? had she forgotten jenks? hardly likely. she was such a tender, affectionate little thing, interested even in that poor prodigal lad, whose best robe would soon be as ready, and as bright, and fresh, and new, as mrs jenks' fingers could make it. no, flo had not forgotten jenks, but she had found out a secret. without any one telling her, she had guessed _who_ the lad was who was expected back in the spring; who that jacket, and trousers, and vest were getting ready for. a certain likeness in the eyes, a certain play of the lips, had connected poor jenks in prison with mrs jenks in this bright, home-like, little room. she knew they were mother and son, but as mrs jenks had not mentioned it herself, she would never pretend that she had discovered her secret. but flo had one little fear--she was not quite sure that jenks _would_ come home. she knew nothing of his previous history, but in her own intercourse with him she had learned enough of his character to feel sure that the love for thieving was far more deeply engrafted into his heart than his gentle, trusting little mother had any idea of. when he was released from prison, bad companions would get round him, and he would join again in their evil ways. he could not now harm dick, who was safe at that good school for two or three years, but in their turn others might harm him, and the jacket and trousers might lie by unused, and the crocuses and snowdrops wither, and still jenks might not come. he might only join in more crime, and go back again to prison, and in the end break his mother's gentle, trusting heart. now flo wondered could _she_ do anything to bring the prodigal home. she thought of this a great deal; she lay in her little white bed, the bed god had given her, and told god about it, and after a time a plan came into her head. three times a week she went to miss mary's pleasant house to be taught knitting by annie, and reading and writing by that lady herself, and on one of these occasions she unfolded her idea to this kind listener, and between them they agreed that it should be carried out. chapter seventeen. two locks of hair. it was sunday morning at wandsworth house of correction--a fair, late autumnal morning. the trees had on their bright, many-coloured tints, the sky above was flecked with soft, greyish-white clouds, and tender with the loveliest blue. the summer heat was over, but the summer fragrance still dwelt in the air; the summer beauty, subdued, but perhaps more lovely than when in its prime, still lingered on the fair landscape of wandsworth common. in the prison the walls were gleaming snowy white, but so they gleamed when the frost and snow sparkled a little whiter outside, when the hot breath of fiercest summer seemed to weigh down the air. the symbols of the four seasons--the leafless trees, the tender, pale green trees, the drooping, heavily-laden, sheltering trees, the trees clothed in purple and gold--were unknown to those within the house of correction. the prisoners saw no trees from the high windows of their cells. when they walked out in that walled-in enclosure, each prisoner treading in those dreary circles five feet apart from his fellow, they saw a little withered grass, and a little sky, blue, grey, or cloudy, but no trees. the trees are only for the free, not for men and women shut in for the punishment of their crimes. so the seasons are felt in the temperature, but unknown to the sense of sight. on this particular sunday morning a warder might have been seen pacing slowly down the dismal corridor which divides the dark and light punishment cells. he was whistling a low tune under his breath, and thinking how by and by he should be off duty, and could enjoy his sunday dinner and go for a walk across the common with his wife and the child. he thought of his sunday treat a great deal, as was but natural, and just a little of the prisoners, whom he apostrophised as "poor brutes." not that he felt unkindly towards them--very far from that; he was, as the world goes, a humane man, but it was incomprehensible to him how men and boys, when they _were_ confined in wandsworth, did not submit to the rules of the place, and make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, instead of defying everything, and getting themselves shut up in those dreary dark cells. "and this willan 'ave been in fur four days and nights now," he soliloquised, as he stopped at the door of one. "well, i'm real glad 'is punishment is hover, though 'ee's as 'ardened a young chap as hever see daylight." he unlocked the double doors, which, when shut, not only excluded all sound, but every ray of light, and went in. a lad was cowering up in one corner of the wooden bedstead--a lad with a blanched face, and eyes glowing like two coals. the warder went over and laid his hand on his shoulder--he started at the touch, and shivered from head to foot with either rage or fear. "now then, g. . ," in a kindly voice, "your punishment's hover for _this_ time, and i 'opes you'll hact more sensible in future--you may get back to your cell." the lad staggered blindly to his feet, and the warder, catching hold of him, arranged his mask--a piece of dark grey cloth, having eyelet holes, and a tiny bit of alpaca inserted for the mouth--over his face. on the back of his jacket were painted in white letters two inches long, h.c.w.s., which initials stood for house of correction, wandsworth, surrey. staying his staggering steps with his strong arm, the warder conducted him back to his cell, into which he locked him. then the boy, with a great groan, or sigh of relief, threw up his mask, and looked about the little room. he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and his sunday breakfast, consisting of a pint of oatmeal gruel and six ounces of bread, stood ready for his acceptance, and by the side of the bread was--what? something that made him forget his great bodily hunger, and start forward with a ray of joy breaking all over his sullen face. this was what he saw. a letter was here--a letter ready for him to open. he had heard that once in three months the wandsworth prisoners were allowed to write and receive letters. this rule he had heard with indifference--in all his life he had never had a letter--what matter was it to him whoever else got them. he knew how to read and write. long ago, when a little lad, he had learned these accomplishments--he could also decipher the writing of other people, and spelt his own name now on the little oblong packet which had found its way into his cell. yes, it was a _bona fide_ letter, it had a stamp on it, and the london post-mark. it was a _bona fide_ letter, and his letter also--a letter directed to him. he gazed at it for a moment or two, then took it up and handled it carefully, and turned it round, and examined the back of it, and held it up to the light--then he put it down, and took a turn the length of his cell. unless we are quite dunned by creditors, and mean never to open anything that is sent to us by the post, we have a kind of interest in that sharp double knock, and a kind of pleasure in opening our various epistles. however many we get, our pulses _do_ beat just a quarter of a shade quicker as we unfasten the envelope. there is never any saying what news the contents may announce to us; perhaps a fortune, an advantageous proposal, the birth of a new relation, the death of an old friend, that appointment we never thought to have obtained, that prize we never hoped to have won: or perhaps, the loss of that prize, the filling up by another man of that appointment. a letter may bring us any possible or impossible news, therefore at all times these little missives, with the queen's head on them, are interesting. but what if we are in prison, if we have just been confined for days and nights in the dark cell, fed on bread and water, sentenced to the horrors and silence of the tomb; if bad thoughts, and hardening thoughts, and maddening thoughts, if satan and his evil spirits, have been bearing us company? what, if we are only addressed when spoken to at all as a number, and our human name, our christian name, is never pronounced to us; and what if we have been going through this silent punishment, this unendurable confinement, for months, and we feel that it is right and just we should be so punished, right and just that all men should forsake us, and pass us by, and forget us--and all the time, though we know that justice is dealing with us, and we ought neither to cry out nor to complain, we know and feel also, that seven devils are entering into us, and our last state will be worse, far worse than our first? and then, when we come back from the darkness, and feel again the blessed light of day, and the pure breeze of nature--coming in through the open window of our cell--is fanning our face, and though our spirit is still burning with mad and rebellious passions, our body is grateful for the relief of god's own gifts of light and air, then we, who never before, never in our happiest days, received even a halfpenny wrapper's worth through the post, see a letter--our first letter--pure, and thick, and white, awaiting us--a little dainty parcel bearing our baptismal name, and the name, unspotted by any crime, which our father bequeathed to us, lying ready for our acceptance? jenks had returned to his cell after all this severe punishment as hardened and bad a lad as ever walked--sullen, disobedient, defiant. the kind of boy whom chaplains, however tender-hearted, and however skilful in their modes of dealing with other men and boys, would regard as hopeless, as past any chance of reform. he gazed at the letter, so unexpected, so welcome. at first he was excited, agitated, then he grew calm, a look of satisfaction changed utterly the whole expression of his face. somebody in that great, wide, outer world had not forgotten him. he sat down and ate his breakfast with appetite and relish; he could enjoy things again; he was still william jenks to somebody--the boy felt human once more. but he would not open his letter at once--not he. no irreverent fingers, no hasty fingers, should tear that precious envelope asunder. when a man only gets a letter after three months of absolute silence he is never over-hasty in perusing its contents. the sweets of anticipation are very good, and must not be too quickly got over, and when a letter is once opened its great charm is more or less gone. but the first letter of all, the first letter received in one's entire life, and received in prison, must be made a very long pleasure indeed. jenks had hitherto found sunday at wandsworth the most unendurable day of the seven: the slow hours seemed really leaden-weighted. on other days he had his oakum to pick, his routine of labour to get through--on this day, with the exception of chapel and meals, he had nothing whatever wherewith to wile away the long hours. true, the chaplain supplied him with books, but jenks could not read well enough to take pleasure in reading for its own sake, and never was there a nature less studiously inclined than his. so on sunday he thought his darkest thoughts, and hatched his worst plots for the future, and prepared himself for the week of rebellion and punishment which invariably ensued. but, on this sunday all would be different, his letter would give him employment and satisfaction for many hours. he grudged the time he must spend in chapel, he wanted the whole day to hold his little missive, to gaze at the cover, to put it up to the light, to spell out the beloved direction, after a time to spell out the contents. first of all he must guess who sent it. if it took him two hours, three hours, he must guess from whom it came. who could have written to him? he was popular in his way--he had too bright a manner, too merry a face, not to be that. he had a good many acquaintances, and friends and chums, lads who, with all their thieving propensities and ruffianly ways, would have shared their last crust with him, and one and all voted him a jolly good fellow. but not one of these would write to him; he passed them over in silent contempt, at the bare possibility of their being either able or willing to write to him. jim stokes, or bob allen, or any of those other fine daring young fellows, send him a letter! send him too a letter looking like this, or directed like this! why, _this_ letter had a more genteel appearance than long ago the letters his sailor father had sent to his mother had worn. was it likely that either jim or bob, or any of the companions of jim or bob, those ignorant lads who could hardly sign their names, would send him a letter like this? had they wished it ever so much, the thing was impossible. could it be from dick? well, that was certainly an unlikely guess. dick, who was also in prison, able to write to another boy? he passed this thought by with a little laugh of derision. his next idea was flo. he had been really in his own rough fashion fond of flo, he had liked her pretty little face, and enjoyed in his flush and successful days bringing home dainties for her to cook for all their suppers. in spite of himself he had a respect for flo, and though he might have loved her better if she had been willing to learn his trade, and help him in his thieving, yet the pluck she showed in keeping honest, roused a certain undefined respect within him. but of all the ignorant children he ever met, he often said to himself that flo was the most ignorant. why she knew nothing of the world, nothing whatever. how he had laughed at her ideas of earls and dukes and marquises--at her absurd supposition that she could be the queen. was there ever before in the records of man, a london child so outrageously ignorant as this same little flo? _she_ write him a letter! she had probably never heard of a letter. besides, even if she could write, would she? what were her feelings to jenks now, that she should show him so great a kindness? he had broken his word to her, he had converted her brother, her much-loved, bright little brother, into a thief. by means of him he had tasted prison discipline, and was branded with a dishonest stain for ever. he remembered the reproach in her eyes when she stood in the witnesses' box, and gave those funny little reluctant answers about him and dick. even there too she had shown her ignorance, and proclaimed to the whole police-court that she was the greatest little simpleton that ever walked. no, be she where she might now, poor child, it was his wildest guess of all to suppose that she could write to him. _who_ wrote the letter? there was no one else left for him to guess, unless! but here his breath came quick and fast, the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, he caught up the letter and gazed at it, a white fear stealing over him. no, thank god! he flung it down again with a gesture of intense relief--that was not _her_ writing. she knew how to write, but not like that. she had not written to him. no, thank god!--he murmured this again fervently,--things were bad with him, but they had not come to such a dreadful pass as that. _she_ thought him dead, drowned, come to a violent end; anyhow, done with this present life--she did _not_ know that he, his honest, brave father's only son, had stood in the prisoner's dock, had slept in the dark cell, had worn the prisoner's dress, with its mask, and distinguishing brand! the chapel-bell rang; he started up, thrust his precious unopened letter into his pocket, adjusted his, mask, and walked with his fellow-prisoners in silent, grim, unbroken order into chapel. had any one looked beneath the mask, they would have seen, for the first time since perhaps his entrance into that prison, that the old sullen expression had left his face, that it wore a look of interest and satisfaction. he hugged his letter very close to his breast, and edged himself into the queer little nook allotted to him, from which he could just see the chaplain, and no one else. as a rule he either went to sleep in chapel, or made faces at the chaplain, or fired pellets of bread, which he kept concealed about him, at the other prisoners. on one occasion the spirit of all evil so far possessed him, that one of these, as hard as any shot, came with a resounding report on the mild nose of the then officiating chaplain, as he was fumbling for a loose sheet of his sermon, and nobody discovered that he was the offender. how often he had chuckled over this trick, over the discomfiture of the rev gentleman, and the red bump which immediately arose on his most prominent feature; how often, how very often, he had longed to do it again. but to-day he had none of this feeling: if he had a thousand bread pellets ready, they might have lain quite harmless in his pocket. he was restless, however, and longed to get back to his cell, not to open his letter, he did not mean to do that until quite the evening, but to hold it in his hand, and turn it round and gaze at it; he was restless, and wished the hour and a quarter usually spent in chapel was over, and he looked around him and longed much to find somebody or something to occupy his attention, for jenks never dreamed of joining in the prayers, or listening to the lessons. the prison chapel is not constructed to enable the prisoners to gaze about them, and as the only individual jenks could see was the chaplain, he fixed his eyes on him. he did this with a little return of his old sullenness, for though he was a good man, and even jenks admitted this, he was so tired of him. he had seen him so very, very often, in his cell and at chapel. after spending his life amid the myriad faces of london, jenks had found the months, during which he had never gazed on any human countenance but that of his warder, the governor, chaplain, and doctor, interminably long. he was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. but of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. but to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew--so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. he did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day--a stranger was in the chaplain's place, he had a fresh face to study. he had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a london crowd must have occupied his attention. a man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him. jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his--jenks'--throat with those great muscular hands. suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. the strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him. the new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated "our father" beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. then old habits overcame him--he fell asleep. he was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him--awoke him thoroughly. he started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text. this was the text: "and he said, who art thou, lord? and the lord said, i am jesus, whom thou persecutest." the stranger's voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men. he looked round at them, and then he gave it to them. in that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of god's wrath. not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs--drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving--as the bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly. when he said this--without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home--he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would. they were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. the murderer's last night in his cell--the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him--the lost woman dying out in the snow. then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone. with infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them. their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when god arose to execute vengeance. on every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. it was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison. then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable. "_i am jesus, whom thou persecutest_." did they know that? then let them hear it now. every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame. _it was jesus of nazareth whom they persecuted_. would god allow such love as his son's love to be trampled on and used slightingly? no, surely. he had borne too long with them; vengeance was his, and he would repay. when the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness. he had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. for every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of god. jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. _still loved them_! why, his heart was yearning over them, his pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. they were not too bad for jesus--not a bit of it. for such as them he died, for such as them he pleaded with his father. if they came to him--and nothing was easier, for he was always looking out for them--he would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in his blood, and make them ready for heaven. and while on earth he would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides himself up the steep paths of virtue. such as they too wicked for heaven? no, thank god. jesus himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of god! there was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. the prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. no human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. they were quieter than usual, that was all. as for jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. his face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. but the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone. _that parson_ had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be--had gone down, and found that same heart still there--nearly dead, it is true, but still there--and probed it to the quick. he sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think. old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy--pure scenes and holy memories. once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. how far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal's life! hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. he had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events. they were coming now, and he could not keep them off. o god! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him! though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother's kiss. he wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid. for the last year and more jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. he called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. the daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition. his prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. he quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. he would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken--oh no. he, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom. it was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! _he_ would not be down on his luck like that! he would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money. this was his plan--all for the present life. he had never given the other life a thought. but now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate--the wrath of god. some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before god; and god would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. and his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and god would pass sentence on him--he could not escape. he had crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame! jenks was not ignorant, like flo and dick, he knew of these things. the thought in his mind became intolerable. he paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his sunday dinner. when it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. but it did not. try as he might, it did not. he endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. he thought of flo, and he thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. but, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter. it was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. his fingers trembled, he did not know why. he threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. this time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. they dropped from jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. he gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. a soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter. "jenks,-- "i thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werry cherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. she 'av them let hout hal rond, and they'l fit yo fine. she livs in the old place--wery butiful it his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livd yer hever sins yo and dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo jenks, wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen the singin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kut orf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and jenks, i wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but no words, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel-- "flo. "miss mary, she put in the stops." "_i am jesus of nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_." this latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. he snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses. his mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him. she knew he was a thief, and she loved him. how he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! her only son, and she a widow, dead! far better--far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief! he recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. he had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his god, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. and with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. and for a time jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. but then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways. his mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. he was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils. one evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. he had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. on his way home he saw a policeman dodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. the boy's heart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. he managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. he reached it, and lay down on his bed. there was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother's. in that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. this letter brought the account of his father's death--he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. his last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter. "tell wife, that willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before i went away to keep a faithful and good lad." the boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two. but when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. his mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. for this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. and his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways. but now she did know, the letter said she did know. what suffering she must have gone through i what agony and shame! he writhed at the thought. then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him-- she knew, and yet she loved him. she was preparing for his return, getting ready for him. now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! would she do this, and would he go with her? "_i am jesus whom thou persecutest_." back again came the sermon and its text to his memory. "every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute jesus," said the preacher. jenks had known about jesus, but hitherto he had thought of him simply as an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down his life for him, and yet whom he persecuted. if he went on being a thief he would persecute jesus--_that_ was plain. and little flo had said in her letter that god loved him, god and jesus loved him. why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and god loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, _perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? and when it all was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel his guilty soul dragged before god to receive the full vials of the wrath of him whom he had persecuted. he was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips. chapter eighteen. god calls his little servant. at last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. they were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in mrs jenks' box along with her sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet. flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. she was quite as sure now as mrs jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the god who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for jenks also. about this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, _never_ would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, flo would pay him a little visit! when this letter was shown to miss mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only flo, but miss mary herself, and the widow, and scamp, and perhaps the widow's lad, should pay dick a visit. and flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy. her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. she could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that mrs jenks taught her; and miss mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when annie was married; and flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be god's servant first. yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her heavenly father felt he could do better for her--anyhow the end came. it came in this way. since flo arrived and mrs jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad's return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen. the secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond glenfield's starch, or anybody else's starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. mrs jenks made this starch herself, and through miss mary's aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for willie when he came home--money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by. but there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in whitechapel road. mrs jenks used to buy it of a little old jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house. no londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis. on one of these days in february, mrs jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. flo sat at one side of her and scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. she had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her. here was a state of affairs! she wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings' worth thrown away. then flo came to the rescue. if mrs jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she--flo--would start off at once to whitechapel road, and be back with the necessary powder before mrs jenks was ready for it. the widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head--the child was delicate, and the day--why, even the 'buses were hardly going--it could not be! but here flo overruled her. she reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. as to the 'buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with scamp. accordingly, leading scamp by his collar and chain, which miss mary had given him, she set off. mrs jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak--another gift of miss mary's--and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow--and how scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart. she did not know--god help her--she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back. the snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, "what fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside," but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to whitechapel road. they had gone a good way, when suddenly flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the jew's shop. it led through one of the most villainous streets in london, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags. she had gone through this street before--she would try it again to-day! she plunged in boldly. how familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place,--she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother,-- but the style of this place. the bird-fanciers' shops, the rags-and-bones' shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. she looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her. she resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her father in heaven. she resolved that she, too, as well as miss mary, would be a sister of the poor. she was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice. "i'm starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in god's name." flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. a few months ago flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. besides the five shillings mrs jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear miss mary's birthday, but doubtless god meant her to give it to the starving child. she pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl. "god bless yer, missy," she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. they had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps. flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for mrs jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground. the place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. in that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. the wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. one secured the dog, while another divested flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. a third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption. an unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for flo's relief. this friend was the dog, scamp. we can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since flo turned into this bad street scamp--as the vulgar saying has it--smelt a rat. perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with maxey--be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken flo's movements. but when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact--a bare and dreadful fact--the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger. as he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing saint bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man's hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. in an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man's companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal's brains on the spot. he sank down without even a sigh at flo's feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone. the little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog's wounds and lay on the child's upturned face. just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. he tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child's body. the firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view. these men, after examining flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the london hospital, and one, at parting, gave scamp a kick. "dead! poor brute!" he said, and so they left him. they left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him. thus god himself made a shroud for his poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of scamp. chapter nineteen. queen victoria and flo. flo was carried into the buxton ward for children. they laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her. here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her--she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries. late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back. consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew 'ee'd give 'is life fur 'er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home. they asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in mrs jenks' room. the next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, mrs jenks, all trembling and crying, and miss mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it. she looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again. "i don't know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures," said little mrs jenks, "but ef i was you, i'd leave it to god, dearie." "yes," answered flo, "i leaves heverythink to god." and when miss mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant. she was going to the place where _his servants shall serve him_. yes, flo was going to god. the doctors knew it--the nurses knew it--she could not recover. what a bright lot for the little tired out london child! no more weary tasks-- no more dark days--no more hunger and cold. her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her--god, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. he loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in his presence. but though flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why mrs jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. she was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that god had lent her--what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. there was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well. in the pleasant buxton ward were at this time a great many little children, and as flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to god about them. there was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot. such a baby as it was! such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin! the child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby's throat? its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person's fingers--and its face! oh! that any of god's human creatures should wear the face of that baby! it was an old man's face, but no man ever looked so old--it was a monkey's face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. all the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin. it was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. [the writer saw exactly such a baby at the evelina hospital a short time ago.] the nurses and doctors said it might recover, but flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to god. "doesn't you think that it 'ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the gold streets?" she said to god, every time she looked at it. and then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever--and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby. perhaps she does take care of the baby, up there! one day great news came to the london hospital--great news, and great excitement. it was going to be highly honoured. her gracious majesty the queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called the grocers company's wing. she was coming in a few days, coming to visit her east-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great hospital. flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement--they had only a short time to prepare--should they ever be ready to receive the queen?--what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance. flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word queen--queen--struck on her half dull ear. what were they saying about the queen? who was the queen? had she ever seen the queen? then like a flash it all came back to her--that hot afternoon last summer--her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, jenks, and dick had taken to buckingham palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the life guards! then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture--the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. the remembrance of the glance the queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl's memory. she had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things god had given her. long ago, before she knew of god, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living. a thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. how _much_ she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well. trembling and eager, she started up in bed. "please is the queen coming?" the sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. she was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face. "yes, dear," she said, "the queen is coming to see the hospital." "and shall i see the queen?" "we are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her." "oh!" said flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, "ef i sees the queen i shall get well." the sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. she knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified. the next day, as mrs jenks was going away, flo whispered to her-- "ef you please, ma'am, i'd like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you 'ave in yer box at 'ome." "what do you want it for, dearie?" "oh! to tie hup my 'air with. i wants fur to look nice fur the queen. the queen is comin' to pay me a wisit, and then i'll get well." "but, my child, the queen cannot make you well." "oh! no, but she can pray to god. the queen's werry 'igh up, you knows, and maybe god 'ud 'ear 'er a bit sooner than me." "no, indeed, flo, you wrong him there. your heavenly father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the queen might offer up to him." "well, then, we'll both pray," said flo, a smile breaking over her white face. "the queen and me, we'll both pray, the two of us, to god--he'll 'ave 'er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you'll fetch me the ribbon, ma'am dear." mrs jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the queen, more and more sure that when they both--the poor little london child and the greatest woman in the world--sent up their joint petitions to heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear mrs jenks. at last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the east end. how gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets! at the eastern boundary of the city was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word "welcome." and as the royal procession passed into whitechapel high-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them. but better to the heart of the queen of england than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. these thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers' shops, and stood out upon the roofs. yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the east end, and of course most of all by those in the great hospital which the queen was to visit. but here, there was also disappointment. it was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for her majesty to see, the buxton ward in the alexandra wing was not mentioned. more than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her. but the day before, flo had said to mr rowsell, the deputy chairman-- "i shall see the queen, and then i shall get well." and that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted. accordingly, when the queen had visited the "grocers company's wing," and had named the new wards after herself and the princess beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the gloucester ward, then flo's little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child's desire. contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the buxton ward a visit. flo, quite sure that it was god's wish that the great queen of england should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright. it was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth--for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of god's own peace. "my darling," said the queen to the little girl, "i hope you will be a little better now." but queen victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little flo darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again. they knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet--though she herself knew not of it--were in the waters of jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the city. chapter twenty. sing glory. "i 'ave seen the queen," said flo that night to miss mary. "i shall get well now." she was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes. "do you want to get well very much, flo?" asked the lady. "yes--fur some things." "what things?" "i wants fur to help dick wen 'ee gets hout of that prison school, and i wants fur to tidy up fur mrs jenks the day 'er lad comes 'ome, and i wants to do something fur you, miss mary." "to be my little servant?" "yes." "do you remember what i said to you when first i asked you to be my servant?" "i must be god's servant." "just so, dear child, and i believe fully you have tried to be his servant--he knows that, and he has sent you a message; but before i give it to you, i want to ask you a question--why do you suppose that having seen the queen will make you well?" "oh! not _seein'_ 'er--but she looked real kind-'earted, and though i didn't ax 'er, i knows she be prayin' to god fur me." "yes, flo, it is very likely the queen did send up a little prayer to god for you. there are many praying for you, my child. you pray for yourself, and i pray for you, and so does mrs jenks, and better than all, the lord christ is ever interceding for you." "then i'll soon be well," said flo. "yes, you shall soon be well--but, flo, there are two ways of getting well." "two, miss mary?" "yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by--to suffer pain again, and sickness again--that is the earthly way." flo was silent. "but," continued the lady, "there is a better way. there is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever--that is the heavenly way." "yes," whispered flo. "which should you like best?" "to be well for ever-'n-ever." "flo, shall i give you god's message?" "please." "he says that his little servant shall get quite well--quite well in the best way--you are to go up to serve him in heaven. god is coming to fetch you, flo." "to live up in the gold streets wid himself?" asked flo in a bright, excited manner. "yes, he is coming to fetch you--perhaps he may come for you to-night." "i shall see god to-night," said flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still. so white and motionless was the little face that miss graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. she was trying to realise this wonderful news. she should see god to-night. it was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her--she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before--she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death--this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop! a sudden and great joy stole over her--she was going to god--he was coming himself to fetch her--she should lie in his arms and look in his face, and be always with him. "are you glad, flo?" asked miss mary, who saw her smile. "yes." "i have another message for you. when dick comes out of the prison school, i am to take care of him--god wishes that." "you will tell him about god." "certainly, i shall do that--and, flo, i feel it will be all right about the widow's son." "yes, god'll make it right,"--then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, "i'd _like_ to 'ear the glory song." "what is that, darling?" "oh! you knows--`i'm glad--i hever--'" "`saw the day'?" finished miss mary. "yes, that's it. poor janey didn't know wot it meant--'tis 'bout god." "shall i sing it for you?" "yes--please." miss mary did so; but when she came to the words, "i'll sing while mounting through the air to glory, glory, glory," flo stopped her. "that's wot i'll do--sing--wile mountin'--'tis hall glory." and then again she lay still with closed eyes. during that night mrs jenks and miss mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away. surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. a quiet passing into a better land. an anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the blood of the lamb, on a rock that could never be moved. just before she died she murmured something about the queen. "tell 'er--ef she 'ears o' me--not to fret--i'm well--the best way--and 'tis hall glory." so it was. chapter twenty one. the prodigal's return. in the evening after flo's funeral mrs jenks was seated by her bright little fire. nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. this might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of flo. mrs jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not overmuch. those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. god had come and fetched her--that was what they said. and the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain. no, mrs jenks was not mourning for flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet. "'tis only me, mrs jenks," said miss mary graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on flo's little stool at one side of the fire. "i thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you." "thank you, ma'am--yes--i'm missing the child and her dog, maybe. anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, i'm very low like. if i 'ad scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up. it was 'ard he should come by such a bad end." "oh! mrs jenks, it was not a bad end. it was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved best. and, do you know, i could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now." "no, ma'am--that is true. he always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. and they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him." "yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at flo's feet." miss mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm. "you are going to wandsworth in the morning--may i come with you?" at the word wandsworth, mrs jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head. "oh! miss mary, don't mind me, ma'am--i'm a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. suppose the lad should refuse to come back?" "suppose the lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied miss mary, softly. "oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. he's gracious any way, anyhow. no, miss mary dear, i feels your kindness, but i'll go alone. it will daunt the poor boy less if i 'ave no one beside me. down on my bended knees, if need be, i'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the lord will hear me." "yes, mrs jenks, the lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost son." miss mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire. "yes," she said after a pause. "i were a fool to misdoubt god. don't his heavenly father and his blessed saviour care more fur the lad than i do? "'twill be all right for 'im, and if flo was here to-night, she'd say, sweet lamb,-- "`mrs jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?' "well! i just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me." the widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire. there they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor. mrs jenks contemplated them with pride. how well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! they would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye that sad day when he was taken to prison! she examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them over again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them. as she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind. holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out. she had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. a lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips. for the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures. she stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones. "come in, poor fellow, come in. don't lie there perishing--come in, and i'll give you a cup of tea. i've just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you." as she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm. "i'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?" something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart. "of all people on earth, those i 'ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves," she said. "if you're one of them, you 'ave a sure welcome. why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, "i've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented. he's in prison, but i feel he 'ave repented." "would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice. "let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! what do you take me for? i'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have." then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow's neck. "mother," he said, "i'm that repentant lad." jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon. he had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that jesus whom once he persecuted. all the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother. and of her it might be said, "o woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest." these things happened a few months ago. how do the characters in this little story fare now? truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them. jenks, partly through miss mary's aid, and partly through his mother's savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother. pick is still at the reformatory school, but he promises to do well, and miss mary promises never to cease to look after him. even little janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the glory song. as for miss mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her master left her an example, doing good--and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed. and the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. she is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her. thus all are doing well. but surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her father's house--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as scamp and i. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. [illustration: chickens and "poetry." page .] the martin and nelly stories. nelly's first schooldays. by josephine franklin. author of "nelly and her friends." boston: fred'k a. brown & co., publishers, cornhill. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by brown and taggard, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. list of the "martin and nelly stories." i. nelly and her friends. ii. nelly's first schooldays. iii. nelly and her boat. iv. little bessie. v. nelly's visit. vi. zelma. vii. martin. viii. cousin regulus. ix. martin and nelly. x. martin on the mountain. xi. martin and the miller. xii. trouting, or gypsying in the woods. contents. page chapter i. milly chapter ii. "melindy" chapter iii. comfort's neffy chapter iv. "let's make friends!" chapter v. chickens and "poetry" chapter vi. getting lost nelly's first school-days. chapter i. milly. not very far from nelly's home, stood a small, time-worn, wooden house. it was not a pleasant object at which to look. a few vines that had been trained over one of the front windows, and a stunted currant-bush which stood by the door, were the only green things within the broken fence. in summer, the cottage looked bald and hot, from its complete exposure to the sun (no trees grew near to shade it), and in winter, the rough winds rattled freely around its unprotected walls. in this house lived a family by the name of harrow. it consisted of the widowed mother, a woman who had once moved in a far higher sphere of life, and her two daughters, milly and elinor. there was a son, too, people said, but he did not live at home, having had the ingratitude, some time before the harrows moved to the village, to desert his home and run away to sea. mrs. harrow and her children were very poor. no one knew but themselves how hard they found it to get work enough to earn their daily bread. the neighbors, among whom they were much respected, had long supposed from many outward signs that the family had no means to spare, but they were far from conjecturing that often, the mild, patient-looking mrs. harrow, and her two gentle girls, were losing their strength from actual famine. the little money they had, came to them through their own exertions; their needle-work was celebrated far and near for its delicacy and exquisite finish. in that small neighborhood, however, the sewing which was brought to them to undertake, did not amount to much, and the prices, too, were low, and provision-rates very high. at last, just as despair was dawning on the household, elinor, the eldest daughter, heard of a situation as domestic in the family of a farmer, who lived over the mountains, near nancy's old home. the poor girl's pride was dreadfully wounded at the thought of applying for such a place, she a lady born and bred, but necessity knew no law, and a few days only elapsed before pretty miss elinor was located at the farm as a servant. it was a hard trial; mournful tears forced themselves from her eyes whenever she gave herself time to think about such a state of affairs. the farmer was a poor, hard-working, painstaking man, and his wife was quite as thrifty and industrious, so that between them they managed to lay by a little money, every year, in the savings bank. when elinor came to them, the bustling farmer's wife could not realize that the tall, pale, elegant-looking creature was not quite as able to rub and scrub from morning to night as she was herself. she did not take into consideration that the girl was unaccustomed to much hard labor, and that her frame was not equal to the burdens that were put upon it. the consequence was that when elinor went to her room at night, she was too completely worn out to sleep, and in the mornings, rose feeling sick and weary. she did not complain, however, but went about her duties day after day, growing gradually more pale and feeble, and storing in her system the seeds of future disease. when the farmer's wife saw her moving slowly around her tidy, spotless kitchen, she thought her a lazy girl, and often told her so in a loud, sharp tone, that was a very great trial to hear patiently, which elinor always did, and then set about working more steadily than ever. so the weeks went on, till, one morning, the maid of all work was missing from her place. she had been seized with a sickness, that had long been secretly hanging over her, and now she could not rise from her bed. martin, a boy who lived at mr. brooks', told nelly that miss elinor fell at her post like a sentinel wounded on duty. when the doctor came, he informed the farmer and his wife that their servant had lost the use of her limbs, through an affection of the spine, which had been brought on by lifting too heavy burdens, and she was indeed as unable to move hand or foot to help herself as a baby could be. her mind, however, was not impaired. the farmer thought it would have been fortunate if it had been, for she seemed to suffer such terrible mental anguish about her misfortune, and the new care and misery she was bringing on her mother and sister. the farmer took her home in his wagon, a confirmed cripple. her mother and milly helped him to carry her up to her old bedroom, and there she lay, suffering but little pain, it is true, but at the time of our story, having no hope of recovery. the days were very long to elinor now. she despised herself for ever having repined at fate before. what was all she had endured previously, to this trial? there was no light work of any kind, not even sewing, which she could do, as she lay on her bed, and this made the time seem longer. she was forced to be idle from daylight till dark. she could have read, it is true, but she had no books, and to buy any was an extravagance, of which, with the scanty means of the family, she did not allow herself to dream. the neighbors were shocked to hear of elinor's misfortune. they visited her, and at first, sent her little delicacies to tempt her appetite, but by and by, although they pitied her as much as ever, they forgot her in the events of their own domestic circles. one very cold winter night milly came into mrs. brooks's kitchen, and asked comfort, a colored woman who worked for the family, where her mistress was. comfort promptly led the way to the sitting-room, where grouped coseyly around the centre-table were the different members of the farmer's family. a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and the woolen curtains were tightly drawn to keep out the winds that whistled around the farm-house. at the sight of this picture of comfort, milly's pretty lips quivered. she took kind-hearted mrs. brooks aside. "dear mrs. brooks," said milly, "i _must_ say it; we are starving! elinor lies dying with cold and hunger, in her bed. mother has not tasted a mouthful since yesterday, and she is so proud she would not let me beg. what _are_ we to do? i have run over here to ask your sympathy and aid, for we have not one friend to whom we feel as though we might apply." tears gathered in milly's eyes. "and pray," said the farmer's wife, "what do you consider _me_, milly, if not a friend? you ought not to have delayed so long in this matter. i feel really hurt. why did you not come to me before?" she led the way into the kitchen that the young girl's sad tale might not draw upon her too close attention from the children. milly harrow sank upon a seat, before the fire on the hearth, and wept such bitter, heart-breaking tears as it is to be hoped no one who reads her story has ever known. she was a gentle, refined, well-educated girl of twenty, and had met much more sorrow than happiness. "milly," said the farmer's wife kindly, and advancing as she spoke, from the open door of the pantry, "come here to the table and see how a bit of this roast fowl tastes. and try this glass of currant wine,--you need not be afraid of it, it is home-made. while you are busy with it, i'll get a little basket ready, and put on my cloak to run over with you when you go back." milly blushed crimson. it was difficult to her to learn the hard lessons of poverty. nevertheless, she ate some bread and cold chicken, and was quite ready to praise the delicate wine for the grateful warmth it sent thrilling throughout her frame. when she had finished, mrs. brooks was ready to accompany her, and comfort too, having received private instructions, stood with her shawl over her head, and a large basket of wood in her hand. so they set out together, milly leading the way, the snow crunching under their feet, along the path. in a short time, a bright fire was burning in patient elinor's room, while the remains of a little feast on a table in the centre, showed that the family suffered no longer from the pangs of actual starvation. elinor was bolstered up in bed, looking like a wan, despairing woman of fifty, instead of a girl of twenty-two. care and sickness had aged her before her time. a faint, sweet flush was dawning on her cheeks to-night, however, for she was not now enduring hunger, and mrs. brooks sat there by the cheerfully blazing hearth with her mother and sister, and talked hope into all their hearts. "i tell you what it is, mrs. harrow," said the farmer's wife, in a pleasant, hearty tone, "we must set this milly of yours to work. things ought not to go on this way with your family any longer." "work!" echoed milly, a little bitterly. "i've seen the time, dear mrs. brooks, when i would have given anything for a month's work. only tell me something to do, and see how grateful i shall be." "well," said the farmer's wife, "the darkest hour is just before day, milly; who knows but that yours is now over, and dawn is coming. i have been thinking about your opening a school." mrs. harrow clasped her hands eagerly. "oh, if she could! oh, if she could!" she cried. "but who would think of sending their children to us, when there are already two or three other schools in the village?" "miss felix is just giving hers up, and is going to the city," said mrs. brooks. "i know it to be a fact, because i went to see her about taking nelly last week. that will be quite an opening. i can go to her to-morrow, get a list of her pupils, and call on the parents to secure their good-will, if you say so, milly." milly could scarcely answer for sobbing. at last she said in a broken voice, "dear, dear mrs. brooks, this is more than i have any reason to hope. how can i ever repay you for your kindness?" "by taking good care of nelly when i send her to you as your first pupil," was the cheerful reply. "and now let me see what are your accommodations. you must have our martin for a day or two, to knock you together some long benches with backs, and comfort can help you cover and cushion them with some old green baize that i have in the garret. what room can you give to the use of the schoolmistress, mrs. harrow?" "well," said the old lady, smiling for the first time in a month, "the front room, down-stairs, is best, i think, because it opens directly on the road. i can take the furniture out, (what there is of it!) and clean it up like a june pink, in a day or two." "the carpet is rather shabby and threadbare," suggested milly. "and little pegged shoes will soon spoil it completely," added mrs. brooks. "i should say a better plan will be to take it up entirely. a clean board floor, nicely swept and sanded every morning, is plenty good enough. what books have you, milly?" "all my old school-books, and brother's, and elinor's too," said the young girl. "that will do to begin on till the pupils purchase their own." "i could teach french," put forth elinor's voice from the bed,--"that is, if it would answer for the class to come up here. you know, mother, i used to speak it fluently when i was at madame thibault's. don't you think i might try? my voice and my patience are strong, if _i_ am not;" and she smiled, oh, such a smile! it brought tears into the eyes of all in that poor, little, desolate apartment. "try!" said the farmer's wife; "why, elinor, that is just the thing for you! you may count _me_ as one in your class. it was only yesterday i was regretting having no opportunity to practise what little of the language i know already. we must arrange your room a little, ellie, and have everything looking spruce, and frenchified, eh?" at this elinor herself began to cry. "you are so, s-o-o g-o-o-o-d," she exclaimed. "good! not at all!" said mrs. brooks; and by way of proving how far from good she was really, she hopped up like a bird, and was at the bedside in a minute, smoothing out the pillows and kissing elinor's pale forehead. "i'll take my first lesson to-morrow afternoon," she said, "if you have no objections; and your kind mother here, can begin to profit herself at once by your labor, and send over to our meal-bag and dairy as often as she pleases." chapter ii. "melindy." mrs. brooks fulfilled her promise, and so faithfully did she work in the good cause, that a dozen little pupils were engaged for miss milly's school before preparations were fairly made to open it. these did not take long, however, as miss felix, the teacher, who was going away, sent to mrs. harrow's house two long forms of desks and benches, with her compliments and best wishes to milly for her future success. milly fairly began to dance around the room, in the new joy of her heart, on receiving this, to her, valuable present. "everybody," she said, "must not be so kind to us, or i shall have a sickness brought on by too much happiness." poor milly! she had so long had a "sorrow-sickness," that the present good fortune was almost too much to endure. for a week she went about cleaning, and sweeping, and dusting, and making ready generally, for the great event, the opening of her school. singing as gayly as a lark, she moved furniture up-stairs and down, and debated over and over again upon the best arrangement for effect. the front room was to be especially devoted to the use of her class. the carpet was removed, and thoughtful miss felix's desks and benches placed in it, along the walls. mrs. brooks sent an old white muslin dress to be made into window-curtains, and martin spent a whole day in forming a little platform out of boards, on which, when covered with green baize, the teacher's table and chair were to rest. even elinor's sick-chamber assumed a different aspect. one day, when mr. brooks was in the village on business, he stepped into a paper-hanger's, and chose a cheap, but pretty paper for the lime-washed wall. it was very cheerful-looking, being formed of alternate stripes of white and rose-color; "for," said the farmer, when he reached home, "i warrant miss elinor grows tired of seeing the same cracks in the plaster, year in and year out. she must have something new and gay, like this, that will help to keep her spirits up!" mrs. harrow and the farmer's wife pasted this paper on the walls themselves, with a little assistance from nelly, who stood ready to lift benches, hand the scissors back and forth, and give any other slight aid of which she was capable. the house was only one-story high, with a garret, so elinor's room had a slanting roof and a dormer window. mrs. brooks said it would be a great improvement, if the striped paper were pasted on the ceiling too, and joined in the peak with a wood-colored border resembling a heavy cord or rope. this made the place look, when it was done, like a pink canvas tent. the change was wonderful. an imitation of a pair of tassels of the same color and style as the rope border, which the paper-hanger, hearing of the design, sent to the house as a present to miss elinor, when pasted carefully at each end of the peak, against the wall, made the illusion perfect. elinor said she lived in the tent of kindness. the neighbors who came in to inspect all these preparations, said elinor's was the very prettiest dormer-room they had ever seen. there was enough left of the old dress to curtain the single window, which being done, everything was at last pronounced to be in a state of readiness. and now we must go back to nelly, who, i suppose, some of my readers remember, is the adopted daughter of mr. and mrs. brooks. nelly had known much sorrow in her short life, as will be seen on reference to the little story called "nelly and her friends." she had never experienced what it was to be loved by father and mother till now; and when the farmer and his wife began to teach her to call them by those sacred titles, she felt herself a very happy little girl. she was delighted at the prospect of attending school. she had never been to one, and, therefore, perhaps, the novelty of the thing was half the attraction. when the important day arrived, and the child found herself seated in the class-room with twelve or fourteen other little folks, she was filled with awe and dismay, so much so, that she scarcely dared turn around to take a good look at her next neighbor, a girl of twelve, in the shy dread that she might be caught in the act, which circumstance would, doubtless, have occasioned her much confusion. miss harrow did not give her pupils any lessons to learn this first morning. she said, as no one had books, it should be a day of pleasure and not of work, and on the morrow they would begin to study in earnest. so, during the whole morning, the children drew funny little pictures on slips of paper, which were handed them for the purpose of amusing them; and in the afternoon, the teacher made them pull their benches close to the fire, in cosy rows, while she told them stories. as, with the deepest interest, nelly gravely listened, she came to the conclusion that this was just the best school of which she had ever heard, everything was _so_ pleasant. there was a little dark-haired boy in a blue jacket, who sat near, and who whittled her pencil, oh _so_ sharp, every time she blunted it! she told comfort, in confidence, when she went home, that this little boy's pictures were quite as good as any martin could make. he drew ships under full sail, oh, beautiful! and as for those men, squaring off to fight, up in the corner of the paper, they made you think at once of uz and buz the two roosters, that quarrelled every morning in the barnyard, about which should have the most corn. in a week or two, however, nelly's rapture abated somewhat; and one day she came home with her books in her hands, and threw herself on one of the chairs in the kitchen, crying heartily. "heyday," cried comfort, looking up from the fire, over which she was broiling a fish. "heyday, what ar's the matter now?" "o comfort," cried nelly, "she struck me, she struck me, before them all!" "what!" cried comfort, standing erect with surprise. "miss nelly's been for whippin' a'ready? why, nelly, shame, shame! dis yer conduct is oncommon bad of yer." "it wasn't miss harrow, at all," said nelly, reddening; "it was that horrid, old thing, melindy." "oh, melindy," echoed comfort, in a tone of relief. "yes," continued nelly, "she tries to get me to laugh in school, every day. she makes eyes at me, big, round ones, _so_, comfort." comfort chuckled. "i don't wonder yer laugh, if she does that way, chile." "but that isn't all," added nelly indignantly. "she chews paper-balls, and sends them over the room, right at the tip of my nose. sometimes they stick there a second or so, till i can put up my hand; and then the scholars giggle-like. oh, you've no idea, comfort, what an awful girl melindy is. she punches me, too." "punches, nelly?" "yes, and to-day, when school was out, she gave me _such_ a whack,--right in my ribs; shall i show you how, comfort?" "no, thank yer," answered the old woman, laughing. she had a cause for being good-humored that day. "but why whack such a little critter as you be, nell?" "oh," said nelly, hesitating, "_she_ knows." something in her manner made comfort suspicious. she sat down and called nelly to her. taking hold of both her hands, she looked her full in the eyes. "speak the truff," she said; "didn't yer whack melindy _fust_?" "yes," said nell, with a curious mixture of honesty and triumph, "i did, comfort; i gave her a _good_ one, _i tell you_! i didn't stop to think about what i was doin' till i felt her whackin' o' _me_ back again." "then she sarved yer right," said the old colored woman, going back to her fish, "and i hope she'll treat yer so every time yer begin the aggrawation." "but she snowballed _me_ first, and called out that i was nobody's child, and was taken out of the streets, and such like. i couldn't stand _that_, anyhow. i _had_ to whack her, comfort." "no you hadn't," said comfort, sternly, and at the same time gesticulating earnestly with the fish-fork. "it wasn't your part to do any punishin', whatsomever. leastways, no punishment but one." "and what's that?" demanded nelly, making large a's and o's in the steam that had settled on the windows. here martin suddenly put down a big newspaper he had been reading in a corner, and which had hidden him entirely from view. "have you so soon forgotten your old rule of good for evil, nell?" he asked. "don't you know that is what comfort means?" comfort nodded at him approvingly. "but melindy is ugly, _powerful_ ugly, martin," said nell, coloring, "and anyway she _will_ knock all us little girls. it's born in her. i think she must have been meant for an indian, that pulls the hair off your head, like mother told us about. doing good to melindy is just of no account at all." "did you ever try it?" asked martin. "well, no-o. you see i could tell it was of no use. and miss harrow, she stands melindy on a chair with a paper cap on her head, every day, at dinner-time." "poor girl," said martin, "i am sorry for her." "i'm not," said nell, promptly, "it keeps her from mischief, you know." martin was silent. comfort began to sing a tune over her fish, interrupting herself at times with a low, quaint laugh, as though particularly well pleased with some thought. "what's the matter, comfort?" asked nelly. "oh, nuthin'," was the answer; "i guess i'm not very miserable to-day, that's all;" and off she went in a chuckle again. "nelly," said martin, after another grave pause, "you used to be a better girl than you are now. last summer, about the time marm lizy died, you tried ever so hard to be good, and you improved very much indeed." "i know it," said nell, a little sadly, "and i would be good now, if it wasn't for melindy porter. ever since i've been to school i've felt hard and wicked. she torments and worries me so, that i think sometimes there's no use in tryin' to be good at all. i do and say wrong things, just when i don't mean to, all along o' melindy." "if you and melindy were friends, you wouldn't feel so, would you?" "i s'pose not, but who wants to be friends with anybody like _that_?" was the ready retort. "still, you would rather be friends than enemies, nell, wouldn't you? you would prefer that this little girl"-- "big one, ever so big," interrupted nelly, quickly. "you would prefer that this big girl, then, should bear you no malice, even if you didn't like her, and she didn't like you. isn't it so?" "well, yes. i would like to have her stop pinchin' and pullin' the hairs of all o' us little ones. that's what i'd like, martin." "that's easy done, nelly," said martin in a confident tone. "easy, martin? how easy?" "_be kind to her._ show her that you bear her no ill feeling." "but i _do bear her ill feeling_, martin! what's the good of fibbing about it to her? i can't go to her and say, 'melindy, i like you ever so much,' when all the time i despise her like poison, can i? i am sure that wouldn't be right." "no," broke in comfort, "that ar wouldn't be right, martin, for sartain." martin looked a little puzzled. "but, comfort," he said at length, "i don't want her to speak pleasantly to melindy till she _feels_ pleasantly. _that's_ the thing. i wouldn't have nell _act_ an untruth, a bit more than i'd have her tell one. but i _do_ want her to try to _feel_ like givin' melindy a little good for her evil." martin said this with such a pleading, earnest look, smiling coaxingly on nelly as he spoke, that, for the moment, the heart of the little girl was softened. "well, martin," she said, "you are _always_ preachin' ar'n't you? but it's nice preachin' and i don't hate it a bit. some day, when i get real, _awful_ good, you'll leave off, won't you? i'll think about melindy, and may-be i can screw my courage up to not mind bein' cracked at by her." "pray for them that uses yer spitefully," said comfort with solemnity. nelly seemed struck by this. "what, pray for melindy?" she asked meditatingly. "chil'en," said the old woman, "don't never forget that ar mighty sayin'. yer may be kind and such like to yer enemys, but if yer don't take time to _pray_ for his poor ole soul's salvation, you might as well not do nuthin'. that's the truff, the gospil truff." "well," said nell with a deep sigh, "i'll pray for melindy then, and for that bad, little johnny williams, too, to-night when i go to bed; but i shall have, oh, comfort, _such_ hard work to _mean_ it, _here_!" and her hands were pressed for an instant over her breast. the next morning, just as nelly was starting for school, martin drew her, mysteriously, aside. "which hand will you have, nell?" he asked, holding both behind him. "this one," she said, eagerly, touching the right hand, in which she had caught a side glimpse of something glittering like burnished gold. martin smilingly extended towards her a small, oval box, covered with a beautiful golden paper. "how very, very lovely," cried nell, opening it. "it is yours," said martin, "but only yours to give away. i want you to do something with it." "can't i keep it? who must i give it to?" "melindy!" "oh, martin, i can't, i just can't,--there!" "then you don't wish to make her good, nell! you want her to be cruel and wicked and hard as long as she lives!" "oh no, no, i don't wish that _now_. i _prayed_ for her last night." the last sentence was added in a very low tone. "you refuse then?" she looked at him, sighed, and turned away. martin put his box in his pocket, and walked off in the direction of the barn. at dinner-time, nelly came home quite radiant. lessons had gone smoothly. miss harrow had praised her for industry at her books, "and, would you believe it, martin," she added in an accent of high satisfaction, "melinda didn't make but two faces at me all the whole morning! wasn't that nice? they were pretty bad ones, though,--bad enough to last! she screwed her nose all up, this way! well, if you'll give me the box now, i'll take it to her this afternoon. i don't feel hard against melindy at all, now." martin brought it to her after dinner, with great alacrity; and nell walked very slowly to school with it in her hands, opening and shutting the lid a dozen times along the road, and eyeing it in an admiring, fascinated way, as though she would have no objection in the world to retain possession of it herself. it was a hard effort to offer it to melinda. so pretty a box she had never seen before. "i mean to ask martin," she thought, "if he cannot find me another just like it." near the door of mrs. harrow's little house, nelly encountered her tormentor, quite unexpectedly. she was standing outside, talking in a loud, boisterous way to two or three of the other children. melinda was a tall, rather good-looking girl, of about fourteen years of age. she was attired in a great deal of gaudy finery, but was far from being neat or clean in appearance. at the present time, a large, freshly-torn hole in her dress, showed that in the interval between schools, she had been exercising her warlike propensities, and had come off, whether victor or not, a little the worse for wear. her quilted red silk hood was now cocked fiercely over her eyes, in a very prophetic way. nelly knew from that, as soon as she saw her, that she was in a bad frame of mind. not daring to speak to her then, nelly was quietly proceeding towards the door of the school, when with one or two tremendous strides, melinda met her face to face. "how did you like the big thumping i gave you yesterday?" she asked, with a grim smile. nelly walked on very fast, trying to keep from saying anything at all, in the fear that her indignation might express itself too plainly. "why don't you speak up?" cried melinda. still nelly went on in silence. melinda walked mockingly side by side with her, burlesquing her walk and serious face. at last, irritated beyond control, melinda put out suddenly one of her feet, and deliberately tripped up her little schoolmate, who, before she could even cry out, found herself lying flat on her nose, on the snow. the attack was made so abruptly, that nelly had no time to see what was coming. confused, stunned, angry, and hurt, she raised herself slowly to her knees and looked around her. there was at first, a dull, bruised feeling, about her head, but this passed away. something in the deadly whiteness of her face made melinda look a little alarmed, as she stood leaning against the wall, ready to continue the battle, if occasion required any efforts of the kind; but knowing well, in the depths of her cowardly heart, that, as the largest and strongest child at school, her victims could not, personally, revenge themselves upon her, to any very great extent. looking her companion in the eyes, like a hunter keeping a wild animal at bay, nelly staggered to her feet. she had meant to be so good that day! and this was the encouragement she received! truly, the influence of melinda on nelly's character was most pernicious. all the evil in her nature seemed aroused by the association. tears, not resulting from physical pain, but from the great effort she still made to control her temper, rose to her eyes, as she saw a sneering smile on melinda's countenance. till now she had striven to bear martin's advice in mind; but as this sneering smile broke into an ill-natured laugh, nelly's self-control gave way. her face burned. she tossed the little golden gift, with disdainful roughness, at her persecutor's feet, and said, in a gruff, and by no means conciliating voice,-- "there's a box for you, melindy. and martin says i mustn't hate you any more. but i do, worse than ever! there!" melinda gave a contemptuous snort. she walked up to the little gilt box, set her coarse, pegged shoe upon it, and quietly ground it to pieces. then, without another word, she pushed open the school-room door, entered, and banged it to again, in poor nelly's red and angry face. the child leaned against the house and cried quietly, but almost despairingly. "i wanted to be good," she sobbed; "i wanted to be good so much, but she will not let me!" chapter iii. comfort's neffy. "comfort," said nell, that night, leaning her head on her hand, and looking at the old woman sideways out of one eye, as she had seen the snowbirds do when they picked up the crumbs every morning around the kitchen door, "comfort, can't you tell me what you were laughing about yesterday afternoon, when you were br'iling of the fish for tea?" "yes," said comfort, "i think i can." nelly sat waiting to hear the expected revelation, yet none came. comfort was busy with her pipe. she paused every now and then to puff out great misty wreaths of bluish-gray smoke, but she didn't condescend to utter one word. "comfort," said nelly, getting impatient, "why don't you tell me, then, comfort?" "tell yer what, chile?" "what you said you would." "i never said i _would_; i said i _could_. be more petik'lar with yer 'spressions, nelly. and 'sides that, yer hadn't oughter say '_br'iling_ fish.' missus don't. leave such words to cullu'd passons, like me." "well, but tell me," persisted nelly, smilingly, brimming with the curiosity she could not restrain. "i know it was something good, because you don't often laugh, comfort." "no," said comfort, "that ar's a fact. i don't 'prove of little bits o' stingy laughs, every now and then. i likes one good guffaw and done with it." "well," said nelly, "go on. tell me about it." "yer see," said comfort, taking her pipe from between her lips, and giving a sudden whirl to the smoke issuing from them, "yer see, nelly, i was laughin' 'bout my neffy." "your neffy, comfort? what's that?" "lor! do tell! don't yer know what a neffy is _yet_? i didn't 'spect yer to know much when yer was marm lizy's gal, but now, when mrs. brooks has adopted of yer, and sent yer to school to be edicated, we look for better things. don't know what a neffy is, eh?" "no," said nelly, looking somewhat disturbed. "tell me, comfort. is it something that grows?" "grows!" screamed comfort, bursting into a laugh that certainly was not a stingy one; "grows! goodness! hear this yere chile! ho, ho, ho! i--b'lieve--i shall--crack my poor ole sides! grows! oh my!" "you mustn't laugh so, comfort," said nelly, with dignity, "you make me feel,--well, leastways, you make me feel real bad." "oh dear, dear," mumbled the old woman in a faint voice. "that does beat all! why, see here, nelly,--s'pose now, i had a sister once, and that ar sister got married and had a little boy, what ought he to call _me_, eh?" "why, his aunt comfort, to be sure," was the reply. "and i ought to call him neffy john, or johnny, for short, oughtn't i? well, it was 'bout my neffy johnny i was laughin' yesterday. now i'll tell yer how it was, sence i've done laughin' 'bout him to-day,--oh my! you see, johnny is a slave down south, ever so far off, on a rice plantation." "_slave?_" repeated nelly, with growing interest; "what's _slave_, comfort?" "oh, somethin' that grows," answered comfort, chuckling. "a slave is a black man, woman, or chile that has a marster. this _marse_, as we call him, can sell the slave to anybody for a lot o' money, and the poor slave, as has been a t'ilin', strivin' soul all his days, can say nuthin' ag'in' it. it's the _law_, yer see." "comfort," said nelly, "stop a minute. do you think that is a right law?" "no," said comfort, "i can't say as i does. some marsters are good, and some, on the contrary, are oncommon bad. now my little neffy has a good 'un. ever sence his poor mammy's death, i've been savin' and savin', and t'ilin' and t'ilin', to buy johnny and bring him north, 'cause i set a good deal on him. this ere good marse of his agreed to let me buy him, when he was nuffin' but a baby; and he's been keepin' of him for me all this yere long time." "i'm glad i'm not johnny," said nell, earnestly; "if bein' a slave is getting bought and sold like a cow or a dog, a slave is just what i don't want to be. hasn't johnny any relations down there, comfort?" the old woman shook her head. "i'm the only one of his kin in the 'varsel world." "poor little fellow!" said nelly meditating; "i don't wonder you want to buy him. how old is he?" "twelve year." "and you've got enough money, comfort?" a bright smile beamed suddenly all over that dark face. "ho!" she cried, "that ar's just what i was laughin' at yesterday. i want only a leetle more, and 'deed, my neffy will have no marse ag'in,--only a missus, and that'll be _me_, thank the lord!" the old colored woman tossed her apron over her head, and from the odd puffing noises that immediately began to sound from behind it, nelly supposed she was weeping. she thought she must have been mistaken, however, the next moment, for comfort pulled down the apron a little savagely, as though ashamed of having indulged in such a luxury as a private groan or two, and in a stern voice bade nelly go up in her (comfort's) room, feel under the bolster, on the side nearest the wall, and bring down to her the foot of a stocking which she would find there. "and don't let the grass grow under yer feet, neither," said comfort, by way of a parting benediction, as the child softly closed the door. it was reopened almost immediately, and nelly's smiling face appeared. "i say, comfort." "well chile, what now?" "i'm real, _real_ sorry for that little neffy of yours you've been tellin' me about. and, comfort, when he comes i'll be as good to him as i can. i was thinkin' i would knit a pair of gray, woollen stockings to have ready for him, shall i? how big is he?" "'bout your size," replied comfort. "the notion of them stockings is quite nice. i'm much obleeged to yer, nelly." nelly looked delighted, and started to go up-stairs once more. in about a minute and a half, her face was peering into the kitchen again. "comfort, i guess i'll knit a red binding at the top of the stockings, to look handsome, shall i?" "why, yes," said comfort, mightily pleased; "that will make 'em smart, won't it?" "a red yarn binding," continued the little girl, "knit on after the stocking is toed off,--a binding full of little scallops and such like!" "laws, chile," said comfort, benignantly, "i sorter think yer might stop short of them scallops. neffy won't be anxious about scallops, i reckon, seein' as how he has only wored nater's stockings so far, with no petik'lar bindin' at all, that i knows on. come, now, mind yerself and run up-stairs. i can't be wastin' all my time, a-waitin'." nelly shut the door, and went singing up-stairs, two at once, while the old woman employed her valuable time in smoking her pipe. in a short time eager, young footsteps were heard dancing along the entry, and into the room came nelly, looking as happy as though for her there existed no ill-natured schoolmate in all the world. "here it is!" she said, holding triumphantly up the foot of an old stocking, ragged at the edges, but scrupulously clean,--the same in fact, from which comfort had once given her a small gift of money; "here it is, comfort; but didn't i have a powerful hunt for it! i dived under the bolster and under the mattrass,--at the foot,--at the head,--at the sides,--and then i found it on the sacking. hear how it jingles! what fun it must be to earn money, comfort! do look at my hair,--if i haven't got it full of feathers, poking among your pillows!" sure enough, starting up all over her curls were gray and white downy particles. "laws sakes," exclaimed comfort, helping her to pick them off, "that ar hole must a broke loose ag'in in my bolster! i can sew it up every saturday night, and sure as i'm livin', it bursts ag'in monday mornin'." "that's 'cause your brain is too heavy; you've got too many thoughts in it, perhaps," laughed martin, who entered at that moment, and began to stamp the snow from his feet on the kitchen doormat. "o martin," cried nell, "see how rich comfort is! she has saved that fat stocking full of money, to buy her neffy." "buy her neffy!" repeated martin, unbuttoning his overcoat. "yes, he's a slave, you know." "no," said the boy, "i don't know, nelly; i never even heard of neffy before." "oh, his _name_ isn't neffy, martin. oh, no, not at all," said the little girl, with an air of importance. "he is called john, and comfort is going to buy him, and i am to begin a pair of stockings for him to-morrow." comfort held up her bag half full. "this yere is my money-box," she said, overflowing with satisfaction. "_box!_" repeated nell. "why, it is not a _box_ at all, comfort. it's the foot of a worn-out stocking." the old woman turned upon her a little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' i _calls_ it my money-box, and that's enough. box it is." "that's funny," said nelly; "i don't see much good in calling a stocking a box as long as it is a stocking." "well, i does," said comfort, sharply; and with some of the old ill-temper she once used to vent so largely on nell, she snatched up the bag, and giving it a toss upon a pantry shelf, slammed the door with a mighty noise. for a little while silence descended on the group. it was an uncomfortable silence. no one in the room felt happy or at ease. of such power is a single ill-natured expression! comfort was restless, because her conscience reproached her, while at the same time nelly was experiencing secret remorse for having irritated her by thoughtless words. perhaps martin wray was more distressed than either of his companions, at what had taken place. his was naturally a peaceable disposition, and he could not bear to witness scenes of discord. the sight of his pleasant face saddened, did not tend to make little nell feel happier. she longed to have him reprove her, or exhort her, as he so often did, to better behavior; but martin sat in his chair by the fire, sorrowful and mute. nothing was heard but the hissing of the burning wood on the wide hearth, and the whistling sounds and muffled roars of the wind without. it was too much to bear this any longer. nelly got up with a long, penitent face, and hovered rather wistfully around the chair where comfort sat, still smoking her pipe. the old domestic had taken advantage of the fact of her eyes being half closed, to pretend that she did not see the little figure standing at her side, on account of just going off into a most delightful doze. she even went so far as to get up a gentle, extempore fit of snoring, but nelly was not to be deceived. "comfort," she said, in a mild, quiet voice. no answer, excepting three exceedingly distinct snores. "com_fort_," was repeated, in a louder tone. "what!!" growled the old woman, opening her eyes so suddenly that the child started back. comfort began to laugh, however, so nell felt no fear of having disturbed her in reality. "i am sorry i said that wasn't your money-box, comfort. i didn't mean to contradict, or such like. it was all along o' my contrary temper, and if you'll forgive me, i'll try not to act so again." the old colored woman appeared a little confused. "'deed, honey," she said, "yer haven't done nuthin' wrong; it's all _me_. i dunno what gits into me sometimes. well, now, hand me that ar plaguey stocking, and i'll let you and martin count my money." nelly smiled, looked delighted at being restored to favor, and flew to the pantry. the bag was on too high a shelf for her to reach, however, and she had got the poker and was in the act of violently punching and hooking it down, as she best could, her eyes and cheeks bright with the exertion, when martin--the sadness quite gone from his face--advanced to help her. comfort took the bag from him, and with a grand flourish, emptied it on the vacant table. the flourish was a little _too_ grand, however, and much more effective than comfort had intended. the shining silver dollars, with which the stocking was partially filled, fell helter-skelter on the table, and many of them rolled jingling and glittering over the floor. nelly laughed and scrambled after them, martin shouted and tumbled down on hands and knees to help find them, while the owner, quite dismayed, stood still and did nothing. "'deed, 'deed!" she said; "how could i be so keerless? but there's thirty of 'em, and thirty i'll find." before the children knew what she was about, she seized the broom and began to sweep the rag-carpet with great nervous dashes, that had no other effect than to raise a tremendous dust. [illustration: "comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count." page ] "stop!" cried martin; "don't sweep, please, comfort; nelly and i will find them for you. that dust just goes into our eyes and blinds us. if you are sure there were thirty, it is easy enough to search till we make up the number." comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count; as fast as the children found any of the coins they dropped them into her lap. "twenty-six, twenty-seven," she said, at length; "three more, and we've got all the little shiners back." "here's two," cried martin, "behind the dust-pan." "and here's the thirtieth," exclaimed nelly, "sticking out from under your shoe, comfort! how funny!" and so, laughing, the children saw comfort's money-box bulge again to its original size. "that ar's only my last five months' wages. mrs. brooks paid me yesterday," said the old woman, proudly, as she tied the stocking together with a piece of yellow, time-stained tape. "i've got three hundred jes' like 'em in a bank in the city; and when with a little extry t'ilin' and savin', i git in all, three hundred and fifty, my neffy will never be a slave no more!" here the kind voice of mrs. brooks was heard calling the children into the sitting-room. "good-night, comfort," said martin; "i wish _i_ had thirty dollars; yet i do not envy you yours, one bit,--no, not one bit!" "yes," added nell, rising to go, "and _i_ don't envy either, but i wouldn't mind owning another stocking just like that. and, comfort, i am going to ask mother to let me set all the eggs of my white bantam hen, early in the spring; and i'll _sell_ the chickens and give you the money to help buy your neffy." chapter iv. "let's make friends!" the beams of the afternoon sun streamed gayly through the windows of miss harrow's school-room, and fell, like a crown of light, on the head of the young teacher, as she sat at her desk making copies for her pupils. it was writing afternoon, and on this particular occasion, that which was considered a high reward was to be given to the most diligent child. whoever showed the greatest interest, neatness and industry, was to be allowed to remain for a few hours after the closing of the school, in order to make a wreath of evergreen to decorate a certain picture in miss elinor's apartment. the christmas holidays were near, and the little school-room had already received, at the willing hands of the children, a thorough dressing with laurel, pine, and hemlock-boughs. it had been for a week past the great delight of the pupils to weave, after school-hours, festoons for the whitewashed walls, and garlands for miss milly's desk. many were the regrets that the work was now almost over. miss elinor's gentle ways had, from the first, made her a great favorite. there were never any rebellions, any doubtful conduct, in the few classes she undertook to hear recite in her sick-room. her very infirmity endeared her to the hearts of her scholars. this wreath for an engraving that hung at the foot of her bed, was the only christmas-green elinor desired to have placed in her apartment, and on that account, as well as from devotion to her personally, many pairs of little hands were eager to achieve the honor of the task. very patient, therefore, were their youthful owners with their writing, this afternoon,--very exact were they to cross the t's, dot the i's, and avoid pens, as melinda expressed it, "that scratched like sixty." miss milly had done very wisely in holding out this reward, for never before had such attention and such care been visible in the class. nelly sat at her high desk, as busy and as excited to win as any child there. her copy-book lay before her, and though she had not as yet reached beyond "pot-hooks and trammels," she was quite as likely to come off victor as those who wrote with ease and accuracy, because it was not a question of penmanship, but of neatness and industry, as i have already said; for the first quality, the books themselves were to speak; and miss milly's watchful eyes were the judges of the latter, as, from time to time, she raised them from her own writing and scanned the little group. scratch, scratch, scratch went the pens, and papers rustled, and fingers flew about their work till the hour being up, miss milly rang her bell as a signal for perfect silence. "it is time to put away your pens, children," she said, in a clear voice; and at once they were laid aside. nelly was just placing her blotting paper between the leaves of her writing-book, when a sorrowful exclamation near her made her turn her head. this exclamation came from melinda, who sat a few benches off. her eyes were fixed with a look of most profound distress on a large blot which a drop of ink from her pen had just left in the centre of the day's copy. her sleeve had accidentally swept over it too,--and there it was, a great, black disfigurement! and on this afternoon of all others! melinda wrote a very pretty hand. she was an ambitious girl, and had done her very best, that she might win the prize. nelly saw the tears rise in her eyes, and her cheeks flush with the bitterness of her disappointment. "oh, dear!" cried lucy rook, a little girl, who sat next; "oh, dear! there's a blot, melindy!" "yes," was the answer; "i wonder if i could scratch it out, so that the page will look neatly again. lucy, lend me your knife, will you?" mistress lucy looked straight at melinda, and laughed a little cruel, mocking laugh. in the rattle of papers and temporary confusion of the room, she thought herself unheard by the teacher. "who wouldn't play tag, yesterday, eh?" asked lucy. "who spoiled the game; did you hear anybody say?" "why, i did, i s'pose," spoke melinda roughly; "and what of it?" "i guess i want my knife, myself, that's all," was lucy's reply. "i don't think i could conclude to lend it to-day," and she laughed again. nelly involuntarily put her hand in her pocket, where lay a little penknife nancy had given her, as a keepsake, a few weeks before. the thought flashed through her mind, "shall i, or shall i not?" and the next moment she reached over, and the little knife was glittering on melinda's blotted copy. she did not speak; she only blushed, and smiled, and nodded pleasantly, to show her good-will. melinda looked at her with a frowning brow. then a better impulse seemed to prevail; she glanced gratefully back at nelly, and taking up the penknife began to give some doleful scratches over the blot. presently, however, miss milly's command was heard from the desk: "all arms to be folded!" melinda, with a sigh, folded hers, and sat like a picture of despair. the books were then collected, and examined carefully, while the scholars began to prepare to go home. nelly was quite ready, when she was startled by hearing miss milly pronounce her name to the school as the winner of the prize. "i find," said miss harrow, "that almost every child has taken unusual pains to-day, in writing; and i am pleased to see it, i can assure you. where all have been so careful, it is very difficult to find one who stands highest; nelly box, however, i think deserves the reward. never, before, has she evinced such diligence and patience; hoping that she will always do as well in future, i give her permission to go up to miss elinor's room to begin the wreath, at once. elinor will give you instructions, nelly, and perhaps tell you some little story while you are busy with your task." at first nelly's face shone with delighted triumph, at the news of her success. but in a little while she began to realize that many of the pupils were sorely disappointed at this award not falling on themselves, and the thought dampened her ardor. she had reached the door to leave the room, when miss milly added: "melinda, i am glad to see that you, too, have been attentive and anxious to do well. if it were not for this huge blot, i should have given the palm to you." "i couldn't help it," said melinda, eagerly. "i was just folding it up, when it happened. i am as sorry as can be." "are you?" said miss milly, kindly. "yes," broke in nelly, with honest warmth; "and it was an--an _accident_, as i think they call it, miss milly. the girls who saw it, say so. the ink just dropped right down, _ker-splash_." melinda held down her head and looked conscious. "well, then," said the good teacher, smiling at the "_ker-splash_," "if it was an accident, i think we will have _two_ wreath-makers, instead of one. melinda may go up-stairs with nelly, if she wishes, and both are to be very quiet and orderly, for miss elinor is not quite as well as usual, to-day." melinda glanced towards nelly, and was silent. she did not like to go, under such circumstances as these. she wished the honor of making the wreath, it is true, but she did not desire that distinction to be bestowed upon her as _a favor_. she felt galled too, that this very favor was accorded to her through nelly box's means,--little nelly, whom, every day, she had been in the habit of cuffing about as though she were an animal of totally inferior condition. she happened to raise her eyes, however, and they fell on the glad, beaming face of this same nelly box, who stood waiting for her. it was so evident that nelly's good-will towards her was sincere, it was so plain that this little schoolmate of hers desired to be friends with her, and to forget and forgive all the unpleasantness of the past, that melinda could not resist the good impulse which impelled her onward. a feeling of shame and awkwardness was all that hindered her from accompanying nelly up-stairs at once. she stood looking very foolish, her glance on the floor, and her fingers twitching at the upturned corner of her apron. "come, melinda," said miss milly, in a gentle, but brisk tone; "don't keep nelly waiting." the young girl could resist no longer. she smiled, in spite of herself, a great, ear-to-ear, bashful, happy, half-ashamed smile, and followed nelly slowly up-stairs to miss elinor's room, where they found her bolstered up in bed, as usual, and quite ready to give them instructions how to form her wreath. a sheet was already spread in the middle of the floor, and on this was a pile of evergreens. "what, _two_!" said miss elinor, smiling, as they entered. "i am glad to see you both, although i expected but one. how is your mother, melinda?" "better, ma'am," said melinda; "she is coming to see you next week, if she is well enough. what shall we do first, miss elinor?" the sick girl told the children how to begin, and, half sitting up in bed as she was, showed them how to tie together the fragments of evergreen with strings, so as to form the wreath. at first, the girls thought it hard work enough. the little sprays of hemlock would stand up, as nelly termed it, "seven ways for sunday," and all they could do did not bring them into shape. miss elinor could not help them much more than to give directions. she lay looking at them from her bed, half amused, and entirely interested in the proceedings. "dear, dear!" said melinda, after she had endeavored several times, quite patiently for her, to force a sprig to keep its place; "dear me, i don't think we can ever make this 'ere wreath look like anything but father's stump fences. just see how that hemlock sticks out!" "well," said miss elinor, "i like to see stump fences, very much indeed, melinda. i think they are beautiful. the great roots look like the hands of giants, with the fingers stretched out to grasp something. so you see, i don't mind if you make my wreath look like them." "father says stump fences are the very best kind," remarked melinda, knowingly. "i guess not the _very best_, melindy," nell ventured to say. "yes, they are," persisted melinda, with a toss of her head; "father says they last _forever_,--and he _knows_, for he has tried 'em!" the young teacher smiled, and turned away her head. "did you ever see a church dressed with evergreens, miss elinor?" asked one of the children. "often," said the sick girl; "not here, in the village, but in the city. i have not been able to attend church much since we have been here. they entwine garlands around the high pillars, and put wreaths of laurel over the arched windows. the reading-desk and pulpit have their share too, and above the altar is placed a beautiful cross. sometimes the font is filled with delicate white flowers, that are renewed each sabbath as long as the evergreens are permitted to remain." "i wish i could see a church looking like that," remarked nelly, stopping in her work, and looking meditatively about her. "miss elinor," said melinda, "what do they mean when they say 'as poor as a church-mouse?' why are _church_-mice poorer than house-mice?" "because," was the reply, "in churches there are no nice pantries, filled with bread and meat, for the little plagues to feed upon. no stray crumbs lie on the floor,--no pans of milk are to be found at which to sip. so, you see, church-mice _have_ a right to be considered poor." "well," said melinda, "how funny! i never thought of that before." "once," continued her teacher, "i saw an odd scene with a church-mouse. i'll tell you about it. i was visiting in the country, a great many miles from here; such a kind of country as you can have but a faint idea of, unless you should see it yourself. it was out west. the houses there are not like those you have always been accustomed to see, but are built of the trunks of trees. they are called log cabins. the gaps, or holes, between these logs are filled with mud and moss, which keep out the rain in summer, and the wind and snow in winter." "what do they do for windows?" asked nell. "some of them have none,--others make an opening in the logs; a small shutter, hinged with stout leather, is its only protection in time of storms. glass is too expensive to be used, for the people are very poor. well, i was visiting once a family who lived in one of these log huts. it was somewhat better than its neighbors, certainly, and much larger, but it was not half as comfortable as the little house we are in. it was in october, and i remember as i lay awake in bed, at night, i felt the autumn wind whistle over me. it makes my nose cold to think of it," laughed elinor. "when sunday came, i was surprised to find that, although the church was five miles distant, no one thought of staying at home. "'what!' said my uncle, 'do you think, elinor, we are short-walk christians? no indeed,--five miles through the woods is nothing to us when a good, sound sermon, and a couple of beautiful hymns are at the end of it!'" "it was your uncle, then, you were visiting?" questioned melinda. "yes; he had moved out west some years before, bought a farm, and built himself a log cabin. he lives there now, and is fast making a fortune." "is he?" said nell. "did you go to the church, miss elinor, in the woods?" "yes; no one stayed at home. we had the dinner-table set before we started, which was early, on account of the distance. i think it was about half past eight o'clock in the morning (for we did not want to hurry), when uncle shut the cabin door, and saw that everything was right." "didn't you lock it?" asked melinda. "lock what?" "the door." "no. not a man, woman, or child thinks of locking doors, out in that wild country. thieves don't seem to be found there, and everybody trusts his neighbor. if a tramper comes along, he is welcome to go in and help himself to whatever he wants. it is not an unusual thing on reaching home, after an absence of an hour or so, to find a poor, tired traveller, asleep in his chair, before the fire. besides," said miss elinor, with a twinkle in her eyes, "there is another excellent reason why the farmers out there never think of locking their doors." "oh, i know!" cried melinda; "i know!" "well, why is it?" "they have no locks!" and the two children began to laugh as if they had never heard anything so funny in all their lives. "i like that," said nell; "i want to live in just such an honest country, and where they are good to poor travellers, too. that's the splendid part. i feel as if i wanted to settle there, this very minute. well, miss elinor, don't forget about going to church." "we got off the track so, i had nearly forgotten what my story is about," said miss elinor. "we started very early to go to church. uncle had no wagon, so driving was out of the question; but he had a beautiful mare called 'lady lightfoot,' and an old side-saddle, which my aunt had owned ever since she was a girl. it was settled that my aunt and i were to take turns riding on lady lightfoot, so that neither should get too fatigued. uncle and cousin robert were to walk, and lightfoot's pretty little long-legged colt ambled in the rear. my aunt took the first ride, and i was talking quietly to uncle and robert, when i saw, bounding along a rail fence at the side of the road, the old fat cat, wildfire. her name just suited her, for she was one of the most restless, proud, affectionate, daring cats i had ever seen. "'why!' i exclaimed; 'see wildfire on the fence! she will get lost,--we must send her home.' "'lost, eh?' said cousin robert; 'i reckon not. if any one can lose wildfire, i'll give him a treat in the strawberry patch next summer, and no mistake.' "'but what shall we do?' i asked; 'we don't want her to go to church with us. make her go home, robert, do.' "'not a bit of it,' said robert, laughing; 'did you never see a cat go to meeting before? wildfire has attended regularly, every summer, for the last three years. she always follows us. the minister would not know how to preach without her.' "'but,' said i, 'how it must look! a cat in church! a dog would not be so bad. but a cat! go home, wildfire!' and i took off my red shawl and shook it at her, and stamped my foot. "robert laughed again, and told me it was no use; that they had often tried to send her back, and sometimes had fastened her up, but that she almost always broke loose, and would come bounding after them, kicking her heels in the air, as though to show her utter defiance of any will but her own. when i shook my shawl at her, she just rose quietly up on her hind legs, and while her green eyes darted flames of anger, she ruffled her fur as cats do when attacked by dogs, indicating as plainly as possible that go she would; and go, indeed, she did. robert saw i was mortified at the thought of walking to meeting in company with a cat, and he told me i needn't be ashamed, because the churches out there were vastly different from those i had been in the habit of attending. 'women,' said he, 'who can't afford them, come without hats, and men, on hot days, walk up to their seats in their shirt-sleeves, with their house-dogs tagging after them. i counted ten dogs in meeting once. the animals seem to understand the necessity for good behavior, for they are as quiet as their masters; perhaps more so, sometimes. they lie down under the seats of their friends, and go to sleep, only opening their eyes and mouths now and then to snap at some flies, buzzing around their noses. wildfire does the same. our bench is near the door, and we could easily put her out if she did not behave as becomes a good, well-reared cat. if people didn't _know_ that she followed us each sunday, they would never find it out from her behavior in meeting-time.' "seeing there was no help for it, and understanding there was no fear of mortification, i dismissed the thought of wildfire from my mind. shortly afterwards, my aunt dismounted to give me my turn. cousin robert helped me on, handed me the lines, and gently touching lady lightfoot with my twig-whip, i began to trot a little away from the party. the road was magnificent. none, my dear children, in our village can compare with it. the earth was smooth and hard, and but very little broken by wheels. something in the character of the soil kept it generally in this condition. we had just entered the woods. overhead the stately branches of old trees met and laced themselves together. it was like one long arbor. scarcely any sunshine came through on the road, and when it did, the little wavy streaks looked like threads of gold. the morning was mild and cool, almost too cool for the few autumn birds that twittered their cheerful songs far and near. i was enjoying myself very much, when, suddenly, i heard a snorting noise just beside me. i could not imagine what it was. i looked down, and there--what do you think i saw?" "wildfire!" cried the two children. "yes, it was wildfire, on the full trot, snorting at me her delight in the race. i slackened my pace, and the cat and i walked peaceably all the rest of the way to the meeting-house. "when we arrived there, i was as much surprised as amused at the scene which presented itself. the church was a nice, neatly-painted building, in the midst of a small clearing." "clearing?" said nell. "a clearing is a piece of ground from which the trees have been removed. one or two young oaks, however, were left in this instance, to serve as hitching posts, if any should be required, which was very seldom the case. "many of the farmers of the vicinity had arrived when we got there. they had unharnessed their animals and left them to graze around the meeting-house, a young colt accompanying almost every turn-out. at the first glance i thought the spot was full of colts, such a frisking and whisking was going on around the entrance. one impertinent little thing even went so far as to poke its head in the door-way and take a survey of the congregation. "some of the families who attended there, came from ten to fifteen miles,--for the country was by no means thickly settled. a large dinner-basket, nicely packed under the wagon-seat, showed which these families were. "all the people were more or less roughly dressed; none were attired in a way that looked like absolute poverty. "cousin robert aided me to dismount, left lady lightfoot and her colt free to graze with the other animals, and with aunt and uncle we went in the church. the walls were plaster, with no lime or wood-work to improve their appearance. behind a pine desk at one end of the room sat the minister. a bunch of white pond-lilies, which some one had just given him, rested beside the bible lying before him." "and wildfire,--where was wildfire?" asked nelly, with great eagerness. "she followed us in, very demurely, and the moment that her favorite, robert, sat down, she curled herself in a round, soft ball at his feet, and went to sleep. i was soon so interested in the sermon that i forgot all about her. the minister's text seemed to have been suggested by his flowers. it was 'consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet, i say unto you, that even solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. wherefore, if god so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?' the sermon was not well delivered, because of the lack of knowledge in the preacher, but it was pure and sound, and full of a true, tender, and loving regard for the welfare of that people in the wilderness. the heartiness with which all present joined in the closing hymn, proved that the effect of the discourse was a good one on the congregation. just as the last note died away, my attention was suddenly attracted to a little moving object near the door. i looked twice before i could realize that it was a mouse. it peered about with its pretty, bright eyes, as if it were too frightened and bewildered to know what to do next. it was a little thing, and must have strayed unknowingly away from its companions. "from a slow, stealthy sound, that came all at once from cousin robert's feet, i knew that wildfire had seen it too, and was preparing an attack. the minister was pronouncing the final benediction, however, and i did not dare to look around, for fear of attracting attention. scarcely was the closing word uttered, when there was a sudden spring from the cat, and a shrill squeak on mousey's part. proudly lashing her tail, like a panther, wildfire laid her victim, in an instant, dead at her young master's feet, (we sat very near the door, i believe i told you,) gazing in his face with such an air of triumph, and such an anxious request for praise in her glittering eyes, that cousin robert, very thoughtlessly, as it seemed to me, stooped and patted her head." "did she eat it?" asked melinda. "no," replied the sick girl; "she left it lying there, on the floor, and followed us unconcernedly out, as if there were not such a thing as a mouse in the world. she had no desire to be left behind." "perhaps," said melinda, "as it was a church-mouse, she thought it too poor to eat. i wish i had such a cat as wildfire, miss elinor." "and so do i," cried nelly. "i'll teach my cat, nancy, to be knowing, just like her. look at the wreath, miss elinor! hasn't it grown handsome while you were telling about wildfire? it don't seem a bit like a stump fence now, does it?" it was, indeed, very beautiful. miss elinor raised herself on her elbow and said so, as she looked at it. all that it wanted now, she told them, was a few scissors clips on the ends of the longest sprays, to make them even with the others. melinda leaned it against the wall, and clipped away with great care and precision. nelly stood gazing at it lovingly and admiringly. before the children were quite ready to go home, miss milly came in and hung the precious wreath on a couple of nails which she drove for that purpose, over the picture, for which it was intended. it represented a little bare-footed gypsy-girl dancing a wild, fantastic dance, with her brown arms flung gracefully out, and mischief and innocent fun gleaming in her black eyes. "of all the engravings i have ever seen," said miss elinor, "this one is the best calculated for an evergreen frame. thank you, dears, for making it. i hope each of you will pass a merry christmas and a happy new year." as the two children went down the stairs together, nelly said, "isn't she good, melindy?" melinda was not accustomed to behave herself for so great a length of time; her stock of good conduct was now pretty nearly exhausted, so she answered rather sharply, "of course she is. i know that as well as you, without bein' told." nelly felt something choking her in her throat. "_i will not_," she said firmly to herself, "i will not answer back. i'll do as martin says, and make a friend of melindy, if i can. she isn't so very bad, after all. why, i do believe i rather like her." they gathered their books together in the school-room. melinda opened the door first, to go. "well, good-bye," she said, gruffly, looking back at nell. "good-bye," replied nelly; and then she added, bravely, "oh, melindy, we needn't quarrel any more, need we? _i_ don't wish to, do you? let us be friends; come, shake hands." melinda turned very red, indeed. "i am not going to be forced to make friends with any one," she said, in a most forbidding voice. she gave the school-door a terrific bang as she spoke, and darted off homeward. but in that last rough action the final trace of the ill-will she bore nelly disappeared forever. the next morning, as the family were sitting at breakfast, there came a knock at the door. comfort, hastily setting her dress to rights, went to answer it. there stood melinda, her school-books in one hand, and in the other, two of the biggest and roundest and reddest apples she had been able to find in all her father's bins. "give them to nelly, if you please," she said. "and i declar'," added comfort, when she came in and told the family, "the minit she spoke that ar' she ran off frightened like, and in a mos' drefful hurry." from that day melinda and nelly were friends. chapter v. chickens and "poetry." spring came again, and deepened slowly towards the summer. leaves budded on the trees, herbs sprouted from the warm earth, and birds sang in all the hedges. "i am _so_ glad!" said nelly; "for i love the spring sunshine, and all the pleasant things that come with it." when the weather grew mild, nelly was as good as her word about raising chickens for the benefit of comfort's nephew, the little slave. the eggs of the favorite hen were carefully put aside to accumulate, and as soon as she had done laying, and went about the barnyard clucking, with her feathers ruffled and her wings drooping, nelly knew, with joy, that it was time to set her. so she filled the same nest in which the eggs had been laid, with clean, fresh straw, and placed them in it, ready for the bantam when martin could catch her to put her on. they found that the hen needed no coaxing, but settled herself at once in the well-filled nest, giving at the same time an occasional cluck of high satisfaction. in three weeks from that time she came off with eleven chicks,--all safe and well. when she was put in her coop, under the big apple-tree by the fence, nelly fed her with moistened indian meal, every day. she thought it a pretty sight, when biddy minced up the food for her babies, and taught them how to drink out of the flower-pot saucer of water that stood within her reach. nelly seemed never to get tired of looking at her little snow-white pets. she felt that they were her own, and therefore she took a double interest in them. when she was home from school, and lessons were studied for the next morning, she would go out to the apple-tree, and sit on the clean grass an hour or two, to watch every movement of the brood, and the solicitude of the caged mother when her offspring wandered too far away. one day in particular, as she sat there, the child's thoughts were busy with the future; her imagination pictured the time when full-grown, and more beautiful than any others, as she thought they were sure to become, her eleven chickens were to be sent to market. "i hope," she said half aloud; "i hope they will bring a good price, for comfort's sake; i should not like to offer her anything less than five dollars. that is very little, i think, compared to all the trouble i have had night and morning to feed and take care of them." she stopped a moment, and heaved a deep sigh, as she saw the little yellow dots flit back and forth through the long grass, some of them running now and then to nestle lovingly under the wings of the mother. "oh dear!" she went on; "i do believe i am getting to love my hen and chickens too much to part with them; every day i think more and more of them, and all the while they grow prettier and sweeter and tamer. i wish i could keep them and have the money too! dear little chickies! oh, comfort, comfort!" she pronounced the last two words so ruefully, that her mother, who was passing along the garden-path, near the apple-tree, called out,-- "well, nelly dear, what is the matter with your precious comfort, eh? has she met any great misfortune?" "no, ma'am," said nelly; "i was only talking to myself about how hard it would be to sell the little chickens, even for dear comfort's sake, when i love them so." mrs. brooks drew near. "well, my child, that is a dilemma i have not thought of before. perhaps, who knows, something will turn up to keep your darlings nearer home. when autumn comes, if i feel desperately in want of bantams, i may purchase your brood myself,--but i will not promise about it. in the meantime, don't get to loving them too much; and remember, that if you told comfort you would give her the money, you must keep your word." "yes," said nell, with another sigh; "there is just my trouble; i want to be honorable to comfort, and kind to myself too." mrs. brooks passed on. she went into a little vegetable garden beyond, found what she wanted, and came back. she paused again, and with the little girl, looked at the chickens. "nelly," she said, "it has just struck me that you have been a great deal in the kitchen with comfort, lately, of evenings. now, though i respect and love comfort for many things, i want you to stay more with your father, and martin, and myself, in the sitting-room." "what?" nelly cried, in innocent wonder; "isn't comfort good any longer?" mrs. brooks smiled. "yes, dear, comfort's as good as ever. she tries to do her duty, and is a faithful old creature. she has many excellent qualities, but she is not educated nor refined, as i hope one day _you_ will be. you are too young to be exposed to her influence constantly, proper as it may be in most respects. i want you to fill a different rank in life from comfort's, nelly." tears were in nelly's eyes as she answered gravely, "yes, ma'am." "comfort is a servant, and you are my little daughter. i want you to be diligent, and cultivate a love of books. if you grow up in ignorance, you can never be esteemed a lady, even if you were as rich as an empress. i will give you the credit to say that you have improved very much since you have been with me, both in your conduct and in the language you use." "comfort told me i mustn't say 'br'iling fish,' as she did, because _you_ did not! _that_ was kind of her, wasn't it?" mrs. brooks felt her eyes moisten at this unexpected remark, more, perhaps, at the tone than at the words themselves. she saw that nelly was deeply attached to comfort, and she felt almost that she was wrong in seeking to withdraw the child from the grotesque attraction she had lately seemed to feel for her society. but duty was duty, and she was firm. she stooped and imprinted a light kiss on nelly's cheek. "yes," she said, "comfort is very kind to you. but i do not wish you to spend more time with her when you are out of school than you do with the rest of the family. remember not to hurt her feelings by repeating to her this conversation." "yes, ma'am," said nelly; and then she added, "comfort was going to show me how to write poetry, to-night, when she got through with her work. couldn't i go in the kitchen for this one evening?" "comfort--teach--poetry?" echoed mrs. brooks, with some dismay and amusement. "yes, ma'am." "well,--yes,--you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. certainly, i have no objection to your learning to write poetry," and she walked away, laughing quietly. surely enough, when night fell, and comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,--her day's work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,--nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand. "you see," she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; "you see, comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. it lasts a month, only think of it! will not i have good times, eh? johnny bixby,--you know johnny bixby, comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that's the way i come to want to learn how." "oh," said comfort, "i understand now. johnny boards with those ar harrowses, eh?" "yes," said nell; "and he's such a very quiet boy, you've no idea, comfort." "he's the fust _quiet_ boy ever _i_ heerd on, then," said comfort. "weel, what do you want to say to johnny in your poetry? that's the first and important p'int; don't begin to write till you finds what you are a goin' to say." "oh, i want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, comfort, and how i hope we will meet again. i've got the first line all written; that's some help isn't it? melindy's and my first lines are just alike, 'cause we made it up between us." "how does it go?" asked comfort, puffing at her pipe. "this way," said nelly, taking up her paper and reading: "our days of youth will soon be o'er." "well," said comfort, after a moment's reflection, "i think that's very good. now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word 'o'er.'" nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment. "oh, comfort," she said, at last, with a deep sigh; "i can't! i wonder if johnny bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. do tell me what rhymes with 'o'er,' comfort!" "'o'er,' 'o'er,'" repeated comfort, slowly; "why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. roar is very good." "but i don't want 'roar' in poetry, comfort," said nelly, considerably ruffled. "i don't see how you can bring 'roar' in. i wonder if 'more' would not do." she took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines: "our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrows' school we'll meet no more." "that's pretty fair, isn't it, comfort?" "'pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. "i'm sorry the 'roar' couldn't come in, though. don't disremember to say something nice about his writin' to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so." "no," said nell; "i'll not"--"forget" she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start. comfort opened it, and there stood a boy, nearly a man, in the dress of a sailor. his hair was long and shaggy, his face was brown, and over his shoulder swung a small bundle on a stick. he was not, however, as rough as he looked, for he took off his hat and said in a pleasant voice, "can you tell me where a widow by the name of harrow lives in this neighborhood? i was directed this way, i think." "over yonder is the house," said comfort, pointing out into the night. "and the next time yer come, be keerful not to thump so hard. we are not used to it in this 'ere part of the country." nelly heard the young man laugh as he walked down the path from the house; and something in the sound brought miss milly to her mind. the more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the young man's voice was like her teacher's. she sat still a little while, thinking, and idly scratching her pencil back and forth. at length she said, quite forgetful of her writing, "comfort, didn't mrs. harrow's son run away to sea, ever so long ago?" this question, simple as it was, seemed to fill comfort with sudden knowledge. she clapped her hands together joyfully. "my stars! ef that don't beat all! i do b'lieve sidney harrow is come back again!" she went to the door to look after him, but his figure had long since vanished down the path. the gloom of night reigned, undisturbed, without. there was no sailor-boy to be seen. "my stars!" said comfort, again and again; "ef that was only miss milly's brother come back to help keer for the family, instead of runnin' off like a bad ongrateful feller, as he was, i'll be glad for one." "and i'll be glad too," cried nelly; "and then dear miss elinor need not teach, but can read books all day, if she likes, and be happy. oh, kitty, kitty! will not that be nice?" and in the delight of her heart, the little girl caught up the cat from the hearth, and began to caress her in a joyful manner, that the sober puss must have considered rather indecorous, for she sat still in her lap, looking as grave as a judge, and never winked or purred once at her young mistress. here the clock struck nine. "dear, dear!" said nelly; "and i haven't finished my poetry yet! and very soon i must go to bed." back she went with renewed vigor. "what were you saying, comfort, when that young man knocked? oh, i know,--to tell johnny to write to me; i remember now. don't you think it will seem strange to johnny to be with his mother all the time, instead of sending her letters from school? eh, comfort?" but the old woman was lost in her thoughts and her smoking, and did not reply. nelly bent over her paper, read, and re-read the two lines already accomplished, and after musing in some perplexity what should come next, asked, "comfort, what rhymes with b?" "stingin' bee, nell?" "no, the _letter_ b." "oh, that's it, is it? well, let me think. i haven't made poetry this ever so long. there's 'ragin' sea,'--how's that?" said comfort, beginning to show symptoms of getting deeply interested. "now take to 'flectin' on that ar, nell." nell did reflect some time, but to no purpose. some way she could not fit in comfort's "ragin' sea." it was no use, it would not go! she wrote and erased, and erased and wrote, for a full quarter of an hour. after much anxious labor, she produced finally this verse, and bidding comfort listen, read it aloud, in a very happy, triumphant way. then she copied it neatly on a piece of paper, in a large, uneven, childish handwriting, which she had only lately acquired. it was now ready to be presented on the morrow. to johnny bixby. our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrow's school we'll meet no more; you'll write no more to mrs. b., oh then, dear johnny, write to me! "and now," said nelly, as she folded up the precious paper, after having duly received comfort's congratulations and praise,--"and now i'm going straight to tell mother about sidney harrow." chapter vi. getting lost. the next day, when nelly went to school with her verse-paper in her hand, all ready for presentation, she found the children talking together in little groups, in tones of great surprise and delighted satisfaction. melinda, now grown kind and loving to nelly, as a consequence of that little girl's own patience and affectionate effort, came forward at once to tell the news. "only think!" she said; "mrs. harrow's son, sidney, has come home, and oh, miss milly and miss elinor are _so_ glad!" "and so am i," cried nelly; "if ever there was good luck, that is." "i am not so sure about that," said melinda, with a sage, grown-up air; for she liked to seem like a woman, and often told her companions, "dear knows, if _she_ wasn't big enough to be thought one, she would like to know who _was_!" "why, isn't mr. sidney a nice young man, melindy?" asked nelly, in bewilderment. "hush!" said melinda, drawing her into a corner; "don't talk so loud. you see, he's come home as poor as he went, and folks are afraid that he will go on just as he did before,--that is, spend all his own earnings and plenty of his mother's, too." "dear, dear!" said nelly; "that will be hard for miss milly." "anyway," continued melinda, wisely, "we can hope for the best, you know. miss milly is so glad to have him back, that she came into this 'ere school-room, this very morning, and told the scholars she was going to take them all on a picnic, to-morrow, up yonder, on mr. bradish's mountain. we are to ask our mothers if we can go, and then come here with our dinners in our baskets, and set off together as soon as the grass dries. fun, isn't it?" nelly's eyes danced. "a picnic! well, if that isn't nice! i hope comfort will put something real good in my basket, to-morrow." then she added, thoughtfully, "i wonder if martin might not go, too?" "i'll ask," said melinda; and up she went to miss milly, who at that moment entered. little johnny bixby, a boy of ten, now came up to wish nell good-morning, and talk about the picnic. nelly gave him her poetry, and he read it, and said, "it's splendid, nelly; i'll show it to mother as soon as i get home." the next day came. the skies were clear, but the wind was high, and swayed the branches of the trees around the farm-house, and swept the long, wet grass to and fro. "is it going to storm?" asked nelly, anxiously, of martin, as immediately after breakfast they stood together in the door-way and looked forth. "no," said martin; "i think it will not storm, but the breeze will be a pretty stiff one all day. perhaps miss milly will postpone the picnic." "oh, dear!" cried nelly; "i hope not. what! put it off after comfort has baked us that great, bouncing sponge-cake, martin?" martin was going too, for miss milly had sent him an invitation, and mr. brooks had granted him, very willingly, a holiday. he had only to help milk the cows early in the morning, and then he was free to follow his pleasure till sundown. he was dressed now in his sunday suit; his hair was combed smoothly over his forehead, and his best cloth cap was in his hands. altogether he looked so tidy, so good, so happy, that when mr. brooks came in the room, he asked comfort, with a smile, if she didn't think a lad of about the age of martin ought to have at least a dime of spending money, when he went to picnics. on comfort's saying heartily, without taking one single instant for reflection, "yes, sir," the farmer put his hand in his pocket, drew out a new and bright quarter of a dollar, and dropped it in martin's cap. martin tried to return it, but mr. brooks would not hear to any such thing, but shouldered his hoe and went off, whistling, into the garden. "i'll tell you what to do with it," said nelly, in a confidential whisper; "buy round hearts; they're four for a penny. only think of four times twenty-five round hearts! how much is that, martin?" martin laughed, and said he guessed he would not invest in round hearts, for comfort's cake was so large. "so _monstrous_ large," put in nelly, dividing a glance of affection between comfort and the cake. "yes," continued martin; "it is so _monstrous_ that it ought to last, at least, two whole days." the farmer's wife came in just then, and told them she would pack the dinner-basket herself, to see that everything was right, and that it was full enough, for she said she had heard somebody remark that good appetites were sure to go along on picnics. nelly and martin stood by and looked at her as she unfolded a clean white towel, and outspread it in the basket, so that the ends hung over the sides. after this she took some thin pieces of cold beef and put them between slices of bread and butter, and these she packed away first. now came comfort's sponge-cake, cut in quarters, and as many little lady-apples as remained from the winter's store,--for it was late in the spring. a cup to drink out of the mountain streams was also added, and the towel-ends were nicely folded over the whole and pinned together. a happy pair they were, when they set out,--martin carrying the provisions, and nelly singing and making flying skips beside him. when they reached the school-house, nearly all the children were assembled. miss milly was there, and her brother too, a handsome young lad, of about eighteen, with a very brown, sunburnt face. nelly knew him, the moment she saw him, to be the same person she had seen before. they were not to start for an hour yet, for, high as the wind had been, and was, the grass was still glittering with dew. the little road-side brooks were furrowed into white-crested waves, and the school-house creaked and moaned with the gusts that blew against it. "i am almost afraid to venture taking the children out," said miss milly; but upon hearing this, such a clamor of good-humored expostulation arose, and so many sorrowful "oh's," and "oh dear me's," resounded through the room, that sidney harrow, as any other boy would have done, begged his sister to have mercy and never mind the wind. in a little while the party started. mr. bradish's mountain, the proposed scene of the picnic, was distant about one mile from the school-house. the route to it lay through a long, shady lane that gradually wound towards the woods, and lost itself at last amid the huge, gray rocks and dense shade of the hill-top itself. it was spring-time, and the grass was very green, and delicate wild flowers starred all the road-side. here and there, in the crevice of a mossy stone, grew a tuft of wild pinks, nodding against a group of scarlet columbines, while, wherever the ground afforded unusual moisture, blue violets thrust up their graceful heads in thick masses. "hurrah!" cried johnny bixby, as they reached the summit of the mountain; "hurrah! here we are at last. the picnic's begun!" miss milly said the children might stray around together for some time before it would be the dinner-hour, and they might gather as many wild flowers as they wished, to decorate the picnic grounds. all the girls set to work, and such a crowd of violets, anemones, wild buckwheat, and pinks as was soon piled around miss milly's feet, was a sight to behold. while sidney harrow with martin and the rest of the boys were fishing in a little stream that ran over the mountain, about one quarter of a mile distant, miss milly's party tied bouquets to the branches of the trees, and hung garlands on the bushes, around the spot where they were to dine. the wind died away, the birds sung out merrily, and the air grew soft and warm, so that, after all, there was no fear of little folks taking cold. the brook where sidney and martin led the boys was not a very deep one, and therefore it was not dangerous, but it was celebrated for miles around for its fish. a large, overhanging rock, under the shade of a tree, served, as martin said, for a "roosting-place," and from it they found the bites so frequent that quite a little string of fish was made, and hung on some dead roots that projected from the bank. "what a wild place this is," said martin, looking around him, as he drew in his line for the fourth time. "yes," said sidney; "it is. that is the best of it. i wouldn't give a fig for it if it wasn't. look at that cow coming to drink. i wonder where she hails from! how she looks at us!" the cow did indeed regard them with a long stare of astonishment, and then, scarcely tasting the water, she plunged, bellowing, into the woods again. "she is frightened," said martin; "that's old duchess, one of mr. bradish's cows. he turns them out with their calves every summer, to take care of themselves till fall." "why, is the pasture good enough for that, up here on this mountain?" asked sidney, baiting his hook. "yes," replied martin; "i think so; it's rather rough, but cows are mighty knowin', and pick out the best. besides, they have their freedom, and they thrive on that as much as anything. then the calves are so well grown in the fall by these means, that when farmers, who put them out, go to drive them home to winter-quarters, they hardly know their own again." "there, she's coming back!" cried a little boy; "and a whole lot with her!" martin looked where the crashing of boughs told of the approach, and saw about a dozen cows, headed by duchess, making for that part of the stream where they were fishing. some half-grown calves scampered at their heels, in a frightened way, that showed they were not much accustomed to the sight of human beings. "poor duchess! good duchess!" said martin, in a kind tone; but duchess tossed up her nice, brown nose, and snorted at him. "she don't like the looks of us, that's flat," said sidney, with a little alarm that made martin smile; "i'm sure i don't like _her_ appearance one bit. suppose she should horn us!" and he jumped hastily up from the rock. "what!" said martin; "you, a sailor, who know what it is to face death on the ocean, every day of your life, and yet afraid of a cow! besides, she hasn't a horn to her head! just look at her. she has nothing but two little, miserable stumps!" sidney came back again, for he had retreated a step or two, under the trees, and looked somewhat ashamed. "what's the use of jumpin'?" said johnny bixby, in a big, pompous tone, that he meant to be very courageous and manly; "duchess is only frightened at seeing us. this is her drinking-place, may be." "oh!" said sidney; "of course _i_ am not afraid;" but his lips turned blue as duchess made a sudden move, half-way across the stream, and then stood still, and roared again. "she's a little scared at us, that's all," said martin; "she'll get used to the sight of us pretty soon." "after she's made the water muddy and spoiled the fishing," said sidney, in an ill-natured tone. martin took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded slowly across the brook towards the herd of cattle, holding out his hand and speaking to one or two of the animals by name, in a coaxing, petting way: "come here, spotty,--come here, good little white sue,--come here, my poor old duchess!" the cows stood and looked at him, very quietly. the one he called sue, was small, and entirely white, with the exception of a bright red star on her forehead; she was a very pretty creature. she seemed to remember having seen martin before, for presently she marched slowly up to him and sniffed his hand, while staring at him from head to foot. the boy scratched her ears, as he had often done before upon passing mr. bradish's barnyard; she appeared to be pleased, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "softly, there, susie," said martin; "i don't like that. that's my sunday go-to-meeting coat." he stepped back as he spoke, and the abrupt movement alarmed the whole troop. white sue gave a loud bellow, and dashed abruptly across the stream into the woods on the other side,--her companions hurriedly following, splashing the water over themselves and their calves as they did so. sidney harrow dropped his pole, and with a half-shriek, ran in the opposite direction, towards the picnic ground. as the fishing at that place was now over, on account of the disturbance of the water, martin told the boys they had better join the rest of the party; so they gathered up the fish and bait, and left the spot, martin carrying the rod of the brave sailor in addition to his own. they found miss milly building a fire in a small clearing, where it would not scorch the trees. sidney was with her. as he saw the boys approach he got down on his knees and began to blow the flame into a blaze, and puffed and panted so hard at his work, that he could not even get his breath to say "thank you," when martin remarked, "here is your rod, sidney. you left it on the rock. i'll lean it against this maple, till you are ready to take charge of it." "i am glad you have come," said miss milly to the group of boys; "for we are getting magnificent appetites, and i wanted sidney and martin to roast the clams." "clams!" cried martin; "that was what made sidney's load so heavy, then, coming up the hill. how i like roasted clams!" miss milly showed him sidney's empty basket, and told him that she and melinda had prepared a compact bed of the clams on the ground, and that they had then placed over them a quantity of dry branches, ready to kindle when sidney should come with the matches, which he carried in his pocket, and had brought for the purpose. the tablecloth was already spread on a flat rock near at hand, and the little girls were still busy arranging the contents of their baskets upon it, for, by general consent, they were to dine together that day, and share with each other the eatables that had been provided for the excursion. martin reached down his and nelly's basket, from a high limb where he had hung it for safety, and comfort's big cake, which mrs. brooks had cut in quarters, was fitted together and placed in the centre of the cloth for the chief ornament. "will not comfort feel proud when she hears it?" whispered nelly to martin, as she passed him with her hands full of knives and forks. the fire was soon blazing and sputtering over the clams, and in a short time sidney pronounced them cooked. with branches of trees, the boys then drew the burning fragments away, and scattered the red coals till the bed of baked clams presented itself. miss milly tried one and found it was just in a fine state to eat, and then the children were told that all was ready. armed with plates, pieces of bread and butter, and knives and forks, they drew near, and the talking and laughing that ensued, as each opened the hot shells, for his or herself, made a merry scene of it. there were enough for all, and to spare; and when they left the clam-bed, still smoking and smouldering, to assemble around "table-rock," as melinda called it, where the daintier part of the feast was spread, martin said he had never tasted such finely roasted clams in his life. "i expect," said miss milly, "that the charm lies in our appetites." "yes," said johnny bixby, taking an enormous bite of cake, and, to nelly's great horror, speaking with his mouth full--"yes, i think goin' on picnics and such like, is real hungry work." this speech was received with a shout of approbation; and, on sidney remarking that he thought that johnny should be made the orator of the occasion, the children laughed again, and quite as heartily as though they fully understood what _orator_ meant. when the dinner was over, and the larger girls began to gather up the fragments, and restore plates and spoons to their owners, the rest prepared for a ramble. miss milly said they must not go far, nor stay long, and, promising to obey, the children set out together. as soon as they were separated from the others, which happened insensibly, johnny bixby gave nelly, with whom he was walking, a very animated account of sidney harrow's behavior at the fishing-ground. "afraid of cows!" said nell; "well, that beats all i ever heard. i am afraid that sidney will not help miss milly along much. come, show me where you fished, johnny, will you?" johnny led the way, and in a little while he and nelly stood on the very rock from which the boys had dropped their lines in the morning. the moss upon it was trodden under foot, and it was quite wet where the fish had been hauled in. "i wonder if this is a creek," said nell, looking up and down the brook with an admiring gaze; "marm lizy used often to tell me of a creek where she rowed a boat, when she was young." "marm lizy?" asked johnny; "who's that, nell?" nelly turned very red, and was silent. she remembered, like a flash of lightning, that john was a stranger in the village, his home being in the adjacent city, and that therefore he had, perhaps, never heard the story of her degraded childhood. pride rose up and made her deceitful. "marm lizy!" she repeated, carelessly; "oh, i don't know; somebody or other who used to live in the village. what's that, johnny, flopping about in the grass?" she pointed to the rock-side, where, as johnny soon saw, a decided "flopping" was indeed going on. "a fish! a fish!" cried the boy, catching it and holding it up in both hands, so that nell could look at it; "i'll take it to martin to put on the string with the rest. it must have floundered off." "oh, let us put it back," cried nelly; "poor mr. fish! i think you would really like to try your hand at swimming again." "fin, you mean," laughed john; "fishes don't have hands that ever _i_ heard tell. shall i let it go?" "oh, yes!" cried nell; "but wait till i get down from the rock so that i can see it swim away." she clambered down, and soon stood by johnny's side on the long grass that grew close to the brook's edge, and mingled with the little white bubbles on its surface. johnny stooped, and, holding the fish, put his hands under the water. the moment the poor, tortured thing felt the touch of its native element, it gave a start and would have darted away. "oh, johnny!" exclaimed nell; "don't tease it so cruelly. please let it go." johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off so swiftly that they could scarcely see which way it went. at last nelly espied it under the shadow of the rock, puffing its little sides in and out, and looking at them with its keen, bright eyes, in a very frightened way. [illustration: "johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off." page .] "poor fish!" said johnny; "swim away, and remember not to nibble at boy's hooks again. a worm is a very good thing for you when it isn't at the end of a piece of string." the fish gazed at him a little longer, then seeming to take his advice, darted from the rock to where the water was deeper and darker, and was soon lost to sight. "that's the place sidney's cows came from," said johnny, pointing to the opposite side of the stream, where the bushes were torn and trodden, and marks of hoofs were in the mud and grass. "let us take off our shoes and stockings and wade over and follow their track, to see where it leads," cried nelly; and, suiting the action to the word, the two children soon found themselves bare-footed,--nell tying her boots to dangle one from each of her apron-strings, and johnny carrying his in his hands. nell got her feet in first, but drew back, saying it was cold; so johnny dashed over, splashing his little bare legs, and leaving a muddy track all across the brook. "there," said he, somewhat boastfully, "that's the way! i am glad i'm not afraid like girls." nelly did not like this treatment, and she was about giving a hasty and angry answer, when, sobered by the recollection of the deep fault she had already committed, by her late untruth, she only said,-- "sidney was afraid of _cows_!" and waded slowly and silently through the water. they found the path to be quite a well-worn one. it was evidently that by which the cows were in the habit of coming to drink. it was pretty, too, and very wild. in a little while, as they left the brook farther and farther behind them, the walking became dry and very good, so that they resumed their shoes, but not their stockings,--johnny stating that he hated the latter, and would rather "scratch himself to pieces" on the blackberry thorns than put them on again. the shade was very pleasant. once or twice they paused to rest on the large stones which were scattered here and there through the path, but this was not for any great length of time; they wandered on and on, taking no note of time, nor of their prolonged absence from their companions, but enjoying every thing they saw, and wishing all the days in the year were like this one. the openings in the trees were very few; they were penetrating, although they did not know it, into the very heart of the wood. once, and once only, they caught a glimpse, through the branches, of a small clearing. half-burned stumps still showed themselves amid the rank grass. on the top of an elevation, at one side of this clearing, a horse was quietly grazing. as he moved, johnny saw he was lame, and from this the children judged that, like the cows, he was turned out to pasture for the summer. as nelly parted the bushes to look at him, he gave a frightened start, and began to paw the grass. he still stood on the little hill, in beautiful relief against the soft blue of the sky, the rising breeze of the coming sunset blowing his long, black mane and tail gracefully in the air as the children turned away to pursue their journey. the cow-path soon branched into others more winding and narrow than the one they had just quitted. the time since dinner had passed so rapidly and happily, that they did not dream night was coming, or that they had strayed too far away from their companions. the wild flowers grew so thickly, and the mosses were of such surprising softness and length, that it was scarcely any wonder they forgot their teacher's parting injunction. when night at last really began to approach, and nelly looked anxiously around at the gathering twilight in the woods, johnny said it was nothing but the natural shadows of the trees, and so they concluded to go on a little farther to gather a few of the laurel blossoms they saw growing amid their shining green leaves, a short distance beyond. when they had reached this spot, and captured the desired treasures, nelly saw with dismay, that the path ended abruptly against the side of an immense rock, quite as large, she thought, as the whole of the farm-house at home. "nell!" said johnny, suddenly; "i believe we are lost! how to find our way back again over these long paths we have been walking through all the afternoon, i am sure i do not know." "and i am so tired now, i can hardly stir," said nelly, in a complaining tone; "and night is near, as i told you before." johnny looked around without answering. he saw that there was no help for it; they must return the way they came, long as it was, or stay in the woods all night. "come, nelly," he said, "we must go back on the same path, if we can." it was getting quite dusky. they took each other by the hand and trudged along. one by one the flowers dropped from nelly's full apron, to the ground, and at length her weary fingers unclasped, and the apron itself resumed its proper position. everybody knows how easy it is to lose one's way, and what a difficult thing it is to find it again. our wanderers discovered it to be so. they got upon a wrong path that led them into soft, wet ground, where, the first thing they knew, they were up to their ankles in mud; and when they had extricated themselves as well as they could, and struck out boldly for home, confident that they were now making a direct short-cut for it, they found themselves, in a little while, on the same path, at the foot of the same large rock where they were before. this was a little too much for the patience of the two picnickers. johnny looked at nell gravely. "don't!" he said, "don't, nelly dear!" "don't what?" asked nelly, dropping down where she stood, so completely exhausted as to be glad of a moment's rest. "don't cry. you look just like it. all girls cry, you know." [illustration: "they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain." page .] "do they?" asked nell, absently looking about her. then she asked, with energy, "johnny, do you know what i think we ought to do? we must climb this big mountain of a rock, some way, and see what there is on the other side of it. maybe we are near home." "i guess not," said johnny; "but i can climb it if you can." after thinking the case over, they clasped hands once more, and began the ascent. they had to sit down several times, to rest, on the way. the sharp points of the rock and the narrow crevices which they mounted, hurt their tired feet. at last they reached the top, and found themselves in comparative daylight, because they were now out of the woods. they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain on which the picnic had taken place. they beheld from it, distinctly, their homes in the valley beneath. the rock was entirely free from foliage, and nothing obscured the splendor of the landscape below. the sun had just set red and misty in the west, shedding his parting glow over the peaceful village and the scattered farm-houses, on its outskirts. no wonder the two children were overcome by fatigue,--they had been gradually, but unconsciously ascending the hill the whole afternoon. they stood there now, hand in hand, looking down upon their far-off homes. "are you afraid, nell?" asked her companion, in a low voice. "no," said nell; "not now, that we are out of those dark woods; besides, i have thought of a plan to make them see us from below. look here." she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a match. "sidney harrow dropped this when he was kindling the fire, and i thought of comfort's savin' ways and picked it up. can you guess what i am going to do? we must get together some brush-wood, and make a fine blaze that they will see in the village." "and even if they don't come to bring us home," said johnny, "it will keep us warm till morning, and then we can find our own way. but we must go down the rock to get the wood. oh dear! i don't think much of picnics, do you, nell?" very soon a fire burned on the top of the rock, and notwithstanding their fatigue, the children kept it in a broad blaze. as the last bright cloud of sunset faded away, the flames spread boldly into the night air, a signal of distress to those who were safely housed in the farm-houses beneath. having got the fire well going, and a large stock of wood on hand to feed it, the weary, dispirited children sat down to rest, beside it. neither spoke for a long time. they listened intently for the expected aid, yet nothing but the dreary hoot of the owls met their ears, mingled with the moan of the wind, which now being steadily increasing, blew the flames high in the air. nelly got up to poke the coals with a branch she kept for that purpose, and when she had done so, she stood leaning upon it and looking sorrowfully into the valley, where she saw lights twinkling from windows. "johnny," she said, softly, "do you believe anybody can be _perfectly_ good in this world?" "yes," said johnny, carelessly, "i s'pose so, if a fellow tries hard enough. i guess it's pretty tough work though, don't you?" "the more _i_ try, the worse i seem to be; at least,--well, you see, the worse i _feel_ myself to be." "we've neither of us been very good to-day, nell. miss milly told us not to go far, nor to stay long, and i believe we've gone as far as we could, and i'm sure we've stayed a deal longer than we want to,--_i_ have. are you afraid _now_, nell?" "god takes care of us, always," said little nell, solemnly, still leaning on her branch and crossing her feet. "comfort tells me that, and mother reminds me of it when she hears me say my prayers on going to bed." "do you believe it? does he see us _now_?" questioned her companion, raising himself on his elbow and gazing at her as she stood between him and the bright fire. "i believe it," was the reverent answer. "dear johnny, let us not forget our prayers to-night, if we stay up here." there was another long, long pause. "johnny?" "well, nell." "i was wicked to you to-day. i was proud, and told you i didn't know who marm lizy was, when you asked me. that wasn't true, and now i'm sorry." "well, who was she, nell?" tears of repentance for her own sin, and likewise of sorrow at the recollection of poor marm lizy's misspent life, rose to nelly's eyes, and glittered on her cheeks in the red firelight, like rubies. johnny looked at her with redoubled interest. "marm lizy," said nell, getting through her self-imposed confession with a little difficulty, "marm lizy was a--a--a sort of mother to me. she wasn't good to me, and i wasn't good to her. she beat me sometimes, and--and i didn't know any better than to hate her. i wouldn't do so _now_, i think. i should be sorry for her." "where is marm lizy now, nelly?" the boy did not know what remembrances that simple question awoke. nelly did not answer, but crouched down by the fire, and buried her face in her hands. after a long interval she started up again. she heard shouts, faint at first, but gradually growing nearer. she and johnny set up a long, loud, eager cry in return, that woke a dozen mountain echoes. then dogs barked, lanterns gleamed through the dark woods, the shouts burst forth again, and many voices were heard calling them by name! the fire had done its work. the lost were found at last, for in a short time nelly was clasped in her father's arms. so terminated the picnic. the end. transcriber's note: spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication except as follows: page fish-fork. it wasn't your _changed to_ fish-fork. "it wasn't your page i--'blieve--i shall--crack _changed to_ i--b'lieve--i shall--crack nelly,--'spose now, i had _changed to_ nelly,--s'pose now, i had page growing interest; what's _slave_ _changed to_ growing interest; "what's _slave_ page little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' _changed to_ little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' page evergreens are permitted to remain. _changed to_ evergreens are permitted to remain." page 'what!' said my uncle _changed to_ "'what!' said my uncle page all the people were more _changed to_ "all the people were more page it do'n't seem a bit _changed to_ it don't? seem a bit page patience of the two picnicers _changed to_ patience of the two picnickers http://www.archive.org/details/somelittlepeople kriniala some little people by george kringle illustrated [illustration] new york dodd, mead & company publishers copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. some little people. chapter i. 'lisbeth lillibun lived a hundred miles from london. if she had not lived a hundred miles from london, it is likely you would never have heard of her. she would have liked it better had somebody else lived where she did instead of herself. 'lisbeth was a very little girl when she found out that she lived a hundred miles from london. so was dickon, her brother, very little when he found it out, but he did not care so much about it; indeed i think he did not care at all. 'lisbeth always remembered the day upon which she found it out. she could not quite count a hundred herself at the time; she could count ten, but had not learned to count a hundred. she had heard gorham count a hundred, and knew that it was a great many more than ten. she thought that ten was a great many. she knew that ten miles must be a great way; she had several times walked a mile. she had walked a mile the day she discovered that it was a hundred miles to london. a hundred miles, she knew, was a very great way. 'lisbeth had concluded that she would like to live in london; that she would live in london; that london was the only proper place for any body to live. this was why she did not like to discover that london was a hundred miles away. but how she came to know anything about london, or to think it was the only proper place to live, i shall not pretend to say. she had gone a long way from home, that day, with dickon; as i said, she had gone a mile. it was a pleasant mile, straight across the fields, but they should not have gone so far. mother was at the mill; gorham had gone to school; trotty was asleep. dickon and 'lisbeth wanted to do something, or see something, so they wandered over the fields for a mile. if they had not gone so far, 'lisbeth would not have heard about the distance to london; she would have been more happy had she not gone so far; she would not have heard the men, with the packs on their backs, reading the mile-stone. she should not have gone so far from home; we generally come to some grief when we do something which is not quite right. 'lisbeth did. dickon wished to show her the flowers blooming by the way; he wished to show her the bees buzzing in the flowers; he wished to show her the bird warbling on the post, but she was looking at the two men with the packs on their backs; she was looking at them plodding along the way. they grew smaller and smaller to her eyes. they became but specks. they disappeared. she thought she would see them again in london. she would ask them how they got there, and how they liked it. so dickon watched the bees, a long while, by himself, and looked at the pretty flower-hearts; and the bird warbled on the post, but 'lisbeth knew not a thing about it. everything looked more happy than 'lisbeth; the grass that grew under foot, and the contented little weeds that nodded and dozed in the sun, and the flowers that hung just where they grew, with the most comfortable little faces, and the bird that warbled on the post. indeed, as to the bird, it might have been thought that he did not admire 'lisbeth's serious face, that he was too happy himself to be looking at any one who was not as happy as he was, for, though at first, with head turned toward her, he ruffled his throat, and swayed from side to side as he sung and sung, he suddenly grew mute, eyed 'lisbeth with one eye and then with the other, and like a bird who had made up his mind, turned his back upon her, still standing on the post, and lifted his head, and ruffled his throat, and filled the air with his sweet notes, without so much as turning an eye toward 'lisbeth as she stood. everything looked more comfortable than 'lisbeth. do you know why 'lisbeth did not look comfortable? if you cannot think why it was to-day, perhaps you may be able to do so to-morrow. if you cannot think why it was this morning, perhaps you may be able to do so by this evening. indeed, i think you will know without waiting to think a minute. dickon filled her hands with flowers--they were such sweet flowers, with such pretty tender faces; every one had something on its lips to say as it looked up. did you ever guess what the flowers were trying to say loud enough for you to hear? i think they all say something to us; some of us cannot hear what they say, some of us cannot guess what they say. the flowers looked brightly up at 'lisbeth; they did not look discontented, even though they were broken; they did not complain as she carried them away; they did not even turn to look reproachfully at dickon who had broken them from their stems. they were very bright flowers. 'lisbeth wished many times to know if dickon thought the men with the packs had reached london. she asked him so many times, that at length he laughed quite aloud, and yet she knew well enough that the men had to walk a hundred miles; she and dickon had walked but one. so she laughed too, when dickon laughed, and they both began chasing the butterflies that waved their beautiful wings over the field, their wings beautiful as the faces of the flowers; the wings which changed colors as they fanned them in the sun; the pretty wings which changed color every moment and which shone like flower petals sprinkled with gold. when they were tired of chasing butterflies they remembered that trotty might be awake; that gorham might have come home; that mother might have come from the mill, and have been looking for them; so they began chasing each other instead of chasing the butterflies, and it seemed to be much the best thing to do, for as they chased each other they came nearer to the door at home. indeed they should have thought of this before, for as they came bounding around the house, startling the swallows under the eaves, trotty was tumbling from the cradle, and mother was hastening toward the door. chapter ii. 'lisbeth did not forget that it was a hundred miles to london; she never forgot it. she did not forget the two men with the packs on their backs. at the same time she could not forget that a hundred was a great many. 'lisbeth told her mother that they could all put packs on their backs and go to london, that she wanted to live in london; but her mother only laughed, she did not want to go to london to live at that time; she did not want to walk a hundred miles with a pack on her back. after this 'lisbeth felt very much discouraged; she had believed that everybody would like to live in london; she did not know how to manage. if 'lisbeth had been more like the flowers she would have been contented to grow just where she found herself; but she was not like the flowers; she was not like them at all. she thought a great deal about getting to london. i am not sure that 'lisbeth thought enough about it to find out how she would like getting to london if mother did not go along; that is a part which i am almost sure that 'lisbeth did not think about, but she was very determined about getting there. she invited gorham to go with her, but gorham knew better than to try to do that; he knew that london was a great way off; that he could not go unless mother went too; he knew that 'lisbeth was very silly indeed. but 'lisbeth did not believe gorham when he told her all this; she had an opinion of her own. she and dickon used to play "going to london" every day, but this did not suit 'lisbeth. there were five mothers who went to the mill every day. 'lisbeth concluded to ask the little boys and girls belonging to these mothers to go to london with her. then she concluded she would only ask the boys; boys would not get frightened and run away; they would not let anybody pick her up and put her in a bag; dickon was a boy; she knew all about boys; she was afraid the girls would get put in bags. she told the girls they should not go. she stamped her foot at them; they should not go. indeed i do not believe they wanted to go, but the boys did; they liked it. they all concluded to start at once. [illustration] there were seven of them beside dickon. dickon carried a basket, as well as a stick with a rag upon it which they called a flag. 'lisbeth carried a flag too and walked in front. nobody was ever so proud in starting for london; nobody was ever so well pleased, or so little afraid of what might happen on the way, nor at the end of the way, nor at the end of the whole affair. nobody who thought so much of going to london, ever forgot so entirely to think about what was to be done when they got there; what was to be done for a supper, for a penny, for a roof, for a bed, for a second dress or pair of trousers, for a mother! nobody remembered anything but that they were on the way to london. they went a mile. they went across the fields, between clover tops and sweet grasses, and flowers with pleasant faces; they marched, and then forgot to march. 'lisbeth knew the way to the mile-stone, she knew which way the men had turned when they came to the forked road beyond. she remembered watching them out of sight. 'lisbeth was sure she knew the way to london. they went beyond the forks of the road; they went a great way. the little boys began to find out that they had gone a great way. they began to look back for the church steeple, but it was gone; they began to look back for the mill; but there was none. they began to be afraid. 'lisbeth was not afraid. she did not expect to see the church steeple. she did not expect to see the mill; she did not want to see them. she did want to see london. 'lisbeth looked so happy that the little boys forgot to march, and all drew up closer, and closer to 'lisbeth; they were sure she must have something to be happy about. nobody liked to say he did not feel happy, yet nobody was happy but 'lisbeth. all these boys usually were very happy, can you tell me why they did not feel happy now? dickon was the first to find out that everybody was keeping very close to 'lisbeth; that nobody looked pleased but 'lisbeth. "it's a dreadful way to london," said dickon. "i s'pose it is, dickon; but don't be 'scouraged," said 'lisbeth, striding on faster and faster. if she had seen a church spire ahead she would have believed she saw a london spire. "s'pose we don't go to london," said dickon, coming to a halt. "well, s'pose we don't!" said almost all the voices, some high and some low; but 'lisbeth almost gasped, "we will! we must! we've gone a dreadful way, we cannot go back any more." but the little boys were bigger than 'lisbeth; they knew now that she had made a mistake; they thought she might make a mistake about getting to london; they began to think they had made a mistake themselves. 'lisbeth stood stamping in the road; she stood stamping and crying as hard as she could, but even dickon began running toward the mile-stone, and what could she do but turn around and run too? she could do nothing else. she ran as fast as her feet would take her, but her feet were tired. the boys' feet were not as tired; the most of them were bigger than hers; they were bigger and not so tired, so they ran faster. 'lisbeth was left somewhere, i do not know where; left away off on the road carrying her flag, and trotting along at a great rate by herself. this was what she got by taking the boys. she sighed over her mistake, and she concluded that even dickon would not have cared had she been packed in a bag, and, indeed, it seemed he did not. to be sure dickon remembered her after a while, and ran as fast as he could to find her, and see that she was all safe and give her a kiss under her funny little hat to make it all right. but 'lisbeth felt herself hurt beyond measure, as well she might; only, if people will make mistakes they must take the consequences. if people will choose the boys when they should choose the girls, what can they expect; and if they will want to grow in london instead of wanting to grow where god put them, what can they expect? if we want to be very comfortable we must be contented where we find ourselves. chapter iii. the boys did not run very, very long before they saw the mill, and the steeple; they chased along the path in high glee after that, and did a great many things beside chasing along the path. but they all got home so long before the mothers came from the mill, that the mothers never knew that they had ever started for london until they were told. you may be sure they were glad that their boys had at length remembered what a naughty, foolish thing they were doing. but how the girls laughed! you may well know that the girls were pleased enough to see the boys come back. they laughed because the boys had been silly enough to start, and they laughed because they pretended to be amused at their coming back after they had started, but you and i know that they were glad enough that they did come back. as to 'lisbeth, she held her head very high when the girls met her. she did not like being laughed at. they asked her a great many questions about london, and asked her why she did not stay, and how she liked the boys for company. it was very trying. anybody but 'lisbeth would have cried, or flown in a passion, but 'lisbeth did not do either. so then the girls stopped laughing at her, and talked of something else. 'lisbeth would not talk of anything else. she was not contented enough in the place where she grew to talk of anything else yet. she believed the girls would have done better than the boys; that she had made a mistake. everybody liked 'lisbeth. she was not always doing naughty, foolish things like going to london, so the girls were ready to listen to her. she told them how the boys had behaved, and what she thought of them, and how determined she was to go to london, and how she believed that the girls would have behaved better, and invited them to start with her the very next day; and if there ever was a silly little girl in all the world, it was 'lisbeth. [illustration] the girls talked to their mothers that night about 'lisbeth's invitation, which was just the proper thing to do. the mothers were sorry that 'lisbeth was not better contented in the place where she found herself; they were so sorry that they concluded to try to make her better contented, so they told the big girls that they might go, but the very little ones must stay at home. a couple of little ones stole away with the rest and came to great trouble afterward, but the larger girls went with 'lisbeth. 'lisbeth was delighted the next day when the girls said that they would go; she had been thinking so much about it that she was unhappy. you should have seen them the next day when they started. they were a pretty party. 'lisbeth carried no stick this time, but a little basket, and generally managed to keep in front. there were ten of them. i think the old mile-stone would have laughed if it could, when it saw so many sweet faces bend over it to read about the miles, but then, of course, it could not. 'lisbeth had walked so far, and run so much the day before, that she was tired a little soon; she was even very tired indeed, by the time she reached the mile-stone. no one else thought of being tired, they had been quietly playing at home the day before. 'lisbeth did not say that she was tired, yet she really was. the girls' hands were full of flowers, their baskets and arms were full of flowers; they made balls of flowers and played with them as they walked. they left the mile-stone far away; they left the mill and the steeple far out of sight; they came to fields which were new to them. 'lisbeth grew more tired at every step. "we must hurry and get there," said 'lisbeth, and they all hurried; but they could every one hurry faster than 'lisbeth without getting so tired; all except the little naughty ones who stole away, but even they were not as tired as 'lisbeth, they had not walked so far and been so tired the day before. "i know we've come a dreadful long way," said 'lisbeth; but nobody seemed to think so, they all went on as fast as they could. 'lisbeth went on as fast as she could. "i 'most think we've come a hundred miles," said 'lisbeth. "oh no, we have not come many miles at all; it will take us all to-night, and to-morrow, and the next night, and more days and nights besides," said one of the girls, and the rest were all sure it would. "a hundred miles won't take that many days." "yes they will; they will take longer," said one girl, and the rest said so too. "but we will want supper." "we cannot have any." 'lisbeth was not pleased. "we must have some." "we cannot have any till we get to london." 'lisbeth was sure they must have some, but could not think in such a minute how to get it. "we will fish some up," said 'lisbeth, looking at the water. but nobody had any fish-hooks, though there was the water and perhaps the fish. "we will flim in and catch some," but nobody would allow 'lisbeth to swim in and catch some. "we will get some supper from a house." "we have no money." 'lisbeth looked down as she walked. she was perplexed. "we cannot have supper to-night, nor to-morrow night, nor the next night; nor breakfast, nor dinner." 'lisbeth looked up and smiled; she thought they were making sport about it, but the girls' faces were quite serious; besides, she began to wonder herself where supper and dinner would come from. "we must hurry most dreadful; the sun is skimming down low," said 'lisbeth; indeed it began to look late. "oh we will walk all night, and all day, and to-morrow night, and the next day and night and--" "i won't," said 'lisbeth, very decidedly. "you must." "i won't; i'm most dreadful tired now." "there's no house to sleep in; no, not even in london." 'lisbeth looked up at the girl in distress, then off in the distance. "not even in london!" repeated 'lisbeth; "not even in london." 'lisbeth wanted to stand still. "come along!" said several voices; but 'lisbeth did not wish to come along, and the little girls who were naughty and stole away were crying as hard as they could cry. "you must; you wanted to go, and we started, and you must go." "but i'm tired; i want to think a minute." "the sun is almost down." "i want to go home," said 'lisbeth. "we want to go to london, and if you do not go now you can never go." 'lisbeth stood up very tall. she was very grave. she looked straight ahead of her. "i will go back; i will never go," said 'lisbeth. then they all went back, and 'lisbeth never knew how pleasant home was, how good supper was, how dear mother was, how long a hundred miles must be, till she had managed to get back and fly into mother's arms, and eat mother's supper, and go to bed in the nice comfortable place where she belonged. 'lisbeth was very sick and very sore, and very uncomfortable for many days after trying to get to london, and did not forget very soon how far a hundred miles must be. chapter iv. 'lisbeth did not talk any more about london for a great while after that. she may have thought about it, but she did not do any more. she talked about other things. and she grew tall much faster, i have no doubt, than she would have done in london. the country air was good, and made her grow fast. you will see in the picture that she looks taller than she did when she stood thinking by the mile-stone. as she stood there, that day, she was listening to philip mcgreagor, a little boy who lived down the road, and dickon was listening too. dickon and 'lisbeth were dressed in their very best clothes. 'lisbeth's dress was quite new. a very pretty blue with dark speckles. dickon was sorry they had on their best clothes after listening to philip. philip was going to be rich. he had found a pearl in a mussel in a brook; why should he not find a million? why could not 'lisbeth find a million? 'lisbeth thought she could find a million; she thought she might be as rich as philip; then she could go to london. [illustration] 'lisbeth and dickon had been told not to go beyond the roller which laid on the pathway at a little distance from the house. mother was home. it was a holiday. she wanted her children under her eyes. besides, she had dressed them in their very best clothes. she bought those clothes; she had made them; she was a little bit proud of them. 'lisbeth forgot the roller; forgot the mother home from the mill; forgot the very best clothes; forgot everything but the mussels and the brook, and dickon forgot them too. there must be mussels in the brook, and pearls in the mussels. they would wade for them; they could see them at the bottom of the stream. they ran along the road to the woods; along the wood's path to the brook. dickon took off his shoes. 'lisbeth forgot to take off her shoes. they waded along in the water. 'lisbeth at first held the blue dress out of the water; then she forgot to hold it out of the water; then she slipped on a stone, and fell in, and dickon slipped, and splashed in the water in trying to keep her up; and the water, which had been clear as crystal, threw up its mud in indignation. they climbed out of the mud upon the grass, and looked at each other. 'lisbeth had lost her shoes. dickon looked at his own. they were all he had of his very best rig. how could they ever get home? dickon tried to wipe the mud off, to wring it out, but 'lisbeth would not be wrung out; she said she did not mind. but she did mind, because she would not walk or sit down, or do anything for a few minutes but stand and look. then she told dickon to come with her. he came, and they went down to dillon's cottage. "please, mr. dillon, put me in the wheelbarrow," said 'lisbeth. but dillon only stopped smoking his pipe to laugh. "please, mr. dillon, very fast put me in a wheelbarrow," said 'lisbeth, growing excited, "and roll me home." and mr. dillon did. 'lisbeth's mother looked from the door. she saw the wheelbarrow; she saw dillon's coat over something in the wheelbarrow. and other people looked from their doors and saw them too. 'lisbeth's mother was not pleased when she saw what was in the wheelbarrow, and 'lisbeth was no nearer getting to london than she had been before, because they were poorer instead of richer. 'lisbeth's mother cried over the spoiled clothes. 'lisbeth felt very badly about them, so did dickon, but feeling badly did not bring them back. they were nothing, from that time, but stained, and washed, and faded clothes instead of brand new ones. 'lisbeth thought about the clothes so much that she concluded she should try to do something to buy more. she began to think she was getting big enough. she contrived a great many ways, but she could not seem to decide upon anything. there was an old hogshead under the walnut tree, very high and old. when she had anything very important to think about she liked to climb up and sit on the top of the hogshead. she never allowed anybody to sit there with her. she climbed up on the hogshead and sat very still, thinking how to manage about the new clothes. suddenly she had a pleasant thought; she believed she had a thought that would answer. she jumped up and down so suddenly and so hard that the hogshead tried to move its head out of the way. it was scarcely polite for 'lisbeth to jump so hard on its head. it did move its head--or a part of it--and 'lisbeth sat inside the hogshead instead of outside of it. the mother found her there when she came home. had 'lisbeth picked the beans, as mother had told her to do, instead of trying to think about doing something else, she would not have been obliged to sit in the hogshead's mouth, nor to have eaten her porridge without beans. chapter v. 'lisbeth was awake bright and early next day; she had business to attend to. mother told her to be a good girl and take care of trotty. 'lisbeth said she would. i suppose she thought she would, but she forgot trotty very soon, for she saw neighbor gilham across the hill driving his sheep. away she went running and skipping. she could scarcely wait to get to neighbor gilham; but she was obliged to wait, for the path across the field and up to the hill was quite winding; she was obliged to follow the path. "good morning," said 'lisbeth, at length coming near neighbor gilham. "good morning," said he; "what brought you so far from home?" "i came on business," said 'lisbeth; "very important." "indeed! where are you going?" "nowhere. i'm going to be a sheep-boy. i made up my mind to 't yesterday, only i got in the hogshead." "and whose sheep are you going to mind?" "yours. i want to get money to buy a new dress, because i tumbled in the mud and spoiled my blue speckled, and i want to get rich to go to london." "hi! hi! that is it; and you are going to be a sheep-boy?" "yes, sir, please go home." "i cannot have a sheep-boy with skirts, he must have pants; the sheep would not like a sheep-boy with skirts." 'lisbeth hung down her head; she began pulling some berries which grew among the brambles. she did not say another word to mr. gilham; she only ran down the path. mr. gilham giggled a little to see her go. mr. gilham fell asleep; fell, rather into a doze. it did not seem to him many minutes from the time when he saw her run down the path, till he heard her say: "please go home, sir." "who are you?" said mr. gilham, rousing up. "i'm the sheep-boy 'lisbeth lillibun." [illustration] "i cannot have a sheep-boy in borrowed trousers," said mr. gilham, very decidedly; "it would not do." "yes it would! dickon said i might borrow 'm; yes it would do very much indeed." mr. gilham was so positive that it would not do that 'lisbeth began to cry. "sheep-boys never cry, never," said mr. gilham, and 'lisbeth wiped her eyes as fast as she could. "please to go home very fast," said 'lisbeth, but mr. gilham only laughed, which made 'lisbeth very uncomfortable. "please to don't laugh so much," said 'lisbeth; "more people 'n me tend to business." "sheep-boys must keep big dogs away; they would kill the sheep." "yes, when i see 'm coming." "sheep-boys must drive away men; they would steal the sheep." "yes; of course," said 'lisbeth, trying to look very tall. "sheep-boys must keep away lions, and tigers, and bears." "did you ever drive away any tigers and lions and bears, mr. gilham?" inquired 'lisbeth, looking straight in his eyes. "i never did, but my sheep-boy must; that is what i want a sheep-boy for." "he can't if there are none," said 'lisbeth, looking very wise. "but there might be." "i don't think there might be." "but if there should be?" "i'll--run and tell you," said 'lisbeth. neighbor gilham decided that this would never do, and 'lisbeth thought him unreasonable enough, but she felt half inclined to stamp her foot at him, and tell him to go home, but he looked so big and idle; he looked too big and idle to get home. she thought it was a pretty business, and so it was. she concluded that she had gone into the hogshead's mouth for nothing, and so she had. she had much better been picking beans that afternoon, to put in her own mouth, but people who are not contented with doing the right thing in the right place, often fall into worse places than the hogshead's mouth, and get into more business than they care to find. "please to tell me what i'm going to do?" inquired 'lisbeth. "you are going to run home and mind trotty," replied neighbor gilham. 'lisbeth was indignant enough. "dickon can mind trotty; he's mind'n her now. i'm not a minder." "i thought you did not look like a minder. sheep-boys are all minders, every one of them, so run home." 'lisbeth stood looking at him over her shoulder. she was too indignant for words. "if you want to grow rich," said neighbor gilham, a little bit sorry for her--a little bit sorry not to help her in getting into business--"if you want to get rich, go hunt in all the flowers between here and home; maybe you'll find one with a gold heart." 'lisbeth looked over her shoulder at him again very fiercely, and did not say a word; then she walked down the path. she would not let neighbor gilham see her hold up the flower cups and look in, or unroll the buds to peep toward the heart; she would not let him see her, but she did it for all that. when she began she did not know when to stop. she hunted and hunted and looked and looked. she found the sweetest bells among the grass, but she never knew that they were sweet at all, she was only looking in every bell for gold. she found the brightest flower faces looking up at her, but never knew that they were bright. she tossed them away from her. she found neither pence nor pounds. she found the prettiest flower-lips trying to speak to her, as she bent over them, but she heard nothing that they said, she heard not a breath; she scarcely saw that the lips were pretty at all. had she heard they would have told her to be content with the flower hearts, just as she found them; that they would give her themselves with their bright faces and patient hearts, which were better than hard hearts of gold. they would have told her to be content with growing where she was, and never to think about the world beyond the mile-stone, for contentment is better than gold itself. they would have told her to mind trotty, and pick beans, and help mother, which was the dearest, best, and happiest work she could ever find; but 'lisbeth would not hear, she would not hear at all. she did not know that neighbor gilham could see her from the hill. she forgot all about gilham; she forgot all about mother and trotty; forgot everything which she should have remembered, though she found no gold. neighbor gilham should never have sent her hunting for what he knew she could not find, he should not have told her to hunt for gold in the flower-hearts; he should have rather told her to listen to the lesson of the flowers and be content. but neighbor gilham did not tell her this, and she did not think of it, and though she came home no richer, she was hustled to bed before twilight and for her supper had neither porridge with nor porridge without the beans. chapter vi. when 'lisbeth's mother came home from the mill and found out how matters were going; when 'lisbeth came home in dickon's suit, from hunting for gold, she felt very certain that 'lisbeth was not as good as many little girls were, and this made her sigh very deeply. then she tried to think how to make her better; she scarcely knew how to begin, but she thought the best way, perhaps, would be to send her to school with gorham, and let dickon, who was a better "minder" than 'lisbeth, take care of trotty. 'lisbeth was not pleased at all. she did not think she would like to go to school, but her mother did not ask her opinion; it was not worth while. 'lisbeth went to school the next morning. the school teacher smiled at 'lisbeth when she came in. 'lisbeth did not smile; she looked very serious indeed. "how do you do, my dear?" said the teacher. "i do what i like, ma'am, most times," said 'lisbeth. this was very improper, but 'lisbeth did not know it; she believed she had answered correctly. [illustration] miss pritchet was not pleased, she only said, "sit down, my dear," and 'lisbeth sat down. by and by miss pritchet told 'lisbeth to come stand by her, and 'lisbeth came. "what have you been learning, little girl?" inquired miss pritchet. "i've been learning the way all around the country, and how to spike minnows in the mill race, and--" "tut, tut!" said miss pritchet. "i mean have you been learning to read and write and spell?" "no 'm, i never learned those at all, only to spell." "then you will like to learn i know; you will like to learn lessons." "is there anything about london in 'm?" "about london?" "yes 'm. london is a hundred miles away. i learned that a time ago." "when you can read you can learn more about london if you wish to; you will find it in the books." "yes 'm i want to," said lisbeth. "i wish to live there." "you must learn to be satisfied where you are," said miss pritchet; "you must not want to go to london." "i mean to." "i thought you were a good little girl; good little girls are satisfied here." "are they?" "yes, they are; you must be satisfied here." "but i don't mean to be." "oh!" said miss pritchet. "i mean to get to london very fast," continued 'lisbeth. "little girls who do not like to live where they find themselves often come to great trouble," said miss pritchet, with the corners of her mouth all drawn down. "maybe i may like to grow where i find myself when i get to london," said 'lisbeth a little despairingly. "you are not a very good little girl, i am afraid," said miss pritchet, but 'lisbeth could not think why miss pritchet said such a thing. "get your book now and come spell." "yes 'm," said 'lisbeth, like the best little girl that ever was. "can you spell?" "yes 'm. is london in this book? it begins with an l." "tut! tut!" said miss pritchet, "let me hear you spell that line." 'lisbeth spelled, she spelled better than miss pritchet had imagined. "that is a nice little girl. now take your book and go learn this next line." 'lisbeth took the book and sat down to spell. she got along nicely for a little way; then she came to the word aisle. she did not like the appearance of it. she did not like it at all. she ran up to miss pritchet's desk. "what does this spell?" she inquired. "that is aisle," said miss pritchet. "aisle!" repeated 'lisbeth; "i do not like spelling aisle with a i s l e; i like i l e." "hush, my dear." "but i don't like it," persisted 'lisbeth. "if i don't like it i don't." "go and sit down at once," commanded miss pritchet. 'lisbeth went and sat down. she learned every word but aisle. 'lisbeth was a very foolish little girl not to learn aisle. "come here, my dear," said miss pritchet; she gave 'lisbeth the words. 'lisbeth spelled them very well. then said miss pritchet, "aisle--" "i did not learn it," said 'lisbeth. "i said i did not like it and i don't." "but you must learn it, if you like it or not." "i must?" said 'lisbeth, in astonishment. "of course you must; we all must do a great many things which we do not like." "i don't mean to," said 'lisbeth. miss pritchet was astonished. "you must." "what must i do beside learning to spell aisle?" "nothing now!" "oh," said 'lisbeth, reassured; "i thought you said we must all do a great many things." "go sit down this minute," commanded miss pritchet, and 'lisbeth sat down, and she learned aisle, but she did not get home until very late, because miss pritchet said that such a very improperly behaved child should never go home at a proper time, from her school; but 'lisbeth could not see, with all her trying, what she had been improper about. had she learned aisle, though she did not want to? certainly she had. besides being perplexed about this, she was a little vexed with miss pritchet about something else. she had been given to understand that there was something about london in the books. she had been spelling words half the day and had not come to london. she spelled and spelled, but did not come to london. she felt herself imposed upon; she felt herself very much imposed upon. "please find london," asked 'lisbeth at length of miss pritchet. "london indeed? not for such an improper little girl. you must stop thinking about london, i say. you will be sorry if you do not stop. you must." "i must?" said 'lisbeth, a little meekly. "i must, must i?" but as she said it her voice sounded very much as though it said, "if i cannot, how can i?" "yes, you must;" and 'lisbeth went and sat down to think about it. this was 'lisbeth's first day at school and she had a great many more days at school, and learned a great many things every day, but one thing she did not manage to learn at all--to stop thinking about london. chapter vii. 'lisbeth did not find any word in her lesson the next day which she did not like. she spelled them over, and concluded that she liked them all pretty well. one word she looked at quite hard before she concluded that she liked them all, but she found out that she did not object to it. she spelled them so nicely that miss pritchet was quite pleased, and 'lisbeth had a little more time than she had the day before, to look around and find out what next was to be done. jemmy jenkins sat next to her; he was older than 'lisbeth, but that did not make any matter; he whispered to 'lisbeth behind his slate. she thought after this that she knew jemmy jenkins better than anybody else. at recess she and jemmy jenkins had a great deal of fun and jumped over miss pritchet's garden plot seventeen times each, without getting in the middle of it more than twice. "say, jemmy," said 'lisbeth, "i think this flower plot would look nice with its roots stuck up." "how?" inquired jemmy, ready for anything new and agreeable. "this way," replied 'lisbeth, and she seized a pretty marguerite in bloom, dug it up with a stick, and planted it upside down; the stick to which it was tied for support she propped under it to keep the roots in the air, for the marguerites have little tender stems. nobody happened to see. jemmy thought this would be very nice. he ran and got the spade, and took out his knife to cut sticks, and they soon turned miss pritchet's plants upside down, with the flowers in the ground, and the roots in the air, and nobody caught them at it. they washed off the mud at the pump, and then the bell rang and they all went in to school. [illustration] miss pritchet looked from the window; she caught a glimpse of the garden plot; she caught a glimpse of the roots in the air; she gave a little cry and ran to the door. 'lisbeth had forgotten the marguerites. she was trying to squeeze a big knot through the little hole in her shoe. "who did this?" miss pritchet almost screamed. "i don't know 'm!" replied everybody in a minute, seeing something had happened. 'lisbeth called, "don't know 'm!" together with the rest, without knowing what the confusion was about. when she found out what it was about, she only said "oh!" miss pritchet looked at her. she looked at miss pritchet. "did you do that?" inquired miss pritchet, pointing to the marguerites. "do what?" inquired 'lisbeth as politely as she could. "uproot my flowers." "were they yours?" "did you do it?" "yes 'm," replied 'lisbeth, trying to look as though nothing had happened. "i didn't think anybody tended 'm." "what did you do it for?" "to give 'm air," replied 'lisbeth. "please 'm may susan jordan put this string in my shoe, it won't never go in?" "come here this moment, you improper child!" said miss pritchet. 'lisbeth dropped her shoe-string and cowered up to miss pritchet like a startled dove. "didn't you know better?" "no 'm, i never did." "you will!" "will i? i want to know as much as i can," said 'lisbeth. need i say that miss pritchet taught her at once what it was to put the roots of marguerites to air? i need not tell you, i know. but one thing i will tell you, 'lisbeth bore her punishment by herself, and never told on jemmy jenkins; but jemmy jenkins was man enough to tell on himself, which was much the best way, and pleased miss pritchet so much that she broke off both punishments clear in the middle, and told 'lisbeth and jemmy jenkins that she would try not to remember about the marguerites at all, if they would try never to do so any more. yet when 'lisbeth, upon starting for home, told her that she had learned one thing that day, she had learned not to put the roots of marguerites to air, miss pritchet looked very stern, for which 'lisbeth could not account at all. gorham felt very much ashamed in having his sister treat miss pritchet's marguerites in such an unfeeling manner; he felt very much ashamed indeed. gorham was a very proper boy; he did not like to have his sister called an improper child. he would like to have told miss pritchet so, only that would have been improper. he was not pleased with miss pritchet; he was not pleased with 'lisbeth; he was not pleased with jemmy jenkins. after school he told jemmy jenkins what he thought of it; that it was not proper to treat anybody's marguerites in such a manner; that he was older and bigger and wiser than 'lisbeth, and should have told her better; and jemmy jenkins sat on a log rubbing his fingers together and thinking that gorham was not making any mistakes at all, though he, himself, had made a great mistake when he helped 'lisbeth plant the marguerites with the roots up. jemmy jenkins felt very much ashamed of himself, very much ashamed indeed, which was the very best way for him to feel, as he would not be likely, after feeling so much ashamed of himself, to do so again. 'lisbeth told her mother that she was learning a great deal at school; then the mother smiled, but when she heard about the marguerites she did not smile, she looked as stern as she could, and 'lisbeth thought this was beyond bearing, for everybody to look stern when she was learning and improving. but 'lisbeth did improve, she improved a great deal, only after she had been at school with miss pritchet a couple of years it turned out that 'lisbeth could not stay any longer with miss pritchet, could not stay any longer where she grew, but must go to a new place, and go a great way to get to it; in fact, after a great deal of talking, and a great deal of thinking, and a great deal of planning, 'lisbeth's mother found that she must--she could not help it, she could do nothing better--she must go to live in london. chapter viii. now 'lisbeth had never given up counting the miles to london. she had counted them up by tens many a time; she had counted them up by twenties; she had counted them up every way there was to count them, but they continued to be a great many miles. when she learned that she was going to grow in a new place, she believed that nothing would ever trouble her any more; that the world would be made over new. 'lisbeth could not help in getting ready; if she had done less in getting ready she might have helped her mother more. but mother helped herself. she sold a great many things, and she left a great many things to be sent after her, and she carried a great many things with her. mother cried when she left the old house, but 'lisbeth did not cry, she danced about on the points of her toes, till she laughed herself quite red in the face. 'lisbeth had always been a little foolish about london. 'lisbeth had wished a great while to go to london. she might have been a great deal happier in the beautiful place where she grew if she had not wished so hard; she had wished very hard and she got there. she had always believed that london was delightful; now she knew it was. she had lived in a dear little mite of a house, now she would live in a tall one. she had lived next and near to a great many people, now she would live under the roof with a great many people. she had lived on a lane, now she would live on a--well, a street which was too little and short and narrow to be called a street. 'lisbeth knew she had come to london because she was poorer, instead of because she was richer, but that did not make any difference. at the end of the street too little to be called a street, was a real, true, broad street, with fine houses packed together from one end to the other end of it. 'lisbeth slipped down the stairs, and along the little street to the corner. she threw up her hands in admiration. she looked up and down in delight. it was a fine thing to live in london, a very great and fine thing indeed. she ran quite out of the little street to look up and down the greater one. she saw the windows in rows, blazing with lights. she clapped her hands; she was delighted. she heard children's voices from an open window. she climbed stealthily up to the window and looked in. six children appeared before her, with very sweet faces, and pretty clothes, and the lights flashed down upon them from overhead. they were playing with dolls. they were playing so hard that they did not see 'lisbeth clinging to the sill. they were pretending that the dolls were talking to each other, that the one was the man and the other the mistress. the mistress was telling the man to take off his hat; but he was a stubborn man, he would not take off his hat. then the children all laughed, and 'lisbeth laughed so much harder than anybody else, that they all looked up and saw her hanging to the sill; then she dropped suddenly, and forgot that she had to drop so far, and had she not caught by her skirt and hung to the iron railing of the area, nobody knows how she might have been broken and battered and bruised by falling down the area before she had been in london over night. but she caught to the spikes and her dress was strong; and the children all ran and saw her hanging to the spikes, and somebody lifted her over and stood her on her feet and turned her around to see what she looked like, and then she ran home as soon as she could find out which way to run. she found out that the big street was nicer than the little one; that the people on the big street were different from the people on the little one. she found out that all the houses and streets in london were not just alike, and she found this out before she had gone to sleep the first night, in the little black room, in the big dirty house, in the little black street. but she was not sorry she had come to london. she wondered if everybody who lived in london had such lovely dolls as the mistress, such wonderful dolls as the man she had seen. she wondered if there were many children in london who wore such pretty clothes, and who played under such flashing lights, and who had such shining glasses, and tables, and chairs, and wonderful furniture of all kinds in the rooms where they played, and she concluded there must be; this time she did not make a mistake, for there were. [illustration] 'lisbeth noticed that her mother, and gorham, and dickon, and trotty did not go in any rooms of the tall house but two; she found that these two were at the top of the house, and that they had nothing to do with those underneath; she found out that there was a great clatter in the house, and in the next houses, as though the whole town were talking; she wondered how she liked it; but she concluded that she liked it very much; she was living in london, how could she help liking it? mother looked solemn, and the rooms looked black, and the things were tumbled upside down, and the air was hot, and the noise kept everybody awake, and everybody was half tired to death, and nothing was as bright as it might have been--not even the tallow candle--but they were in london, a hundred miles from the mile-stone; a hundred miles from the church steeple, and the mill, and the dear bit of a house where they had all grown, and rolled, and tumbled; and from the meadows with the flowers sleeping side by side; but they were in london, what did it matter? yet if they really were in london, while they slept they dreamed they were playing, and walking and talking under the shadow of the church steeple, and by the mill, and chasing butterflies over the meadows where the flowers were fast asleep, and forgot that the rooms were black, and the air hot, and that things were not as they had been. chapter ix. 'lisbeth learned a great many things very soon, though she was not at school. a very great many things indeed; and they were not always pleasant things. she learned, for one thing, that they grew poorer every day, instead of growing richer. she learned that the dirty little street, too little to be a real street, was not as pleasant to look upon as the garden plot at home, and the green of the fields over the way. she learned that mother grew thinner, and that the boys grew dirtier and crosser, and the people down stairs, she found out, were not like the mill hands at home, the mill hands and the little children. she saw a great many fine sights; she saw shops which made her open her eyes; and houses which astonished her to behold, and carriages which took her breath away, and people who overcame her altogether. she saw sights and shows such as she had never dreamed of; she saw a wax figure at the corner, with a fine curled wig, a figure which turned from side to side; she saw sights on every side to please her fancy, to delight her eyes, but only to make her remember afterward that she lived among a lot of dirty people, in two miserable old rooms, in a dirty little street; that she was really happier in the place where she grew first than in the place where she grew last; that made her wonder why she had ever sighed, and sighed, and wished to get a hundred miles away from that precious old mile-stone. she was not contented in london a bit more than she had been contented playing in the shadow of the steeple and of the mill. she was not contented at all. had she learned to be contented under the shadow of the mill and the steeple, under the walnut tree, and among the flowers around the mile-stone, she might have smiled brighter smiles in the dark little room in the dirty old house, in the dirty little street in london. a bright, contented flower says the same sweet words in the fresh green fields, and in a little flower pot up in a london window; a contented little flower always wears a bright face. a contented heart is always cheerful. 'lisbeth had never been contented. she was always wishing to be somewhere else. she was not contented before she went to london, that was the reason why she was not contented when she reached there. 'lisbeth tried to find some nice little london girl to talk to; she tried first to find a great many, then she tried to find one; she tried to find some nice little london boys; then she tried to find one nice little london boy; but the boys and the girls had not been taught to be very nice, in the dirty old house in the dirty little street, and though some of them had good enough faces, they had not pleasant ways, nor pleasant words. when gorham and dickon wanted to play they found nobody but boys who were not comfortable boys to play with; at first they did not play with those uncomfortable boys at all; then they played with them a little, and then they played with them more, so that dickon and gorham became after a time not as good and pleasant themselves as they once were. one day there were some new people came to live in a room down stairs; a mother and father and three little boys. they looked as though they had never lived in such a dirty street before. they were good little boys, with pleasant ways, and pleasant words, and very pleasant faces. 'lisbeth liked to peep in and help them play; she liked to play with them very much; they made her feel happier. 'lisbeth had come to london, but she was not very happy; she did not say so, but it was true just the same. these little boys had no toys to play with, but they were good and contented just the same. they played with whatever came in their way; they were as happy in playing with the old chairs as many boys are with their rocking-horses. they were contented little boys. but they were very poor; 'lisbeth knew they were; she was very sorry that they were so poor, but they were not. they did not care at all. she was sorry that the mother and father had to leave them so much alone; perhaps they may have been sorry themselves about this, i do not know. how 'lisbeth laughed when she saw them playing with the brooms. they made a procession, that is they all walked in a line; the tallest at the head, and the little one coming last, and each one carried a brush or broom with a long handle, and if soldiers were ever proud of their guns, so were these little boys proud. perhaps they were more proud than soldiers with guns. [illustration] 'lisbeth knew that these little boys were alone a great deal, because their mother and father were so poor, and were obliged to go and earn all they could, and she used to run in very often to see how they managed. but these were contented little boys; they were contented where they found themselves, and that was the reason why they got along so well. if they had been discontented they would have gone out of their mother's rooms into other rooms in the house, and then into the street, and into the gutter. then they would have become soiled and spoiled, and changed altogether, but they were contented with their mother's rooms, and her chairs and tables, and frying pans, and brooms, and all the things which they found there; so they did not get soiled or spoiled or changed, but kept good and bright, pleasant little pictures as you would find in a day's walk. 'lisbeth found, after she came to london, that there was a great deal to be done besides play; she had to learn to sew and help mother earn some money, but she was not very big and could not do much, only try. at first 'lisbeth believed she could make a great deal of money. she knew people must make money in london; she had heard so. besides, people seemed to spend so much that there must be some way of getting it. 'lisbeth was sure there was. she tried to make money in several ways. this was a mistake; she should have been content with trying to help all she could at home, and then mother would have had more time, and so could have made more money, which would have helped them all. but this was not 'lisbeth's way of doing. she tried to make a way of her own. one day 'lisbeth saw a little boy sweeping a street crossing; she had seen boys do this before, but had never thought anything about it. this time she thought about it because she saw some gentleman drop a little coin in the little boy's hand. this was a revelation to 'lisbeth; it taught her something which she did not know before. in another hour 'lisbeth was sweeping a very dirty crossing, and she swept it and swept it over again; she swept until there really was not another speck to sweep, and the people, by the dozens and scores and hundreds walked over that crossing, and carried to it more mud for 'lisbeth to sweep away, but nobody put an atom of anything in 'lisbeth's hand for sweeping it, though she stood there the whole long day; and she found out still another time that money was hard to pick up even in london, and if she stopped that day, in passing, as she generally did to look at the wax figure in the curled wig, at the corner of the street, she did not care a fig about it. chapter x. 'lisbeth was quite down-hearted that day after sweeping the crossing; she was discouraged enough, especially as her mother was greatly grieved at her going away and staying so long, and reproved her very severely. she felt very much discouraged indeed, but could not help believing in spite of it all that something would turn up, which would be bright and pleasant in such a fine city; she could not believe anything else. as she came home that day she popped her head in the door of the room on the lower floor, to see how matters were getting on there. she shut the door again carefully, without saying a word. on the floor were scattered many things, and in the corner, like so many leaves blown together, were the three little boys fast asleep. how tired they must have been; how hard they had played; indeed they had played too hard, for near them on the floor lay the remnants of mother's good sweeping brush which they had played quite to destruction. they were tired completely, and never knew that 'lisbeth had looked in upon them to find out how they were getting along. [illustration] i wonder what they were dreaming of as they slept; i believe they must have been pleasant dreams, unless they were dreaming about the broken brush--they were such comfortable-looking little faces, and they had such comfortable hearts, because they were good, and comfortable hearts help bring bright dreams. when the mother came home i think she must have smiled to see them heaped in the corner fast asleep, but i suppose she had found them heaped in a corner asleep many a time. i hope she did not scold very hard about the broken brush, and i am almost sure she did not. 'lisbeth, as i said before, felt very much discouraged that evening. she even felt dull the next morning, and the next afternoon. the mother had gone out that afternoon to take home some sewing; the boys were playing outside. 'lisbeth had nobody to talk to. she concluded to talk to herself. she got up on a high three-legged stool in the corner, and sat with her face to the wall; she wanted to think. she could not think if she was looking out of the window, or around the room, or if she sat in every-day fashion on a chair or on the floor. she sat in the darkest corner she could find. "'lisbeth lillibun," she said to herself, "you have done nothing for yourself yet by coming to london; you have done nothing for yourself yet;" and it seemed that all the glasses and crockery on the table, and on the shelf, and even the coffee pot turned up on the stove to dry, jingled and rattled and laughed; but, of course, they did not. "you must be up and a-doing, 'lisbeth; it is time;" then the tin tea pot, and the coffee pot, and the candlestick turned up on the stove to melt the old candle out, and the spider and the skillet and the dipper seemed, every one of them, to be giggling, and 'lisbeth looked around at them; but of course it was only a fancy. "you have been making a goose of yourself, and most of all in sweeping a crossing dry for people to spatter with mud; you should be ashamed of yourself to be such a silly, and sitting where you are instead of being sitting somewhere else," and the tongs did clap together, and the poker did roll over, and the gridiron did give a clink against the wall, but i think the wind must have blown down the chimney. 'lisbeth was insulted, however; she did not believe in the tins and tongs making fun of her. she got down from the stool, and put her bonnet on, and then changed it for her hat with a ribbon tied around it, and then she went out where there were no tongs to clap at her; but of course it was only a fancy of 'lisbeth's about the tongs, for how could a tongs clap unless it was clapped? it was wrong for 'lisbeth to go out; her place was in the house. but she thought that it happened just as well that she did go out, for as she went down stairs she thought a thought, which she might never have thought had she remained sitting upon the stool. she went down stairs and along the little street to the corner, and opened the door of the store in the window of which stood the wax figure with its wig, which was standing still just then, instead of turning gracefully from side to side. she opened the door and went in. "what do you want, sissy?" inquired a pleasant little man. "i want to stay, sir, and make wigs." "you want to stay and make wigs!" "yes, sir, i do," replied 'lisbeth. "bless me!" exclaimed the pleasant little man, "this will not do." "oh, yes, it will, sir," replied 'lisbeth, untying the knot in the strings of her hat, "it will do very well. i have not been able to think of any thing that would do before." "but bless me!" "indeed i will, sir, if that is all," said 'lisbeth, wondering how to do it, but taking off her hat. "i don't want any wigs!" "you don't?" replied 'lisbeth, filled with astonishment. "no, i don't; i really don't!" 'lisbeth saw that he had plenty of hair, and as he rubbed his head she supposed he was remembering this. "other people do," said 'lisbeth, reassured; "i see a good many of 'm every day who do; you can sell 'm." "sell 'm? i do sell 'm. i sell 'm when i can; but bless me!" "where shall i get the hair to make 'm of?" inquired 'lisbeth, preparing to go to work. "but i don't want 'm!" "oh!" replied 'lisbeth, not a word else; but the pleasant little man snapped his fingers at her and beckoned her around the counter, and under the shelf of the beautiful big window, and made her screw herself up into a button which nobody could see, and pulled a curtain down over her, and showed her, before he pulled the curtain down, how to pull a wire very gently and tenderly to make the wax figure in the curled wig turn from side to side, and she did it. she pulled it this way, and she pulled it that way. she heard the people outside tramping up to the window and tramping away; she remembered how she had tramped up and tramped away. she laughed to hear them tramping, because she knew that a great many of them had their mouths open as well as their eyes, as they saw the wax figure, in a wig, turning from side to side. she would never open her mouth as well as her eyes again, when she saw a wax figure turning from side to side. she was certain she never would. chapter xi. how long 'lisbeth might have sat under the shelf, and under the curtain, earning pence and pulling wires, and forgetting that her mother was looking for her, had she not fallen into a doze, i cannot say. she might have been there till now; she might have been there ten years to come; but she did doze and she did wake up; she had swept the crossing hard enough the day before to be tired, and she was; she was tired, and it was coming night, and she did doze, and she did wake up, and she did wake up with a start which broke the wire, and twisted the head of the wax figure clear out of place, so that it looked in the shop instead of out of it, and made a confusion inside, and outside, and on all sides, seldom made by any wax figure in any wig since the beginning of time. 'lisbeth told the pleasant little man that she could not help it, and he told her that he could not help it, and 'lisbeth went home--to be sure seven pence richer, but a good deal flustered and disappointed, and with the determination never again, while she lived and breathed, to have anything to do with, or even so much as to look at any wax figures or any wigs. 'lisbeth's mother told her that had she waited, and asked her advice, instead of leaving her to such distress in looking for her, she would have told her, in the beginning, to have nothing to do in the matter of wigs, with which she was not acquainted, and reproved her for staying away till the candle was lighted on the shelf; and 'lisbeth, if she was no more unhappy than she had been when she stood by the mile-stone, was certainly no more happy. to be sure she was richer. though she had broken the wire, the pleasant little man had given her seven pence, though she had gained nothing more; but the bother, now, was to know what to do with it. had it been seven thousand pence she might, perhaps, have known better what to do with it; but seven pence were of so much more consequence; being a little it had to go a great way. there was no trifling to be done about it. she knew the importance of it. she was awake half the night considering how to spend it, and the other half she was dreaming of losing and finding it, until by morning her head was almost split in two. had 'lisbeth run home and given the seven pence to her mother to buy a nice platted loaf or a piece of bacon, her head had not almost split in two; but 'lisbeth was always making trouble for herself. though the thoughts and worry about the pence almost split her head, she was not in a condition in the morning to know what to do with the pence. she had her own pence and her own plan, had she had less of her own she would have been more comfortable. but 'lisbeth was 'lisbeth, and if her mother sighed about it, she could not see any way of making her anybody else. when breakfast was over that morning the mother went to carry some sewing home, and while she was gone 'lisbeth thought she would go out too. this was very wrong; very wrong indeed, but 'lisbeth did not wait to think about that. she took a basket when she went out, and she took her seven pence. she felt herself very important indeed, though really she was nobody but a disobedient little girl. she came to a cake shop where all kinds of cakes were to be bought. "i'm going to keep store," said 'lisbeth to the shopman, "and i want some wonderful nice cakes." "you do, do you?" said the shopman; "let me see your money." "seven pence," said 'lisbeth, displaying it on the counter; "i want to spend it all." "you do, do you? where's your store?" "in my basket," said 'lisbeth, but there was nothing in her basket but a bit of brown paper. "what would you like to buy with your seven pence?" asked the shopman. "a great many things," said 'lisbeth; "but i think i will buy some of these cakes." "humph," said the shopman; "pick out nine of 'm." 'lisbeth picked them out. they were cakes of different shapes; quite a stock for seven pence, and no mistake. 'lisbeth arranged the cakes along the bottom of the basket in two rows; four in one row and five in the other. then she started off. she never was more pleased in her life. she was more sure than ever that she was somebody, that she was somebody important. she expected that every one of those cakes would be gone before she had time to look around. she was surprised to find that instead of everybody stopping to look at them, nobody stopped to look at them at all. she was surprised to find everybody going by as though there was a pot of gold, at the other end of the street, which they were hurrying on to get, while they did not so much as glance at her, or at the cakes in her basket. this would never do. she would walk up and ask them to buy. so she walked up and asked them, but they did not hear her, or did not want to hear her, and did not stop walking as fast as they could, except one lady with two little girls who bought two for two pence. 'lisbeth thought these were nice little girls; she wished afterward she had asked them to buy four for four pence. nobody else bought any. she walked and walked, and stood; and the mother came home and wondered where she was, and looked out of the window, and out of the door, and listened on the stairs, but could make nothing of it at all; and the fact was, that when the mother was listening on the stairs, and looking out of the doors, and sighing to herself about ever having come to london, 'lisbeth was sound asleep, at the corner of the street, seated on the sidewalk with her back against the wall, and her basket standing beside her, and the mother might as well have listened for her feet as for the buzzing of a china bumble-bee with glass legs. [illustration] chapter xii. 'lisbeth was asleep. she was tired enough to sleep well. she was better off asleep than awake; had you asked her she would have told you so. as she slept she dreamed, and as she dreamed the forms in the basket became living things, and the pence in her pocket changed to pounds, and things which were not became to her as though they were. in fact 'lisbeth doubted that she was 'lisbeth, and who knows but had she dreamed long enough she might have been the queen herself? the bird, in the basket, stood on its gingerbread legs, which were changed to real bird's legs, and it sung to her sweeter than the bird at the mile-stone sung on the post. the little dog forgot that it was gingerbread, and barked and sprung about, and shone like satin in its pretty black coat; it barked in a charming fashion. the cat? it was beautiful as only cats in dreams can be, as it sat on the handle of the basket; it was a beautiful picture to behold. but what amused and delighted her more than the bird or the cat or the dog, was the real live elephant which floated in the air without wings, and the two charming little angels, with little brass crowns, who sung sweeter than the bird itself, and blew about like thistle-down, and astonished her more than all the shows of london. but the most delightful gingerbread of all was the gingerbread parrot, which was no more a gingerbread, but a real, true, live, green and gold parrot which tapped at her hat and called, "come, lady 'lisbeth, here is a coach and four, to ride to your door." then 'lisbeth woke up, and when she saw that the parrot and the angels and the elephant, and the dog and cat, and even the bird, which had been singing on the bottom of the basket were all gingerbread, she flew up in a passion and threw them all to the ground, and had them all to pick up again. [illustration] when she went home she told her mother everything that had happened, and the mother told her something that was going to happen, and they had a great deal to say to each other. i think i would have said more to her than her mother did, but she said all she wanted to, which was possibly enough. but when she told 'lisbeth what was going to happen, she expected to see 'lisbeth fly up in a great passion; instead of this, however, 'lisbeth began laughing, and laughed so hard that her mother had to pat her on the back to make her stop. in fact, when the mother was living with her children in the old home, and suddenly grew poorer, she had concluded to go to london, where she might sew, she thought, for large prices, and so get rich faster, but when, after she got to london, she found the prices were little, and her money was growing less, and her boys were getting spoiled, and 'lisbeth was getting to do so many things she should not do, she wished she had never seen london. then she began thinking that it would be just as easy not to see it any more, as it had been to come a hundred miles to see it. then she concluded not to see it any more, and this was what she told 'lisbeth when they both had so much to say to each other. the next morning 'lisbeth awoke with the impression that something very pleasant had happened, or was about to happen. she forgot to help her mother clear away the breakfast dishes, and sat on the three-legged stool in the corner quite by herself, with her face to the wall. the mother saw her sitting there as she popped her head in the door, but she would not call her; she began to think she was grieving about leaving london, yet she might have known better by the delight of her morning embrace, if by nothing else. at any rate she would let her alone; she would let her think it out. so she cleared up the dishes and brushed up the floor, and put in the stitches, and packed her parcel and said "good-by" to 'lisbeth, for she was going to the shop. 'lisbeth was yet on the stool when her mother went out of the door. "bother!" she exclaimed, twirling about as she found herself alone. "'lisbeth lillibun you are a humbug, you are indeed. you are a humbug and no mistake; here you have been to london all this time and made only two pence, and seven gingerbreads, and here is your mother troubled for a bit of money to get back to the old place. why is it you cannot help her?" had 'lisbeth remained sitting on the stool she would have continued talking to herself, which might have resulted in no harm, and might have kept her quiet and good, like a pleasant, dutiful child till the mother came, but 'lisbeth leaped off of the stool as a thought came into her mind which might never have come there had she not leaped the moment she did. there was one trait in 'lisbeth which is not in everybody. when 'lisbeth concluded to do a thing she did it; she did not wait until the next week or the next month, she did not even wait until the next day. you will say this was very clever and nice of 'lisbeth to be so much in earnest; and so it might have been had she mixed the earnestness with the right kind of consideration for her mother's wishes. indeed, in that case she would have been such a very fine girl that ten chances to one there would never have been any story about her at all; but she did not mix her earnestness with anything but her own judgment, and she made just as real a mistake as you would make should you mix your lemonade with salt, instead of sugar--it was the wrong kind of mixture altogether. when i say of 'lisbeth that when she had a thing to do, she did it, that she did not wait until the next week, or next month, or next year, you will say: "how very delightful; how very much nicer and better 'lisbeth must have been than most other people;" but when i tell you that she thought she knew what was best to be done so much better than anybody else, that she did what she thought best without asking her mother, you will know in a minute that 'lisbeth was not as "nice" as a great many other people. how could she be? why, she could not be at all. well when 'lisbeth thought the thought as she leaped off the stool, she did not wait until the next day to do what she thought about doing, nor till the next hour. she did not wait to consult her mother. as usual, she mixed her own judgment with her earnestness, instead of making use of her mother's judgment, and that was the cause of the confusion. children's earnestness directed by the mother's judgment is a very different thing from children's earnestness directed by the children's judgment; there is as much difference between the two as there is between lemonade mixed with sugar and lemonade mixed with salt. 'lisbeth thought it would be pleasant to get everything pulled down, and turned inside out, and packed up ready to leave london; it would be that much done toward starting, it would be a great help, it would be delightful. had she waited for mother's judgment she would have learned that mother would not get off from london for two months at any rate, that the things must not be pulled down until it was time to pack them up, that it would not be time to pack them up until just before they started. but 'lisbeth mixed her earnestness with her own judgment. chapter xiii. 'lisbeth said to herself: "who knows but we shall go to-day or to-morrow, if mother gets the money; she said she would go when she got the money." 'lisbeth had found something to do at last. gorham had gone with the mother to help carry her parcel, and dickon was playing outside. dickon's two feet had come in, but they had gone out again. they so often went out after they had come in that this was nothing uncommon. at first 'lisbeth did not care about it; it made no difference to her that they had gone out, she began work by herself. she was a fast worker, an earnest worker, a worker who made things fly when she set about making them fly. i do not mean that she made them really fly up with wings, but she made them get from one place to another so fast that we may say she made them fly. she made the dishes fly out of the closets; the platters, the pots, and the patty pans; the stewpans, and spiders, and skillets; the boilers and broilers, and dippers; the glass jars, the stone jars, the basins; the boxes and bundles and baskets; a pretty job she was making of it, and, in the middle of it all, her face shone like a young sun, she was so delightfully busy. suddenly 'lisbeth remembered that she was working very hard, that dickon was not working hard, that he was doing nothing but playing on the stairs; this was not pleasant to remember. "do come here, dickon," called 'lisbeth, over the railing, and dickon came. "pull down everything very fast," commanded 'lisbeth; "mother is going from london dreadful quick, the minute she gets the money; i shall pack things and get ready." dickon did not like to pull them down; he did not approve of packing, he wanted to play. "you are a miserable boy, dickon, worse than most any boy to leave me here by my lone self." dickon looked around and began to think so too. "p'haps mother don't want to be packed." "yes, she does; she does very much indeed; bring the things here, dickon; pull'm all down here." dickon did not like to pull them down; he was not sure even yet that mother wanted to be packed. "pile'm down, dickon!" commanded 'lisbeth, and dickon piled them down. "hadn't you better fix some before you get more?" "i'll fix 'm when i get 'm all down here." "what? are you going to get all the dishes and--" "go on i tell you, dickon lillibun! will you go on?" dickon went on; so did 'lisbeth. there was no place to walk, there was no place to sit down, there was scarcely place to stand; there was no place to put anything, there was scarcely anything more to put. everything was pulled out, and heaped about, and 'lisbeth stood in the middle of them. "now, dickon, this does look like doing something, don't it?" dickon thought it did, dickon capered over everything and started for the door. "do not go!" commanded 'lisbeth. "do not go! do not dare to go!" but dickon was gone. "dickon!" called 'lisbeth over the railings, "dickon!" but dickon was out of sight and hearing. "oh that dreadful dickon!" moaned 'lisbeth, as she fluttered down the stairs to bring him back. had dickon never stopped work, had dickon never run away, had 'lisbeth never fluttered after him, things might have been different. i say they might have been, because, as i explained before, nobody could be quite sure as to what might or might not have been concerning 'lisbeth; i say therefore that they might have been different. as it was dickon did run away, and 'lisbeth did flutter after him, and, as she went, she thought of a plan she had not been able to think of while sitting on the three-legged stool with her face to the wall--she thought of a plan to get money. 'lisbeth forgot that she was fluttering after dickon; she forgot that dickon had gone at all; she forgot everything but that she had thought of a plan to get money. she forgot about dickon, but kept on running faster and faster until she was red in the face and out of breath. "please, sir," said 'lisbeth, gasping for breath, and rushing up to a little spare man in a little spare coat, who lived in the dirty old cellar of the sixth house from 'lisbeth's, and bought paper and rags; "please, sir, come dreadful quick!" "how?" screamed the little man; "how?" he meant to say "what for? please tell me what is the matter?" but he said "how?" "with your feet! fast, dreadful fast," gasped 'lisbeth. no wonder she gasped for breath, she had come faster and faster from the top of the house to the cellar of the sixth house below, without even taking time to think; she did not stop afterward to think. "my feet? my feet?" "please to come! oh, please to come!" pleaded 'lisbeth, fairly dancing up and down. "my hat, my hat! oh, my hat!" pleaded the little man, turning and twisting all about; "my hat! my hat!" "please to come! never mind no hat!" begged 'lisbeth, half going, half staying, and still trying to catch her breath. "oh, my head, my head!" almost sobbed the little man, holding his two hands over his head as he ran after 'lisbeth, going faster and faster with every step. "my! my! oh my!" gasped the poor little man, still holding his head with his two hands, and taking hard, short breaths, as he went up one flight of stairs after another, and bobbed himself forward to try to catch a glimpse of 'lisbeth and see that he was really following the right way and getting in the right door. "my! my! oh my!" he said it over again when he had bobbed his head in the right door. "vat has happened? vat has happened? oh my! my! vat has happened?" "it has not happened at all; it would a' happened if you had waited for a hat." "vat? vat?--my! my! my!--vat?" "mother would a' come, and then she mightn't let me sold her pots and kettles and dishes 'stead of packing 'm up," said 'lisbeth, puffing hard for breath. "please to buy 'm quicker 'n anything." the little man did not choke; he only looked as if he was going to. 'lisbeth flew toward him and gave him a crack on the back, she thought that might do him good, but it did not help the matter at all; he looked more like choking than ever. 'lisbeth seized a dipper; she did not mean to do anything unmannerly, she did not indeed, but she gave him a mouthful of water so suddenly and quickly that the little man choked, and perhaps it was best he should. i shall always think it was best he should, not that the little man was bad, or thinking about being bad, only that he was in danger of getting to be bad if he had never been so before; he was in danger of doing a wrong thing; in danger of buying a very great deal for a very little price. i did not say he was bad enough to do it, only it was best he choked, and kept choked long enough for 'lisbeth's mother to come tripping up stairs with a new bundle and a little money, and a light heart, considering all things--for was she not going to begin right away to save up and to get back to the old house, the old home, in a month or two? as the little man stayed choked until after 'lisbeth's mother had tripped to the door, and tossed away her bundle, and held up her hands, and implored to be told what was the matter, i shall never be able to say certainly that he was an honest little man, but i shall always believe that he was, and that it had been the thought of so much wickedness that almost choked him before he had the crack on the back or the mouthful from the dipper. you would have choked, or almost choked, of course you would. the astonishing part was that 'lisbeth did not choke herself, but she never thought of such a thing, she only said, when her mother asked her what was the matter, "nothing's the matter at all; but i'm most dreadful sorry you come just at this important minute; i was going to s'prise you with some cash straight off short, and the man must just fall to choking before i could get a living thing sold." another surprising thing is that the mother did not choke, but she did not. perhaps the reason was because she did not want to; the little man looked uncomfortable and he had been choking. at any rate she did not choke. if the little man had not looked so uncomfortable, and ready to get away, the mother might have fastened the door, and shouted fire, and armed with the tongs, and screamed for help, and startled the house, and frightened the street, and added confusion to confusion, but she only pulled the door open on a bigger crack to let him run out and down the stairs, holding his hands over his head and gasping, "my! my! my! my head!" chapter xiv. all that the mother did after the little man was gone i shall not pretend to say. i was not there at the time. had i been there i would have been obliged to stand with my feet outside and my head within; how could i have had both head and feet within when there was no room to stand? but i was not there, and never have been sorry that i was not. you are not sorry that you were not there? of course you are not. 'lisbeth would have been glad not to have been there, i suppose; the mother herself would have been more comfortable somewhere else, even if it had been in the street tugging home her bundle of clothes to be sewed. i was not there at the time, but i am certain that, by the next morning, the dishes stood in rows, the pans hung on the hooks; the jars and jams, and pots and kettles, and skillets, and spiders, and spoons, and dippers, and rollers, and beaters, and boilers, and broilers, and bundles, and boxes, and baskets, and things of all names and all sizes were sleeping as sweetly as such necessities ever sleep, in the cupboards and closets and dangling from the hooks, and the mother was putting in her needle and pulling it out, and nobody would have imagined that things had ever been otherwise. yet things had been otherwise; we all know they had. things might have been otherwise still had not 'lisbeth's mother been a very decided mother; a mother who knew how things should be and how they should not be, and how little children should do and how they should not do, and how to get disordered things back into order as they should be, and children who were doing as they should not, for a little while at least, to do as they should. she said to 'lisbeth, as she stood with her two feet on the two places where the little man had stood: "'lisbeth, you are a very hindering child!" had she said anything else, anything else at all, 'lisbeth would not have felt it so much, she would not have been so entirely lifted out of herself, out of her own opinion, and made to see herself where her mother put her, back in the right place where every naughty child should be put as soon as possible. 'lisbeth gasped for breath. she looked fiercely up at her mother, and down at the floor; she looked within herself, and at the ugly picture of herself which her mother had just showed her. she saw that the picture was like her, that she was "a hindering child." it was a blow she was not prepared for. had her mother said anything more immediately 'lisbeth would not have seen so well that the mother's words were true; but she did not say any more immediately. she stood perfectly still with her feet in the two places where the little man's feet had been. 'lisbeth was very uncomfortable when she heard those words repeated; indeed she was very angry; she looked just as naughty as naughty could be; she looked like a girl who was cross because somebody was doing something very wrong to her. then she did not look as naughty as naughty could be, she looked disappointed and sorry, and repentant, and humble, and this was because she saw that she was "a hindering child." at first she believed that she was a helping, comforting child, now she saw that she was not. she saw it as we sometimes see a flash of lightning. 'lisbeth did not mean to be "a hindering child," but she was one. "why am i a hindering child?" inquired 'lisbeth when she could catch her breath. "because you work by your own head instead of by mine," said the mother as she put one foot and then the other forward among the pots and kettles. but 'lisbeth stood still in the middle of the floor considering what her mother meant, and if what she said was true, and if she was always to work the wrong way instead of the right way, like an engine which will run back instead of forward; and how long she might have stood considering, and how long she might have worn such a troubled face, and how long she might have felt such a lump in her throat, had not her mother come and stood before her, clearing a place for her feet as she came, i shall never pretend to say. but the mother did come and stand before her, and 'lisbeth put her two hands in her mother's two hands, and looked up in her mother's face, into her mother's troubled eyes, and her mother knew that whatever else she might do, in days to come, she would never again try to move her before the time. the mother knew this as well as i do, but i know this and more beside. as i said before, i do not know exactly all that was done that afternoon, before the rooms and the mother and 'lisbeth all grew quiet, and in place and comfortable, but i know something more important than this; i know that 'lisbeth, after she had settled other matters began to settle her own mind as to the true meaning of her mother's words about her making use of the wrong head. she was obliged to think a great deal about it before she was able to settle it in her mind. it took a very great deal of thinking. how could she use her mother's head? how can you and i use our mothers' heads? of course you know we could do it, how 'lisbeth could have done it, but lisbeth had to think hard about it before she knew. when she had made it quite sure in her own mind how it was to be done, she came to another trouble, she was not quite sure that she would like to do it. she thought a great while as to what she was to do about it; she thought a great while about it while seated on the three-legged stool with her face to the wall, and when she had finished thinking about it she got down from the stool and went and stood before her mother, and her mother looked up to see what she was standing there for, and then 'lisbeth said: "i'm going to try most dreadful hard to use your head; i've made up my mind to it." when 'lisbeth made up her mind to a thing it was made up. 'lisbeth tried very hard from this time to use the mother's head; and though the mother used it too it did not get worn out half as fast as it had done before; it began to look newer--i mean younger--and to look as though use did it a great deal of good; and 'lisbeth's head looked the better for it too--i mean her face looked the better for it--it looked rested; perhaps i should say it looked better contented than it did before, it looked more comfortable. in fact, by using the mother's head very frequently instead of her own, 'lisbeth improved inside of a week, and in the two months while they yet remained in london she began to look like a helping child instead of a hindering one. when the time came for the packing up to be done 'lisbeth really helped. she did; nobody need be astonished. she helped a great deal, and everybody seemed so happy that the mother laughed a dozen times just in packing up. this was such a remarkable thing to happen that every one was astonished; they could not help being astonished. mother had not laughed for a great while. it seemed a very strange thing for her to do. nobody could quite tell what she was laughing at either by thinking over it or by inquiring. dickon inquired, but dickon could not understand it any better after he had inquired. gorham thought over it. he was older than dickon, and perhaps should have been able to understand by thinking over it, but he did not. gorham had been in london for some time, and had become accustomed to the two little rooms at the top of the house, where the walls were so black, and to the hubbub of voices above and below, and to the tatters on the little children, and to the dirt and tatters on the grown people; and had become accustomed to the little boys who were not very nice, or very comfortable to play with; gorham had become accustomed to all this and did not dislike it all as much as he did when he first came to london. indeed gorham was growing a little bit like these little boys; just a little like them, not very much; i am glad to be able to say that it was not very much. but at any rate, gorham could not see why his mother was laughing when she had not laughed for such a long time; laughing over her cracked crockery, broken-nosed teapots, and black old crocks. it never entered his mind that she was laughing because, though she seemed to be looking at the old crockery, she was looking over and past them with her mind's eye, to the clover tufts on the dear old fields, and to the paths winding about the mill, to the spire of the white wooden church; to the market-place where the mill-hands used to gather together and chat and talk. yet she was looking at these and at many things beside, and not at all at the broken-nosed pots. 'lisbeth knew better than gorham or dickon why it was the mother laughed. i think she knew a great deal better. i think when she would put her face down close beside her mother's, and they would both smile so pleasantly, glancing toward each other and looking away, i think they were then seeing the same things, the very same things, though they were both a hundred miles away from the things themselves. this was very comfortable; so comfortable that dickon and gorham smiled too, though only looking at their two faces and at the iron pots, and broken noses, and the rubbish which the mother had gathered up. and indeed, though they could not tell why, they laughed themselves when the mother laughed, and who knows but perhaps after all they did, without knowing it, catch glimpses of the far-away things which 'lisbeth and her mother were seeing. everything was very comfortable all this packing-up time, in fact much of the two months before it. now i do not intend you to suppose, when i say that everything was very comfortable, that everything was in order in those two rooms, that everything was fixed up; that the iron pots were full of cookies or of all kinds of cookeries; that the crockery was full of good things; that the black walls had been whitened; not a bit of it. things had changed; things had changed very much. the faces had changed. the mother's face and 'lisbeth's had altered more than dickon's and gorham's, but their being altered i think had changed dickon's and gorham's too. do you know what had changed them? why, 'lisbeth had made up her mind to try to be contented and to use her mother's head. she was so much more pleasant looking that you would have been surprised at the change. you have seen her before this, with your mind's eye, i know; that is, you have imagined how she might have looked, and you have always seen her looking as though she was dissatisfied; as though she was wishing for something she had not; as though she was trying to think of something to do, or somewhere to go, as though she was about to make use of her own head contrary to that of her mother. but now she looked more cheerful and comfortable; indeed like a different girl entirely. you see she made up her mind to be a different girl entirely, and to try to work by her mother's head, and when 'lisbeth made up her mind about anything we know that it was made up. 'lisbeth had improved very much. yet she was 'lisbeth; 'lisbeth working a great deal by her mother's head instead of by her own. beside this 'lisbeth had a pleasant prospect before her; a very pleasant prospect indeed. she did not very often lose sight of this prospect; i mean the prospect of going a hundred miles from london. she looked so much more pleasant than formerly that you would not think, at sight of her, "there is a girl who is not satisfied in the place where she is growing, or with the things she finds around her; she looks uncomfortable." i think that 'lisbeth was better contented the last weeks she lived in london than during any week of her life, except the week before she came to london. her contentment had changed everything very much; as i said, it had changed the faces; the faces were changed because everybody felt happier. things were very different in those two rooms because 'lisbeth was different. for two whole months they were getting ready to go away; they were working and saving and wondering and smiling and laughing and hoping before they left the dreadful old rooms, but then they were such different months from all the others spent there that they were short months; that is, they seemed short. the boys were happier when their mother and 'lisbeth were bright and happy; their mother was happy when her children were good and wore bright faces. 'lisbeth wore a bright face when she tried to be content with things as she found them, and did not run about the streets of london trying to sell gingerbread cats and dogs and doll-babies, trying to earn pence with sweeping streets or pulling wires, or making wigs. so as everybody was happier than they had been the months seemed short. who cared that the walls were black and the rooms little and the street too little to be called a street? nobody. all the difference came by 'lisbeth's having made up her mind to be contented to help mother in mother's way instead of her own way; by 'lisbeth's having made up her mind to mix her earnestness with her mother's judgment. they left the little dark rooms, in the dirty old house, and all the shows, and people, and carriages and houses of london, and went back where they first grew, back to the very house under the walnut tree where the bits of the hogshead still blew about--the hogshead which had once opened its mouth. the mother went again to work at the mill, and the children all went to miss pritchet's school, and 'lisbeth picked beans, and helped take care of trotty, and of the house, and helped mother so much, that mother began to look bright and happy and smiling like somebody else. in fact, 'lisbeth looked bright and happy, and smiling, herself, like somebody else, and when she would sit on the mile-stone she would smile more than ever in thinking what a little goose she had been ever to want to go so many miles away; and, indeed, so happy and contented did she become with the work she found to do in the place in which she grew, that you would never have known her to be 'lisbeth. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. blank pages have been removed. on page "unreasonble" has been changed to "unreasonable" (... thought him unreasonable enough, ...) on page "disparingly" has been changed to "dispairingly" (... said 'lisbeth a little despairingly.) on page "a doing" has been changed to "a-doing". (you must be up and a-doing, ..) on page the word "flim" has been retained. transcriber's note - illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the transcriber for reader convenience. - the position of some illustrations has been changed to improve readability. - minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. these minor errors include extra or missing commas, periods, and quotation marks (" and '). - significant typographical errors have been corrected. a full list of these corrections is available in the transcriber's corrections section at the end of the book. * * * * * [illustration: {cover: witch winnie the story of a king's daughter elizabeth w. champney}] witch winnie. [illustration: {woman lowers basket from window to three men waiting below.}] witch winnie the story of a "king's daughter" by elizabeth w. champney new york dodd, mead & company publishers copyright, , by white and allen copyright, , by dodd, mead & company the burr printing house new york _dedicated to_ my little witch marie. where she's been the sunshine lingers, she's my witch and she's my mouse; she has helpful, fairy fingers, busy keeper of the house. she is tricksy and she's elfish; sure no plague could e'er be worse; she is thoughtful and unselfish, she's my gentle angel-nurse. all their jokes the brownies lend her, she's a merry, mischief thing; but her heart is very tender-- she's a daughter of the king. yes, there's something nice about her, and i'll love her till my death; no, i could not do without her-- i'm her ma, elizabeth. contents. chapter page introduction, i. boarding-school scrapes, ii. guinevere's gown, iii. the princess, iv. court life, v. little prince del paradiso, vi. mrs. hetterman throws light on the mystery, vii. winnie's confession, viii. the elder brother and mrs. halsey's strange story, ix. the king's daughters and the venetian fÊte, x. the landlord of rickett's court, xi. the guests of the elder brother, xii. with the dynamiters, xiii. the king's daughters in the country, xiv. over the hills and far away, xv. the estates del paradiso, introduction. it is but just to explain that, while all of the characters introduced in this little story are purely imaginary, the founding of the home of the elder brother was suggested by the work of some real children, younger than madame's pupils, who gave a little fair, and, helped by charitable people, instituted a lovely charity, the messiah home for little children, at rutherford place, new york city. this home still opens its doors to the children of working-women, and is helped by different circles of king's daughters, some of whom have adopted children to clothe. it is a beautiful work, founded by children for children, and it is hoped that others all over the land will join in it, and that the work may broaden until no such dens as rickett's court will remain in our fair city or country. e. w. c. witch winnie. chapter i. boarding-school scrapes. [illustration: {drawing of winnie.}] we never had any until witch winnie came to room in our corner. we had the reputation of being the best behaved set at madame's, a little bit self-conscious too, and proud of our propriety. perhaps this was the reason that we were nicknamed the "amen corner," though the girls pretended it was because the initials of our names, spelled downward, like an acrostic-- _a_delaide armstrong, _m_illy roseveldt, _e_mma jane anton, _n_ellie smith-- formed the word _amen_. but certainly the name would not have clung to us as it did if the other girls had not recognized its fitness in our forming a sanctimonious little clique who echoed madame's sentiments, and were real pharisees in minding the rules about study-hours, and whispering, and having our lights out in time, and the other lesser matters of the law which the girls in the "hornets' nest," witch winnie's set, disregarded with impunity. and verily we had our reward, for madame trusted us, and gave us the best set of rooms in the great stone corner tower, overlooking the park, quite away from the espial of the corridor teacher. they had been intended for an infirmary, but as no one was ever sick at madame's, she grew tired of keeping them unoccupied, and assigned them to us. sometimes the other girls annoyed us by making calls in study-hours, and we virtuously displayed a placard on our door bearing the inscription, "particularly engaged." it caught witch winnie's eye, as she strolled along the hall, and she scribbled beneath it, "the girls of the amen corner would have us all to know that they're _engaged_, each one engaged-- particularly so."[a] [a] this incident is borrowed from an actual occurrence. we hardly knew whether to be amused or vexed at this sally of witch winnie's. we acknowledged that it was bright, but we deplored her wildness, and had no idea how much we should love her in time to come. after all, our reputation as model pupils had a very slender foundation. it rested chiefly on emma jane's preternatural conscientiousness. the night that the cadet band serenaded our school, some of the pupils, presumably the girls in the "hornets' nest," threw out bouquets to the performers. rumor said that when madame heard of this she was greatly shocked. "i don't see how she can punish them for it," said adelaide; "there's nothing in the rules about not giving flowers to young men. still, it was a dreadful thing to do, and madame is ingenious enough to twist the rules some way, so as to 'make the punishment fit the crime.' i am glad the amen corner is guiltless." then we marched into chapel on tiptoe with excitement to see madame wreak vengeance on the wrong-doers. witch winnie sat behind me, and turning, i saw that she looked pale, but resolute. madame rose in awful dignity, her wiry curls, which milly said reminded her of spiral bed-springs, bristled ominously. "young ladies," she exclaimed, in a sharp tone of command, "you may all rise." we rose. "if you turn to the printed rules of this institution," she continued, "you will find under section vii. the following paragraph--'pupils are not allowed to disfigure the lawn by _throwing from the windows_ any bits of paper, hair, apple-parings, peanut shells, or waste material _of any kind_. scrap-baskets are provided for the reception of such matter, and any pupil throwing _anything from her window upon the school grounds_ will be regarded as having committed a misdemeanor.'" an impressive silence followed, in which witch winnie gave a sigh of relief, and whispered to cynthia vaughn, "we're all right; we didn't disfigure her precious lawn. the bouquets never touched the ground. i lowered them, with a string, in my scrap-basket (just where she says we ought to have put them), and the drum-major took them out and distributed them to the other boys." "young ladies," madame continued, in tones of triumph, "those of you who have not broken this rule within the past week may sit down." we all sat down--all but emma jane anton, who remained in conspicuous discomfort. adelaide pulled her by the basque, "sit down!" she whispered; "madame doesn't mean you." emma jane stood like a martyr while madame regarded her through her lorgnette with astonishment depicted on every feature. "if you committed this infringement of the rules at any time other than last evening you may sit down." emma jane remained standing. "then," said madame, drawing herself up frigidly, "miss anton, you may explain: what was it you threw out?" "madame," replied emma jane, "the window was open--we were listening to the music--and a bat flew in; and, madame, he would not stay in the waste-paper basket, and so, madame, i threw him out." every one laughed; discipline was forgotten for the moment, until madame rapped smartly on the desk and called for order. she complimented emma jane highly on her conscientiousness, but she looked provoked with her all the same, while witch winnie, who was stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, nearly went into convulsions. after the sketch which i have endeavored to give of witch winnie, and the position which she occupied at madame's, i trust that we, as self-respecting pupils, will not be too severely blamed when i confess that we received, with great disfavor, madame's announcement that winnie was henceforth to room in the amen corner. the bedrooms at madame's boarding-school were clustered in little groups around study-parlors, five girls forming a family. for a long time there had been only four in our set. emma jane anton, who preferred to room alone, had the little single bedroom; adelaide and milly were chums; while i, nellie smith, familiarly nicknamed tib, had luxuriated so long in the large corner chamber that i had almost forgotten that madame told me, at the outset, that i must hold myself in readiness to receive a room-mate at any time. adelaide armstrong was the daughter of a railroad magnate. she had been brought up in the west, but, though she had traveled much, and had seen a great deal of society, her education had not been entirely neglected. she had studied a great deal in a desultory way, and contested the head of the class with emma jane anton, who was a "regular dig," and had prepared for college in the boston public schools. it was really surprising how adelaide had picked up so much. she had studied latin with a priest in new mexico, and had profited by two years at a lonely post on the confines of canada, where her father had been interested in the fur trade, to become proficient in french. strikingly handsome, a brunette with brilliant complexion and andalusian eyes, energetic and spirited, she was popular both with her instructors and her classmates. milly roseveldt was her exact contrast--a milky-complexioned little blonde, shy and sweet; she was also a trifle dull. adelaide translated her latin, and worked out her problems, and i wrote her compositions, while milly rewarded us with largesses of love and confectionery, for she was the most generous as well as the most affectionate of girls. her father, a wealthy new york banker, placed large sums of money at her disposal, and milly deluged her friends with gifts of flowers and bonbons. it seemed very natural to me that adelaide and milly should be sworn friends; but my admittance into the sacred circle was a mystery to me, and to a number of aspiring girls who asserted that i was nobody in particular, and who envied me my place in my friends' affection. my presence in the school itself was almost as great a wonder. my father was a long island farmer. we opened our house to city boarders during the summer, and one season miss sartoris, the teacher in art at madame's, boarded with us. i had taken drawing lessons at the academy, and miss sartoris took me out sketching with her. i worked like a beaver, and was never so happy in my life. i delighted miss sartoris, who wakened mother's ambition by telling her that i was the most talented pupil she had ever had. more than this: we three induced good, easy-going, generous father to let me go back to the city with miss sartoris as a pupil at madame's. my wardrobe was meagre, but not countrified, for i possessed a natural sense of color and a quick faculty for imitation. i had seen plenty of city people at scup haven, and my few dresses, i fancied, would pass muster anywhere. i was a fair scholar, and took the lead in the studio. i was not brilliant and stylish like adelaide, or rich and pretty like milly, but they liked me, and i liked myself the better for the consciousness that there must be something nice about me which attracted them. i believe now that it was an absence of self-consciousness and selfishness on my part, and my hearty admiration and devotion to them. adelaide called me, playfully, "the great american appreciator." it was just before the theatricals given by our literary society that an incident occurred which showed me how much they really thought of me. we three were arranging the stage; i was touching up the scenery, and milly holding the tacks for adelaide, who was looping the drapery, when we overheard the conversation of a group of girls on the other side of the curtain. cynthia vaughn was the first to speak. "i think adelaide armstrong is perfectly splendid!" "so do i," said another; and there was a chorus of confused voices exclaiming, "so stylish!" "perfectly elegant!" "the handsomest girl in school!" adelaide left her work and placed her hand on the curtain, but milly threw her arms impulsively around her. "let us hear what they will say," she whispered; "when they are through we can pull the cord, and all bow thanks." by this time other voices were chanting milly's praises, and adelaide turned reluctantly away, remarking, "well, if you enjoy that sort of thing, you are welcome to it. i should not be surprised, by the way they are loading it on, if they knew we were here." they did not know it, for at that instant cynthia vaughn spoke up again, "i don't see what they find to admire in that pokey lib smith." "i should think milly would be ashamed to be seen with her," said another; "her dresses always remind me of a chicken with its head through a hole in a salt-bag." adelaide sprang forward with flashing eyes to confront the speaker, but this time it was i who held her back. "let them say their say," i whispered, hoarsely, while milly cowered, trembling. "i believe her mother makes her dresses at home," said witch winnie; "and, as she can't have tib to try them on, she fits them on her grandfather." there was a hearty laugh at this sally, and another added: "i don't see how adelaide can endure her, she is so stingy. have you noticed that the girls place a fresh bouquet at her plate every morning? and i never could find out that she ever gave either of them so much as a single flower." adelaide nearly writhed herself from my grasp, but i held her tightly. "milly," she gasped, "are you a coward, to stand there and hear our friend reviled so? can't you stop them?" the blood surged into milly's pale cheeks, and she sprang before the curtain. "girls," she cried, "how can you talk so? nellie smith is our dearest friend. she is not one bit stingy; she gives us more than we have ever given her. because she does not parade her presents on the breakfast-table is no reason that she has not given me lots and lots of things, and no girl can consider herself my friend who talks so about our darling tib." here milly broke down in tears, and witch winnie exclaimed, "good for you, milly roseveldt; i didn't know you had so much spunk!" but at this point we all fled to the amen corner, and bolted the door, refusing to admit witch winnie, who impulsively shouted her apologies through the keyhole. "oh, milly!" i cried, "what made you tell a lie for me? i never gave you a thing." and i might have added, "how could i, when my allowance for spending-money is hardly sufficient to keep me in slate-pencils?" but milly stopped my mouth with kisses, and pointed to sundry original works of art with which i had decorated her apartment, and declared, besides, that helping her on that last horrid composition was a greater gift than all the roses in le moult's greenhouse. so we of the amen corner disliked witch winnie and loved each other, all but emma jane anton. we could not be said to exactly love her; we tolerated her in our midst, in spite of her uncongenial nature, because we took pride in her eminent respectability, and in the higher average of reputation for creditable scholarship and exemplary behavior which she gave to our corner. but love her! we might as well have tried to love an iceberg. witch winnie arrived on adelaide's birthday, and was a most unwelcome birthday present. emma jane anton had obtained permission for us to celebrate the occasion by sitting up an hour later that evening. milly had ordered a form of ice-cream and a birthday-cake from mazetti's, and we had invited in a half-dozen friends to share the treat. as a damper on this beautiful fête, madame had called us into her private study that afternoon, and had told us that she had decided to assign witch winnie as my room-mate. she did not scruple to tell us her reasons for doing so. winnie (according to madame) was the head-centre of a wild set of "ne'er-do-weels" who roomed in the top of the house, "a perfect hornets' nest under the eaves," madame said. madame felt that if the queen hornet was taken away, the rest would be more amenable to discipline, and that winnie, placed among such proper and well-behaved girls as we were, would herself feel our beneficial influence. "i think," said madame, "that if you knew winnie's history you would understand her better. her parents were both very talented and highly imaginative people. her father is a playwright of reputation, who married a very lovely young actress who had sustained the leading part in several of his plays. they were tenderly attached to each other. mrs. de witt had great dramatic talent; she made it the study of her life to realize his conceptions, and succeeded to his perfect satisfaction. she said that she so lived in her part that frequently she forgot her own personality, while mr. de witt was always cudgeling his brains to invent new plots, situations, and characters for his wife. mrs. de witt died when winnie was but three years of age. the child has lived with different relatives, and has been spoiled and neglected by turns, but never quite understood. i have studied her carefully, and think i see in her a combination of both parents. she has her father's highly organized imaginative nature, but instead of constructing plots for plays, it develops itself in plots for scrapes. she delights in dramatic situations, and is a natural and unconscious actress. her father hopes that she may never adopt the stage as her profession, for it was that life of mental and physical strain which killed winnie's mother. something remarkable in organization or in action the girl will certainly be, and as she takes her color, like a chameleon, from her surroundings, or, rather, her cue from the other actors, i have great hopes for your influence over her." madame's confidences made little impression upon our prejudice. we listened in silence, and, returning to our rooms, held an indignation meeting, in which emma jane led. adelaide, who ought to have sympathized with the neglected orphan, for she had lost her own mother when a little girl, and who did find in this fact a bond of fellow-feeling later on, now ignored all her claim for pity, and chose to feel that we were all grossly insulted. milly pitied me the enforced companionship, several of us were in tears, and in the midst of it all witch winnie appeared. the clatter of voices sank to sudden silence, and the new-comer, looking from face to face, instantly understood the situation. "if you feel half as badly as i do, girls," she said, with a merry laugh, "i'm sorry for you; i wouldn't intrude on you in this way if i could help it. madame tells me you are to have a spread to-night, and have invited your particular friends. it's too bad she wouldn't let me put off moving till to-morrow morning. i'll tell you what i'll do--i'll sit in the recitation-room and cram for examination until the party is over. of course you don't want me, a perfect stranger to your friends; it isn't to be supposed you would." emma jane anton looked relieved. "we provided for a limited number," she explained; "if we had known that we were to have the honor of your company--" but adelaide interrupted her instantly. "sit in that dismal recitation-room while i am having my birthday party! indeed you shall do nothing of the sort!" while milly came gallantly to the rescue, assuring her that she had ordered more ice-cream than they could possibly consume, and i did the best i could to make winnie believe that she was welcome. the girls appeared _en masse_ as soon as the bell struck for the close of evening study-hour--congratulations were offered to adelaide, and winnie was introduced. all made extravagant efforts to be gay and sociable, but there was a certain constraint, a forced quality, in it all, which had for its reason something beyond the fact of an unwelcome addition to the corner: the refreshments had not arrived. mazetti had forgotten to send them. there stood the study-table neatly spread with a table-cloth borrowed from the steward's department, and set with saucers, spoons, and plates, all disappointingly empty. adelaide tried to carry off the situation as an immense joke. milly alternated between hope and despair, fancying each noise of wheels the confectioner's cart. the guests showed their disappointment plainly, some confessing that they had slighted the evening prunes and rice in anticipation of this treat. and i heard cynthia vaughn whisper that it was a very cheap way to give a party--to pretend that there had been a mistake. at this juncture i suddenly noticed that witch winnie had disappeared. a few moments later a loud knocking, or kicking, for it was evidently bestowed with feet instead of hands, was heard at the door. "let me in, girls!" cried witch winnie's voice--"let me in, quick! before madame catches me." we opened the door, and witch winnie burst in, and sat laughing on the floor; from her dress, which had been gathered up in her hands, and had served as a market-basket, rolled a quantity of paper bags and parcels--lemons, bottles of olives, sugar, mixed pickles, crackers, sardines, macaroons, nuts, raisins, candy, etc., etc. "help yourselves, girls," she chuckled. "we'll have the spread, after all. i have been around the corner and bought out mr. beeny's little grocery." then broke in a chorus of voices-- "how did you ever get out of the house?" "was cerberus asleep?" (cerberus was our nickname for the janitor.) "how very sweet of you!" "but how extravagant!" "o girls! these pickled limes are too lovely for anything." adelaide appeared with her ewer. "i'll make the lemonade," she said, and began rolling the lemons with milly's curling-stick, while emma jane anton manipulated the can-opener with energy and success. each girl flew to her room for her tooth-mug, and we drank witch winnie's health in brimming bumpers of lemonade. "how did you ever manage it?" milly asked again. "i climbed down the fire-escape." witch winnie giggled. "but you had to drop twelve feet onto the sidewalk!" "what of that? i've done it in the gymnasium from the trapeze many a time." "but you never came back that way?" "hardly. i rang the basement bell, and when cerberus said he'd tell madame, i made him a present of three packages of cigarettes and some limburger cheese, and i am quite certain that he will never say a word." witch winnie's generosity and good-fellowship had won the day. from that moment we took her into our hearts. the ice-cream which milly had ordered arrived the next day, but we were all too ill to touch it; we had feasted without restraint on our new chum's bountiful but somewhat heterogeneous repast, and were paying the penalty with rousing headaches, but in our fiercest pangs we were still ready to declare that if there ever was a trump it was witch winnie. chapter ii. guinevere's gown. aristocratic adelaide was now as deeply attached to "that little witch" winnie as she had been prejudiced against her, and winnie, who had hitherto spoken of her new friend as "that stuck-up armstrong girl," was now her devoted admirer. [illustration: {drawing of adelaide.}] although this state of affairs was perfectly agreeable to the amen corner, it was not equally so to the hornets. they had endured winnie's removal as a piece of madame's tyranny, had looked upon their queen as a martyr, and had taken it for granted that we would make things extremely uncomfortable for her. they perceived, with astonishment, that we welcomed her heartily, and when it dawned upon them by degrees that winnie was herself happy in the change, that she actually promenaded in the corridor with an arm lovingly twined about the waist of that odious tib smith, that the placard "engaged" appeared as frequently on the outer door of the amen corner, and that winnie's lessons and behavior improved so much that she was actually becoming a favorite with the teachers instead of their special torment--the indignation of the hornets' nest knew no bounds. it showed itself in a practical joke originated by cynthia, which might have been very amusing had it not been spiced with malice. i have spoken of our literary society and its projected entertainment. we were to have a series of tableaux; among others, guinevere kneeling before an altar. milly had been chosen to represent guinevere on account of her beautiful hair, and because she spent her saturdays and sundays at home, and could have any costume arranged for herself. what was our disappointment, one monday morning, to receive a note from milly saying that she would not be able to take part in the entertainment, as her mother was going to washington for a fortnight, and had decided that, as milly looked pale, a little outing would do her good. this note was read to the literary society amid groans from the members. "we can't give up that tableau." "adelaide, _you_ take the part." "can't; my hair is as black as a crow's wing. tib's hair is lovely when it is down. it falls to her knees, and it has the sheen of molten gold. girls, you must see it," and adelaide proceeded to pull my braids apart; i protesting all the time that it was absurd to have a freckled guinevere who was as homely as a hedge fence. "granted," replied witch winnie, "but nobody is going to see your face, child; you pose with your back to the audience, and as none of the girls know what regal hair you have, it will be such fun to have them guess who it is." all of the other girls joined in persuading me, excepting one of the hornets, who lifted her voice in favor of cynthia vaughn. "but, girls, what am i to do for a costume?" "why didn't milly think to send hers along?" said adelaide. "we might write her." "no, there's no time; she leaves this morning on the 'limited.'" "if you would like, i'll take the part," cynthia vaughn suggested. "i've all that canton flannel ermine, and the ruff made out of the old window curtains, which i wore when i was queen elizabeth." "that ruff would be a frightful anachronism," said emma jane anton. "and the ermine has served three times already. thank you, we'll manage somehow," witch winnie asserted, confidently. we retired to the amen corner to talk it over. "if worse comes to worst," said witch winnie, "i know i can make a magnificent train out of the plush table-cloth in madame's library." "but how will you ever get it?" "emma jane must ask her to lend it to us; she'll do anything for emma jane." "emma jane declines to act in this emergency," said miss anton, firmly. "you wouldn't be so mean!" "but i would; adelaide, please read milly's letter again; i didn't half hear it." "i must have dropped it in the society hall; i will get it after dinner. if she had thought that tib might be chosen to take her place, she would have done anything for the honor of the amen corner." here some one tapped at the door, and announced, "a letter for miss armstrong." "it's from milly!" exclaimed adelaide, "and it looks as if it had been opened, and pasted up again." "i thought madame boasted that she never submitted her young ladies to that sort of espionage," said witch winnie. "girls, girls!" adelaide fairly shrieked; "just listen to this! milly writes-- "'i forgot to say in my last that mamma's maid is putting the finishing touches to my costume, and gibson will bring it around to-morrow. the dress (purple velvet) is one which mamma wore last summer when she was presented to the queen. the lace which trims it was made to order from a pattern of her own selection in brussels. you may keep the crown, for the gems in it are only rhinestones. aunt fanny wore it at a costume ball, and they sparkle like the real thing. be careful of the lace, for mamma prizes it highly. 'yours, milly. 'p. s.--i've coaxed papa to lend you a silver chatelaine, old french repoussé, linked with emeralds, which he keeps in his cabinet of curiosities. it shows finely against the velvet.'" how we all exclaimed and chattered! "now what will the hornets' nest say to that?" "canton flannel ermine indeed!" "i should like to see them bring on their old mosquito-netting ruff!" "real emeralds! a diadem flashing with diamonds!" "don't tell them a word about it until tib dawns on them in all her glory on wednesday night." it was hard to keep this resolution, but we did. the hornets were giggling and whispering among themselves as we marched in to dinner, with all the importance given by the possession of a state secret. the other girls relapsed into silence as we took our seats, and watched us with strange, significant looks. "i've been looking up the matter in racinet's work on costume," remarked cynthia vaughn, "and i find you were right, miss anton; ruffs did not come in until long after arthur's reign." "i would like to consult the book," emma jane replied, "unless you can tell me whether chatelaines were worn at that period." here a small hornet was seized with strangulation, and had to be vigorously thumped upon the back by her friends. "oh, i think so," cynthia replied, sweetly, disregarding her friend's condition. "wouldn't it be sweet to have guinevere wear one? miss smith is so artistic, i'm sure she could cut one out of gilt paper." adelaide scouted the idea. "whatever we get up for that costume," she said, "i am determined shall be _real_, no _imitation_ chatelaines, or anything else." cynthia lifted her eyebrows. "perhaps you will secure one of queen victoria's court robes?" she remarked, icily. it was on adelaide's lips to reply that we might have a robe which had figured at a court reception of the english queen, but she felt witch winnie's foot upon hers, and replied that in undertaking this tableau the amen corner felt confident that they could carry it through creditably, and we therefore begged to be excused from the dress rehearsal that afternoon. we left the dining-room in a body, and the hornets laughed aloud before we closed the door. "'they laugh best who laugh last,'" said witch winnie. "won't those girls fairly expire when they see tib in her grand rôle!" tuesday was a long and weary day for us. we started at every knock, expecting a summons to the janitor's room to receive a package, but none came. we retired much disappointed; and we held a council of war before breakfast. the roseveldts' butler had evidently proved false to his trust, and the costume was waiting for us at the family mansion on fifth avenue. "i will ask madame at breakfast to excuse me from my morning lessons to do an important errand," said witch winnie; "i will tell her the entire story, and i know that, rather than disappoint us all, she will let us go to the roseveldts' for the things." madame proved to be in good-humor, and on reading milly's letter readily gave winnie and me the desired permission, sending for a hansom to take us to our destination. all of the hornets at the lower end of the table heard this conversation, and adelaide thought that cynthia vaughn turned green with envy. an hour later, as we came down the front stairs to take our hansom, cerberus popped his head from his office to tell us that a package had just been received for miss adelaide armstrong. "come back, girls!" adelaide cried excitedly; "here is the costume. it can be nothing else. my, what a big bundle!" we carried it between us in triumph up the staircase. the hornets were clustered on the very top landing; their faces peered over the balustrade, and as they caught sight of our procession a peal of derisive laughter echoed through the hall as they scuttled away to their nest under the eaves. "those hornets have certainly gone crazy," emma jane remarked, practically. she was carrying her corner of the package, and was as interested as the rest of us in the arrival of the costume. we entered our study-parlor in suppressed excitement, and impatiently cut the knots, and tore open the wrappings, when, behold! another package, scrupulously tied. this paper removed revealed another, then another, and another, and the fact slowly dawned upon us that we had been victimized. "girls!" exclaimed witch winnie, sitting down on the floor in despair, "it's a wicked sell of those hornets: there is nothing here." emma jane anton kept on methodically removing the wrappers and folding them neatly. "perhaps," suggested adelaide, "they have merely arranged this hoax to fool us, and the costume is still at the roseveldts'." "it's just like that cynthia vaughn to do such a thing; we'll go, all the same," witch winnie replied, rising hopefully and tying on her veil. at this juncture emma jane reached a pasteboard box marked "violet velvet court dress." lifting the lid discovered a quantity of trash. an empty sardine-box bore the label "diamond crown;" a dilapidated bustle was marked "brussels point lace;" a mixed-pickle bottle was filled with apple-parings and labeled "old repoussé châtelaine, reign of arthur i.; the _real_ article; must be returned." a howl of mingled laughter and dismay rose from our corner. "cynthia vaughn wrote that letter which purported to be from milly. well, it's a real good practical joke, anyway," said witch winnie; "better than i thought the hornets could get up without my help. let us show them that we can take a joke, and good-naturedly acknowledge ourselves sold." "and in the mean time what am i to do for a costume? you know the tableaux come off to-night." "that puts another face on the matter." "i suppose cynthia would be only too glad to take the part even now." "after all we have said, and your name printed on the programme--never!" this from adelaide. "i'll tell you what we will do," suggested winnie; "the hansom is still waiting at the door; tib and i will drive to a costumer's and hire something. i found the address of a place on the bowery the other day and fortunately saved it. hold your heads up high; we will not acknowledge ourselves defeated yet." as witch winnie and i sped out of the quiet square and down the great teeming thoroughfare, the elevated trains jarring overhead and the motley crowd surging about us, a misgiving of conscience swept over me. what would madame say? this was not what we had obtained permission to do. this was very different from fifth avenue, and not at all a quarter of the city in which young ladies should be wandering without chaperons. we were quite desperate, however, and it seemed too late to turn back. the hansom stopped before a hebrew misfit clothing store where dress suits were announced as on hire by the evening. flaunting placards above told that costumes for the theatrical profession and for fancy balls were to be let in the fourth story. we climbed a dirty staircase, and after knocking by mistake at an intelligence office for _dienst mädchen_, a hair-dyeing and complexion-enameling rooms, a chiropodist's, and a clairvoyant's, we found ourselves in a room piled from floor to ceiling with costumes. a fat german, who looked as if he were some second-hand piece of furniture, very much soiled as to his linen, and the worse for wear as to his physical mechanism, admitted us and did the honors of the establishment. i glanced around at the motley objects which filled the wareroom; gaudy spangled dresses, with a sprinkle of saw-dust (suggestive of the arena) clinging to the worn cotton velvet, many-ruffled shockingly brief skirts of rose-colored gauze that had spun like so many teetotums behind flaring foot-lights, tinfoil suits of armor that had come in all mud-besplashed from parading the streets at the last grand procession, the faded banners which flapped above them so jauntily, drooping wearily now from the rafters, covered with dust and festooned by the spiders. a row of dominoes dependent from a neighboring clothes-line rustled with an air of mystery, and a heap of masks upon the floor seemed to leer and wink from their eyeless windows. "i am afraid," said winnie, drawing nearer the door, "that you haven't anything so nice as i want." "i haf effery dings, effery dings," replied the ponderous costumer; "you don't t'ink i keeps dose fine procade for the costume ball out here in te tust, ain't it?" "i wanted something for a school entertainment," winnie explained. "so, so; i haf effery dings, i tole you, for de school. ya, from dose kindergarten to dot universities. dings for little peebles and dings for big peebles." "i should like to know what kind of big people patronize your establishment?" "sometimes dose ladies who make de church fair. i have some angel wing for de christmas mystery, de mask for de muzzer goose pantomine. sometimes dose fine ladies dey make some peesness mit me. when de shentlemen step on dose trail or spill coffee on dot tablier, den i buys dot dress, and my designer she make it all new again. i haf one ferry nice designer; she haf many times arrange ze historical costume for dose grand painting what make ze artists." "then i think i would like to talk with her," said winnie. "ya, ya, dat vas right. here, mrs. halsey, mrs. halsey! perhaps you petter go in de sewing-room, ain't it?" he opened the door into a back room where a sweet pale-faced woman sat sewing little bells on a jester's cap. we were struck from the outset with mrs. halsey's refined appearance, and we were not surprised when she showed, by her complete understanding of what we required, that she had read tennyson and had some idea of historical periods in costume. she drew a purple velvet robe from a great bundle. i exclaimed in disapproval as i noticed a horrid crimson border. "but this is coming off," said the little woman, using her scissors briskly, "and instead, i will stitch some gold braid appliqué in a lily design. see, how do you like this effect?" and her deft fingers flew, coiling and twisting the gilt braid until a really regal combination was produced. "then we will have it open at the side to show a white satin petticoat, also laced with gold, and the sleeves can be puffed and slashed with white satin. i arranged a costume like that for mary anderson." "is it possible that such a noted and successful actress gets her costumes at a place like this?" asked witch winnie. "oh, no," replied mrs. halsey, with a sigh; "when i made miss anderson's dresses i was designer for madame céleste's establishment. i should be there now if it were not for jim." she was fitting the dress to me, and as this would take several minutes, winnie asked, "who is jim?" "jim is my son; he is twelve years old, and the brightest little fellow, for his age, you ever saw. he leads his classes at the public school, has a record of in mathematics, for all that he has such a poor chance at preparing his lessons." "how does that happen?" it was i who inquired this time. "jim is an ambitious boy; ambitious to help me as well as to keep a place in his class, and a milkman pays him a dollar a week for driving his cart over to jersey city to meet the milk train and fill his cans for him every morning." "that is very nice." "if it did not break so cruelly into the poor boy's hours for sleep. in order to dress and snatch a bite before he goes down to the stable and harnesses, he has to rise at o'clock. this enables the milkman to sleep until jim arrives with the milk at o'clock, in time to begin the morning rounds. i make the boy take an hour's sleep after this, but it is not enough." "he ought to go to bed very early." "yes, but the lessons; when are they to be learned? he shouts them out in his sleep. 'if i gain seven hundred dollars from a rise of - / per cent. in pennsylvania railroad stock, what was my original investment?' he has his father's quickness for figures. bless his heart! he never had any money to invest in railroad stocks, and by heaven's help he never will." "i am not so sure about that," said witch winnie. "how did it happen that you lost your position at madame céleste's on account of jim?" she had finished the fitting and was removing the pins from her mouth, but winnie drew on her gloves very slowly; we were both interested. "madame kept me for such late hours that i did not reach home until jim was asleep, and at last she proposed to raise my salary, but said that i must sleep in the establishment, so as to be on hand to open early in the morning. this was after madame's very successful winter, when she bought a house out of town, and did not find it convenient to come in until late in the day. i told her that i would accept her offer if jim could be with me; but there was no room for him, and we thought it best to stick together. i get through here at o'clock, and can cook jim's dinner. but it's hard for the boy. if i could only afford to let him have his entire time for his study--but his dollar a week half pays our rent." "wouldn't it have been better for you both if you had remained at madame céleste's, and had sent jim to boarding-school? there are such nice cadet schools up the hudson." a faint smile overspread the woman's face. "madame always insisted that her employees should dress well. i know exactly what it cost me. it would have left just a dollar and a half a week for jim. do you know of any boarding-school that would have taken him at those rates?" winnie sorrowfully confessed that she did not, and we reluctantly took our leave, mrs. halsey promising to finish the costume immediately, and to send it by jim in ample time for the evening's performances. our escapade lay heavily upon my conscience in spite of our success in obtaining the costume, but i felt still more troubled for poor mrs. halsey and her overworked boy. "i wonder," i said to winnie, "if madame could not make him useful here at the school, and let him work for his board, tend furnace and run errands." "you could not tell her about him without confessing our lark, and don't you do that for the world!" "no," i promised, against my will, "of course not, unless you consent; the secret is half yours, but i really think it would be the best way." adelaide was greatly interested in our report. "i am to have my violin dress for the concert made at madame céleste's," she said, "and i mean to ask her about this mrs. halsey." jim came with the package while we were at supper, and adelaide ran down to the office to receive it. she told us that he was an undersized, stoop-shouldered boy, with a cough which she fancied he had contracted by driving in the early morning mists. he took off his hat like a little gentleman, however, and his finger-nails and teeth were clean. any clown might wear good clothes, adelaide insisted, but these little details marked the gentleman. he had at first declined the dime which adelaide proffered, but accepted it on her insistence that it was only for car-fare and it was raining. he put it away carefully in a little worn purse which contained just one cent, at the same time remarking, "i don't mind the rain, and i can get ma the quinine the doctor says she ought to be taking." "that's the boy for me," witch winnie remarked; "he's got clear grit, and tenderness for his mother besides." and guinevere's gown? it was a beauty. the golden lilies gave it a sumptuous effect, and it fulfilled almost exactly the promises of the forged letter; there was even a _rivière_ of fish-scale pearls and glass beads down the side, which really resembled a châtelaine. the hornets were overcome with amazement--simply dazzled and dazed. according to adelaide--who always resorted to french to express her superlatives, and, when that language proved inadequate, pieced it out with translations of american slang or coinage of her own--they were "_completement bouleversées, stupefiées, mortifiées, et frappée plus haute q'un--q'un--kite_!" chapter iii. the princess. [illustration: {drawing of the dear old lady.}] that's the dear old lady, in a green tabby gown and a great lace cap, with long lace ruffles hanging down. there she sits in a cushioned high-backed seat, covered over with crimson damask, with a footstool at her feet. you see what a handsome room it is, full of old carving and gilding; the house is, one may be sure, of the elizabethan style of building. --_mary howitt._ our interest in mrs. halsey and her son slumbered for a time; not that we forgot her, or gave up our determination to do something for jim whenever the opportunity offered. it was soon to come, but our time and interest were filled with other things. just now it was a mystery--and what so dear to a girl's imagination? it was brought up for discussion afresh, because miss prillwitz had said to emma jane anton that the diadem which i wore as guinevere was not a suitable one for a queen, but a rather nondescript arrangement half-way between that of a marquis and an earl. this assumption of authoritative knowledge in regard to coronets revived an old rumor as to the noble birth of miss prillwitz. no one could tell who first circulated the report that miss prillwitz was a princess. it developed little by little, i fancy, but when it began to be whispered we received it without a shadow of doubt. miss prillwitz was a prim little woman, who always came to madame's receptions dressed in the same brocade dress, once gaudy with a great bouquet pattern, but now faded into faint pink and primrose on a background of silvery-green, with the same carefully cleaned gloves and fine old fan of the period of marie antoinette. she wore her perfectly white hair à la pompadour, and further increased her diminutive height by french heels, but in spite of these artificial contrivances she was a tiny woman, though she had dignity enough for a very tall one. adelaide said she had "the unmistakable air of a _grande dame_," and that she would have suspected her in any disguise. milly had once spied, half tucked in her belt and dependent from a slender chain, a miniature, set in brilliants, of a handsome young man in uniform, a row of decorations on his breast, crosses and stars hanging from strips of bright ribbon. this was a great discovery, and milly was sure that the original was no less a personage than peter the great. she had thought out a thrilling romance of true love crossed by jealousy and heartbreak, which the rest of the girls accepted as more than probable, until emma jane anton suggested that as peter the great died in , it would really make the princess much older than she appeared, to fancy that he was the hero of her girlhood. emma jane anton always had a disagreeable faculty of remembering dates. the other girls were unanimous in the opinion that she knew entirely too much, and each one looked and longed for an opportunity of publicly detecting her in a mistake and correcting her--an opportunity which never came. milly never made herself offensive by being certain of anything, and was loved and petted accordingly. the myth of a royal lover was a congenial one, and gained credence, though none of us dared to give him a name or date, at least not in the presence of emma jane anton. no one had the temerity to question adelaide's infallibility in detecting a great lady at first sight. it did not ever occur to emma jane anton to ask how many princesses she had met, and what was the "unmistakable air" of distinction and nobility which announced them like a herald's proclamation. perhaps this was because adelaide herself possessed this grand air by nature, and was far more regal in appearance and feeling than many a guelph or stuart. witch winnie, perhaps because she was the mad-cap of the boarding-school, and was always getting into scrapes herself, snuffed a political plot, and suggested that the princess had been exiled on account of deep-laid machinations against one of the reigning families, a supposition which would account for her living in exile and disguise, and even in comparative poverty. this explanation, as being the most ingenious, and affording fascinating scope for the imagination, was the most popular one, and was more or less elaborated according to the individual fancy of the young lady. emma jane anton was obliged to admit that she might be a princess, and that there was no harm in calling her so amongst ourselves. madame had let fall some very singular expressions when she announced the fact that we were to have her for our teacher in botany. emma jane had heard her, and it was she who had reported the news to the others. "girls," she said, "did you ever hear anything so absurd! we are going to recite our botany to the princess." "you don't mean it!" "honest! she lives in that funny old house across the square, that winnie always pretends to think is haunted. we are to parade over there three days in the week. madame says it's a great opportunity, for she is really quite eminent; writes for scientific journals, has traveled in all sorts of foreign countries, and _has moved in court circles_." "i told you so!" exclaimed adelaide, triumphantly. "i always said she was a true-blue princess." "i don't know that you have quite proved it yet," replied emma jane anton, coolly, "but madame did say that we would have an opportunity of learning much more from her than mere botany--etiquette, i presume--for she went on to hint that she had been brought up in a different school of manners from that of our own day and country, that we would find her peculiar in some ways, and that she trusted to our native courtesy to humor her little foibles, and a hundred more things of the same sort, winding up with that stock expression which she always uses when she has talked a subject to shreds and tatters--'a word to the wise is sufficient.'" "i wish i had heard her," said witch winnie; "i don't consider this subject talked to tatters, by any means. i propose that this botany class constitute itself a committee of investigation to clear up the mystery in regard to the history of the princess. we are supposed to be devoted to the study of nature, but i consider _human_ nature a deal the more interesting. it will almost pay for having to mind one's _p_'s and _q_'s. i wonder what she would say if she caught me sliding down her palace balusters! we'll all have to practice curtseying--one step to the side, then two back. oh! i'm ever so sorry i knocked over that stand. was the vase a keepsake or anything? i'll buy you another. no, i can't, for i've spent all my allowance for this month. well, you may have that _bonbonnière_ of mine you liked so much." the vase was a treasure, but no one could be vexed with witch winnie, and i forgave her, of course, and would none of the _bonbonnière_. our first glimpse at the house in which the princess lived was as appetizing to our imaginations as the little lady herself. it had been built as a church-school, and straggled around the church, shaping itself to the exterior angles of that edifice, and in so doing gained a number of queerly shaped rooms, some long and narrow, and others with irregular corners, but all bright with southern sunshine. the princess rented only the upper floor and the front room in the basement. the rest of the house had been let to other parties, but was now vacant. how strange and lonely it must seem, we thought, to go up and down those long staircases, and peep into the uninhabited rooms! rather eerie at night. "i wouldn't live that way for the world," shivered milly. "i should be afraid of robbers." "burglars don't usually choose an unoccupied house for their operations," emma jane remarked, sententiously. later, when we were better acquainted with the princess, milly asked her if she was never timid. she acknowledged that she was, but assured us that rats _were one great comfort_. "what do you mean?" milly asked. "whenevaire," said the princess (in the quaint broken english which we always found so fascinating, english which had only the foreignness of pronunciation and idiom, and which adelaide insisted was rarely so maltreated as to be really _broken_, but was only a little dislocated)--"whenevaire i hear one cautious sawing noise which shall be as if ze burglaire to file ze lock, i say to myself, 'ah, ha! monsieur rat have invited to himself some companie in ze pantry of ze butler.' when zere come one _tappage_ on ze _escalier_, as zo some one make haste to depart ze house, i turn myself upon my bed and make to myself explanation--rats! when ze footsteps mysterious steal so softly down ze hall, and make pause justly at my door, then i reach for ze great cane of my fazzer, which i keep at all times by ze canopy of my bed, and i pound on ze floor--boom, boom, monsieur rat _scélérat_, and it is thus i make my reassurance." the princess received us in what had been the basement dining-room, which she called her laboratory. the entire south side was one broad window of small diamond-shaped panes. forming a sill to this window was a row of low, wide cases for the reception of herbaria, and the room had a peculiar herby smell, a mixture of sweet-fern and faint aromatic herbs. the cushions which converted the tops of these cases into seats were stuffed with dried beech-leaves. the princess quoted latin to us for her preference for the fine springy upholstery which beech-leaves give. _silva domus, cubilia frondes._ ("the wood a house, the foliage a couch.") the other furniture in the room was a long table placed in front of the book-case divan, a table covered with piles of ms. books, a press for specimens, two microscopes, and a great blue china bowl containing pussy-willows in water--our specimens for the day's study. high book-cases, whose contents could only be guessed at, for the glass doors were lined with curiously shirred green silk, were ranged against the wall opposite, and at one end of the room stood a monumental german stove in white porcelain; at the other was miss prillwitz's chair, a high-backed gothic affair, which had once served as an episcopal _sedilium_, but had been removed on the occasion of a new furnishing of the church. it formed a stately background for the little figure. i often found myself making sketches of her on the sheets of soft paper between which we pressed our flowers, instead of listening to the lecture. i liked to imagine how she would look in a great ruff, not of cynthia vaughn's mosquito net, but of real _point de venise_. and yet her talks were very interesting; she was a true lover of nature, and made us love her. she regretted that she could not take us into the deep woods, but she opened our eyes to the wealth of country suggestiveness which we could find in the city. she introduced us personally to the scanty two dozen or so of trees in the little park, and from the intimate acquaintance formed with each of these, our appetites were whetted for vast wildernesses of forest primeval. she opened to us the beauty which there lies in the simple branching of the trees in their winter nudity, the tracery of the limbs and twigs cut clearly against a yellow sunset, or picked out with snow; how the elms gave graceful wine-glass and greek-vase outlines; the snakily mottled sycamore undulated its great arms like a boa-constrictor reaching out for prey; the birch, "the lady of the woods," displayed her white satin dress; the gnarled hemlocks wrestled upward, each sharp angle a defiance to the winter storms with which they had striven in heroic combat, the bent knees clutching the rocks, while the aged arms writhed and tossed in the grasp of the fiends of the air. she showed us the beautiful parabolic curve of the willows, a bouquet of rockets; the military bearing of a row of lombardy poplars standing, in their perfect alignment, like tall grenadiers drawn up in a hollow square. before the first tender blurring of the leaf-buds we knew our trees, and loved them for their almost human qualities. miss sartoris had taught me, the preceding summer, to look for the decorative beauty to be found in common roadside weeds, and we had made sketches together of dock, elecampane, tansy, thistles, and milkweed. i had one rich, rare day with her in a swamp, when i ruined a pair of stockings, and made the discovery that a skunk-cabbage was as beautiful in its curves as a calla. i brought these sketches to the princess, and she congratulated me on the possession of my country home with its gold-mines of beauty all around. "you are one heiress, my dear," she said, "to ze vast wealths which you have only to learn how you s'all enjoy. only t'ink of ze sousands of poor city people who haf never had ze felicity to see a swamp!" i grew to appreciate the country, and to feel that i was richer than i had thought. milly found a branch of study which was not above the measure of her intellect. she soon mastered the long names, and learned to think, and teachers in other departments noted an improvement. there was need for this, for the hornets long kept up a tradition that at one of the history examinations milly had been asked, "what is the salic law?" and had replied, confidently--"that no woman or _descendant of a woman_, can ever reign in france." chapter iv. court life. [illustration: {drawing of mrs. grogan.}] mrs. grogan, the baby-farmer of rickett's court, could hardly have been described as a court lady, and yet she was a very typical specimen of the women of this locality. but before introducing the reader to the society of rickett's court, i must first explain how it was that we came to make its acquaintance. as the time approached for the concert of which i have spoken, adelaide was reminded of her determination to have a "violin dress" made by madame céleste. adelaide played the violin, as we thought, divinely; she was at least the best performer at madame's. "the violin is the violet," i said, quoting from "charles auchester." "you must have a violet-colored gown." "a very delicate shade of china crêpe will do," adelaide replied, "made up with a darker tint, and the sleeves must be puffed like that dress the princess wore to the tableaux." "adelaide, dear," murmured milly, "you ought to wear angel sleeves to show your lovely arms." "and have them flop about like a ship's pennant in a lively breeze, during that bit of rapid bowing? that would be too grotesque." "puff them to the elbow," i suggested, "and then have a fall of soft lace that will float back and give the turn of your wrist as you whip the strings." "see here, adelaide," remarked witch winnie, "if you want something really fine, get that mrs. halsey to design it for you." "you don't suppose that i would hire a dress for the concert at a costumer's?" "i didn't say that; you could have it made wherever you pleased, but get mrs. halsey's ideas on the subject; they are really remarkable." adelaide considered the subject and acted upon it, but, greatly to my relief, she refused to do so without explaining the entire affair to madame. "i'll not stand in the way of your having a nice gown," said witch winnie. "come, tib, let's confess." i was overjoyed, and madame, though duly shocked, was not severe. she even allowed witch winnie to take adelaide to see mrs. halsey, stipulating only that she should be chaperoned by one of the teachers. adelaide chose miss sartoris, at my suggestion, both because we liked her, and from my feeling that her artistic instinct might be of service. the girls were disappointed to find that mrs. halsey was no longer at the costumer's. he had "pounced" her, he said, because she was "too much of a lady for de peesness." fortunately he could give the girls her address--no. , sixth floor, rickett's court. it was a very disagreeable part of town. miss sartoris looked doubtful as they approached it, and was on the point of getting into the carriage again as they alighted, but witch winnie had already darted through a long dark hall which led to the court in the centre of the block, and there was nothing for it but to follow. evil smells nearly choked them as they ran the gauntlet of that hall, and they were no better off on emerging upon the sloppy court. the space overhead, between the buildings, was laced with an intricate network of clothes-lines filled with garments. adelaide said she realized now where all upper new york had its laundry work done, for this was evidently not the wash of the court people. from their appearance it was only fair to conjecture that they were so busy doing other people's washing that they never had time for their own. the dirty water seemed to be thrown from the windows into the court, where it stood in puddles or feebly trickled into the sewer, from which emanated nauseous and deadly gases. sickly children were dabbling in these puddles. "it makes me think of hood's 'lost heir,'" said miss sartoris-- "the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, with two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys." they mounted a ricketty staircase grimed with dirt. smells of new degrees and varieties of loathsomeness assaulted them at every landing. the italian rag-pickers in the basement were sorting their filthy wares, while a little girl was concocting for them the garlic stew over a charcoal brazier. the mingled fumes came thick from the open door. mrs. grogan on the first floor had paused in her washing to take a pull at a villainous pipe. she came to the door still smoking, and carrying in her arms an almost skeleton baby, who sucked at a dirty rag containing a crust dipped in gin. winnie obtained one glimpse of the interior of mrs. grogan's domicile, and drew back quite pale. "adelaide," she said, "the room literally _swarmed_ with babies; that woman cannot have so many all of the same age." inquiry of mrs. halsey enlightened them. mrs. grogan was a "baby-farmer," and boarded these children, making a good income thereby, as their mothers were servants in good families. on the next floor a family of eight were working in a hall-bedroom, at rolling cigars. the large rooms were occupied by some chinese. mrs. halsey thought that they used them as an opium den. past more doors, up three more pairs of stairs, and they paused at no. . they knocked several times, but they could not make themselves heard above the buzz and whirr of a sewing-machine. finally winnie opened the door, and there sat mrs. halsey bent over the machine, while the floor was piled with dainty underclothing neatly tucked. she sprang up, evidently pleased to see winnie again, and motioned her callers to the only seats which the room afforded--a chair, a trunk, and a stool. winnie apologized for the interruption, and explained her errand. "but perhaps you are too busy to design this dress," adelaide said; "i see you have plenty of work." "it will not take long to make a little sketch," mrs. halsey replied, "and it will be a real pleasure for me to do it." as her fingers moved rapidly over the paper the girls took an inventory of the room. a cracked cooking-stove, and a cupboard behind it formed of a dry-goods box, but all the utensils were scrupulously clean. a closet, another dry-goods case on end, with a chintz curtain in front, concealed, as winnie's prying eyes ascertained, a roll of bedding, which was evidently spread on the floor at night. mrs. halsey knelt before a worn table, and this, with the sewing-machine, completed the furnishing of the apartment. no, in the window there was a row of fruit-cans containing some geraniums. miss sartoris discovered them, and mrs. halsey apologized for their condition. "they were just in bud," she said, "but we were without coal for several days, and they were nipped by frost." poor woman! she looked as if _she_ had been nipped by the frost too during that bitter experience. she coughed, and adelaide remarked, "you ought to drink cream, mrs. halsey; they say it is better for a cough than cod-liver oil." "i have plenty of milk," the little woman replied. "the milkman for whom my jim works lets him have the milk that he finds left over in the cans when he washes them out after his rounds. sometimes there's as much as a pint, and almost always enough for our oatmeal." mrs. halsey spoke cheerily and proudly--as of a luxury which she owed her boy. the design was completed, and adelaide was delighted. "would you like to have me make the costume in tissue-paper?" mrs. halsey asked; "the sleeve, at least, and this drapery; then any seamstress can make it." "how much will it be?" adelaide asked, doubtfully--wondering if her five-dollar bill would cover the charge. "do you think seventy-five cents too much? it would take me an afternoon." "but you could certainly earn more than that by your sewing." mrs. halsey smiled rather bitterly. "would you really like to know the rates at which i work?" she asked. adelaide expressed her interest. "these pretty mother hubbard night-gowns sell well, i am sure, but i know you can't get very much for making them, for i bought a pair at a bargain counter for a dollar." "it is the bargain counter which makes the low pay. i get a dollar and thirty cents _a dozen_ for making them," said mrs. halsey, calmly. "a dozen!" cried winnie; "and how many can you make in a day?" "eight." "then you make--" "eighty-five cents a day; but i cannot average that." "can't you do better with something else?" "i have made flannel skirts--tucked--at a dollar a dozen, but i can only make eight of those in a day, so that is less. i have received a dollar and twenty cents a dozen for making chemises, which sell at seven dollars a dozen; and seventy-five cents a dozen for babies' slips, three tucks and a hem; forty cents a dozen for corset covers. i have a friend who works a machine in a ruffling factory; she makes a hundred and fifty yards of hemmed and tucked ruffling a day, for which she receives twenty-five cents. so, you see, i am better off than some."[a] [a] see "campbell's prisoners of poverty" for still more harrowing statistics. "and can you live on five dollars a week?" "six dollars, madame; jim earns one dollar and the milk." "you pay for rent--" "six dollars a month; yes, it _is_ hard to earn that." "you must be thankful that you have only jim to provide for." "the sandys, on the floor below, have six children; five of them earn wages. i think they earn more than their cost." "but," said miss sartoris, "i thought child labor was prohibited by law." "not out of school hours, or at home. then the parents often swear a child is over fourteen, but small of its age, and get it into a factory. you wouldn't blame them, madame, if you knew all the circumstances i do. i keep jim at his books, but the study, with the night work, i'm afraid is killing him. they tempt him at the saloon, too, to take what they call a 'bracer' as he goes out to drive the milk cart at in the morning, but i get up and have tea ready for him, so that he does not yield." "we must go now," said miss sartoris, kindly. "you will send jim with the paper pattern to-night?" adelaide slipped a dollar into mrs. halsey's hand, and would take no change. and the three went down the stairs thoughtful and sad. "what can we do for her?" winnie asked. "i am sure i don't know," replied miss sartoris; "she certainly seems capable of securing better wages." "i will speak to madame céleste about her," said adelaide; and she was as good as her word. winnie accompanied adelaide when she took the pattern to the fashionable dress-maker. the modiste listened in rapt attention to adelaide's explanation of the gown wanted. she examined the design with interest. "it is perfectly made," she said. "who constructed this for you? it is the work of an expert. ah, miss, if i only had now in my establishment a designer who was with me last year! she had such a mind for _costumes de fantaisie_! for greek costumes to be worn at the harp, and for directoire dresses, i miss her cruelly, but mademoiselle's design is so explicit that we will have no trouble." "was your designer a mrs. halsey?" winnie asked. "the same, miss. do you know her? can you give me her address? i must try to get her back." "i think you may be able to obtain her. she made this pattern for me; but you will have to bid high, for she has her boy with her now." "ah yes! the boy; that was the trouble between us. seamstresses have no business to be mothers. mrs. halsey ought to give up the child entirely to some asylum for adoption; he will always be a handicap to her; but she does not see this, and clings to him as though she thought him her only chance for fortune. there is a mystery in mrs. halsey's life. her husband has deserted her, and she lives in the vain hope that he will come back some day and explain everything. she patronized me once, long ago, when she was in better circumstances. she will not talk about her husband, and i fancy that he is one of those defaulting cashiers who have run away to canada. i am willing to take her back on the old terms, but she must give up her boy. i have an order for a set of costumes for one of our queens of the opera. mrs. halsey is just the one to take it in hand. where did you say she could be found?" "i think you had better communicate with her through me," adelaide replied; "i am not at liberty to give her address." "and it is very possible," winnie spoke up, eagerly, for she had seen a gleam in madame céleste's eyes, "that her friends will provide for the boy. in that case she will be more independent, and perhaps will not be willing to return at the old salary. what shall we say is the most that you will offer." "five dollars a week and her board; that is very good pay, miss; fifty cents more than i paid her when she was with me." the girls could hardly wait to reach the amen corner to talk the matter over. milly was all sympathy. "i will write to papa," she said, "and get him to send jim to a boarding-school. i'll send for several circulars, and find out how much it costs." as an answer from mr. roseveldt might be expected the next day, we decided to wait for it. adelaide regretted that her father was in omaha, as she was sure that he would have aided in the scheme. mr. roseveldt's answer was most discouraging. he regarded milly's plan as mere sentimental nonsense, and would take no interest in it. "you might save something out of your allowance, milly," suggested the audacious winnie. "i give away three-fourths of it now," milly replied, in an injured tone. "what with the flowers i have on the organ every day for miss hope, and the favors for the german, which i always furnish, and the bonbons i give you girls, and all my other extras--" "but, milly dear," i exclaimed, "we would all ever so much rather you spent the candy money for jim than on us." "but i want _some_ candy for myself, and i am not going to be so mean as to munch it, and not pass any to the other girls." it would have been a real deprivation to milly to do without her beloved candy. she gloated over luscious pasty "lumps of delight" in the way of marshmallows and chocolate creams, candied fruits and marrons glacées, and her silver bonbonnière was always filled with the most expensive candied violets and rose-leaves. worse than this, there were certain little cordial drops, which were a peculiar weakness of milly's; none of us knew with what an awful danger she was playing, or that milly inherited a taste for alcoholic beverages through several generations. but milly was not selfish. "very well, girls," she said, with a sigh, "if you will go without, i will, and we will form a total abstinence candy society. i know just how much that means for jim, for i paid maillard eight dollars last month." "you are a good girl," spoke up emma jane, "and if you hold to that resolution, milly roseveldt, i will deal you out a cake of maple sugar every day, from a box i've just received from some vermont cousins. i was wondering what i should do with it, for i don't care for sweets." milly's face brightened; all unconsciously she was doing as great a kindness to herself as to jim, and the pure maple sugar was a good substitute for the unwholesome concoctions of the confectioner; it satisfied her craving for sweets, and did not poison her appetite. the rest of us added our small contributions, but the aggregate only amounted to three dollars a week, and we were unable to learn of any boarding-school to which jim could be sent at those rates. winnie had communicated madame céleste's offer to mrs. halsey. "it would be just the thing if i were alone," she replied, "but what would jim do without me?" "perhaps you can board him somewhere," winnie suggested; and she told of the sum which we girls had promised. "if i knew of any respectable place where he would have good influences, i would accept your kindness, as a loan, for a little while," mrs. halsey replied, "for my first earnings must go for clothes. i have friends in connecticut; perhaps they will take jim." but mrs. halsey found that her friends had moved west. she thanked us for our interest, but said that there seemed nothing better to do than to continue as they were. "i can't bear to tell madame céleste that she declines her offer," said adelaide. "_we_ must find a place for that boy." "i don't see how," replied winnie; but she saw, that afternoon; it came to her all by a sudden inspiration during our botany lesson. chapter v. little prince del paradiso. [illustration: {drawing of the little prince del paradiso.}] that day the botany class found their teacher in a flutter of excitement. there was a fresh, pink glow in the faded cheeks, and an unusual sparkle in the kindly eyes. she seated herself in the episcopal chair, lifted her lorgnette, and began to arrange the specimens for the day's lesson, but her hand trembled so that she could scarcely adjust the microscope, and the papers on which her notes were written sifted through her fingers and were strewn in confusion on the floor. "are you ill, miss prillwitz?" adelaide asked, in alarm. "no, miss armstrong," replied the princess, "it is not a painful in my system, and it is not a sorry; it is a pleasant. i shall expect to myself a company, and this is to me so seldom that i find myself _égaré_--what you call it?--scatter? sprinkled?--as to my understanding." we all looked our interest, and winnie ventured to ask--"one of your relations, miss prillwitz?" "yes," replied the little lady; "he is of my own family, though to see him i have never ze pleasure. it ees ze little prince del paradiso." we girls pinched each other under the table, while milly murmured, "a prince! how perfectly lovely!" "yes," replied miss prillwitz; "ze birthright to ziss little poy is one great, high, nobilitie, _la plus haute noblesse_, but he know nossing of it, nossing whateffer. he haf ze misfortune to be exported from his home when one leetle child; he haf been elevated by poor peoples to think himself also a poor. he know nossing of ze estates what belong his family, and better he not know until he make surely his title, and he make to himself some education which shall make him suit to his position." "how did you know about this little stolen prince?" emma jane asked. "i receive message from his older bruzzer to take him to my house _provisionellement_, till his rights and his--his--what you call--his sameness?" "you mean his identity?" "yes, yes, his die entity can be justly prove." "it seems to me," said witch winnie, impulsively, "that he can't be a very kind elder brother to be so indifferent." "my dear child, you make my admiration with what celeritude you do arrive always at exactly ze wrong conclusion. ze prince haf made great effort to recover his little bruzzer, but he must guard himself from ze false claimants, ze impostors." "then the little boy who is coming to you," said emma jane, "may not be the real prince, after all?" "that is a possible," miss prillwitz admitted, "but it is not a probable. somesing assure me zat he s'all prove his nobility." "how very interesting," said milly. "was he stolen away from home by gypsies?" "no, my child, he was not steal. he wandered himself away from his fazzer's house and was lost." "how old is he now?" "twelve year." witch winnie started; that was just jim halsey's age, and what a difference in the destiny awaiting the two boys! one the son of a king, the other of a criminal. "will you to see ze little chamber of ze petit prince?" asked miss prillwitz. we were all overjoyed by the suggestion, and the eager little woman led us to a room just under the roof, with a dormer-window looking out upon the roof of the church. milly ran directly to this window, and drawing aside the curtains looked out, but started back again half frightened, for a carved gargoyle under the eaves was very near and leered at her with a malicious, demoniacal expression. he was a grotesque creature with bat wings, lolling tongue, and long claws, but harmless enough, for the doves perched on his head and preened their iridescent plumage in the sunshine. the church roof just here was a wilderness of flying buttresses and pinnacles; the chimes were still far overhead, and rang out, as we entered the chambers, my favorite hymn--"sun of my soul, thou saviour dear." i have not yet described the room itself. we all exclaimed at its quaint beauty as we entered. it was papered with an old-fashioned vine pattern, the green foliage twined about a slender trellis, and this gave the room, which was really quite small, the effect of an arbor with space beyond. there was a patch of dark green carpet with a mossy pattern before the bed, which was very simple and dressed in white. in the window recess was a dry-goods box, upholstered in a fern-patterned chintz of a restful green tint, and serving, with its cushions, both as a divan and as a chest for clothing. there was a little corner wash-stand with a toilet set decorated with water-lilies and green lily-pads, and there was a little sliding curtain of green china silk with a shadow-pattern at the window, while through the uncurtained upper space one saw, beyond the church roof, the trees of the park. "o miss prillwitz!" i exclaimed, "it is just aurora leigh's room over again. you modeled it on mrs. browning's description, did you not?-- "'i had a little chamber in the house, as green as any privet-hedge a bird might choose to build in ... ... the walls were green, the carpet was pure green; the straight small bed was curtained greenly, and the folds hung green about the window, which let in a dash of dawn dew from its greenery, the honeysuckle.'" "i haf nefer ze pleasure to know zat room," said miss prillwitz, her eyes kindling. "how perfectly sweet!" exclaimed adelaide. "it is like 'a lodge in some vast wilderness.' i didn't know that there was a place in new york so like the country." "will the prince study botany with us?" milly asked, as we descended the stairs. "i fear he is not ready for ze botany. his education haf been neglect. but you s'all see him oftenly. i must beg you not to tell him zat he is a prince; zis must not divulge to him until ze proper time." "and then," added emma jane, "it would be cruel to excite hopes which may be doomed to disappointment." the princess smiled. "i do not fear zat," she said. "and now, young ladies, i must make you my excuse, and beg miss armstrong she s'all hear ze class ze remains of ze hour; i must go to ze market for prepare ze young prince his supper." she hurried away, and we attempted to turn our minds to our lesson. adelaide had just exclaimed that in botany the term _hop_ signified small, and _dog_ large, but she broke off the statement with the exclamation, "and do you see, girls, what this proves?" "that dog-roses are large roses," replied emma jane. "that the chinese laundry man around the corner, hop sin, is a little sinner," said winnie. "no, no, i don't mean that, but she said that the prince del paradiso was related to her; then, of course, she must belong to the paradiso family as well, and what we have so long suspected is really true. she is a genuine princess, and probably the daughter of a king." "i am not so sure of that," replied emma jane. "do you suspect miss prillwitz of being an impostor?" adelaide asked, coldly. "certainly not," replied emma jane; "but in many european countries every son of a prince is called a prince, instead of the eldest son only, as in england, and all the sons of all the younger sons are princes, and so on to the last descendant; and i presume it is so with the daughters as well; so that the title must often exist where there are no estates." "but miss prillwitz said that the prince del paradiso was heir to immense estates," milly insisted. "but that proves nothing in her own case," adelaide admitted. "some day, perhaps she will tell us more about herself, since she has begun to open her heart to us." at that moment the door-bell rang, and as the princess kept no servant, winnie went to the door. she was gone a long time, and came back looking grave and distraught--giving an evasive answer when we asked her who had called. i wondered at this because, as i sat nearest the door, i had overheard a part of the conversation, and knew that it referred to the little boy who was expected. "he cannot come," a voice had said; "he has a situation where he can learn a trade." this was of so much interest to us all that i wondered why winnie did not immediately report it. as soon as we returned to the school she obtained an interview with madame, and permission to see mrs. halsey in reference to the céleste situation; madame stipulating that she must not ask this favor for a long time, as she did not like to have her pupils frequent the tenement district. i offered to go with winnie, and was surprised that she declined my company. she returned glowing with suppressed excitement. "mrs. halsey has accepted madame céleste's offer," she exclaimed; "she leaves the court to-morrow, let us hope for good and all. o girls, it is a horrible place! i saw worse sights than when i was there before." "and jim?" we asked. "jim is provided for. we are to pay three dollars a week for him for the present, until mrs. halsey gets on her feet." "did she find a good place for him?" "an excellent place; but you must not ask me another question, and if any mysterious circumstances should come to your observation within a few days, you are not to say a thing, or even look surprised. promise, every one of you." "a mystery! how delightful!" exclaimed milly. "it's almost as good as the little prince. you can rely on us; we will help you, winnie, whatever it is, for we know it's all right if it's your doing." emma jane was not present, and i remarked that, while the rest of us would believe in winnie without understanding her, and even in spite of the most suspicious circumstances, i was not sure that we could trust emma jane so far. "emma jane will see nothing to suspect, and milly, i know, will stand by me. it's only you two that i am afraid of--adelaide, because she has seen jim; and tib, from her natural smartness in smelling out a secret." "whatever it is, winnie, we believe you could never do anything very bad," said adelaide. "but i have," winnie replied; "something just reckless. i'm in for the worst scrape of my life, and just as i was trying so hard to be good. i shall never be anything but a malefactor, and maybe get expelled, and throw the dear amen corner into disgrace. i'd better have staid queen of the hornets, for i shall be nothing but witch winnie to the end of the chapter." chapter vi. mrs. hetterman throws light on the mystery. [illustration: {drawing of mrs. hetterman.}] mrs. hetterman came into our life in consequence of a train of troubles which arose in the boarding-school from the frequent change of the cook. madame had been served for several years by a faithful colored man, who had suddenly taken it into his head to go off as steward on a gentleman's yacht. she had supplied his place by a biddy, who was found intoxicated on the kitchen floor. a woman followed who turned out to be a thief, and we were now enduring an incompetent creature who made sour bread and spoiled nearly every dish which passed through her hands. half of the girls were suffering with dyspepsia, and all were grumbling. the amen corner was especially out of sorts. milly, who was always fastidious, had eaten nothing but maple-sugar for breakfast, and had a sick headache; emma jane was snappish; witch winnie had stolen a box of crackers from the pantry, which she had passed around. adelaide and i had regaled ourselves upon them, but emma jane had declined on high moral grounds, and was virtuously miserable. it was in this unchristian frame of mind, or rather of stomach, that we took our next botany lesson. we found the princess beaming with pleasure. "my tear young ladies," she exclaimed, "you must felicitate me. it is all so much better as i had hoped. ze leetle prince has not been so badly elevated after all. he haf been taught to be kind and unselfish; zat is already ze foundation of a gentleman." miss prillwitz had occasion to leave the room a few minutes later. adelaide sniffed the air, and remarked, "girls, don't you smell something very nice?" "it's here on the stand in the corner," said witch winnie, lifting a napkin which covered a tray, and exclaiming, "fish balls! only see! the most beautiful brown fish balls!" "it's the remnants of their breakfast; she has forgotten to take it away," said adelaide. "they make me feel positively faint with longing; i don't believe she would mind if we took just one." we ate of the dainties, even emma jane yielding to temptation; they were delicious, and, having begun, we could not stop until they were all devoured. then we looked at one another in shame and dismay. "who will confess?" asked adelaide. "you ought to; you put us up to it," said emma jane anton. "let's write a round-robin," i suggested, "and all sign it." "i'll stand it," said winnie. "i led you into temptation." a step was heard in the hall. winnie stepped forward and began to speak rapidly; the rest of us looked down shamefacedly. "miss prillwitz, please forgive us; we were so hungry we could not stand it. if you knew what a dreadful breakfast we had this morning, i'm sure you would not blame us--" but she was interrupted by a cry of dismay--"oh! have you eaten them all? i bought them for aunty." looking up, we saw a manly little boy with an expression of distress on his frank features. adelaide uttered a sharp exclamation. i thought she said, "it's him!" and yet adelaide seldom forgot her grammar. winnie drew a deep breath, and caught adelaide by the arm. the boy looked up from the empty platter to the girls' faces, and his expression changed. "oh! it's you," he said. "well, no matter, only i meant 'em for a present for _her_--miss prillwitz, you know. she's no end good to me. mrs. hetterman, down at rickett's court, makes 'em for regular customers every friday morning. they are prime, and mother gave me a quarter for pocket-money this month, so i got ten cents' worth for aunty; she lets me call her so. i thought she'd like 'em, and it would patronize mrs. hetterman, and show her i hadn't forgotten old friends, if i had moved up in the world." "here's ten cents to get some more from mrs. hetterman," said adelaide, "and maybe we can get her a wholesale order to furnish our boarding-school. i'll speak to madame about it this very day." "and if madame doesn't order them, we girls will club together and have a spread of our own," said winnie. miss prillwitz came in at this juncture, and explanations followed. "if madame is in such trouble in regards of a cook," said miss prillwitz, "i vill write her of mrs. hetterman, and perhaps it will be to them both a providence. can she make ozzer sings as ze croquettes of codfish?" "oh yes, indeed," the little prince spoke up, eagerly; "soup, and turnovers, and _such_ bread! she gave me a little loaf every baking while mother had the pneumonia. mr. dooley, the butcher, gave me a marrow bone every monday, and i always took it to mrs. hetterman to make into soup. it made mother sick to boil it in our little room, and mrs. hetterman would make a kettle of stock, and showed me how to keep it in a crock outside the window, so mother could have some every day; it was what kept mother's strength up through it all. we had such good neighbors at the court! but mrs. hetterman was best of all. she has five children of her own, too. bill is a messenger boy, and jennie works in a feather factory. mary is a cripple, but she is just lovely, and tidies the house, and takes care of the two little ones. mr. hetterman was a plasterer and got good wages, but he fell from a scaffolding and broke his leg, and he's at the hospital." "and does mrs. hetterman support the family on ze croquettes of codfish?" asked miss prillwitz. "she scrubs offices, but she could get a place as cook in a family if it wasn't for the children." he looked longingly at miss prillwitz as he spoke, but she did not seem to notice the glance. "here, mon garçon, run down to ze court, and tell mrs. hetterman to take a basket of her cookery to ze boarding-school. i t'ink she will engage to herself some beesness." the lesson proceeded, but adelaide and winnie both blundered; they were evidently thinking of something else. a change came over witch winnie; she lost her old reckless gayety and became subdued and thoughtful. the hornets said she was studying for honors, but i knew this was not the case, for her lessons were not as well prepared as formerly. she would sit for long periods lost in reverie. winnie had charge of the money collected for jim's board. she reported, after one week, that his mother did not need as much; two dollars would supply the margin between what was required and the sum she was able to pay. none of us, with the exception of adelaide, knew where winnie had domiciled jim, but we were content to leave the matter in her hands. a week later mrs. halsey only needed one dollar. mrs. hetterman was engaged as cook for the boarding-school, and we all rejoiced in the change. i went down to the kitchen to see her, one afternoon, and found her a buxom englishwoman who dropped her _h_'s, but was always neat and civil. she was delighted when she found that i knew the names of her children. "it was a little boy who used to live in your court who told me about them," i said, "and who introduced us to your good fish balls." "oh yes, miss, i mind; it was little jim 'alsey; 'e's the prince of fine fellers, 'e is." jim halsey the prince! my head fairly reeled, and yet this explained many things which had seemed mysterious. winnie's agency in the matter was still not entirely clear to me. i did not connect her remorseful remarks about another scrape, with jim, and i believed that by some remarkable coincidence he was really miss prillwitz's little prince incognito. i wondered whether mrs. hetterman knew anything of his real history, but she preferred to talk at present about her own family. she was very happy in the prospect of introducing her oldest daughter, jennie, into the house as a waitress. "it will be so much better for jennie," she said, "than the feather factory. the hair there is not good for 'er lungs." i did not understand, at first, what mrs. hetterman meant by the _hair_, but when she explained that it was "the hatmosphere," her meaning dawned upon me. "it will make it a bit lonelier for mary and the little ones," she admitted, "but i go down every night, after the work's over, to tidy them up and to see that hall's right. the court is not a fit place for the children. if i could find decent lodgings for them, such as mrs. 'alsey 'as got for her jim! i think i could pay as much, if the place was only found; i'm 'oping something will turn hup, miss." "i hope so," i replied; and i asked winnie that afternoon if she thought the person who was boarding jim halsey would take the hettermans, but she utterly discouraged the idea. we saw a good deal of the little prince. miss prillwitz called him giacomo, and was deeply attached to him. he did her credit too, for he was docile and bright. his mother was right in saying that he inherited his father's facility for mathematics, but with this faculty he possessed also a love for mechanics and for machinery of every sort. "he will make one good engineer some day," said miss prillwitz, in speaking of him to us. "that is a strange career for a prince," said adelaide. "my tear, it may be many year before he ees call to his princedom, and in ze meanstime he muss make his way. zen, too, ze sons of ze royal houses make such study, and it is one good thing for ze country whose prince interest himself in ze science." "i wonder how he would like to study surveying by and by," adelaide said. "i know that father could employ him in the west." "zat is one excellent idea," said miss prillwitz. "we will see, when ze time s'all arrive." we were all fond of the little prince. after all, miss prillwitz had decided to let him attend the botany lessons on saturdays. "if he s'all be one surveyor in ze west," she said, "he s'all have opportunity to discover ze new species of flower; he must learn all ze natural science." the prince attended the public school during the week, and held his place at the head of his class with ease. it was not hard to do so, now that he could sleep all night. emma jane, who had had her spasms of doubt in regard to him, and had even gone so far at first as to say that miss prillwitz was a crank, and she had no faith in the boy's nobility, had been won over by the boy himself, and remarked one afternoon that the internal evidence was convincing; giacomo was not like common children; he was evidently cast in a finer mold; he would do honor to any position; birth would tell, after all. it was all that dear milly could do not to betray the secret to the little prince. he was very fond of milly, but deferential and unpresuming, as became his apparent position. "some day our places may be reversed. you may live in a beautiful home and have hosts of friends," milly said to him. "will you remember me then, giacomo?" "how can that ever be?" the boy asked. "you will grow up and be a fine rich lady; i will be a poor young man whom you will have quite forgotten." "not necessarily poor," milly hastened to reply. "if you go west you may, by working hard, become rich and famous. will you forget your old friends then?" and jim promised that he would never, never forget. then a shade came across his face. "maybe i will, after all," he said, "for i have forgotten mary hetterman for more than a week. i did not think i could be so mean." adelaide and i had a conference in regard to the prince. it seemed that she had recognized him as jim halsey from the first. "i have been wondering," she said, "whether it was not a case like that of little lord fauntleroy, and whether mrs. halsey could not be proved to be the wife of a prince, but i see that cannot be the explanation of the matter; and i have concluded that jim is her adopted child. she must have taken him, when she was in better circumstances, from the people who brought him to this country when he was a very little fellow, and so he has no recollection of any other home." "she always spoke of him as her very own," i said, "and seemed fonder of him than a foster-mother could be. it will be very hard for her to part with him, if his real relatives claim him." "not if he goes to high rank and great estates," said adelaide. "she probably had no idea of his noble birth when she adopted him; and it just proves that bread cast upon the waters returns, for he will probably care for her right royally, when he comes into his own, and she will find that adopting that boy was the best investment she ever made in her life." winnie came in while we were talking. "why didn't you tell us, winnie," i asked, "that jim halsey was the little prince?" "it did not seem necessary," winnie replied, looking unnecessarily alarmed, as it seemed to me. "you pay his board directly to miss prillwitz, i suppose?" adelaide said. "no, i give it to his mother, and she sends it by mail." "well, i don't see any harm in letting miss prillwitz know that we know his mother, and are helping in his support." "i do, and i wish you would not tell her this," winnie entreated. "just as you please," adelaide replied, "but i hate mysteries." "so do i," said winnie, with a deep sigh. "what is the matter with you, any way, winnie?" adelaide asked. "that is my business," winnie replied, shortly, and left the room, banging the door behind her. "winnie isn't half as jolly as she used to be," said milly, in an injured tone. "i always depend on her to save me when i'm not prepared for recitation. when professor todd was coming down the line in the virgil class and was only two girls away from me, i made the most beseeching faces at winnie, who sits opposite, and usually she is so quick to take the hint, and come to the rescue by asking professor todd a lot of questions about the sites of the ancient cities, and where he thinks the hesperides were situated. she gets him to talking on his pet hobbies, and he proses on like an old dear, until the bell rings for change of class. but this time she just stared at me in the most wall-eyed manner, while i signaled her in a perfect agony as he got nearer and nearer. i tried to think of some question of my own to ask him, and suddenly one popped into my head which i thought was very bright. he had just been talking about Æneas' shipwreck, and he referred to st. paul's, with a description of the ancient vessels, and how he met the same mediterranean storms, and i plucked up courage and said, 'professor todd, why is it that we hear so much about virginia, and in all the pictures of the shipwreck we see her standing on the deck of the ship, and paul rushing out into the surf to rescue her? now i have read the chapter in acts which describes st. paul's shipwreck, very carefully, and in that, and in all the history of paul, there is not one word about virginia.' "you should have heard the girls shout; i think they were just as mean as they could be. that odious cynthia vaughn nearly fell off the bench, and professor todd looked at me in such a despairing way, as though he gave me up from that time forth. i just burst into tears, and winnie came over and took me out of the room. she acknowledged that it was all her fault, and that she ought to have come to my rescue sooner." poor milly! we could only comfort her with our assurances that we loved her all the more for her troubles. summer was approaching, and we were making our plans for vacation. milly's mother had invited adelaide to spend the season with them at their cottage at narragansett pier; and winnie's father had consented to her spending june and july with me on our long island farm. winnie cheered up somewhat at the prospect. "it's the warm weather which makes me feel muggy," she said; "i shall feel better when we get out of the city too. the noise and racket distract me, and seeing so many miserable people makes me miserable and sick at heart." "i don't feel so at all," i replied. "it makes me happy to see how much good even we can do. mrs. halsey would not have obtained her situation with madame céleste but for us, or have been able to place jim with miss prillwitz." winnie winced. "don't talk about them; i am sick and tired of hearing about the little prince. do you know, i don't believe he is a prince at all!" "what! do you imagine that this story of miss prillwitz's is only a fabrication?" "perhaps so, or at least a hallucination on her part; and even if it is all true jim may not be the boy. i wonder what proof she has of his identity, or whether she has written yet to his relatives. i mean to ask her--this very day." but winnie did nothing of the kind, for we were surprised on arriving at miss prillwitz's to find three new children sitting in the broad window-seats. one was a thin girl with crutches, whom i at once guessed must be mary hetterman; two chubby, freckle-faced little ones sat in the sunshine looking over a picture-book together, while miss prillwitz beamed upon them. "my tears," she said, "you see i haf some more companie. giacomo haf brought these small people to spend ze day." jim came in a little later, and introduced his friends. he was flushed and excited, and it presently appeared that the visit was a part of a deep-laid scheme of his own. "i wanted you to know the hettermans," he said, "because they are such nice children, and rickett's court is no place for them, for the family next door have the fever, and mr. grogan has the tremens, and scares them most to death. mrs. hetterman gets twenty dollars a month as cook now, and she says she can pay a dollar a week apiece for each of the children if she can board them where it is healthful and decent; and you young ladies were so kind as to help my mother at first, and now, as she don't need it any longer, maybe you would help the hettermans, and then maybe aunty would take them in. mary is very handy, for all she's a cripple, and the babies' noise is just nothing but a pleasure, and--" here the tears stood in his eyes, and he looked at miss prillwitz, who was frozen stiff with astonishment, with piteous appealing--"and i would eat just as little as i could." the good woman's voice trembled, "take ze children to play in ze park," she said; "ze young ladies and i, we talk it some over." mary hetterman tied the children's hoods on with cheerful alacrity. she evidently had high hopes, while jim threw his arms around miss prillwitz--"aunty," he said, "they deserve that you should be kind to them more than i do." "what reason is zere that i should take them in more as all ze uzzer children in ze court?" "just as much reason as for you to take me," replied the boy, running away. "bless his heart!" said miss prillwitz, as he closed the door; "he knows not ze reason zat draw me to him, ze cherubim. but i did not know you to help his muzzer until now." adelaide explained matters, and the case of the hettermans was discussed, miss prillwitz agreeing to take them in if we would assist in their support. "i shall leaf zem in my apartement for ze summer," she said, "for it is necessaire to me zat i go ze shore of ze sea, and i s'all take giacomo with me, for i cannot bear to separate myself of him. zis is so near to your school zat mrs. hetterman can sleep her nights here. but i have not decided to myself where i shall repose myself for ze summer." i spoke up quickly, referring her to miss sartoris for the beauties of our part of long island and for mother's low price for board. miss prillwitz was evidently pleasantly impressed. she thought she would like to study the seaweed of that part of the coast, and when she heard of the lighthouse, against which the birds of passage dashed themselves, and how the keeper had kept their skins, waiting for some one to come that way and teach him to stuff them, she was quite decided in our favor. i noticed that winnie grew suddenly silent. as we left the house she pinched me softly. "you didn't mean any harm, tib," she said, "but if they go, it will take every bit of pleasure out of my summer." chapter vii. winnie's confession. [illustration: {drawing of wilhelm kalbfleisch.}] wilhelm kalbfleisch, the butcher's boy, was one of the most uninteresting specimens of humanity that i have ever seen. that any of us would ever give him even a passing glance seemed quite beyond the range of probability, and yet wilhelm's stolid, good-natured face haunted winnie's dreams like a very nemesis, and came to acquire a new and singular interest even in my own mind. we passed a little catholic church on our way to the boarding-school. "we are early," said winnie. "let's go in." it was lent, and the altar was shrouded in black, and only a few candles burning dimly. we stood beside a carved confessional. a muffled murmur came from the interior, and the red curtains pulsated as though in time to sobs. "let us go out," whispered milly; "i am stifling." she looked so white that i was really afraid she was going to faint. "i feel better," she gasped, when we reached the open air. "it was frightfully close," winnie said, "and the air was heavy with incense." "it was not that," said milly, "it was the thought of it all; that there was a poor woman in that confessional telling all her sins to a priest. i never could do it in the world." "it would be a comfort to me," said winnie, fiercely. "i only wish there was some one with authority, to whom i could confess my sins, that i might get rid of the responsibility of them." "there is," i said, before i thought; "'he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.'" winnie gave me a quick look. "you don't usually preach, tib," she said, and burst into a merry round of stories and jokes, which convulsed the other girls, but did not in the least deceive me. i could see that she was troubled, and was trying to carry it off by riding her high horse. "girls," she said, "i want you to come around to the butcher's with me. they have such funny little beasts in the window. i mean to get one, and the butcher's boy, wilhelm, is such a princely creature--just my _beau idéal_--i want you to see him." the funny little beasts proved to be forms of head-cheese in fancy shapes. strange roosters and ducks, with plumage of gayly colored sugar icing, and animals of uncouth forms and colors. winnie bought a small pig with a blue nose and green tail, all the while bombarding the butcher's boy, who was a particularly stupid specimen, with keen questions and witty sallies. he was so very obtuse that he did not even see that she was making sport of him. as we hurried home to make up for our little escapade, winnie amused us all by asking us how we thought wilhelm would grace a princely station. "just imagine, for an instant, that he was the lost prince paradiso! what a figure he would cut in chain armor, or in a court costume of velvet and jewels! did you notice the elegance of his manners and the brilliancy of his wit?" "winnie, winnie, have you gone wild?" adelaide asked. "why do you make such sport of the poor fellow? he is well enough where he is, i am sure." "is he not?" winnie replied, a little more soberly; "i was only thinking what a mercy it is that people are so well fitted for their stations in life by nature. now, think of jim as a butcher, growing up to chop sausage-meat and skewer roasts!" "jim never could be a butcher," adelaide replied; "even if miss prillwitz's dreams do not come true, the education she is giving him will do no harm. he will carve a future for himself." we went into the house, and the subject was dropped. the next morning a message came from miss prillwitz that one of the hetterman children was sick. it was the fever, contracted in their old home, and we were told that our botany lessons must be interrupted for the present. we heard through mrs. hetterman that the child was not very sick. it was one of the chubby little ones that had looked so well. she was quarantined now in jim's room, the green one up under the roof, and had a trained nurse to care for her. mrs. hetterman did not see the child, but talked with her daughter mary in the basement every evening she thought it was a great mercy that they had completed their moving before the child was taken sick. this did not seem to me to be exactly generous to miss prillwitz, but i could not blame the mother for the feeling, for under the careful treatment the child speedily weathered the storm, and came out looking only a little paler for the confinement. we were expecting a summons to return to our lessons, when mrs. hetterman told us that jim was sick. we were not greatly alarmed, for the little girl's illness had been so slight that we fancied we would see our favorite about in a fortnight. milly sent in baskets of white grapes and flowers, and adelaide carried over a beautiful set of photographs of italian architecture. "it may amuse him to look them over," she said, "and it is just possible that his ancestral palace figures among them." adelaide hoped to go to europe as soon as she graduated. "if jim is established in his rights by that time, i shall visit him," she said, "so, you see, i am only mercenary in my attentions to him now." winnie looked up indignantly, "then you deserve to be disappointed." adelaide laughed merrily. "i thought you knew me well enough, winnie, to tell when i am in fun. i like jim so much, personally, that i would do as much for him if he had no great expectations; but i do not see that there is any harm in thinking of the kindnesses which he may be able to do me." "if you don't count too surely on them. miss prillwitz has had time to notify his relatives, and they do not seem to take any interest in him." it is the unexpected that always happens. that very evening mrs. hetterman brought us this note from miss prillwitz. she wrote better than she spoke, for on paper there was no opportunity for the foreign accent to betray itself: "my dear young ladies: "the elder brother have arrived, and i fear you will have no more opportunity to see little giacomo, for i think he will take him away very shortly to his father's house. "you must not be too sorry, but think what a so great thing this is for poor little giacomo, to be called so soon to his beautiful estate; no more poorness or trouble, in the palace of the king. giacomo desire me to thank you for all you kindness to him. he hope some time you will all come to him at his beautiful country of everlasting springtime, and the elder brother invite you also. mrs. halsey is here. she is much troubled. she forget that giacomo was not her very own, and the pain of parting from him is great. she can not rightly think of the good fortune it is to him. she wish to go with him, but that is not possible for now. giacomo hope you will comfort her. he hope, too, we will continue our care to the children hetterman. come not to-night, dear young ladies, to bid him farewells; i fear you to cry, and so to trouble his happiness. "your at all times loving teacher, "cÉlestine prillwitz." "the idea of our crying, like so many babies!" said emma jane anton; "why, it's the best thing that possibly could happen to him, and i, for one, shall congratulate him heartily." "i suppose so," milly assented, doubtfully, "but i shall miss him awfully, he is such a nice little fellow." "so much the better," said adelaide; "how glad the prince must be to find that his little brother is really presentable. as winnie was saying, 'fancy his feelings if he had found him a coarse, common creature like wilhelm, the butcher's boy!' and now, winnie, what do you say to my being too sure about visiting him some day? here is the invitation from the prince himself. i wonder just where in italy they live!" so the girls chatted all together, but winnie was strangely silent. "i ought to see miss prillwitz at once," she exclaimed, suddenly. "it's too late, now," replied emma jane; "there! the retiring-bell is ringing, and if you look across the square you can see that miss prillwitz's lights are all out; besides, she particularly requested us not to come until morning." "then i must run over before breakfast," said winnie, "for it is very important." she set a little alarm-clock for an hour earlier than our usual waking-time; but she was unable to sleep, and her restlessness kept me awake also. she tossed from side to side, and moaned to herself, and at last i heard her say, "oh! what wouldn't i give if some one would only show me the best way out of it." "winnie," i said, softly, "i am not asleep. what is the matter? are you in trouble?" "yes, tib." "do you need money?" "no." "are you in love?" "the idea! a thousand times no." "are you going to be expelled?" "not unless i tell on myself; perhaps not even then. but oh, tib, i told you i was in for a scrape. i thought i could stick it through, but it's worse than i thought. i can't keep the secret; i've got to tell." "i would, and then you'll feel better." "no, i will not, for telling will not do any good. i'm not sure but it will do harm." "you poor child, what can it be?" "just this--jim is _not_ the prince." "i don't see how you know that, or, if you do, what business it is of yours." "because i deceived miss prillwitz, and got jim in there by making her think he was the boy she had heard about, while the real boy is somewhere else. i've _got_ to tell her before his friends take him away, and before that other boy disappears from view entirely." "that is really dreadful, but if you know where the true prince is, it can't be quite irreparable. what ever made you do such a thing? and how did you manage to do it?" "why, you see, i hadn't any faith in this story of a lost prince at all. i thought that miss prillwitz was just a little bit of a crank, who had been imposed on by designing people and i was sure, when i saw the woman at the door who came to tell miss prillwitz that her boy had a situation and could not come, that she had been in league with the person who had told miss prillwitz about the lost prince, but had backed out of the plot because she was afraid. miss prillwitz had evidently not suspected that she knew anything of the boy's supposed expectations, for she had merely promised to take him to board, teach, and clothe, for whatever the mother could give her, the woman having said that she was going into a family as german nursery governess, and agreeing to send a trifle toward her boy's support whenever she received her salary. it was just the time that mrs. halsey was looking for a place for jim. it was so easy to have him come at the time agreed upon and take the place of the other boy. i was afraid, at first, that miss prillwitz would be surprised by the regularity of our payments and the amount we sent, but she didn't seem to suspect anything, and she is so fond of him, and he deserves it all--and everything worked so well up to the coming of the prince." "but, winnie, why didn't you tell her the whole story at first? i think she would have taken him, all the same, and then you would not have got things into this awful muddle." "indeed she would not have taken him, a mere pauper out of the slums, unless she had thought that he was something more. she is a born aristocrat, and she never could have taken jim to her heart so if she had not believed that he was of her own class--of her family, even. why, even adelaide would never have seen half the fine qualities in him which she thinks she has discovered if she had not thought him a noble; and it has thrown a fine halo of romance over him for milly; and even emma jane, who was hard to convince at first, is firmly persuaded that he is made of a little finer clay than the rest of us. and you, tib, confess that you are disappointed yourself." "i am bitterly disappointed," i admitted; "but that is nothing to the extent that miss prillwitz will feel it. i wouldn't be in your shoes, winnie, for anything." "i know it; i know it. i have been wicked, but i had no idea that the family would ever look him up. i hardly believed the story that there had been any prince lost. and, tib, if there had not been, where would have been the harm in what i did?" "it would have been wrong, all the same, winnie, even if it had seemed to turn out well. deception is always wrong, and i did not think it of you. but there, don't sob so, or you will make yourself sick, and you need all your wits and strength to carry you through the ordeal of setting things straight to-morrow. i'll stand by you. i'll go with you if it will be any help." "no, you shall not; miss prillwitz might think you were implicated in the affair. the fault was all mine, and i will not have any one else share the blame; only be on hand at the door, tib, with an ambulance to carry away the remnants, for i shall be all broken into smithereens by the interview." i tried to soothe the excited girl, and fancied that she had fallen asleep, when she suddenly began to laugh hysterically. "i haven't told you who the real prince is," she said. "aren't you curious to know?" "have i ever met him?" "yes, indeed; it's wilhelm the butcher's boy." "impossible!" "isn't it too absurd for anything? that was the situation which his mother, or foster-mother, preferred to miss prillwitz's care. what will adelaide say now about blue blood telling even in low circumstances? there is _blood_ enough about wilhelm if that is all that is desired. and won't that foreign prince be just raving when he is introduced to his long-lost brother! but poor miss prillwitz!--that's the worst of all. no doubt she has been writing with pride and delight the most glowing letters in reference to jim's fitness for his high position. how chagrined and mortified the dear old lady will be! tell me now, tib, that things were not better as i managed them." "it does seem as if there must be a mistake somewhere. still, the truth is the truth, and i believe in telling it, even if the heavens fall. this matter is all in the hands of providence, winnie, and i believe you got into trouble simply by thinking that you knew better than providence, and that the world could not move on without you." "i must say you are rather hard on me, tib, but perhaps you are right. do you suppose that if i hand the tangle i have made right to god, he will take it from my hands and straighten it out for me? i should think he would have nothing more to do with it, or with me." "that is not the way our mothers behave when we get our work into a snarl." this last remark comforted her. she laid her head upon my shoulder and prayed: "dear heavenly father, i have done wrong, and everything has gone wrong. help me henceforth to do right, and wilt thou make everything turn out right. for thy dear son's sake, i ask it. amen." then trustfully she fell asleep, her conscience relieved of a great weight, and with faith in a power beyond her own. chapter viii. the elder brother and mrs. halsey's strange story. [illustration: {drawing of child sleeping in bed.}] notwithstanding winnie's protestations to the contrary, i insisted on going with her the next morning when she went to make her confession. the little alarm-clock made its usual racket, but winnie slept peacefully, and i was dressed before i could make up my mind to waken her. but i knew how disappointed she would be if she could not make her call on miss prillwitz before breakfast, and i wakened her with a kiss, and made her a cup of coffee over the gas while she was dressing. then we put on our ulsters and hoods, and slipped out of the house just as the rising-bell was ringing. we knew that miss prillwitz was habitually an early riser, or we would not have planned to call at such an hour, but we were surprised to find a cab standing before her door. "i wonder whether the prince and jim are just about to leave," winnie exclaimed. "i did not know that any of the ocean steamers sailed so early in the morning. what if they have gone and we are too late!" something was the matter with the door-bell, and just as we were about to knock, the door opened and a stout gentleman came down the steps, and drove away in the carriage. jim was not with him, and miss prillwitz stood inside the door. winnie caught her arm and asked, "was that the prince, the elder brother?" "no, tear," said miss prillwitz, gravely. "why haf you come, when i write you you must not?" "oh miss prillwitz, it was because i have something so particular, so important, to tell you. do not tell me that jim has gone, and that it is too late!" "no, tear, giacomo haf not gone already. i think ze elder brother take him very soon, and we keep our little giacomo not one leetle longer. go in ze park by ze bench and i vill come and talk zare wiz you." we wondered at her unwillingness to let us in, but obeyed her directions, and presently she came out to us with a shawl thrown about her and a knitted boa outside her cap. even then she did not sit near us, but on a bench at a little distance, having first noted carefully that the wind blew from our direction toward her. all this might have seemed strange to us had we not been so thoroughly absorbed in what winnie was about to say. the poor child blundered into her story at once, and told it in such broken fashion that miss prillwitz never could have understood it but for my explanations. when we had finished, the tears stood in miss prillwitz's eyes. "my tear child," she said, kindly, drawing nearer to us, "how you haf suffer! yes, you have done a sin, but you are sorry, and god he forgive ze sorrowful." "but do you forgive me, miss prillwitz?" winnie cried, passionately. "can you ever love me again?" "yes, my tear, i forgive you freely, and i love you more as ever." "and the elder brother and jim? have jim's expectations been raised? will he be greatly disappointed, and will the prince be very angry?" "my tear, in all zis it is not as you have t'inked. see, you haf not understand my way of talk. i t'ink giacomo will, all ze same, pretty soon go to his fazzer's house. ze elder brother is may be gone wiz him by now. you have not, then, understand zat dis elder brother is ze lord christ? zat ze beautiful country is heaven? our little giacomo lie very sick. ze doctor, whom justly you did meet, he gif no hope. his poor muzzer sit by him so sad, so sad, it tear my heart. she cannot see he go to ze palace to be one prince del paradiso." we sat bolt upright, dazed and stunned by this astounding information. "do you mean to say," winnie said, slowly, grasping her head as though laboring to concentrate her ideas, "that jim is dying, and that he is no more a prince than any of us? i mean that the other boy is not a real prince, and that no child ever strayed away from its father's house, or elder brother has been seeking for a lost one? oh miss prillwitz, how could you make up such a story?" "my tear, my tear, it is all true, and i t'ought you to understand my leetle vay of talk. giacomo is a prince in disguise; you, my tears, are daughters of ze great king. zat uzzer boy, ze butcher, he also inherit ze same heavenly palace. all ze children what come in zis world haf wander avay from zat home, and ze elder brother he go up and down looking for ze lost. he gif me commission; he gif effery christians commission to find zose lost prince--to teach him and fit him for his high position. i did not have intention to deceive you, my tear. it was my little vay of talk." "oh! oh!" exclaimed winnie, "i feel as if my brain were turning a somersault, but i cannot realize it. then i did not really deceive you, after all, miss prillwitz, though i was just as wicked in intending to do so. and jim--do not say there is no hope!" "no, my tear. i know all ze time zis was not ze boy i expect. but i say to myself, 'how he come i know not, but he is also ze child of ze king.' ze elder brother want him to be care for also. may be ze elder brother send him, and i take him very gladly. and surely, i never find one child to prove his title to be one prince of paradise better as giacomo. so gentle, so loving, so generous and soughtful. i not wonder at all ze elder brother want him. i sank him, i sank you, too, winnie, i have privilege to know one such lovely character." miss prillwitz looked at her watch. "i can no longer," she said quickly, and hurried back to her home. we crossed the park thoughtfully and entered the school. there was just time to tell the girls the news before chapel. the knowledge that dear jim was lying at death's door overwhelmed every other consideration, and yet we talked over miss prillwitz's little allegory also. "we were stupid not to see through it at first," said adelaide. "she is just the woman to create an ideal world for herself and to live in it. i have no grudge against her because we misunderstood her meaning, and yet there certainly is something very fine in jim's nature." "now i think it all over," said emma jane, "she has said nothing which was not true." "i understand her letter better now," i said. "we have all been parts of a beautiful parable, and we have been as thickheaded as the disciples were when jesus said, 'o fools, and slow of heart to believe.'" milly was silently weeping. "all the beauty of the idea doesn't change the fact that jim is dying," she said. "i have never loved any one so since i lost my mother and my baby brother," said adelaide. "i can't remember how he looked--it was ten years ago, and i have no photographs, only this cameo pin, which father bought because it reminded him of mother. not the face either, only the turn of the neck. he said she had a beautiful neck--and as he came home from his business at night he always saw her sitting in her little sewing-chair by the window looking every now and then over her shoulder for him with her neck turned so, and her profile clear cut against the dark of the room like the two colors of agate in this cameo." it is not natural for girls to talk freely on what stirs them most deeply, and little more was said on the subject that morning, but we each thought a great deal, and if our hearts could have been laid bare to each other, we would have been startled by the similarity of the trains of thought which this event had roused. all through the morning's lessons our imaginations wandered to the house across the park, and we wondered whether all was indeed over, and dear, cheery, helpful jim had gone. we did not remember that we had declared we would gladly let him go to an earthly princedom, and yet this was far better for him. our imaginations saw only the white upturned face upon the pillow, the grief-stricken mother, and miss prillwitz flitting about drawing the sheet straight, and placing white lilacs in his hands. adelaide confessed to me, long after, that all of her worldly thoughts in reference to visiting jim some day came back to her in a strange, sermonizing way. she said that in her secret heart she had rather dreaded the visit because she knew so little of the etiquette of foreign courts, and was afraid she might make some mistake. she had even studied several books on the subject, and knew the sort of costume it was necessary to wear in a royal presentation, just the length of the train, the degree of décolletée, and the veil, and the feathers. the thought came over her with great vividness that she had never studied the etiquette of heaven or attempted to provide herself with garments fit for the presence of the king. mrs. hetterman had a habit of singing quaint old hymns. there was one which we often heard echoing up from the basement-- "at his right hand our eyes behold the queen arrayed in purest gold; the world admires her heavenly dress, her robe of joy and righteousness." this scrap was borne in upon adelaide's mind now. "a robe of joy and righteousness," she thought to herself; "i wonder how it is made! it surely must be becoming." then she thought again of her mingled motives, of how glad she had been that she had befriended jim because she could claim him as an acquaintance as a prince, in that foreign country, and how she had wished that she might entertain more traveling members of the nobility in his country in order to have more acquaintances at court. "if the poor are christ's brothers and sisters," she said to herself, "i have abundant opportunity to make many friendships which may be carried over into that unknown country;" and a new purpose awoke in her heart, which had for its spring not the most unselfish motives, but a strong one, and destined to achieve good work, and to give place in time to higher aims. afternoon came, and no message had arrived from jim. "girls," said adelaide, as we sat in the amen corner, "if jim dies, i propose that we carry this sort of work on of fitting poor children for something higher, and broaden it, as a memorial to him. i don't exactly see my way yet, but we can do a good deal if we band together and try." "oh! don't talk about jim's dying," said milly, "we'll do it, anyway." "i can't see why we don't hear from miss prillwitz," said winnie, impatiently. "it is recreation hour; let us go out into the park, and perhaps she will see us and send us some word." we walked around and around the paths which were in view from miss prillwitz's windows. presently we saw mary hetterman coming toward us with a note in her hand. "i know just what that note says," exclaimed milly, sinking upon a bench. "the little prince has gone to his estates." "hush!" exclaimed adelaide. "see! is it a ghost?" we looked as she pointed, and saw at jim's window a perfect representation of adelaide's cameo. a white face against the dark interior. it vanished as she spoke, leaving us all with a strange, eerie sensation, a feeling that this was certainly an omen of jim's death. but our premonitions, like so many others, did not come true. the note was not for us. mary hetterman passed us with a smile and a nod, and a moment later miss prillwitz herself came out to us. we knew by her face that she brought good news, but none of us spoke until she answered our unuttered question. "no, tears, jim haf not gone. ze prince haf been here, but i sink he not take him zis time already. the doctor sink we keep him one leetle time longer. i cannot stay. it is time i go give him his medicine, and let loose ze nurse, for i care for him ze nights. good-bye, my tears. ah! i am so happy zat ze little prince go not yet to his estates; so happy, and yet so sleepy also." and we noticed for the first time the great dark rings which want of sleep and anxiety had drawn around miss prillwitz's eyes. "good-bye, princess," i cried; "surely no one deserves that title more than you, for you have proved yourself a royal daughter of the king. we have called you so a long time among ourselves--our princess del paradiso." she smiled, waved her hand, and vanished into the queer house which she had made a palace. it was some time before adelaide could recover from the shock of the apparition at the window, though we assured her that it was probably only the trained nurse; and we afterward ascertained that it was in reality mrs. halsey, who had come to the window for a moment to greet the glad new day, and who was now as joyful as she had been despairing. so much tension of feeling, so great extremes of joy and sorrow, had affected her deeply, and she wept out her gratitude on miss prillwitz's sympathizing heart. "you have been very good to him," mrs. halsey said, with emotion. "some time, when the past all comes back to me, as i am sure it will some day, i may be able to return your kindness." mrs. halsey had made several mysterious allusions to the past, and miss prillwitz, who had a kindly way of gaining the confidence of everyone, said sweetly, "tell me about your early life, my tear." "it is a strange story," mrs. halsey replied. "i had a happy childhood and girlhood, and a happy married life up to the time that my dear parents died, and even after that, for my husband was the best of men, and i had a sweet little daughter. their faces come back to me, waking and sleeping, though i have lost them, i sometimes fear, forever." "did they die?" miss prillwitz asked. "no, dear, i think not; but now comes the strange part of my story: i remember a journey vaguely, and a steamer disaster, a night of horror with fire and water, and then all is a frightful blank; a curtain of blackness seems to have fallen on all my past life. i am told that i was rescued from the burning of a sound steamer, with my baby-boy in my arms, and given shelter by some kindly farmer folk. i had received an injury--a blow on the head--and had brain-fever, from which i recovered in body, but with a disordered mind, my memory shattered; i could remember faces, but not names. i could not tell the name of the town in which i had lived, or my own name. i remained with the kind people who first received me for several months, but i did not wish to be a burden to them, and i hoped that i might find my home. i knew that it had been in a city, and i felt sure that if i ever saw any of my old surroundings, or old friends i would recognize them at once. it was thought, too, that new york physicians might help me, so i came to new york, and my case was advertised in the papers. but months had passed since the accident, and my friends either did not see the advertisement, or did not recognize me in the story given. the doctors at the hospital pronounced me incurable, and i was discharged. i wandered up and down the streets, but although i felt sure that i had been in new york before, i could not find my home. i read the names on the signs, hoping to recognize my own name, but i never came across it. meantime i took the name of halsey; it was necessary for me to live, and i knew that i could sew, and that i had a faculty for designing; and seeing madame céleste's advertisement for a designer, i applied at once for the situation. it seemed to me at first that i had seen madame céleste before, but she was repellent in manner, and i did not dare question her, and gradually that impression faded. i hired a woman to take care of jim, and though he was not well cared for, he lived, and we got on until he was large enough to play upon the streets. then i took him home to the little room in rickett's court, and finding that i could not be with him as much as he needed, i gave up my place at madame céleste's and worked at first for the costumer, where the young ladies found me, and afterward tried to keep soul and body together by taking sewing home. it was the life of a galley-slave, but i did not care so long as i could keep my boy at school, and with me out of school hours. but i could not do that, for to earn the money which was absolutely necessary for our support jim had to work too, and driving the milkman's cart in the early morning was the best we could find for him out of school hours. he was so proud and happy to do it, and to help earn for us both; but, as you know, it cut into his hours for sleep, and left him no time to study. oh! i was nearly in despair, when god sent you as angels to my help and jim's." "and have you never been able to guess what your old name was?" miss prillwitz asked. "never; sometimes it seems to me that i remember it in my dreams, but when i awake it is gone; still, i cannot help feeling that i shall find my own again. sometimes there comes a great inward illumination, and the curtain seems to be lifting. i cannot think they have forgotten me--my husband tender and true, and my little girl with the great questioning eyes." miss prillwitz did not share mrs. halsey's confidence, but her sympathy was enlisted, and she caressed and comforted mrs. halsey. "it shall be as you hope, my tear; if not just now and here, zen surely by and by, and zat is not very long. and meantime you have found some friends, ze young ladies and me, and ze elder brother have found you, and we are all one family, so you can be no longer lonely and wizout relation, even in zis world." chapter ix. the king's daughters and the venetian fÊte. "o ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day, please trundle your hoops just out of broadway, from its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, and the temples of trade which tower on each side, to the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt their children have gathered, their city have built. * * * * * then say, if you dare, spoiled children of fashion, you've nothing to wear!" [illustration: {drawing of milly roseveldt.}] milly roseveldt made an important entry in her diary a few days after this. she was very exact about keeping her diary, recording for the most part, however, very trivial matters, but the day that she wrote "we have organized a 'king's daughters ten'" was a day with a white stone in it, and deserved to be remembered. jim had passed the crisis of the fever, and recovered rapidly. neither of the other hettermans was taken ill. the house was thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, and after a few weeks we took up our interrupted botany lessons. but jim's illness had made more than a transient impression, and adelaide's suggestion that we should broaden and deepen our work was talked over amongst us. "there is a society," said emma jane, "which i have heard of somewhere, which is called 'the king's daughters.' i think they have much the same idea that miss prillwitz has expressed. it is formed of separate links of ten members, bound together by the common purpose of doing good. now, i think, we might form such a link, with miss prillwitz for our president. there are five of us, but we need five more. whom shall we ask?" "girls," said winnie, "i'm afraid you won't agree, but there is real good stuff in those hornets." "the hornets! oh, never!" "what an idea!" "why, they hate us!" "no, they simply think that we despise them." "well, so we do. i am sure, the way that cynthia vaughn behaves is simply despicable." "perhaps so," winnie admitted, "but the other three girls are not so bad. little breeze"--that was our nickname for tina gale--"is a real good-natured girl, and a perfect genius for getting up things. when i roomed in the nest she was devoted to me; so they all were, for that matter. i could make them do whatever i pleased, and rosaria ricos, the cuban heiress, is just as generous as she can be. 'trude middleton is a great sunday-school worker when she is at home, and puss seligman's mother has a longer calling-list than milly's, i do believe. don't you remember what a lot of tickets she sold for the theatricals? if we are going to get up a charitable society we must use some brains to make it succeed, and those girls are a power. you know very well that it is the hornets' nest and the amen corner which support the literary society, and when we unite on any ticket-selling or other enterprise it is sure to succeed." "yes," replied emma jane anton, "that is because we appeal to entirely different sets of girls--between us we carry the entire school." "i will take all in," said adelaide, "except cynthia. she has been too hateful to tib and milly for anything!" "oh, don't mind me," murmured milly; "i dare say she could not help laughing when i made that mistake about paul and virginia." "i don't believe she will join us," i said, doubtfully; "but i am sure i would a great deal rather have her for a friend than an enemy." "she will be so surprised and flattered that she will be as sweet as jam," said winnie, confidently. "you have no idea what a lofty reputation you girls have. i used to reverence and envy you until it amounted to positive hatred. that is what made me behave so badly. i knew we couldn't approach you in good behavior, and i determined to take the lead in something. that's just the way with cynthia. she imagines that you would not touch her with a ten-foot pole, and she wants you to think that she doesn't care, but she does." milly promptly furnished the wherewithal for a spread, and the hornets were invited. adelaide said that they acted as if a sense of gratification were struggling with a sneaking consciousness of unworthiness, and it was all that she could do not to display the scorn which she was afraid she felt. but milly was as sweetly gracious as only milly knew how to be, and winnie put them all at their ease with her rollicking good-fellowship. i was sure that cynthia at first suspected some trick, but even she succumbed at last to our praise of her banjo-playing, which was really admirable. they melted completely with the ice-cream--little ducks with strawberry heads and pistache wings; and when winnie told them the entire story of the little prince they were greatly interested. "now," said winnie, "i have been talking with jim, and he says that the tenement house in which he lived swarms with children who ought not to pass the summer there, who will die if they do; and what i want to propose is, that we club together and have some sort of entertainment, to send them to the country, or do something else for them." the proposition met with favor, as did the plan for the king's daughters society, which was organized at once, and officered as follows, the "spoils" being divided equally between the amen corner and the hornets: president--miss prillwitz. vice-presidents--adelaide armstrong and gertrude middleton. secretary--cynthia vaughn. treasurer--emma jane anton. executive committee--the foregoing officers and the rest of the society. "little breeze" then made a practical suggestion: "you know," said she, "that the literary society is always allowed to give an entertainment the week before the graduating exercises, to put the treasury in funds, or, rather, to pay old debts. we have no debts this year, and i am sure that the society will let us have the occasion. whatever we ten favor is sure to be carried in the literary society." "that is what i said," remarked winnie. "so if miss anton will get madame's permission for the change, i have no doubt we can make at least three hundred dollars." "nonsense! we will make twice that," said puss hastings. "but what shall we have?" "i know the sweetest thing," said little breeze. "a venetian fête! it is really a fair, but the booths are all made to represent gondolas. they are painted black, and have their prows turned toward the centre of the room. we can have it in the gymnasium. the gondolas are canopied in different colors and hung with bright lanterns. we must all be dressed in venetian costume, and have music and some pretty dances. it will be lovely!" the fair was planned out: each girl had a gondola assigned her, with permission to work other girls in, and enthusiasm had reached a high pitch, when the retiring-bell clanged and the hornets took their departure, the utmost good feeling prevailing between what had been until this evening rival factions of the school. after our next botany lesson we lingered to inform miss prillwitz of what we had done, and to ask her to accept the presidency of our ten. she listened with much interest. "my tears," she said, "i sink perhaps you s'all do much good. i have justly been sinking, sinking; but ze need is great. i know not how we s'all come at ze money which we do need." then miss prillwitz explained that she had visited rickett's court, and had found so many little children in those vile surroundings; some of them, whose mothers were servants in families, and received good wages, were "boarding" with mrs. grogan, the baby-farmer. she had met one such mother in the court--a waitress on fifth avenue, who had three children with mrs. grogan. "i pay her fifteen dollars a month," she said; "it is cheaper than i can board them elsewhere, and all that i can pay; but it makes my heart sick to see them sleeping and playing beside sewers and sinks, and to have them exposed to language of infinitely worse foulness. i know that if they do not die in childhood, of which there is every likelihood, they will grow up bad; and i don't know which i would choose for them. i wouldn't mind slaving for them, if there was any hope, if i could see them in decent surroundings, with some prospect of their turning out well in the end; but now, when i ask myself what all my toil amounts to, it seems to me that the best thing which could happen to us all would be to die." the waitress knew of other servants who could have no home of their own for their children, but who could pay something for their support, and whose maternal love and feeling of independence kept them from giving their children up to institutions; who had entrusted their little ones to bad people, who hired them to beggars, beat and half starved them. and now the summer was approaching, and it was dreadful to think of those closely packed tenement houses under the stifling heat. miss prillwitz said that it had seemed to her positively wrong for her to go away to the seashore for the summer while so many must remain and suffer. "i don't see that," said adelaide, "unless by staying you can make their condition better." "perhaps i can so," replied miss prillwitz, "if ze king's daughters will help me." and then she developed a plan of jim's. he had noticed the vacant floors in her house, which had remained unlet all the winter. "if you could rent them for the summer, miss prillwitz," he had suggested, "we wouldn't need much furniture, but could just invite a lot of the children in and let them camp down. the rooms are so clean, and there is such lovely fresh air and no smells, and such beautiful bath-tubs, and the park for the little ones to play in, and mary hetterman could watch them." "you forget," miss prillwitz had replied, "zat zose children are use probably to eat somet'ings." no, jim had not forgotten that, but mrs. hetterman would be out of a place for the summer vacation, and would cook for them, and the children's mothers would pay something, and he would do the marketing. after the public school closed the older children could earn something, he thought. he was all on fire with the idea, and his enthusiasm had communicated itself to our princess. "i haf even vent to see my landlord," she confessed; "he is von very rich man. i sought maybe he let me use ze rooms for ze summer, since he cannot else rent them. but no, he did not so make his wealths. we can have them von hundred dollar ze months; six months, five hundred. we cannot else. now do you sink you make five hundred dollar from your fair?" "oh, i think so; indeed, i am sure of it!" adelaide exclaimed; "dear little jim, what an angel he is! we will go right to work and see what we can do." of course the fair was a success, as fairs go. i have since thought that a fair is a poor way for christian people to give money to any charitable purpose. so much goes astray from the goal, so much is swallowed up in the expenses, that if people would only put their hands in their pockets and give at the outset what they do give in the aggregate, more would be realized, and much time, vexation, and labor saved. but people do not yet recognize this, and we knew no better than to follow in the old way. i had charge of the art gondola, with miss sartoris and all the studio girls to help me. we decided that, as it was a venetian fête, we would make a specialty of italian art. miss sartoris suggested etchings, and one of the leading art dealers allowed us to make our choice from his entire collection, giving them to us at wholesale, as he would to any other retail dealer, we to sell them at the regular retail price, thereby taking no unfair advantage over our purchasers, and yet making a handsome profit on each etching sold, while we ran no risk, as all unsold stock was to be returned. we were surprised to find how many venetian subjects had been etched. there were half a dozen different views of st. mark's cathedral--exteriors and interiors; san giorgios and la salutes; there were rainy nights in venice, and sunny days in venice, canals and bridges, shipping and palaces, piazzas and archways and cloisters. then we obtained a quantity of photographs of the italian master-pieces, chiefly from the works of titian and the venetian school, though we included also the madonnas of raphael. miss sartoris found an italian curiosity-shop, which was a perfect treasure-trove, for here we secured, on commission, a quantity of venetian glass beads, the beautiful blossomed variety, with tiny smelling-bottles of the same material, together with sleeve-buttons of florentine mosaic, ornaments of pink neapolitan coral, and broken pieces of antique roman marbles, all of which we sold at immense profit. we had not thought of having any statuary, until jim came to us, one afternoon, saying that miss prillwitz had told him that we intended to have an italian fête, and as several of the families whom he wished benefited were italians, who lived in rickett's court, he thought they might help us. "what do they do?" i asked. "the older stavini boys peddle plaster-of-paris images, and some of them are very pretty. pietro will bring you a basket of them, i am sure, and take back all you don't sell." the plaster casts proved to be artistic and new. there was a set of five singing cherubs which we had seen on sale in the stores at twenty-five dollars a set, which pietro offered us at fifty cents each, and others in like proportion. we sold his entire basketful at advanced prices, and received several orders for duplicates. winnie had charge of the refreshment department, and had a troop of the "preparatories" dressed as contadinas, who were to serve neapolitan ices in colored glasses. jim enabled her to introduce a very taking novelty by telling her of vincenzo amati, a cook in an italian restaurant, who had three motherless little girls who were candidates for the summer home. vincenzo agreed to come and cook for us while the fair lasted, mrs. hetterman kindly giving him place in the kitchen, so that we were able to add to our other attractions that of a real italian supper, served on little tables in an adjoining recitation-room. vincenzo brought us several dozen chianti wine flasks, the empty bottles at the restaurant having been one of his perquisites. they were of graceful shapes, with slender necks, and wound in wicker, which miss sartoris gilded and further ornamented with a bow of bright satin ribbon. these flasks, empty, decorated each of the little tables, and one was given to each guest as a souvenir. the menu consisted of-- riso con piselli, } (soup). minestra zuppa, } olives. bistecca (beefsteak). macaroni al burro (with butter). macaroni a pomidoro (with potatoes). testa de vitello (calf's head). carciofi (artichokes). cavolifiori (cauliflower). salami di bologna (bologna sausage). crostata di frutti (fruit tarts). formaggio (cheese). adelaide was musical director, and led the singing class in "dolce napoli" and other italian songs. the girls were dressed in costume, and there was one fisher chorus, which made a very effective tableau with a background of colored sails and nets. vincenzo allowed his little girls to appear with a neighbor's hand-organ, and when they passed their tambourines they gathered a goodly harvest of pennies. [illustration: {drawing of the venetian fête.}] little breeze arranged the tableaux and the dances, mrs. halsey sending in designs for the costumes; and cynthia vaughn ran a side show of stereopticon views, professor todd kindly working the lantern. milly had the flower gondola, or booth of cut flowers, supplied from her father's conservatory, and miss prillwitz contributed to this department a quantity of little albums and herbaria containing pressed flowers and seaweed from different italian cities. our dear princess was present, beaming with happiness, and the "ten" introduced her proudly to their parents and friends. mr. roseveldt seemed much interested, in an amused way, in what we were trying to do. "go ahead, my dear," he said to milly, "and if you don't come to me to shoulder a lot of bad debts before the summer is over, i shall be greatly surprised, and have a far higher respect for what little girls can do than i now possess." "'little girls,' indeed!" milly repeated, with scorn. "there are younger gentlemen, sir, who consider us young ladies, if you do not. but we will compel your respect, and we will not ask you for one penny either." this was rather hard, for we had secretly hoped, all along, that milly's father would help us, and now she had made it a point of pride not to ask him. he behaved very well, however, for although he bantered us cruelly on our utopian enterprise, he bought a button-hole bouquet of his own violets from milly, paying a five-dollar bill for it and neglecting to ask for change, and then took miss prillwitz, madame, emma jane anton, miss sartoris, and miss hope successively out to supper. he purchased, too, an alabaster model of the leaning tower of pisa, which madame had contributed on condition that it should be sold for not less than twenty dollars, and which we had feared would not be disposed of, as we had voted that there should be no raffling. madame was greatly interested in the fair; it drew attention to her school, and she smiled on everyone--a self-constituted reception committee. she was even gracious to the cadet band which had serenaded the school in the fall term. the cadets to a man invited milly out to dinner. she went with each of them in succession, and as the viands were sold _à la carte_, she bravely ordered the more expensive dishes over and over again, enduring a martyrdom of dyspepsia for a week in consequence. of course jim was present, and his mother. adelaide was attentive to both; there seemed to be a mutual attraction that kept them together, and whenever adelaide left mrs. halsey, and taking up her baton (milly's curling-stick), led her orchestra, mrs. halsey's eyes followed her with a strange wistfulness. winnie, with her usual heedlessness, had neglected to introduce adelaide to mrs. halsey when she called on her in the court, and she now turned to jim and asked her name. it happened that jim thought that she referred to the pianist instead of to adelaide, and he replied that the young lady in question was miss hope, the music-teacher. mrs. halsey gave a little sigh of disappointment, and continued her spell-bound gaze. i was about to correct the mistake which i was sure jim had made, when it was announced that mrs. le moyne, the celebrated interpreter of robert browning, would kindly recite a poem of mrs. browning's. mrs. halsey and jim moved nearer the rostrum, and my opportunity for explanation was lost. if i had known the effect that the name of adelaide armstrong would have had upon mrs. halsey, chains could not have kept me in my gondola--so many invisible gates of opportunity are closed and opened to us all along life's pathway! the poem recited was, most appropriately, "the cry of the children." tears welled into the eyes of many a mother as the practiced art of the speaker rendered most feelingly the pathetic words: "but these others--children small, spilt like blots about the city quay and street and palace wall-- take them up into your pity! patient children--think what pain makes a young child patient yonder; wronged too commonly to strain after right, or wish or wonder; sickly children, that whine low to themselves and not their mothers, from mere habit, never so-- hoping help or care from others; healthy children, with those blue english eyes, fresh from their maker, fierce and ravenous, staring through at the brown loaves of the baker. can we smooth down the bright hair, o my sisters, calm, unthrilled in our hearts' pulses? can we bear the sweet looks of our own children? o my sisters! children small, blue-eyed, wailing through the city-- our own babes cry in them all; let us take them into pity!" that poem was worth a great deal to our cause. those of the mothers of our ten who were present were won to us at once. mrs. middleton, our vice-president's mother, and the wife of a clergyman, entered into our scheme with enthusiasm, and felt sure that her husband's church would assist us. mrs. seligman and mrs. roseveldt put their heads together and planned to interest their society friends. one of hers, mrs. roseveldt was sure, would contribute the coal, and another the flour, while mrs. seligman would provide the blankets, and a friend of her acquaintance would certainly assume the butcher's bill. madame céleste, the dress-maker, who was present, was about to refurnish her parlors, and would contribute curtains. madame céleste bought a quantity of my photographs of old italian portraits, and i have no doubt that they were very serviceable to her in the way of suggestions for æsthetic costumes. we knew before the evening closed that the fair must have realized more than we had hoped, and emma jane, the treasurer of the new society, announced at our next meeting that the fair had cleared six hundred dollars. vociferous applause followed, and we immediately adjourned to miss prillwitz's to report the unexpectedly happy result. our princess had talked over the scheme with such of our mothers as were present at the fair; and she now advised that we create them a board of managers of the proposed home, to carry it on for us, as we were all minors, and lacked the necessary experience, we to labor for it harder than ever. this was immediately done, and after this, affairs marched with great rapidity. the home of the elder brother was licensed and fitted up for its little guests within a week. the vacant floors in miss prillwitz's house were rented--not for the summer only, as we had at first planned, but, to our great surprise, for a year. an "unknown friend," who had admired our efforts, sent in a subscription of nine hundred dollars, thereby more than doubling the amount obtained by the fair, and guaranteeing that amount annually as long as the home was continued. mr. roseveldt had been better than his word, and the home was placed on an assured basis for a year. what it would be after that we could not tell. it was only permitted to see one step ahead, but that step we could take with thankful assurance. madame sent over a quantity of furniture, as she intended to refit the students' rooms during the summer vacation. donations of every kind poured in, and twenty-five little iron bedsteads were dressed in white, and set in the sunny rooms which were to be used as dormitories. madame céleste had said that she would not require mrs. halsey during the three summer months, and the little woman offered her services for that interim as nursery care-taker. another surprise came when emma jane anton announced that she had written home and obtained permission to remain as matron. she had a talent for housekeeping, and she gave her services freely. "i am not rich," she said. "i can't give money, but i can give myself. i am not used to children; i don't believe they will like me, for i don't care for them overmuch; but mrs. halsey will mother them, and i can keep the house sweet and clean; i can market economically, and keep accounts exactly, and i mean that the princess shall not give up her visit to tib. she must go to the country for a part of the summer at least." "and when she comes back," i said, "you must take your turn, emma jane; we will be so glad to have you!" "oh, immensely! i am a genial, sweet creature, i know, an addition to society; but i thank you, all the same, and if i feel run down, i will come and get a sniff of sea air." the king's daughters' ten held their last meeting before the breaking up of the school. the money gained was entrusted to emma jane's care for the summer, and each of the members bound herself to carry the scheme with her wherever she went, to interest others, to gather and forward funds, and to work for the home in every possible way. then we paid our last visit, for that term, to miss prillwitz, and our first to our little guests, and returning, packed our trunks, attended the graduating exercises of the senior class (the amen corner and the hornets were all juniors and sophomores, with the exception of emma jane, who graduated), hugged and wept over each other, and elected winnie corresponding secretary for the summer, and promised to write to her every month, reporting work done for the home, and separated with mingled hilarity and depression of spirits. mr. roseveldt called at the home with milly and adelaide before they left town. it was a little plan of the girls to interest him in jim, and it succeeded admirably. after a number of other questions, mr. roseveldt asked jim if he could drive. "i managed the milkman's nag," the boy replied, "and he was an awfully hardmouthed, ugly brute." "then i fancy you will have no trouble with milly's pony, which is as gentle as a kitten," mr. roseveldt replied. "i want a boy in buttons just to sit in the rumble while the girls drive about the country." and so jim was engaged to go to narragansett pier, and would have a happy summer with milly and adelaide. chapter x. the landlord of rickett's court. "and yet it was never in my soul to play so ill a part: but evil is wrought by want of thought as well as by want of heart." --_thos. hood._ [illustration: {drawing of solomon meyer.}] solomon meyer, who collected the rents at rickett's court, was looked upon by the tenants as the landlord, though he distinctly disclaimed that honor, explaining that he was only the agent, empowered merely to receive money, never to disburse. according to mr. meyer the landlord was a heartless miser, whom he had entreated to make repairs and to lower rents, but who always turned a deaf ear to such appeals. if he, solomon meyer, only owned rickett's court, there would be no end to the reforms which his tender heart would cause him to institute; as it was, there was no hope for anything of the kind; his orders were explicit--if tenants could not pay, they must leave. many of the tenants believed that mr. meyer was really the owner of their building, and that the landlord whom he represented as responsible for all their discomfort was purely imaginary, but in this they wronged the agent. solomon meyer had no scruples against telling a lie whenever it would serve his purpose, but here the truth did very well. rickett's court had a landlord who, although he was not the inhuman wretch which solomon represented him, still cared nothing for his tenants, and, while the agent had never suggested any reforms or repairs, might well have guessed that they were needed. adelaide armstrong would have been shocked beyond expression if she had known that the true landlord of rickett's court was no other than her own father. mr. armstrong would have been no less shocked if he had known of the abuses for which he was really responsible. he had never seen his own property. it had been represented to him as a profitable investment, and had proved so. he was only in new york for brief intervals each year, and he left the entire management of rickett's court to solomon meyer, well pleased with the returns which he rendered, and not suspecting that they were less than the sums wrung from the tenants. he had mentally set aside rickett's court as adelaide's property, and he used its proceeds to defray her expenses. there was a neat little surplus left over each quarter-day, which he placed in the savings bank to her credit, and with which he intended to endow her on her marriage. but of all this adelaide of course knew nothing. mr. armstrong's more important business ventures were in western railroad speculations. these absorbed his attention, and needed the closest application of his faculties. he was glad of this. the east had grown distasteful to him since the loss of his wife and infant son. he felt that he might have been a different man if his wife, whom he tenderly loved, had lived; and adelaide had never ceased to mourn her mother, whom she could not remember. "what shall i ever do," she frequently asked, "when i finish school? if i only had a mother to be my companion and counselor! but i shall be so lonely, and so unfit to take care of myself!" the circumstances which i relate in this chapter because they belong here in sequence of time, did not come to my knowledge until long after their occurrence. mr. armstrong came on from the west the evening of our fair. he was weary and much occupied by matters of business, and he did not attend it, much to our regret. he lent a kindly ear to adelaide's description of it, for he was fond and proud of his beautiful daughter, and he liked to see her a leader in everything. he manifested apparently little interest, however, in what she had to tell him of rickett's court. "there, there, puss!" he said, lightly, "you must not get fanatical, and rant. i hardly think things are as bad down there as you make them out." "but, papa," adelaide interrupted, "i went there myself. i saw it with my own eyes. it is horrible to think that human beings should be obliged to live in such filth and misery. i think the landlord of rickett's court ought to be prosecuted. i wish i knew that old rickett! i would give him a piece of my mind." "i've no doubt of it; but spare me, puss, since my name is not rickett." he must have felt a sharp twinge of conscience as he spoke, while his daughter's words could not have failed to make an impression on the false rickett. he had read in the cars a little book entitled "uncle tom's tenement," by alice wellington rollins, and helen campbell's "prisoners of poverty." he wondered if their pictures of tenement life were indeed true. a few days later he listened to some remarks of mr. felix adler's on tenement reform. he knew what mr. charles pratt was doing in brooklyn, and his better man told him that now was his opportunity. why should he not put the plumbing in his tenement in decent repair; it might not cost much more, after all, than to bribe the inspector to report it as all right--a proceeding which solomon meyer advised. he could at least drain the sink in the court, and do away with the unchristian smells which now drove the chance visitor from the vicinity. and if he should have the rooms cleaned and whitewashed, he might even pose before the public as a humanitarian landlord, and so gain the cooperation of some of the philanthropists of the day for some other schemes which he had in mind. he visited the court with a plumber, and found it in worse condition than he had imagined. there was a leak from the sewer in the back basement. all of the rooms were foul with vermin, and rats scuttled back into the walls through great holes. many of the tenants had left, for various reasons. the opening of the home of the elder brother was in great part responsible for the emptying of rickett's court, for the better class of its tenants had embraced this great opportunity to place their children in good surroundings. so many children had been transferred from mrs. grogan's care to the home by their mothers that mrs. grogan, finding her occupation gone, betook herself to petty larceny and was arrested. the italian rag-pickers had taken to the road, with a monkey and an organ as tramps for the summer, leaving their filth behind them. mr. armstrong looked into their vacated den, and found it impossible to imagine what it could have been when occupied. the windows had been stoned by the street boys until hardly a pane remained, and the staircase had rotted so that he thrust his foot through it. the house would need plastering and glazing as well as replumbing. it began to look like a great undertaking. however, he bade the plumber make and send him his estimates, and hurried out of the court, not taking a full breath until he was fairly on broadway. then he sent a mason and a carpenter to look at the building. "i must make some repairs," he said to himself, "or i shall get no tenants whatever." he had noticed another defect: there was but one staircase. he must add a fire-escape, for the place was a death-trap. he had a feeling of responsibility in regard to endangering the lives of human beings by fire, and he was trying to invent a scheme for heating and lighting railroad cars in such a manner as to do away with the danger of fire in case of accident. so far, the full completion of the invention escaped him, but he worked at it by night and day, not so much because it would be an immense boon to the age, but because he was sure that, if introduced only on his own railroad, it would boom the line above a rival route, and if patented, would make his fortune. solomon meyer, in enumerating the tenants of the court, had mentioned a mr. trimble, a poor inventor, who occupied the back attic, whom it would be well to turn out, as he had paid no rent for some time, though he had promised well, saying that he had just invented a scheme for the safe heating of cars, from which he hoped to realize a large sum. mr. armstrong thoughtlessly displayed before his agent the interest which he felt. "bring the man to me," he exclaimed; "if he has really worked out the problem, it is just what i want." the agent at once paid a visit to the poor inventor and possessed himself of his plans and model, promising to do his best for him. mr. armstrong saw at a glance that the inventor had compassed just what had baffled him so long. "what will he take for this invention?" he asked, eagerly. "not one cent less as five t'ousand dollar," replied mr. meyer. "that is a good round sum," remarked mr. armstrong, "but the right to it is worth more than that to me. arrange the papers for me, get the gentleman to sign them, give him this check for a thousand dollars, and i will send him another, soon, for four thousand." mr. meyer saw his opportunity here. he returned to mr. trimble, assured him that his contrivance had been anticipated and already patented by another man: he was too late. the poor man's disappointment was intense; his head and hands trembled. "i thank you for trying for me," he said; "there is nothing for me now but the river. i have occupied this room in the hope of paying my rent when i realized from that invention, but i have no longer any expectations, and i had better go and drown myself." then for the first time mr. meyer realized that there was another person in the room. jim had come down to the court to see his old friends, and had dropped in to inquire after mr. trimble's son, a merry little fellow who had been a playmate of his in the old days. jim had retreated into a corner when the agent called, but he now sprang forward and threw his arms around the poor inventor's neck. "no, no!" he cried; "mr. meyer will beg mr. rickett to let you stay until the first of the month, and something may turn up by that time." some sense of shame prompted solomon meyer to yield to this request, though in his secret heart he knew that his own plans could be more safely carried out if his victim did drown himself; and the sooner the better. then he hurried away to collect rents of the new tenants, with the money which mr. armstrong had sent stephen trimble burning like a coal in his pocket. the contract for the new invention was returned to mr. armstrong at the same time with the estimates of the different mechanics for the improvements of rickett's court. it would cost three thousand dollars to put the tenement in decent repair, and this did not include the fire-escape. mr. armstrong whistled as he added up the items. it was really not convenient for him to place his hand on so much ready cash; certainly not without using the money which he had placed in the savings bank to adelaide's credit. mr. meyer stood cringing before him, and mr. armstrong explained the situation. the agent promptly disapproved of the improvements. they would be a great waste of money. no one would rent the tenements after they were repaired, for it would be necessary to charge a higher rent, and tenants able to pay it, or desiring bathrooms and sanitary plumbing, would not occupy such a quarter of the city. "but suppose i do not charge any more rent, but simply try to educate my old tenants to better habits of life?" mr. meyer explained that mr. armstrong could throw away his money in that way if he wished, but that the class of tenants who patronized rickett's court could not be educated. they preferred filth to cleanliness, and, however respectable their quarters were made, would soon convert them into sinks again. mr. armstrong reminded his agent that his best tenants had left him, that the house was practically deserted, and that something must be done to attract new occupants. mr. meyer assured him that applications had already been received for the rooms in their present state. a ship-load of emigrants had just arrived: polish jews and exiled russians, who had been imprisoned as nihilists, and who had suffered such barbarities that rickett's court, horrible as it was, seemed positively comfortable to them. mr. armstrong hesitated. he did not like to give up his scheme of renovation; still, there were the papers waiting for his signature for the transfer of the invention, and this he had decided he must have; it was sure to bring in a great deal of money, and another year he could much better afford to make these improvements. he decided, reluctantly, that he would put them off for the present. "i will have a fire-escape put up," he said to his agent, "and we will do the rest as soon as possible." solomon meyer shrugged his shoulders. "there is no danger of fire," he said, "and i was about to propose that you take out a fire insurance policy on that building; that cost about the same, and much more sensible." mr. armstrong thought a moment. "if the danger of fire is sufficient to warrant me in insuring, it is also great enough to make furnishing the fire-escape an imperative duty. i insist on your seeing that one is adjusted immediately. you may also take out an insurance policy for twenty thousand. see if mr. trimble can wait for the rest of his money until the first of the month. (the agent's face fell.) you have given him my check for one thousand; he ought to be willing to wait a few days for the rest. if he is not satisfied, tell him to come down and see me, and we'll come to some agreement." this was exactly what solomon meyer did not wish. "i will try my best to make him sign the papers on those terms," he said, and carried them away to his own den, where he forged the name of stephen trimble to both contract and check. he found no difficulty in cashing the check, for mr. armstrong's name was well known, though stephen trimble's was not. and in the mean time the poor inventor sat in his garret trying to think. his wife was in the hospital, and his little son busied himself with washing the supper dishes. it was not a heavy task, for their supper had consisted only of some cold griddle-cakes which, the flap-jack man had given them. when the boy had finished his work he crept close to his father and laid his head on his knee. "why don't you light the lamp?" mr. trimble asked, rousing himself. "there isn't any oil, daddy." "no matter. i can think better in the dark, and you had better go to bed." "i am going out pretty soon to help the flap-jack man wheel his cart." "very well, lovey, if he is a good man; i don't want you to do anything wrong." "he's good to me, daddy." "i'm glad of that; you need a friend, and you may need one more." he kissed his little boy as he went out--an unwonted action on the father's part--and waited until he was sure that the child had left the building, then rose, with a desperate look upon his face, and stepped out on the landing. the house was very full now; people had been coming for two days past with great bales of foul clothing, offensive with odors of the steerage, and had packed into the already dirty rooms. it was an unusually warm night for spring, and the house was unbearably close. the tenants had resorted to the roof, and were sitting under the stars, trying in vain to find fresh air, and screaming and scolding at one another in a strange, harsh language. stephen trimble was about to descend the staircase, when two men of unpleasant aspect stopped him. "you are the machinist who lives on the top floor?" "yes." "have you time for a little job?" "plenty of time. thank god!" he added, mentally, "who has sent me help in time." "then come down-stairs with us: we are your neighbors, and are just under you. "what do you want me to do?" "we'll show you." the men admitted him to their room, and carefully locked the door behind them. one of them struck a light, and in so doing dropped a match upon the floor. the other sprang upon it quickly, ground it out with his heel, and cursed him for his carelessness. stephen trimble looked about him, and saw that one end of the room was piled with boxes and tin cans, one of which was open, showing a compound slightly resembling maple sugar. a table stood before the low window, and on it was apparatus or machinery of some sort. the first man placed his candle on the table, and drew up a packing-box for mr. trimble to sit upon. there was no other furniture in the room. "you do not live here?" said the inventor. "no," replied the first man, who constituted himself the spokesman for both; "it isn't a sweet place to live in. we hire it as a workshop. you see, we are perfecting a sort of torpedo. you've heard of the submarine torpedoes that did such good service in blowing up the turkish ships in the russo-turkish war?" "oh yes," replied stephen trimble, much interested. "i thought that stuff looked like dynamite! so you are inventing a new torpedo, which you mean to sell the government? that's a good idea. they are thinking of increasing the navy, and it's always better to deal with the government than with private individuals." the silent man nudged his partner and remarked, "yes, we're agoin' to deal with the government. that's a good way to put it." the other man made an impatient gesture, and proceeded to explain a small machine to mr. trimble. "you don't exactly understand my friend," he said, "but no matter. this kind of a torpedo isn't of the submarine kind; we pack the explosives here, matches here, friction paper just beside them; but just here we are stuck, and we need you or some other mechanic to show us how the thing can be set off by electricity, the operator to touch a button at a distance." mr. trimble bent himself to an examination of the contrivance. he asked several questions, and as his scrutiny continued, his expression of satisfaction changed to one of mistrust and alarm. suddenly he sprang from his seat and pushed the model from him. "that is an infernal-machine!" he exclaimed. "that's about the long and the short of it," said the man, calmly. "then i will have nothing to do with it," and he turned toward the door. "hold on, my friend, ain't you a trifle in a hurry? all we want you to do is to fix that attachment for us, and if you won't do it some other man will, but we're willing to pay you a hundred dollars for the job. that's a goodish sum to pay, if the job is a little queer, but i take it you're used to doing queer things by the big checks that pass through your hands." "what do you mean?" stephen trimble asked, with some indignation. "oh! you needn't pretend innocence and poverty. a man doesn't scatter round thousand-dollar checks who's as poor as you pretend to be, or as good, either." "tell me what you mean." "now don't tell us you know nothing of a check for a thousand dollars which we happened to see in the pocket-book of the agent of this building when he dropped in here to collect the rent." "i never saw a check for a thousand dollars in my life." "if you don't believe me, ask that sharp little boy of yours. it was he who first let me know there was a scientific man in the building. he saw me unpacking my machine. i happened to leave the door open just a minute. i never saw such a sharp little fellow. in he comes and says, 'my father makes machines too. he's going to make us awful rich some day.' "after that he got in the way of knocking at the door and asking to see my machinery. i thought it would be a good idea to let him, for he is too little to suspect anything, and i could stuff him with the idea that i was making a new kind of telegraph, for i was pretty sure that he would tell it around, and that people would believe it and think there couldn't be anything shady in what i was doing if i let anybody and everybody have the freedom of the room. "well, the day i'm speaking of, your little chap was sitting there turning the crank of that machine just as cheerful as if it wouldn't have blown him to kingdom come if the attachment had only been on, when in come another little feller who had been looking for him. 'see here,' says my partner, 'there's getting to be too many children here; we don't keep a sunday-school, we don't.' they were just going to leave, when the agent he come in with the rent contract for us to sign. well, the boys lingered round, full of curiosity, as boys are, and we signed the paper and handed over the cash. mr. meyer in stuffing it away in his pocket-book brought to light that thousand-dollar check i was telling you about. he fumbled to hide it, but it dropped on the floor, and a little gust of wind carried it over to where the boys were. the oldest boy--jim, i think your son called him--picked it up, and took a good look at it. 'hullo!' says he, 'here's your father's name, lovey. "pay to the order of stephen trimble one thousand dollars"!' the agent he just made one dive for that check, with his fist lifted as though he were going to strike the boy, who dropped the check, and both the little shavers scooted, and none too soon either, for meyer looked mad enough to kill the youngster, though he tried to laugh it off, and turned the check over and showed me that it was his fast enough, for it was endorsed on the back, 'pay to the order of solomon meyer.'" stephen trimble put his hand to his head in a dazed way. "you are fooling me," he said. "not we, but somebody is, if you don't know anything about it. well, if you are not the bloated bondholder we took you for, perhaps you'll consider our little offer?" "no, gentlemen, not to-night at least; give me time to think it over. one bad man may have wronged me, but i've no call to go against the law." "oh yes, take plenty of time"--and they opened the door. some one was knocking at stephen trimble's own room. it was the flap-jack man, and he had a white, scared face. "what is the matter?" asked the inventor. "lovey's been--" "run over?" gasped the poor father. "no; arrested." stephen trimble gave one exclamation of horror--then asked, "what's he done?" "nothing but wheeling my cart; they'd have caught me, too, but i cut and run. this is a pretty country where one is arrested for trying to earn an honest living!" this was the last straw. stephen trimble had said that he had no reason to resist the law, but he could not hold to that now. he staggered feebly down-stairs, knocked at the door of the dynamiters, and said. "i've come back sooner than i thought i would. give me five dollars in advance, and i'll undertake that business of yours to-morrow, and maybe i'll get up a little infernal-machine for my own use at the same time, but just now i must find my boy." the man handed him some greasy bills. "you look sick," he said. "you had better go down to the free-lunch counter at the saloon, and have a good square meal." stephen trimble went and ate and drank to excess. he did not look for his little son, and he did not return to the dynamiters' the next morning, for he was drunk--and drunk for three days thereafter. then he sobered down and applied himself to the task which they had set him--a task intended to bring ruin to the class which had wronged him. he knew the aims, now, of the men for whom he was working, and he believed that he sympathized with them. they told him how they had borne imprisonment and torture for no wrong in russia, and had come to this country expecting to find it the land of justice and kindness, but had met only the same tyranny of the rich over the poor--the rich, who cared for nothing but their own pleasures, and ground the poor under their chariot wheels. as he worked he thought of his own private wrongs, and determined that as soon as his task was done he would seek out the man who had defrauded him. he was sure now that the check which the men had seen had something to do with his invention, but he believed that the true criminal was some one behind solomon meyer, the man to whom the agent said he had given his invention--the landlord of rickett's court. it was like a man who would compel human beings to live in such a state as this to commit such a fraud. he would hunt him down presently, and in the name of his tenants, as well as in his own cause, wreak such revenge that the ears of those who heard should tingle. the landlord of rickett's court, all unconscious of the volcano upon which he was treading, attended the closing exercises of madame's school, and listened with pride to his daughter's prize essay on "the dangerous classes." there was a quotation from ruskin at the close which pricked his heart a little, and made him regret that it was not convenient to carry out his good intentions just at present. how charming she looked in the white india silk, and how well she read that final quotation! "if you can fix some conception of a true human state of life to be striven for--life for all men as for yourselves--if you can determine some honest and simple order of existence following those trodden ways of wisdom, which are pleasantness, and seeking those quiet and withdrawn paths, which are peace; then, and so sanctifying wealth into 'commonwealth,' all your art, your literature, your daily labors, your domestic affection, and citizen's duty, will join and increase into one magnificent harmony. you will know, then, how to build well enough; you will build with stone well, but with flesh better--temples not made with hands, but riveted of hearts, and that kind of marble, crimson-veined, is indeed eternal." mr. armstrong entirely ruined a new pair of kid gloves in applauding his daughter. he consigned her to mrs. roseveldt for the summer, and in reply to that lady's urgent request that he would visit them, explained that narragansett pier was fraught with so many memories that he had never been able to revisit it. "i own a cottage a little distance from the town," he said. "it was there that both my children were born. we were in the habit of occupying it every summer, but since my wife's death i have neither been able to bring myself to go there, or to rent it, and it has remained closed." "o papa, will you not let me have it for the summer?" adelaide asked. "certainly, puss, if you want to fit it up for a studio or that sort of thing; but it is in a lonely wood, and you must have suitable company with you if you think of staying there. if you manage to change the place and infuse new life in it, i may bring myself to look in upon you there. at all events, i will join you at the roseveldts' as soon as i can; just now important business detains me." the business, as we know, was the securing and putting in service of the new invention for heating and lighting cars. it was necessary for him to go to washington to arrange for the patent, and it was on this trip that a clue most unexpectedly fell into his hands which seemed to lead to a startling discovery--a discovery which was more to him than any fortune which the invention could bring. it all came about through a scrap of paper which fell in his way as he was looking about his hotel bedroom for a piece of wrapping-paper with which to cover the model of the machine which he was about to carry to the patent office. he could find nothing for this purpose but an old newspaper which lined a bureau drawer. in this he wrapped his machine, and took his seat in the street-car, the package resting on his knees. his fellow-passengers were uninteresting, and he fixed his gaze upon his package. a heading to one of the shorter articles in the old newspaper attracted his attention. "remarkable case of loss of identity; the doctors puzzled." he read on aimlessly. "the physicians of ---- hospital have an interesting case. one of their patients, a lady, was injured at the burning of the _henrietta_ in the sound in october last. this accident has resulted in a partial loss of memory, and total confusion as to her identity. the unfortunate lady is unable to give her own name or that of her friends. a remarkable circumstance in the case is the fact that, through all the horror and suffering of the accident, which has resulted in a partial loss of her reason, the poor lady kept her infant boy safely clasped in her arms, and the child, entirely uninjured, was rescued with her. any person who believes that he recognizes a lost friend in this case is requested to communicate with dr. h. c. carver, of the ---- hospital." mr. armstrong read this item over and over again. he had believed that his wife and child were lost in the burning of this steamer. was it possible that they still lived? and what had ten years of separation done for them? the horse-car passed the patent office, but he did not see it. he sat staring at the newspaper until the car brought him to the end of the route and the conductor touched him on the shoulder. "pardon me, sir; i forgot you wished to stop at the patent office." mr. armstrong woke from his reverie. "no," he exclaimed, "at the railway station. i want to catch the next train for new york--none until o'clock? then i _will_ go to the patent office; but, first, tell me where i can send a telegram." [illustration: {drawing of girls near rowboat.}] chapter xi. the guests of the elder brother. "and man may work with the great god; yea, ours this privilege; all others, how beyond! * * * * * effectually the planet to subdue, and break old savagehood in claw and tusk; to draw our fellows up as with a cord of love unto their high-appointed place, till from our state barbaric and abhorred we do arise unto a royal race, to be the blest companions of the lord." --henry g. sutton. [illustration: {drawing of girl writing.}] a few days before school closed saw the home filled for the summer. the gathering in was achieved principally by jim, mrs. hetterman, and vincenzo amati. vincenzo was an italian of the better sort. he had lived in america long enough to acquire some of our ways of life. he earned a fairly good salary as cook, and he had kept his little family in comparative comfort in the best apartment which rickett's court had to offer, until the death of his pretty wife giovanina. since then the three little girls had done their best, but there was a woeful change. they became slatternly in appearance, and the two rooms grew dirty and cheerless. worse than this, the girls affiliated with a lower class of their own nationality, the children of the rag-pickers in the basement, already referred to, who lived upon the chances of garbage barrels and beggary, and who spent much of their time in picking over and assorting the old bones, rags, paper, and other refuse dumped each night upon the floor of their sleeping and living room, as the result of their father's daily toil. these children were sickly and miserable, tainted morally as well as physically; and their parents, who were contented with their disgusting lives, were laying up money, in fact, for a return to italy. but vincenzo was not contented that his children should live in such fashion or have contaminating associates. he was one of the first applicants to place his children in the home, paying cheerfully the highest sum asked for board, it having been early decided that the rates for each child should be proportioned to the wages of the parent. then several children previously "farmed out" to mrs. grogan, whose mothers were servants in good families, were received on similar terms. a german woman, a mrs. rumple, brought her two children, saying that she was going west, but, as she knew not what fortune awaited her there, wished to place her children in the home until she could send for them. she paid their board in advance for the summer, taking the money in coin from her petticoat pocket. "why do you leave new york?" asked emma jane anton. "it ish not de guntry. de guntry ish a very goot guntry. it ish de beeples," said mrs. rumple. "what is the matter with the people?" asked emma jane. "i comes de seas over a pride, mit my man heinrich rumple; dat is ten years aco alreaty. heinrich is one very goot man; he trinks only one mug of lager every days; he comes every saturday home mit his moneys, and oh, mine fraulein, how he luf me! pretty soon py und py de peer ish not coot, and he takes one leetle glass of schnapps instead. den de leetle babies come, one, tree, four, six, and it cost all de time more to live, and he pring all de time less moneys mit de saturdays. but he trinks all de time more schnapps--one, two, tree, four glass de every days, and i know not how much de sundays, and i tink he not luf me now so much as sometimes. den de sickness comes, de shills and de fevers, and we all de time shake, shake, and first one little children die, and den anudder, all but carl and de little gracie; and mine man not haf any moneys to py medicines, put he haf blenty to py schnapps, and he all de time trink more as is goot for him, and one night he comes home and he knows not vat he does, and he sthrikes de leetle gracie, and she is long time very sick. mine soul! i tinks she vill die, and heinrich rumple--dot ish my man--he puts his name mit de bledge, and says he vill not any times trink any more, und de gracie gets vell, und ve are all wery happy, but he all de same trinks again shust so pad as ever. py und py pretty soon i says, 'heinrich rumple, i cannot sthand dis nonsense any more ain't it. i cannot haf dose childer all their bones broke any more; i put dem in one 'sylum avay from you, and i goes in dot western land seek my fortune.'" "and so you left your husband?" asked miss anton. "ya. i left mine man," replied the woman. "and don't you suppose he will ever reform, and send you money to come back to him?" "no, i s'pose so. he said to me dat day: 'barbara, it is de beeples. i haf too many friends, and i trinks mit dem all de time, too often; i tinks if i am in de west, where i know nobodys, i would be a petter husband to you alretty.' and so he goed away mit me." "do you mean to say that you and your husband are leaving new york for the west together?" "ya. i left him, and he say, 'barbara, you has right; i leaf myself, too.' but i cannot trust him alretty mit de chillern. i leaf dem one six month, to try what come of it all." "i hope your husband has indeed left his worst self behind him," said emma jane; and on suitable security being provided, the rumple children were admitted. in almost all cases it was not the desperately and hopelessly pauperized and vicious--who were provided for by reformatories and the city charities--whom they helped, but the class just above them, who were slipping over the brink, and would surely have fallen and contributed to swell the dangerous classes, if not reached by this timely assistance. "prevention is better than cure," and it was the hope of the "king's daughters" to rescue the innocent children of decent and struggling parents before they should need reformation. rosaria ricos, the cuban heiress, endowed a bed to be used for some child whose parents could do nothing whatever toward its support. she wished to have more free beds, but miss prillwitz showed her how much better it was for the parents to do something, however little it might be, for their children, and not be pauperized by having every feeling of independence and ability to care for their own taken from them. exceptional circumstances might arise, when a mother out of employment, could wisely be helped over a great exigency, but she advised that miss ricos's "emergency bed" be given for short periods only. it was first occupied by lovell trimble, familiarly, but most inappropriately, nicknamed by the other children, lovey dimple. he was a homely, unprepossessing boy, with a pug nose and a disproportionately large head. his father was the unsuccessful inventor of rickett's court, with whom we are already acquainted. he spent all his former earnings in securing patents for various great inventions which were to make all their fortunes. his mother had been a shop-girl in a large dry-goods store, and had supported the family until long-continued standing had sent her to the hospital. lovey had tried to take her place in supporting his father by wheeling "the machine" of a hot-flap-jack seller, while the flap-jack man devoted his attention to frying the cakes, flipping them on to a plate, and serving them up with a dab of butter and a lake of molasses. they did their best business winter nights after the theatres were out--sheltered from the snow by an awning or a convenient door-way, and they knew which places of amusement were out first, and would race at ambulance speed from harrigan and hart's to the bowery, to secure the custom of each. lovey liked the business, for, besides the pay, after the day's trade was over the flap-jack man let him eat whatever was left, for the batter would not keep, and he had always a few cakes to carry home to his father of the full brain and empty stomach. but one night a member of the society for the prevention of cruelty to children, who had had his eye on the flap-jack man as employing too young a child for labor involving so much privation, descended upon the cart with a policeman; and the flap-jack man having discreetly absconded, they arrested lovey in default of his employer. miss prillwitz appeared in court at jim's request, for in some way jim had heard of his friend's apprehension, and having ascertained that mr. trimble had gone upon a spree, she rashly, but not unnaturally, decided that nothing was to be expected from such a father, and next paid a visit to mrs. trimble, at the hospital. learning there that there was a prospect of her cure, she offered lovey the hospitality of the emergency bed until his mother should be able to work once more. this case established relations between the society for the prevention of cruelty to children and the new home; and a little girl--who had been forced to sell lead-pencils on the street at night by a drunken mother, though her father was a brakeman, who could well afford to support her--was committed to the home through the agency of the society; and the father, on being notified, approved the action, and paid her board regularly. one desirable result of the home was its effect on emma jane's character. from being, as she had truly said of herself, an unlovely and unloving girl who disliked children, her nature sweetened by contact with them; and taking them one by one into her heart, it broadened and softened, till an expression which was almost madonna-like trembled in a face which had been grim and repellent. lovey dimple was the first to scale the fortress of emma jane's affections. he inherited his father's aptitude for mechanics. among the old books and papers contributed to the home were, strangely enough, some bound volumes of the _scientific american_ and a few stray patent office reports, and over these he pored until his head seemed full of revolving cog-wheels and pulleys, and pistons, and his heart beat like a stationary engine. he was certain that he would be an inventor some day, like ericsson or edison; indeed, he was an inventor already, for had he not constructed unnumbered mill-wheels and windmills, weathercocks and whirligigs, besides taking to pieces the clock (which he could not get together again), and adapting his mother's sewing-machine to fret-saw purposes? he had studied every machine which he had seen in the stores, from the corn-sheller to the great patent mower, and believed that he understood the action of each. "patent" was a word that stirred his soul, though he had but a dim conception of its meaning. it was something, his father had said, that the government would give him if he invented a really useful, labor-saving machine, one which would "supply a felt want." lovey knew what a felt hat was, but it was several days before he really knew what his father meant by a felt want. as soon as he had grasped the idea he began in earnest. "mother halsey," he asked, "what part of your work bothers you most?" mrs. halsey looked hot and flustered. half an hour before this she had put her room and the nursery in order, had dressed the twenty-five children; from combing their hair and scrubbing the little ones, and introducing them into each separate garment, to merely tying apron-strings and buttoning the "behind buttons" of the older ones, and giving them a final dress review before starting them to the public school. in view of this state of affairs, it is not to be wondered at that mrs. halsey said that dressing the children gave her more bother than anything else. lovey, with a pencil and paper, sat down to invent a machine which should do this for her. he reflected that such a machine would be hailed with delight in nearly every family, and if he could manage to sell them at a dollar apiece his fortune was assured. he took as his models the washing-machine, a cross-cut saw, and a corn-sheller, and in a few moments had made his drawing of a combination of the three machines. the motive power, he decided, should be furnished by the father of the family, who could turn the crank; and on days when this was not convenient the smoke from the cooking-stove could be utilized, the stove pipe being turned so that the smoke should strike the paddles of the main wheel, and the continuous stream passing across the edge of the wheel and up the chimney, he felt certain, would turn it. just back of the machine, and above it, there was to be a great hopper into which the naked children could climb by means of a ladder, and where the clothing could be tossed promiscuously, the machine sorting it and robing each child properly. the cross-cut saw near the mouth would shingle each child's hair, and save the trouble of curling, while the children, completely dressed, would be poured through this spout into their mother's arms. [illustration: {hand drawing of the invention.}] lovey exhibited this drawing to mrs. halsey and to miss anton, and begged them to show it to president harrison and obtain a patent for him as soon as possible; but, somehow, though the invention was received with applause and approbation by the entire family, nothing was ever done about it. the droll conceit attracted emma jane to the boy. "perhaps some day he may become an inventor of something more practical," she said, and ever after watched him with increasing interest. lovey had had great trouble with his arithmetic, and he had decided that a grand labor-saving machine would be one which would save a boy the trouble of studying. he thought that it would be a good idea to bore a hole in a boy's head when he was asleep, introduce the end of a funnel into the opening, and then with a coffee-mill grind up the usual text-books and stuff his brains. he made a drawing of this machine also, and merry twinkle and he came very near trying it practically, but they never could quite agree as to who should be the operator and who should be operated upon. lovey had another brilliant inspiration. he noticed that his rubber ball, which had a hole in it, had a remarkable power of suction, and that if he held the orifice to his cheek and squeezed the ball, when he let go it would pucker his cheek in a way to remind one distantly of a kiss. he imagined that if the ball were drawn out into a tube, and that tube continued indefinitely the action would still be the same. here was a discovery. how many separated friends and lovers would be glad to patronize a kissaphone, an instrument by which kisses could be sent and actually felt. he imagined the establishment of offices on both sides of the atlantic, and the laying of a submarine tube. [illustration: {hand drawing of the book-grinding machine.}] a young physician, a friend of mrs. roseveldt's, was visiting the home just as lovey completed this triumph. "another invention of lovey dimple's," emma jane explained, as the child handed her the drawing. dr. curtiss came oftener than the sanitary condition of the home really demanded, and he was well acquainted with lovey's genius in this direction. "yes, sir," promptly replied lovey, "and i have met a felt want now, sure," and then he explained the kissaphone. "try it on me, lovey, and let me see how it feels," asked the doctor. lovey did so, and dr. curtiss made a wry face. "it strikes me that is a very poor substitute for the genuine article," he said, "but perhaps i am not qualified to judge. "now if you could have a nice looking lady operator, and could attach your tubing to the back of her head, and have her transmit the kiss as the mouthpiece of the machine, i should think your invention might be very popular." lovey received this suggestion with entire good faith. "miss anton," he said, beseechingly, "won't you act as mouthpiece and let me send a kiss to dr. curtiss?" and he could never quite decide why emma jane, who was usually so kind, declined in great confusion to render him this trifling service. there was another little boy in the home who made remarkable drawings--the one already referred to as merry twinkle. all of his family, even the female portion, were sea-faring people; his grandfather had been a sailor, and was now an inmate of the sailors' snug harbor. his mother sometimes took merry to visit him when she was back from a voyage, for she was stewardess on an ocean steamer. his father had been engineer on the same boat, but had been killed by a boiler explosion, and merry had been _boarded_ hitherto with mrs. grogan. one evening, after a visit to his grandfather, merry handed emma jane a series of wonderful marines. "grandfather sang me a very old song to-day," he said. "it went this way: two gallant ships from england sailed; blow high, blow low, so sailed we: one was the _princess charlotte_, the other _prince of wales_, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "this is a picture of the _princess charlotte_," handing emma jane his drawing. "it is night, and the captain is pacing the lonely deck; he has set his lantern on a small stand, and has put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. the second verse goes this way: 'up aloft! up aloft!' our gallant captain cried; blow high, blow low, so sailed we. 'look ahead, look astern, look aweather, look alee,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'oh, i've seen on ahead, and i've seen on astern,' blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'and i see a ragged wind and a lofty ship at sea,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'ahoy! ship ahoy!' our gallant captain cried, blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'are you a man-of-war, or a privateer?' says he; cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'oh! i am no man-of-war or privateer,' says he, blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'but i am a jolly pirate seeking for my fee,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "this is the picture of the pirate ship and the fight. captain kidd has cut off the head of one of the men who boarded his ship. one of his men is firing a cannon, the rest of his crew may be seen between-decks. 'twas broadside to broadside, so quickly then came we; blow high, blow low, so sailed we; until the _princess charlotte_ shot her masts into the sea, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. then 'quarter! oh, quarter!' the pirate captain cried; blow high, blow low, so sailed we; but the quarters that we gave them were down beneath the sea, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "grandfather called it the story of captain kidd, because he thought he must have been the pirate whose ship the _princess charlotte_ sunk. captain kidd was taken to london and hanged in chains, and i've made a picture of that too." emma jane hardly approved of the sanguinary spirit displayed by these drawings, but she could not expect that the boy's antecedents and surroundings would produce an angel. she endeavored to draw his attention to gentler subjects for his pencil, recited tender and loving ballads, and changed the current of the boy's thought and aspiration, realizing that here was material which, in the fostering atmosphere of rickett's court, might easily develop into an anarchist--a menace to the state. the sandy girls were the last to be received from the court. the father had been a truckman, but a heavy box had fallen upon him, and he had lived in pain and misery for a year and had then died. mrs. sandy, by making men's clothing, managed to keep the wolf from the door--no, only snarling _at_ the door with fierce, hungry eyes. all of her six children helped her. the oldest girl did the ironing and finishing; the next child, a boy, carried the great bundles back and forth in the intervals of his profession as a bootblack; the second girl did all of their poor housework; the twins sewed on buttons and pulled out basting threads, and the youngest boy sold newspapers, while mrs. sandy herself ran the sewing-machine ten or twelve hours in the day. when mrs. hetterman asked her why she did not give up this desperate battle with the point of the needle, and leave her vile surroundings to take service in some good family, she replied that she had often thought of this, but she must keep a home, however poor, for the children. "the two boys could live at the newsboys' lodging-house, for they earn enough to support themselves, but what would i do with my four girls?" when mrs. hetterman assured her that there was a home where they could all be cared for in cleanliness, health, and comfort, and have time for study and schooling and industrial education, which would fit them to earn their own living in future, and all for a sum quite within the means of any domestic, she brought her cramped hand down with a heavy blow upon the sewing-machine. "i don't mind if i break every bone in yer body, ye satan's grindstone!" she said to the machine; "it's the last time that mary sandy'll grind soul and body thin at ye, praise be to a delivering providence!" mrs. hastings, one of the managers of the home, had had great trouble with incompetent and ungrateful servants, and she gladly took the faithful scotch woman into her family. these, then, were the guests of the elder brother, for that first summer, from rickett's court: jim halsey, american. hettermans, english. amatis, italian. babies from mrs. grogan's, irish. carl and gracie rumple, german. lovey dimple, american. merry twinkle, american. sandy girls, scotch. in all, nineteen children transplanted from the filth and vice, hunger and ignorance, of the court, and six more from other localities as bad, to sweet, wholesome surroundings. it was thought best that those children of school age should attend a public school to avoid "institutionizing" them; and for this end they wore no uniform, and mingled freely with other well-behaved children in the park under mrs. halsey's motherly supervision. their birthdays were celebrated with a little party, with cake and candles, and everything was done to cultivate a home-like feeling. they drew their books like other children from the children's new free circulating library, and were taught to guard them carefully. they had a sewing society--in reality a sewing-class--where boys and girls were alike taught to mend and darn, to sew on buttons, and to make button-holes--all but the sandy children, who, it was judged, had served a long enough apprenticeship in this department, and were sent to mrs. hetterman to learn how to cook. miss prillwitz was anxious that the boys should have industrial training, and brought the matter before the board of managers, who entirely agreed with her, and voted that a subscription sent them by mr. armstrong be used to secure a suitable teacher. it was just at this time that a letter was received from adelaide announcing that she had fitted up the cottage which her father had placed at her disposal, and would like to have mrs. halsey occupy it with the youngest children for the heated term. miss prillwitz was delighted. jim was already at the pier with the roseveldts, and it would be pleasant for his mother to be near him, and a fine thing for the little girls and the babies. this would leave the nursery vacant, and it could be fitted up as a workshop for the boys. she had a chat with mrs. halsey the day before she left, and asked her if she knew of anyone who could teach the boys carpentry. "mr. trimble, lovey's father, is a perfect jack-of-all-trades," replied mrs. halsey. miss prillwitz was doubtful. "mr. trimble is a drunkard," she said. "not irreclaimable, i am sure," said mrs. halsey. "he was a sober man when i knew him. despair alone could have driven him to drink. i wish you would send and ask him to call and see you." so a letter was sent, and none too soon, for affairs were now at their worst with stephen trimble. chapter xii. with the dynamiters. "while we range with science, glorying in the time, city children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime; where among the glooming alleys progress halts on palsied feet, crime and hunger cast out maidens by the thousand on the street; where the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread, and a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead." --_anon._ [illustration: {drawing of the anarchist of rickett's court.}] the anarchist of rickett's court, under whose influence the inventor had fallen, was a thoroughly bad man, and the writer has no sympathy to waste upon him or his methods, but with his deluded and desperate victim we should all sympathize. stephen trimble had brooded over his troubles and wrongs until he was half crazed, and the men for whom he worked added fuel to the flame. "why should you be so precious careful of the rich?" his employer said. "what have the rich ever done for you? they've murdered your wife, as i make out, insisting on her standing all day long, when she was not able to do so, and might have done her work just as well sitting. they've sent your innocent little boy to jail along with common pickpockets. they've robbed you of your money--" "stop!" cried stephen trimble; "you've said that over and over, until i believe it, though i don't know why i should take your word any quicker than that of anyone else. you've made much of your kindness in telling me, though i don't see what good it does me, unless you are willing to go into court and testify for me as to what you've seen." the men shook their heads. "no going into court for us! we want to keep as far away from the law as possible." "then i don't see but you are as much against me as the rest. i've worked with you long enough to know what your aims are; your machine is now in working order, ready to blow up the finest house, the largest audience, in new york, church or armory, bank-vault or prison; and if all you say is true, you may blow away, for all i care, and blow yourselves up with the rest, and me too. if the world is the sodom and gomorrah it seems to me, we have bible warrant for its destruction. my work for you is done; give me my money, and we are through with each other." "see here, trimble," said the anarchist, "we have already paid you fifteen dollars, and you ought not to be too close with us." "you promised me a hundred; do you mean to say--" "don't be so touchy; what i mean to say is this: we cannot help you by testifying in court, as you suggested; it wouldn't do you any good if we did; but find out the man who has wronged you, and we will help you to your revenge. in a few days our society will begin its operations. we are out of funds now, but there will be a new deal soon. we begin with the banking-house of roseveldt, gold & co., and as soon as the fireworks are over we will be rich enough, and you shall have a fair share." stephen trimble sprang to his feet. "i thought you were anarchists! do you acknowledge that you are common burglars?" "no, my friend, we acknowledge nothing of the kind. be good enough to attend to your own business." "it is time that i did," replied the inventor; "i have neglected it long enough." stephen trimble walked out of the building. he had three things to do--to discover the landlord of rickett's court; to see his wife for the last time; and to free his little son, whom he believed to be still in prison. there was quite a commotion in the court; some men were putting up a fire-escape. "what ever put it into solomon meyer's head to do that?" he asked. "'tain't solomon meyer," a workman replied; "it's the landlord himself. he ordered it done some time ago, and was mad as a hornet because meyer hadn't attended to it." "see here, my friend," said stephen trimble, "if you know who the landlord of this tenement is, you will do me a favor by directing me to him." "armstrong's the man--alexander armstrong, president of the ---- r. r. co.; his office is over the banking-house of roseveldt & gold, no. ---- broadway. he rooms there too, when he's in town--back of his office." stephen trimble stood very still for a moment. the information which he thought would be so difficult to obtain had come to his door. the vengeance which he had fancied might take long days and nights of plotting, hung now over the man who had wronged him. he need do absolutely nothing, and alexander armstrong was doomed. he must inevitably be killed in the explosion and conflagration which was planned to cover the robbery of the bank beneath him. they had changed places, and the landlord of rickett's court was his victim. one-third of his task was accomplished. he walked now in the direction of the hospital, and asked to see his wife. he hardly expected to be admitted, but he would at least make the attempt. to his surprise he was shown into a cheerful parlor, and mrs. trimble was sent for. she came down, looking pale, but happy. "o stephen," she cried, "it has been so long since i have seen you! but never mind, i am almost well now, and we shall soon be together again. the doctor tells me i may leave next week. they have been so very kind to me here, it has been like heaven. the rich are thoughtful and generous to provide such places for the poor. i am so grateful; and i have rested so that i shall be able to take hold with new courage." he listened in a stupefied way, and seeing that he was not inclined to speak, she ran on, "and isn't it beautiful about lovey?" this stung him to speech. "beautiful? to be arrested and sent to prison?" "why, no, dear. haven't you heard? a sweet, kind woman--miss prillwitz--called, and told me that he is being cared for at a little home, for nothing, stephen; and they will keep him there until we are on our feet again. if that isn't brotherly love, i don't know what is. it makes me believe that there is such a thing as christianity, after all." still stephen trimble was silent. she was happy, and he would not dispel her illusion, at least not now. evidently there were _some_ good people in new york, and she had experienced their kindness. he had expected to find her suffering from neglect and cruelty. he would not have been surprised if she had died. he could hardly believe that a _charity patient_ had received such attention. that their little son had been also tenderly cared for passed his belief, but he would see for himself, and he took the address of the home. he bade his wife good-bye gently. "i shall come back to you very soon, stephen," she said, "and things will go better then." he could not tell her of his deep despair. he tried to smile, but only succeeded in giving her a pitiful, longing look. he walked on toward the home of the elder brother, sure that its name was a lie, and that he would find lovey abused. but he was met at the door by mrs. halsey, whom he had known at rickett's court, who called his little son to come down and see his papa, and who told him of the plan of which she had just been speaking to miss prillwitz. and a moment later lovey, well dressed, clean, fat, and jolly, tumbled into his arms with a cry of rapture. "do you want to come home, lovey?" he asked. "no, daddy, i want you to come here. please, mrs. halsey, mayn't he come?" "we would like to have him very much to teach our boys the use of tools for a few hours every day. it is just what i have been telling your father." "a week ago," said stephen trimble, "your offer would have been heaven to me; now i am afraid it is too late." "don't say so," urged mrs. halsey; and she called miss prillwitz to talk the matter over with him. miss prillwitz's first argument was to ask him to luncheon. he ate the nourishing food--the first good meal that had passed his lips for many days--and he said, as he bade them farewell, "i will come to you if i can, and teach your boys mechanics; if i don't come it will be because something has happened to me, and if anything happens to me i want to ask you to lend a helping hand to my wife--and may god bless you." a new impulse stirred within his heart, gratitude, which he had not felt toward any human being for years. he was softened, and tears stood in his eyes. he could almost forgive the landlord of rickett's court now. an impulse to see the man, though not with any hope of gaining anything from the interview, came over him. it was still early, and he walked down broadway to the building designated, and looked into the bank. how wealthy and strong it looked, with the clerks busily at work calling off fabulous sums to one another, and handling the piles of bills and coin! the safe-doors stood open, and he could see the great bolts and bars, and complicated combinations; and he smiled scornfully as he thought how easily the little machine upon which he had been working would open them all. a policeman saw him staring in at the window, and asked him his business. "i want to find mr. armstrong, the r. r. president." "then you must go up-stairs. there is the door." he walked up and saw another room, with gentlemen sitting in easy attitudes in comfortable chairs. he asked a clerk for mr. armstrong, and was told that he was in washington, on business. "business connected with a patent?" "yes; i believe so. what did you want of him?" "nothing. say only that stephen trimble called." "what! is this stephen trimble?" exclaimed a hearty voice behind him; and, turning, the inventor saw an earnest but kindly looking man, who had just entered carrying a hand-bag. "that is mr. armstrong," said the clerk, and stephen trimble stared fascinated. "step into my private office," said the financier, "i am glad you have come. it is always better to transact business at first hand, and i was sorry you could not come when mr. meyer asked you to do so." "i do not know what you mean, sir." "did not solomon meyer tell you that i wanted you to call, with reference to the four thousand dollars still unpaid on our patent transaction?" "solomon meyer told me that i was too late, and that you did not care for my invention." mr. armstrong sprang from his chair. "and he never gave you my check for a thousand dollars?" "never; though i heard that he had it;" and stephen trimble related what the anarchist had told him. mr. armstrong unlocked a safe, and took from it the contract in regard to the patent. "is not this your signature?" he asked. "no, sir: i never saw the paper." "then solomon meyer is a swindler." "very likely, sir." "go home; say nothing, and i will have him arrested. stop--a little money may not come amiss to you just now. here is fifty dollars on our account. i will see you again to-morrow, but i have an important appointment now." "i don't know how to thank you, sir, or what to say," said stephen trimble, utterly confounded. "there are no thanks due; on the contrary, i owe you a small matter of five thousand dollars--perhaps more--for it seems you have not signed this paper, and perhaps may not be willing to sell your invention for so small a sum." as he spoke, the confidential clerk tapped at the door and remarked, "dr. carver, sir, of ---- hospital, says you telegraphed to him from washington to meet you here." instantly stephen trimble saw that mr. armstrong had forgotten his existence; his entire expression changed from kindly benevolence to intense eagerness and anxiety. "what has he got to worry about, i wonder!" thought the inventor, as he gave place to the physician, and descended the stairs. force of habit led his steps toward rickett's court, but he walked like a different man, and the workman who had seen his cringing, crouching manner as he slouched out of the court that morning, did not recognize the man who entered with buoyant, determined step. the change had begun when he left the door of the home of the elder brother. there his faith in his kind had been restored. had the good fortune of the afternoon befallen him before that experience he could not have believed it, or the stupendous change would have driven him insane. but it had come upon him, mercifully, by degrees, and he was rapturously happy, and clearer in mind than he had been for months. it was as if a great and crushing weight had been lifted from heart and brain. suddenly, as he crossed the threshold, he remembered the infernal-machine. the anarchists would probably use it that night, and alexander armstrong, his benefactor, was doomed. he wondered how he could ever have been so mad as to aid them. there was only one thing to be done: he must undo his work, render the contrivance harmless, and save his friend. he knocked at the door; there was no answer; the men were probably out. he tried to open it, but it was locked. he could easily have picked the lock, but people were coming and going. the new fire-escape suggested itself to his mind, and he decided to go to his room and, as it was already dark, descend by it to the workroom. this resolution was quickly accomplished. he lighted a candle and was just reaching toward the machine, when the door opened and the anarchists entered. "what are you doing? i thought you had finished your work," said his former employer. "no, i have not finished," replied stephen trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw. "you are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily. "let go!" shouted stephen trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!" the warning came too late--there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence. chapter xiii. the king's daughters in the country. "her father sent her in his land to dwell, giving to her a work that must be done; and since the king loves all his people well, therefore she, too, cares for them, every one. and when she stoops to lift from want and sin, the brighter shines her royalty therein. she walks erect through dangers manifold, while many sink and fail on either hand; she dreads not summer's heat nor winter's cold, for both are subject to the king's command. she need not be afraid of anything, because she is the daughter of a king." _anon._ [illustration: {drawing of woman sitting on fence.}] while all these sad things were happening winnie and i were enjoying a happy summer at my beloved home in the blessed country. it is not to be imagined that winnie dropped all her wild ways and became a saint at once. she had been sobered by her sad experience in plotting and scheming for the little prince; but since her full forgiveness her elastic spirits rose to the surface, and her cheerful disposition asserted itself in many playful pranks and merry, tricksy ways. we did not forget our promise to work for the elder brother, but for a time we did nothing but rest fully and completely. she was delighted with the country. the fresh air and free, wholesome life acted upon her like wine. she climbed walls and trees, leaped brooks, whistled, shouted, rode on the hay-carts, helped in the kitchen and in the garden, drove dobbin about the country roads, went berrying, and was a prime favorite with all the boys, though i regret to say that at first, perhaps on this very account, the country girls were a little jealous and envious of her. but not a whit cared winnie for this. she tramped over the fields and through marshes, with her botanist's can swung across her shoulder by a shawl-strap, searching for specimens. she boated and bathed, taking like a duck to the water, and learning to swim more quickly than any other person i had ever known. she loved to work in our old-fashioned garden, pulled weeds diligently, and seemed to love to feel the fresh earth with her fingers. our flowers were all such as had grown there in my grandmother's time. it seemed to me that she must have modeled it on mary howitt's garden, for we had the very flowers which she describes in her poems. "and there, before the little bench, o'ershadowed by the bower, grow southernwood and lemon thyme, sweet-pea and gillyflower; "and pinks and clove carnations, rich-scented, side by side; and at each end a holly-hock, with an edge of london-pride. "i had marigolds and columbines, and pinks all pinks exceeding; i'd a noble root of love-in-a-mist, and plenty of love-lies-bleeding." there was a bed of herbs, too, which my mother cherished--sweet-marjoram and summer savory, sage, rue, and rosemary. winnie took a great interest in all of these plants. the country girls thought it odd that she should care for the wild plants which were so common in our vicinity, not knowing winnie's enthusiasm for botany, and her desire to make a large collection to show the princess. an unusually ignorant girl met her on one of her botanizing expeditions, and winnie asked her if maiden-hair grew in our region. "of course it does!" the girl replied, indignantly; "you didn't s'pose we all wore wigs, did you?" it was some time before winnie could control herself and explain that the maiden-hair of which she was in search was a kind of fern. "do you want it for a charm?" the girl asked. "no," replied winnie; "what will it do?" "if you put it in your shoe and say the right kind of a charm, you will understand the language of the birds." "then i shall certainly try it," said winnie, "for that would be great fun." another day mother brought the same girl into the garden, where winnie was at work, to give her some vegetables. "did you try the charm?" the girl asked. "yes, indeed," winnie replied. "and did it work?" "oh, famously! there is a wood-pecker in the old tree just outside of my window, and he wakes me by his drumming every morning. this morning i understood for the first time just what he has been saying. it was 'wake up, wake up! little rascal, little rascal, little rascal!'" the girl stared at winnie in open-mouthed astonishment. "you must be a witch," she said. "that's what they call me--witch winnie." they were standing beside mother's bed of herbs, and the frightened girl pulled up a stalk of rue and held it at arm's length, as though it were a protection. "don't come nigh me! don't work any of your tricks on me!" she said. winnie explained that she was only in sport, but the girl was only half reassured, and still clung to the spray of rue. miss prillwitz afterward explained that rue, like vervain, was supposed to "hinder witches of their will," probably from the fact that it was once used in the church of rome, bound in fagots, as a holy-water sprinkler, and is spoken of in old writings as the "herb of grace." in this way witch winnie's name was revived again, and was applied to her by her new friends, even though they did not believe in her uncanny powers. the princess came to us later in the season for a visit of a month, and we came to know her intimately and love her dearly. she brought five of the boys from the home with her, for mother was pleased with the enterprise, and father had said that he guessed it wouldn't break him to give those city children a taste of what the country was like, and if we women folk could stand them he supposed he could. winnie took the boys in charge and led them off with her on her long tramps and to row in the safe, flat-bottomed boat. they had great sport, crabbing, bathing, swimming, and fishing, and their vacation did them a world of good. these were the boys for whom the princess had planned the industrial classes, but mr. trimble lay at the hospital injured, it was thought, unto death by the explosion at rickett's court, and that plan was postponed for the present. the boys attracted much attention in the sabbath-school and wherever they appeared. many questions were asked, and miss prillwitz was requested to explain the plan of the home, in public and in private at the sewing society, and at the fourth of july picnic. we were not all ignorant country bumpkins at scup harbor, and we were not all poor. there were plenty of farmers, who dressed coarsely and fared plainly, who had bank accounts that would have bought out many a new yorker of fashion. they were not selfish either. i have heard somewhere of a stingy deacon who, on hearing of a case of heart-rending distress, prayed for it in this wise: "o lord, 'giving doth not impoverish thee, neither doth withholding enrich thee,' but giving doth impoverish us, and withholding doth enrich us; therefore do thou attend to this case, good lord; do _thou_ attend to this case." now this story may not be exaggerated, but i can only say that he did not live in our section of the country. our deacons were soft-hearted, though horny-handed men, and though they had the poor of their own church and vicinity to look out for, and performed that office well, they decided that scup harbor was rich enough to extend a helping hand to new york, since new york was either too poor or too hard-hearted to care for its own. accordingly a collection was taken up in church that made miss prillwitz's heart sing for joy; and the ladies' benevolent sewing society voted to have a box of clothing ready for the home by cold weather. the grown people were not the only ones interested; there were girls among us of gentle manners and hearts, and who were far better educated than milly roseveldt. some of these heard of miss prillwitz's eminence as a scientist, and helped me to organize a class for her in natural history, and the remainder of the summer took on an aspect of mental improvement as well as of physical recreation. miss prillwitz mapped out a course of work and reading for each of us to carry on after her return to the city, and the circle arranged to meet at the homes of the members, and read essays and discuss different scientific subjects. winnie was surprised at the amount of intelligence and information displayed, and soon acquired a sincere respect for country girls. it was at one of our meetings after the princess had returned to new york that she noticed that ethel stanley, the daughter of a wealthy dairy farmer, wore a little silver cross with a purple ribbon knot. "has it come here, too?" she asked; "are you a king's daughter?" "oh yes," replied ethel; "i belong to the helpful ten, and there is a cheer-up ten at the corners. what do you call your link?" "the seek-and-to-save ten," winnie replied; and she explained the mission of our circle, and how we hoped to help the elder brother in his search for the little lost princes. ethel was delighted. "i think we might help you," she said; "we are methodists, but we don't mind working for you if you will let us. i suppose you are all episcopalians in new york?" "oh dear, no!" exclaimed winnie, "we are everything; tib is a congregationalist, and emma jane is a unitarian, adelaide is presbyterian; 'trude middleton is a dutch reformer; rosario ricos is catholic; puss seligman is a jewess; little breeze comes from philadelphia quaker stock, though she is so gay you wouldn't think it; cynthia vaughn is a baptist; milly roseveldt is the only episcopalian; and i'm a--heathen." "no you are not," i protested; "you are a follower of the elder brother, winnie, and that means you are a christian." she gave my hand a little squeeze, and ethel exclaimed, "i should think your society would go to pieces; i don't see how you can work together with such different views." "that depends," said winnie, thoughtfully, "whether in the future we all pull in different directions, and tear our charity to pieces between us, or whether each of us uses all her force to bring in people from our different church organizations to help in the work, and make it widely and purely undenominational. i mean to write a little parable on that subject some day, for i feel full of it." "do!" we all exclaimed; "write it for the next meeting at ethel's." "i don't know; it would hardly be a scientific essay, you know." "i am not sure about that," replied ethel; "i think it might be called a scientific method of carrying on charitable enterprises. please write it, and i will invite our ten, and the cheer-up ten from the corners, and the loyal legion, and the missionary society, and all the girls i know generally." the plan was carried into effect, and at the next meeting winnie read us this fable, which she called a fish story.[a] [a] note.--this allegory was first published in _good company_, of . "once upon a time the fishes and salt-water animals down in the bay decided to organize a home for sea-urchins. "the circumstances of the remarkable agitation which suddenly spread among the peaceful denizens of the deep became known to me by my inadvertently getting a spray of sea-fern in one of my bathing-sandals. i suddenly discovered that i could understand the voices of the little creatures that i had so often watched from tib's father's dory, or sported among when i took my sea-bath. i lay in the dory one afternoon, looking down into the clear depth of the water, watching the tricks and manners of a sea-anemone, and thinking how similar her behavior was to that of a reigning belle at a popular watering-place, when it dawned upon me that she _was_ the belle of the cove, surrounded by a circle of obsequious masculine admirers, prominent among whom were the hermit-crab, the octopus, the jelly-fish, the lobster, the conger-eel, the king-iyo, and the stickleback--" "now, winnie," i objected, "you never saw an octopus or a king-iyo in our cove, and you can't make me believe it!" "my dear tib," winnie replied, "didn't i tell you this was a fish story? pray do not interrupt again. the animals that i have mentioned were all aspirants to the hand of the sea-anemone, and the first remarks which i overheard and comprehended were her confidences to her friend the gold-fish, in which she intimated that she considered the jelly-fish the most amiable, the lobster the richest, the king-iyo (a titled foreigner from japan) the most _distingué_, and the conger-eel the most polite; but, after all, the hermit-crab was really the best, and she liked him more than any of the others, with the exception of the octopus, who was so fascinatingly wicked. "the next time that i looked into the cove was during a meeting of the managers of the sea-urchins' home. "the sea-anemone had just been unanimously elected to the presidency on account of her popularity. "the cuttle-fish had been created secretary in recognition of his remarkable facility in throwing ink, while all official documents were stamped by the seal. "the electric-eel was made visiting physician; and the shark, surgeon and lecturer on vivisection. "the hermit-crab, who had been detailed to make observations on the _modus_ in which such societies were carried on among human beings, made the following report: "miss president and fellow-fishes: "your committee have made a careful investigation of the subject assigned them, and agree that while man's faculties have not been cultivated to so high an extent as those pertaining to fishes, he is still a moral and intellectual animal. we believe that if he were put in possession of the advantages accorded to our race, and were submerged in salt-water for several centuries, his brain would undoubtedly become so pickled as to reduce it in size and intensify its quality. favorable conditions of brain-pickling are all that is necessary, in our opinion, to develop some of the most advanced specimens of this _genus_ into a low form of _mollusk_. "the opinions of the hermit-crab were considered a marvel of liberality and generous thinking. he proceeded to explain the society-forming instinct of the human race as a professor of our own species might lecture on the concretions of deep-sea corals, and continued swimmingly, as fishes usually do, until a white-whiskered sea-lion begged leave to make a motion, in the language of a motto of conduct which he had often heard shouted to seamen by their commanders: 'when you are in the navy, do as the knaves do.' 'let us,' he added, 'act upon this principle of conformity, by doing amongst men as the many do, and immediately organize a fair to meet the salaries of our officers and pay the debt on the society building.' "'but none of us need salaries,' objected the lobster, 'and we have no debt.' "'as to declining a salary because i do not need it,' replied the sea-lion, 'i can only say that i find no such example set by the race whose customs we are following; and without a debt, or at least a deficit in the accounts of our treasurer, the respectability of our society may well be questioned.' "a committee of codfish aristocrats was at once authorized to secure a debt of magnificent proportions, at whatever cost, and the salary of each member of the society was set according to his own estimates. frequent meetings of the managers were appointed for the purpose of drawing the salaries, and as the care of the sea-urchins could with the utmost ingenuity be made to take up but a small portion of the time, each of the managers seized upon these meetings as opportunities to air their own particular opinions. the lobster, who was something of an autocrat, and had determined from the outset to run the concern, took the entire business management into his own claws, greatly incensing the ladies on the debt committee by intimating that they knew nothing of business, and that his office-boy, the craw-fish, could have devised a debt of far nobler proportions. the king-iyo, or three-tailed fish of japan, trusted that the philosophy of the orient was to have its full recognition in the principles of the society, and that the sea-urchins would be instructed in buddhism. the octopus, who had been one of the most desperate characters in the bay, carried his change of heart so far as to assert that no one could be considered as religious, or even respectable, who had not been extremely wicked, and urged that only the most depraved and hopeless young sea-urchins be admitted into the home. while the octopus raved over essential wickedness, and the king-iyo of philosophy, the jelly-fish dabbled in humanitarianism, and asserted that brains were not to be tolerated, thought was to be considered a crime, and a heart the only organ necessary for the spiritual body. all books on theology and philosophy should be sold for old paper, and the proceeds invested in charlotte russe for tramps and criminals. every measure in the least savoring of logic or common sense must be vetoed. "the stickleback, who luxuriated in controversy, and in making himself generally disagreeable, summed up the remarks of those preceding him as the merest vaporing of idiocy, and denounced every system of belief held by his fellow-managers, before hearing it, with the same impartiality. antagonism, he asserted, was the only rational attitude for any fish under all circumstances. the conger-eel, managing to gain possession of the floor, endeavored to pour oil on the troubled waters. he was sure that if the heterogeneous, and even antipathetic, ideas held by the different managers were only presented in writing, they would, properly mingled, blend as sweetly as lemon juice and loaf sugar in a cooling summer libation. the cuttle-fish, was unanimously elected chairman of a committee for eliciting and reconciling the opinions of the managers in a printed constitution. he opened the ball with a statement of his own views, which he passed to each member in turn, asking them to add their several criticisms and corrections. when the paper had gone the rounds it was read in open session by the hermit-crab, who summed up everything that had gone before, in a paper entitled 'a historical review of the documents, beginning with the king-iyo's criticism of mr. snapping-turtle's attack on mr. shrimp's vindication of mr. jelly-fish's apology of mr. conger-eel's deprecatory answer to mr. lobster's satire on mr. stickleback's challenge to mr. octopus's dogmatic denunciation of mr. shark's strictures on miss sea-anemone's conciliatory explanation of mr. cuttle-fish's exposition of the views of the society.' "of course this paper satisfied no one, and the meeting plunged at once into a whirlpool of ruinous discussion. "the stickleback bristled his spines and glared angrily about him, shrieking, 'antagonism! nihilism!' "'fanaticism, sensationalism!' yelled the octopus. "'dogmatism! absolutism!' replied the lobster, hurling clams about him in the belief that they were works on combative theology. "'asceticism! monasticism!' groaned the hermit-crab, retreating into a pipe bowl and blocking the entrance with a pearl-oyster. "'humanitarianism!' warbled the jelly-fish, as he choked three sea-melons and a quart of sea-mushrooms into the mouth of a sick grampus. "'paganism! barbarianism!' retorted the king-iyo, punching the jelly-fish. "'optimism! universalism!' sweetly chanted the conger-eel, but as he spoke the entire convention broke up and floated away, leaving the little sea-urchins crying for their supper, and only a debt of colossal proportions to mark the site of the proposed home." "and how do you propose to avoid the fate of the fish society?" ethel asked, after the storm of applause which followed winnie's paper had subsided. "by recognizing, from the first, that we unite only for this special purpose, and that we all have very varied and contradictory opinions, which we will make no attempt to reconcile or ventilate. i think we can make our very differences an element of strength, if it is acknowledged from the outset that we are to be different. as corresponding secretary of our ten i have received the most encouraging reports from the girls. they are all working hard for the home, and all working in different ways, and each seems to think that the home belongs to her individually--as it really does--and that her organization is responsible for its success. i am sure that when we next meet, the girls will accept mrs. middleton's proposition to have the home of the elder brother entered as one of the dutch reformed charities, and i hope that each of the other girls will take measures to have it recognized as one of the charities of her particular church organization. i have a letter from little breeze, saying that the friends' meeting in philadelphia, of which her mother is a member, propose to own a bed in the home; and puss seligman writes that the hebrew charitable association, of which her brother is vice-president, have voted to hold themselves responsible for every child of their race whom we entertain. cynthia vaughn reports that the church of ----burgh, pennsylvania, will keep us in coal on condition that a delegation of the children go to the baptist sunday-school. miss prillwitz has already divided the home into detachments, sending the children, as far as possible, to the churches which their mothers prefer, and there is a strong division of baptists." "i think," said ethel, "that our methodist church would like to have a share in the work. i am sure that father will be glad to supply you with milk and butter as his own private subscription." the president of the loyal legion then spoke up, and proposed that their organization furnish barrels and make the rounds of the farms in procession, soliciting apples and potatoes, which they would freight to the home, on condition that a loyal legion temperance society be organized among the children of the elder brother, to be considered as a branch of the scup harbor legion. the cheer-up ten from the corners held a brief meeting in the orchard, and returned to report that they had decided to adopt one of our children to clothe. they desired that the child of the poorest parents be assigned them, and promised that if the proper measurements were sent, they would keep it respectably dressed in garments of their own make. i suggested little georgie, a child rescued from mrs. grogan, whose mother could only furnish fifty cents a week from her scanty earnings for his support; and our convention broke up for that day, after partaking of strawberries and cream, singing a good old hymn, slightly altered for the occasion by winnie. "here we raise our ebenezer, hither by god's grace we come; and we hope, by his good pleasure, long we may remain a home." * * * * * note.--the messiah home, rutherford place, new york, a charity founded for children by children, whose beautiful work suggested to the author this simple story, has been greatly helped by circles of the king's daughters, several of whom have adopted children to clothe after the manner of the cheer-up ten. the writer commends this work to any other circles of the king's daughters eager to do the work of the elder brother. chapter xiv. over the hills and far away. "when smale foules maken melodie, that sleepen alle night with open eye, than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages." _chaucer, prologue to "canterbury tales."_ [illustration: {drawing of landscape.}] it must not be imagined that our entire summer was given over to works of charity and mercy. there were times when we quite forgot the home of the elder brother in merry romping and girlish enjoyment; and one of the pleasantest experiences of that season was an excursion in two tin-peddler's carts, or rather, in two carts belonging to one tin-peddler; a pilgrimage which was undertaken solely and simply as a lark, and most successfully realized its aims. toward the end of june, while miss prillwitz was still with us, father fell into a state of body or mind which he called "the malary." it was the fashion for everyone in our region to dub every disease with which they might be afflicted, from indigestion to inherited insanity, malaria; and the prescription given by our wise old physician for this disease of many manifestations was always the same. "i don't know exactly what has caused this trouble," he would say, "but i know what will cure it. you need a change. if you've been living high, diet. if you've been starving yourself, have thanksgiving dinner every day. take a change of air and a change of scene, a change of occupation, and, above all, a change of habits, and somewhere we'll hit the nail on the head that has done the mischief." the prescription pleased my father. he decided that he needed a change from the coast to the interior, and from exercise to a sedentary life. "instead of tramping around this farm," he said, "i would like to be driving over the western massachusetts hills. i am as sick of this eternal pound, pound of the surf on the shore as of the sea-fog in my throat." "take the horses, father," said mother, cheerfully, "and drive through connecticut up to your brother asahel's farm in hawley. i can run this household well enough without you." "it would be a rather lonesome drive," father demurred, though his eyes shone with longing. "zen why not to take us wiz you, mr. smiss?" asked miss prillwitz. "we would each stand her share of ze expenses, and such a tour of _diligence_ would be most delightful." upon this the matter was thoroughly canvassed, and it was finally decided that mother should remain at home with the five little boys, whom ethel stanley and the helpful ten had agreed to amuse during our absence; and that miss prillwitz, miss sartoris, winnie, mr. stillman, and i should accompany father. mr. stillman was a summer-boarder from new york, who came to us every season to fish and hunt. hearing that miss prillwitz was fond of ornithology, and that the lighthouse-keeper sent her dead birds, he tried to please her by shooting others and bringing them to her, but she soon made him understand that she preferred studying them alive and at liberty. "zese poor leetle tears zat haf cast zemself on ze lighthouse," she explained, "zey have not been kill for me, zey could not else, but i wish i could hinder zem of it." "it is not much fun to shoot birds, after all," mr. stillman admitted, "only the exultation in hitting a difficult mark. i hate to pick them up afterward." "if it is only ze chase and ze difficulty which make you admiration," said miss prillwitz, "why do you not buy to yourself a camera of detective for ze instantaneousness, whereby you can photograph ze bird on his wing? zey tell me it shall be much more difficult to do zat zan to shoot him dead." and so mr. stillman had sent to new york for an amateur photographer's outfit, and had fitted up a dark-room in the old smoke-house, where he developed his negatives. he was a man to whom almost everything he tried was easy, and he tried his hand at many things. he had traveled much, and assured us that wherever he went he tried to learn some new accomplishment. in china he had learned the art of making fireworks, and earlier in the season the smoke-house had served as a chemical laboratory for the manufacture of rockets. before miss prillwitz had suggested amateur photography, mr. stillman had amused us by setting off fireworks on the beach at night, but the new craze seemed destined to supersede every other; pyrotechnics were neglected, and the shot-gun and rifle rusted from lack of use. a tin-peddler lived not far from us--an enterprising man, the proprietor of two carts, one of which his wife was accustomed to conduct, following him in caravan style on his summer journeyings; but this season the man was sick, his wife busied in his care, and the great carts, piled with wares, stood waiting in the sheds. "i've a notion," said father, "to buy eben ware's stock and hire one of his carts. i can hitch my span of horses to it, and i will make enough selling tinware, as we go, to pay the expenses of the whole trip." this plan did not strike me pleasantly at first, but before i had time to object mr. stillman joined in enthusiastically. "a capital idea, mr. smith, but you know our board is to be paid regularly to mrs. smith during our absence. miss sartoris, miss prillwitz, and i all insist upon that. i will take the peddler's horses and his second cart, which i will load up with my photographic outfit, the ladies' baggage, camp supplies, etc., and i will fill in any spare space with fireworks, which i will offer for sale along the route, all profits to be devoted to the charity in which the ladies are interested. the fourth of july is so near that i fancy the rockets will meet with a ready sale." all joined in the plan with zest. our wardrobe was reduced to a minimum. it was discovered that the two carts were arranged to turn into ambulances for camping at night, and would furnish comfortable accommodation for the feminine portion of the party, while a small tent was provided for father and mr. stillman. in reality we camped but one night, preferring to stop at wayside inns, but it was pleasant to know that we could do so whenever we wished. a roll of army blankets and comfortables, a few kitchen utensils, and some canned goods were stored away in mr. stillman's cart, with miss prillwitz's botanizing equipments, miss sartoris's sketching materials, his own belongings, and all the fireworks which he could manufacture in time; and still there was room in the capacious interior. the rifle was added at winnie's urgent request, as a defense against wild beasts, though we all joined in ridiculing her fears that bears might be found in the massachusetts woods, little thinking that we should have a thrilling adventure with a grizzly bear. at the last moment mr. stillman added another camera and more chemicals. "this means," he replied, in answer to our questions, "that i have rented a tintype outfit of a photographer over at the corners, and propose to add to our resources by taking tintypes as we go." mr. stillman's ready invention, so fertile in expedients, received hearty applause, and the gypsy caravan set out in high feather. we took the steamboat with the carts to new haven, and from that point struck into the interior by turnpikes and country roads, father leading the way with his jingling coach, miss prillwitz and winnie perched high beside him, and miss sartoris, mr. stillman, and i, who called ourselves the art contingent, bringing up the rear. how beautiful the roads were, shaded by willows or arched by elms! often fascinating lanes led off from the highway toward comfortable farm-houses, or grass-grown, deserted roads mounted through shady gorges to the lonely hills, tempting us from the beaten track. but the highway was beautiful enough. sometimes it followed the curves of some vagrant stream, or wound around gently undulating hills. miss sartoris pointed out the fact that it was most frequently a succession of curves, while french highways are laid out as straight as the surveyor can make them, and do not compose as well in landscape paintings. the connecticut roads we found easy to travel, well kept, and for the most part level or of easy grade. it was not until we reached western massachusetts that we walked up the hills to lighten the load, or that the driver pressed his foot hard on the brake as the cart coasted down the steep inclines like a toboggan. winnie was delighted with a bit of gorge road which played at hide and seek with a wayward brook. "it seems to me," she said, "that the wood is a matter-of-fact business man, and the brook is his sweet but willful little wife. see how he tries to adapt himself to her whims and pranks, keeping as close to her as he can, while the side which she does not touch is stern with rock and shadow! and she, coquettish little thing, wanders away from him into the deepest part of the ravine, where he cannot follow, and hides herself in a tangle of fern and wild-flowers, till, just as the lonely old road, quite in despair at having lost her, crosses the ravine on a bridge of logs, apparently for the sole purpose of seeking her, the merry little brook flies under the mossy bridge and is close beside him on the side which he thought farthest from her." "that is a very good parable," said father. "you've struck the nail pretty fairly. that's the way it has always been with my wife and me. my daughter, too, is one of the brook kind, but you needn't conclude that the old road doesn't enjoy all the company of blackberry vines and laurel and ferns that the brook attracts to itself, and which never would have come near the road but for the brook. i mean you and miss sartoris and the rest." "and sometimes," winnie added, "the road has its grains of corn or wheat dropped from a passing cart, you know, to give to the sparrows, and the brook likes that ever so much." father always called the boys from the home "the sparrows," and he was pleased by this allusion to his generosity. we found ourselves following the circus at one stage of our journey, and we pitched our tent and made camp not far from the fair-grounds. we chose for our camp a site which had once been occupied by a house that had been burned to the ground. the only out-building which had escaped the conflagration was a root-house, or cellar, excavated, cave-like, in the side of a hill. it struck mr. stillman as a particularly good "dark-room," and we at once pre-empted it. miss sartoris painted a sign-board for the photographic studio, and winnie and i arranged a bower with a flowery background for mr. stillman's sitters. we had a rich harvest that day, winnie acting as cashier, and miss sartoris, as assistant, posing the groups. mr. stillman was quite exhausted when evening fell. he said he had never done such a day's work in his life, and his tintype material was nearly used up. we were patronized not only by the country people who came to see the show, sheepish lovers who wished to have their portraits taken together, and parties of merry young people, but also by the showmen themselves. the living skeleton and the fat lady, the strong man supporting a great weight by his teeth, the lion tamer with his pets, and the snake charmer, were all among mr. stillman's patrons. when it was understood that he had an instantaneous camera with him, the equestrienne desired him to take a photograph of her while performing her famous feat of riding five horses at once, and the acrobats challenged him to catch their rapid evolutions. he surprised them by his remarkable success in obtaining a perfect negative. it was our most successful day, from a financial point of view, for we realized over twenty dollars. father had a rather annoying experience which made him desire to avoid the circus in the future. among the articles which the tin-peddler had given him was a soldering furnace and irons, for mending old tinware. father made his first attempt to use these tools on this afternoon. the door-keeper of one of the tents brought him his japanned tin strong-box to mend, and father attacked the task laboriously, succeeding in making it firm by a rather too plentiful application of solder. he was so interested in his task that he did not notice that an organ-grinder, one of the followers of the circus, had pressed quite near and was regarding the coins, which the door-keeper had temporarily turned into his handkerchief, with hungry eyes. suddenly the monkey, which had been tied to the organ, became loose, and springing straight to the little furnace, seized and brandished the heated soldering-iron. a great excitement ensued, for no one dared to take the formidable weapon from the mischievous creature. the owner of the monkey seemed at his wits' end. he raged, stamped, tore his hair, commanded and entreated the monkey to bring back the iron, all to no avail. the monkey, having burned himself, finally dropped it, but, frightened by the pain or by his master's threats, continued his flight into the woods, followed by the organ-grinder. when the excitement occasioned by this event had subsided, a still greater one ensued on the discovery that the door-keeper's handkerchief and money had disappeared. the man angrily charged father with its theft, but mr. stillman came running from his dark-room with a negative which he had just developed. he had been standing at the door, with his detective camera in his hand, and, quite unintentionally, had done real detective work, for, intending only to catch the monkey with the soldering-iron, he had focused upon it at the very first, and the unerring eye of the camera had seen and recorded what every one else had been too preoccupied to discover--the organ-grinder snatching the gate-keeper's money. the negative was a sufficient witness, and the organ-grinder was at once sought for, but the earth seemed to have swallowed him. the monkey was found nursing his burned paw in a tree, but his master and the money were not to be found. there was such a train of beggars and questionable characters in the wake of the circus that it was decided not to pursue our moneyed advantage by following with them; and the next day we stood back from the road to let the heavy, shambling elephants and long train of gaudily decorated wagons pass by. mr. stillman had his detective camera out, and took some interesting views of the procession. father had taken a dislike to the soldering outfit, and congratulated himself that the monkey had lost the iron, but the last in the procession, a gypsy fortune-teller, handed it to him, saying that it was a lodestone, which would bring evil fortune to the person who possessed it, and advising him to give it to his worst enemy. "i am a witch," winnie laughed, "and can reverse all omens--so we need not fear." turning from the highway, we now struck across the country, through chestnut woods, where miss prillwitz taught us to recognize the song of the thrush, the sweetest of new england songsters, and cousin of the mocking-bird. mr. stillman was vexed that he could not obtain a single photograph of a thrush, but she is a shy bird, and keeps hidden in leafy thickets, and though we heard her song frequently, we never saw her. mr. stillman became very skillful in photographing other birds, even fixing the agile little fly-catchers in their eccentric movements, the watchful bobolink atilt on a mullein-stalk, the swallows skimming the river's surface, and the sagacious crows, who, having proved that a very natural scarecrow was harmless, were less suspicious of him. the withered limbs on certain old apple-trees were favorite perches for the birds, for there was no foliage here to impede their flight, and outlined against the sky they were capital targets for the camera. mr. stillman secured a gentlemanly king-bird in such a position, his white breast and black back and tail feathers reminding winnie of a dandy in full evening dress. miss prillwitz remarked on the brilliant plumage of the new england birds, and said that it was a mistake to imagine that those of the south were more beautiful. she pointed out the black and gold orioles, the lovely bluebird, the scarlet tanagers, as brilliant as flamingoes, the beautiful rose-breasted grosbeaks, with a rich crimson heart upon their breasts, and the red-winged blackbirds, with their scarlet epaulets, reminding one of brisk artillerymen. it was the last of june--the most perfect of all the months--and as we rode we repeated all of the poets' praises of the month that we could remember. we agreed that lowell had sung the season best: "the bobolink has come, and, like the soul of the sweet season vocal in a bird, gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, save june! dear june! now god be praised for june." but margaret deland pleased us nearly as well in her homage to the queen month: "the dark laburnum's chains of gold she twists about her throat; perched on her shoulder, blithe and bold, the brown thrush sounds his note! "and blue of the far dappled sky, that shows at warm, still noon, shines in her softly smiling eye-- oh who's so sweet as june?" father was not a very successful tin-peddler. the thrifty new england housewives were not pleased because he was unwilling to exchange his wares for rags, after the manner of other itinerant venders. he was uncertain as to the prices which he ought to charge; asking so little for his brooms that one patron purchased all his stock, at a decided loss to himself, as he afterwards learned, and demanding so much for nutmeg graters that a sagacious purchaser showed him the door with scorn. the soldering outfit, too, caused him much woe. it seemed that the original peddler was a clever tinker; and all sorts of broken articles, from clocks to umbrellas, were brought out for father to mend. at first father good humoredly tried his best, but having burned holes in his clothing, as well as blistered his hands, and succeeding in no instance in satisfying his patrons, he was tempted to throw the little furnace away, but his sense of economy would not allow him to do this, and he stowed it away vindictively in the depths of his cart. shortly after this we spent two very interesting days in visiting mt. holyoke and smith colleges. they gave both to winnie and me a desire for a higher education than that which we were receiving at madame's. miss sartoris wandered slowly through the art building of smith, looking longingly at its superb equipment. the college is charmingly situated in the old town of northampton. we were told that the students had just acted a greek play, the "electra" of sophocles, very successfully, and we looked at one another in envy as we thought how impossible it would have been to present such a drama at madame's. we passed the holyoke range on july . this barrier marks as distinct a climatic change as cape cod in the atlantic currents, for, just as, south of the cape, and apparently threatened by her bent arm, the gulf stream sweeps to the north the tropic sea-weeds, and north of it, and gathered close in its embrace, the arctic mosses cling to the cold heart of new england; so, south of the holyoke range the air may be tepid and lifeless, while beyond it invigorating breezes from the northland are dancing cheerily. we had eaten the last native connecticut strawberries, but they were just in their glory north of the barrier, and though the almanac said july, it was june weather still. mount tom and mount holyoke stand as sentinels at the entrance of a lovely region, through whose elm-covered villages we drove at leisurely pace, resting over a sabbath at old hadley, one of the most charming places, with its principal street a double cloister of elms and maples, and where a sabbath peace and stillness brooded even on week-days. mr. stillman found, for the next few days, a ready sale for his fireworks, exhausting his stock and adding twenty-five dollars to the treasury. about twelve miles north of mount holyoke rises mount toby, a noble mountain, which assumes, from certain directions, the shape of a crouching camel. the resemblance is even more marked than that of the rock of gibraltar to a lion. it dominates the country round about, and from its summit nearly a score of nestling towns and villages are visible. among these mr. stillman sold his rockets, and proposed that we should spend fourth of july night on its summit, and there watch the little fire-fountains on the plain below. it was an attractive plan, but mr. stillman had not counted the weather into his reckoning. it had been a sultry day. as we stopped at a farm-house on our way from sunderland to mount toby, the good woman told us to look out for rain. "the grass has been waiting two days to be cut," she said, "but it looks kinder lowry, and the men-folks daresn't begin haying." there were two superb cumulus clouds in the west, shaped like elm-trees, or wine-glasses touching rims, and there was a blue rain-cloud in the southeast, with fringes trailing the landscape, and blurring it from our view. "the rain may not reach mount toby at all," father said; "showers travel about among those hills in a curious fashion. i have seen it raining hard on one side of sugar-loaf, while the other was dry and dusty. there is a deserted railway station at the foot of toby, where we can spend the night. there were picnic grounds laid out on the mountain at one time, but the enterprise failed, and trains no longer stop there." a view of the station, which we reached early in the afternoon, confirmed father's recommendation of it. the roof was weather tight, and it was a roomy, comfortable building, a good refuge should a shower overtake us. we picnicked beside a beautiful cascade, and leaving the horses picketed beside the carts, proceeded to climb the mountain on foot. it was glorious with masses of white and pink laurel, which i had never before seen in its perfection, and miss prillwitz introduced me to many other plants and flowers new to me. the amherst basket-fern, shaped like a corinthian capital, grew in perfection, the columbine blew her flame-colored trumpets, and the harebell rang her inaudible chimes from mossy clefts in the gray rocks. miss prillwitz said she had last picked harebells in austria. "you know," said miss sartoris, "that mary howitt calls the harebell 'the very flower to take into the heart, and make the cherished memory of all pleasant places; name but the light harebell, and straight is pictured well where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces. old slopes of pasture ground, old fosse and moat and mound, where the mailed warrior and crusader came; old walls of crumbling stone with ivy overgrown, rise at the mention of the harebell's name.'" miss prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting bits of information in regard to them. some had strangely human characteristics. the cassia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its inimical nature. she told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant fruit. she gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested by a _gerardia_, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots of huckleberry. "i did not know that plants had so little conscience," said winnie. "it reminds me of a guest a southern gentleman had, who remained twelve years, and after the death of the host married his widow." "plants seem also to be cruel," said miss prillwitz. "zere is ze _apocynum_, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. you should read of him by darwin. he set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when mr. fly tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and mr. apocynum he eat him, and digest him at his leisures." "miss prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it 'near nature's heart,'" i suggested. "i would so like," replied miss prillwitz, "but if i waste my time to write, how should i earn my lifes? i have know many author, and very few do make their wealths by--by their authority." miss prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that she had achieved a success in our difficult language. i turned aside to mr. stillman, that she might not see my smile. "how interesting she makes our climb," i said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'she illustrates the landscape.'" "in my humble opinion it is miss sartoris who 'illustrates the landscape,'" he replied. "see what a picture she makes reaching after those sweet-briar blossoms! i wish i had not left my detective at the station." miss sartoris was indeed very pretty. it seemed to me that she grew younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. each changing pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but i could hardly understand why mr. stillman should greatly regret not securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of the photographs which he had taken. we reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. the west glowed with a yellow-green color. the strange clouds, which had been as white as curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat lightning. they moved forward like the pillar which led the israelites, great billowy masses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit, while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. behind them was the background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that sinister green. there were threatening rumblings in the east also, and amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds, which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be traveling rapidly in our direction. father took a rapid view of the horizon. "there will be no fireworks display for us to-night," he said. "there are two showers which will meet in an hour's time, and toby will be just about in the centre of the fracas. we had better hurry down the mountain if we want to escape a wetting." miss sartoris gave a longing look at the beautiful panorama of nestling villages, forest and winding river (a view unsurpassed in massachusetts), and now glorified by the magnificent cloud effects. "can we not rest for half an hour?" she asked. "i think not," father replied, and we reluctantly retraced our steps. when half-way down the mountain the wind, which preceded the march of the cloud battalion, caught up with us. the chestnuts crouched low and moaned, the poplars shivered and shook their white palms, and the hemlocks writhed and tossed their gaunt arms as though in agony. then there was a hush, when they seemed to stand still from very fear, and a minute later the storm burst upon us. we were but a short distance from the station when this occurred, and the foliage which roofed the road was so dense that we were not very wet when we reached our shelter. there was an invigorating scent of ozone in the air, and a certain exhilaration in being out in a storm, and in hearing the crash of falling limbs far back in the woods. we noticed the gentleness of the rain, which, though apparently fierce, did not break a single fragile wild-flower. each leaf, sponged free from dust, brightened as though freshly varnished, and each blade of grass threaded its necklace of crystal beads. the cascade, swollen and turbid, roared angrily at our side, and a shallower rivulet made the path slippery as we hurried on; but a few moments of laughing scramble brought us panting into the dry station, safely housed for the night from the storm. father and mr. stillman arranged shelter for the horses by spreading the tent between the two carts, and we ate our supper at what had formerly been a refreshment counter. then the ticket-office was assigned to the gentlemen as their dormitory, and hammocks were hung for the rest of us in the ladies' waiting-room. we told ghost stories for a time by the light of a spirit-lamp and a few candles, but retired early, as we were thoroughly tired from our long walk, and were soon asleep, lulled by the monotone of the falling rain. we were not destined, however, to enjoy a night of undisturbed repose, for the principal adventure of our journey occurred that night. i do not know how long we had slept when we were all suddenly awakened by a startling scream. "what is it? oh, what is it?" gasped winnie. "is it a catamount?" asked miss sartoris. i thought of the railroad track, which ran close beside us, and suggested that it might be the shriek of a passing engine, when suddenly it came again on the side of the station opposite to the track. father sprang up, exclaiming, "something is the matter with the horses!" the rain was still pouring, and a dim light from the swinging lantern illumined the room. as father spoke, one of the windows, which had been left open for ventilation, was suddenly filled by an uncouth form, which, with much scrambling and snorting, was proceeding to force an entrance. "it is a bear!" shrieked winnie; and so it was. mr. stillman rushed forward with his rifle. there was a loud report, and a heavy fall on the outside. "horses can scent bears at a distance," said father, as he took down the lantern; "but who would have thought there were any such creatures in these woods?" "perhaps it has broken away from the circus," suggested mr. stillman, reloading his rifle; for there was an ominous growling outside. human voices were presently heard whose intonations were almost as harsh as those of the brute. father unbarred the door, and we saw two men bending over the wounded bear, which he now saw was muzzled, and the property of the men, who had evidently heard of the old station, and had thought to take refuge in it from the storm. "here's a pretty state of things!" father exclaimed, with a whistle. "you have shot a performing bear, stillman, and these showmen will probably make us pay dearly for the mistake." we had all been terribly frightened; but we recovered instantly on this announcement, and hurriedly dressing, we peered out at the men as they stood about the wounded animal and discussed the situation. one of the showmen was a foreigner, who swore and grumbled in some strange language, which miss prillwitz afterward told us was russian. the other was unmistakably a jew, and he took a jewish advantage of the accident. "you haf ruined our pizness--dot bear he wort one, two hundert dollar!" "nonsense!" replied father, as confidently as if he were accustomed to trade in that species of live-stock; "he's dear at fifty. besides, he isn't dead, nor anything like it. hold him with this halter, you two, and i'll examine him. there! i told you so; it's only a flesh wound in the right foreleg. there are no bones broken. he will be ready for travel in a week. all you've got to do is to stay here for a few days--and where could you be better off? we leave in the morning, and no one will dispute your possession of this house. i will leave you enough provisions to keep you until you are ready for the road again." the men talked it over in russian, and seemed far from satisfied, though mr. stillman offered to give them twenty dollars as an equivalent for what they would have gained during the next week, and father added his remaining stock of small tinware, which, he explained, they could easily sell from door to door at the farm-houses and villages in the vicinity. he was tired of his occupation as a tin-peddler, and glad to get rid of the obnoxious soldering furnace, as well as the patty-pans and muffin-rings. a settlement was finally effected when, in addition to this, mr. stillman agreed to their demand for fifty dollars cash indemnity. there was no more sleep for us that night, and it was with rueful countenances that we discussed the adventure among ourselves. "to think," lamented winnie, "that, just as we were congratulating ourselves on gaining so much money for the home, we should be obliged to pay it all out, and more besides, to these wretched men, and all for nothing too!" "yes," replied mr. stillman, "that is the provoking part. if i had only killed the creature we might have bear-steak for breakfast (though it would have been pretty expensive meat), and i could have had his hide mounted as a rug, and have exhibited it to my friends with truthful braggadocio as one of my hunting trophies." i sympathized with winnie in regard to the depleted condition of our treasury; but miss prillwitz remarked, enigmatically, that the adventure might not prove to be such a losing one as we imagined. we begged her to explain; but she bade us wait until we were at least ten miles from our encampment. we relinquished the station to the showmen after a very early breakfast, and drove away with lightened carts and subdued spirits. the rain had ceased, but was likely to begin again at any moment, for the sky was thickly overcast, and father suggested that, as this was a famous trout region, we might do well to spend the morning in fishing. this plan pleased all but miss prillwitz, who whispered to father that she had particular reasons for reaching a telegraph station as soon as possible, and we accordingly directed our course at a rattling pace toward the shire town of greenfield. on the way miss prillwitz confided to us her suspicions; and in order that the reader may understand them, i must anticipate the events which are to be related in the next chapter, and explain that, after the explosion at rickett's court, solomon meyer and one of the anarchists had disappeared from new york, and mr. armstrong had offered a reward for their apprehension. the anarchist was known to be a russian, and though miss prillwitz had never seen solomon meyer, she felt sure, from lovey trimble's description of him, that he had decided to avoid the ordinary routes of travel, and to journey toward canada on foot, disguised as an itinerant showman. she had more proofs of his identity than these suspicions. the men had conversed very freely with each other in russian, never dreaming that there was any one present who could understand the language. the russian had complained bitterly that this accident would delay their journey to canada, and the jew had replied that it might be as well to lie hidden until the search was over. arrived at greenfield, miss prillwitz telegraphed to mr. armstrong, and in two hours received the following reply: "have the local authorities arrest the parties and detain them until i can reach greenfield." accordingly mr. stillman and father, with a sheriff and a constable, drove back toward mount toby in a sort of picnic wagon. father advised us to await him at deerfield, one of the most interesting villages in the connecticut valley--both from its intrinsic beauty and its historic associations. we engaged lodgings at the small hotel, where we found but one other traveler, a dejected book-agent. it was nearly dinner-time, and the landlord looked rather alarmed by the unexpected arrival of so many hungry-looking guests, but he soon set before us a capital dinner of broiled chicken, and after a little rest we took a stroll through the beautiful old town. we were informed that the memorial hall, a museum of antique furniture, books, costumes, and other curiosities, was well worth visiting; and so, indeed, we found it. one object which greatly interested me was an old spinnet, with a quaint collection of music, both sacred and secular. here was a great bass-viol which formerly groaned out an accompaniment to the male voices of the choir as they took their part in such strange, metrical arrangements as "come, my beloved, haste away, cut short the hours of thy delay; fly like a youthful hart or roe, over the hills where spices grow." the library, too, a collection of "the (literary) remains" of many celebrated doctors of divinity, was a fascinating room, and one in which we would have enjoyed prowling for a long time. hawthorne has given such an admirable description, in his "old manse," of just such a library, that i cannot forbear quoting it here. "the old books would (for the most part) have been worth nothing at an auction. they possessed an interest quite apart from their literary value; many of them had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated hands from the days of the mighty puritan divines. a few of the books were latin folios written by catholic authors; others demolished papistry as with a sledgehammer, in plain english. a dissertation on the book of job, which only job himself could have had the patience to read, filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. then there was a vast folio 'body of divinity.' volumes of this form dated back two hundred years and more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment. others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times: diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren. these little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been, unfortunately, blighted at an early stage of their growth. then there were old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. it was as if i had found bits of magic looking-glass among the books, with the images of a vanished century in them." we lingered long in the library, and in the indian room, where stands an old door gashed by the tomahawks of the indians who, with a company of french, in , surprised deerfield, massacred a great part of the inhabitants, and carried a hundred and twelve as prisoners to canada. yellow and crumbling letters, uncertainly spelled and quaintly phrased, hung around the room, telling how perilous such a driving-tour as we had just taken would have been in those pioneer days. one, dated and written to captain john burt in the crown point army, read as follows: "dear husband. "it is a crasie time in this place. there is but little traviling by the massachusetts fort which makes it more difficult to send letters. capt. chapin and chidester and his son were killed and scalpt by the enemy near the new foort at hoosack." sarah williams, of roxbury, in announces to her friends at deerfield the expected return of many of their friends who had been carried off in different raids--"we have had news that unkel is coming with one hundred and fifty captives." the number dwindled, and many who were carried away on that dreary march through the winter snow never returned, but among the relics preserved in the archives of memorial hall is a pathetic little red shoe which walked all the way from hatfield to canada and back, on the foot of little sally colman. it is hardly more than a tiny sole, with a rag of the scarlet upper clinging to it, but it tells the story of the cruel march, and the heroic efforts of the noble men who effected the rescue of their friends, better than many a page of print. we were so much interested in memorial hall that it was long past supper-time before we thought of leaving. the book-agent advised us to visit the old burying-ground, and, after supper, offered to show us the way. we found it grass-grown and neglected; in some portions, a thicket of climbing vines and tangling briers. indeed, the entire god's acre was so given over to nature that the birds built undismayed, while the squirrel frisked impudently on the headstones, and the woodchuck burrowed beside the tombs. it had not been used for many years; a newer cemetery raised its white monuments on the hillside, while here lichens nearly filled the carving, and the stones leaned at tipsy angles, proving that grief for any buried here had been long assuaged, that the very mourners had passed away, and it was doubtful whether a single aged man still lingered in the town of whom it could be said that "these mossy marbles rest on the lips which he has pressed in their bloom. and the names he loved to hear have been carved for many a year on the tomb." as miss sartoris remarked, the place did not suggest sadness, but gentle retrospection, while curiosity provoked the fancy to fill out the histories so provokingly suggested in the inscriptions. here was buried mrs. williams, whom her epitaph declares to be "the virtuous and desirable consort of mr. john williams," and mr. mehuman hinsdale, who was "twice captivated by the barbarous savages." the book-agent read us another epitaph, copied in vernon, vt., which suggested a three-volume novel in the history which it gave of early indian times. our imaginations sank exhausted as we attempted to follow the heroine through all her matrimonial complications, i give it as it was dictated to me: mrs. jemima tute, successively relict of messrs. william phips, caleb howe, and amos tute. the two first were killed by the indians, phips, july , ; howe, june , . when howe was killed, she and her children, then seven in number, were carried into captivity. the oldest daughter went to france, and was married to a french gentleman. the youngest was torn from her breast, and perished with hunger. by the aid of some benevolent gentlemen, and her own personal heroism, she recovered the rest. she died march , , having passed through more vicissitudes and endured more hardships than any of her contemporaries. "'no more can savage foe annoy, nor aught her widespread fame destroy.'" it was dark when we wandered back to the hotel, past the old manse built for the reverend john williams by his parishioners after his return from captivity. we were told that some one residing in the house of late had occasion to move a tall piece of furniture in one of the chambers, and discovered a door. opening this, a secret staircase was found leading from the cellar to the attic. no one living had known of its existence, and many were the wild guesses made as to its object. when we returned to the hotel we found that father and mr. stillman had not yet arrived. miss sartoris seemed very anxious, and feared that there might have been trouble in arresting the tramps. winnie cheered us by suggesting the trout fishing, which mr. stillman had reluctantly abandoned when we left mt. toby. it would be a good night for fishing, the landlord said; perhaps they had remained for it, since the distance to toby was too long to be comfortably made three times in one day. after breakfast the next morning, as our travelers were still absent, miss sartoris and i unpacked our sketch-boxes and began to make a study of the street from the north end, just at the point where the french and indians, "swarming over the palisades on the drifted snow, surprised and sacked the sleeping town." miss prillwitz and winnie, with their botanists' cans, followed a little brook that ran at the back of the hotel, and came back laden with blue german forget-me-nots. father and mr. stillman arrived just before dinner, mr. stillman carrying in one hand a string of beautiful speckled trout, and in the other something which looked like a buffalo-robe. he looked very triumphant and happy, while father followed, carrying in a rather sheepish manner--what but the old soldering furnace! we greeted them with so much laughter and so many questions that it was some time before they could give an account of their adventures. arrived at the mount toby railroad station, they had found it deserted. the men having evidently decided that it was not safe to await the recovery of the bear, had accordingly killed it, and secreted it in a cave at the foot of the mountain. the sheriff knew of this cave, and in examining it in search of the men, found the carcass of the bear. "and so," exclaimed mr. stillman, exhibiting the skin, "i secured my rug, after all, but we concluded that the meat looked rather tough, and we would not take it. i shall express this skin straight to a taxidermist that i know, and have it handsomely mounted." "but the men!" i asked; "you don't mean to tell me that they escaped?" "no," replied father; "but if you can't keep quiet i shall not be able to tell you how they were caught. it was this very ill-luck-bringing soldering outfit that did it. when we found that they had left, i suspected that they had taken the morning train for canada at the montague station, for no trains stopped at toby; and in case they had done that, there was hardly a chance of our reaching the station and ascertaining the fact in time to telegraph and effect their arrest before they could leave the country. we had driven from greenfield pretty rapidly, and our horses were tired; then we took a wrong turning, and got off into leverett, or some other unhappy wilderness; but after a while we found a farmer who provided us with fresh beasts, and we reached the montague station toward evening. it was shut up, and the station-master had gone home, but after another half-hour we found him. yes, our men had bought tickets for montreal that morning. then you should have seen our hurry to telegraph; but the station-master advised us to keep cool, and wait a little. 'they bought their tickets,' he said, 'but they didn't go there.' so that was a feint, i thought, to throw us off the track. but no; on their way from toby they had decided that they would have a cup of coffee, and they had sat down behind a barn to make it on my soldering furnace, and as they were doubtless as tired of carrying the old thing as i was, they left it there. the wind blew the coals into the hay, and in a few minutes the barn was on fire. someone had seen them leave the yard, and before the train came along for which they were waiting, they were arrested as incendiaries, and taken to the greenfield jail. as this was precisely where the sheriff wished to take them, there was nothing for him to do but to return and notify the authorities that the men would be wanted soon on more serious charges. and as the station-master informed us that there was some good trout-fishing nearby, we decided to spend the night in montague. so we let the sheriff and constable drive back to greenfield without us, and telegraphed mr. armstrong that his birds were caught." "if they only turn out to be his birds!" said winnie. "i haf no doubtfuls of zat," said miss prillwitz. "but why did you bring back that wretched little furnace and iron?" i asked. "why, the curious part of it is that the farmer who drove us over this morning had found them in the ruins of his barn, and he brought them along, thinking that we might like them to help in identifying the rascals. i couldn't refuse his kindness, but i certainly shall not carry them away from this place. i don't believe in such nonsense, but the gypsy's prediction has come true so far, and they brought bad fortune to the gentlemen to whom i presented them." mr. armstrong, who had been telegraphed for, arrived with a police officer that night; and miss prillwitz, father, and mr. stillman were absent all the next morning making depositions to aid in the identification of the prisoners. it was finally decided to remove them to new york to await trial on mr. armstrong's charges. we set out that afternoon for ashfield, our route leading us over beautiful hills, and affording us views of rare loveliness. ashfield is a village loved by literary men as deerfield is by artists. deerfield nestles in a valley, while ashfield lies on the breezy hill-top; george william curtis is the centre of the coterie of rare minds who make ashfield their summer home. mr. curtis gives a lecture here once a year for the benefit of the sanderson academy. at this time every manner of vehicle brings the country-people over the winding roads, which converge in ashfield like the spokes of a wheel in their hub. we were not fortunate enough to light on this red-letter day, and we accordingly rested over night at the long low inn, and started early the next morning for uncle's home in hawley. the distance was short, as the crow flies, but it seemed to be all up-hill. the last mile was through one of those gorges so common in this region, where the fissure between the hills is so narrow that the sun only looks in for two or three hours. slowly climbing the long, green-vaulted stairway, the dusky tapestry was at length looped back for us, and the road, emerging from the wooded ravine, gleamed yellow-white between the grassy mounds. crowning one of these knolls stood a long, white farm-house, spreading out wing after wing in hospitable effort to shelter the entire hill-top. beside the road stood a post with a letter-box affixed, for the reception of the mail left by the daily stage. we passed a huddle of old barns and out-buildings, among which i recognized a carpenter's shop, a carriage-shed, a sugar-house in convenient proximity to a grove of maples, a dairy through which ran the brook, keeping cool and solid the eighty pounds of butter which my cousins made each week, a cider-mill, and behind it an orchard of russet apple-trees, and a long row of bee-hives fronting the flower-garden. uncle expected us, and it was delightful to see the meeting between the two brothers, who had not seen each other in twelve years. there were plenty of airy bedrooms, hung with pure white dimity, and after our gypsy life it seemed very pleasant to find once more the comforts of a home. we spent several days at the maples, attending service in the dear old-fashioned church with its high, square pews. aunt prue had all of our travel-soiled clothing neatly washed, and refilled the emptied hampers and lunch-baskets with abundant supplies from the products of the farm and her own good cookery. uncle was a large, easy man, who dearly loved to tell a story to match his own ample proportions, only the twinkle in his eye redeeming him from the charge of deception. aunt prue's rigid conscience revolted at uncle's romances. "asahel smith!" she would exclaim, "how can you lie like that; and you a church-member?" "now, prudence," uncle asahel would reply, "the catechism says a lie is a story told with intention to deceive, and when i told these girls that i drove the oxen home with the last load of hay so fast that i got it into the barn before a drop of water fell, while it was raining so hard behind me that watch, who was following the wagon, actually _swam_ all the way up from the medder--when i told 'em that, i cal'late i didn't deceive 'em; i was only cultivating their imaginations." aunt prue groaned in spirit, and began to sing, in a high, cracked voice. "false are the men of high degree, the baser sort are vanity; weighed in the balance, both appear light as a puff of empty air." while at the maples we made an excursion to cummington, formerly bryant's home. we sat in the library, shut in by a thick grove, where he composed his translations of the odyssey and iliad, and we played with a little pet dog of which he had been very fond. not far from the estate is a fine library, bryant's gift to the little town. "bryant's river" is a brawling little stream which flows through a very picturesque region. we amused ourselves by fancying that we recognized spots described in several of his poems. there was a grand old oak upon the place which might have inspired his lines-- "this mighty oak-- by whose immovable stem i stand, and seem almost annihilated--not a prince in all that proud old world beyond the deep e'er wore his crown as loftily as he wears the green coronal of leaves with which thy hand has graced him." the scenery about cummington and hawley tempted us to a frequent use of our sketching-materials. mr. stillman, too, found several birds new to him, and took some beautiful landscape photographs. miss sartoris gave him new ideas about choosing views where mountain and cloud, trees and reflections, composed well, and his photographs became much more artistic. he began to talk about the importance of placing his darkest dark here, and his highest light there, of balancing a steeple in this part of his picture by a human interest in the foreground, of massing his shadows, of angular composition, of tone and harmony, and the rest of the cant of the studio. nor was it all cant; miss sartoris had taught him to see more in nature than he had ever seen before, and while his ambition had hitherto been to secure sharp photographs of instantaneous effects--mere feats of mechanical skill--his aim was now to produce pictures satisfying to highly cultivated tastes. he acknowledged that all this was due to miss sartoris, who had opened a new world to him, though it seemed to me that he really owed quite as much to miss prillwitz, but for whose influence he would never have taken up photography. i was a little jealous for our princess, and felt that, though miss sartoris was young and fair, and miss prillwitz old and wrinkled, this was no reason why honor should not be rendered where honor was due. there was a pond with a bit of swamp land on uncle's farm, which he considered the blot on the place, but which miss sartoris declared was a real treasure-trove for a picture. one end was covered with lily-pads, and great waxy pond-lilies were opening their alabaster lamps here and there on the surface, while the yellow cow-lilies dotted the other end with their butter-pats. cat-tails and rushes grew in the shallower portions, and here was to be found the rare moccasin-flower, a pink and white orchid of exquisite shape. miss sartoris painted a beautiful picture here. she said it reminded her of the pond which ruskin describes with an artist's insight and enthusiasm. "a great painter sees beneath and behind the brown surface what will take him a day's work to follow; and he follows it, cost what it will. he sees it is not the dull, dirty, blank thing which he supposes it to be; it has a heart as well as ourselves, and in the bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees and their quivering leaves, and all the hazy passages of sunshine, the blades of the shaking grass, with all manner of hues of variable, pleasant light out of the sky; and the bottom seen in the clear little bits at the edge, and the stones of it, and all the sky. for the ugly gutter that stagnates over the drain-bars in the heart of the foul city is not altogether base. it is at your will that you see in that despised stream either the refuse of the street or the image of the sky; so it is with many other things which we unkindly despise." we all regretted when our short visit at the maples came to an end, but miss prillwitz felt that she must be hastening back to the home, and we had already transgressed the bounds which we had set to our outing. we decided to vary our journey by returning through berkshire. we drove, the first day, to pittsfield, a flourishing little city, and now for the first time we felt ourselves out of place in the peddler's carts. nowhere else had we attracted any special attention. it was a common thing for tin-peddlers to take their feminine relatives with them on their jaunts, and as we dressed very plainly, and conducted ourselves with gravity, no one gave us a second look. at pittsfield, however, we came in contact once more with "society," and the loungers on the hotel veranda gave us a broadside of astonished looks as we alighted. "it is very disagreeable to be stared at in this way," winnie remarked to miss prillwitz as we entered. "my tear," replied the good lady, "it takes four eyes to make a stare."[a] [a] a remark once made by professor maria mitchell to a student of vassar college who had made a similar complaint. winnie colored deeply, for she knew that if she had been less self-conscious she would not have felt the curious and impertinent gaze. we left pittsfield so early the next morning that none of the hotel loungers were on the piazza to comment on our appearance. we drove, that day, over the lovely lenox hills, once covered by stony pastures, dotted here and there by lonely farm-houses, but now a succession of beautiful parks and aristocratic villas and mansions. mr. stillman had his camera out, and photographed a number of the handsome residences as we passed, and one of the gay little village-carts driven by a young woman dressed in the height of fashion, and presided over by a footman in livery. "that does not seem to me a sensible way of going into the country," said winnie. "i don't believe she has half the fun that we have in this old caravan." "perhaps not," i replied, "but i presume that adelaide and milly are driving about in much the same style; and we know that better-hearted girls never lived." we picnicked near "stockbridge bowl," a lovely lake, blue as geneva and encircled by beautiful hills. as father brought out the lunch-hamper i noticed a queer expression on his face. "what do you suppose i have found stowed away in the back part of the cart?" he asked. "not the soldering furnace?" we all replied, in unison. he smiled grimly, and, instead of replying, placed it before us. "that deerfield landlord must have packed it up without your knowledge," said miss sartoris. "its reappearance is becoming really amusing; let us make one grand final effort to get rid of it by sinking it in the middle of the lake." "will you do it?" "certainly." miss sartoris took the furnace and ran down to the lake, whence she presently returned empty-handed. "did you drown the creature?" "not exactly, but i gave an ancient fisherman whom i found there a quarter to commit the crime for me. i told him that it was something which we were tired of, and never wished to see again, and he promised me, in rather a mixed manner, that 'human hand should never find hide nor hair of it, nor human eye set foot on it again.'" a general laugh followed this announcement. how should we know that the man's suspicions were excited by miss sartoris's anxiety to get rid of the object, and that instead of sinking it in the middle of "the bowl" he wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and labeling it "to be kept till called for," hid it under the bank! "somebody will come for that object," he said to himself; "shouldn't wonder if it was wanted at court as circumstantial evidence of somethin' or 'nother." another event occurred while we were resting at "the bowl." miss sartoris remarked that a view which she had obtained as she returned from the lake was the most enchanting that she had seen on the trip. "how i wish that i had time to sketch it!" she said. "i will photograph it for you," mr. stillman exclaimed, with alacrity, "if you will kindly show me just where you would like to have the view taken." they walked back together, a turn in the road hiding them from our view. we waited for them a long time, and at length father became impatient and drove on, leaving me to hold mr. stillman's horses. when they came back there was an expression on their faces which told everything. i should have known it even if mr. stillman had been able to keep the words back, but he was too happy to be silent. "you were lamenting, this morning," he said to me as he took the reins, "that we had only two more days to journey together." "that is all," i replied, "unless miss sartoris and you have decided to make a longer trip." "yes," he replied, "you have guessed it exactly: miss sartoris has just consented to journey on through life with me." i was surprised, and yet, when i came to think of it, i saw that i ought to have suspected it from the time they first met; and, all things considered, they were admirably suited to each other. so i could only rejoice in their happiness, though i wondered, a little selfishly, what madame's would be without miss sartoris, and whether i should ever have a teacher whom i should love as well. when we caught up with the other cart father asked whether he got a successful negative. "no," replied mr. stillman, "i didn't get a very decided negative, and i confess i didn't want one." there was a look of blank astonishment on all their faces, and then a peal of laughter as his meaning dawned upon them. after the storm of congratulations and exclamations had ceased, miss sartoris suddenly exclaimed, "you left your detective camera!" "that is so," mr. stillman replied, "shall we drive back after it?" "not unless you want to catch that shower," father remarked, pointing to a threatening cloud. "i'll get you ladies under shelter first, and then i really think i must look it up," said mr. stillman. but before we reached stockbridge we met a coaching-party conducted by a nattily dressed young man of slender build, who managed his spirited four-in-hand with considerable skill, and who reined them in as we approached, exclaiming, "stillman! by all that's odd!" mr. stillman introduced the gentleman as a mr. van silver, an old friend from the city, and mutual explanations followed. he was now on his way to lenox, and agreed to stop at the spot which mr. stillman indicated, and if he could find the camera express it to mr. stillman at scup harbor. very little more of interest to the reader occurred until we reached home. we followed the housatonic for the greater part of our way, and when we had nearly reached its mouth, drove across to new haven, from which port, having completed our round-trip, we took the steamer for home. father found a letter from mr. armstrong in relation to the thieves taken in montague, who were proved to be the criminals of rickett's court, whose retribution shall be related in the next chapter. the little boys left in mother's care had conducted themselves in as exemplary a manner as could be expected, there having been no cases of really bad conduct, and only two slight accidents. miss prillwitz took them under her wing and left with them for the home, all looking happier, browner, and rounder for their stay in the country. winnie regretted that our scheme for filling the treasury of the home had not been a success, since the aggregate of money made by peddling tinware and rockets, and by taking tintypes, did not meet the expenses of the trip. mr. stillman, however, insisted on presenting the institution with a handsome check, "as an inadequate thank-offering," so he said, for the great blessing which had come to him in our journeying "over the hills and far away." miss sartoris left almost immediately for her own home, and mr. stillman followed her soon after. two express packages came to him before he left us. one was the bearskin, handsomely mounted, the other was preceded by a note from his friend mr. van silver, which said that he had overtaken a venerable fisherman walking off with his camera, and that it required considerable persuasion of a "sterling quality" to rescue it from him. mr. stillman opened the package with grateful anticipation, and found--the soldering furnace! chapter xv. the estates del paradiso. "i have been here before, but when, or how, i cannot tell; i know the grass beyond the door, the sweet, keen smell, the sighing sound, the lights around the shore. you have been mine before, how long ago i may not know; but just when, at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, some veil did fall--i knew it all of yore." --_rossetti._ [illustration: {drawing of woman.}] we must now return to mr. armstrong, whom we left in chapter xii. in conference with dr. carver over the doctor's advertisement of the case of lost identity inserted in the daily papers ten years before. the physician listened gravely to mr. armstrong's account of the loss of his wife and infant son, the wild hopes which were now awakened, and to his request for the address of the lady referred to, and gave him a pitying glance as he replied: "so many bereaved persons have come to me fancying that they recognized a loved one in that notice, only to be cruelly disappointed; and mrs. halsey has in the past been subjected to so many trying interviews of this description, that i hesitate to encourage your visiting her, unless you have positive proof of what you hope. a photograph would give this proof." "and, unfortunately, i have none of mrs. armstrong." "but i had one taken of mrs. halsey, which i have kept in the hope that it might be identified some day;" and the doctor drew from his pocket-book a thumbed and discolored photograph, which he placed in mr. armstrong's hand. the effect was unmistakable. the strong man rose to his feet, staggered, and fainted, for he had recognized his wife. the physician quickly restored him to consciousness, and after waiting until the effect of the shock had partially passed away, he said: "i see that there is no danger of any mistake, and that i may direct you where to find mrs. halsey--i beg pardon, mrs. armstrong. her address, when i last saw her, was no. rickett's court." "rickett's court!" exclaimed mr. armstrong, in horror. "yes, sir; it is not the best quarter of the city, but many of the respectable poor live there; and you must remember, sir, that your wife must necessarily have had a hard struggle to support herself and your little son, alone and friendless, in this great city." mr. armstrong groaned aloud. rickett's court had not seemed so bad to him for other men's children and wives, but that _his_ child, _his_ wife, should live in such vile surroundings was horrible. he sprang to his feet, seized his hat, and with a hasty "i will see you again, doctor," hurried in the same direction which stephen trimble had taken not a half-hour before. it was only a short distance, but it seemed miles to him. just as he came in sight of the building every window in its front was illuminated with a sudden flash, and a heavy detonation shook the earth. then smoke poured from the broken panes, and the air was filled with flying splinters and débris, while shrieks from within, and shouts of "fire! fire!" from without, added to the confusion. [illustration: {drawing of city street and buildings.}] the smoke cleared in a moment, and people were seen at the windows dropping down the fire-escape. only a few minutes later a fire-engine came tearing around the corner, and the hoarse voice of a fireman was heard dominating the tumult and giving orders, but before this alexander armstrong, possessed of but one idea--that his wife and child were somewhere within--had rushed into the burning building. one glance showed him that this was hopeless. the staircase had been torn out by the explosion, and the flames were roaring up the space which it had occupied, as through a chimney. he was dragged back to the court by the fireman, who exclaimed, "man alive! can't you see that the staircase has gone, and that they are coming down the fire-escape? there wouldn't have been the ghost of a chance for them but for that. bless the man who had it put there!" the words gave him a little heart, and he stood at the foot, helping the women and catching the children handed to him, hoping in vain to recognize his wife. they stopped coming. "are all out?" he shouted. "there's some one in the fourth story," said a woman, and before the fireman could lay his hand on the fire-escape mr. armstrong was half-way up. the façade still stood, but the entire interior of the building was in flames, and blinding smoke and scorching sparks poured from the windows. at the fourth story a man had staggered to the window and lay with his arm outside, holding on to the sill. mr. armstrong uttered a cry when he saw that it was a man, but, none the less, he lifted him tenderly out, and into the arms of the fireman following close behind them. then drawing his coat over his mouth and nostrils, he entered the room. another man lay at a little distance, or a body that had been a man, terribly torn and shattered by the explosion. it was the anarchist who had been the principal in the plot; the other had escaped. mr. armstrong descended, looking into every apartment as he came down to be sure no living thing was left inside that furnace. "you are a hero, sir! will you give me your name? i represent ----." it was the omnipresent reporter on hand for an item. mr. armstrong turned from him, without reply, to the man whom he had rescued, stephen trimble, who lay with a foot torn from the ankle, and a broken arm. a hospital surgeon knelt at his side bandaging deftly. a policeman had sent the call when mr. armstrong started up the fire-escape, and the ambulance, a more conclusive "evidence of christianity" than that dear old dr. hopkins or any other theologian ever wrote; nobler exponent of civilization than the fire department even, since that is the rich man's provision for saving his own property, while the ambulance is the rich man's provision for saving the poor man's life--the ambulance, with surgeon on the back seat coolly feeling for his instruments, and bare-headed driver clanging the gong, and lashing his already galloping horses, had torn like mad down broadway. and as it came, aristocratic carriages hurrying with ladies just a little late for a grand dinner, and an expectant bridegroom on his way to grace church, halted and waited for it to pass; express and telegraph agents, and rushing men of business, gave it the right of way as it bounded on its errand of mercy. alexander armstrong spoke for a moment with the surgeon, long enough to learn that stephen trimble's injuries were probably not mortal, and to urge every attention possible. then he caught sight of solomon meyer bowing and cringing at a little distance, and he sprang upon him like a panther on his prey. solomon, greatly surprised, could only imagine that the loss of the property had driven him insane, and gasped, "ze insurance bolicy is all right," whereat the ex-landlord gave his agent such a shaking that his teeth rattled in his head, only pausing to inquire if he knew anything of a tenant by the name of mrs. halsey. solomon meyer assured him that mrs. halsey had long since quitted the building, but this only partially reassured him, for he placed very little reliance on the man's word. his wife, almost found, was lost to him again. he could not believe that she perished in the burning building; still, there was this horrible possibility. there was no one to tell him that she had just gone to narragansett pier at his daughter's bidding, and was occupying the very cottage where so many of her happier years were passed; and he threw himself more unreservedly into his business projects, not, however, forgetting the poor inventor at the hospital, whom he visited frequently, and cared for as tenderly as though he had been his brother. after the excitement of the fire was over, he remembered that the law had an account to settle with solomon meyer, but he was not then to be found. his guilty conscience had taken the alarm, and the subtle magnetism which draws bad people together had caused him to form a partnership with the anarchist who had escaped the explosion, and but for miss prillwitz's timely recognition they would have fled to canada. mr. armstrong found them, as we know, in the greenfield jail, and had no difficulty in identifying them, and in having them brought to justice. as the time approached for the trial of solomon meyer and the russian anarchist, mr. armstrong was troubled with the fear that stephen trimble might not be able to testify in court. he visited him frequently at the hospital, and whenever he approached the subject of his dealings with the anarchists he became excited and confused. his little son, lovey dimple, was seated beside him during one of mr. armstrong's calls. he was allowed to visit his father, and waited upon him day by day, sometimes telling him of the pleasant times he had had at the seashore, and at others watching him quietly. his presence seemed to do his father good; and on this visit mr. armstrong was able to obtain much more information from stephen trimble than upon any previous occasion. "you are quite sure," mr. armstrong asked, "that you never saw this check, which someone has cashed at the bank, and which is indorsed with your name?" "never, never!" replied the wounded man. "i see it, though," lovey dimple spoke up, promptly. "jim had come down to the court to see me, and i wanted to show him the machine in the rooshans' room, and we follered him in there. mr. meyer dropped a piece of paper which looked like that, and jim picked it up. he could tell you what was written on it." "i must have jim as a link in our chain of testimony," mr. armstrong replied. "is he at the home of the elder brother?" "no, sir; jim used to be there, but he had the luck to be adopted. he went away just for to be a tiger for some swells, and they liked him so much they permoted him. he's jim roservelt now." so this was the lad of whom adelaide had spoken to him. mr. armstrong wrote to his friend mr. roseveldt, requesting that jim should be sent to the city. his testimony at the trial was so clear and concise, and his entire appearance so manly, that mr. armstrong was greatly drawn to him. "if my own boy had lived," he said to mr. roseveldt, who had come to the city with jim, "he would have been about the age of this little fellow. i am about to make a western trip of six or seven weeks, and would like to take him with me. should the liking which i have taken to him grow upon acquaintance, i beg of you to relinquish him to me; i need him, for i am a stricken man, and you are a fortunate one, or i would not ask it." mr. roseveldt replied that, though he was fond of jim, he would willingly give him up to mr. armstrong for adoption after his return from the west, provided the boy's mother would consent to the transfer. singularly enough, the name of that mother was not mentioned, and mr. armstrong took jim with him to colorado, little dreaming that the boy was his own son. he had said that he needed jim; and he needed him in more ways than he knew. he had grown world-soiled, as well as world-weary, and the companionship of a soul white and young was destined to exert upon him a purifying as well as rejuvenating influence. before the grand mountain scenery jim's fresh enthusiasm stimulated mr. armstrong's sated admiration, and the child's naive ideas of right and wrong were a rebuke to the man's sophistries. they journeyed together through the wild and beautiful cañons of the rocky mountains, and the boy was deeply impressed by the stupendous cliffs rising on each side--walls that were sometimes two thousand feet in height, and so close together that the narrow river, which had cut its way down from the surface, sometimes filled the entire space at the bottom of the gorge. but even here the ingenuity of man had surmounted the barriers of nature, and the observation-car on which they rode dashed along upon a shelf cut in the solid rock, with a sheer wall on one hand, and a dizzy precipice on the other. such a cañon was the royal gorge of the arkansas; in one portion an iron bridge hangs suspended from strong supports fixed in the solid walls, and the train glides along it, swaying as in a hammock, over the brawling river. the climax of their tour was reached in the black cañon. the scenes here are awful, even in broad daylight, for the sombre crags tower to the height of several thousand feet. our travelers passed through the chasm at night. far overhead the stars were shining in the little rift of sky, which was all that they could see between the walls; and in the mysterious half-lights of the illumined portions, and the utter blackness of the shadows, the grotesque shapes of the crags took on strange forms and awful suggestions. at times it seemed as if the train was about to dash itself against a wall of solid masonry, which opened, as though thrown back by genii, as they approached. at one point, catching the moonlight, a silvery cascade swept over the rocks like a bow of crystal; and at another, a mighty monument of rosy stone, the curricanti needle, towered far above the cliffs, like the sky-piercing spire of some grand cathedral. "the people who live here must be very good," jim gasped, as they emerged from the valley of enchantment, "one is so much nearer to god out here!" "nobody lives in the cañon now," mr. armstrong replied; "indians lived here not very long ago. they used to hold their councils on that shelf of rock where the pines grow, the last accessible spot on the curricanti pinnacle, but the settlers in the neighborhood did not have your idea about their being such very good men, and as the cañon was the best pathway through the mountains for the railroad, they were driven out." "i am sorry for the indians," jim said, simply. "if i had owned that cañon i wouldn't have liked to have given it up, would you?" mr. armstrong evaded the question. "you will not have so much pity for them when you know them better," he replied. "they are a low lot, and if they do not know enough to improve the advantages which they possess, it is only fair that they should be appropriated by those who will make a better use of them." jim did not quite understand what mr. armstrong meant by appropriating the indians' advantages, but he was to learn more in relation to that word before the journey was over. returning to denver, mr. armstrong took the boy with him on a tour through some of the pueblos of new mexico. the word "pueblo" signifies town, and the pueblo indians are those who build houses instead of tents and wigwams, and live from generation to generation in towns and cities, instead of wandering about the plains and mountains like the other tribes. there are twenty-six of these communities in new mexico, and some of the cities were old when the pilgrims landed at plymouth. when new mexico was ceded to the united states by mexico, the right of the pueblo indians to their towns and to certain tracts of land surrounding them was confirmed by treaty, so that these indians are better off in many ways than any others. mr. armstrong had a special reason for visiting the pueblos. he had purchased several large herds of cattle, and wished to rent land of the indians for pasturage. a man by the name of sanchez, who traded among the pueblos, could speak the language, and had gained the confidence of the indians, happened to be on the train, and recognizing mr. armstrong as a wealthy capitalist, who had large interests in cattle, as well as in railroads, at once guessed pretty nearly the nature of his errand in the indian country. he introduced himself, and, learning that mr. armstrong intended to visit the pueblo of taos, to witness the celebration of the festival of san geronimo, offered his services as interpreter and courier. these mr. armstrong was very glad to accept, for he had heard of the man, and knew that he had considerable influence among the indians. there was something repellent, however, in his insinuating, cringing manner which made one feel that here was a man who was not to be trusted. the party was increased by an army officer and a catholic priest, who were also going to taos to witness the festival. the pueblo lies at a distance of twenty miles from the railroad station, but an indian was found waiting for mr. sanchez with a rough wagon, and that gentleman invited the others to ride with him. they crossed the rio grande river and drove along beside it in a northeasterly direction, through a not very interesting country. the coloring was all yellowish brown--the sandy earth, the crisp parched grass, the distant hills, even the water when taken from the turbid river, were all of a like monotonous tint. now and then they met or passed an indian, wrapped in a striped blanket and mounted on a small shaggy pony. toward evening they came in sight of the pueblo. the first view was very picturesque. the houses of adobe, or sun-dried brick, were built in ranges one above the other, like a great stairway, the roof of the lower house serving as the dooryard for the one above. ladders were placed against the walls, and up and down these, nearly naked indian children scrambled like young monkeys. they parted their long elf-locks with their hands, and stared at the strangers with wild, black eyes. mr. sanchez conducted them to an unoccupied house, which he said would be at their service during the festival for quite a good sum. there was no hotel, and this seemed the best thing to be done. it had evidently been suddenly cleared for the unexpected guests, and some of the utensils and furniture remained. the priest pointed out with pleasure a gaudy print of the virgin. there were strings of red peppers drying on the outer wall, and a great olha, or decorated water-pot, within, but there was no bedding or food. the gentlemen, however, had each brought with them army blankets, and mr. sanchez offered to act as their commissary and skirmish for provisions. he presently returned, followed by a woman carrying a bowl of stewed beef and onions, and a boy driving a donkey, whose panniers were filled with melons. this, with some coffee, which the officer made over a spirit-lamp, and some crackers contributed by mr. armstrong, constituted their supper, which hunger made palatable. after this refreshment they mounted to their roof and watched the preparations for the festivities of the next day. mr. sanchez pointed out the entrance to the _estufa_, or underground council-chamber, into which the young men of the tribe were disappearing for the celebration of mysterious pagan rites. "i thought the pueblos were roman catholics," mr. armstrong remarked. the catholic priest shook his head sadly. "our converts have always remained half pagan," he said; "the early missionaries were content to engraft as much christianity as they could on the old customs, thinking that the better faith would gradually supplant the old, but the old rites and ceremonies have remained. still we must hesitate to say that the fathers did wrong, since it was the only way to win the savages to the holy faith." the priest strolled away to visit the church and to find a mexican brother who was to celebrate mass on the next day. the church was a ruinous building which stood apart from the others. the army officer told of the siege which it sustained during the mexican war, and pointed to the indentations made in its walls by cannon-balls. the situation was such a strange one that jim slept but little. all night long he could hear the dull beat of the tom-toms in the _estufa_, and as soon as the first streak of dawn illumined the sky the pueblo was awake and all excitement. indians from neighboring towns poured in, some on foot, and others mounted on ponies or donkeys. in the plaza stood a great pole resembling a flag-staff, but instead of a banner there dangled from the top a live sheep and a basket of bread and grain, with a garland of fruits and vegetables. the church bell was clanging for mass, and jim followed the others. an old mexican priest was the celebrant, and a few young indians in red cotton petticoats and coarse lace overskirts waited upon him awkwardly as altar-boys. when the host was elevated, an indian at the door beat the tom-tom, and four musket-shots were fired. the priest then marched down the centre of the church, followed by the altar-boys, one of whom bore a hideous painting, which mr. sanchez assured them was painted in spain by the great murillo, and might be had, through him, for a trifling sum. the congregation joined in the procession and followed to the race-track, where games, races, and dances were participated in by fifty young men of taos against fifty from other pueblos. the sports were witnessed by fully two thousand spectators, who swarmed along the terraces, and formed a packed mass of men, women, children, horses, and donkeys around the race-track. there was a group of visitors standing near our travelers, who regarded the races with intense interest. it consisted of an old man dressed in white linen blouse and trousers, with a red handkerchief knotted about his gray locks, an obese and not over cleanly old lady in full indian toggery, and a young girl in a pink calico dress, with a black shawl over her head and shoulders. they watched one of the runners with the most intense excitement, and when he came off victor in several of the contests, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. "that old man is the governor of the pueblo of ----," said mr. sanchez. "it is his son who has just stepped out to lead the corn-dance. the daughter, little rosaria, is pretty, is she not?" he approached her as he spoke, with easy assurance, and taking her by the chin, made some remarks in the pueblo language intended to be complimentary; but the girl twisted herself from his grasp with hot indignation; and sanchez returned, grumbling that since she had been to the ramona school at santa fé she was too much of a lady to speak to anyone. jim was standing beside her; and sure, from her manner, that she understood english, he asked her to explain the corn-dance to him. she did so, very kindly, and the hunt-dance which followed, when the painted clowns brought out grotesque clay images, and after adoring them fired at them, and shattered them in fragments, the crowd scrambling for the pieces. the young man who had been pointed out as the governor's son secured a piece, and brought it to the girl in triumph. "that is the ear of a wolf," she said. "it means that he will have success in the south; we, who have been taught better, do not believe these old charms any more." the last thing on the programme was the climbing of the pole for the sheep, which was finally won by a young brave of taos. there was racing on ponies afterward by young indians and mexicans, but this was informal, and not included in the rites of the day. the young girl looked at the races enviously. "my brother ought to win there," she said, "for we had the swiftest ponies of any of the pueblos, and ought to have them, for our pasture lands are the best, but we have sold nearly all our live-stock, and the pastures are no longer of any use to us." mr. armstrong overheard this remark, and asked rosaria if her people would be willing to rent their lands. she conferred with her father in the pueblo language, and mr. sanchez immediately joined in the conversation, talking volubly to the old man, and translating to mr. armstrong. "he says you are welcome to return to his pueblo with him," explained mr. sanchez, "and he will call a council of his townspeople to deliberate on your proposition." there was more conversation, and it was decided to accept the governor's invitation. mr. armstrong engaging mr. sanchez to go with them and help him in the transaction. this seemed to him the only thing which he could do, since he did not understand the language, and the governor seemed to place confidence in the trader. the party set out the next morning for san ----, mr. armstrong and jim in mr. sanchez's wagon, and the governor and his children following on diminutive donkeys. several days elapsed before the bargain could be made. the indians were very suspicious of being entrapped into some fraud, and it needed all of mr. sanchez's eloquence to persuade them that the arrangement would be to their advantage. mr. armstrong had told mr. sanchez that he was willing to pay fifteen hundred dollars for the rental of the land for three years, and that he (sanchez) might deduct his fee for services from this sum. "then if i can persuade them to let you have the land for twelve hundred," asked mr. sanchez, "i may claim three hundred for my assistance in the matter?" "that is a pretty round fee," replied mr. armstrong, "but it does not matter to me who has the money. the land is worth fifteen hundred dollars to me, and if you can persuade the indians to take less, so much the better for you." jim was much interested in the negotiations. he sat beside mr. armstrong in the council-chamber, trying to make out from the expressive gestures what it was that the indians were saying, and sometimes it seemed to him that mr. sanchez did not translate correctly. at such times he went out to where rosaria stood by the open door listening, with other children. she translated for him the treaty as mr. sanchez read it, and he was astonished to find that it offered the indians only three hundred dollars as rent for their land, the wily sanchez having reserved twelve hundred as his own share. "but mr. armstrong is willing to pay your people fifteen hundred," jim protested to rosaria, and the girl slipped into the council-chamber just as the governor was about to sign the paper, and snatched it from his hand. "is it true," she asked of mr. armstrong, "that you are willing to pay more for our land? mr. sanchez offers us but three hundred dollars!" mr. armstrong, surprised at the man's effrontery, acknowledged that he was ready to pay more, while sanchez, furious at seeing his opportunity slipping from him, poured upon rosaria all manner of abuse, and threatened mr. armstrong that unless he held to his bargain to allow him whatever margin he could make he would spoil the trade for him. "here's a pretty affair!" said mr. armstrong to jim. "you had better have kept quiet and let the old swindler feather his nest. now i fear that i shall not be able to make any bargain with the indians." "but it was not right, was it," asked jim, "that the indians should have so little and mr. sanchez so much?" "the proportion does seem unfair," mr. armstrong admitted to jim; but he added, to sanchez, "i hold to my part of the bargain. i will give you whatever margin you can make between their demands and fifteen hundred dollars." sanchez attempted to regain his lost advantage, but all this time rosaria had been talking excitedly, explaining to one after another of the indians, now pointing to the figures in the treaty, now scornfully at sanchez, arguing, entreating, scolding, and when the trader began his defense of her charges, laughing him to scorn. the governor put an end to the altercation by tearing the treaty in pieces and ordering two stout indians to lead sanchez from the room. he then bade rosaria tell mr. armstrong that fifteen hundred dollars was the very least that they were willing to take for their land. mr. armstrong bowed, and replied that he would think over the matter. he expected to have an opportunity to discuss it with his agent, but when he left the council-chamber he saw his wagon on the road to santa fé, at a long distance from the pueblo, and was handed the label from a peach can, on the back of which was scribbled: "that boy of yours is too smart to live; the plaguey indians have given me an hour to leave their reservation. manage your own concerns without the help of-- sanchez." the bargain was accordingly struck without the aid of a middle-man, and mr. armstrong was conceded the right to pasture his cattle for three years in consideration of the sum of five hundred dollars, to be paid in advance at the beginning of each season. mr. armstrong was much amused. "it has turned out all right," he said to jim, "but you must acknowledge that it was really none of your business, and i would advise you, in future, not to meddle in matters which do not concern you." "i will try," jim replied, much abashed. "i ought to have told you instead of rosaria, and you would have fixed it all right," he added, cheerfully. "i ought to have known that you wouldn't have let the indians be cheated." mr. armstrong felt the reproach in the undeserved confidence. here was a companion who was a sort of embodied conscience. it was not always profitable to have a conscience in business, and yet there was something satisfactory and refreshing in the way in which this affair had terminated. "they say 'honesty is the best policy,'" he said to himself; "i wonder if this little fellow would not be a mascot to bring me good luck. i have a notion to make him my partner in some of my risky ventures; providence seems to smile upon him and his principles; perhaps if i make my good-fortune his as well, it will smile upon me." what he said to jim was this: "you seem fond of a wild western life, jim, and of the indians. our business among the pueblos is ended. we are going back to colorado. i have a notion to show you what the colorado indians are like. they are utes, and they do not live in houses, like the pueblos, but rove about in a perfectly savage manner; they are not peaceful and industrious, like the pueblos, but lazy and ugly. i do not think that they are susceptible of civilization. i would as soon think of educating a coyote as a ute. "now the utes possess some of the best mining lands in colorado, but will never develop them; so it seems to me better that they should be removed to the desert lands, which are worthless for purposes of civilization, and let the whites have their opportunity. i have my eye on a gulch which i discovered while hunting in the san juan mountains four years ago, and which i mean to pre-empt just as soon as we get the utes to give up their present reservation and pack off to utah. we shall go back that way, and i will show you the spot." jim opened his eyes very wide. he did not quite comprehend what mr. armstrong had said. surely he could not mean to defraud the indians in any way! he would doubtless pay them the worth of their mine, and if they liked the ready money better than the trouble of mining the silver for themselves it would be all fair. at antonito mr. armstrong left the railroad, provided himself with a span of horses, a wagon, camping outfit, and a brace of greyhounds, and struck out through the ute reservation for the mountains. he told some gentleman whom he met at antonito that he proposed to enjoy a little coursing for antelope; but there was a set of surveyors' instruments in the wagon, which proved that he intended to locate the mine which he had come across during his previous visit. his acquaintance attempted to discourage his making the trip alone, saying that the utes had been restless of late, owing to a failure in receiving their supplies from government, and it was hardly safe to approach their reservation. "you need not be afraid of the utes," another gentleman replied. "i knew their old chief, ouray, and was entertained once in his house--a neater farm-house than many a white settler can show, and i was hospitably waited upon by his wife, chipeta, who gave me peaches from their own orchard, and saleratus biscuit, and when i saw the familiar yellow streaks in them, and tasted the old chief's whisky, i had to confess that the indian was capable of civilization." mr. armstrong laughed, but the first speaker bade him be careful, for all the utes were not like ouray, who had so well earned his title of the white man's friend. "now," exclaimed mr. armstrong, after he had driven out of sight of the last human habitation--"now at last we can breathe! what do you think of it, jim?" "i didn't know the world was so big," the boy replied; "these must be the estates del paradiso which miss prillwitz talks about. why, there's room for all new york to spread itself out, and every child to have a yard to play in. it seems a little bit lonely," he added, after a pause. "i should think you would have liked to have had some of those gentlemen go with you." "why, you see, jim," mr. armstrong replied, "i am going to hunt up that silver mine, and i had a little rather not share the secret with any one but you. besides, i like the loneliness. i grow very tired of people sometimes, jim, and it seems good to get away from them. don't you ever feel so?" "mother did," jim said. "she likes helping at the home very much, but she got a little tired just before the young ladies sent for her to go to the seashore, and she came across one verse in the bible which sounded so beautiful. it was, 'come ye yourselves apart into a desert place and rest awhile, for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.'" "i didn't know they had such hurrying times down in galilee," mr. armstrong replied, lightly. he was in good spirits, and they drove a long distance that day, camping at night by a small stream, in which he caught some fine trout. as jim curled up close to him under the army blanket, mr. armstrong felt a slight tremor run through the boy's frame. "what is the matter?" he asked. "are you afraid? we are still miles away from the indians." "it isn't the indians," jim replied, "but it's all so still! i don't hear horse-cars, nor the elevated, nor people passing, nor nothing. down at the pier it was something like this, but there was always the sea; and at the pueblo there were the dogs; while here it seems as if something had stopped." "'all the roaring looms of time,'" mr. armstrong replied, quoting from tennyson, "have stopped for a little while for us, my boy, and that's the beauty of it. but the old machines will have us in their grip again very soon." the next day mr. armstrong enjoyed a rabbit hunt. jim, though he took part in the sport, could hardly be said to enjoy it. "it seems such a pity to kill the pretty things!" he said. but this did not keep him from making a hearty meal of broiled rabbit, or from hoping that they might find antelope before the trip was over. the loneliness which he had felt the night before came on again toward evening, and jim was not sorry, on their third day out, to see that they were approaching a new frame house. "an old half-breed guide used to have a tepee here," said mr. armstrong; "i shall engage his services for our trip. he is a good cook, a good hunter, faithful to his employers, and he knows every rock and clump of sage-brush in all the region. his only fault is that he will get drunk. he was with me when i found the silver ore, and i need him to guide me to the spot again." as they came nearer, mr. armstrong seemed greatly surprised to see a large field of waving corn in front of the house, while some cows were being driven toward an out-building by a young indian in checked shirt and brown overalls. "what can have come over old charley!" exclaimed mr. armstrong. "when i was here before, nothing would induce him to degrade himself by farm labor. some boomer must have established himself here. it's illegal, for the land still belongs to the indians." they drove up to the front door, and were met by the same young man whom they had seen driving the cows, but the overalls were replaced by a faded pair of army trousers, and a paper collar had been hastily added to the checked shirt. he bade them enter, in good english, and the interior of the house was clean and inviting. the walls were papered with newspapers, a bright patchwork quilt was spread upon the bed, and a pleasant-faced girl was frying ham and eggs over the stove; while there was a shelf of books over the table. an indian woman emerged from a shadowy corner and expressed a welcome by pantomime. "is not this charley's wife?" mr. armstrong asked, and the woman smiled and nodded her recognition. "where is your husband?" was the next question. "charley no good," was the wife's frank reply; "gone hunting with white men." this was a disappointment that mr. armstrong had not anticipated; he was not sure that he could find his way to the silver mine without charley's help, but it was worth trying. the odor of the frying ham was appetizing, and the invitation to supper was promptly accepted. "are you charley's son?" mr. armstrong asked of the young man, who presently brought in a foaming pail of milk, and assisted his mother and sister in waiting on their guests. "yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "and my name is charley too--charles sumner." mr. armstrong stared in astonishment. "where did you learn to speak english so well?" he asked. "at the indian industrial school at carlisle, pennsylvania." "then you are one of captain pratt's boys?" "yes, sir," and a smile lightened the somewhat stolid features. mr. armstrong did not believe in eastern schools for indians, and he asked, rather sarcastically, "and what did you learn when you were in the east--latin and theology?" the boy shook his head. "i learned to work on the farm," he said, "and to read and write, and do a little arithmetic; and i learned some carpentry--enough to build this house, and make that table, and the cupboard and things." "very creditable, i am sure," mr. armstrong replied, half incredulously, "but how did you come into the fortune necessary to set you up in this flourishing style?" "i helped build the new depot at s----, and they paid me off with the lumber that was left, and i built the house out of that. then i had some money which i had put in the savings-bank from my earnings every vacation in the east, and i bought the cows with that; and then i made a churn, and we've been making butter the way i saw them do it in pennsylvania, and i sell it for a good price at the springs." "well, you have more stuff in you than i ever thought it possible for an indian to have," mr. armstrong replied, fairly won, in spite of himself, to admiration. "i always supposed that those carlisle students, as soon as they returned to old surroundings, went back to savagery." "it is pretty hard for us," the boy replied. "last year i planted about three times as much corn as you see here. i had taken a contract to supply the quartermaster at fort ----, and i thought i should make a good deal of money; but just as it was green, all of our relations came to see us. there were ten families. they camped there by the creek, and they stayed until they had eaten every roasting ear. they said they had come to celebrate my home-coming, and father made them welcome, and gave a dance, and killed one of our cows for them. they would have killed them all, but i drove them off into the mountains, and hid them. that is the reason i have planted so little corn here this season. i have another field over in a little valley in the mountains which i hope they will not find, and i drive the cattle up the cañon every morning, for they may be here any day." "you poor fellow!" said mr. armstrong. "i have heard the proverb, 'save us from our friends!' but i never understood the full force of it before." after the hearty meal the little house was put at the service of the travelers, the family camping outside, and, much to mr. armstrong's contentment, they passed a comfortable and restful night. the next morning mr. armstrong asked charles sumner if he was familiar with the mountains, and could guide him to a certain valley, which he indicated as having a chimney-like formation at one end. "why, certainly," the young man replied; "don't you remember i was with father when he took you hunting four years ago? he killed an eagle that had her nest on a ledge high up on the chimney, and i climbed up for the young ones." "ah yes, i remember now, but you were such a little fellow then that i could not realize the change." "i grew more at carlisle," said the young man, significantly, "than at any other time of my life. we all grew at carlisle." "then you will take us to the chimney," mr. armstrong asked, "and cook for us while we are out? what will you charge?" "i don't think i ought to ask you anything, sir, for there is good pasturage thereabout, and i can drive my cows along, and herd them there until after the visit of our relatives. my sister is going to b---- with all the green-corn that the ponies can carry, so when they come they will find mother, and very little else. the valley in which my other corn is planted is in that direction, and perhaps you will let me bring some of it in your wagon when we come back?" charles sumner rode cheerily beside them on a diminutive pony, driving his cows and the pack pony, and chatting freely of many things. sometimes jim sprang from his seat to make him change places and rest awhile. the pony had a fascination for jim, and he speedily learned from charles sumner how to manage it, and to "round up" the herd of cows and calves. the young indian taught him, also, how to make arrows, and to shoot with them, to picket the horses, and to use the lasso, to make camp coffee, and to set up and take down the tepee, or tent of buffalo hide, which the pack-pony dragged between long poles. "you would like to be a cow-boy, wouldn't you, jim?" mr. armstrong asked, but charles sumner shook his head. "cow-boys are no good," he said, emphatically; "they shoot indians as if they were wild beasts. better stay in the east, where the white people are good. i wish i could, but the government insists that as soon as we are educated we must go back to our reservations. i wish it would let us stay and earn our living in the east, where it is so much easier to stay civilized." jim, on the other hand, was delighted with everything he saw. "if all the boys in rickett's court could only come out here!" he exclaimed, "and ride, and herd cows, and hunt, and camp out, and all the indian boys could only go east, and go to school, and work at trades--how nice it would be!" mr. armstrong admitted that the change might be good for both, but while speaking they came in sight of the chimney-shaped pinnacle, and he hastily unpacked his theodolite and other instruments, and began to take angles, and to jot down memoranda. "this is the first time that i have ever seen a surveyor on the ute reservation," said charles sumner, "and i think that our troubles will be ended sometime by that little machine. just as soon as the government divides up our land and gives each indian his own share, then each good indian will cultivate his own farm, and will have some heart to work. how can he now, when the land belongs as much to every lazy indian in the tribe as to himself? o sir, is it possible that the government has sent you to begin this division?" mr. armstrong confessed that his observations were made only for his own amusement. he was surprised to find that the young man had such advanced views on the "land in severalty" question, and he asked whether any of the other indians of the tribe shared his opinions. "there are a good many who have staked out farms and are cultivating them, just as i have," he replied, "but we know that we have no right to the land, and may be turned out any day, whenever bad white men persuade our chiefs to give up this reservation and move away to the bad lands in the west." mr. armstrong winced a little under the earnest, questioning look with which jim regarded him. to turn his train of thought he said, "there is the old eagle's nest on the ledge still, charles sumner. can you climb up there to-day as nimbly as you did four years ago?" for answer, the young man threw himself from his pony and began to ascend the cliff. it was very steep, but he chose his way cautiously, seizing each point of vantage in the way of a crevice or projection. he had almost reached the nest when he paused, looked away to the southward, and began rapidly to descend. "there is a band of utes coming over the divide," he said; "i think it would be as well for us to go a little further up the valley." he hurriedly collected his herd, and drove them before him through a pass into a long, shady gorge. mr. armstrong followed with the team. "this is the place!" he exclaimed, excitedly, as they entered the ravine. "it was in this little cañon that i found the silver. a vein cropped right out to the surface, and i filled my pockets with the ore. i set up a buffalo skull to mark the spot. there it is--at the foot of that pine. it must have rolled down, for i placed it higher. hold the reins, jim, while i scramble up the bank and see if i see any signs of the vein." with the agility of a younger man, mr. armstrong climbed the steep bank, and came down with his hands filled with crumbled ore. "it is there, fast enough," he said, triumphantly; "if it were not on the indian reservation i would be the owner of that mine now. they cannot hold the lands long, and when they are opened to settlement this cañon shall be ours, jim. you say you would like to live a western life. if your mother, of whom you seem so fond, is of the same opinion, you shall pre-empt a claim here, and i will take one just beside you, and between us we will own the mine. you don't understand it, my boy; but i have taken a fancy to you, and i mean to make your fortune." "and will this ravine be my very own?" jim asked--"mother's and mine?" "yes, my boy; and i am curious to see what you will make of it, and what you will make of yourself while you are waiting to come into your possessions. i mean to put you in the way of getting a good practical education, which shall be of use to you out here." "and can i learn surveying?" "yes; and mining engineering and assaying and mechanics, and all that." "that is what lovey dimple would like to learn too. can he come with me? he'd invent a machine right off to dig the silver just as easy." "we will see, jim. i would like to give him a good turn for his father's sake; but don't take too many into our company, or we shall have to water the stock too freely." they had nearly reached the head of the gorge, and they found that charles sumner had paused, and had corraled his cows in a little natural amphitheatre, where they were resting contentedly. "i must watch them pretty sharply," the indian explained, "for the corn i told you about is in the next valley, and if they should get into that, they would be as bad as our relations. just walk to the top of the hill, mr. armstrong, and see what a nice field of it i have over there." mr. armstrong returned bringing an armful of fine roasting ears, but charles sumner thought it best not to build a fire until the party of utes had passed, and they sat down to a cold supper of canned baked beans. after supper jim had a long talk with charles sumner, and ascertained that the young man had fixed his heart upon making this particular section his home farm as soon as the reservation should be divided in severalty among the indians, which he hoped would happen before many years. "then," said jim, "you think that the white people will never have a chance to come in here and take up land?" "do you think they ought to be allowed to do so, when the land is ours?" charles sumner asked. "no, i don't," jim replied, promptly. "i think it is really yours, and you ought to keep it; and i'll just tell you a secret about this cañon. it is worth a great deal more than you know. there is a silver mine in it, and i'll show you where, and you had just better go back east and study the best way to mine silver, and then when you get your claim you will know how to work it. i wish you would take me in as your partner, for mr. armstrong is going to have me taught all about mining. he thought he might pre-empt this mine for me, but, of course, when he sees that it really belongs to you, he will not want to, unless, perhaps, you would like to sell out your right in it." jim had spoken so rapidly that he did not notice that mr. armstrong had approached, and was listening with an astonished expression to what he was saying. "jim, are you crazy?" mr. armstrong exclaimed, as soon as he could recover himself. "don't you see that you are throwing away your chances?" "oh no," jim replied, with a smile, "i hadn't any chance at all. you didn't know, but it all belongs to charles sumner." their conversation was interrupted by a whoop in the valley below. the band of utes had discovered the traces of their last camp, and had followed their trail into the cañon. "drive over into the next ravine!" said charles sumner; "they will camp here when they find my cows. wait for me just below the corn-field, and i will join you as soon as i can. they will not hurt you if they find you, but they will beg and steal everything." mr. armstrong hurriedly followed charles sumner's advice, and was joined about midnight by the young indian, who drove before him three cows, all he had been able to rescue from a herd of twelve. the young man wiped his brow with a despairing gesture. "they were ugly," he said. "some durango cow-boys have been pasturing their cattle on the reservation, and they insisted that my cows were a part of the herd, and that the owners were somewhere near. if they had found you, they might have treated you roughly. i think we had better get away while they are feasting." it occurred to mr. armstrong that it looked very much as if charles sumner had saved their lives at the sacrifice of his property, and a feeling of gratitude and liking sprang up in his heart for the young man. "i don't know what i shall do," the indian continued, dejectedly. "it doesn't seem to be any use to try to be civilized in this country." "no, my poor fellow!" replied mr. armstrong, "it really does not. in your place, i think i should go back to the blanket and be a savage with the rest. i will tell you what to do: come east again with your mother and sister. i will let you try farming on a piece of land which i have taken a fancy to in massachusetts, where you will not have these discouragements. when the land question is settled, you and jim shall come back here and form a partnership. if it is divided in severalty to the utes, then i will establish your right to the cañon, and you shall take jim in as your partner; and if it is opened to the whites for settlement, he will take up the land and give you a share in it." this proposition was accepted by charles sumner and his sister, the mother preferring to remain with her husband. after establishing the young indians in massachusetts, mr. armstrong brought jim with him to narragansett pier. a short space must now be given to milly and adelaide, who, though mingling in a very different class of society, had an experience that summer not unlike our own. mrs. roseveldt gave a lawn-party at the beginning of the season to organize a tennis club. tennis was the rage that season. many of the cottages had tennis courts, and the different players wished to plan for a grand tournament at the end of the season. a pretty uniform was designed of white flannel, the skirt embroidered with a deep greek fret in gold thread, and laid in accordion pleats. a little jacket lined with gold-colored silk, and embroidered in the same pattern, was to be worn over the shirt waist, and a gold-colored sash ending in a tassel, with a white tam o'shanter, completed the costume. milly had planned that mrs. halsey should have the making of these costumes while at the pier. a fund was contributed with which to purchase a trophy for the prize player. it rose quickly to a hundred and fifty dollars, and a meeting was held to decide what the trophy should be. most of the members thought that a gold pin in the shape of a racket, with a pearl ball, manufactured by tiffany, would be the correct thing, and this idea would certainly have been adopted if milly had not turned the current by a neat little speech. "i am sure," she said, "that we do not want to vulgarize our club by making it professional, and a prize of any great money value would certainly do this. so i move that the prize be a simple wreath of laurel tied with a white ribbon, on which the date of the tournament and name of the club be printed." the members all agreed that this would be in better form, but asked what was to be done with the money already contributed. then milly rose to the occasion, and flung out the banner of the home. "it seems as if we had no right to be romping in this delicious fresh air while poor children are gasping in the vile smells of the city." the fresh-air fund and the working girls' vacation society were both popular charities, and were proposed by different members as proper recipients of our funds. milly was ready to agree to this, but one young man, supposed until that day to be a mere gilded youth, without an idea above his neckties, suggested that it was always pleasanter to be the distributer of one's own benefits, and moved that the club get up a little fresh-air fund of its own. "we might rent a cottage down here and send for a dozen or so young beggars, and take turns in caring for them." a general laugh followed this remark. "what would you do, personally, mr. van silver?" asked one of the girls. "i would put my coach and four-in-hand at the service of the enterprise," he said, "and make myself expressman and 'bus driver. i'd take the children out to drive every day, for one thing." everyone insisted that they would like to see him do it, but he persisted until they were convinced of his sincerity. mr. van silver's patronage had given an aristocratic stamp to the enterprise, and some one now proposed that they rent a cottage for the children for the season. milly then explained that adelaide had already fitted up her cottage for the purpose, and was expecting an invoice of children by the next day. adelaide invited the party to visit the cottage that afternoon, and the entire club climbed to the top and interior of mr. van silver's coach; mr. stacy fitz-simmons, the whilom drum-major of the cadet band, blowing the coach horn for all he was worth. they found a park overgrown into a forest, in the depth of which stood a pleasant cottage, with broad verandas, which once commanded a beautiful view of the glistening bay, with newport in the distance. "i intend to have some of these trees cut away, so as to leave a vista through to the water," adelaide explained. they entered the house, and found it renovated from the mold and decay with which ten years had encumbered it, sweet and fresh with new paint, and papering of pretty design. light and graceful ratan furniture and chintz hangings added to the beauty of the room, simple straw mattings covered the floor. it was as lovely a home as heart could wish. "i have done all i can afford," adelaide said, simply, "and if the club would like to use this cottage for their city children it is at their service, but first milly wants to entertain the younger children of the home of the elder brother here for a couple of weeks." "and we will each of us take his or her turn for a week," said mr. van silver; and so the "paradiso seaside home" was provided for. mrs. halsey came with the children. from the moment that she left the station she seemed to be in a dream. "it all looks so familiar!" she exclaimed; "i am sure i have been here before! there is something caressing in the feeling of the damp air, as though it kissed my cheek like an old friend. and the scent of the salt-water! i remember it so well; and shall we hear the surf? oh, when was it, where was it, that i knew it all?" when they drove into the grounds she shook her head. "no, it was not this place," she said, with a wistful look in her eyes; "there were no trees." but at the first glimpse of the house a trembling seized her, and she could hardly mount the steps. within doors a puzzled expression came into her face. "it is familiar, yet unfamiliar," she said. "i cannot be sure. if i could only see some face that i had known before, then i could tell." "perhaps the face will come," adelaide said; and it came. a few weeks later mr. armstrong returned with jim from the western trip, and came down to the pier to make the visit which his daughter so greatly desired. adelaide had driven to the station for them in milly's pony carriage, jim mounted to his old place on the rumble, mr. armstrong settled himself for the drive, and adelaide took the reins. "i am going to take you around by the cottage, papa," she said. "i want to show you what i have done there, and how happy the home children are." mr. armstrong drew himself up, as though wincing from some sudden pain. "i did not intend to go there again, daughter," he said; "i shall miss a face at the window." "i know, papa--the cameo; but she would have been glad to see the cottage used as it is." they turned into the drive, and mr. armstrong nerved himself for the sight of his old home. suddenly he cried out, and caught his daughter's arm. "is it only memory, or have i lost my senses? the face is there!" adelaide laughed reassuringly. "i don't wonder that it gave you a turn, papa; it did me, too, when i saw the same sight in miss prillwitz's window last winter, but it is only dear mrs. halsey looking out for us." "then thank god!" exclaimed mr. armstrong, leaping from the vehicle and hurrying forward. "do you not remember me? my own!--my wife!" his wife remembered: the veil which had blinded her for years fell at the sight of her husband's face. happily the shock had not been as sudden as it seemed; during the time which she had spent in the cottage the conviction had grown upon her that this had been her home. she had asked adelaide its history, and learning that it had been built for her mother, who had been drowned in the great steamboat disaster, a hope had sprung up in her heart, which she dared not express to any one, that she had found her own again. adelaide had said that she expected her father, and mrs. halsey waited only to see his face to be assured of the truth. adelaide's delight at finding that mrs. halsey was her lost mother, and jim her brother, was genuine and intense. "i knew, all the time, that jim was somebody's child," she exclaimed, incoherently. "it is all too good to be true! too good to be true!" "jim deserves a better father than he has found," said mr. armstrong, "and by god's grace he shall have a better. "it is too bad to break up this nice little arrangement of a summer home for the poor children," he added, "and i will allow the cottage to be used for this purpose just so long as the tennis club desire to maintain it; but i must have my wife. please remember that we have been parted from each other a very long time. i am going west next week, and i must take her with me; and it will not do adelaide any harm to have a glimpse of the great west before we send her to school in the fall. jim has had as much of the west as he can stand at present, and we will leave him in the best school that we can find." "but what shall we do for a housekeeper for the cottage?" adelaide asked, in dismay. "mrs. trimble has just left the hospital, fully recovered, but i have no doubt she would prefer to run your little enterprise rather than to return to the store; and as i have deprived you of your housekeeper i don't mind paying mrs. trimble to supply her place for the remainder of the summer. it will do mr. trimble good, too, to complete his convalescence here, and perhaps in the winter they will accept the janitorship of your tenement." "my tenement!" adelaide replied, in surprise. "yes, i intend to give you the management of this property, which i have always considered your own. you have a matter of twenty thousand dollars insurance money, which, with the ten thousand which i have deposited to your name in the savings bank, you may use in erecting a model tenement on the site of the old rickett's court building. i think i shall have some more money for you to put into the enterprise if the patent works well. i shall give mr. trimble a share in the profits of that invention over and above the five thousand dollars already paid him, but i think that he would like one of your suites of rooms in return for acting as janitor and agent of the building, and it will not interfere with his teaching mechanics to the boys at the home." "if you please, papa," said adelaide, "i like the plan of engaging mr. trimble as janitor, but i would rather be my own agent and collect the rents myself; then i can see just what improvements are needed, and be sure that my tenants are all comfortable." for the remainder of their stay in the east the armstrongs busied themselves with architects' plans and specifications. adelaide enjoyed planning the bathrooms and conveniences of different kinds. "and the paving-stones must be taken up in the court," she said, "and a nice grass-plot laid out in their place, and we will have pretty iron balconies before every window, and a fire-escape." "yes, daughter," replied her father, "i will make you a present of that, outside the other matters--the very best kind of fire-escape to be found in the city; and, while we are about it, i will send one to the home of the elder brother." adelaide's interest in her tenement did not wean her away from the home, and i have since observed that it is always those who, seemingly, are already doing as much as they can in the way of charity who are always ready to lend a helping hand to other enterprises, and that it is the earnest workers of little means, as well as the wealthy philanthropists, who "to the ages fair bequests, and costly, make." the armstrongs went west, and adelaide created an interest for the home in her new surroundings, while milly kept up the enthusiasm of the tennis club at the pier. that club flourished in a manner unheard of, heretofore, in a place where everyone was so busy doing nothing that even the exertion of tennis had been voted a bore. it was not tennis, however, that kept them together, or gave the members their bright, jolly looks, but the paradiso cottage. "for we may find a zest in any true employ which, like a whetstone in the breast, shall give an edge to joy." but while we all worked in our different ways, it was our corresponding secretary who was the clasp to the necklace, or rather, the central battery which sent currents of life pulsating through the connecting wires. the scapegrace who plotted and schemed mischief, she who had erstwhile reveled in the name of "the malicious, seditious, insubordinate, disreputable, skeptical queen of the hornets," had become a wise and enterprising central manager of a helpful charity. the summer vacation is over, and we have all met again for another winter at madame's; amen corner and hornets all filled with a fine enthusiasm for our work, and a deep, true affection for one another. the home rests, we are told, on very slender foundations. there is no financier as a backer, no estate, no great endowment, nothing to ensure its existence from year to year but the hearts and hands of ten young girls. nothing else? they forget that we have behind us and with us the elder brother, with all the estates del paradiso. "by each saving word unspoken, by thy will, yet poorly done, hear us, hear us, thou almighty! help us on." the end. * * * * * transcriber's corrections following is a list of significant typographical errors that have been corrected. - page , "celeste's" changed to "céleste's" (position at madame céleste's). - page , "insistance" changed to "insistence" (on her insistence). - page , "ochestra" changed to "orchestra" (led her orchestra). - page , "vicenzo" changed to "vincenzo" (and vincenzo amati). - page , "pictture" changed to "picture" (i've made a picture). - page , "any one" changed to "anyone" (of anyone else). - page , "winnnie" changed to "winnie" (replied winnie). - page , "formerely" changed to "formerly" (which formerly groaned). - page , "salvages" changed to "savages" (barbarous savages). - page , "amstrong" changed to "armstrong" (mr. armstrong evaded). - page , "sante" changed to "santa" (road to santa fé). - page , "pantomine" changed to "pantomime" (welcome by pantomime). - page , "f r" changed to "for" (station for them). [illustration: molly's peasants.] molly and kitty, or peasant life in ireland; with other tales. translated from the german, by [illustration] trauermantel. boston: crosby, nichols, & co., washington street, . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by crosby, nichols, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. cambridge: metcalf and company, stereotypers and printers. dedication. my dear ernest:-- although it is highly improbable that your happy and sheltered childhood and youth will ever be checkered by the struggles with fortune and the world painted in the following scenes from life, yet i am sure they cannot fail to interest you, increase your sympathy with all who suffer, and teach you to rejoice in the well-earned triumphs of uprightness, perseverance, patient study, benevolence, and the forgiveness of injuries. while reading them, will you not sometimes bestow a kind remembrance upon your friend and cousin, the translator. contents. page molly and kitty, by olga eschenbach the young artist, by maria burg benevolence and gratitude, by olga eschenbach molly and kitty, or peasant life in ireland. chapter i. in one of the most desolate regions of ireland, scarcely ever visited even by the most inquisitive traveller or the most eager sportsman, stood, nearly sixty years ago, a row of low and miserable hovels. they were formed of rough stones rudely piled together, and, at a little distance, looked more like the heaps of stones which in ancient times were thrown together to mark the spot upon which slept the dead, than houses intended to shelter human beings. upon a closer examination, however, an observer might perceive, if the mould, moss, and mud did not succeed in concealing them from his searching glance, rude doors made of unplaned boards roughly nailed together, without either latch or bolt, with little holes irregularly bored through them to admit the blessed light of heaven, which cheers the poor as well as the rich, within these dark and miserable walls. notwithstanding this proof, he might still continue to gaze on in doubt, asking his sinking heart if it could be indeed possible that these unformed masses of stone were really intended for homes for beings endowed with quick susceptibilities, and the godlike powers of human reason. but as he inspected the tottering roof, thatched with rushes and covered with turf, he might observe heavy clouds of thick gray smoke curling and eddying from a hole in the top; then his last doubt must cease, and, breathing a deep sigh for the wretchedness surrounding him, he is forced to confess that nowhere throughout the whole extent of civilized europe are such comfortless dwellings for men and women to be found. only those who know something of the poverty and misery endured by the irish people, even at the present date, when the ardent friends of humanity have succeeded in winning for this oppressed and injured race some of the political rights hitherto denied them in consequence of their obstinate adherence to the faith of their ancestors, can form any conception of the state of utter destitution in which they formerly lived. in one of the hovels which we have just described, and whose interior is if possible more repulsive than its exterior, two forms present themselves to our readers. the one is that of a young maiden scarcely sixteen, who kneels upon the earthen hearth, close beside a suspended kettle. the glimmering fire, which she now succeeds in stirring into a bright flame, shows us a slender form, a soft and clear blue eye, long, fair hair, and a pale, pale face, whose features are rendered strangely attractive by the deep melancholy imprinted upon their youthful lines. her left arm, whose dazzlingly white skin glitters through the holes in the coarse, dark, worn-out garment, holds a child, who stretches one of its little meagre hands towards the cheerful blaze, while with the other it tries to cover its naked knees with its short, torn frock. it shudders as it finds all its efforts vain. cowering and sinking upon the shoulder of the elder, it murmurs,-- "i am so cold, molly!--oh! so, so cold, molly! and so, so hungry!" "poor little kitty!" answered the elder maiden, gently, "have patience only for a few minutes more; the potatoes in the pot are already beginning to boil, and on sunday you shall have something more than potatoes, for father promised to bring a little piece of pork for you home with him." "molly, won't he bring some stuff with him too, to make a new frock for me, for this one is so short that it won't cover my legs? he promised me he would, and father has never told a single story to his poor little blind kitty." "we will see about that," answered the sister, soothingly; yet in every tone which breathed so softly from the quivering lips might be read the secret of the bitter suffering which she struggled to repress. "if our father really promised it to you, he will be sure to keep his word. but don't you remember, as he was going away, he called back to you through the open door, 'if i can possibly do it, my little kitty!'" the child raised her large, sad eyes towards the face of her sister, while the big tears rolled rapidly over her sunken cheeks; at last she stammered through her broken sobs,-- "are we, then, so very poor, molly?" "oh! very, very poor indeed, kitty." as if to convince herself of the truth of the words which she had just uttered, she suffered her eyes to wander through the miserable room in which she was seated. all they owned in this world stood in this chamber. one corner of it was separated from the rest by a partition of boards: the space thus inclosed was intended either for the pig or the goat of the family. she could scarcely see through the larger apartment for the thick and blinding clouds of smoke; but she knew where the coarse pine table stood, and the low wooden stool. she had herself spread a little moss and a few handfuls of reeds under the wretched beds, to keep them as much as possible from becoming damp and mouldy on the earthen floor. there was but little to count. apparently not much consoled by the consideration of their possessions, she turned away her melancholy eyes, and again assumed her first position. but the changing expression of her face, and the head, sometimes raised as if in eager expectation, and sometimes sinking as if in despair upon her bosom, gave sufficient evidence that she was in a state of restless anxiety. at last she said to her little sister, who, apparently exhausted by her fit of weeping, was now lying quietly in her arms,-- "do you hear nothing, kitty?" after a short pause, the child answered,-- "no; i hear nothing. nothing at all!" "nor i, kitty; and yet father should have been back long ago. often and often i thought i heard the sound of his footsteps; but i must have been mistaken, or he would now be here. it seems to be growing dark already. if you would only promise me not to stir from this spot, not to move any closer to the fire, i would go a few steps from the door, and look if i could see him coming. i feel so restless and anxious to-day. may the holy virgin guard us, and keep any new misfortune from falling upon us!" "go, sister," answered the little girl; "you need not feel uneasy about me, for indeed i will not stir from this spot, in which you have put me, until you come back. but, molly, don't stay too long, don't leave me too long alone, because i am so much afraid when you are not with me, and when i cannot hear your voice. i think the angels that mother used to tell us so often about must be just like you, molly,--so kind and so good." touched by these simple words, molly bent down, pressed her lips upon the brow white as marble in its famished pallor, and said softly,-- "god has taken away from us the mother who loved us so dearly, and made an angel of her, because she was so kind and good. when you are good, kitty, she is glad; and in the blessed place in which she now lives, she feels her happiness redoubled. so you must always be very good, my little sister. how could it be possible that you would do anything which would make your mother and sister feel sad? don't be afraid if i leave you for a little while. only think of your dear mother, that she is always near you, that she takes care of you with the truest love, although even from the very day upon which you were born she was so weak and suffered so constantly that she could scarcely be numbered among the living; and i have often spent whole nights upon my knees, with the hot tears running down my cheeks, praying the merciful one to take the poor sufferer we loved to himself, that she might rest with him above. at last, kitty, he took her to heaven!" then molly again stirred the fire, seated her little sister upon an old coverlid, the ends of which she tenderly wrapped round the emaciated, half-naked limbs, and left the hovel. the long autumn night was already falling upon the earth, and covered the landscape with its dull, gray veil; the cheerful sky was thickly overcast with dusky clouds, which, constantly changing their fantastic forms, seemed hunting each other through the vaulted gloom. a rough north-wind met poor molly as she emerged from the hovel, tore the heavy door out of her slight hand, and blew it with a loud crash against the wall. she shuddered with fright, but, almost immediately regaining her self-possession, she attentively examined the door, to ascertain if any of the boards had been broken in the sudden jar; and having soon convinced herself that nothing had been injured, with considerable effort she succeeded in rolling a heavy stone to the door, to prevent the possibility of the recurrence of a like accident. then she stooped to look again at her little sister through one of the holes which served as windows to the hut. kitty sat as motionless as she had promised to do, and molly, apparently satisfied that she would continue to do so, hastened forward upon a narrow footpath, so little frequented that its slight traces were scarcely distinguishable in the increasing gloom. from time to time she stopped, sometimes to look around her, and listen anxiously for the desired footsteps, sometimes to get breath, for a strong and piercing north-wind blew directly in her face, and greatly increased the difficulty of her lonely search. after she had struggled on for a considerable distance, she thought she heard the longed-for sounds; and before she had ventured to give herself fully up to the hope that the so long expected one was indeed near, a tall form stood before her, whom with a loud cry of joy she immediately greeted as "father!" but there was no response given to her joyful welcome. in utter silence, the tall man grasped the slight girl round her slender waist. almost carrying her forward, for her feet scarcely even touched the ground, he reached the entrance of his wretched dwelling. with a powerful kick, so that it rolled entirely over, he tossed away the heavy stone from the door, drew, or rather bore, his daughter into the inside of the now dimly lighted hut, rapidly flung the rope which was fastened to the door round a post which seemed planted in the floor for that purpose, and with a few strides stood directly in front of the fire. he then seized the coarse sack which he had carried upon his broad shoulders, and threw it upon the ground with such force that the child who was lying near his feet, and who had probably been asleep, started up with a loud cry of fright. "don't be frightened, kitty," said molly, soothingly, as she threw a handful of shavings into the now sinking fire; "don't be afraid now, for our dear father is with us; the potatoes are cooked enough, and you shall no longer be so very, very hungry." "is my father indeed here?" said the little girl, at once forgetting both hunger and cold. "where are you, father? just speak one word, that your poor little blind kitty may know where to find you. o, you have been away so long to-day! and yet molly told me it was not far to the village to which you were going, and that you had not much to do there." but no sound escaped the lips of the one so warmly welcomed. motionless and with folded arms he still stood before the fire, darkly gazing into its cheerful glow. his eldest daughter then softly approached him; by the blaze of a lighted shaving which she held in her hand, she saw the expressive face of her father, with its weather-beaten skin and labor-wrinkled brow, and with the deepest sorrow impressed upon every line of the manly and handsome countenance. the tears which were hanging upon his long eyelashes, the spasmodic quivering which wreathed its torture round his mouth, could not escape her searching glance, rendered keen through the power of love. trembling before the recital of some new and dire misfortune, which she felt he was now about to make to her, she leaned her innocent head upon the breast of the beloved and true-hearted father, whose life had been so often and fatally darkened by misfortune. but almost roughly he pushed her away. "child!" he cried, with an expression of the deepest agony in his fine face, "why do you continue to love a wretch whom the whole world has forsaken? you, too, had better forsake him! fly,--fly now,--instantly, or he will draw you into a far deeper misery,--a suffering for which there are no words, in comparison with which all you have already endured will seem to you a lot worthy of envy, a destiny full of blessings." molly fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, while her soft blue eyes gazed pleadingly into his face. "you would drive me from you?" she asked, with trembling tones; "you yourself would rob me of my last hope, my only support? no, father; you cannot mean it so, you cannot be in earnest! there is no happiness which i would not willingly resign, unless it were to be shared with you! all the suffering and agony which god may choose to inflict upon us will i bear without a murmur, with a firm and unblenching spirit, so long as he tears me not from your side! father, drive me not from you!" deeply touched, the man gazed upon his fair child. "so said your mother, also," he murmured in a tone of voice scarcely audible, "when her stern father renounced her on my account. she joyfully offered up to me comfort and wealth; through all the bitter renunciations which our poverty forced upon us, her spirit remained unbroken; and even when her eye grew dim with the gathering mists of death, the last breath which escaped from her pale lips was still fraught with blessings, with consolation, with undying love for me!" "my mother was, indeed, good and pious," answered molly, "and her memory will always be dear to my heart. the heavenly cheerfulness with which she bore all her sorrows and sufferings will always remain in my remembrance, and encourage me to imitate it. but you are not less dear to me than she was. how could my mother find any sacrifice hard which was to be made for your sake? her father must have been very wicked when he would have forced her to marry a man who was generally despised, only because he was rich, although she frankly confessed to him that she could never be happy with any one but you. when she told the man whom her father would have forced upon her that she could not love him, and when he in consequence ceased to urge his suit, then her father was so enraged at her candor that he renounced and cursed his only child. but you remained true; you clasped the disinherited girl with more love to your bosom than if she had brought you all the wealth of which her father had deprived her. to render her life less laborious, you have yourself suffered tortures. you have never rested night or day, you have shunned no fatigue, you have avoided no hardships; and when at last she fell sick, and grew weaker and weaker every day, and in spite of all your weary struggling you could not procure for her the little comforts which you thought necessary to lighten her sufferings, then you went secretly and sold your farm for a third of its value, because upon no less stringent terms would the heartless purchaser consent to pay you any ready money upon it, and permit you still to remain in possession of it until the dying wife should have closed her eyes in death. for the physician had already said she must soon die, and more significantly than even the prophecy of the skilful doctor did her always increasing weakness whisper it to our sinking hearts. you would not suffer the tranquillity of her rapidly passing hours to be broken, and thus she was never informed of the heavy sacrifice you had made to insure her comfort. softly she slumbered her life away, for she was never tortured by any fears for the future of her loved ones." "why do you stop, molly?" vividly asked the father, as the daughter suddenly ceased in her narration. "o, go on! go on! confess at once that you have often thought whether your father had not been unwise thus to sacrifice his little farm, which was all he possessed; whether he had not been imprudent to give up his only hope of subsistence for himself and his children, to keep alive, only for a few days longer, the flickering flame of life in the heart of the wife, who, under all possible circumstances of alleviation, was doomed soon to die?" "is it possible that you can think so meanly of me?" said molly, hastily, while the indignant blood rushed to her pale cheek, which glowed for a moment like the summer rose. "if a thought so degrading has ever once flitted through my soul, may god and the virgin forsake me in my hour of need!" a loud cry from kitty now interrupted them. tired of the long conversation of which she could understand so little, the child, who had not before ventured to leave the spot upon which her sister had seated her, had at last risen, and, in her attempt to approach the speakers, had fallen over the sack which her father had thrown on the floor on his entrance. "don't cry, darling," said the soft voice of molly, as she lovingly caressed the little girl, who was trying to dry the ever-gushing tears with the corner of her apron. "you have not hurt yourself very much, have you, kitty? it don't pain you now, does it, love? don't cry any more, and i will tell you what is in the sack over which you fell. may be we shall find some calico in it to make a little frock for you, or some wool to knit stockings for you. i will make them long and thick for you, so that your poor feet will no longer be frozen." so saying, molly opened the sack, but she quickly drew her hand out again. "what is the matter?" asked her father. "why do you look so frightened? that which is in the sack cannot possibly hurt you now. i would willingly have spared you the sight, molly, but you must know it, and perhaps it is better you should hear it now than to-morrow, because you will then have time to make the necessary preparations." as he spoke, he stooped down and lifted up the sack, which was dotted over with dark red spots resembling blood. for a moment he stood as if irresolute, as if his heart failed him; then, with a sudden effort, he raised from the sack the head of a pig, which looked as if it had just been cut off, and held it immediately over the flame, so that his daughter could clearly see it. molly could not suppress a faint shriek. "holy virgin!" she exclaimed, as she covered her face with both hands, from which every trace of color now vanished. "what will become of us! o, i never could have believed it possible that wilkins would carry his dreadful threat into execution! i never thought that any man would be guilty of such a barbarous deed! he has torn the last hope from the heart of the poor! it is frightful,--horrible,--it must draw down the wrath of god upon him! o merciful god! what will become of us?" "i can soon tell you that," replied her father, with assumed tranquillity. "they will be here early to-morrow to tear all our remaining property from us. as it will not, however, pay more than half the debt, they will then drive us all out of the cabin, and--and--that is all,--that is all, molly! you can form no idea of what i have lived through to-day. the blood still boils in my veins as i think of it. i was on my way home from the village, where i had changed our few spare potatoes for some other things which we could not do without. i was only about three hundred steps from our own door, when i heard a gun fired close by me. i stopped, and looked round in every direction to see from whence the shot came, when i perceived wilkins standing in the neighboring field, who in the same moment recognized me, and burst into a loud fit of laughter. 'you ragged rascal!' he cried to me, 'just come a little nearer and look about you, then tell me if i am a bad shot, for your brute lies stone dead upon my first fire.' with these words, he gave a kick to something which lay at his feet. i drew nearer to look at it; it was a pig,--our pig,--the pig which i had intended to sell this very week, so as to be able to pay the rent now due upon the hut;--our pig, to which we have so often given our own meals, and have so often been forced to do without food ourselves that we might fatten it for sale. i was struck dumb! i could force no words through my quivering lips. i felt as if some huge hand, which i could not remove, were grasping my throat, and slowly twisting my neck round. but my horror, my despair, was only pleasure to this inhuman wretch. "with his fierce gray eyes sparkling with malice, he said, in a tone of wild triumph,--'look now, fellow, didn't i tell before how it would be? it was only yesterday i said to your daughter, you had better tie your pig up tight, for if i ever find him in my field i will without any warning send a ball through his head. and now i have shot it. you had better look out and get the money to pay your back rent. ha! ha! ha! but we will go shares in the carcass of the pig; for i must be paid for my shot, or else i will have wasted my powder.' 'halloo, fellows! come here, will you?' he cried to some of his people who were at work in the field; then, cutting off the head of the dead brute with his jackknife, he ordered them to carry the rest of it to his own house. "then life and motion at once returned to my paralyzed limbs. before he was aware of my intention, i had seized him by the shoulders, lifted him from the ground, and shaken him violently. he literally foamed with rage, when he found he could not loose himself from the iron grasp of my powerful arms. at last i sat him down again, but not very softly, as you may suppose. no sooner had he felt the ground fairly under his feet, than he ran off as fast as possible; but when he thought himself at a sufficient distance from me to be safe, he turned round and screamed to me,--'day before yesterday the new landlord arrived here; he is no such milksop as the old one was; he is determined to have his rent, and you may be sure that you must either pay it to-morrow or find another house before night.' "the last cruel words of this barbarous man died away in the wind. i put the head of the pig, which he had designated as my half, into the sack, and then seated myself upon a stone to think how i could tell all this to you, how i could soften it for you, molly. i thought it over and over until it grew dark, for i could not bear to bring such bad news home, when i remembered that you would be wondering what had become of me; and i had just set out again on my return when i heard you cry, 'father!' god be thanked that you now know all! i breathe already more freely, for my breast felt as heavy, and my heart as much crushed, as if the weight of the world had pressed upon them! "now, children, let us eat our supper and go to bed; it is, in all probability, the last night we shall ever spend in this house. however that may be, he who clothes the lilies and feeds the ravens will not desert us. even if men wearing the human form, yet without compassion for their fellows, should drive us from our only shelter, and force us to take up our abode with the beasts of the field, or the wild things of the forest, yet will he find for us a shelter in which we can lay down our weary heads in safety!" molly had listened in utter silence to the sad recital of her father. she now poured the potatoes out of the pot into a large, black earthen dish, sprinkled a little salt over them, placed them upon the table, pushed the two wooden stools close to it, and kindled a thin stick of pine, which she put into a hole in the wall, that it might throw its uncertain light over the last meal they were ever to eat together in their present home. taking little kitty upon her lap, she sometimes helped her father to a potato, sometimes gave one to the hungry child, but she tasted none herself. large tears, like pearls, ran unceasingly down her pale cheeks; but no other trace of suffering betrayed the bitter emotions which struggled in her soul. the scanty meal was soon ended; after half an hour had passed, nothing was to be seen in the dark room, nothing heard save the measured breathing of a sleeping child, from time to time the gasping of a suppressed sob, or a deep, yet half-stifled sigh. chapter ii. the new landlord. morning now dawned upon the earth, but no friendly smiles from the joyous sun announced the birth of the young day. the lonely hills in the distance were half veiled with thick gray mists, which, tossed and whirled by the fitful gusts of the dreary autumn wind, looked like the dim ghosts of the dead giants, driven on to judgment by the fell spirits of the gloomy air. as far as the eye could reach, no human form was visible. a flock of sheep were quietly browsing the scanty grass on the slope of a neighboring hill, while a few ravens fluttered and cawed above. everything seemed dead, even in the little row of wretched hovels which we have described. at last the door of the most miserable among them, with whose inmates we are already acquainted, opened, and molly and her father stepped out in the bleak, raw morning air. at the same moment, they observed the forms of several men turning into the little footpath which led by these humble dwellings. from the enormous strides taken by them, they seemed to be hurrying forward with all their powers. "father, do you know those men who seem to be hastening towards us?" asked molly. "how can you doubt for an instant, my poor child? how fast they hurry on, as if they feared their human prey might escape them! can you see them distinctly? wilkins is with them. no doubt he is delighted that he is permitted to take any part in this inhuman act. look! he has his two furious bloodhounds with him! it seems he has not forgotten the scene of yesterday, and has, therefore, deemed it best to bring his protectors with him. yes, yes; the very worm will turn when it has been trodden upon." the poor man sighed heavily and deeply, and then cast a pleading, almost a reproachful, glance towards the clouded heavens. he felt his hand suddenly seized, and a shower of hot, hot tears pour upon it; then he shook his head almost defiantly, as if ashamed of his momentary weakness. he pressed his daughter closely to his true heart. "courage, courage, my dear child!" he said to her. "to-day you will need it all! but the just judge, the merciful one, will surely aid us, although no way of safety seems at present open before us." "o father!" answered molly, sobbing, "what a terrible day! i never could live through it were you not near me. look! even the bright sun has wrapped himself in his thickest, darkest veils, that he may not be forced to gaze upon a scene so full of horror." she closed her eyes as she rested her head upon his shoulder, but was soon frightened from her place of refuge by the furious howlings of the fierce hounds. "ha! ha! ha!" cried wilkins, who now stood within a few steps of the door, and gazed upon them with an expression of vindictive rage. "are you contemplating the charming country which surrounds you? well, well, you will certainly have time enough to study nature in the open air, with no roof between you and the autumn stars. therefore, perhaps you had better gaze upon the delights of your castle here, think what a charming place of residence it has always been for you, and that, if you really wish to enjoy the luxury of a shelter within its walls, you must pay immediately the rent which is due upon it; for you are in arrears seven months and ten days. ha! ha! how is it? will you answer me? i must know instantly, o'neil, whether you are ready to pay me the ready money, the sum due upon the rent, now, or not?" o'neil answered tranquilly, "you know i cannot pay it; and you know, too, why i cannot; for you yourself robbed me yesterday of the only means to do it which i possessed in the world." wilkins angrily interrupted him, saying, "what nonsensical stuff! what idle chattering! i know where i am, and what i am doing; and you shall soon know it too! but if the keen wind should nip the nose of your dainty daughter, or freeze your own, then remember that it was warmer in this hut, and that it was no trifle to have handled an honorable sportsman like myself with your rough hands! ha! ha! the morning air is somewhat bleak, but we shall have rain before night! go ahead! go ahead, boys! go into the rascal's den, and bring out all you see there. ha! ha! ha! no doubt you will find things of enormous value in it, for the lord tenant carries his head so high he must surely have thousands at his command!" the men who were with him approached the door of the hovel, in order to execute his brutal commands; but molly rushed on in advance of them to bring out her little sister, who, utterly unconscious of all the horrors that surrounded her, was still wrapped in peaceful slumber. as molly lifted the scarcely wakened child tenderly in her protecting arms, she lightly murmured, "o that i, too, were blind! for even to sit in perpetual darkness must be a lighter affliction than to be forced to look upon such things as are now occurring, without possessing the least power to prevent them." "do you wish to become blind?" asked kitty, who, almost as in a dream, had heard the sad words of her sister. "o, if you only knew how frightful it is to be blind, you would never, never say such a dreadful thing! o, what a constant happiness it must be to be able to see!" added the poor little blind girl, vividly, while her dead eyes seemed almost to kindle into life as she continued to speak. "molly, my molly, if i could only see you, and my dear father, and the blue sky, and all the glittering stars, which you have so often told me were so wonderfully beautiful, then i would willingly endure both hunger and cold, and i would never complain again, molly!" "alas, my poor little blind one! hunger and cold you must soon endure, without being able to see the shining stars above, the faces of those you love, or the blue heaven-tent!" sighed molly, as the rapid tears coursed down her cheeks. "o, my heart will surely break if i am to see my poor little kitty pine and waste away before my eyes! there is no deeper anguish in this wretched world than to be forced to gaze upon the slow agonies of those whom we love and cannot aid. that is the real torture; that is far worse than death!" in a few moments the men had succeeded in dragging out all the scanty furniture of the unhappy family. wilkins measured it rapidly with his keen eyes, then turned them away with an expression of the utmost scorn. he muttered angrily between his teeth: "the whole property is good for nothing, except to split up and heat the stove. it would never be worth while to offer such wretched trash for sale, for the whole sum that could be raised upon it would not be enough to buy the most wretched goose that ever starved upon the bogs of ireland." then suddenly and angrily turning to o'neil, who stood, as if turned to stone, before the door of his hut, he said: "now, o'neil, what are you standing there for? you had better use the time before the arrival of the landlord, whom i already see in the distance. if you stay here until he comes, he will probably let you taste the delights of his hunting-whip, for he is very generous in the lavish use he is in the habit of making of it." o'neil shuddered as if stung by a rattlesnake; his hands were clenched as if in a convulsion; his eyes started almost out of his head, as if about to fall from their pained sockets. "pitiless! inhuman!" he cried, "what do you require from me? o, if indeed a human heart beats in your bosom, look upon these poor girls, and you cannot, i am sure you cannot, re-echo an order so cruel to their unhappy father! take all that we possess, we will ask to retain nothing; but for the love of god, drive us not out naked, without a shelter, in the freezing autumn blasts! give me only a respite for three months, and i will do everything. i will work day and night; i will never rest until i have gained enough to pay my rent!" wilkins looked upon him with a bitter smile, and answered with a harsh voice: "all this is useless. no delay can possibly be granted to you. and i advise you, as a friend, that you had better get out of the way before the new landlord comes." but o'neil did not seem to regard this warning. "o god!" he cried, "where shall i find words to move this heart of stone?" then again turning himself towards his enemy, he plead yet more earnestly with him. "have mercy upon us, wilkins, i conjure you by all that is holy or dear in your eyes; by the bones of the mother who loved you, and which are now mouldering under the sod; by the trembling head and silver hairs of your aged father; by the eternal god who rules above the stars, and who suffers no cruelty to pass unpunished! you had a great deal of influence with the former landlord, and i have no doubt that a single word from you would induce the new one to grant me a short delay. speak it, wilkins!" "halloo! what's the matter there?" cried a rough, loud voice; and the speaker, mounted upon a powerful horse, rode towards them. wilkins bowed to the very ground. "it is the tenant," said he, "of whom i spoke to your worship yesterday; he won't leave the hut, and yet i have already promised it to another." "he must go, and go immediately. there shall be no delay. where is the rascal who dared to lay his insolent hands upon one of my agents." o'neil now pressed up to the side of the horse upon which the speaker was seated, and, throwing himself upon his knees, wringing his hands in his wild despair, passionately prayed, "have pity! o, have mercy upon us! for the sake of the harmless, helpless children!" "is the rascal mad?" said the angry landlord; "tear him from under the feet of my horse, or i'll drive the iron hoofs into his brain. if he refuses to go away from the cabin willingly, let the bloodhounds loose upon him, and i'll warrant you they'll soon put an end to his irish howls." yet again would o'neil, for the sake of his helpless children, have tried to touch the heart of the barbarous landlord. again he raised his pleading eyes to the hard face; but its fierce expression told him all hope was vain, and a frightful, shrill cry, almost like a death-shriek, forced its way from his agonized breast. as if suddenly overcome by utter despair, he sprang up with a wild movement from the earth upon which he had thrown himself, took little kitty in the one arm, while he threw the other round the half-fainting molly, lifted her entirely from the ground, and, as if hunted and pursued by relentless furies, rushed rapidly away. but scarcely had he lost sight of his wretched hovel, when he fell, completely exhausted, to the ground. the poor occupants of the neighboring cabins, who had been silent, yet indignant, witnesses of the horrible scene which we have just attempted to portray, now approached with various little offerings for the banished and homeless family. one brought a cake of oatmeal, shaped like our pancakes, but as thin as a sheet of paper, and as hard as a stone; another offered a little bag of potatoes, some salt, and a small piece of pork; an old woman presented molly with a yard or two of coarse linen, and a pair of knit stockings; and a young girl wrapped up the half-naked kitty in a large piece of heavy cloth spun from wool. each gave what he had to spare, not only food, but some of the most indispensable utensils for cooking; indeed, many gave more than they could well spare, and the good people would certainly have taken the unhappy, homeless family into their own hovels, if they had not stood in awe of the rage of the landlord, and feared the revenge of his heartless agent. so true is it that compassion dwells rather in the hut of the poor than in the palace of the rich. silent from excess of feeling, and with many grateful and heartfelt pressures of the hand, o'neil parted from his kind neighbors. unsteadily and doubtingly he gazed into the distance. as he threw a despairing glance above, the dark clouds parted; and the bright sun looked cheerful and glad as the heavy folds of his cloud-veil were lifted, and joyously he sent his mild rays upon the moist earth. "this way, this way, dear father. o, let us take this path: it leads to the hills!" said molly, pointing to a hill down whose side trickled, singing, a little stream. the drops of water sparkled like bright tears as the rays of the sun shone upon them, and the rippling of the brook, as it kissed the pebbles, was soft and tender as the distant echo of a cradle-song, chanted by some fond mother to prolong the sleep of her slumbering child. silently o'neil turned into the path which molly had begged him to take, holding the poor blind child in his arms, who, through her unconscious and innocent questions, constantly added to the tortures of his sick heart. his whole soul was now filled with but one thought, one wish,--the desire to find before nightfall some cleft in the rock, some cavern, which might serve as a temporary shelter for the beings he loved. if he should be able to succeed in gaining any place of refuge, and what means it would be best to take, in order to find some spot in which he could leave his children, while he labored to keep them from dying of hunger, were the questions which filled his soul, and tasked all the powers of his mind to answer. he struggled with all his strength to suppress every other thought, to banish every emotion of anger or hatred from his heart, in order to be able to give every faculty of his being to the solving of these pressing questions. yet, with all his thinking, with all his struggling, with all his suffering, he could find no egress from the dark labyrinth of cares in which he was involved, in which he perpetually wandered; for although a thousand plans passed through his whirling brain, he was always obliged again to relinquish them, because of some obstacle which rendered their execution impossible. if this man, the lineal descendant of the first possessors of green erin, now driven about without home, without shelter, to preserve his own miserable life, or to still the painful cries of a frightful death from famine, which was already fastening its accursed fangs in the heart of his children, had been driven in his agony to scorn the laws made by his oppressors, and, like the wild beast, had sprung from his inaccessible cleft in the rock, his last refuge from the cruelty of man, and had carried his booty home to sustain life in his dying children,--to whom should the crime be justly attributed? chapter iii. the storm. "he clothes the lilies, and feeds the ravens." not far from the sea-coast, in a cavern formed by the fall of an enormous rock, after a period of about fourteen days from the occurrences which we have just described, we again find the unfortunate family of o'neil. aided by his herculean strength, he had succeeded, after the most vigorous efforts, in removing the heavy fragments of fallen rock from the interior of the cave, and thus gained sufficient space to shelter himself and his children from the piercing winds and increasing cold of autumn. the entrance to this subterranean dwelling was partially hidden by a projection in the wall of rock, and this kind freak of nature not only secured them from the unwelcome or untimely gaze of prying eyes, but also gave them some protection against the wind and rain, which might otherwise have rendered their refuge almost untenantable. there was a small opening in the vaulted roof of the cavern, also formed by the hand of nature, which served both as window and chimney, yet which might be entirely closed by rolling a stone upon the outside of the cave. the inside of this primitive dwelling was indeed very far from offering what those accustomed to the slightest degree of comfort are in the habit of calling the "necessaries of life"; yet it might be seen, upon the most cursory glance, that tasteful and industrious hands had labored to remove the most striking appearances of discomfort, and had skilfully used every available means to provide for the most pressing wants of the afflicted family. some fragments of rock, which they still suffered to remain on the inside, had had their projecting inequalities carefully hewn away, and were thus changed into chairs and tables. two low benches of stone, which they had found laying along the walls, and which in their long, narrow form somewhat resembled coffins, had been slightly hollowed out, and, covered with reeds and soft moss, they answered in place of beds and bedsteads. a little fire burned in one corner, on a hearth formed of two flat stones, while molly, occupied with her sewing, was sitting near the entrance, apparently with the intention of getting all the light she could obtain, as it fell but scantily into the interior of the cavern. kitty, with her head resting in her sister's lap, was kneeling at her feet. "have you almost finished my little frock, molly?" asked the blind child. "you will soon have it to put on, kitty; i have only the sleeves left to finish now!" "it takes you a great while to make it, molly." "that is very true, darling, for the only needle that i have is too fine to carry the coarse thread; so no matter how much i hurry, the work progresses very slowly." "o my good sister molly! how much care and trouble you have always had about me! if i could only see, i would work so willingly! but now i can do nothing, except to pray always to the blessed virgin to reward you for all the care you take of the poor little blind girl. how often and often you have almost starved yourself, that you might be able to give me something to eat, trying to conceal from me that you were so hungry yourself! but you did not always succeed in hiding it from me, molly. how lovingly you clasp me in your soft arms, and hold me close to your bosom, to try and warm me when my limbs are half frozen with cold!--but hush!--don't you hear something, sister?" "nothing, kitty, but the wind, which howls as it winds through these desolate cliffs." "o, how frightful it is here when father is not with us! 'i will not be back for three days,'--did he not say so, molly, as he went away?" "yes, my darling. 'when the sun for the third time stands midway in the sky, i will again be with you,' he said, as he kissed us at parting." "then he will be here to-morrow. but do you know where he is gone?" "he went to seek work in one of the more distant villages. perhaps some of the farmers may employ him; he thought he might be able to gain something by aiding in the labor of harvesting. although we have been so very economical in the use of the food which our kind neighbors gave the morning upon which we were driven from our home, it is already exhausted. if our father should fail in his efforts to get work, we must die of hunger, kitty." "what do you say? die of hunger! how horrible! it would have been better, then, that we had been torn to pieces at once by the furious bloodhounds which the angry landlord threatened to set upon us, than to linger on through such a frightful death.--but, molly, do you hear nothing? nothing at all?" "no, little sister; nothing but the raging of the storm and the surging of the waves as they break upon the coast. you are always so nervous and excitable when our father is away; but be quiet, for another father, far more powerful, and still more kind than our dear one, is always with us, and watches over us with tender eyes. he will never forsake us; he will deliver us in the time of need; but we must do all we can to help ourselves. in the hour of our greatest necessity, he stands closest to us. he will not suffer us to perish utterly." "talk on; talk on, dear molly," said kitty, pleadingly; "if i can only hear your voice, i don't feel so much afraid, it is so soft and sweet! it is so much like our dear mother's, that i often fancy it she who is speaking to me.--but you surely hear something now, sister!" "i hear nothing but the long cries of the sea-gulls, as they flutter o'er the waves, and their sharp, shrill tones tell us that we will have more wind and rain." "it is very strange that you do not hear anything; for it has seemed to me four or five times as if i heard the death-sobs of some one in the last agony, and a despairing cry for help has at intervals rung in my ears! are you crying, sister? or what is that hot drop which has just fallen upon my hand?" "it is only a drop of blood; i have stuck my finger with this fine needle. your anxiety has excited me also, and it seems to me now as if i too heard long sighs and groans near us. it may, indeed, be possible that some unhappy creature requires our aid. i will at least look out and see if i can discover from whence the sounds come. remain sitting quite still here, kitty; your little frock is finished, and as soon as i come back i will put it on you, darling." molly stepped out in front of the cave. she looked eagerly round in every direction, but she saw nothing save the desolate cliffs, whose naked sides had bid defiance to the storms of centuries, and piles of rocks overgrown with moss, like the gravestones used in the times of the heathens. from one point, where the formation of the hills allowed the distant scene to be visible through the aperture, she saw far in the distance the foaming, tossing waves of the white, wide ocean. [illustration: molly and the stranger.] "o, if the slight and tottering boat of some poor fisher, or if some richly laden ship, is now tossing about upon the raging waves of this wild sea, pity those, o thou good and powerful god! who have nothing but a plank between them and eternity!" prayed molly, with lifted hands. then again she thought she heard a deep sigh very near her, and at the same moment she stumbled and nearly fell over something which lay at her feet; and as she stooped down to see what it was, she discovered with horror that the dark object before her was a human form, over whose face the fresh blood was streaming, and whose hand still grasped a gun. it was too dark to be able to see the features of the man distinctly; but although his clothes were soiled with blood, it was evident that he belonged to the higher walks of life. "holy virgin! what can--what shall i do?" exclaimed molly. "the wounded man is still living; but if i leave him lying here alone, he must certainly perish; and, poor weak girl that i am, how can i possibly lift his heavy body and carry it into the cave?" she raised the head of the wounded stranger, and held it gently in her arms, so that it might rest more comfortably than upon the hard earth. at last the thought that it would be possible for her to drag him to the cavern struck the compassionate girl. "perhaps i am strong enough to drag him home; i will at least try it," said molly. she ran first rapidly back to the cave, in order to remove carefully all the stones which were to be found upon the way over which she judged it best to drag the body; then, hastily returning to the wounded man, she tenderly supported his shoulders, and succeeded in thus moving him a few steps forward. but she was soon forced to stop to get breath and collect new strength; yet she did not suffer her courage to sink, and after many forced stops and many vigorous efforts, she at last succeeded in dragging the wounded man to the entrance of their strange place of shelter. she laid him softly down on the outside of the curtain of rock, ran within, and while she, exhausted and out of breath, explained to little kitty that she had found a human being who sadly needed their help, she hastily carried the moss from the two coffin-like beds standing against the rocky walls, made a bed of it by the side of the dying fire, and rested not until she had placed the wounded man upon it. she then stirred up the fire, to diffuse more heat as well as to obtain more light, placed shivering little kitty somewhat nearer to the genial blaze, and again left the cavern to bring some fresh, cool water from the spring, which was not far distant. she was soon back again, and began, as carefully as possible, to wash the clotted blood away from the face of the wounded man, which was still flowing from an open gash upon the forehead. but as she continued to bathe it with the fresh cold water, the blood gradually ceased to flow, and with the hope of entirely stopping it, she took the only handkerchief which she possessed from her neck, and bound it round the wounded head. at last the man opened his eyes. at that moment molly recognized him,--and, with a sudden shudder, turned away! it was the landlord, whose stony heart her father had in vain attempted to move, before whom he had uselessly humbled himself to the very dust, from whose mouth the fiercest, the most inhuman threats had proceeded, who now lay, prostrate and helpless, before her, whom she had taken in her own arms and painfully brought to their last refuge! but the struggle did not last long in the depths of molly's heart. what she ought to do, what duty and humanity ordained should be done, even for the most bitter enemy, stood in clear and plain letters before her soul. she did not repent for a moment of that which she had already done; and she determined to offer up everything in her power to preserve the sinking life in the bosom of the barbarous landlord. she knew, by the wild rolling of his bloodshot eyes, by the feverish color which burned upon his cheeks, and which had suddenly succeeded to a death-like pallor, that his life was in danger; but she determined not to tell her sister what a dreadful guest was indebted to them for their strange hospitality. it suddenly occurred to her that she had taken all the moss from the bed of the little girl, and that she must again venture out to search for more; and she rapidly made ready to seek it in the neighborhood of the cavern, before it should be too dark to collect it. when she returned with enough for the little bed, she handed a potato, which she had just raked from the warm ashes, to her little sister for supper. "it is all i can possibly give you, kitty," she said, in a melancholy tone. "even the salt is all out; let us hope that our dear father will bring some more home with him to-morrow. before you go to sleep, darling, pray to the holy virgin that she will take care of him, and that she will lead him back again in safety to our arms!" she then placed her sister upon her little bed of moss, sang with her soft young voice a soothing lullaby which she had learned from her mother, and not until she was convinced, by the sweet and measured breathing of the blind child, that she was certainly asleep, did her soothing cradle-hymn cease, or did she leave her side. then she hastened to the wounded man, by whom she determined to watch during the weary hours of the long night. she found him also sleeping, with his head sunk upon his breast, while he groaned frequently, as if tortured by some frightful dream. he still held the gun spasmodically clasped in his clenched hand; molly carefully tried to wrest it from his iron grasp. at last she succeeded, for although he sprang up fiercely and looked wildly around him for a moment, he again fell back almost immediately, exhausted and without power. she then took her station near him, that she might watch his feverish movements; her eyes rested long and searchingly upon his features, which strangely reminded her of some face familiar to her, and although she earnestly sought to trace the resemblance, yet she did not succeed in finding out the person whom the countenance of the landlord constantly recalled to her uncertain memory. what a night for the poor maiden! the storm of rain and wind raged still more furiously than it had done during the day. it broke and roared through the sharp rocks, while the howling and whistling of the raging winds sounded like the sobs and sighs of thousands of dying men. like continuous peals of distant thunder, as they flung themselves in their might against the steep and jagged rocks of the cliff, the breaking of the raging waves might be continually heard. but they only broke to renew the strife; to collect again vast masses of the maddened sea to renew the vain attack upon the rock-bound coast. for a lone and unprotected girl it was also fearful in the inside of the cave. the wind would not suffer the thick smoke to ascend through its usual outlet, and it filled the room with its stifling vapor, while the dying coals glowed upon the hearth like fiery eyes glittering through the gloom, and the heavy, feverish, spasmodic breathing of the suffering man rendered it still more dreadful. molly felt as if surrounded by the icy air of a charnel-house; as if the cold hands of the dead grasped her throat and stifled her breath! all her limbs shivered as if struck by a sudden chill, until she at last conquered herself sufficiently to be able to leave the spot in which she was seated. after walking up and down the cave for a short time, she grew more tranquil; folding her hands, she knelt by the side of her sleeping sister, and prayed for some time; then she threw some turf upon the dying fire, and again seated herself beside the stranger. pious hymns breathed lightly through her youthful lips; as the simple but touching words sank deeper into her heart and warmed her soul, her voice unconsciously swelled louder and fuller. the wounded man awoke. scarcely daring to breathe, he listened to the sweet, enchanting tones, that, like wreaths of early flowers, wound themselves round and into his rapidly returning senses, melting away the bands of ice which surrounded his breast, and stealing into the hidden recesses of his wondering heart. "where am i?" he suddenly asked, trying to rise as he spoke, while he put his hand to his wounded head. "no, no, it is no dream!" he continued; and then, as if he wished to convince himself that he was really awake, he said, "and yet it seemed to me that i heard the voice of kitty." when molly heard him speak, she sprang up, and then knelt down beside him, to ascertain if he required help. the old man at that moment first became aware of the maiden's presence. in the dim light which glimmered from the fire, it would have been difficult to have discerned her countenance clearly. yet, as if it were a matter of the greatest moment to him to be able to see her features distinctly, he leaned forward and gazed earnestly into her face. then, as if he feared she might suddenly escape him, he seized her rapidly with both hands, drew her as close as possible to him, and looked long and eagerly into her soft blue eyes, from which so much heavenly sweetness, so much tranquil devotion, shone upon him. "kitty!" he exclaimed at last, with a voice of anguish. "kitty, my daughter!" he breathed once more in stifled and scarcely audible tones, and then sank fainting upon the floor. "holy virgin! help! he is dying!" cried molly, wringing her hands. tortured by the most dreadful fear, she placed her hand upon his heart; but it seemed to her as if it had already ceased to beat. then she held her cheek close to his lips, but no breath gave evidence that life yet lingered in his breast. in an agony of fright, she sprang up, seized a bucket, and ran to the entrance of the cave. the morning had not yet dawned, and the storm was still raging without, yet nothing could stay her course; neither the furious wind, which, as if armed with a thousand human hands, seized her upon every side, and with which she was forced to battle for every step which she gained in advance; nor the uncertainty and roughness of the way, which it was almost impossible to find in the heavy gloom. sometimes she fell down upon a jagged stone, and rose with the blood streaming from her bruised knee; sometimes she fell into a great bush of thorns, which tore both hands and face; but thinking not of her own pain, she rapidly rose again, and hurried on. she had already filled the bucket three times at the spring, fortunately guided to it by the noise of the stream rippling over the stones, and three times she had fallen and spilled the cool water, but she would not relinquish her attempt. she would not despair. again she filled her bucket, and with the greatest efforts, creeping forward, feeling her way both with her hands and feet, she at last reached the cave with a sufficient supply of the precious fluid. she softly approached the old man, who was still lying in the same situation in which she had left him; she bathed his temples with the cool spring-water, but as this did not seem to produce the desired effect, she sprinkled his whole face with the fresh drops, and tried to make him swallow some,--but it was all in vain! she waited for a few moments; then she wet the handkerchief bound round his wounded head; again she bathed his temples, and hope now began at last to revive for molly. after she had almost despaired of ever seeing him restored to life, he opened his firmly closed lips, and a light sigh breathed through them. the pallor of death vanished by slow degrees from his face; regular breathings heaved lightly through his breast, and a healthful and necessary sleep now seized upon all his senses. after molly had gazed upon him attentively for a long time, and had thoroughly convinced herself that the crisis of danger was past, exhausted by the physical exertions and mental agonies of the trying night, she, too, fell into a deep slumber. stretched upon the hard ground, with her gentle head resting upon its pillow of stone, her wearied eyelids closed, and she softly floated into the lovely land of dreams. it was broad daylight when molly awoke. from the land of light, of lovely fantasies and sunny hopes, of happy visions, she returned to the sad world of reality; and a single glance round the cavern was sufficient to bring before her memory all the exciting occurrences of the night just past. the wounded man was still asleep, and she was very glad that it should be so; she would have given a great deal to have been certain that his sleep would last until the return of her father, whose arrival she most ardently longed for. kitty had been awake for a long time, had been frightened at not finding her sister at her side, as she was accustomed to do, had several times called her name lightly, but, receiving no answer, tried to calm herself with the thought that her sister had wakened before her, and had gone to the spring to bring water to prepare their simple meal. but hearing now the tread of light footsteps, she joyfully stretched out both arms to greet the coming one. "it is you, molly, i know," she cried with a blissful certainty of tone. "my molly, my only, my good sister!" said she caressingly to molly; and the child whom she had nurtured as tenderly as the truest mother could have done pressed her closely to her heart, and covered her with the innocent kisses of childlike love. "be quiet, very quiet, my little darling, for you have not forgotten that we gave shelter last night to a stranger, who requires sleep, and who may easily be awakened by your pleasant chattering. your breakfast is not yet ready; but if you will sit here quite still and silent, you shall not have to wait for it long." "never mind the breakfast," said the child; "indeed i am not very hungry; and, unless you will eat it, we can keep the little piece of oatmeal bread, so that our father may have a mouthful of something to taste when he returns, hungry and tired, home. indeed i am not hungry, molly," asserted kitty once more, because she supposed, from her sister's silence, that she did not quite believe her words. "if you would really make me very happy, sit down close beside me, and tell me something out of the bible. tell me about blind tobit, whom the good god made see again as well as anybody else, because he was good, patient, and pious; or else about joseph, whom the wicked brothers sold into egypt, and yet god made him great and powerful, and he became the benefactor of thousands in a strange land." molly did as the little one requested. she took her upon her lap, and related to her all that she had asked for. her words were simple, but they were colored by the warm, true, and pious feelings of the maiden. from time to time she rose and slipped to the side of the sick man, whom, to her delight, she always found asleep. "don't you think that father must soon be here?" asked kitty, after several hours had thus passed away. "o, i hope and wish for it so earnestly!" answered molly. "while chattering with you, i have quite forgotten to look out and see what kind of weather it is. it seems to me the storm has raved itself to rest. remain here, darling, near the bed of the sick man, and if, by the lightest change in his breathing, you think that he is awaking, call my name loudly; i will be at the entrance, and will certainly hear you." with these words, molly placed kitty at the feet of the sick stranger. "do not forget you must sit still, kitty, and be sure to call me if he moves," said molly as she left the cave. the dear, warm rays of the sun greeted her as she sought the open air. only the lightest clouds, finer and softer than any web ever woven by human hands, flitted over the high arch of the heavens, for ever changing in form and play of varied light. the air was soft and mild, which it rarely is in the end of autumn in ireland, and upon the glittering surface of the wide sea millions of white and sparkling waves were dancing, like bright fairies and water-spirits. from the path which lay stretched at her feet, winding now up, now down the cliffs, in a hundred serpent-like turns, sounded, sometimes farther, sometimes nearer, the tones of a single full, clear, and manly voice. molly listened attentively, and in her eyes, which reflected back so truly every thought of her pure soul, glittered a ray of hope. she was not mistaken; the tones of the dear voice came ever more distinctly to her ears; she could even distinguish the words which fell from the lips of the unseen singer, erin ma vourneen, erin go bragh! the sounds were close at hand; only a projecting rock hid the coming form from her searching eyes; another second passed, and, with a loud cry of joy, she sank upon the breast of her father. "father! my dear, dear father!" she cried, almost breathlessly, as she again and again wound her arms around him. o'neil rapidly placed upon the ground a few cooking utensils which he had brought with him, and a little bag of meal, and then embraced his daughter with all the marks of the truest affection, asking her as many tender questions as if years, in place of days, had passed since they parted. "but where is my kitty?" said he, anxiously; "nothing has happened to my poor blind girl?" "nothing, dearest father, nothing! the little one is in the cave; i have just left her, to look out if i could see you coming." "let us go to her immediately!" "wait a moment! i am so glad that you are here already; i could scarcely have believed you would have returned so early. what unexpected good fortune has brought you back so soon, and so richly laden, to our arms?" "i met with a farmer not far from here, tolerably well off, who required assistance to dig up his potatoes, and who promised me a little share in the harvest-grain if i would stay and help him. i found him more humane than i had anticipated in the beginning, and when he saw that i labored with all my might to help him, he willingly granted me a day to visit my home, and gave me a share of my wages to bring with me. but now come to kitty," said o'neil, quickly, as he commenced to make his way to the cave. "dear father, yet another word! you will not find kitty alone!" "who is with her, then?" asked o'neil, astonished. "an old man whom i found yesterday evening near this place, bleeding and wounded, who had probably lost his way upon the chase, and injured himself through some unlucky fall." "did you say he was an old man?" "so he appears to be, for the thin hairs which scantily cover his head are white as snow; but whether they have whitened by the frost of years, or through the weight of cares and sorrows, i am not able to say." "have you no suspicion who the stranger may be?" "yes, father, i have more than a suspicion; i know it certainly. like a flash of lightning, the recognition passed through my soul, when he, after a long fainting fit, opened his eyes and gazed upon me, although i have never seen him but once before, and that but for a flying moment, in the whole course of my life." "and his name is--" "i know it not." "my child, you speak in riddles! you know the stranger; and yet you cannot tell me his name?" "and yet i say nothing but the truth, father!" answered the anxious maiden. "lead me, then, rapidly to him, molly! you fill me with curiosity, less through your mysterious words than through the strange anxiety that speaks in your excited voice, and in every line of your quivering face. you try in vain to conceal your uneasiness from me.--can it possibly be," said he, as if suddenly overcome by some dim divination of the truth,--"can it be that--yet no; that would be indeed impossible!" as he suddenly interrupted himself, he pushed the hair, with a restless motion, from his high and broad brow. "what an idea! only the vain creation of an excited fancy! and yet if it were he! the mere thought of such a possibility drives all the blood back from my throbbing heart!" as he spoke, he covered his eyes with both his hands, as if to exclude some sight of horror, the view of which would blast his eyes for ever! molly softly approached him, and, throwing her arms tenderly round him, she murmured as lightly as if she feared the sound or meaning of her own words,-- "my dear father, even suppose it should be the man who drove us from our wretched hovel,--who took from us the last of our miserable possessions; suppose it should be the rich landlord, who, in addition to his barbarous conduct, insulted you with the most shameful, the most humiliating words; would you,--could you, render evil for evil? could you have suffered him to remain exposed to all the horrors of the storm which raged so pitilessly yesterday, wounded and dying; and would you have refused him your aid? o my father, to whom i have always looked up almost as to one of the holy ones of heaven, whom in all the trying circumstances of life i have always seen pursue a course so noble, i am sure, very sure, if you had been here, you too would have offered him assistance; and your daughter, in sheltering the unfortunate old man, in doing everything to alleviate his condition which it was possible for her to do, has only fulfilled the divine lessons which you imprinted upon her heart; she was only striving to resemble you; for you have ever been her fairest, highest model, in the practise of every self-sacrificing virtue." for the first time, molly ventured to look up to the face of her agitated father. pale, as if already frozen by the stroke of death, he leaned against the steep cliff. motionless, as if becoming part of the stone itself, his staring eyes moved not in their strained sockets; his long, flaccid arms hung loosely down at his side; the spirit seemed about to leave his powerful body for ever! "father!" shrieked molly, in a tone of utter despair. at the same moment, the soft, sweet voice of a child sounded from the cave,--"molly! my molly!" "father!" again repeated molly, "father! for the love of god, speak! speak only one word to your anxious child! do you hear kitty call me? the wounded man is awake; we _must_ see him!" o'neil sank, with a spasmodic movement, upon his knees; his soul seemed to be engaged in a fearful struggle, for the large, cold drops of sweat covered his broad brow; he shuddered and quivered, as if convulsed by some dreadful spasm of agonizing pain. "o thou pure virgin of heaven, thou holy mother of the son of god!" he prayed, with a loud voice and uplifted hands, "have mercy upon me! by the bitter pain which pierced thine own tender soul, when thou wert standing under the dreadful cross, on which they crucified thy holy son; by all the tears of agony which thou must have shed in witnessing his unmitigated torments, have mercy upon me! forsake me not! leave me not to myself, in this wild struggle of my soul! o merciful jesus, who died to redeem thy enemies, give me the power to forgive the man whose fell malice deprived my own father of his little all; who has wounded, in the deepest manner, the holiest feelings of my heart, and who was the cause of the early and painful death of the being dearer to me far than my own life,--the beloved wife of my soul! o, enable me not only to forgive, but also to forget, all the misery this man has brought upon me!" the words ceased to sound from the agitated soul of o'neil; but it was evident he still prayed, for his lips were quivering with the holy thoughts. tears glittered in his upraised eyes, and, as if he would stifle all the indignant emotions of anger and revenge which surged through the depths of his tortured being, he pressed his hand closely against his heart, whose wild beatings were distinctly heard by poor molly. but it was now evident that he was gradually becoming more tranquil. molly knelt close beside him; her head rested upon his shoulder; her ardent prayers were united with his, for she now for the first time fully understood the circumstances in which she had placed him. it was the stern and cruel father of her mother whom she had brought into the cave; whom no entreaties would induce to recall the dreadful curse which he had pronounced upon the innocent head of his only child, and which, like a blighting worm in the heart of the summer rose, had fed upon her tender life, and, after a life of hopeless anguish, laid her in an early grave. chapter iv. the grandfather. "forgive your enemies." our prayers to be aided in the fulfilment of the divine commands are always heard by the holy one who gave them. molly and her agitated father were still kneeling together at the entrance of the cave, when molly felt herself suddenly raised from the ground, then closely embraced, and, upon looking up, she saw herself in the arms of her grandfather, who, in the most unexpected manner, had tottered to the rude door of the cavern. "o'neil," said the old man, while his voice trembled audibly, "o'neil, i have heard your prayer. i read in your moistened eyes that you have conquered; and that no feelings of revenge or hatred towards the man who has been the cause of all your misfortunes still linger in your soul. i freely acknowledge that i have treated you in the most shameful manner. the eager thirst for gold, that, like a wicked demon, possessed my whole being, induced me to betray your father, whose firmest friend i once was; it enticed me on to wish to sell, for my pecuniary advantage, my own sweet child. baffled in this inhuman desire, i drove her from her home, burdened with my curse. it was the love of gold which led me on to oppress and abuse my tenants; to torture and drive them, until i had put into my own coffers all which they had gained by the bitter sweat of their rugged brows. nay, it was indeed sometimes from their very heart's blood that my purse was filled. tortured by this insatiable thirst for money, and stimulated by my cruel agent, wilkins, whom you, o'neil, had several times reproved for his cruelty, and who consequently hated you, i drove you from your last shelter, without suffering myself to be moved by your manly prayers; for wilkins had already found another tenant, who was willing to pay a higher rent for your wretched hovel. yet believe, upon my most solemn word, o'neil, that i have never truly known you. a secret and gnawing anguish has tortured me for years, which i have in vain struggled to suppress. dreaming and waking was the face of my poor daughter ever before me; sometimes pale and bloody, sometimes in the full brilliancy of her youthful bloom and beauty. o, if in that dreadful morning in which i drove you from your hut i had thrown a single glance upon the face of the maiden whom you call _your_ child, and who is the perfect image of _my_ daughter, now sleeping in the quiet grave, over which you have trained the long moss and planted the violet, certainly i must have granted your prayers, and all would have terminated in a different manner. but i do not regret it for my own sake. i bless my fate which led me to this desolate spot; i bless the fall from my horse, and the wound which i then received. if it had not been for these apparent misfortunes, i would never have found the ministering angel whose sweet compassion was so infinitely grateful to me, when i lay almost without consciousness before her; whose heavenly goodness restored me to life, and has given me back a far greater gift than life,--the possibility to love again! "o'neil," continued the old man, while from his eyes, which had long since almost forgotten to weep, two great tears rolled down and mingled with his tufted beard of snow;--"o'neil," he cried, as if from the very depths of his heart, while he stretched out both his hands entreatingly towards the man whom he had so deeply injured;--"o'neil, for the sake of this angel, forgive the hard father of your kitty, whom you so ardently, so truly loved, and whose innocent life he filled with bitterness. o, forgive him, as she who has long since gone to her home in heaven forgave the cruel father, upon the very bed of death which he had prepared for her, for the cruel curses with which he had burdened her heart!" overpowered by a wild rush of alternating feelings, o'neil fell upon the breast of the old man. "my kitty! my kitty!" he cried, gazing up to heaven, while the gushing tears flooded his manly cheeks;--"my kitty, if you had only lived to have seen this day! but be witness of all my struggling, yet deep feelings! even as you prayed for and blessed your father with the last gasps of your breath, so will i also forgive him! now," said he, heaving a deep sigh, and pressing the trembling hand of the old man to his heart, "now all is forgiven! all is forgotten!" the two men clasped each other in a silent embrace, full of holy emotions. repentance and forgiveness met, and understood each other! full of the highest happiness, molly went to the cave to bring her sister out, who, tired of remaining so long alone, had already groped her way to the entrance. "come, kitty, come," said she joyously, as she took the little one in her arms, "o, come quickly, for we have found our grandfather!" "our grandfather?" answered the astonished child; "you seem so rejoiced, molly, that it must be a very pleasant thing to have found our grandfather!" "o, very, very pleasant!" answered molly, and then gave the little blind girl into the arms of the old man, who pressed her to his heart, and kissed her. then he said rapidly: "now let us all hasten away from this desolate, frightful place; and it shall henceforth be my only care to make you forget all the unspeakable misery you have suffered through my cruelty." molly and o'neil again entered the cave, to bid farewell to their strange place of refuge. molly looked gratefully round, as if to thank it for the shelter it had afforded them. soon the whole four were on their happy way together home. their path passed by the hovels whose inmates had evinced so much kind feeling towards the banished family; and they found there a man who, upon a promise of good pay from the landlord, was willing to take them home in his little one-horse wagon. towards evening they reached the handsome house of the grandfather. the old housekeeper came rushing out to meet them, perfectly astonished to see her master, whose return she had awaited with the most dreadful anxiety during the whole of the stormy night now past, and whom she never thought again to have seen alive, as his horse, covered with foam and blood, had returned home without a rider. she was also very much surprised at the little band of strangers who accompanied the old man. she turned herself right and left in her confusion, without exactly knowing what kind of welcome she was to offer the new guests, who, although scarcely covered with their miserable rags, yet through their noble bearing and appearance inspired respect. at last the old man said to her, in a more friendly tone than she had ever before heard from his lips: "make haste, mary! prepare the very best you have in the house, for i intend to celebrate this evening the happiest festival of my whole life!" he then dismounted from the wagon, and placed himself upon the threshold of his own door, to welcome his new inmates, whom he begged, individually, upon their entrance, to consider the house and everything in it as their own. "oh!" he exclaimed, as he led them in, and gazed in the soft eyes of molly, "how poor was i, until this moment, although surrounded by so much wealth! and how truly rich have you always been, although in the midst of such bitter poverty, in the sweetness of your holy love! how warmly my heart beats to-day! how full it is of happy feelings! like a tree blasted by lightning, i have stood stripped and desolate in the arid desert my own faults had made for me, almost afraid to gaze around me. but i have grown young again in your embracing arms; for the first time since i cursed my poor kitty, does it seem to me a joy to live!" chapter v. kitty. "then said raphael, i know, tobias, that thy father will open his eyes." the old man had spoken truly. a thousand joys of which he had never thought before, whose delight he had never even divined, bloomed in his lonely heart. as long as he should live, it was his wish that the family should continue to reside with him; and molly was to become the guardian angel of the neighboring poor. she did not wait until they begged her assistance; she gave it unasked for to those who required it. she was a daily visitor in their humble homes, and when want and necessity were at last banished by her efforts, she taught the poor economy and neatness, through the beauty of her own example. wilkins, the cruel agent, was placed in a situation in which he could injure no one; but no revenge was wreaked upon him. he was not punished; he was permitted to retain his house and field, and a great portion of his former income. but his position as agent was given to one whom o'neil had long known as a good, kind, and just man, entirely incapable of any act of cruelty. during three peaceful years, the old landlord continued to enjoy his quiet life of domestic bliss. he died tranquilly in the arms of his son-in-law, to whom he gave the whole of his estate. o'neil and his daughters soon after left this property in the charge of a good overseer, to whom the strongest commands were given never to drive or distress any of the tenants on account of their being in arrears for rent. o'neil was exceedingly desirous to visit the property which had been for many, many years in the possession of his own family, where he had played through the glad days of his happy childhood, and which, through the wonderful providence of a kind god, he could again call his own. a far more lovely landscape surrounded molly, so susceptible to all the beauties with which nature decks the earth. rich grain-fields waved around her; fertile meadows, with their deep-green carpets overgrown with many-colored flowers, lay at her feet; and orchards, in which the sunny-hued fruit burdened the laden branches until they kissed the ground, greeted her happy walks. under the direction of o'neil, a row of neat dwelling-houses rose around them, the occupants of which became far more economical and industrious, when they saw that part of the fruit of their labors was for themselves and their children, and that the landlord had no idea of appropriating the whole of their hard earnings to his own use. how happy was molly, when she saw these healthful and powerful men, from whose bronzed faces content and happiness smiled, and who were now neither wretched nor oppressed, returning with cheerful songs to their expectant wives and playful children! still a heavy cloud sometimes rested upon her fair young brow. not seldom gushed the hot tears down her now rosy cheeks, when she looked upon kitty, who, as she grew older, appeared to feel more and more deeply the many renunciations which the want of sight inflicted upon her. the melancholy plaints of the little girl pained her affectionate heart. nothing could be more touching than to hear kitty say,-- "o molly, if i could only see you and my father,--only once! only once!--i would ask no more! i would gaze upon you until i had imprinted every line of your face upon my soul, and then i would cheerfully close my eyes again in their dreary darkness,--close them for ever, molly, with your image in my heart!" one day, when molly was visiting a school which she had established for the instruction of the poor in basket-weaving and other light arts, she heard a beggar, whom she had at various times assisted, telling many wonderful things about a young physician who had lately established himself in a neighboring town, and who, according to his account, had already restored many blind people to sight. she remained standing by the threshold, absorbed in the deepest attention, as long as the narration lasted. she then approached him rapidly, and, while her heart beat high with expectation and new-born hope, she said,-- "tell me, i beg of you, tell me if what you have been relating is indeed the truth? if it is really true, if my little sister should receive her sight, i would never forget that i had first heard of this happy possibility through you; and, full of gratitude to you, i would take care of you as long as your life should last." "certainly, all i have said is true," answered the old beggar. "i have seen little jack sitting at the church door as blind as a post, and now he sees as bright and clear as anybody who has always had two good, sound eyes in his head." molly ran directly to her father with this joyful news. but her father shook his head, and said earnestly to her,-- "do not suffer this sweet hope to take such entire possession of you, my kind child! above all, say nothing about it to kitty; for the poor little blind girl would suffer tenfold more if she should nourish such a hope, and be doomed to meet with a bitter disappointment. yet it is possible it may succeed! kitty was not born blind; she was more than a year old when she lost her sight." when he saw how deeply molly was distressed by his want of faith in the possibility of kitty's restoration to sight, he tried to calm her anxiety, and continued,-- "if it should succeed, molly, who would be happier, who would be more grateful to the good god above, than myself? i would joyfully give up the half of my property, nay, the whole of it, molly, to open again the sightless eyes of our poor little kitty! we will set out to-morrow, at the earliest dawn of day, to seek the physician who has given sight to the blind!" the sun had not yet entirely risen, when molly, after a sleepless night, was already stirring through the house, making the necessary preparations for their contemplated journey. she hurried on everything with as much eagerness as if her life depended upon the loss of a single hour, and succeeded in stimulating the slow coachman to an extraordinary rapid gait in comparison with his usually slow pace. the carriage rolled down the hill upon which the house was built just as the first glittering rays of the sun filled the valley with their rosy light. molly held her little sister in her arms. sometimes she pressed her wildly, as if in fear, to her breast; sometimes she looked long and deeply into her large, sad eyes, as if it would be possible to read in them the success or failure of the contemplated experiment. tortured by the most restless impatience, she asked the old beggar (who had taken his seat by the coachman to show him the way) every five minutes if they were not almost there. "we soon will be! we soon will be!" was his dry answer; but to the excited molly, so full of hope and fear, this word "soon" seemed to cover an eternity. always so merciful, both to man and beast, she would not spare a single moment to the poor horses to rest. "only drive on!--drive on!" she begged; "the poor, tired horses shall have a good rest and plenty of food after we are once there!" in vain kitty asked where they were going, what was the aim of their journey, and what made molly so impatient. "you will soon know all about it," was the only answer she received. at last--at last--the travellers stopped before the house pointed out by the beggar! they found the physician to be a young and amiable man, who, after a short examination of the sightless eyes, said he felt certain the operation would succeed, and that it would prove neither difficult nor dangerous. but he said he would not like to undertake it until kitty had been for a few days under his care. the few days demanded by the young physician were soon over. resting in the powerful arms of her father, with molly standing pale and trembling by her side, kitty awaited the eventful operation. "you need not be afraid, my little angel," said the doctor, consolingly; "i will not hurt you much." "oh! even if it should hurt me very much," answered the gentle child, "what pain could possibly equal the bliss which i expect to receive from your skilful hands? to see my father, and my molly,--my molly!--how long have i yearned with a sick heart to see my molly!" the physician raised his hand,--touched the darkened eyeballs. a loud shriek of joy,--another and another,--announced the complete success of the delicate operation. but kitty was forced to conquer her wild longing to gaze on the faces she loved; for after a single fleeting second, the physician carefully bound a thick band of linen round her head, that the tender organs might become gradually accustomed to the light and air. no pen could describe her rapture, when, after the removal of the veiling band, she lay for the first time with the full power of sight in the arms of her loved ones! tenderly and lovingly, she embraced them again and again; now she gazed into the joy-raying eyes of her happy father,--now into the deep, blue, tender eyes of the beloved molly,--as if to make up, in the fulness of her bliss, for the long time she had been deprived of this source of delight. then she suddenly turned round to the young physician who was standing behind her, and who had been deeply touched by this exciting scene. "how shall i thank you?" she cried, pressing his hand to her innocent lips, which he vainly struggled to withdraw. "o, let me kiss your hand," she softly prayed, "let me kiss the dear hand which has enabled me to see my father and my molly; and tell us how we can make you happy! we can offer you no fitting reward; for what price would be sufficient to pay you for the benefit you have conferred upon us? only some pledge of our eternal gratitude, some sign of undying remembrance from the family whom you have made so blessed, ought we to give you!" the young man bent down to hide his tears, kissed the grateful child, and murmured lightly: "your joy, kitty, which has rendered this hour the happiest of my whole life, and whose remembrance will always be dear to my heart, has already been to me a high and holy reward! but," he continued, in a voice scarcely audible, and broken by emotion, "there is a still higher, a still dearer reward, which i would willingly owe to your prayers for me, kitty! ask your dear father to receive me as his son! ask the beloved sister if she will trust the happiness of her life in my hands! kitty, plead for me!" he could say no more; he was choked by his emotions. but molly had understood his broken words; covered with blushes, she flew to her father, who took her by the unresisting hand, and tenderly led her to the young physician. "you have, indeed, chosen the most precious reward," said o'neil, "yet i willingly give it to you, for you seem to me to be a man of noble character. the manner in which you practise your benevolent art is the surest proof to me of your kind heart!" "dare i hope that your cherished daughter does not withhold her consent?" asked the young man, with trembling voice, as he pleadingly, yet tenderly, took the hand of the maiden. candid as she always was, molly answered softly: "in restoring my little sister to sight, you have made me very happy; yet i must frankly confess that it is not gratitude alone which binds me to you. another voice speaks to me in the depths of my soul,--the voice of affection; it whispers me that you deserve my confidence. could you possibly deceive me?" then the young man raised his hand, as if to take a solemn oath. "never! never!" with clear and loud, yet solemn and tender tone, he said. "nothing shall ever part me from thee, no change in destiny shall sever me from thy side! i feel within myself the strength to offer everything up for thee, to conquer all things through my love for thee! thy holy confidence in me shall never be deceived! undying love and tenderness for thee, my molly, shall ever fill the heart in which thou hast trusted!" * * * * * he nobly kept his plighted word; and molly never had any cause to repent of the confidence which she had reposed in him. o'neil lived to attain a great age. he lived to see little kitty married to an excellent young man, who managed his estate with the greatest care, when he grew too old and weak to attend to it himself. and when at last the death-angel came to call him to a higher life above, he blessed with his dying voice his sons, his daughters, and his grandchildren. but the last pressure of the stiffening hand, the last words from the lips that were to open no more on earth, were for his own molly. "molly," he painfully sighed, "i can see thy sweet face no longer, for my eyes are darkened by the night of death, but thy image still floats before my parting soul. thou wert my consolation and support when the hand of the lord rested heavily upon me. thy confidence that all would yet be well never wavered; thy gentleness and thy loveliness touched and softened the heart of the long defiant one, who had before scorned all the warnings sent from heaven, and changed his angry hatred into wonder and love! "next to god, from whom all good gifts come, i thank thee, my dearly beloved child, that the rough and thorny path of my life was changed into an earthly paradise, which leads to heaven! molly! my molly! may thy children resemble thee, and make thee as happy as thou hast made thy father!" the young artist. chapter i. the guardian angel and the spirit of music. "like rainbows o'er a cataract, music's tones played round the dazzling spirit." the evening bells were loudly ringing in the little town of geremberg. troops of busy workmen were hastening home from the neighboring fields and gardens, while children, with merry shouts, were driving herds of cattle, droves of sheep, and domestic poultry, and their clear and joyous laughter might be heard far above the lowing of the weary cows, or the shrill hissing and cackling of the numberless flocks of noisy ducks and geese. the barking of dogs, with the hoarse oaths and gruff voices of the drovers, added to the general din. wagons heavily laden with provisions; drawn sometimes by four, sometimes by six horses, rolled wearily along, but the pleasant anticipation of rest at the neighboring inn, and the recollection of its well-filled crib, urged the exhausted steeds to new efforts of their almost failing strength. the lighter farm-carts, full of sweet hay or perfumed clover, upon which lay the rosy-cheeked farm-boys almost buried in their beds of fragrance, easily passed these lumbering trains. with his coarse boots fastened to the dusty wallet which hung upon his back, and his feet wrapped round with bloody bands of dusty linen, the tired wanderer limped painfully on, carefully selecting the grass which grew along the edge of the footpath, because its fresh and dewy growth soothed and cooled the burning of his blistered and wounded feet. all were seeking the same goal, all moving towards the little town from whose glimmering windows the hospitable lights already began to gleam through the deepening twilight, although a rosy and still glowing pile of clouds on the verge of the western horizon yet waved a farewell greeting from the parting sun. the highways were soon deserted, and the whole neighborhood was quiet. only a solitary woman was now to be seen slowly moving along the pathway; she seemed very much tired, and, seating herself upon the ground, she took a heavy basket from her back, and carefully unbound the cloth which was knotted over it. she then looked cautiously around her in every direction; scarcely breathing, in the earnestness of her search, no nook or corner escaped the prying eagerness of her gaze. a dead silence reigned around, only broken by a confused murmur from the town and the distant barking of dogs. twilight was entirely over, and a few stars only twinkled in the skies. the woman then rose from the ground, carefully hid her basket in a little ditch, after having taken a thickly veiled object from it, which she carried in her arms to a thicket of hazel-bushes, which separated a piece of meadow ground from a field newly ploughed. she laid the veiled object softly down in the high grass, and was hastening rapidly away, when the screams of a child were heard proceeding from the hazel-bushes. without once looking behind her, the woman continued to hurry on, but the screams of the child grew louder and louder, and forced her, however reluctant she might be, to return. with her hand threateningly raised over the child, and her voice full of stifled rage, she cried,-- "will you quit screaming instantly, you little screech-owl? if you don't, i'll whip you soundly!" "do--do--take itty boy!" sobbed the lisping accents of a child's voice. "be quiet, and don't dare to stir from this spot, and go to sleep immediately. do you hear? or--" a heavy blow accompanied this threat. the child gave a loud shriek, but soon suppressed his cries; even his faint sobs grew by degrees less and less audible, until at last no evidence was given that he still lived. the woman remained in the bushes, sitting beside the child whom she had carried from her basket to that secluded spot. it grew darker and darker, and the timid child anxiously seized the rough hand which had just beaten him; as he had been told to go to sleep, he closed his eyes in fear and trembling, and soon sunk to rest. as he slept tranquilly and soundly, the grasp of the twining fingers grew looser, the little hand opened, while the woman drew hers from the clinging clasp, and lightly, gently, and noiselessly slipped away. with flying feet, she hastened back to the place in which she had left her basket, fastened it quickly upon her back, and, as if able to pierce the surrounding gloom, threw a searching glance in every direction, and then, as if goaded by the fell fiends of a wicked conscience, rapidly fled along the highway upon which she had first appeared. she soon vanished in the darkness of night. the forsaken child slumbered softly on. the bright stars looked inquiringly through the leaves, and mirrored themselves in the tears which still hung on the long eyelashes of the little sleeper. a flashing gleam of white light suddenly broke in through the clustering leaves of the hazel-bushes. a glittering form stood at the side of the helpless infant; she spread her arms over him as if to bless him, and, bending lightly down to him, she imprinted a long and lingering kiss upon his pale, broad brow. the child smiled even in his sleep, and longingly stretched out his arms towards the form of light which still continued to bend fondly o'er him. she stroked the clustering curls tenderly back from the spot which she had just touched with her lips, and the pale brow glittered and gleamed with the bright yet mild radiance, which, like a light seen through a vase of alabaster, seemed to pervade her own aerial figure. she shone, as if the holy starlight had been condensed into a human form to bless and consecrate the helpless innocent. lightly and gently she passed her transparent hand over the sleeping child. suddenly a mighty angel, with wings of pure and dazzling lustre, stood at the head of the little sleeper. "what are you doing here, with the little immortal whom the holy one has committed to my care?" said the angel, earnestly, to the spirit, who glittered as if made of starlight. "i have consecrated the poor forsaken boy as my high-priest. i have kissed his pure brow, breathed the joy of art into his young soul, and thus secured his earthly bliss. do you not recognize me, holy angel? i am the spirit of music!" "yes, i know you well," answered the earnest angel. "but i know, too, that if your gifts often lead to heaven, they sometimes also lead to hell! alas! how many of those whom i once loved are now forced to mourn that you ever accorded to them your protection, since your gift has only led them to the home of the fallen angels!" the starry form reproachfully answered: "am i, then, justly responsible for the evils which result from the ruined nature of man? the source of music springs in heaven! do not the angels strike the harp, and sing eternal praises round the high throne of god himself?" "they do, and i cannot justly complain of you," answered the guardian angel. "your gift is indeed a godlike one, but it is also full of danger. men are very frail; and pride and vanity are the evil germs which lie concealed in every human breast. to uproot these dangerous germs, to guard against their injurious growth, is our never-ending, yet often thankless, occupation; for the angel of darkness works against us, cultivating and fostering all that we have condemned. unfortunately, he often gains the victory; for as the will of man is free, it depends chiefly upon himself whether he will embrace light or darkness. if the evil one conquers, veiling our faces in sorrow, we sadly turn away, and are forced to leave our beloved charge for ever. what is more calculated to cultivate pride or vanity than any extraordinary gift which distinguishes man above his fellows? thus i am forced to repeat, that your glorious present is still a dangerous one, which may easily become a stumbling-block, a stone of offence, upon which the immortal spirit may be wrecked for ever. for man is only too apt to become vain and presumptuous, to prefer himself to the great giver of all faculties and arts, and, in the excess of his arrogance, to forget the holy one, to whom all thanks and all honor are justly due, to whose high service thou, o glittering spirit of music! hast ever been firmly attached! thou seest now why i tremble for the soul of this forsaken infant!" "thou art his guardian spirit, and it is best it should be so! guard him, then, in such a way that he shall not be fed upon vanity, that he shall early learn to walk in the paths of religion, which also lead to the highest art. o no! no! fold thy white and shining wings closely around him! my kiss will not lead him to destruction; it shall only brighten the rough and dark path of life for his tender heart! i have consecrated him to art; do then thy part, and educate him for heaven! guard him well, for my kiss has made him sacred! we meet again! farewell!" the star-bright spirit vanished; but the earnest angel knelt in prayer beside the deserted boy, covering the fragile body, that the baneful night-dews might not destroy it, with the glittering and snowy, yet warm and tender, sweep of the drooping, sheltering wings. chapter ii. walter and mother bopp. "women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible; but thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless." clear and bright rose the sun on the following morning. the birds warbled, and the mowers were whetting their scythes in the fields. a butcher's boy from the town, occupied in the business of his master, was going, accompanied by his large dog, to the neighboring village, and thought it best to take the short cut through the meadow. but the dog suddenly ran to the little copse of hazel-bushes, shoved his shaggy head deep in among the leaves, growled, and then sprang barking back to his master, rapidly bounded off again to the thicket, and did everything in his power to awaken the attention of his owner. "something must certainly be in there," thought the boy, as he hurried to the spot where the dog was still standing and barking, to see if he could discover anything. he drew the branches asunder, looked carefully around him, and at last saw a sleeping child. "what can be the meaning of all this?" he muttered to himself, as he pressed into the thicket. "the deuce take me if it isn't a poor forsaken child! there seems to be a card or a letter pinned upon his breast. the mother who could do such a wicked thing must have had the heart of a vulture! what a beautiful little fellow! can the poor little rascal have spent the whole night here? i suppose he has, for he looks blue and frozen with the cold! what am i to do with him? if he should waken up and cry, it would drive me crazy, for i am sure i wouldn't know how to quiet him. oh! now i know what to do with him! i will run back to the town and tell the squire about it, for the child is lying between his two fields; he has plenty, and will take care of him. i will leave my piece of bread close by him, lest he should waken up and cry for hunger. now i must be off, for i have no time to lose!" the boy soon carried his design into execution. the information that a child, a foundling, had been left upon his land, in the hazel-bushes which separated his meadows from his grain-fields, was given to the squire as he sat at breakfast. the squire frowned, and wanted to hear nothing more about the infant who had been placed upon his farm. in the mean while, some of the people of the town, and some of the servants of the squire, were sent out to see what the truth of the matter really was. mayor, squire, and magistrates were soon assembled in the council hall, to draw up a record, and to consider what it was best, under the circumstances, to do. the sheriff held the foundling in his arms, and the little fellow looked around him as if quite unconcerned about the matter, while he was busily employed in consuming the hard piece of brown bread which had been given to him by the good-hearted butcher's boy. the child was stripped, in accordance with the command of the squire, in order that the letter, which was firmly sewed to his dress, might be more conveniently read, and also to ascertain if any distinctive mark could be found upon his body. the boy was clad in a dark woollen frock, whose color had become almost undiscernible through constant use, and a fine linen-cambric shirt, without any mark. a little round locket of some worthless metal was fastened round his neck with a silken cord, but all attempts to open the lid were in vain. either it was not made to open, or the spring which closed it was so hidden that none but those already in the secret could find it out. this little locket gave rise to the supposition that, although the boy seemed, at the present moment, to be utterly forsaken, yet those who had deserted him still preserved a wish to be able to identify him at some future period of his life. the letter was very badly written, and read as follows:-- "my name it is walter. though still very young, i have known want and care, as to you i have sung; whoe'er will receive me will not be ashamed, if once in his hearing my lineage is named. my parents are dead, they sleep sound in the grave: alone they have left me, strange sufferings to brave. i dare say nothing further: yet pity my grief, help me in my sorrow, and yield me relief! o, shelter me, women! and harbor me, men! o, save me from famine! in god's name,--amen!" mayor, squire, and magistrates looked inquiringly at each other. many guesses were made, many suppositions proposed to solve the mystery, and the most searching inquiries were to be immediately instituted, with a view of finding out who had been guilty of exposing the unfortunate boy to the solitude and darkness of the past night. in the mean time, it was determined that the child should be taken care of, and, after a protracted discussion, it was finally resolved that he should be boarded with one of the poor families of the village, and that his expenses should be paid out of the revenues of the town. the people were then called together, in order to make them acquainted with the occurrences which we have just related, and the boy was finally apprenticed to the one who was willing to take him at the lowest rate. the town-fiddler, bopp, had offered to feed and clothe him for so small a sum, that the poor foundling, utterly unconscious of how destiny was disposing of him, was given over to his charge. as he took the helpless infant in his arms, to carry it home to its new brothers and sisters, it grasped his hand with its tiny fingers, and smiled friendlily in his face. * * * * * "maggie! don't pound so with your feet, for you shake the table so that my writing is blotted, and my letters all humpbacked!" said conrad, gruffly, to his sister, who was sitting beside him. "what has the pounding of my feet to do with the shape of your letters, i should like to know?" answered maggie. "i can't help doing it, at any rate; i must beat the time when father plays, it helps me on with my knitting. if you would only be more careful, you would write better. look here, what a long piece i have knit in my stocking!" with a rapid movement, she held her long blue stocking up immediately in front of her brother's face; but as she did so, she awkwardly gave a great push to his elbow, and so jostled his arm, that it drove the pen full of ink entirely across his copy-book, and spoiled the appearance of the whole page. crimson with rage, the boy gave the little girl a violent box upon the ears. maggie shrieked loudly, and tried to revenge herself in the same way. thus a fierce battle began at the table, round which the children were engaged in their studies. not far from it two fat, ruddy little boys were playing with the black house-cat. conrad and maggie had wrestled and struggled forward until they were close upon the little ones; maggie stumbled over the cat, and fell upon her little brothers. the children screamed, the cat yelled, so that the baby in the cradle was waked up, and soon added his cries to the general uproar. quite undisturbed by all this frightful tumult, father bopp stood tranquilly at the window, and practised a dance upon the clarionet. he was a little, slender man, and blew with his cheeks puffed out into his instrument. his tailor-work, the signs of his daily occupation, hung upon the wall, between his fiddles and horns. he was so accustomed to the noise of the children, that he continued his practising without appearing in the least disturbed by their deafening din. as tranquil as the musician himself, as undisturbed by all that was going on in the dark, dirty room, a beautiful little boy of about five years old sat quietly at his feet. with his large, dark eyes fastened upon the face of the father, his bare legs doubled up under him, he supported himself, half reclining, upon his left hand, while with the right he beat the time lightly, but accurately, upon his naked knee. he was wretchedly clothed; his torn coat of dark-blue linsey was a great deal too short, and, as it had neither buttons nor hooks to keep it together, it gaped widely in front, exposing his breast and shoulders to view, whose soft forms shone in their warm brown tints. his dark, full curls fell uncombed and uncared for over his rounded forehead and blooming face. "potz tausend! odds bodikins! what a noise you are making there!" called the mother from the adjoining kitchen. in the same moment she made her appearance at the smoky door. she was a stout, strong woman, her thick and coarse blond hair fell in uncombed masses from what had once been a black velvet cap, but which had now assumed a gray tint from age and constant wear. a gray petticoat, a long red jacket, a red and black plaid neck-handkerchief, and a blue cotton apron, completed the costume of the mother, whose clothing, as well as her full, red face, bore visible marks of the life of the kitchen. armed with a broom, she sprang into the sitting-room, and brandished it over the heads of the children, who were still tumbling about upon the floor. "will you be quiet, you noisy brats?" she loudly cried. "get up from the floor, instantly! what has happened? o, do quit that everlasting blowing upon the clarionet, man! it is impossible to hear one's own voice with such an incessant clatter! which of you began it?" "conrad struck me!" screamed maggie. "maggie pushed my elbow when i was writing, and i shall be kept in for it to-morrow!" "they both fell over me, and the cat scratched me!" "they hurt my foot!" "they knocked me in the head!" thus the children cried and screamed confusedly together, while the baby in the cradle shrieked until it lost its breath. "silence!" commanded the mother, accompanying her order with a heavy thump of the broom-handle upon the floor. "what are you doing there, walter?" she angrily cried. "are you sitting there again, with your eyes and mouth wide open, staring at your noisy father, instead of rocking the cradle, as i ordered you to do? wait, you little good-for-nothing,--i'll give it to you!" with a single bound, she stood by the frightened boy, tore him up by the arms, slung him round with rude force, and then shook him fiercely. then she dragged him to the corner in which the cradle stood, and, pushing him down by it, she said: "sit here upon the floor, and don't stir a single inch; and don't let me hear a single tone, a single sound, from your ugly lips!" she held her red fist, doubled up, threateningly before his eyes. the poor child pressed his lovely face closely upon the dirty floor, to try to stifle the loud sobs of pain which broke from his wounded body and his crushed spirit. in the mean time the children had become more tranquil. conrad was rubbing out the ugly stroke which marred the beauty of his copy-book; maggie tried to take up the stitches which had fallen, when she pulled one of the needles out of the long blue stocking; and the two little boys had run into the kitchen to hunt the black cat, which had taken refuge under the table. the tailor-musician had put up his instrument in its allotted place, put on his blue cloth roundabout, and, taking his hat from the nail, was blowing the dust off it, as he said lightly to his wife, who was trying to quiet the baby: "listen to me, wife! walter had nothing at all to do with the noise and screaming of the children; so don't be cross to him about it, will you?" "what's that to you, i should like to know? mind your own business, and don't meddle yourself in things that don't concern you. stick to your needle and your fiddle: what do you know about children? that's my business; and, potz tausend! i should like to see the man who would dare to meddle in my affairs!" "i am sure i have no wish to do it," said the crest-fallen little tailor, "but you must not abuse walter; for although he is so very young, he can already play three dances upon the fife; in another year, i can take him about with me when i play at the balls; and thus he will soon be able to gain money for us all." "indeed!" cried the woman, scornfully. "he is a little miracle in your eyes! but mark well what i say; if i don't keep your infant miracle in order, he'll soon become a monstrous good-for-nothing. odds bodikins, but i intend to do it, too! now go about your business at once, and don't bother me with any more of your ridiculous nonsense!" the tailor looked compassionately at the poor, sobbing boy, shrugged his narrow shoulders, and, after an abrupt "good by," left the house. mother bopp put the child in the cradle, ordered walter to rock it and watch the baby, and told maggie to set the table for supper. this command soon brought the still quarrelling brother and sister again together. they all bestirred themselves busily, shoved the heavy oaken table from the wall out into the middle of the room, and put stools and benches round it. maggie set a tin salt-cellar upon it, and placed a large spoon near the salt. the four children took their seats at the table. the mother soon brought in a great earthen bowl, full of smoking potatoes, and put them on the table. she then seated herself in the arm-chair, and they all began to eat their supper. but walter still remained alone on the floor in the corner, and rocked the cradle, while he eagerly breathed the vapor from the smoking potatoes, which soon spread itself through the low room. a considerable time had elapsed, in which maggie had often touched her mother's arm, and looked pleadingly and significantly towards walter, but it had not produced the least effect upon mother bopp. maggie had eaten very little herself, and two or three potatoes, which she had carefully selected, still lay before her, which she boldly protected against all conrad's attempts to appropriate to himself. at last, mother bopp cried, "walter!" and the boy hastened to her side. "will you always mind what i say to you? will you always do what i tell you to do, and never again lie, like a little idler, upon the floor?" "yes!" sobbed the boy, "i will never again forget to rock johnny, even if my father should play upon the clarionet!" "well, then, if you will promise always to be good, i will punish you no more to-day. sit down, then, and eat your supper, and mind that you begin no quarrelling with the children!" walter slipped quietly to the corner of the table, where maggie made room for him, and secretly shoved before him the potatoes which she had so carefully chosen. "see now," growled conrad, "you can pick and peel potatoes enough for walter, but i have to peel them for myself. can't he peel them for himself as well as i can?" "no, for you are a great deal larger than he is, and can peel two before he is ready with one; and you have already eaten a great many, and he is just beginning," answered his sister. "but i will have these, too!" he cried, defiantly, and attempted to seize them. walter tried anxiously to cover his treasure with his little hands; maggie helped him, but conrad was strong, and soon again began to beat them. mother bopp, who had gone for a moment to the cradle, turned angrily round, and in a great passion cried, "what! fighting already? who began it?" "conrad took my potatoes from me," said walter, in a meek voice. "the stupid little devil lies; they didn't belong to him at all, for maggie peeled them!" screamed conrad. "i don't tell a lie," said walter; "he did take them away from me." "walter is right; conrad is both a thief and a liar!" asserted maggie. "can it be possible that walter is fighting again? that is too much to bear!" cried mother bopp in a rage. "didn't i just tell you, you must be good, and that you must never fight again? you are a bad, wicked, troublesome fellow! off,--off to bed with you! you shall not taste a single bite of anything to-night!" "but, indeed, mother," interrupted maggie, "it is not at all walter's fault; conrad--" "hold your tongue, miss!" cried mother bopp. "much you know about right and wrong, to blame your own brother! you had better take care of yourself, or--" the raised hand and threatening face explained sufficiently this mysterious "or." maggie sunk into a gloomy silence, and secretly wiped the tears from her eyes. conrad made a triumphant face at her, and ate at his ease the peeled potatoes which he had so unjustly stolen from the foundling; and poor walter, hungry and crying, stole to hide himself in his wretched bed. it was very late; everybody had gone to rest, but walter could not sleep. but when the rest of the family retired, he too, out of fear, pretended to go to sleep, but he could not do so; and as he restlessly tossed about upon his bed, the straw crackled under him. he thought he heard some one lightly calling his name. he sat up, and saw maggie standing beside him, who asked him in a whisper, "why don't you go to sleep?" "dear maggie, i can't, i am so hungry!" "i thought so, poor little fellow!" she answered compassionately. "here, i picked up two potatoes while mother was in the kitchen, and slipped away a little bit of bread, too. eat them, walter! but take care that you don't let any crumbs fall in the bed; for if mother should find out to-morrow that you have had anything to eat to-night, it would be bad enough for us both!" "dear, good, kind maggie, thank you, thank you!" said the child, while he eagerly devoured the cold potatoes. "good night!" "good night!" said the children to each other as they parted. maggie slipped quietly back to her bed again; and after walter had satisfied his hunger, he slumbered sweetly and quietly on until the morning dawned. * * * * * the scene which we have just sketched may serve to give some idea of the loving hearts to which the poor foundling had been intrusted. mother bopp had persuaded her husband, whom she completely ruled, to take the child, because she thought that, where so many children had to be fed, one mouth more would scarcely add anything to the necessary expenses, and that the little sum which the mayor, squire, and magistrates were willing to pay from the town revenues for his keeping would be very useful to her in various ways. in what manner she fulfilled the duties which she had assumed for the deserted boy, we have already seen. at least, the "one mouth more added nothing to the additional expenses." in spite of her cruelty, the boy was strong and healthy, and both in beauty and behaviour far surpassed the little bopps. this was, however, only a new ground for her deep and intense hatred. walter was maltreated, starved, and beaten. but, even if crying from pain and hunger, when father bopp commenced his daily practising upon his instruments, he would cease upon the very first tones, and, creeping close to the feet of the tailor, he would listen to him with the greatest apparent satisfaction. for this reason, the tailor-musician began to love the deserted boy even more than any of his own children, who never paid the least attention to his playing. this of course increased the hatred of mother bopp to the unfortunate orphan, and awakened the envy of her darling, the red-headed, noisy, wicked conrad. maggie had felt a tender compassion and real affection for the luckless child, from the first moment in which he had entered her home, a desolate but beautiful creature of about three years old. she cherished and protected him to the extent of her power. the tailor began to give walter lessons in music when he was only about five years old. he taught him upon a fife which was of the right size for his little hand, and he could soon play several dances tolerably well. it was his intention to render his progress as rapid as possible, and to teach him all the dances in common use, so that he might take him with him to play at fairs, parties, and wedding festivities. mother bopp had nothing to urge against it, because she saw that he would soon be able to earn some money in this way; but she always contradicted and battled with her husband, when he spoke of the astonishing talent which the child possessed, or expressed his astonishment at the rapidity of his progress. she said conrad would have learned a great deal faster, if his father had only taken the trouble to have taught him. but, indeed, she thought it was better it should be so, for conrad was far too smart to content himself with being nothing more than a town-fiddler. no, indeed! she had higher views for him: he should be a student. when such remarks were made by mother bopp, the tailor would heave a light sigh, and say, "well, well, we'll see about that." he never ventured to contradict his wife openly; but when it grew too stormy and uncomfortable for him at home, he used to go to the golden star, and drink his sorrows into forgetfulness. but when he came staggering back to the house, he had often the courage to express and maintain different opinions from those held by his wife. but she always got the upper hand in such contests, for she forcibly supported her right to tyrannize in her own province, and knew how to hold him under the most despotic petticoat government. these vulgar scenes and low squabbles were the first impressions which the young spirit of walter received. he loved the father and maggie, and hated the mother and conrad. when he was about seven years old, he could play the fiddle and fife almost as well as the tailor, and accompanied him everywhere where his business called him. indeed, the people soon refused to employ the old musician without the young one, which pleased the little tailor exceedingly, because it furnished him with an excuse to have walter always with him. the squire himself had admired the skill of the foundling, and sent him a present of a violin as a christmas gift, which made walter so happy, that it enabled him to bear, almost unnoticed, the constant and provoking malice of conrad. so walter, with the new fiddle which the squire had given him at christmas, went everywhere with the tailor, and his happiest hours were spent far from the house of his tormentors. without ever growing tired, he played away in the midst of dust and tobacco-smoke, laughed at the coarse jokes which occurred, drank off, without thinking, the brandy and strong beer which was handed to him; and when, through the stimulating effects of such draughts, his shyness and bashfulness vanished, and his vivid spirit manifested itself in droll jests and witty speeches, then old and young would crowd around him, admire his musical talent, and laugh at his smart sayings; and the more impudent and spoiled he became, so much the more was he the petted darling of the farmers and mechanics. thus was walter upon the high road to destruction; thus might he have become a complete good-for-nothing. but the stain of this spoiling by the inconsiderate populace was only upon the outer man; and his inner nature remained pure and unhurt, so that the evil vanished as soon as its cause was removed. notwithstanding the constant interruptions which occurred in his attendance at school, from which, at times of festivals and weddings, he was often absent for whole weeks together, as he was industrious and desirous of acquiring knowledge, he made rapid progress in his studies. the praises and rewards given him by the different teachers in the school excited conrad's envy to the highest degree, and greatly enraged mother bopp. the yearly examinations had just ended. among those who had taken the highest prizes walter stood conspicuous. conrad had obtained none. walter stood, with his cheeks glowing with excitement, turning over the leaves in the books which he had just received, when the venerable pastor approached him, stroking, as if he were well pleased with him, his dark, clustering curls, and said to him: "i hope, my child, that you will win, next year, the prizes in the higher classes. but in order to render this possible, you must not lose so much time at school as you have done this year. music, in the right time and place, is certainly a very good thing, my son; but you are now at the right age to acquire more extended and general knowledge, and the loss of proper schooling in our early years can never be replaced by any future application, however severe it may be. it is also high time that you should begin to study the word of god; and if the director of the school continues to be as well satisfied with you as he is at present, i will take you under my own care, and myself instruct you in all necessary knowledge." walter's eyes sparkled with delight; an exclamation of grateful joy parted his rosy lips; he stammeringly promised to do all that would be required of him, and with both his little hands he trustingly pressed the hand of the pastor, who bade him a cordial good-by. he then turned to the tailor, and advised him not to keep the child from his school to go about to fairs and weddings with him, and thus prevent his otherwise certain progress in his studies. the tailor promised that he would do so no more, and then spoke of the genius of the boy for music, and of his own strong attachment to him. then they all left the school-room, and when they stood in the street before the door of the school, the elated tailor could contain himself no longer, but seized the boy in his arms, pressed him to his breast, and kissed him frequently, as he said, "you dear little fellow! i always knew you were a smart boy, and now i am sure you will do me credit some day or other." in a very bad humor, mother bopp ran her elbows into his side, and wakened him, not very pleasantly, from his dreams of joy and honor. he saw a dark storm lowering upon the threatening brow of his wife, and knew that, as soon as they were sheltered by the privacy of their own roof, a perfect avalanche of abusive words would flow from the bitter, firmly-closed, thin lips. frightened at once into silence, he quietly slipped behind his angry spouse, and placed as many of the school-children as he could between himself and the ruffled dame. but as their way led through a back street, in which the glittering sign of the golden star enticingly hung, he slipped, unobserved, into the beloved precincts, in order to gain courage to face the tornado which he felt awaited him at home. poor little walter was soon driven from the heaven which the praise of his teachers and the smiles of the venerable pastor had prepared for his heart. conrad told his mother that walter had made use of the meanest and most disgusting arts of hypocrisy and flattery to win the love of the teacher, and that it was entirely through unjust partiality that he had obtained the prizes, which all the boys in the school knew he did not deserve. "mean hypocrite!" cried the angry woman, "i'll teach you to play your low tricks upon us, you detestable viper! do you really think i'll suffer you thus to impose upon my son, and not punish you for it? i don't care whether the schoolmaster or the parson does it, but it's infamous and scandalous that a miserable foundling, whom nobody knows anything about, nor in what jail or penitentiary his parents may now be stuck, should be preferred to the decent children of honest people!" walter's cheeks glowed like fire; he pressed his hands spasmodically together, while the lightning fairly flashed from his lustrous eye as he gazed angrily at the irritating woman. she well knew that there was nothing she could have said or done which would have wounded him as deeply as this stigma cast upon his unknown parents. "only look, mother!" said the malicious conrad. "look! walter stares at you as if he were going to eat you up! he scorns and defies you, mother!" "does he? o, i know how to break him of that! i'll beat the life out of him, or i'll break his defiant temper!" said she, exasperated to perfect fury, while she slapped him again and again, with all her strength, in his face. "march into the room, sir! march! you sha'n't leave the house to-day! you sha'n't go to the school festival at all, sir! you are no fit companion for honest people's sons, you beggar's brat! the pastor shall know before the day is over what a mean, hypocritical, wicked, ungrateful boy you are!" no expression altered in the lines of walter's young face; he was so accustomed to abuse that he had long borne it with an air of calm and cold defiance. without making any reply, he went quietly into the room, as he had been ordered, and concealed the rage boiling in his heart under an appearance of perfect indifference. he soon after took up his violin, and, as he played, peace and tranquillity returned to the tortured little breast. twilight began to darken into night, and the children had not yet returned from the school festival. walter had played until he was really tired, had put his violin down upon the table, and, with his head resting upon his arm, had sunk to sleep. when the tailor, half intoxicated, returned home, the customary scene of quarrelling was renewed. walter was awakened by the noise; he listened, and heard the falling of the blows which the strong and vigorous woman was heaping upon the fragile little man whom he loved, and who had never said an unkind word to him since his entrance into the family. his heart bled for the poor tailor, and all the bitterness in his nature was aroused against the wicked woman who treated them both so cruelly. "wait a moment, wicked woman!" he murmured. "conrad is not in the house to help you, and the father shall have the best of it to-day!" with one rapid bound he was in the room, and fastened his arms round the feet of mother bopp, so that she might be thrown down, and thus forced to release her husband. she was surprised for a moment when she felt herself thus suddenly caught, but seeing immediately that it was only walter, she tried to push him away with her feet. with her left hand she grasped the little tailor by the throat, while with her right she brandished the yardstick. again and again she struck him violently over the head and shoulders with it. alas! walter could endure it no longer! he seized the round and powerful arm, and fastened his sharp, snow-white teeth firmly in the solid flesh. she screamed loudly with the sudden pain, the yardstick sunk from her right hand, the left loosened its grasp from the throat of the tailor, and wreathed itself in the dark locks of the unfortunate boy. the tailor fell upon the floor, muttering words which were quite unintelligible. walter had pulled his teeth out of the athletic arm, and the blood dropped down upon his head. he looked at it unaffrighted, nay, rather with a triumphant expression, and said,-- "you shall never beat my father again! i will never suffer you to do it again, never! i am growing taller and stronger every day, and i will henceforth always help him. you cannot treat me worse than you have hitherto done, unless you kill me outright. do that if you dare; for if you do, you know you will be hanged!" actually struck dumb with astonishment and rage, the woman looked down upon the defiant little hero. recovering herself, however, she seized him by the arm, dragged him to the front door, and, as she pushed him down the steps, cried after him,-- "off with you! off with you, you good-for-nothing little rascal! go and beg your bread where you can! if you ever dare to enter my house again, i'll strike you dead with a club, like a mad dog! i'll teach you to bite like a bloodhound!" the heavy bolt fell jarringly in its place, and walter stood in the street alone! soon after, the school-children, full of joyous prattle, began to return from their festival, and poor walter hid himself, that they might not see him as they passed by. the moon looked calmly down upon the house from which he had just been driven. he had never known any home but this, and although he had spent many wretched days there, yet the separation from it pained his heart. he said to himself, as the big tears rolled rapidly down his cheeks,-- "how many stories she will tell about me! the good pastor, who spoke so very kindly to me to-day, and my teacher,--oh! they will all learn to think so badly of me, for she will tell them all what a wicked, dreadful boy i am! but she might say of me all she could, if she would only stick to the truth. but she won't do that! suppose i were to go myself to the pastor, and tell him how it all happened? but that would be of no use to me, for perhaps he would not believe me, and it would not bring me back to my home. nothing would ever induce me to enter the house again! no, she shall never again have a chance to beat me like a mad dog! i need not beg either, as she says i must. i can support myself very well, if she would only let me have my fiddle! ah! if maggie had been there, she could have told the pastor that i only tried to help her father, because he is so much weaker than this strong, cruel woman!" as these thoughts were passing through the mind of walter, the door of the house was softly opened, and maggie slipped noiselessly up the street, looking searchingly in every direction, and at last cried, with a suppressed voice,-- "walter!" "i am here!" answered the boy, and maggie hastened to meet him. "o walter!" she said, "why have you treated my mother so badly? her arm is very much swollen, and she suffers a great deal of pain!" "i am not sorry," answered the boy; "i would like to leave her a long remembrance of walter." "shame! shame! walter, that is wicked!" scolded maggie. "i never could have believed that you would have spoken in such a cruel manner. do you not know that he who lifts up his hand against his father or mother stands near his own grave?" "but she is not my mother at all; and you know she has always reviled me as a poor, miserable foundling. but, maggie, you must not think that i bit her because she whipped me. she may say what she will about it, but i will tell you the truth. i ran in to help your father. could i stand quietly by, and see him beaten with the hard, heavy yardstick? no! i could not bear it; for he is not strong enough to contend with her,--and he is so good and kind, and never likes to hurt anybody. you know i have borne calmly enough all her harsh treatment to myself, no matter how unjust and unkind she might be to me,--as she was this morning when i brought my school-prizes home, and she beat me; yet you know, maggie, i never retaliated my wrongs upon her. but indeed i could not see the weak father so abused! ah, dear maggie! do not let them slander me! tell the good pastor, and my kind schoolmaster, that i did not do it to defend myself from her blows, but only to help my poor, weak father!" "yes, yes, i will! i will indeed!" sobbed maggie; "but what can you do for yourself, poor boy? hide yourself anywhere you can to-night, and then come to-morrow and beg mother's pardon, so that you can come home and live with us again!" "never! never!" said the boy, hastily. "i will never enter the door again! your mother pushed me out, called me a dog, and threatened to knock me down dead with a club if i ever crossed her threshold again! she said i would have to beg my bread. beg, indeed! i am far enough from that, i can tell you! if i only had my fiddle, i could take care of myself well enough, for i can play all the dances as well as anybody! beg, indeed!" "you are right," said maggie. "you are a musician, and there is no reason you should be beaten and abused by anybody." "yes,--but without an instrument!" said walter, sadly. "my fiddle, and the beautiful book that i got to-day in school, as a reward, are surely my own property; they lie both together in the chamber." "don't fret about them, walter, for i will bring them both to you," said maggie, soothingly. "stay here in the shadow of the wall; as soon as mother goes to sleep, i will find them, and bring them to you. here is a piece of bread; it is all i could find in the kitchen, and i have brought you a cake home from the school festival. good-by! don't grow weary waiting for my return; but if i don't go back now to the house, mother will miss me, and i may not be able to get out again." [illustration: the young artist.] maggie hastened away, and the boy seated himself in the shadow of the wall, ate his bread and school-cake, and soon slept tranquilly upon the cold stones. after a considerable time had elapsed, maggie wakened him up; she had the treasured fiddle, and a little bundle in her hand. "here, poor boy, is your fiddle!" she sobbed; "i have tied your shirts and your book up in this bundle. the father sends you a thousand good-byes; he has somewhat recovered himself, and is very much distressed at your going away. but he thinks that when you get away from here, and mingle in the world, that you may become a great artist. he sends you the few pennies which he had by him, and begs that, when you go into the wide, wide world, you will not forget him, for that he will always love you. he whispered this secretly to me, when mother was in the kitchen, and our wicked conrad in his chamber. good-by! good-by, my dear, dear walter! and don't forget maggie in the wide, wide world!" "farewell, dearest maggie! stand by your father whenever they treat him badly. when i have grown to be a great artist, as the father says i will,--and you may be sure he must know something about it,--i will have plenty of money; and then you, maggie, and the good father shall live with me, and i will try to reward you for all the kindness you have both shown me. but i cannot let your mother and conrad live with me, for they are so bad that they would make us all unhappy; but i will give them plenty of money, so that they can have pancakes every day in the week for dinner, and a nice piece of roast beef for sundays." "will you really do all that, walter?" said the child, as she clapped her hands in astonishment and delight. the boy proudly and confidently nodded an assuring "yes," and maggie continued,-- "what a good-hearted boy you are! only make haste to be a great artist, that we may soon meet again! o how very happy father, you, and i might be together! until then, walter, farewell!" "farewell, maggie!" said walter. then the two children embraced each other. they parted, consoled in some degree by the idea of soon meeting again. maggie slipped back into the house, and walter, carrying his bundle on a stick slung over his shoulder, and his violin under his arm, passed, full of hope, through the closing gate of an unhappy past, into the breaking dawn of an uncertain future! chapter iii. walter finds and loses a friend. "the field lies wide before you, where to reap the noble harvest of a deathless name." the pleasant town of sallheim, in consequence of the exceeding beauty of its situation, was a place of considerable resort. at the very end of the long village the principal hotel, the golden crown, was placed. a fine view of the enchanting valley below was to be seen from its garden, and guests of all ages and ranks took refreshments under the shade of its branching trees. the ninepin-alley was always full. a fine band of music often played under the dense shadows cast by the lindens, which attracted numberless visitors from both town and country. upon one bright afternoon in summer, such crowds of people arrived that the garden was scarcely able to contain them all, for the next day was to be the opening of the great annual fair. wandering musicians, organ-grinders, harpists, rope-dancers, men with puppet-shows, &c. arrived, and put up at the golden crown, in hopes of earning a few pennies from the rapidly gathering throng. quite a crowd of people were collected round a stout and athletic man, who was giving various proofs of exceeding strength, such as tossing up cannon-balls in the air, and catching them as they fell; balancing a table upon his teeth, upon which his youngest daughter stood; while groups of eager children were standing round a puppet-show, or listening to the music of the harp. two large pear-trees stood in the outer yard, with chairs and tables placed under them, at a considerable distance from the noise and bustle of the garden. a single person occupied this comparatively quiet spot. he was a little man, not taller than most boys are at ten years of age; his large head was set upon his high, broad shoulders, almost without a visible neck; his chestnut-brown hair, which had fallen out from the crown of his head, streamed long and thin over a high hump which rose upon his back; his nose was large, and curved like the beak of an eagle; his mouth was immense, and fully furnished with white and glittering teeth; while his pale blue eyes, large and round, protruded considerably from their sockets. he rested with his arms leaning upon the table, and his hands, which from their size would have done honor to a large man, were occupied in peeling an apple. before him stood a waiter, upon which were placed pears, nuts, bread, and wine. he looked good-humored and contented. his coat was of dark, fine cloth; his linen beautifully made, and as white as snow. a little to the left of the pear-trees was seated a slight and sunburnt boy, very meanly clad. a stout stick and a little bundle lay near him on the ground, and a fiddle, wrapped up in a bright-colored handkerchief, showed him to be a wandering musician, who came to try his fortunes, with older men, at the fair. with his dark, curly head supported by his left hand, he was busily engaged in devouring a great bowl of bread and milk. it was walter, the foundling, who had now been wandering without a home for nearly three months, and who had found some trouble in supporting himself by his playing. he travelled about without any distinctive aim; sometimes he gained small sums of money, for the beautiful boy often awakened a lively interest in his hearers; but he was often forced to listen to harsh words and terms of reproach, which wounded his very soul. he knew now that it was no easy thing to make his own way through the world, and to become a great artist. but he did not lose his courage; he rejoiced that through his almost hourly practice he was constantly acquiring more facility upon his instrument, and that he could play several long pieces, which he had picked up in his wanderings, from hearing them executed by better performers than himself. after walter had finished his bowl of bread and milk, he stretched his tired limbs out upon the bench, and sought repose. for the first time he now observed his neighbor, whose remarkable appearance at once chained his attention. the little man was eating his nuts apparently with great satisfaction; he cracked them with his sharp, strong teeth, and threw the shells about, right and left, in quite a comical manner. a whole troop of boys, some of them from the village, some of them guests at the inn, had gathered themselves around him. they put their heads together, whispered, coughed, and tittered, pointed their fingers at him, and mimicked all his movements. he appeared to take no notice of them, but went on quietly eating his nuts. this only made the mischievous boys more insolent; first one cried, then another, and at last all together: "nut-cracker! nut-cracker! crack me a nut! ha! ha! ha! halloo! nut-cracker!" the boys came nearer and nearer to him, and declared that, if some one would pull him by the coat-tail, and then shove the very hardest kind of nuts into his mouth, he could surely crack them. they then determined to make the attempt; some of them pulled his coat-tail, while others threw little stones at him. walter could no longer endure this derision of the stranger. brandishing his heavy travelling stick in his right hand, he suddenly sprang before the table of the humpback, and said, with flashing eyes: "shame! shame, boys! to behave so rudely! do you not see that he cannot protect himself against your mischief, because he is weak? shame! shame! to attack one who is weaker than yourselves!" the boys stopped their sport for a moment; but they rapidly consulted together, and then hallooed: "what does that beggar-fellow dare to say to us? he had better not try to master us! he's a pretty looking chap, to be sure, to dare to scold us! up, and catch him! pound him, and beat him, until he can move no longer!" part of the boys fell with loud shouts upon walter, while others threw stones at him. the boy parried their blows with his stick, and defended himself bravely; but at last he must have yielded to numbers, had not assistance come from the quarter from which he least expected it. the little man, for whose sake he had encountered the storm, stood suddenly beside him, tore the two boys who were trying to throw walter down away with great violence, shook them for a moment in the air, and then threw them upon the ground. then with his long arms and immense hands he seized upon two other boys, and while he held them in the air he cried, "you bad boys, if you don't let the little fiddler alone, and go away quietly from here immediately, i will toss these two boys like balls among you, and not one of you shall return alive to the house!" the boys were seized with a sudden panic, and with loud shrieks ran away. the man set his two trembling prisoners free, who rapidly fled to join their companions. he then looked round after his little protector. walter was standing at the well, washing the blood from his still bleeding brow, for he had been struck with a heavy stone. the little man hastened to him, and said in a compassionate tone, "my brave little defender, i hope you are not much hurt?" "o no!" answered walter, "i don't think it amounts to anything. but don't be offended because i came to your aid. i thought you were weak, and that i could help you; but you are very, very strong!" "yes, god be thanked! in giving me this strangely disproportioned form, he gave me an extraordinary strength with it, in order that i might be able to protect myself from the ill-treatment my odd appearance might bring upon me. but the laughing and scoffing of bad boys makes, in general, but little impression upon me, and i scarcely ever use my strength, lest i might hurt them. you could not know that, my boy; and that you alone among so many should have struggled to protect me is a sure proof that you have a good heart. come, child, let me put this piece of healing plaster on your wound; i always carry some about with me in my pocketbook. there, now! it is on, and it will quit bleeding. now sit down beside me, and tell me what your name is, and why it is that your parents let you travel about alone, at such an early age." walter immediately did as he had been requested. the deformed and exceedingly ugly man had won his entire confidence. he related his whole history to him, without concealing anything. the little man muttered, now and then, some almost unintelligible words, and moved his thick head and short neck strangely about. after walter had finished his recital, he laid his large hand upon his dark curls, and said friendlily to him: "my dear boy, if you continue to travel about as you have done, from town to town, with your fiddle, you will never become even a respectable man, much less a great artist; for in this way you will never acquire any knowledge of music, or the meaning of the word of god." "heaven help me!" sighed the boy; "what will become of me? what had i better do? i cannot go back to mother bopp, for she would strike me dead like a dog. poor, forsaken boy that i am! nobody cares about me; i am entirely neglected. alas! alas! i have no parents to love me, as other children have!" thick tears coursed their rapid way over the rosy cheeks of the deserted foundling. "be still, and do not weep, my poor child! you have a father above,--one who is a father to us all,--who loves you, and will take care of you." "no, indeed, sir," said the child, while he looked full into the face of the stranger, with his fearless and lustrous eyes, "no, no, i have certainly no father!" "believe me, my dear son, you too have a father,--a good and powerful father. he dwells above us, in the depths of the blue heavens, but he is also everywhere upon the face of the earth. he sees you always, and always takes care of you. his name is god, the father." "indeed, sir, you are mistaken. i have heard that he has a great deal to do, and a great many worlds to take care of. he don't trouble himself about a poor, forsaken boy," said the child, sadly. "and yet he has numbered the very hairs of your head, and not a single one falls to the ground without his will," answered the stranger, earnestly. walter gazed into his face with the greatest astonishment; then ran his fingers through his thick curls, as if to convince himself anew of their immense number, shook his head sadly, and said unbelievingly: "no hair fall from my head without his will! it has also, then, been his will that i should have been exposed in the hazel-bushes; and that mother bopp should beat me so cruelly! no good father, that loved his child, would suffer such cruel things to happen to him." "my poor, dear boy!" answered the stranger, deeply touched, "god, the good father, has certainly permitted that you should have been forsaken when an infant, and have been since so cruelly maltreated. why he suffered such things to be, and why he gave me a form so fantastic and deformed, we cannot now know, but we shall know his merciful motives when we no longer wear these earthly garments,--when we are with the good father in heaven. but it must certainly have been for our own benefit: perhaps it was necessary for the salvation of our souls. believe me, this is true, my son. trust firmly in the father in heaven; he is both good and powerful. although you know so little about him, he will take care of you, and manifest himself at the proper hour. but the night is rapidly approaching, and i must go back to the town. here, my son, is enough to pay for your night's lodging. if you would like to see me again, do not mingle with the people who attend the fair,--the organ-grinders, puppet-show men, and the like,--but come to the town in the morning, and inquire for the house of mr. burg, the clock-maker; and when you have found it, come in, and you shall not fare the worse for our accidental meeting. farewell, my poor boy! trust in the father in heaven, and implore him for his gracious aid!" he rose rapidly, pressed a guinea into the child's hand, and with long and powerful strides left the inclosure. walter remained thoughtfully sitting upon the bench. at last, after a long pause, he murmured lightly to himself: "the good god cares for me, and no single hair falls from my head without his will; i must trust in him! so the little man said." his voice grew more cheerful, and, looking at the glitter of the gold which he still held in his hand, he continued: "then it was the good god who directed that i should meet the kind little man, and that he should give me all this money just at this moment, when i have not a single cent in my pocket, and did not know how i should gain enough to pay for a night's lodging. yes, that must the good god have done! at any rate, i must thank him for it, for the little man vanished so suddenly that i had no time to say a single word to him." walter folded his hands, and made a short prayer, such as his childish heart dictated to him. he then took his violin, went contentedly into the house, and, as his benefactor had advised him to do, sought no other companions, but went to bed alone, and soon fell asleep, full of joyous hopes. * * * * * the high-road was filled with people, for the fair enticed both sellers and buyers to the neighboring town. as walter walked cheerfully along under the shadow of the tall chestnut-trees which bordered the highway, he hummed a song, and thought of the good little man. suddenly a coarse voice cried to him: "good morning, little fiddler! are you going to the town?" walter looked round, and recognized the stout, strong man whom he had seen the day before, and who was walking close behind him. a little cart, full of the most heterogeneous baggage, was drawn by a dog, and driven by a boy of about walter's own age. a maiden somewhat older walked behind the cart, carrying a harp upon her back, and a still smaller girl, who also took a part in the exhibitions of the family, ran alongside. as walter's eye rapidly glanced over the members of the wandering household, he took off his hat, and politely answered the salutation of the man. "now, boy, tell me, are you going to the town in order to earn something there?" said the stout man to walter. "yes, i am," answered walter. "are you entirely alone, or do your parents expect you there?" the man continued. "i am entirely alone!" sighed the boy. "and do you think it possible, you little fool, to get on by yourself? have you a passport and a certificate from your home?" "no! i have neither. i did not know i should need them," answered walter. "i thought so! you are already in a scrape, then. there are officers appointed by the government, whose duty it is to see that all strangers possess such papers; they exact them from everybody, little and big, and those who have them not are immediately taken up, and either put in prison, or sent out of the country as nuisances and vagabonds." "o, i am not at all afraid of that!" said walter. "i know a good gentleman in the town, who would certainly help me." "oh!" growled the man, "if you have an acquaintance in the town, that is quite another thing! rosa! rosa! don't be running about so in every direction! you'll tire yourself out before you come to the town, and then you'll not be fit to do anything. come to me, and i'll carry you a little!" he raised the little girl in his arms, and swung her upon his back. the child, accustomed to this manner of being carried, fastened her arms and feet around him, and from her new position commenced teasing and tormenting her sister, in no very refined manner. walter began to dislike his companions, and to feel rather uncomfortable with them, so he tried to walk faster than they were doing so as to leave them behind, but the man hastened his steps, and insisted upon keeping up with him. after a short time he said to him: "now, tell us, boy, what is the name of your acquaintance? if he is rich and kind, he will probably give me, who am very poor indeed, something worth looking at, if i make my children perform for him. where does he live?" "his name is--is--i cannot think now of his name! wait a minute! o yes! he said i must ask for the house of--of--of--the clock-maker. now, what was the name? merciful heaven! can i have forgotten his name? i will certainly recall it in a moment or two." "o my young fellow!" said the man, while he laughed very loud, "you are really in a bad fix! a friend, whose very name you have forgotten, will not help you out of the hands of the police." "o, i shall certainly be able to recall it to my memory!" said walter, with the tears running down his cheeks. "my poor child!" said the man, earnestly, "if you can't remember the name before we arrive at the entrance of the town, from which we are not more than a hundred feet distant, you are ruined. the police keep a sharp look-out; without making any bones about it, they will seize you by the throat, and throw you into some dark jail. then, in the company of rats, toads, and other monsters, you will have plenty of time to think of the name of your kind acquaintance!" "o good heaven! in that case, i will not enter the town. i will return, and remain in the village," sobbed the boy, and turned rapidly round to take the direction back to the inn. "i really pity you, poor little fellow!" said the man, while he held him fast by the arm. "you will be able to earn nothing in the village, but in the town you might do a sure business. i am a good-hearted fellow,--i wish i could help you! h--m! h--m! let me think a minute! how can i possibly do it?--yes, yes! i have it now! you can stay with me and labor with us. i can say you are my son. i have my papers in my pocketbook, and they state that i, christopher pommer, am travelling with my family. how can the police know whether i have one child more or less? if you are satisfied with my proposal, you shall live with us. i will furnish you with enough to eat and drink; you shall live with me as one of my children, and i will give, in addition, a penny every day. there, boy, you have found a good friend; everything found for you, and a penny a day clear! you see i am rather a good-natured fool! now, then, are you agreed?" "that depends upon what you will require me to do," said walter, doubtingly; "for i have never learned to twist about my limbs as you do." "ah! it would take you a long time to learn that," answered the man, laughingly. "you will only have to do what you like to do,--to play upon the fiddle. my minnie plays upon the harp; you can play together in the different houses and in the streets, and all the money that the people may give you for it you are to bring to me. you see it is only out of the kindness of my heart that i offer to serve you, for minnie can earn as much without you as with you!" it seemed to walter that what the man said was true enough. it was certain that christopher pommer and his family did not at all please him; but then he had a perfect horror of jails and rats. yet it was with a feeling of irresistible repulsion that he entered into the proposed arrangement. "well, then," said the man, with his harsh, disagreeable laugh, "we must soon commence our preparations for business. what is your name, my son?" "walter," he answered, with his head sinking upon his bosom. "o boy, be more cheerful! don't let your head hang down in such a way! i must make you acquainted with your brothers and sisters, for we are almost at home. halloo, children! come here! you must learn to know your new brother. this is he. his name is walter. walter, this is minnie, with whom you are to play; this boy is bastian; and the child upon my back is little rose." "and this is nero," cried rose, as she pointed to the dog in the cart. "true enough," said the man, "he belongs to the family, and earns his own bread with the rest of us. once for all, i tell you, children, you had better behave yourselves properly, or--or--but here is our inn, the black bear; here we are well known: we are good old friends. we will take a bite of breakfast here, arrange our dress a little, and then go to the town to seek work. whoever brings the most money back with him shall receive a double share. but when it strikes nine o'clock in the evening, everybody must be at home. you, walter, must first practise a couple of hours with minnie; then you will go through the town together." "father," said bastian, "am i not to go with minnie, and play upon the flute, as i always do?" "no!" answered the father, gruffly; "you must go with me. you know we were forced to leave your mother at home sick, and you must try to make yourself as useful as possible. you must take the trumpet, and blow it very loud, so as to attract a great many people." "the boy you have picked up can do that. i am sure he looks strong enough!" growled bastian. "but as i have always been accustomed to go about with minnie, i don't intend to give it up to him,--and i will go with her!" "don't mutter such nonsense, boy, or i will have to teach you obedience." then he whispered to the angry flutist: "didn't you hear how this little chap managed the fiddle yesterday? he knows something about music, and plays very well; that is the reason why i tried to frighten him into staying with us, with my stories about the police. be quiet instantly, so that he may not suspect my motives!" in the mean time walter and minnie had entered the inn. as soon as they had eaten their breakfast, they began to practise together. as minnie could only strike a few chords upon the harp, she could soon play a simple accompaniment to some of walter's pieces, and as he already knew almost all of the tunes which bastian had executed upon the flute, the two children were ready at the appointed time to commence their musical wanderings. * * * * * three days and nights had elapsed since walter had been adopted as a member of the family of pommer; but he already counted the days until the fair should be over, when he might again wander about alone from village to village, for he felt very unhappy in his present situation. when he came back with minnie in the evening tired and hungry to the house, they were always harshly greeted, for pommer never thought they brought enough home, and constantly accused them of having, in some way, wasted the money which they must have received. the penny promised per day was never paid. often and often walter had to play dances until daybreak, for the most degraded company, in the hall of the inn. if he hesitated for a moment, or complained of fatigue, pommer threatened to deliver him up to the police, and the fear he entertained of dark prisons and rats soon brought him to yield to the most unreasonable demands. one evening when walter had played for the disorderly dancers until long after midnight, when he was at last released and sought his wretched bed of straw, he found pommer, in a state of complete intoxication, stretched across it in such a way that it was quite impossible for him to find any place upon which to rest his tired limbs. he slipped back into the hall of the inn, and threw himself, in discomfort and dust, upon the hard bench. the tears unconsciously and rapidly streamed from his eyes. "ah, how unfortunate i am!" he sighed; "i am again entirely forsaken. the little man, whose name i have so unfortunately forgotten, indeed told me that i was not forsaken, and that nothing could happen to me without the will of god. but everything goes wrong with me; what is to become of me? if it is indeed god's will that i should be so miserable and so forsaken upon earth, it would be far better for me to die! o thou good god in the far heavens! if it be indeed true that thou canst see and hear me now, i beg thee with all my soul, let things, if only for this one time, go well with me! o free me from these wicked men, who may perhaps succeed in making me as worthless as they themselves are! hast thou really seen father pommer this very evening putting his hand into the pocket of the red-faced soldier, and stealing his purse from it? dost thou not know that it must be a very sad thing for me to be forced to call a thief father? o if i only knew if my own father yet lived, and where i could find him! lead me to him, thou good god, and grant that he may be a kind one! but if he is really dead, then at least take me out of the hands of these bad men! "the little man told me that thou wert my father in heaven: that thou thyself lovedst me! o dear father so far above me! i would so like to have a father upon earth, who could teach how to do right,--how to avoid wrong! do send me one! i will love thee so dearly if thou wilt! i will always obey thee and thank thee! o remember how early i was forsaken,--into what cruel hands i have always fallen! o thou father above, listen to the cries of the forlorn orphan! pray, pray, pray listen!" the boy sank to sleep with these prayers on his lips; these sad thoughts in his soul. at daylight in the morning he was wakened by the harsh voice of pommer, and in a few moments he was again with minnie in the street. chapter iv. walter's friend. "wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? draw near them, then, in being merciful!" the children stood before a very handsome house, and played many of their best pieces; yet no window was opened, no friendly face looked out, no kind hands threw gentle gifts to the little musicians. the children and people who were passing by would indeed stop and look at them for a moment; but as soon as walter came near them with his hat for a collection, they would suddenly turn upon their heels and go away. minnie and walter both looked sad, for it was almost noon, and their pockets were yet empty; they were very hungry, and unless they should chance to meet with some wonderful piece of good luck, they had everything to fear from the anger of father pommer on their return in the evening. with redoubled eagerness and force the children were playing their last new polka. walter's eyes were steadily fixed upon a window, from which he thought he could discern some one watching them, seated behind a curtain, and he hoped to receive something from the half-hidden form. but he felt his arm suddenly seized: he was startled, and looked round to ascertain what it could be; and in the benevolent face that was gazing upon him he instantly recognized, to his unutterable delight, the little man whose name he had forgotten, and whom he had so longed to see. "god be thanked that i have found you! that you are really here! now, indeed, everything must go right!" he cried, almost beside himself with joy, as he extended his hand to the stranger. "if you really had such a strong desire to see me, why did you not come to my house? for i gave you my name, and you might easily have found me," said the clock-maker. "you did, indeed, but i forgot it! i could not recollect it: that was my bad luck!" said the poor child eagerly. "did you really forget my name? did you try hard to recollect it?" asked the little man, doubtingly. "come, children, they do not seem inclined to give you anything here. come, i will walk with you a little way." minnie took her harp, looking very much astonished, and gazing distrustfully at the watch-maker, who did not seem to concern himself at all about the maiden. he asked walter to tell honestly and truly all that had happened to him since their parting, and what he had done to support himself. the boy related concisely all that had occurred. he told him that, having no passport, he was very much afraid of the police, and of being put into prison; but that the stout man had taken him as his son, and that he played about in all the streets with minnie, who accompanied his violin with the harp, in order to get as much money as they could. "then you have found a father, and require no other?" said the clock-maker. "now everything goes on happily with you: this wild kind of life suits you, and you desire nothing better?" tears filled the large, dark eyes of the poor orphan; he looked sadly at the stranger, and shook his head. "you are not happy?" answered the stranger; "if you will try to accustom yourself to a regular and industrious life, and if you will promise to be a good, truthful boy, you may come with me. i will take you into my own house, and take care of you as long as you show yourself worthy of my protection." walter remained motionless for a moment, as if turning into stone; then his eyes sparkled with delight, and with a cry of joy he threw his arms round the neck of the clock-maker, who tried to calm his stormy transport, and said to him: "gently! gently, my boy! the people in the street are stopping to look and laugh at us as they go by. once inside of my house, we can talk about it, and rejoice. come! come quickly with me home!" but minnie now took walter's hand, and said defiantly: "i will not let walter go with you; he must stay with me, because i cannot play or earn anything without him. my father stands at the corner of the next street; i will go and bring him here, for i am sure he will never consent to walter's leaving us." walter clung, trembling all over with fear, to his protector, who said sternly to the girl, while he filled her hand with small coins: "here, child! here is more money than you and walter would have earned all day to-day and all day to-morrow! your father has no right to this boy; tell him he must take care to do nothing more against the laws, or i will expose him to the police. you had better join him now; and you, walter, follow me!" the boy's heart throbbed with joy when, having turned the corner of the street, he could see nothing more of the pommer family, and he found himself quite alone with his benefactor. he kissed his hand again, and bounded joyfully on beside him. the little clock-maker put all kind of questions to him, which the boy readily and candidly answered. the face of the little man grew more and more friendly and cheerful. they soon arrived at the house. they opened a handsomely ornamented iron gate, and stepped into a pretty garden. the paths were strewed with gravel, the beds were well laid out, and bordered with boxwood. lilacs, pinks, roses, lilies, and many other beautiful flowers, smiled in luxuriant and variegated bloom around. in the midst of this neat garden stood a small dwelling-house, whose white walls were almost hidden by the clinging vines, which seemed to love to twine about them. in front of the house there was a small place shaped like a semicircle, strewed nicely over with sand almost as white and shining as silver, which was partly shaded by a trellised woodbine, and partly by the low and spreading branches of a large apple-tree. a small table and several seats stood in this place, and a very pretty spinning-wheel, pushed a little to one side, betrayed that the spinner had just left the spot. mr. burg called softly, "christina!" and the called one made her appearance immediately on the threshold of the house. christina was the twin-sister of the clock-maker burg. like him, she was very short, but she was well formed. she wore a dark-colored dress, and a cap and neck-handkerchief of dazzling whiteness, while the large bunch of keys which were fastened to her side spoke of household cares and household thrift. "here, christina!" said burg, in a tone which betrayed suppressed emotion, "here is walter, of whom i have already spoken to you. he will be our son, and make us happy. sweetest sister, i think i have brought you a treasure to be valued, as a present from the fair!" christina took the boy, who was almost as tall as herself, in her arms, and pressed him to her heart; then she laid her hand upon his brow, and said, with a tender yet solemn voice: "god bless thy entrance into this house, my dear child! may his holy spirit descend upon thee, so that thou mayest become a pious christian and a useful man! may his grace be with thee evermore! amen!" the tears rushed to walter's eyes,--he did not himself know why, for the soft, friendly face of christina inspired no sadness or timidity, but the most heartfelt confidence. "i have found the boy in the street, my sweet sister, and i have no doubt that he is really suffering with hunger. i hope your pantry is full enough to satisfy the appetite of the starving child." "do not be afraid of that," said christina, laughing. "as i have expected the arrival of our son every hour during the last three days, i have provided for all his wants. come! come in, brother, and see!" everything was clean and neat in the little house; everything seemed to correspond with the character of the brother and sister. that especially pleased walter. his new parents took him by the hand, and led him about the house, showing him the cheerful sitting-room with its vine-curtained windows. at one of these windows stood a table, with very fine tools upon it, and several watches hanging near it, suspended to the wall; at the other, the sewing-table of christina was placed, her comfortable cushioned chair, and her footstool. the brother and sister worked together in the same room, and it was only over some very delicate piece of mechanism that the clock-maker shut himself up in the apartment at the other side of the house. a savory smell of a good dinner proceeded from the clean kitchen, and it was very agreeable to poor, hungry walter. they led him about into all the rooms and chambers; at last they took him up a story higher, into a lovely little, friendly room. a neat bed, covered with a white quilt, stood near the wall; chairs, tables, a bureau and a wardrobe, a dressing-glass and a handsome timepiece, were all in their appropriate places, and the snowy window-curtains gave the room a most comfortable appearance. "how do you like this chamber?" said christina, friendlily, to walter. "o, it is delightful! even the mayor himself in geremberg has not a single room as beautiful as this one is." "this is your own little room, my boy," said christina. "you are to sleep in this quiet bed, and if you never forget to say your evening prayers devoutly, god's winged angels will watch over your sleep." "me? am i really to sleep in this soft, white, beautiful bed?" said the delighted boy to his benefactress. "ah, i have never seen one half so beautiful! i have always slept upon straw, or upon the bare ground. o dear sir! o dear, kind lady! how very good you are to poor, forsaken walter!" he threw his arms around them both, and then sprang delightedly about, gazing on everything around him with rapturous and grateful astonishment. "as several days have passed since we first expected you," said christina, "i have provided clean linen and new clothes for you, which i think will fit you. you will find everything ready for you in this wardrobe. you must wash yourself very clean, comb your fine hair nicely, put on your new clothes, and always try to keep yourself very neat. we should suffer no stain upon us,--neither upon our souls nor our clothing. make haste, my son, and get ready. in the mean time, i will set the table, and flavor the soup." with a friendly greeting, christina left them, while burg stayed to help the boy to dress. when walter was well washed, combed, and dressed in his new clothes, his appearance was strikingly handsome. the clock-maker looked at him with undisguised pleasure, while the boy exclaimed, in grateful rapture,-- "my dear, dear sir, how am i to thank you? how am i ever to compensate you for all this?" "i shall be fully compensated, if you will only be good and obedient," answered burg. "but before all things else, thank god, my son! he has led you, in the most wonderful manner, through much tribulation, to us. it was certainly his kind hand which led me to you, just when i had determined to seek out, and adopt as my own, some forsaken orphan. do you not acknowledge that you have a father in heaven, who, even when he appeared to have forsaken you, yet wonderfully led you upon the right way?" walter was silent, and seemed lost in thought. "yes," he at last replied, "yes, i now see that he has graciously cared for me. last night, i prayed to him with all my heart that he would let things go well with me, if only for once; and see! already to-day he has heard and fulfilled my prayer! i believe that, if i had learned to pray to him sooner, he would never have let it gone so badly with me." "never forget it, then, in the future, my son," said burg. "trust always in the good father above, with a childlike and firm faith; and even if you should be unfortunate in this life, never cease to rely upon the only firm support,--the father above." "yes, yes, dear sir! i will certainly trust him," said the boy. "call me no longer 'dear sir,' but 'dear father'; and call my sister, 'mother.' with god's help, we will try to be kind and conscientious parents to you; and i believe you will be a pious and true son," said burg, as he kindly pressed the hands of the orphan. christina's clear voice now called them to dinner. as they entered the dining-room, her eyes fell upon walter. she looked astonished, and yet full of contentment, for his beauty was very striking in the neat clothes which her care had provided for him. walter was, as if through magic, suddenly transported into a life differing in all things from the life of his earlier days. he had been abused and forsaken,--driven from the only home he had ever known; he had struggled with cold and want, and lived in poverty, hunger, and dirt. he now lived in the bosom of a tranquil, industrious, and pious family. the brother and sister, secluded from the noisy world, surrounded by their beautiful garden, and in the possession of a fortune more than adequate to their wants, led a pious and charitable life. christina's character was childlike and simple. she had never known nor ever desired any other happiness than to serve god and to love her twin-brother. with a far keener intellect, the brother's character, in its simplicity and piety, resembled that of the sister. he was an excellent clock-maker, but he gave his clocks into other hands to be sold, as he knew nothing of trading, and hated to be annoyed with it. he said it disturbed the quiet of his soul, and wasted his valuable time. his favorite employment was to imagine ingenious and artistic fancy works, and set them in motion by clock-work. he never sold any of these. he kept them in his parlor, and on festival occasions he would exhibit them to his own and his sister's friends. he had made, among other things, a very complete paper-mill, and a most beautiful church. in the paper-mill, the mill-clappers rattled up and down, the wheels ran merrily round, the mechanism worked well, and all the preparations for making paper were really there; everywhere was seen the appropriate labor, and at last tiny sheets of real paper were made, which the mechanist would kindly distribute among his own and his sister's friends, as remembrancers of them and of his novel invention. the church was lighted up, the many-colored windows glittered, the bells rang, the organ played, and people were seen going in at the various doors, and walking round in the beautiful building. these pieces of artistic mechanism were his delight; he often passed whole nights without sleep in inventing and executing things still more curious and ingenious. the pastor of the parish, and his wife, were his most intimate friends; indeed, it was only upon rare occasions that any other guests were to be met in his house. the brother and sister had lived together nearly half a century in unbroken peace, in heartfelt unity and love, when the melancholy thought presented itself to them, that after their death there would be no one to inherit their highly improved property, no one to take care of and cherish the works of mechanism invented by the clock-maker, no one to whom christina could confide her pretty house, and carefully and tastefully cultivated garden. they consulted seriously together what would be best to do. we will leave it for the benefit of the poor, said they with one voice; but they sighed, and looked sadly around them. "our beloved house and garden must in that case be sold," sighed christina. "god only knows in what hands it will fall, and how it will be taken care of! all that i have planted and nurtured with so much love will be rooted up, or trampled under foot!" "and all my beautiful works of art will be sold," said the brother, in a still more melancholy tone. "if an unskilful hand touches them, if a single wheel gets out of order, they are ruined for ever!" "it is very sad, indeed!" said they both. "yes, christina, it is truly melancholy," again commenced the clock-maker, after a long pause; "but it is very sinful to attach ourselves so firmly to such fleeting things. during the whole course of his life, man is constantly forced to struggle with himself that he may not break the holy commandment: 'thou shalt have no other gods before me.' our clinging so firmly to these passing things of earth is nothing but a species of idolatry. therefore, my dearest sister, we will try to free ourselves from the thraldom of this sin; we will simply leave our property to the poor, and give ourselves no trouble about what shall become of it after we are dead and gone!" christina secretly wiped the tears from her streaming eyes, answered nothing, but spun industriously on. after a considerable time had elapsed, she said, in a trembling tone: "listen to me, my dear brother! i would like to make a proposition to you, which i have long cherished in silence. what do you think of our taking some poor, forsaken orphan child into the house, bringing it up to truth and industry, and adopting it as our own son or daughter? we might then divide our property between it and other poor people. in this way we might fulfil our own wishes without being guilty of the sin of idolatry. indeed, who knows but that, through our careful instruction and education, we might aid in saving the soul of some unfortunate orphan?" the brother gazed upon her with approving and deep tenderness. "my dear christina," he said, "have you considered fully how much trouble, anxiety, and care the reception of such a charge would entail upon you?" "o, no thought of that kind should ever prevent me," she answered. "i love children dearly, and i have long wished to have the charge of one. i will make but little account of care, anxiety, and trouble for myself, if with the help of the lord we can only succeed in bringing a forsaken child up to be a good christian. then it would doubtless love us as if it were really our own. the human heart constantly longs for love; and, as we grow older, what could be a greater source of pure pleasure for us, than to have a young, innocent, loving, childlike creature constantly with us?" the brother sprang to his feet, seized christina in his arms, kissed her fondly, and said: "sister, your words flow from my own heart! i have long cherished the same wish, but could not venture to ask you to assume this additional burden. but now all things seem to have arranged themselves in the happiest manner; and with god's help we will soon find the child we seek!" the good people made a happy choice in selecting walter; or rather god had graciously provided for the fulfilment of their wishes, and led to them the forsaken boy. they brought him up with prudence and with love. his many and excellent faculties were developed in the highest degree through the best of teachers. the good pastor was his instructor in all that belonged to religion, while the truly christian life of the pious brother and sister exerted a most beneficial influence upon the heart of the poor boy, and all the bad habits which he had acquired from the vicious examples which had been constantly before his eyes, from the first moment of the precocious awakening of his intelligence until his fortunate reception into the house of his present protectors, rapidly and for ever vanished. his days always began and ended with prayer, and the consciousness of the perpetual presence of the almighty, in the fulness of his strange love and enduring mercy, was with him in the hours of labor and the moments of relaxation. burg was anxious that walter should adopt his own profession, so that when he became the inheritor of his property he might also inherit his artistic skill. but walter evinced no disposition to embrace it. he was astonished at the works of art, clapped his hands joyfully at the appearance of life in the movements of the diminutive figures, and wished he had the skill to make them; but his desire rapidly vanished when he saw his adopted father at work. his attention was only fastened upon such objects, by their entire novelty, for a few moments; then he would bound away to bring his beloved violin, and play hour after hour upon it with real joy of heart. the clock-maker soon knew what were walter's peculiar talents, and, very far from wishing to contend with the gifts of nature, at once relinquished his own cherished wish. he shall have every opportunity to cultivate his genius, he said to himself; i will give him every advantage. he took his adopted son by the hand, and led him to the town, where he placed him with a master of high distinction. the master tested the talents of the boy for music, and found them so quick and promising that he readily undertook their cultivation. a new life dawned for walter; he lived in and for music; for he now heard it in a perfection of which he had never dreamed in his childish years. he pursued his studies with assiduity and delight, and soon surpassed all his associates. his master was astonished at the rapidity of his progress, and every day increased his attachment to the talented boy. after a comparatively short time he found him sufficiently advanced to introduce him into the study of harmony, and thus to open a way for him into the very depths of the art he loved. the glowing and creative imagination of the boy now found the proper element in which to work, while laws and rules based on nature opened and defined his paths through the boundless regions of the tone world. years sped on. the days which he passed in the peaceful home of his kind protectors, sheltered and cherished by their constant love and care, warmed and lighted by the glittering rays of the science he loved, were as happy as those of his earlier childhood had been miserable. in later years he often spoke, with rapturous gratitude, of the untroubled bliss of the studious, youthful, innocent days of his first introduction into the enchanted realm of art. chapter v. walter an artist. "in diligent toil, thy master is the bee; in craft mechanical, the worm, that creeps through earth its dexterous way, may tutor thee; in knowledge (couldst thou fathom all the deeps), all to the seraph are already known; but thine, o man, is art,--thine wholly and alone!" christina sat in her full sunday attire upon her cushioned chair; she looked very much excited, and a restlessness, quite unwonted in her usually calm face, exhibited itself in her whole demeanor. her small hands were folded together, and the tears which trembled upon her eyelashes, and found their way down her sweet face, showed that, though her prayers were offered up in silence, they came notwithstanding from the very depths of her heart. a tall boy, with a joyous face, now broke suddenly into her room: it was the twelve-year-old walter. "my darling mother, have i dressed myself as you would like me to do?" he asked, as he placed himself immediately before christina, whom he had already outgrown. "kneel down here upon my footstool, my son," said christina to him, "that i may see if your shirt-collar fits neatly." walter, humming a song, instantly obeyed. christina arranged his dark and shining locks, pulled the fine, dazzlingly white shirt-collar quite straight, and shook off a little dust which had just settled upon his new suit of fine cloth. she then gazed lovingly at him, threw her arms round his neck, kissed his brow tenderly, and, in a tone quivering with emotion, said,-- "may god be with you, my dear boy! may his blessing rest upon the events of this evening!" burg now entered the room with his hat in his hand, and announced that the carriage was at the door. he too gazed upon his adopted son with tender emotion; he embraced him in silence, then, helping his sister to put on her cloak, he led them both to the carriage, which stood at the gate of the pretty garden. that the secluded brother and sister should have driven to the town in a carriage, and in full dress, would have excited the astonishment of all their neighbors, had it not been generally known that walter was to make his first appearance before the public, that he was to play at a concert which was to take place that very evening. how willingly would all the good people of the neighborhood have crowded into the brilliantly lighted hall, to have heard the boy whom they all loved show his skill in his beloved art! that, however, could not be; but they thought it very natural that christina, who never left the house except to go to church, should in this case make an exception to the general rule. the concert-room was crowded to overflowing. after the last notes of the overture had died away, walter stepped forward, and bowed calmly and gracefully to the throng. struck with the agreeable expression and bearing of the boy, a light murmur of approbation pervaded the whole assembly. he played one of the concertos of beethoven. his tone was pure and sweet, his execution full of power and energy. overcoming every difficulty with apparent ease, he stormed through the allegro, exciting a feeling of astonishment in his countless hearers; while in the adagio his melting tones pressed into the depths of every heart, appealing to the feelings as music only can. such repeated acclamations, such noisy applauses, broke from the dense mass before him when he had finished, that the boy was actually frightened, and, without making the usual bows and acknowledgments, sprang back and hid himself among the musicians of the orchestra. but the cries did not cease, for the audience were determined to greet again the little artist. then the chapel-master took the blushing boy by the hand, led him again in front of the orchestra, and showed with proud joy to the excited public his favorite and cherished pupil. again rang the clamor of applauses loud and long; repeated and enthusiastic cries of encore! encore! bravo! bravo! seemed to rend the very air. happy,--yet abashed and half-frightened walter! the tears ceased not to flow from the streaming eyes of christina. when she heard the darling of her soul play, as she had never heard him play before, he seemed to her almost strange and wonderful, and her heart trembled within her; while her breast heaved anxiously and almost shudderingly at the loud, stormy, and never-ending applauses which were offered to the child of her love. she scarcely understood their full import, for she had never attended a concert before; she looked anxiously into the face of her brother, who was standing near her seat. he was deeply moved; he grasped and pressed her hand, tears trembled in his large, protruding eyes, the corners of his mouth were twitching with excitement, and the strange contortions of face which he made to try to conceal his emotion, had an almost comic effect. this was remarked by some of the young people in his neighborhood; they whispered to each other, pointed him out to others who were near, and lorgnettes and opera-glasses were instantly directed upon the strange appearance of the deformed clock-maker. as soon as he observed this, he immediately withdrew himself from observation. he left his place, pressed towards the door, escaped from the concert-hall, and the sea of tones whose waves were now rising, now falling, in their stormful play. he felt that he must be alone with god, under the holy arch of the starlit heavens, in order to pour out unobserved the thronging emotions of his excited heart. the concert was over. burg returned to the hall to seek christina and walter. he was detained sometime in the door-way by the press of the hurrying throng. at last, however, he reached his sister, who told him that the chapel-master had taken walter away to introduce him to a noble family, who loved and patronized art, who gave a party this evening particularly to the artists and the friends of music; and as walter had been particularly invited by the cultivated countess w----, whose patronage might be of the greatest service to him, it would not be advisable or courteous to refuse the kind invitation. "it is really painful to my heart to be obliged to give up walter, upon this evening particularly!" said christina. "but i did not know what to do; i could not see you anywhere, and the chapel-master was so pressing, and in such a hurry! i strongly recommended to our dear son, however, to be very prudent, and not to suffer himself to be made vain, or to be spoiled!" "i am very sorry!" said burg. "but it cannot be helped. come, christina!" he led his sister to the carriage, and was silent and serious during the whole drive home, as he was in the habit of being when immersed in thought. a few words of deep and highly excited feeling were exchanged by the brother and sister upon the subject of walter's brilliant success on his first appearance before the public, and hopes and fears alternated in their loving, simple hearts. wearied by the unwonted excitement of the day, christina went early to rest; while burg opened a large book, and lighted another lamp, to await the arrival of walter home. twelve strokes slowly sounded upon the various clocks in the house, telling burg it was already midnight. he rose, as he shut the book of chronicles in which he had been reading, opened his window, and looked anxiously out into the dark night. after a considerable time had elapsed, he thought he heard the distant rolling of a carriage; it drew nearer,--it stopped before the garden gate. "at last!" said burg, heaving a deep sigh, as he closed the window. almost immediately after, the door opened, and walter entered. "good evening, my dear son! at last, at last i see you again," said burg, as he rapidly advanced to meet him. "o my father!" cried walter, as he threw himself into his arms, "what an evening i have spent! how happy i am!" burg gazed inquiringly into the glowing face of the boy; it shone with intense excitement and proud joy. "you are still very much excited, my child. you will find it quite impossible to go to sleep in such a state. come, then, sit down beside me, and tell me all that has happened." "o father, if you had only seen how much they have all honored me! i was dreadfully frightened, at first, with the terrible noise they made in the concert-room; but the chapel-master says that was very stupid in me, and that one soon grows accustomed to all that. the count laughed at me for running away, very much, at first, and said i must learn to bear still higher marks of honor; that i must learn to wear the immortal crown of laurels, for that, young as i am, i could already take my place with the true artists; that in a few years i would surpass them all, and that my name would be sounded with honor through the whole civilized world. father! my father! is not that glorious? everything was beautiful in the count's house; such immense rooms i never saw before. we were soon seated round a table covered with the most exquisite food. they drank a kind of wine that banged when they took the corks out, as if a pistol had been shot off, close to your ears. it foams and foams; it is quite sweet, and tastes excellently." "have you taken more than one glass of it, my son?" said burg, as he anxiously laid his hand on the glowing brow of the excited boy. "no, father, i have not. the beautiful countess ordered me to take the seat next to her own. only think, father: the chapel-master says that was the seat of honor! but the countess would not let them refill my glass. she said it was possible i was not accustomed to it; that my good mother, christina, would not be pleased if i should be spoiled by drinking too much of it. but only think,--just try to guess what happened next!--no, that is not it. ah! father, you would never, never guess it! only think of it! they all drank my health, making their glasses rattle as they did so; and then they all congratulated the chapel-master upon having found such a pupil as i am. they drank his health, too. ah! there can be no greater happiness in this life than to be an artist! and i am certainly one already, for they all declared i was. when i look at the other scholars of my own age in the institution, i cannot help pitying them; for they are really stupid in comparison with me, and i do not believe that they will ever receive such honors as have been rendered to me to-night." "and whom have you to thank for this distinction?" asked burg. "myself and you!" answered walter, rashly. "you sent me to a most skilful teacher; but he has many pupils who have been studying a great deal longer, yet play much worse than i do." "then you have no one but yourself to thank for your talent for art?" asked burg. "yes, i owe it to my own industry. the chapel-master himself says so." "procure me still another joy, my dear walter! write me a finished poem!" "but, father, how can i do it?" said walter, quite astonished. "i will give you plenty of time to do it," said burg. "i will take you to-morrow to a most skilful master in the art of poetry; to please me, you will again be very studious and industrious, and thus you will be a great poet!" "my dear father, i am sorry for it, but i think it would be impossible!" answered walter. "you know that at school i never wrote with any ease; indeed, i always found it very difficult, for i have no talent at all for it!" "but through your own industry you will certainly learn to compose as well in words as you have done in tones." "o that is entirely different!" said the boy, quickly. "i have a great deal of talent for music, and none at all for poetry." "ah, indeed!" answered the father, earnestly. "i thought, because you had attributed all the honor of the day to _yourself alone_, that you would be able to make as rapid progress in any other art. but if that is not the case, it seems to me that you cannot claim all the honor for yourself alone, for you have just admitted that success in any art requires, in the first place, talent. now how have you been able to create this internal talent, which you confess to be the first requisite?" walter blushed crimson; he looked confusedly upon the floor; then he murmured: "no man on earth can create that,--that is a gift of the good god!" "then," said burg, very seriously, "without any merit, any assistance, on your part, out of pure love, god has endowed you with the beautiful and glorious gift of a genius for music. you are only fulfilling a duty, when you cultivate to the utmost of your power the high talent which you have received from god. would you not be guilty of the blackest ingratitude if you would suffer the capabilities with which he has gifted you to remain uncultured in your soul? and yet you think that you have done something very extraordinary, and that the honor and praise which thoughtless men have so freely lavished upon you belong of right to you alone; whereas all the distinction which has been offered to you is justly and solely due to god. because you have done in music only what it was your duty to do, would you wish to claim merit for a thing so simple, and would you, in the excess of an idle vanity, forget your maker, from whose bountiful hand you have received all? "the sweet and foaming wine which you drank to-night is called champagne. its taste is very pleasant, yet it is sometimes a poison. one or two glasses, however, is not injurious. but it is often forgotten that a bad spirit lies concealed in the pearly drops which foam and dance upon its surface. he who drinks too much of it loses his force and his senses, and in his drunkenness resembles the madman who forgets his god. such excess often leads to the commission of great crimes. the applauses of the crowd, the reverence paid to genius, the sweet flattery always offered to the artist in the most intoxicating manner, resemble champagne. the bad spirit which is concealed in the froth of popular applause, to ruin and destroy the artist, is vanity. woe to him if he does more than simply taste the sweet draught! if he eagerly gulps it down, he draws in vanity at the same time, which must lead him to certain destruction; for it entices him away from god, to whom alone all the fame, all the honor, which men so lavishly expend upon the artist is justly due. vanity is constantly hovering over the robe of light in which all art is clothed; she skilfully throws her own spotted veil over the glittering raiment, drawing art gradually down to the service of hell. true, divine art, however, soon discovers the toils of vanity, and, throwing them off for ever, passes on to that heaven from which she springs. a demon of darkness unfortunately too often borrows her form of light, and assists the work of vanity in the soul of the artist, which she has subjected to her power. all that he creates gives evidence of the demoniac source from which his works spring, and that love and faith no longer make their home in his spirit. he grows gradually dizzy; he falls from sin to sin, and dies in wretchedness. an early grave, and the speedy forgetfulness of the masses who once caressed and flattered him, is sure to be the fate of the unhappy artist who, in the indulgence of his own vanity, forgets his god. my dear son, pray that you may be protected from demoniac pride, from artistic vanity!" walter, who had listened to his father with ever increasing emotion, while his handsome face grew pale with varying feelings, now threw himself weeping into his arms, while he cried: "father, forgive me! i also have been both proud and vain. o, aid me to contend with these wicked spirits! suffer me not to be conquered by them!" "pray! pray constantly, my son! in the midst of the intoxicating flatteries which will be offered to you, never forget that it is god alone who has gifted you with a genius for art; that you are nothing more than a miserable worm in his hands, and that it behooves you to bow low before his power, and give to him alone all honor! never forget that it is your duty to cultivate the talents he has condescended to give you to the utmost extent, that you must one day give an account of the use you have made of them; and when they try to make you believe that you have reached the highest possible point, remember that it is impossible to stand still; that you must go on, or fall backward, and that only in the most constant and unremitted efforts to progress can your duty be fulfilled! go now to bed, to sleep, my dear, dear son! may god be ever with you!" the preceding conversation, held by walter with burg after the intoxication of his first exciting and brilliant success, made a deep impression upon his young soul, and exercised a decisive influence upon the whole course of his life. the growth of vanity was for ever stifled in its first germ. he struggled restlessly forward upon the path of art, but he gave at the same time the rare example of a young, handsome, and brilliant artist, in the possession of true modesty. he soon grew accustomed to the applauses of the masses; they reached his ear, but the poisoned arrows pressed not into his soul. when walter had attained his seventeenth year, his master, whom he had long since surpassed, wished that he should make his name known through the civilized world, by extensive travels as an artist. burg determined to accompany his beloved son, upon his first entrance into the great world. the parting from christina was very painful; her tears flowed long and fast; she believed she would never see her darling again. only reiterated promises to write to her constantly, could in any degree calm her distressed heart. the young artist had already earned fame and gold in many of the larger towns, and had made the name of walter burg widely and honorably known, when he came into the neighborhood of the scenes of his sad and deserted childhood. certainly no one there would recognize the poor foundling in the brilliant artist, and he felt the most vivid wish to give a concert in the immediate vicinity of the tailor musician bopp, and to see him and maggie again. burg willingly acceded to his natural request, and the news soon pervaded geremberg, that the celebrated young artist, burg, on his journey to hamburg, would give a concert in the town-hall. the musicians of the town tuned their instruments, and looked at the music placed before them on their desks. no rehearsal had been given, because walter burg had only arrived the very evening upon which the concert was to take place. the town musicians determined to play as well as they could, and if the notes came too thick and fast, young burg might himself provide for getting on as well as possible without them. no person divined that the celebrated artist whom they were momentarily expecting, and little walter, whose early efforts they had often admired, were one and the same person. father bopp sat bent almost double, and held his instrument loosely in his hand; he had grown much thinner, and looked very sad; for with increasing age and poverty his termagant wife burdened him every day more deeply. the hall was soon full; many people were even standing in the open door, who had no money to take seats within, among whom was maggie. walter entered, and the concert began. the good people of geremberg, even the mayor himself not excepted, had never heard such music before. the enchantment and delight was universally felt; yet we must confess that no slight degree of the enthusiasm manifested was to be attributed as much to the exceeding beauty of the young artist, as to his complete mastery of art. walter played a long time alone; the musicians had all quietly put down their own instruments, and listened attentively to him. father bopp wept in the excess of his musical excitement. the concert at last ended. the mayor hastened to congratulate the young man, to tell him of his astonishment and delight, to ask him to stay as long in geremberg as he possibly could, and also to try to learn something of his life and connections, for it is always esteemed very interesting to know everything about the destiny of a young artist. to his great astonishment, he found the young man standing beside father bopp, and putting into his shabby hat the whole sum taken in at the doors, to which he added a small roll of gold. "that is too much, sir!" said bopp; "the expenses for the whole of us together do not amount to as much as that; besides, the truth is, we have scarcely played at all." "but that is all for yourself, alone," answered the young man. "father bopp! can it be possible that you do not recognize me? yet you yourself gave me my first lessons upon the violin! open your eyes a little wider, and look at me full in the face. i am your own little walter!" father bopp continued to gaze at him, without being able to articulate a single word; his mouth was wide open, his hat fell from his limber hands, while his trembling arms, deprived of all power to move, anxiously sought to stretch themselves towards the noble form of the young artist. "indeed, it is true! i am really walter!" cried burg, as he threw his arms round the astonished tailor. "dear, good, kind old father bopp! i remember all the pieces which we used to play together, and have become what you always said i would be,--an artist!" the bewildered astonishment of the old man gave place to the strangest manifestations of the wildest joy. he danced about, he stood on one leg, he laughed, he cried, he threw his arms round walter, then bounded off to gaze in his face, and again returned to embrace him. burg was standing in the neighborhood, and witnessed the comic manifestations of the excited tailor's joy with heartfelt sympathy. the news that the accomplished young artist was no other than the poor little foundling, who had lived so many years among them, ran through the hall like lightning; it soon reached the outer steps, and the throng who were making their way down them. they all turned back; they crowded round walter; they renewed their acquaintance with him, and declared they had always known he would make an extraordinary man. at last walter was free from their noisy demonstrations. he hastened into his own room, where he found burg and father bopp with maggie, whom walter really longed to see. she was quite grown up, looked fresh and healthy, and was delighted to meet her early and loved playmate once more. while the two old men talked together, the confidence of their childish years was soon re-established between the young people. walter gently asked maggie how all went on now at home; to which she answered, sighing, "just as it used to do in old times." conrad was no student, but had become a lazy, useless, worthless fellow, who gave them all a great deal of trouble; but he was still the mother's favorite. poverty had very much increased upon them; with all her labor, she could scarcely earn enough to support herself; if she could only gain a little spare money to pay the necessary expenses, she would like to be married to their neighbor peter, whom walter must remember. walter consoled her with the hope that he would be able to send her sufficient money to carry out her matrimonial views, as soon as he had earned some more. he was able afterwards to do so; he established maggie and peter in a comfortable house, and always supported old father bopp. when bopp and maggie used to speak of the famous artist, and recounted all the benefits he had showered upon them, then would mother bopp cry: "you and he have only me to thank for all these great things; for if i had never driven the boy out of the house, he never could have become what he now is. so you have all a great deal to be grateful to me about!" [illustration: maggie and peter. the first dawning of love.] after burg had received from the mayor the clothes which walter had on when he was first taken from the basket, as well as the clasped locket which had been carefully preserved by the squire, he and walter sat out on their way to hamburg. but the interesting events which occurred there will be best learned from a letter which the clock-maker wrote to his affectionate sister christina. the clock-maker burg to his sister christina. hamburg. my dear christina:-- you write to me that you have awaited the arrival of each of our letters with anxiety and impatience, but that after their reception you have always been happy and joyous. i fully believe you, my true-hearted sister; for all the details i have given you of the development of walter's character have shown him to be kind and good. his own letters have expressed to you the childlike love which he feels for you, and he has written to you in what manner he has been everywhere received, what applause has been showered upon him; and yet you must have seen, from the simple language of his trusting heart, that he has not fallen a prey to vanity, but that he is still the modest and unspoiled youth he was when he parted from you. he has only a proper sense of his own worth; he loves his art, and practises it because he loves it; but his great talents have not made him haughty, presumptuous, or vain; he does not worship himself because he possesses marvellous faculties, the free gifts of his gracious creator. yes, my dear christina! i can truly say, with a joyful heart, that the general and enthusiastic wonder and admiration of applauding throngs have not puffed up our walter in a vain conceit of himself, but that he gives to god alone the glory! the letters of recommendation and introduction, which were given to us by the count, countess, and the chapel-master, have procured for us everywhere a good reception. especially do we find this to be the case here in hamburg. but i have already written about this to you, for i now remember that i asked you, in my last letter, to present our grateful thanks to the count, particularly for his introduction to the russian minister, count arnoldi. he is a most accomplished person, and we have been received in his house as if we had been his own relatives. walter feels himself strangely attracted to this lovely family. the minister is an excellent man, and knows perfectly how to make the best use of his great wealth. weighty matters of necessary business keep him closely chained to his writing-desk during the greater part of the day; but at his late dinner, and during the evening hours, he is an intellectual and cheerful host. his wife was born in livonia, and is a refined, cultivated, and lovely lady. as a lover and protector of art, she not only collects together in her house the most distinguished artists, but has also dedicated it to the encouragement and preservation of their most masterly works. the central point of all her love and care is her daughter, the beautiful sophie, now twelve years old. the little girl has a remarkable talent for music, and much pains has already been taken with its cultivation. our walter, still an innocent child in his pure soul, soon won the sympathy of the beautiful girl, and they are truly attached to each other. when she plays upon the piano, he often accompanies her upon the violin; and, in spite of the little time which he has at his own command after the fulfilment of his various duties, he has already composed several pieces for his little friend. her parents are so attracted by the elegant manners and unblemished character of our dear son, so much won by his marvellous genius and his youthful beauty, that they willingly encourage the friendship of the two innocent children for each other. we visit every day the house of the russian minister, and the ties between the old and the young become hourly stronger. the son and heir of the house--about the same age with our son, and also called "walter"--makes a remarkable exception to the friendship and love which his parents and his sister have evinced to walter. indeed, he seems actually to hate him; and as his manners are exceedingly rough and rude, he has made him feel his dislike in the most wounding manner, upon more than one occasion. his step-mother (for he is a son of the first marriage of the minister) made the remark, one day, that walter, our son, and their daughter sophie, resembled each other very much. the young man laughed, and maliciously remarked: "the love which my mother cherishes for music could alone induce her to see such a likeness; for how is it possible that the only daughter of the rich minister should resemble a travelling artist, who is only the son of a common clock-maker?" "why not?" answered the lady, quickly. "beauty and refinement resemble each other, in whomsoever they may be found, as well as coarseness and vulgarity; therefore, i would not be at all astonished if some one should remark a strong resemblance between the only son of the minister and the boy of one of his peasants!" the young man blushed crimson; and, looking most maliciously at his step-mother and walter, left the apartment, with a threatening gesture at our darling, who had heard nothing of all this, as he was talking quite unconcernedly with sophie in the deep embrasure of one of the large windows. the lady of the house made the most graceful apologies to me about what had just occurred, and, with tears in her large eyes, said: "the invincible roughness and vulgar pride of this unendurable boy embitter my whole life, and are preparing a coffin for the noble form of my excellent husband. they seem to be an ineradicable consequence of his early education. how happy are you in the possession of such a son! let us be candid: we envy you the possession of such a treasure!" you will probably think, my dear sister, that it would be far better for me to relate all this to you, if i were quietly seated by your side, in our own sweet home; and that it would be far more agreeable if i were to write to you only of our own dear walter, and of his brilliant musical triumphs, than of the malicious and unpolished son of the minister. you would be right in this decision, and i would not have written all this to you, if i did not think it was all necessary as an introduction to the weighty events which i am forced to impart to you. yes, my dear, my true-hearted sister! your tender heart will be filled with joy, and yet your soft blue eyes may shed many tears. hear, then, my pure-hearted one, all that has occurred. may god himself stand by you with his precious grace, and enable you to bear the heavy hours in which all selfishness, even of the highest and noblest kind, must be subjected to a fearful proof! may your self-sacrificing love for walter enable you to endure all! i had appointed the next day for our departure. walter did not object to it, although he confessed to me that the separation from the arnoldi family would be very painful to him, because he loved them--he knew not why--from the very bottom of his heart. i pointed him to the brilliancy of his prospects in the future. he acknowledged that his career was full of hope; yet but slightly consoled he accompanied me, towards evening, to the house of the minister, who had invited all the friends of the young artist together, to spend the last evening with him at a parting festival in his own house. i hoped that the younger arnoldi, who greatly prefers card-playing to the most excellent music, would be, as usual, not at home. but it was not so. he was there upon our arrival, and seemed to me to be in a worse humor than ever with our innocent son. he took his place in the deep recess of one of the windows, and i soon remarked that, from behind the half-veiling curtain, he watched every movement made by walter with a malicious and suspicious air. we were received with the greatest cordiality and affection by all the invited guests, and the different members of the family of the minister. when the minister himself asked his daughter to open the piano, and play for the last time with the young artist, tears rushed to the bright eyes and rolled down the rosy cheeks of the beautiful child. at the very moment that walter and she commenced their duet, a violent and stormy verbal discussion began at the door of the music-room. the loud and shrill tones of a woman's voice were heard far above the instruments, fiercely demanding entrance. after a moment's delay, the door was thrown open; and, in spite of the servants, who were struggling to hold her back, a tall and powerful woman forced herself into the parlor. the minister moved forward to meet her, and said sternly: "what is the meaning of this strange insolence? if you have really urgent business with me,--if it is necessary that you should yourself have an interview with me,--come to me early to-morrow morning, at a more suitable time. if your business, however, is very pressing, you may follow me now into another apartment." the woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, and looked half-confused round the room; but, rapidly regaining her self-possession, she said, defiantly: "they will no more admit me to your presence to-morrow than they did yesterday and the day before! the command of the young lord, as the people call him, that your servants should set the dogs upon me to drive me away,--should beat me from your door,--has made me raging mad. he needn't think that i am so much afraid of their blows! he had better not threaten me too far! now i am determined to speak out the whole truth! have you quite forgotten me, minister arnoldi? i am martha meyer. i am the daughter of the meyer to whose care you intrusted your son, nearly eighteen years ago." "very well! very well, my good woman!" said the minister, considerably mollified; "it is very natural and very kind in you to come sometimes to visit your old charge. to-morrow morning i will be disengaged, and i will then see what i can do to help you. go down now into the servant's hall. i will give orders that you shall be well taken care of. walter, lead the foster-sister of your childhood out, and see that she is supplied with all she needs!" the young man looked very much agitated, and, as he stepped from behind his sheltering curtain, he seized the woman by the arm, and was about to hurry her out. but she loosened her arm from his rough grasp, and screamed out with her whole force: "this is not your own son, minister arnoldi, but my brother, peter meyer, who has been thrust upon you! he knows it himself well enough, but he has no compassion upon us at all; he leaves us in want and poverty, and when i came just now to beg him for assistance, he pretended not to recognize me, threatened to complain of me to the police, and have me driven from the city. he ordered the servants to set the dogs upon me, and to lash me out of the house if i ever suffered myself to be seen here again!" "cursed liar!" cried the young man, who had in vain tried to hold his hands before the mouth of the angry woman, and thus arrest the stormy flow of her injurious words. she succeeded, however, in holding him at arm's length from her person, while she continued to shriek: "so, so; i am a liar, am i? now that you have openly defied me, i will tell the whole story. minister arnoldi, my own blessed mother, may god forgive her! imposed this beggar upon you as your child! he is, however, her own son! your boy walter she exposed at night to be taken care of as a foundling! i can bring certain proof of all i assert!--set the dogs upon me, indeed! my own brother, too!" these words fell like a stroke of thunder upon all who were present. the astonished guests gathered together in the background; madame arnoldi clasped her daughter anxiously in her arms, as if she feared some one would tear her away from her; and the minister exclaimed, in a tone stifled by emotion: "proofs! proofs! i must have full and certain proofs of this horrible story." my dear, dearest sister! i know your tender heart is beating fast; that your eyes are too full of tears to see clearly, and that, trembling with fear and excitement, you are striving to read on! i, too, suffered intensely. i grasped my walter's hand as if i was determined never to give him up. alas! my throbbing heart rapidly divined the truth, but it was no time for me to speak, for the angry woman rapidly proceeded in her strange narration. "my mother, seduced by your wealth, determined that her darling little peter should be your heir. in order to carry out this scheme, she commanded me one day, shortly after the death of my father, to get little walter ready, for that she intended to take him to another town at a considerable distance, and place him with her aunt as her own peter, while she intended to make the real peter pass as your walter. she concluded, however, afterwards to alter her plan. she made me write a letter, recommending the child to the compassion of all men. as i saw her sew this paper tight upon the dress of the little boy, i thought it more than probable that she would not take him as far as her aunt's. i pitied the beautiful child sorely, for i could not help loving him; but i was dreadfully afraid of my mother, and i did not dare to refuse to do as she told me. i fastened securely and secretly around walter the locket which you had hung on his neck when you parted from him; and when my mother asked for it, i told her that peter had had it to play with, and had thrown it into the well. every word i have spoken is true. i can tell you where your own son is,--for i soon found out what my mother had done with him, and have always, without exciting any suspicion, kept myself fully informed about the fate of your forsaken boy. the well-known clock-maker burg, now residing in d----, has adopted him as his own son!" you must have already divined, my poor christina, that this announcement was coming: imagine what an impression these words must have made on all the by-standers! "burg! walter burg!" was echoed and reechoed from every quarter of the room. "walter burg is here!" cried madame arnoldi, suddenly, as she seized the cold hand of our almost benumbed darling. "father, here,--here is indeed your son!" "if he is," cried the woman, "he must produce the locket." walter trembled from head to foot as he produced that dear possession, which you know he has worn upon his heart ever since he left geremberg. arnoldi recognized it instantly! "it is a false imitation, only made to ruin me!" said the unhappy young man, whom the events of the last five minutes had transformed to a beggar. the minister touched the spring, which was only known to himself, the locket sprang open, and suffered the picture of a beautiful woman to be seen. it was walter's mother! doubt was no longer possible. "my son! my forsaken son!" cried the minister. "our son! our artist son!" said his wife. "my brother! my own dear brother!" exclaimed sophie. six loving arms embraced the bewildered, happy, rich, and noble walter! and i? ah, christina! my dear sister! i drew back into a quiet corner, buried my face in my hands, while the hot tears coursed their rapid way down my cheeks, and tried to reprove my weak, selfish, foolish heart, which whispered ever to me: "poor, poor father! you have no longer a son! for the rich son of the minister you can do nothing more! he is yours no longer!" i must confess, my heart, that this was very selfish! it was human, indeed, but not christian. did we bring up walter so carefully only for ourselves? have we loved him solely because he made us happy, and not for his own sweet sake? who should rejoice over his present good fortune more than we? for although we love him so very dearly, yet nothing in this world can possibly replace the love of tender parents, the affection of brothers and sisters! therefore, christina, we will rejoice with our dear walter from the very depths of our hearts! we will humbly thank the merciful one that he chose us to shelter his early life, to keep him pure from evil, and to turn his young and grateful soul to the worship of his god! this happiness we have enjoyed in its purity; it will accompany us to our latest hour; its memory will never cease to refresh and console us. my good, my pious, my beloved sister! i call upon you in this hour to make with me this heavy yet righteous sacrifice; for it is our duty to give back the blessed names, which make the heart happy, of father and mother, into the hands of those who claim them by the divine right of nature. after the first intense excitement had subsided, after walter, in the arms of his parents and amid the tender caresses of his lovely sister, had somewhat regained his bewildered consciousness, the first thought of his true heart was for me! he tore himself free from their clasping arms; he hastened to me, threw himself upon my heart, and said, as he wept: "father burg! o, say you will still be my father! o, what would have become of me if you had not taken pity upon me? happy, happy man that i am! i have now two fathers and two mothers!" "yes, and a sister that loves you too!" said little sophie. now you see, my dear christina, that walter will still remain our son! i am very much tired, for these scenes have been full of excitement for my heart. this long letter has also wearied me, and the fear of distressing you, my dear, true sister, has so exhausted me, that i do not feel able to write to you a description of the never-ending joy-festivals of the family of arnoldi. i will relate all this better to you by word of mouth, for i will follow this letter almost immediately, and i will bring you as many guests as your little house can well hold,--the minister, his wife, his daughter, and his and our son. yes, my christina! you shall soon again clasp the happy walter to your true heart; you shall soon learn to know the dear ones to whom he now justly belongs; you shall receive the earnest thanks of his grateful father for your holy care of the forsaken orphan; while the beings with whom it has been the pleasure of god to place us in such relations shall learn to esteem and honor your gentle virtues! will you not, after a few natural tears, my christina, rejoice with us all in walter's good fortune? i will come the day before the arrival of our guests, so that i soon hope to hold you to my heart! god be ever with you, my beloved sister! your loving brother, christian burg. the minister arnoldi lived in st. petersburg, where he had inherited a handsome property. as his young wife became quite sickly there, by the advice of her physician he took her to germany. but it was only for a short time that he was allowed to cherish a hope of her ultimate recovery there. the young wife was seized with a most depressing attack of home-sickness; he was forced to yield to her wishes, and, notwithstanding the advanced season of the year, to commence with the poor sufferer their trying journey home. when they had arrived at one of the little towns in the north of germany, her situation became so critical that it was found impossible to continue their homeward route, and soon after he wept beside the coffin of his young spouse. after she had presented him with a son, she slumbered softly on, until her sleep became the long and dreamless one of death. the poor widower, with his helpless orphan in his arms, stood, without counsel or friends, by the early grave of his wife. it was late in the autumn; the weather was cold and stormy; how could he venture to undertake such an unpleasant journey with his new-born and delicate infant. no choice remained to him but to adopt the means often taken in large cities for the nursing and bringing up of little children; he trusted his greatest treasure, his only and darling son, to the wife of a peasant. she was to be his wet-nurse, and to assume the whole charge of the infant. the pastor of the parish promised to keep an attentive eye upon the child, and the woman was to receive through him a rich reward for her trouble. before arnoldi parted from his little walter, he hung a locket containing a picture of his mother round his neck, and, oppressed with anxiety and pain, he set out on his lonely journey home. the deception and cruel desertion of the woman are already known to the reader. if it had not been for the sudden death of the worthy pastor, it would have been impossible for her to have carried such a wicked scheme into execution. she passed off peter as walter arnoldi, and told the neighbors that she had taken her own child to her sister, because the boys disliked each other, and were constantly quarrelling. years passed on. arnoldi was constantly occupied in the most important business, and, as he feared the effect of a change of climate upon the constitution of his son, he thought it best for the boy to be permitted to remain with his nurse, who constantly gave the most encouraging accounts of his increasing strength and of his unbroken good health. besides, arnoldi had married again, and was very happy in his second union, while the birth of a daughter placed the memory of the son whom he had never known still more in the background. after he had taken a house and settled himself finally in hamburg, he sent a faithful servant to bring home his only son. he was almost frightened when the ugly, awkward, rough, little boy was presented to him as his child. he reproached himself bitterly with having left him so long in such rough hands, and sought through redoubled love and attention to compensate for the time he had permitted him to be with entire strangers. but all his care and trouble availed but little; his son assumed, indeed, the outward form of refined society, but his mind continued rough and unformed. lazy and idle for all mental effort, he was very cunning and skilful in reaching his own low aims. his sister had told him on his departure who he really was, and that it was his duty to send her plenty of money as a reward for keeping his secret. he thought it proper to do this at first, but he soon gave it up. thereupon, she threatened him to disclose all, and he again sent her money. at last, she received nothing but the advice to trouble him no more. this seemed to awaken martha's long slumbering conscience. being once on a visit at d----, she heard accidentally that the clock-maker burg had adopted a child who had been exposed and deserted at geremburg. she now knew where the little boy, whom she had left in possession of the locket, was to be found. she visited hamburg with the intention of getting money from her brother, by constantly threatening to betray his secret to the minister. she did not know that walter was then in hamburg. the harsh reception given her by her brother irritated her almost to madness, so that she betrayed more than she had any intention of doing. but that beneficent god, from whom no secrets are hidden, had arranged it in such a manner that all who were concerned were to meet at the proper time and place. the minister was so overjoyed at the turn things had taken, that he never thought of inflicting any punishment. he rewarded martha liberally for her late confession, and promised to peter meyer (who devoutly persisted in saying that he had not believed a single word of martha's story, and that, until he saw the miniature inclosed in the locket, he thought that he was truly walter arnoldi) a considerable capital, which was to be paid out to him as soon as he should have mastered any available business, or was willing to commence any reputable occupation. peter, who now plainly saw that he was forced to relinquish all his hopes as heir, promised to be more industrious; and as he evinced an inclination to go to sea, he was intrusted with a situation on a trading-vessel which had once belonged to the minister. walter became, as was to be expected, an artist of the highest fame, and many celebrated performers were formed in his school. he preserved his childlike love and reverence for his adopted parents to the hour of their death; he passed a certain portion of every year in the neat little house in which he had spent the happiest days of his childhood. the pious brother and sister gave their property at their death to the poor; but walter had purchased, during their lifetime, the house and garden, with all the clocks and pieces of exquisite mechanism, and founded an institution, of which it was one of the conditions that everything within the beloved inclosure of christina's garden, everything within the walls of her quiet home, should remain for ever undisturbed,--consecrated to the honor and sacred to the memory of christina and christian burg! conclusion. the spirit of music and the guardian angel. "knowledge by suffering entereth; and life is perfected by death!" after a long life full of honor and blessings, the great maestro, walter arnoldi, was called from this earth to the better land. the pale angel of death, the spirit of music, and his own guardian angel, stood at his bedside. the starry light again glittered round and through the aerial form of the fair spirit of music; the tones of her strange voice were sad, but soothing. she held a glossy wreath, made of the undying leaves of the consecrated laurel; and as she bent to twine it round the pale but calm brow of the artist, she kissed again his broad forehead, and said: "thou wert a true priest in the service to which i consecrated thee. lo! i have made thy name immortal. my early kiss did not lead thee to destruction, but kept thy noble soul ever pure from the stains which pollute the common mass of men." "that was because i led him where he could learn to know the light of life,--the son of the virgin!" said the guardian angel. "without such knowledge, he would have been ruined; for vanity and pride, falsehood and selfishness, stand continually around the gifted, to seduce them from their duty, to lead the undying soul into the snares of hell. but he humbly bowed before the greatness of his creator, because he had learned to know the victim lamb; he loved him, and believed on his name, to the last hour of his life. he did not claim the glory of his genius as a distinction for himself alone; he used it for the honor of his god! therefore am i sent to bear the faithful soul home to the throne of god, where, in the tones of heaven, he shall sing eternal praises!" "and high and earnest song shall accompany him on his upward way!" said the spirit of music, fondly. the hymn of praise, in the unearthly glory of its heavenly tones, broke from the inspired lips of the glittering and radiant spirit. a smile of strange rapture transfigured the face of the noble artist, as the music of heaven mingled with the memories of his kindred labors upon earth. at that moment the pale angel of death kissed his quivering lips, and the three happy spirits, full of joy, bore the redeemed soul to the throne of god! in the morning, the scholars found their beloved master dead, and his head already crowned with a glittering wreath of deep-green laurel. vain were all their efforts to ascertain what unknown hand had twined it there. unfaded and unfading, it still lies upon the quiet grave of the true and faithful artist! benevolence and gratitude, or the russian officer. chapter i. the reign of frederick the great, king of prussia, was disturbed by a series of bloody wars, and numerous were the enemies whom his brave people encountered upon all sides. these struggles were illustrated by many deeds worthy of undying renown, and the number of those who proved their love to their king and country, by the sacrifice of life itself, was fearful. blooming striplings, the sole hope of their aged parents, stout men, the stay and comfort of their families, and noble leaders, whose worth and abilities were universally acknowledged, all fell in the bloody battles, and apparently in vain, for peace seemed as distant as ever. the russians, under count fermor, invaded east prussia, which frederick could not defend, owing to its distance from the main body of his states. this province yielded, and the count crossed poland and pomerania with his eighty thousand men, prepared to carry the war into the very heart of the country. he attacked the city of küstrin, which he reduced in a few hours to a heap of ashes. the citadel alone remained standing, and the prussian commandant determined to perish with it, rather than yield. information was speedily brought that frederick himself was approaching, and this news saved the fortress; for the russians quitted küstrin, and, marching northward, encamped at zorndorf, between the wartha and the oder. a most bloody battle was soon after fought in this place. frederick advanced upon the enemy, who were formidable, not only from their vast superiority in numbers, but also from their incredible hardihood. the prussians must be victorious, or their very capital would soon be in the power of the enemy, and their whole country lie at the mercy of the russians. frederick knew this well, and determined not only to defeat, but to annihilate, his foe. he commanded his men to give no quarter, and to destroy all who fell in their way. the battle was long and desperate. the right wing of the russian army was finally driven into a swamp, surrounded, and hewn down by the prussians, scarcely a man escaping; while the left, eager to avenge their slaughtered brethren, made a most furious onslaught. but, notwithstanding their desperate courage, they were driven back, and obliged to quit the field. the ammunition was all exhausted upon both sides, and the fight was hand to hand, with sword and bayonet, when the night came on and put an end to the bloody strife. the prussians awaited its renewal with the coming dawn, for count fermor had drawn up his men in order beyond the swamp; but, after lingering in the neighborhood during the whole of the next day, he finally withdrew with his army towards poland, leaving twenty thousand dead upon the field of battle. a few days after the occurrences just related, a lively scene was passing in a little town not far from berlin. the streets were crowded with people, especially the market-place, with its tall, neat houses, whose polished window-panes shone clearly in the bright sunlight. it was sunday. well-dressed dames and young maidens, with their hymn-books in their folded hands, and their eyes cast modestly upon the ground, were hastening to the open churches, while their husbands and brothers gathered in groups before the doors to enjoy a little neighborly conversation. the deeds of the great king were upon every tongue; the last battle was variously discussed, and many an honest burgher, who had never passed the limits of his own little town, thought himself quite wise and experienced enough to play the critic. "ah, good morning to you, brother!" cried the stout grocer bolt to his brother-in-law, doctor heller, who at this moment came down the street, accompanied by two other citizens of the town. "whither away so fast? won't you step in and breakfast with me? i will give you a glass of beer that can't be matched. i never drank better in my whole life; and that is saying a great deal, for many and many's the brewing that i have tasted!" "thank you, my good friend," replied the doctor, as he heartily shook his brother's hand; "thank you, but i must accompany these gentlemen immediately, notwithstanding your enticing offer of beer. but, my old friend, you will keep it until evening, when i can come in and share it with you, will you not? you see i am bound to the hospital. the last battle cost many a poor fellow a broken head, and several of the wounded soldiers are to be brought here, because the nearer hospitals are all filled to overflowing. if i am not mistaken, we are to have a russian, too, upon our hands, to be taken care of." "thunder and lightning!" blustered the grocer. "a russian! are we to entertain and nurse our worst enemies? that is too bad. i would rather let a whole regiment of austrians, frenchmen, saxons, or whatever names the rascals may be called by, range at will through my house, than harbor a single russian. they are worse than savages, and more cruel than the fiercest wild beasts. yes, indeed, my good brother, you had better keep your russian far enough away from my clutches!" "come, come!" said the doctor, soothingly, "i too hate the russians with all my heart, but we must feel as human beings, even towards our enemies; and the poor fellow they will send us here can do us no harm. he may have lost a leg or an arm, and even if his wounds be not severe--" "what! the devil!" interrupted bolt. "if my leg or my arm had been shot off, that would have been the end of me. but surely these russians are not made of the same flesh and blood as we germans! i will lay you a wager now, whatever you please, that without either arms or legs they would burn the houses over our heads. but look! how lively the burgomaster's granddaughter is to-day! your servant, miss ella!" this greeting was addressed to a little girl, who had just thrust her curly head through the half-opened doorway of the opposite house. "good morning, neighbor!" replied the child, friendlily, as she skipped up and down the steps to tease her playmate, a large brown spaniel. the men watched the little one's wild bounds for a moment, when the fat grocer broke the silence by muttering, half angrily: "the old man over there lets that child do whatever she pleases." "who can wonder at that?" replied doctor heller, as he shook his brother-in-law's hand previous to parting from him. "the little maiden is so very lovely! and we should do no better if she belonged to either of us. but now farewell, old friend! i have already wasted too much time in gossiping; and do not forget the beer i am to have this evening." after this last remembrance, he hastened away with his two companions. the little girl had meanwhile seated herself upon the uppermost step of the portico. "atlas!" she cried to the dog, which had now run into the street, "my atlas, will you not come to me?" the animal ran swiftly towards her, and seated himself lovingly by her side. she threw her arms around his shaggy neck, and leaned her tender chin upon his great head. doctor heller had spoken truly when he said, "the little maiden is so very lovely!" for ella was indeed a beautiful child. her dark hair fell in long ringlets upon her white neck, her forehead was broad and smooth, her cheeks faintly tinged with red, her large brown eyes, shaded by the long lashes which hung over them as a mourning veil, were filled with the light beaming from a tender and loving soul, and her fresh young mouth, with its smiling lips, was so charming, that the grocer, who was now seated upon the green-painted bench before his shop-door, could not take his eyes from her lovely face. the old burgomaster soon opened the window. "ella, my dear ella!" he cried, "do not go into the street. had you not better come in, my child?" [illustration: ella and atlas.] but ella threw up her beseeching eyes, and said to the old man: "indeed i will not go down, grandfather; i will sit here quite quietly: but do, pray, let me stay out a little longer. i would so like to see all those wagons pass which have just turned into our street." the burgomaster could not resist her gentle entreaty, and nodded a kindly yes, saying: "well, then, you may stay, you little coaxing pussy; but do not forget that to-day is sunday, and that mother and i are waiting for you to come and read the gospel to us." he then closed the window slowly, while his eyes rested full of love and kindness upon the joy of his heart, his little grandchild. she certainly did not hear her grandfather's last words, for her whole attention was fixed upon a long train of vehicles, which were moving along as slowly as if they formed part of a funeral procession. ella sat and gazed upon them. the front wagon finally came quite near, and she then discovered the cause of the slow pace at which they proceeded. upon the straw which covered the bottoms of the vehicles human forms, clothed in torn uniforms, were lying, and every jolt upon the rough stone pavement seemed to send a thrill of agony through their sensitive frames. little ella's tender heart was deeply touched by the sight of this mournful train; bright tears hung upon her long lashes, and her slender arms involuntarily closed still more tightly around the dog's neck. she pressed him to her bosom, as if she would thus quiet the throbbing of her compassionate heart. the last wagon at length passed before the door. within it was a young man, who half sat and half reclined upon the straw, and whose uniform, differing entirely from that of the others, showed him to be an officer. he had evidently been severely wounded. his left arm was in a sling, and he supported his head, enveloped in a rude bandage, upon his right hand. both the bandage and the tattered uniform were covered with dark-red blood-stains. as the wagon was passing the burgomaster's house, a trace broke, and the driver left his seat to fasten it. the wounded man looked up, and, observing the child sitting upon the steps, he raised himself with considerable difficulty, and drew his hand slowly across his aching brow. a single look, imploring pity, fell upon ella; and he then sank back motionless and unconscious upon the straw. the wagon moved on, and the driver seemed to pay more heed to his horses than to his wounded passenger. the little girl's tears fell thick and fast; she watched him until he had disappeared with the others around a corner. she then made a sign to the dog, rose quickly, and, as if inspired by some sudden resolution, hastily entered the house. still deeply moved, and her eyes filled with tears, she opened the door which led to her mother's apartment. the room was richly and carefully furnished, and bespoke the wealth and taste of its inmates. the long, flowing window-curtains prevented the sun from shining in too brightly; and only here and there could a few beams pierce through a crevice, and as they fell on the floor, they seemed to sport among the roses adorning the cheerful carpet. ella's mother sat in a high-backed red-velvet arm-chair. she was the widow of an officer,--major von herbart. still in the prime of life, she bore on her countenance, which had once been very beautiful, the traces of a deep sorrow. a dress of pearl-gray merino fell in soft folds around her graceful figure, and her luxuriant dark hair was covered by a simple lace cap. she leaned against the crimson covering of the chair-back, which rose high above her head, and her delicate hand held a bible, in which she seemed to have been reading. her eyes were fixed upon the portrait of a young officer, which hung against the wall opposite to her; and hence she did not remark her daughter's entrance, until ella had seated herself upon a little stool at her mother's feet, and pressed a soft kiss upon the beloved hand. "naughty child!" said the mother, as she stroked the hair back from the fair young forehead with her white fingers, "how you startled me! and how long you have delayed to-day to read your bible to your dear grandfather and myself!" before ella could respond to this gentle reproach, the old burgomaster entered the room, and seated himself silently in his accustomed place, near his daughter. ella took the bible from her mother's lap, and, with a faint and trembling voice, began to read the parable of the good samaritan, upon which she had accidentally opened. she had often before heard this simple history,--indeed, she almost knew it by heart; but never before had its meaning appeared so clear to her, or penetrated so deeply into her soul. her voice became firmer, and the words resounded more and more significantly from her lips, until, steadfastly fixing her gaze upon her grandfather's face, she gave utterance to this sentence: "and he went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him." but here she suddenly ceased reading, sprang up, and, throwing her arms around the old man's neck, said: "my dear, my good grandfather! will you not grant your ella one prayer,--only one? it is something you can do, if you only will; indeed, it will not be hard for you,--only please say 'yes,' before i tell it to you!" "another prayer already, my little darling?" replied the burgomaster, smiling. "have you so soon found out that your old grandfather is too weak and fond to deny you anything? but, be it what it may, i promise you beforehand, that, if i can fulfil your wish, i will do so; but out with it, and do not be hiding behind the bushes, for you know how little that pleases me." "no, no," said ella, quickly, "i have nothing to hide; you shall know all. you surely saw the wounded men who were brought here to-day, and who, as you told us yesterday, are to be taken to the hospital. their necessities will i know be there supplied, but still i am certain many things will be wanting which would render their sad fate easier to bear." "you are right, my ella; they cannot find there all they may require, for our town is not large, and very few are the benevolent hearts willing to make a voluntary offering, after the many heavy taxes we have all been forced to pay. but you must not forget, my child, that the men who have thus excited your compassion are soldiers, and consequently not so spoiled as you are. they can easily do without a thousand comforts which long custom has rendered necessary to your well-being. a soldier, who has passed many a night upon the open field, without other couch than the cold, damp earth, a stone for his pillow, and a cloak his only covering, has no need of a soft feather-bed to rest quietly and soundly; a good bunch of straw is all he requires." the child sighed deeply. the image of the wounded officer who had fallen back fainting upon the straw, the pleading look which his mournful eyes had cast upon her, would not quit her excited fancy, and the desire of assisting him became ever stronger and deeper. "ah!" said she, after a short pause, "i would not lie in that hospital for anything in the world! i was once there when our coachman's wife had a fever, but i was soon obliged to leave the room; the dreadful heat and poisoned air nearly stifled me, and i certainly should have died, had i been forced to remain there long. the common soldiers may indeed be accustomed to bear much greater hardships; but i saw some officers lying upon the wagons, and they must suffer a great deal. you have promised, dear grandfather, to grant my request: take then one, only one, of those poor fellows into your own house. others will follow your example, and thus may at least some of them be well cared for. o, do not look so doubtingly!" continued ella, in her gentlest and most persuasive accents; "i am sure your heart assents to my wish, even if your lips be silent." the little girl did not wait for an answer, but left the room, and in a few moments returned with her grandfather's hat and cane. she placed them both in his hands, tied on her bonnet, threw a light shawl round her shoulders; and, having pressed a warm kiss upon her mother's lips, she led out the half-reluctant old man, who scarcely yet comprehended what he was expected to do. the widow gazed with tearful eyes upon her little daughter's retreating figure. ella's cheeks soon glowed from the effects of her rapid pace; her dark locks floated in the wind, and her eyes sparkled with joy. she hastened onwards faster and faster, greeting with a gracious smile all the acquaintances whom she met, while from time to time she turned her head back towards the old man, who in vain signed to her that she must moderate her steps. the hospital was soon reached. it was an old building, whose gray walls had already seen many centuries; its lofty windows were filled with numerous little panes, a portion of which were broken out; and the whole aspect of the sombre edifice was such, that no one could wonder at its gloomy effect upon a child's susceptible imagination. ella shuddered as her foot crossed the threshold. she remembered the dismal scenes she had once before witnessed within these melancholy walls; and, starting back, she covered her face with both hands. but they were not long suffered to remain in this position, for her grandfather soon clasped them in his own, and said, laughing, "aha, little deer! have i caught you at last? but now you are my prisoner, and i shall not let you escape, or you will run away from me again, and i am already out of breath." "o no!" cried ella, shuddering, "i could have gone no farther alone. this great old building fills me with dread. hold me tight, dear grandfather, or i shall be so afraid!" the burgomaster opened the door, and they entered a long, dark passage, in which they met doctor heller. "only see, now!" cried the doctor, as his wondering eyes fell upon ella and her grandfather; "here are the burgomaster and the little lady in our old dingy castle. to what happy accident do we owe this honor?" "good day, doctor!" replied the burgomaster, friendlily. "i came to see how your patients are doing, especially the new-comers." "o, quite well,--excellently!" answered the doctor, gayly rubbing his hands. "they are well lodged, and the greater number have already had their wounds dressed; i will bring them all well through." "o, take us to see them!" besought ella, interrupting him somewhat impatiently. the doctor looked inquiringly at the burgomaster. "you must do as she pleases," said the latter, clapping his hand upon the physician's shoulder; while he added, jestingly, "i believe my little granddaughter has some intention of dabbling in your trade; we will see how she will manage it." the doctor laughed. "now judge for yourselves," said he, as he ushered them into a spacious hall crowded with the wounded men; "are not those soldiers as well lodged and cared for as if they were princes?" the burgomaster shook his head as he replied gently: "not quite so, but they must be content, for it is the best we can do for them. i think, however, that some improvements might be made; if, for example, we were to repair the dilapidated rooms upon the other side of the building. but where is ella?" he exclaimed, as he missed the child from his side. "there she is," said the doctor, somewhat vexed that his arrangements had not met with a more cordial approval; "yonder, by the middle window." the burgomaster turned towards the spot indicated. upon a heap of straw covered with a coarse cloth, lay the apparently lifeless body of a young man. a feeble sunbeam, which found its way through the dingy window-panes, fell upon his pallid face, and revealed a deep, gaping wound upon his forehead. long black hair hung in disorder round his temples. his pale lips, shaded by a dark moustache, were rigidly closed, and his right hand was tightly pressed upon his breast, which was not stirred by the faintest sign of breath. ella hung over the body with her little hands folded together, apparently absorbed in thought. as her grandfather approached, she rose and said: "only see! there he is. i knew him at once!" "who is it? whom have you recognized?" asked the astonished burgomaster. "certainly not this young man; i do not remember having ever seen him before!" "but i saw him," replied ella, quickly, as she vainly endeavored to hide her tears; "i saw him as he rode past our door, and he saw me too, for he looked at me so piteously, as if he would have said, 'o do help me!' and then he closed his eyes and fainted. but he is not dead, i am sure he is not, grandfather! let us take him home to my little room, and he will soon recover. you shall have no trouble with him, nor my dear mother either; i promise you that i will care for everything!" the old gentleman shook his head, and, turning to the doctor, said: "judging from his uniform, this young man cannot belong to our army. but why has not some one attempted to restore him to life? apparently, no efforts have as yet been made to aid him!" "he is only a russian!" replied the doctor, contemptuously; "there is no need for any great hurry about him!" "a russian!" cried the astonished burgomaster. "a russian!" repeated ella, horrified, as all the cruel scenes of which she had been told, in which the russians had played so prominent a part, passed before her mind. "yes, a russian!" said the doctor, coldly; "and now, my little lady, i am sure you will renounce your design of having this man removed to your grandfather's house. besides, we can scarcely hope that his eyes will ever again open; and if he can be helped," he continued, half angrily, "it can be done as well here as elsewhere." ella again placed herself beside the wounded man; all her fear had vanished; one look upon the pale young face had told her that all the russians could not be so bad as they had been represented. "but how can this one ever do us any harm?" she cried, again renewing her entreaties to her grandfather. the old gentleman was at first very averse to granting her request, but all the arguments which he drew from the almost universal prejudices then existing against the young man's nation proved fruitless. ella begged and prayed, until he finally yielded. an arrangement was made by which the wounded man was to be carefully borne to the burgomaster's upon a litter, which the doctor promised himself to accompany. ella and her grandfather hastened home to prepare all for his reception. the child proposed to give up her own little room to the stranger, because, as she said, her flowers would please him, and he would be less disturbed by the noise from the street. "but where will you sleep yourself during so long a time?" asked ella's mother, who was evidently well pleased with her little girl's activity, as she ordered her bed to be exchanged for another, hastily put away her playthings, shut her books up in a closet, and, although everything looked very orderly, still found something new to arrange. "i?" replied ella, somewhat embarrassed, and standing for a moment irresolute; "i never thought of that!" then, as if struck by a sudden inspiration, she ran to her mother, threw her arms around her neck, and cried, laughing: "will you not, my dear mother, if i beg you right hard, take me into your own room, me and my atlas? atlas only wants a little place in a corner, and you can let my little bed stand near yours, as it used to do. that will be delightful! i shall enjoy it so much, for early in the morning i can put my head in between the curtains, lift the cover very softly, and, before you know it, i will be right close to you; then you will fold me in your arms, and we will together pray to god never to part us." the child thus prattled on until the flow of her discourse was interrupted by the arrival of the unfortunate man, for whose sake she had been making all these preparations. "ha!" cried the doctor, as he entered the room, "i can believe that one might be well satisfied here; it looks like a little paradise. come in, my men, and help me to lay this poor fellow upon the bed,--so. now you may go.--but, most gracious lady, your most obedient! pardon me, that in the confusion i did not observe you sooner. your daughter has brought plenty of trouble into your house; but the old gentleman must bear all the blame; he should not have permitted himself to be so easily persuaded." "do you then think, my dear doctor, that i have so little compassion?" asked the mother, interrupting him. "do you think that i would fear a little discomfort when a suffering fellow-creature could be aided? o, i would willingly make still greater sacrifices," she continued, as she clasped the hand of the unconscious youth, "if i could recall life into this young frame,--a life upon which may perhaps depend that of a loving mother!" the doctor laughed scornfully, and muttered, "as if a russian could have any feeling!" no one heeded this speech, and he continued: "the wound upon the head is not dangerous; i have just dressed it, and there will be no need of amputating the arm. he seems much exhausted from loss of blood, for he has lain in this position during several hours." at this moment the wounded man opened his eyes, which he, however, immediately reclosed, as if blinded by the light; a slight tinge of color flushed his pale cheek, and a faint sigh escaped his lips. "he lives!" cried ella, joyfully, "he has opened his eyes!" but the doctor quickly laid his finger on his lips, in token that entire quiet was necessary, while he at the same time shut out the light by closing the curtains. a soft twilight thus pervaded the room, and all looks were turned in expectation towards the young russian, who again opened his eyes, which rested upon those around him, at first with an expression of doubt and amazement, but finally beamed with the most delighted surprise. he sought in vain to rise; he sank back exhausted upon the pillows, and equally fruitless were his efforts to articulate a single word. with some difficulty he seized upon ella's hand, and pressed it to his heart. this movement told the child very plainly that she had been recognized. she could scarcely conceal her joy. but the physician, who was anxious to avoid every emotion which might prove injurious to the patient in his present state, desired that for a little while he should be left alone. he promised to send an experienced nurse, and to call again in the course of the day. with difficulty could ella be persuaded to leave her charge; she followed her mother unwillingly, and gazed upon the wounded man until the door of the apartment had closed behind her. chapter ii. the letter. one day, about four weeks after the occurrences related in our last chapter, madame von herbart was seated in a neat little cabinet, where she usually passed her morning hours, employed in the instruction of her daughter. through the open door, which offered a pleasant view into a beautiful garden, whose trees and parterres were already tinged with the brilliant hues of autumn, a whole flood of perfumes streamed into the pretty apartment. the widow sat by her writing-table opposite the door, with ella by her side attentively listening to her mother's words, while she related the history of the noble and high-hearted, but unfortunate grand-master, henry von plauen. she graphically detailed to her daughter the shameful web of hatred, envy, and treachery which caused the downfall of this truly great man. with glowing words she painted the blackness of the ingratitude with which he was rewarded by the very brethren of the order which he had himself saved from ruin by his own exertions, and how they robbed him of all his dignities and honors, keeping a close watch upon him until death freed him from their persecution. "o my child!" she continued, "how great is the sin of ingratitude! what depravity does it not evince, to distress and injure those who have only done us good! such a deed is never suffered to pass unpunished by a righteous heaven, and the german order stands as a warning example in history; for the overthrow of the high-hearted plauen was the first step in its own downfall." "may i come in?" asked a gentle but manly voice, at this moment interrupting the narrative of madame von herbart. ella sprang up from her seat, exclaiming, "it is theodore!" and hastened to the door. the wounded russian could scarcely be recognized in the young man who now approached the widow with a light tread, had it not been for the bandage which was still wound about his brow, and the sling in which his left hand rested. although his wounds were not yet entirely healed, the short time had produced a wonderful change in his appearance. instead of the deathly pallor, a healthy red tinged his youthful cheeks, his dull, sunken eyes had regained their fire; in short, a change had taken place in his whole exterior, similar to that we may often perceive when the caterpillar, after an apparent death, suddenly throws off his ugly shell and flutters around us as a beautiful butterfly. "may i hope for your pardon, my gracious lady?" asked the young man, in fluent but slightly foreign german, while he reverentially lifted madame von herbart's hand to his lips. "may i hope that you will pardon my boldness in having interrupted you?" madame von herbart signed to him to be seated upon an arm-chair which ella had just left, and said kindly: "your unexpected appearance gives great pleasure. i congratulate you upon the happy termination of your tedious captivity. you have not disturbed us, for ella's school-hours are just ended." "you teach your daughter yourself?" asked the young russian, somewhat surprised. "i am too jealous of the love of my only child," replied madame von herbart, "to trust any stranger with so important a share of my maternal duties. i often feel the insufficiency of my own acquirements, but i shun no labor in learning all myself which i judge necessary for my child; and thus, while forming her mind, i can at the same time influence her heart. it is said," she added, smiling, "that all mothers think their own children prodigies of loveliness; but though i flatter myself this is not my case, for i know my ella's faults, yet i venture to hope that she will correct them all, through love for a mother who, since her beloved husband's death, has found her purest and highest happiness in the education of her daughter." a dark shadow, a painful contraction, apparently caused by the remembrance of past days, passed over theodore's features. he endeavored to conceal the depth of his inward emotion, and cried out: "what is higher and holier in the world than a mother's love?" after a moment's pause, he added, as if speaking to himself: "and what can be more painful than to be forced to part with this heavenly affection early in life?" madame von herbart laid her hand upon the young man's head, as if in the act of blessing him, and said tenderly: "poor boy! you must have been very young when you were torn from the protection of a loving home, and thrust into the world. scarcely yet a man, you have already used the bloody sword which your feeble hands could hardly lift. your compatriots have deeply injured my country, and you, too, came as an enemy upon the soil so dear to me; your wounds show that you wore your arms as no idle ornaments, and yet i cannot hate you, for he who needs our aid is no longer an enemy. you are a russian, and you weep?" she continued, gently raising the young man's head, which had fallen upon his breast. "i have often heard that the russians were all rough and cruel, and yet you weep. o, do not be ashamed of your tears! they prove the goodness of your heart, and justify the sympathy you have excited within my soul." "o my dear benefactress!" exclaimed theodore, "where shall i find words to thank you? could you read my heart,--could you see how the thought of the priceless benefits you have showered upon me fills my whole soul,--how all my feelings are fused into an overwhelming sense of gratitude, which i struggle in vain to express,--you would not wonder at my silence. what true nobility did it not require to take an enemy of your country into your own house, and nurse and treat him with such kindness as you have shown to me!" theodore was in the highest state of excitement, and again pressed his lips upon the lady's hand. she gently drew it from his clasp, and said, mildly: "but how excited you are! what would doctor heller say, were he to see you now? he would think that the fever, which during so many weeks sent the blood seething through your veins, had again seized upon you, and he would quickly withdraw his permission for you to leave your chamber. away with all thoughts which could be injurious to your health! and now avail yourself of the doctor's leave to take a stroll in the garden; your little nurse, to whom you owe much more than to me, shall accompany you." "ah, my little ella!" cried theodore, making an effort to appear more calm than he really was, "if you will be my guide, the garden, which as yet i have only seen from my windows, will seem to me doubly beautiful." he then lifted up the child with his uninjured right arm, and kissed and fondled her with a thousand expressions of his gratitude. "but now we must be good children, and do as mamma bids," said he, at length, taking ella's hand, and leading her out into the garden. in a few moments both had disappeared among the old trees. we will leave the mother alone in her perfumed cabinet, where she drew from one corner of her writing-desk a package of letters, written to her by her late husband before their marriage; we will leave her with these dearly treasured pages, already wet with so many tears, and follow the youthful pair, whom we again find at the end of a shady avenue of lindens. "take these pears," said ella to her companion. "they are quite ripe, and my mother planted the tree which bore them before she was as old as i am now; she prefers pears to all other fruits. but you are not gay," she continued, looking true-heartedly into the young man's eyes. "are you thinking of your mother who is dead?" she waited in vain for an answer, and then prattled on: "my father is dead, too; he fought at collin, under ziethen, and as he led his soldiers to seize upon a battery which was doing much harm to the prussians, a wicked bullet struck him. i cried a great deal, and mamma always weeps whenever she thinks of him, and of my dear brother, who soon followed my father. ah, if victor were only alive! he loved me so dearly, and it was such a pleasure to play with him; but since god took him to his beautiful heaven, i like best to stay with mamma and my old grandfather. and when i want to run about awhile, i call atlas, papa's favorite dog, for i do not care to play with other children." "and do you not like, then, to stay with me, my ella?" asked the young man. "o yes, i do, indeed! i love you very much. while you were sick i brought you the most beautiful flowers, and the finest fruit from the garden, but you would scarcely ever taste it. sometimes you seemed to recognize me, and then you would press my hand to your lips, which burned like fire; but you would often push me away from you, and speak words which i could not understand. my grandfather told me it was your mother tongue, and your delirium seemed to lead you again into the battle, for you gave orders, and cried several times, 'stand fast, comrades! stand fast! we will show that we do not fear death! let us conquer or die!' ah! then i often knelt down by the bed, and prayed god that he would soon make you well." "did you do that? did you, indeed, do that, my little angel?" asked theodore, drawing the child gently towards him, while his voice trembled with emotion, and his eyes filled with tears. "certainly i did it," replied ella; "and that is why you are well now, for god has promised that, if we call upon him when we are in trouble, he will save us; and as you could not pray yourself, i did it for you." the child ceased; they had just reached the end of the garden, and stood upon a little mound adorned with firs and birches, near a pleasure-house which bore some resemblance to a hermit's hut. "listen, theodore; you do not seem to like our garden," said ella reproachfully, while she laid her hand upon the door, "and yet every one says it is the prettiest in the city, and even strangers often ask for permission to walk through it. but only come in here, and then you will surely exclaim, how beautiful! how glorious!" the child led the young man through the open door with a triumphant air, as if quite sure of the impression to be produced. he looked round attentively. the walls of the little building were clothed with soft, velvety moss, which still retained its hue of tender green; many-colored shells were scattered round, some forming the initials of beloved names, and others disposed in fanciful arabesques. the tessellated floor was strewn with fresh flowers. on one side stood a comfortable sofa, and upon a low stool near the door lay a piece of woman's work, evidently just commenced. the whole made a most favorable impression upon the beholder; nevertheless theodore looked as if disappointed, and was about making this confession to his little friend, when she suddenly closed the door, and they stood together in the darkness. "will you play hide and go seek with me, ella?" cried theodore, laughing. but scarcely had he uttered these words, when the opposite wall opened as if by magic, and a loud cry of surprise and pleasure burst from his lips, while his eyes rested upon the lovely scene which he suddenly saw before him. ella stood near with folded arms, and sought to read in his face whether his delight was as great as she had anticipated. apparently satisfied with her observations, she stepped nearer to him, and, lightly mounting upon the stool, threw her left arm round his neck, and pointed with her right hand towards the valley, stretching beyond the houses of the little city lying at their feet. [illustration: ella and theodore.] "in our garden," she said seriously, "the trees are variously planted and trimmed; the blooming hedges are carefully trained, and my dear grandfather even had a pond made, because i am so fond of the water; but do you see all this? our good god arranged it all himself, and therefore is it much more beautiful than our garden. how pure and clear is the water of that little lake! see how the birches, with their white stems and long hanging branches, are reflected in its shining mirror; and how the cows pasture and the sheep play so gayly upon the green meadows. look beyond the lake at that great forest of fir-trees; how quietly the villages rest in its shadow, as if they thought themselves quite safe under its protection!" her hand still pointed towards the distant view, although theodore's eyes had long ceased to follow its direction, and rested upon the features of the little speaker. ella turned towards him, and, as if ashamed, cast down her eyes. "are you not glad," she said softly, "that god has made it all so beautiful?" theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his troubled breast and sighed: "what a struggle will it cost me to tear myself away! and yet i cannot remain much longer." "you are going away!" cried ella, looking up in dismay. "you are going to leave us!" she repeated mournfully, bursting into tears. theodore forced a smile to pacify the child. he kissed the bright drops from her cheek, and said: "fear nothing, my little one, i will not leave you yet. and for love of you i will again become a child; neither past nor future shall trouble me; i will yield myself entirely to the joy of the present, without looking backwards or forwards. but now, my little angel, leave me for a while!" with these words he led the child to the door, threw himself exhausted upon the sofa, laid his head upon the soft cushion, and, overcome by his unusual excitement, was soon in a deep sleep. he had thus rested about an hour, when he was awakened by a loud voice, which cried: "now, my young sir! what does all this mean? window and door both open, and there you lie and sleep. do you call that reasonable?" the speaker was frederick, the burgomaster's old servant. "i have been looking for you everywhere during the last hour, and if the little lady had not told me you were here, i might have been looking for you yet. i have a letter for you, brought by a little boy, who begged me to place it in your own hands. i have looked at the paper carefully on both sides, and as there is nothing on it but a line of crooked pot-hooks, that can harm nobody, i may as well give it to you. here it is." theodore rose slowly, took the note from the servant's hand, gazed long upon the characters, and finally sank back, pale as death, and gasping for breath. "what a curious people these russians are!" muttered frederick, angrily, while he gazed upon the young man with evident displeasure. "god knows i cannot bear a russian, as, indeed, no true-hearted prussian can; still, i thought they were men, but this one is no stronger than an old woman. he hangs his head as if the hens had picked up all his crumbs, and is so feeble that he can scarcely stand upon his feet, all because of a couple of sorry blows and a flesh wound, that one of us would not have cared a fig for. yes, yes, mr. ensign, or mr. captain, or whatever your title may be, you need not look so incredulous, for i was in both the first silesian wars, and have stood many a charge when blood fell fast as rain, and the austrians fled until it was a joy to see them. and when younger men shall be wanting, i may perhaps venture my old bones once more, especially if there be any chance of fighting the russians.--but, old fool that i am," continued he, interrupting himself, "when i once begin on that subject my heart is on my tongue, and both run away from me as if captain 'quickstep' had command.--nay, that shall not happen again!--but now, right about, my young sir! wheel round and march into the house. lay your hand on my shoulder, and i will help you to-day, even if you are a russian. any one, to hear you talk, would really think you the child of german parents. where did you learn our language?" "from my mother," replied theodore, faintly and abstractedly; "from my mother, who was educated in germany." the manner in which these words were spoken deprived the servant of the courage to ask any more questions, and both silently entered the house. theodore went immediately to his own chamber, which he left no more during the whole day. * * * * * a week passed, and theodore, whose health had before so rapidly improved, seemed to be a changed man since the reception of that letter, of which no one knew anything but frederick, from whom theodore had with difficulty succeeded in obtaining a promise of secrecy. no one had ever seen him very gay, but now he would sit for hours motionless in the same spot. no smiles or sounds of joy parted his lips; and when he spoke, the tone of his voice betrayed a deep and hidden sorrow. when he was asked the cause of his altered demeanor, he would shake his head, his eyes would fill with tears, and the most painful expression would rest upon his features. ella, especially, made him many reproaches, for he had promised her to be very gay; she beset him unceasingly with her sympathizing questions, to which he usually returned no answer. "are you ill again?" she asked one day, after having exhausted all possible conjectures, to which a dry "no" had been the sole response. "ah, yes indeed! ill, ill!" replied theodore, so quickly that one might easily see how glad he was to have found any explanation for his strange conduct. "yes, dear ella, believe me, i am indeed ill. but leave me now. i shall soon be better." the deep sigh which accompanied these words betrayed that he himself placed no confidence in his improvement. from this time forward the child persecuted doctor heller with prayers to make her poor theodore well again. the doctor felt the young man's pulse, and, after a significant shake of the head, he ordered him a quantity of bitter drugs, which the patient regularly threw out of the window. the physician, however, remarked, after a few days, that his medicine had done wonders, and theodore already looked much better; an opinion in which ella and her mother did not coincide. chapter iii. the visit. early in the spring, madame von herbart had received an invitation from madame von carly, a friend of her youth, who owned a beautiful country-seat several miles distant from the city, to bring ella, and spend a few days with her in the country. madame von herbart had declined the invitation, because she was averse to leaving her home and her aged father, who, during her absence, would be entirely alone. in the month of october, when but few fine days could still be hoped for, madame von carly came herself to the city, to carry away her friend, and would listen to no excuses. "you must go with me, maria," she said; "there is no use to say anything; i will dine with you, and immediately after dinner you will drive out with me. here, ella! come here, my child! how tall you grow! and always in your little white dresses! they would look well upon my children! i believe five minutes would be long enough to change them into many-colored garments. come now, talk a little; you are as dumb as a fish!" she continued, rapidly: "will you not be glad to go to sergow, and see my louisa, and freddy, and william? both the wild boys long to see you; they call you always their white rose, and made me solemnly promise not to return without you." "but, my good lina," said madame von herbart, who had vainly striven until now to check this stream of words, "perhaps our visit will not be agreeable to your husband?" "what an idea!" cried madame von carly. "when i invite you to see me, it is well understood that he will esteem it an honor to receive you. did you never hear the french proverb: 'ce que femme veut, dieu le veut!'[ ] that is the best and most sensible one i know, and i never fail every day to make a little sermon on this text. but now, make haste! pack up your things, whatever you may require, and let us dine early, that we may soon be off. the ground in the city burns under my feet. i should die if i were forced to live here a week; i always feel as if i could not draw a free breath until i am beyond the gates.--but i had almost forgotten. how is your father, maria? the last time i saw him, i did not feel so pleasantly as usual in his society. this eternal talk about war and battles, glorious sieges and new taxes, seems to have thrown a black veil over his cheerful humor. he, too, must go with us to sergow; one week with us, and the blues would soon be driven out of him. but where is the old gentleman? i would like myself to make the proposition to him." "he is not at home," replied madame von herbart, "and i do not expect him in less than two hours. my poor father is now very busy; he has so many cares, and so much trouble, that we must not wonder if he sometimes looks rather serious. he could not possibly leave the city, and you would only embarrass him were you to invite him, for he always finds difficulty in saying 'no.' please do me the favor not to attack the old gentleman. be goods now, lina," begged she, in her most persuasive tones; "promise me that, and i will go with you, and remain three days, although it will be very hard for me to leave my poor father so long alone." "good! so let it be!'" said madame von carly, after a moment's hesitation. "you see i am a good-natured fool, and am always so easily persuaded. but now go and make your arrangements. ella will entertain me during your absence." madame von herbart left the room, wishing heartily that the three days were over. she dreaded the visit, for her friend's impetuosity and excitable temper always inspired her with a certain fear. she was never more polite or more considerate of her words than when with madame von carly, but she never felt herself more helpless, or more restrained in her freedom of both thought and action, than when in that lady's company. she feared still more for her daughter than for herself, and would willingly have spared ella the three days' torment. since her brother's death, the little girl had lost all desire to play with other children, and, although she was very patient and yielding, willingly enduring any annoyance for her mother's sake, it was impossible for her to make friends with madame von carly's wild slips, as she herself called her children, and always cheerfully to endure the pranks which the little pests were continually playing upon her. while madame von herbart was packing up, and at the same time wondering over the peculiar mode of education practised by her friend,--whose rude, uncultured nature could not endure that a child should be taught to say "good morning," and "thank you,"--theodore entered. "are you going away?" he asked, hastily, pointing to the half-filled travelling-bag. "and ella, too?" he spoke these words with a strange eagerness, and as madame von herbart replied with an affirmative nod, he seemed to be almost glad at this intelligence, for a burning red flushed his cheeks, and his eyes glowed: a moment later, all these signs of satisfaction had vanished. he grew very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked: "are you really going away?" "yes, dear theodore!" replied madame von herbart, quietly; "to-day, in a few hours. it seems strange to you, because you have seen how seldom i leave the house; and i only go now because i cannot avoid it. but," she added, smiling, "the whole journey will only last three days; on thursday evening i shall be again at home, and will be very glad to find you much better than i leave you." theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his heart, as if he felt a sharp pain, then slowly turned away, and left the room. he did not appear at dinner, immediately after which the carriage was announced, and madame von carly hastened her friend's departure. ella most tenderly embraced her old grandfather. "will you think of me, grandfather?" she asked, lovingly. "you must often think of me whilst i am away; but do not be sad, for i will soon return, and bring you something very pretty.--but where is theodore?" she cried, looking round in surprise; "i almost believe he would let us depart without saying 'farewell.' naughty theodore! i will not love him any more." apparently to prove the truth of her last words, she ran to the door of the young man's room, opened it a little, and called in, softly: "theodore! dear theodore! are you asleep? o do come out! we are going now." "already!" was the answer; "so soon!" a moment after, the door was thrown open, and the young man stood before the startled child, pale as death, and so agitated that ella drew back half in fear. "ella! ella!" he cried, in a voice of the deepest anguish. he then bent down to the little one, and pressed her so tightly to his beating heart that she uttered a faint scream. not heeding, or indeed seeming to hear this, he led her into the adjoining apartment, placed her on the sofa, knelt at her feet, and, stroking back the curls from her brow, looked long and earnestly into her dark eyes. they seemed to possess for him a magnetic power, so fixed and immovable was his gaze. the life appeared to be gradually leaving his frame, and he remained thus bowed and motionless until he was aroused from his lethargy by a loud call of "ella! ella!" "i must go!" cried the child, springing up. "did you not hear my mother calling me?" "o, only one minute longer!" begged theodore. he seized a knife, cut off one of ella's long silken curls, and, hastily concealing his prize, embraced her again, and held her so fast that she could not escape. he kissed her hands repeatedly; great tears streamed slowly down his cheeks, and a few broken words escaped his lips. again was heard the voice of madame von herbart. "ella!" she said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "did you not hear me call you?" "ah! indeed i could not come," replied the child, raising her eyes, as if imploring pardon, to her mother's face, "theodore held me so fast!" the arm which had so tightly held her relaxed, and she was again free. the young russian's eyes were fixed, as if on vacancy; he turned towards madame von herbart, knelt at her feet, and laid her hand upon his burning brow. "what does all this mean, theodore?" she asked, surprised and alarmed; "your head burns, and you are fearfully excited. you are certainly more unwell than you have permitted us to think you. speak, i pray you, and relieve our anxiety. is it bodily illness alone which has thus overcome you?" theodore looked at his benefactress; he heard her words, but they bore no meaning to him. he again pressed her hand convulsively; he moved his lips as if about to speak, but only uttered some inarticulate sounds. he then sprang to his feet, and, casting a long and agonized look upon ella, he hastily fled through the open door, as if he had been pursued by evil spirits. madame von herbart shook her head sadly, as she turned to leave the room. uneasy and oppressed, she entered the carriage with ella, where her friend, who had been long waiting for her, received her with open reproaches. "one would think you were going to make a voyage round the world," said madame von carly, sulkily, "you make such a fuss about going a hundred paces from your own door. such lamentable parting scenes always seem very comical to me, especially when the long separation which has occasioned so many tears is to last three whole days! your father will not die if he does not see you until thursday, and the young russian can live till then without your care. what a useless burden you have laid upon your shoulders! i certainly should not have acted so, had i been in your place. it is sheer folly to waste so much kindness and sympathy upon a wild foreigner, who, i am quite sure, laughs in his sleeve at all you have done for him, and will reward you by the most shameful ingratitude. and an enemy of your country, too,--a russian! it frightens me only to hear one named. i would not give a russian a glass of water to save his life!" "o, do not say so!" replied madame von herbart, earnestly. "if i had not known you so many years, i might at this moment doubt your good heart; indeed, such sentiments would induce any one to believe you pitiless and unfeeling. before offering assistance to the suffering, must we then ask, who are you? what is your creed? or, in what country were you born?--i am really sorry to hear such words from your lips, and the more so that you are not alone in your prejudices against the russians; they are shared by nearly all my countrymen, and i cannot esteem it an honor to them. i will readily agree that the russians are far behind the prussians in cultivation, and even that many may possess the faults attributed to them; but that gives us no right to contemn a whole nation. it seems to me there is such self-exaltation and such pride in this cold, obstinate mode of judging, which not only outrages reason, but renders us forgetful of our duty as christians. we should certainly esteem our fellow-men innocent, until they have given us proofs to the contrary.--theodore ungrateful!" she continued, after a moment's pause; "o, if he could be so, where should we seek for truth and faith among men? if his candid face be that of a hypocrite; if his voice, apparently tremulous with excess of gratitude and feeling, could speak words of falsehood and treachery, in whom could we confide? no! no! it is not possible. so fair a form could not conceal so black a soul!" madame von herbart had spoken more vehemently than was her usual custom, and her cheeks glowed, for she felt herself wounded and misjudged. what she considered as a sacred duty towards her fellow-men, had been regarded as the foolish simplicity of a weak good-nature; and one whom daily intercourse, and the apparent candor and excellence of his character, had rendered dear to her heart, had been assailed by the most injurious suspicions. in a few moments, however, she regained her tranquillity, and said, gently: "even if you have judged rightly, and theodore could be ungrateful, we will never regret what we have done for him: the hope of thanks was not our motive. truly, neither my father, my daughter, nor myself had any thought of earthly reward when we opened our house and our hearts to the poor, forsaken, wounded russian. but perhaps we had better say no more about it." "well, well!" replied madame von carly, hastily, "as you please; i am sure it is quite indifferent to me." thus saying, she leaned back in one corner of the carriage, and began to count the trees by the way-side. her friend, however, soon succeeded in diverting her from this rather uninteresting occupation. she asked concerning the harvests; whether her dairy had been productive this year; and if her garden had yielded her as much as usual. madame von carly was a notable housekeeper, and entered minutely into all the details of her household economy, and the management of her farm. she talked much, and, on this subject, knowingly. her servants were all discussed, from her own maid to the lowest scullion; and, from her account, seemed to be endless sources of trouble, through their ignorance, stupidity, or evil dispositions. madame von herbart listened most patiently, only now and then endeavoring to interpose a word in exculpation of the frailties of human nature, and by the time they reached sergow her friend was again quite reconciled with her, and in the best of humors. it was, indeed, no easy task to maintain this good understanding unbroken during three whole days; but madame von herbart succeeded better than she had anticipated. on thursday afternoon, as she was making her preparations for returning home with ella, madame von carly could not conceal her emotion, and said, as she bade her farewell: "indeed, i do not understand how it is that i love you so well. you can do what you please with me; i may sometimes be a little hasty, but i can never long feel angry with you." she then kissed ella affectionately, gave her a basket of fine fruit for her grandfather, and a bunch of those tiny roses, whose brilliant coloring, and the late season at which they bloom, render so precious in the autumn to all lovers of flowers. "i will give two roses to grandfather," said the child to her mother, when they were again upon the public road, "and two to theodore. how glad he will be! he is so fond of flowers, especially of roses." she had scarcely uttered these words, when a sudden wind swept over her beautiful blossoms, and scattered all their tender leaves. "ah!" sighed ella, "my joy is soon over! if my old nurse had seen that, she would have said that it boded no good. but you have taught me not to heed such omens." "and yet this time," replied the mother, "your old catherine would not have been quite wrong; for this first rude blast is but the forerunner of many storms which are to follow soon; winter will soon be here, and you know your good grandfather is never so well when the weather is cold." "oh!" cried ella, clapping her hands, "i see the city towers, and even some of the houses! there is the great tree in our garden!" she was so delighted at this discovery, that she wished to leave the carriage and walk, fancying she could thus sooner reach her beloved home. finally they stopped before the door, and ella sprang joyfully into the old servant's arms. atlas welcomed her with every sign of delight. "aha, my good doggy, did you miss me, too?" she cried, stroking his shaggy coat. the great dog leaped up, and placed both paws on her shoulders, so that she could scarcely free herself. then quickly running up the steps, she was greeted by the burgomaster, who tenderly folded his beloved grandchild to his heart. "god be thanked!" he cried, embracing his daughter. he then led both his dear ones into his room, whence gratefully streamed the inviting perfumes of the coffee he had had prepared for them. they soon laid aside their wrappings. "but where is theodore?" was ella's first question. "is he better?" added madame von herbart, anxiously. "by and by you can judge for yourselves," replied the old man slowly. ella again embraced her grandfather, caressing him as if she had been many months away from him. she placed his great arm-chair near the table, arranged the cushions, and, seating herself upon his knee, began the narration of all her adventures. while her clear eyes gazed into his face, she remarked the downcast appearance of the old man, who seemed to have no relish for his little grandchild's prattle, to which he usually listened with such delight. "just see now, mother!" cried the child in a tragi-comic tone of voice, "does not grandfather look to-day exactly like the upper bailiff, when the hail spoiled his best rye-field?" madame von herbart looked up as she handed her father his cup, and was startled by the sorrowful expression of his countenance. "what is the matter, my dear father?" she cried, hastening to his side. "has anything disagreeable happened? o, do tell me quickly!" "it is nothing, my daughter!" answered the burgomaster, endeavoring to soothe her; "several little circumstances have transpired, which have somewhat disturbed my equanimity." "and am i not to know what has troubled you?" "wherefore not, my child? you must learn them some time, and perhaps it would be better to do so at once. you know i hate all useless secrecy and mysteries. listen, then. our king was defeated on the th; the news came yesterday, and has been confirmed to-day. he has been forced to pay dearly for his unhappy obstinacy. all his generals warned and implored him to leave the camp which he occupied on the heights of hochkirch. but he would not be persuaded; he could not be induced to quit his dangerous position, although it was within gunshot of the enemy, because he did not think the austrians would venture to attack him. the consequence was, that, on the night of the th, the crafty daun left his intrenchments as noiselessly as possible, and surrounded the sleeping prussians. the watchful ziethen, who had anticipated such a step, was ready to receive him, fully armed, with all his men. the others were soon aroused, and assembled as best they could in the darkness of the night. all must allow that great order and discipline reign in our army, and thus, although compelled to abandon their position, they performed prodigies of valor, and the enemy did not dare to follow them. but they were forced to leave all their baggage behind them, and many a brave fellow lost his life. the noble keith and franz of brunswick are both dead." "well, father," said madame von herbart consolingly, "we must rejoice that the king is still alive. if he has this time been unfortunate through his own fault, he will soon be able to retrieve his losses.--but what sad news have you still to tell us? i can see that you have not yet unburdened your heart." "you are right," replied the burgomaster reluctantly; "and what i have to tell you will distress the child even more than it does you. if my little ella will only be reasonable, she will see that it was inevitable; i have often tried to prepare her mind for it. theodore has gone away! you will never see him again!" "theodore gone!" cried ella, "that is impossible! o tell me, grandfather, you are surely jesting! is it not so? you only want to tease me a little." the old man shook his head, and said: "he left our house secretly yesterday evening." ella wept quietly. "he is ungrateful, too, then!" sighed madame von herbart, "and lina was right. i never could have believed that he would have deceived us!" "do not blame him," replied the burgomaster; "i cannot condemn him. i had long observed the inward struggle which was so clearly depicted in his countenance. believe me, he suffered greatly in being forced to leave us." thus saying, he drew a letter and a small package from his pocket, which he gave to his daughter, adding: "there, take them! i found them both upon my bed when i awoke this morning. he must have placed them there himself, for i remember distinctly that some one kissed my hand several times when i was in a state between sleeping and waking. the action aroused me; but when i looked up, all was quiet, and i thought it must have been a dream." madame von herbart silently took the letter and broke the seal; she read and read, and seemed as if she could not finish it. her hand trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. ella glided behind her chair, and looked over her shoulder; but in vain did she wipe her eyes, she could not distinguish a syllable. "o dear mother!" she cried, "read it aloud; i can see nothing, and i would so like to know if he thought of me." the mother read as follows:-- "i can no longer remain in a house in which, after so many stormy days, i had again found peace, and felt so happy. my father's brother, who is the general of the division of the russian army to which i belong, has learned my wonderful escape, and discovered my retreat. he has secretly sent me an order to join him as soon as my wounds would permit; and as a soldier i must obey, although my heart bleeds at the sad necessity. "how has my poor heart already suffered. how soon in life was i not forced to learn that happiness is a rare sojourner among men. i lost my father before i could lisp his dear name; of course i was too young to know the loss i had sustained, and the less, because my beloved mother redoubled her care and love towards the poor orphan child who lay so helpless in her gentle arms. the boy clung to this one stay with all the passionate tenderness of his character; his mother's eyes were the stars which guided him through the labyrinth of life; nothing could so grieve him as to see them veiled and darkened through his fault. but he was forced with the deepest sorrow to see that the brightness of his stars was fading. his mother's cheek became ever more and more transparent, the words which fell from her pale lips grew fainter and weaker, her wearied feet refused to bear the light weight of her frail figure, and finally--o heaven! how was it possible that i survived her death? "men say of many a bitter sorrow, that it is unendurable; and yet i have lived through the deepest anguish. i know no pang of which it may be truly said, that no one has ever borne it,--that all efforts are in vain, and a speedy death the sole refuge. and thus will i strive to overcome the agony which now rends my heart. "farewell, honored lady, in whom i have found the image of my lost mother so vividly renewed. your gentle voice will ever echo through my soul. nothing can efface from my memory the kindness with which you have overwhelmed a stranger, and an enemy to your native land; the remembrance will be most dear to me so long as i shall live. "and you, my little ella, who would not suffer the glance of a poor wounded man, beseeching you for aid and compassion, to pass unheeded, and who have so often prayed to god for his recovery,--how could i ever forget you? you can scarcely comprehend how two whole nations can feel so bloodthirstily towards one another, how their murderous rage can exceed that of wild beasts, and all because their rulers disagree. you will shudder when you hear that i have again entered the ranks of that army so hated by your countrymen; but i am sure that you will shed more than one tear for the sake of one to whom the memory of the happy days passed near you is so precious. i have but one request to make, and that is, that you will always wear the little cross which accompanies this letter. my mother hung it round my neck when i was a child, since when i have kept and worn it as a sacred relic. whenever your eyes fall upon it, remember your own kindness and my gratitude. "and what will you say, my venerable benefactor, when, in the morning, instead of me, you will only find this letter? will you condemn my conduct? i must see you once more, and again press my lips upon your hand! once more will i give free vent to my feelings, and then must i stifle my emotions, be again a man, and fearlessly bare my breast to the blows of fate. "farewell! "theodore." a deep stillness reigned in the little circle, only broken by ella's faint sobs. the old burgomaster also dried a quiet tear. "and that was a russian!" he cried finally, rising to hide his emotion. madame von herbart opened the package; it contained a fine gold chain, to which was suspended a cross of the same metal. she hung it silently round her daughter's neck, and ella found upon her mother's bosom a free place to weep out all her sorrow. footnote: [ ] a woman's will, god's will. chapter iv. gratitude. two years had passed; the war still continued, and the position of the prussian king had not altered for the better. many of his bravest officers and best generals lay dead upon the battle-field, or were captives in the enemy's hands. gold and men were both becoming scarce, and still no prospect of peace. but frederick never thought of yielding; he had determined to conquer or perish in the attempt. his people felt with him, and each prussian looked with confidence up to his king. all thought that their sovereign would find some means of extricating himself with honor from the unequal struggle. history teaches us that this belief was well founded, for nothing could have been more surprising and favorable to frederick, than the final conclusion of the seven years' war. on the st of august, , frederick lost a battle upon the heights of kunersdorf. notwithstanding the personal danger which he had himself incurred, and the loss of many of his bravest men, the allied russians and austrians obtained a complete victory. kleist, the renowned poet, whose verses breathe the most tender and gentle feelings, gave the highest proof of his courage by the sacrifice of his life. no death among the many which marked that bloody day excited more sympathy than his; and the russians, among whom he had fallen, honored his memory by a solemn funeral. a russian officer laid his own sabre upon the hero's coffin, saying: "such a man should not be buried without a sword!" the allies succeeded in gaining possession of berlin, where a citizen named gotkowski distinguished himself by the sacrifice of nearly all his private fortune in the service of his fellow-citizens. experience soon taught the prussians that their neighbors, the saxons, were much more to be feared, as far as cruelty and the destruction of personal property was concerned, than the russians. they forgot how frederick had spared the treasures of art in saxony; and, entering his palaces, they destroyed everything which came within their reach,--furniture, mirrors, tapestries, pictures, and marble statues. the allies occupied berlin during eight days. the news then came that frederick was approaching the city in person, and they speedily left it to join the main body of the army, or to seek security in safer positions. their course, however, was everywhere marked by devastation and ruin, and woe to the town or village through which their march lay. * * * * * one of these detachments of saxons and austrians, belonging to the rear, left the highway in order to make a predatory excursion upon the little city already well known to us. early in the morning, these warriors, who were in such haste to flee before the coming of frederick, poured through the open gates. they brought with them tumult and confusion, plundered the houses indiscriminately, and seemed determined to wash away the stain left upon their honor by their hasty retreat, in the blood of the defenceless citizens. on all sides were heard the cries of women and children, mingled with rude imprecations and scornful laughter. they advanced farther and farther into the city, and had already reached the market-place. doctor heller arrived breathless before the grocer's door, and cried: "aha, master brother! here they are, at last. you have often said that you would rather permit a whole regiment of austrians to range through your house, than harbor a single russian;--and you will now have an opportunity of seeing how gently they will proceed with you. they won't leave a tile upon your roof; i tell you, they are worse than wallenstein's bands, who, as you know, were not remarkable for their tenderness and consideration." the honest grocer stood before his brother-in-law, the very picture of despair. his whole body trembled; he pulled off his white nightcap, and cast a melancholy glance upon his great, flowered dressing-gown, as if he feared he would soon be forced to part from this beloved garment. he finally cried out, in a stifled voice, "ah, my beer! all my beer!" "nonsense!" said the doctor. "beer here, beer there,--have you lost your senses? where is your ready money? have you at least hid that?" the grocer shook his head, and seemed to be fairly benumbed, body and mind, with terror. "what folly!" cried the doctor, angrily. "quick! go at once into your house, and throw it all into the well. in five minutes it may be too late!" so saying, he led the old man with him through the open door. it was indeed full time, for the lawless soldiery were rapidly approaching, destroying all they could not carry away with them. chairs and mirrors, glass and porcelain, were thrown from the windows in every direction. the robbers fell upon all the casks of wine and brandy which they could find, and their potations only increased their fury and recklessness. they greeted with loud cries of joy the fine stock of spirits of all kinds which they found in the house of our friend, the grocer. they knocked the heads out of the barrels until the whole cellar was afloat, and they could almost have swum in the nectar, which they freely imbibed. the poor grocer fled from room to room until he reached the highest attic, whence he discovered with horror that a thick smoke was beginning to rise from many parts of the city, and that the inhabitants were in vain endeavoring to quench the flames. suddenly the hoofs of a whole troop of cavalry were heard upon the stone pavement; and, swift as a whirlwind, a band of horsemen rode past, with a noble-looking young leader at their head. they stopped at the market-place, dismounted, and hastened into the plundered dwellings, driving out the robbers, who, not yet comprehending this sudden diversion, left their prey, and fled. renewed efforts were made to extinguish the flames, and the citizens gazed in silent wonder upon their unexpected deliverers, who were most actively engaged in rendering all the assistance in their power, and were constantly encouraged by their leader to new efforts. no one knew who the officer was. "he is no prussian!" "he does not speak german with his soldiers!" "how young he is!" and "how stately he looks upon his black steed!" such exclamations were heard upon all sides, interrupted by the questions: "but who is he?" "whence comes he?" "does no one know him?" the young officer gave no heed to the curious glances everywhere turned upon him; he forced his way with considerable difficulty through the crowd, and finally stood before the burgomaster's door. he sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to one of his attendants, and, hastening up the steps, entered the open door,--already filled with the brutal soldiery laden with booty. he scarcely saw them, but hurried on, and soon reached madame von herbart's room, where he found no one, but was horrified at the devastation. the windows were broken, the curtains lay torn upon the floor, the furniture was scattered in every direction, and the drawers and closets all rifled. he opened a second and a third door: everywhere he found the same waste and desolation, but not a living creature. pausing, at length, uncertain which way to turn, a faint, half-stifled cry for help fell upon his ear: "mother! o mother! save me! he will kill me!" "ella, i come!" cried the young man. he hurried through several halls and apartments. but one more door divided him from that imploring voice; he flung it open, and stood an instant as if petrified. he found himself in the once charming little cabinet; but how looked it? the chairs were in pieces, the writing-table overturned; books and papers were scattered upon the floor, mingled with flasks of wine, some broken, others half emptied, and the carpet, which had been in many places wantonly cut and torn, dripping with the contents. amid these wrecks, a young maiden knelt before a great, bearded soldier, whose left hand had seized upon her long, dark locks, while his right held a loaded pistol. "will you give me the chain?" cried the soldier at this moment, not having observed the entrance of the stranger; "i ask you for the last time. you have hid all your gold and silver, like rascals as you are. we find nothing that can be of any use to us. give me the chain at once, or i will shoot you down!" "o leave me the chain!" implored the maiden, looking up with tearful eyes into the monster's face; "you have taken everything from us! i cannot give you the cross,--it is a dear remembrance." a loud bark from a dog was heard before the garden door. the rude soldier hastily loosed his grasp from the hair, and seized upon the gold chain which had excited his cupidity, that he might tear it from the young girl's neck. he suddenly felt himself thrust back, and a voice cried in his ear: "hold, you wretch! you shall not lay the end of your finger upon her!" a swift sabre-stroke gleamed through the air, and cleft the austrian's skull. but at the same moment a loud report was heard, and the young officer fell mortally wounded upon the floor. "ella!" he cried, "ella!" "theodore!" exclaimed the maiden, who at the sound of his voice had sprung to her feet. uttering a loud cry, she threw herself upon the prostrate form of the friend whom she had recognized, and whose warm blood streamed over her dress. at this moment, madame von herbart and her father rushed into the room. "ella!" cried the mother, joyfully, as her eye fell upon her child; "o god be thanked! i was in despair, when i could find you nowhere." but ella made no answer. "are you hurt?" asked the anxious mother; "your clothes are covered with blood!" so saying, she sank half fainting by her daughter's side. "by whom are you kneeling, ella?" said the old burgomaster, who had by this time come quite near. "it is theodore, our theodore!" sobbed the young girl, in a voice of despair. "yes, it is theodore, your theodore," repeated the young man, endeavoring to rise. "he wished to see you yet once more. holy angels guided his steps,--and he came in time. o," he continued, with a failing voice, kissing the hand with which madame von herbart sustained his head, "o, how happy i feel now! i know that i am dying, but i have been enabled to show you my gratitude: i have preserved your native city! i have saved your child!" he paused an instant, as if exhausted, and then said, "ella, your hand!" the maiden placed it within his own, and he pressed it convulsively. "think of me often!" he continued; "and believe me, even the russian has a heart, which guards the memory of past benefits--until it breaks!" his head sank; his eyes were fixed; he uttered one last sigh, and his soul had fled. "he is dead!" said madame von herbart, after a few moments of deep silence. she wept bitterly; it seemed to her as if she had lost a member of her own family. ella's sorrow was unspeakable. nothing could convince her that theodore was really dead. even when dr. heller came and examined his wounds, assuring them that the best marksman could not have taken surer aim, and that the ball had pierced the young russian's heart, she could not entirely resign the hope that he would again awake from his deep slumber. she strove to warm his cold hands, to breathe new life into his rigid frame. all her efforts were in vain; her touching prayer, that he would open his pale lips and speak but one single word to her, remained unheard. they were obliged to force her with gentle violence from the bloody corpse. * * * * * theodore's funeral was most solemn; old and young gathered together to join in the last procession. each one shed a grateful tear in his memory; even the old grocer, bolt, was seen following the coffin, deeply moved. a white marble monument marked the place of his burial. the inscription consisted in the name, "theodore"; and beneath were carved these simple words, "we meet again." no flaunting paragraph proclaimed his deed, which was more surely treasured in the memory of many a feeling and grateful heart than it could have been upon the cold stone. long, long years after these occurrences, when madame von herbart and her father rested quietly by the young russian's side, a tall female form might often be seen busied among these graves. she adorned them with fresh wreaths; carefully trained the flowers she had planted upon them; and when she slowly turned to leave them, and re-enter her solitary home, she would raise her tearful eyes to heaven, and say, "we shall meet again, my dear ones!" the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes minor punctuation errors corrected on pages and . original spellings have been retained including the use of both door-way and doorway. on page , "apparenly" was changed to "apparently." (...lay the apparently lifeless body...) why i believe in poverty * * * * * the riverside uplift series why i believe in poverty. by edward bok, the amateur spirit, by bliss perry. the glory of the imperfect, by george h, palmer. self-cultivation in english. by george h. palmer. trades and professions. by george h. palmer. the cultivated man. by charles w. eliot. whither? anonymous. calm yourself. by george l. walton. each, cents, net. houghton mifflin company boston and new york * * * * * why i believe in poverty as the richest experience that can come to a boy by edward bok boston and hew york houghton mifflin company mdccccxv copyright, , by curtis publishing company copyright, , by edward bok all rights reserved a foreword the article in this little book was published in _the ladies' home journal_ for april, . much to the surprise of the author, the call for copies was so insistent as to exhaust the edition of the magazine containing it. as the demand did not appear to be supplied, the article is now reprinted in this form. it is sent out with the hope of the author that it may still further fulfill its mission of giving the stimulant of encouragement wherever it is needed. e. b. _october nineteen hundred and fifteen_ why i believe in poverty as the richest experience that can come to a boy i make my living trying to edit the "ladies' home journal." and because the public has been most generous in its acceptance of that periodical, a share of that success has logically come to me. hence a number of my very good readers cherish an opinion that often i have been tempted to correct, a temptation to which i now yield. my correspondents express the conviction variously, but this extract from a letter is a fair sample:-- it is all very easy for you to preach economy to us when you do not know the necessity for it: to tell us how, as for example in my own case, we must live within my husband's income of eight hundred dollars a year, when you have never known what it is to live on less than thousands. has it ever occurred to you, born with the proverbial silver spoon in your mouth, that theoretical writing is pretty cold and futile compared to the actual hand-to-mouth struggle that so many of us live, day by day and year in and year out--an experience that you know not of? * * * * * "an experience that you know not of"! now, how far do the facts square with this statement? whether or not i was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth i cannot say. it is true that i was born of well-to-do parents. but when i was six years old my father lost all his means, and faced life at forty-five, in a strange country, without even necessaries. there are men and their wives who know what that means: for a man to try to "come back" at forty-five, and in a strange country! i had the handicap of not knowing one word of the english language. i went to a public school and learned what i could. and sparse morsels they were! the boys were cruel, as boys are. the teachers were impatient, as tired teachers are. my father could not find his place in the world. my mother, who had always had servants at her beck and call, faced the problems of housekeeping that she had never learned nor been taught. and there was no money. so, after school hours, my brother and i went home, but not to play. after-school hours meant for us to help a mother who daily grew more frail under the burdens that she could not carry. not for days, but for years, we two boys got up in the gray cold winter dawn when the bed feels so snug and warm to growing boys, and we sifted the cold ashes of the day-before fire for a stray lump or two of unburned coal, and with what we had or could find we made the fire and warmed up the room. then we set the table for the scant breakfast, went to school, and directly after school we washed the dishes, swept and scrubbed the floors. living in a three-family tenement, each third week meant that we scrubbed the entire three flights of stairs from the third story to the first, as well as the doorsteps and the side-walk outside. the latter work was the hardest: for we did it on saturdays with the boys of the neighborhood looking on none too kindly, or we did it to the echo of the crack of the ball and bat on the adjoining lot! in the evening, when other could sit by the lamp or study their lessons, we two boys went out with a basket and picked up wood and coal in the neighboring lots, or went after the dozen or so pieces of coal left from the ton of coal put in that afternoon by one of our neighbors, with the spot hungrily fixed in mind by one of us during the day, hoping that the man who carried in the coal might not be too careful in picking up the stray lumps! "an experience that you know not of"! don't i? at ten years of age i got my first job: washing the windows of a baker's shop at fifty cents a week. in a week or two i was allowed to sell bread and cakes behind the counter after school hours for a dollar a week--handing out freshly baked cakes and warm, delicious smelling bread, when scarcely a crumb had passed my mouth that day! then on saturday mornings i served a route for a weekly paper, and sold my remaining stock on the street. it meant from sixty to seventy cents for that day's work. i lived in brooklyn, new york, and the chief means of transportation to coney island at that time was the horse car. near where we lived the cars would stop to water the horses, the men would jump out and get a drink of water, but the women had no means of quenching their thirst. seeing this lack i got a pail, filled it with water and a bit of ice, and, with a glass, jumped on each car on saturday afternoon and all day sunday, and sold my wares at a cent a glass. and when competition came, as it did very quickly when other boys saw that a sunday's work meant two or three dollars, i squeezed a lemon or two in my pail, my liquid became "lemonade" and my price two cents a glass, and sundays meant five dollars to me. then, in turn, i became a reporter during the evenings, an office boy day-times, and learned stenography at midnight! my correspondent says she supports her family of husband and child on eight hundred dollars a year, and says i have never known what that means. i supported a family of three on six dollars and twenty-five cents a week--less than one half of her yearly income. when my brother and i, combined, brought in eight hundred dollars a year we felt rich! i have for the first time gone into these details in print so that my readers may know, at first hand, that the editor of the "ladies' home journal" is not a theorist when he writes or prints articles that seek to preach economy or that reflect a hand-to-hand struggle on a small or an invisible income. there is not a single step, not an inch, on the road of direst poverty that i do not know or have not experienced. and, having experienced every thought, every feeling, and every hardship that come to those who travel that road, i say to-day that i rejoice with every boy who is going through the same experiences. nor am i discounting or forgetting one single pang of the keen hardships that such a struggle means. i would not to-day exchange my years of the keenest hardship that a boy can know or pass through for any single experience that could have come to me. i know what it means, not to earn a dollar, but to earn two cents. i know the value of money as i could have learned it or known it in no other way. i could have been trained for my life-work in no surer way. i could not have arrived at a truer understanding of what it means to face a day without a penny in hand, not a loaf of bread in the cupboard, not a piece of kindling wood for the fire--with nothing to eat, and then be a boy with the hunger of nine and ten, with a mother frail and discouraged! "an experience that you know not of"! don't i? and yet i rejoice in the experience, and i repeat: i envy every boy who is in that condition and going through it. but--and here is the pivot of my strong belief in poverty as an undisguised blessing to a boy--i believe in poverty as a condition to experience, to go through, and then to get out of: not as a condition to stay in. "that's all very well," some will say; "easy enough to say, but how can you get out of it?" no one can definitely tell another that. no one told me. no two persons can find the same way out. each must find his way for himself. that depends on the boy. i was determined to get out of poverty because my mother was not born in it, could not stand it, and did not belong in it. this gave me the first essential: a purpose. then i backed up the purpose with effort and a willingness to work, and to work at anything that came my way, no matter what it was, so long as it meant "the way out." i did not pick and choose: i took what came, and did it in the best way i knew how; and when i didn't like what i was doing i still did it well while i was doing it, but i saw to it that i didn't do it any longer than i had to do it. i used every rung in the ladder as a rung to the one above. it meant effort, of course, untiring, ceaseless, and unsparing, and it meant work, hard as nails. but out of the effort and the work came the experience; the upbuilding; the development; the capacity to understand and sympathize; the greatest heritage that can come to a boy. and nothing in the world can give that to a boy, so that it will burn into him, as will poverty. that is why i believe so strongly in poverty, the greatest blessing in the way of the deepest and fullest experience that can come to a boy. but, as i repeat: always as a condition to work out of, not to stay in. the riverside press cambridge· massachusetts u.s.a. nacha regules nacha regules by manuel gÁlvez _authorized translation from the original spanish_ by leo ongley [illustration] new york e. p. dutton & company fifth avenue copyright, by e. p. dutton & company _all rights reserved_ printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x xi xii xiii xiv xv xvi xvii xviii xix xx xxi xxii xxiii xxiv epilogue nacha regules nacha regules chapter i an august night! hot with the fever of her adolescence as a national capital, buenos aires was ablaze with millions of lights and rejoicing in noisy revelry. the centennial festivities had been going on since may. thousands of people had flocked in from every corner of the country, from neighboring states and even from europe. during these great days of a nation's coming of age, the crowd, in one enormous, slowly moving procession, thronged the asphalt pavements of the principle avenues. the very streets and houses appeared to be in motion. when, toward evening, the multitude increased, the congestion caused a swelling which, it seemed, must at a given moment burst the bounds on either side. at night some forty theatres, and innumerable movie-houses and concert halls, crammed overflowing masses into their hungry maws, while in the cabarets boisterous licence rubbed elbows with curiosity. the cabaret, of "the port"--as argentina calls its chief city--is a public dance hall: it provides a room, tables for drinking, and an orchestra. the patrons are young men of the upper classes with their mistresses; tourists and rustic sight-seers; and girls "of the town," who come alone. the tango, almost the only dance seen there, and the orchestra, composed usually of white gangsters and mulattos are--with the champagne bottle and the tuxedo--the normal expressions of the argentine suburban "soul"! the musicians sing, shout, strike on the wooden pans of their instruments, gesticulate. the silhouettes of the dancers twist and intertwine, weave in and out across the floor, blend, and neutralize each other; and the mandola, with its dark low tones, underlines the tangos with long shadows of pain. but there are other things in the cabaret besides dancing. on some nights a sudden outburst of noise, from end to end of the hall, cuts the tango in two, as it were, with an enormous, quivering gash. a man's persistent ogling of another fellow's girl, a violent collision of dancers, the suspicion of ridicule or insult, bring threats from mouths contorted with anger, while revolvers are flourished in the air. the _patota_, the inevitable leading actor in such scenes, is a group of wealthy roisterers whose greatest pleasure is to annoy, insult, attack with fist or weapon, in short, transform peaceable pleasure seeking into a tavern brawl. to show resentment toward a _patota_, to resist its aggressions, is to invite a drubbing from a pack trained to fight as a gang, or an unfailing bullet fired treacherously from behind. on that august night, in one of these crowded cabarets, frenzied dancing was going on. some gigantic invisible hand seemed to be reaching down from the top of the hall, and incessantly stirring the couples round and round. all the tables were full. champagne bottles raised their aristocratic necks from the icy prisons which held them. under the glow of the lights evening gowns blazed dazzlingly, and the women's flesh shone gleaming, vibrant, golden, from the low cut dresses. tangos, tangos, more tangos! with the speed of a movie film, and in chance groupings, graceful poses and involuntary caricatures were sketched. the musicians, caught up in the madness of the throng, shouted phrases of double meanings caught up for the purpose from the latest song hits. a couple of "professionals" suddenly emerged, amidst wild applause, from the common herd of the dance, which opened from the centre to make way; and there, surrounded by a ring of faces, incited by exclamations, admiring and picturesque, the two embraced, separated, and came together again, interminably, with minutely patterned steps and attitudes, to the music of an uneasy, sensuous, odorous tango, which the mandola tried to sentimentalize with the wails of its deeper notes. when the exhibition was over, many eyes turned toward a man sitting alone at a little table, conspicuous because he was so gloomy and preoccupied, so completely indifferent to everything that was going on around him. he was well dressed in a black suit that suggested both elegance and severity. his face attracted; magnetic, it might have been called; here, one felt, was a personality, a man who had fought his way up in life through suffering. his features wore an expression of mental and moral disquietude. unaccompanied save by his own thoughts, he was, nevertheless, furtively watching a young girl who, with several other people, sat at a table near by. this man was not in nor of the cabaret. when his gaze was not fixed on his pretty neighbor it seemed to be seeking distant worlds, wandering, perhaps, in search of something to fill his solitude or to offer to this girl in one single passionate glance. the youths with whom she was sitting formed a _patota_ of five. she was dividing their attentions with three other women at the table. the men did not belong to aristocratic society, though they were of "good family" as the _porteños_--the people of buenos aires--say; the names of their fathers', that is, were well-known in politics and business, and appeared frequently in the society columns of the newspapers. as individuals they had no distinction. they talked in loud, obtrusive voices, using terms of gross familiarity in addressing one another. when they laughed it was in a bellowing hilarity calculated to attract attention; just as, when they danced, it was with tremendous waggles of hips and shoulders. of their champagne they were noisily ostentatious. it was now mid-winter in buenos aires; but they were wearing light suits and flashy neckties. typical argentine "sports" in short! the girl, who had so impressed the solitary stranger, was taking no part in the animation around her. her quiet melancholy shadowed a rather long face, a pair of burning dark eyes, a mouth that might have been called too large. everything about her contributed to the tragic attractiveness of her person: the wide hat, which accentuated a child-like quality in her; the elegance, somewhat affectedly careless, of her dress; the relaxed indifference with which she moved her long arms--thin but shapely, and covered, to above the elbow, by white gloves. the low cut of her dress drew one's eye to the faint golden tints of her skin. her hair, of a dull golden shade, fell in loops over her ears to form a frame for her features. he observed that she was vainly trying to be merry, and to laugh with her companions; but depression had obstinately seized on her, and she lacked the will to master it. a moment came when her gloom increased to the point of tears, and her companions remarked it. one of them, in whom drink was already at work, cried out: "what's the matter with you? have you got the pip?" he was a graceless individual, ugly, flat-nosed, restless, loud-voiced, constantly gesticulating, whom the others called "the duck." his friends greeted this witticism with bursts of laughter. the girl herself forced a smile in which the man at the neighboring table caught something of her suffering. his facial muscles contracted slightly. "give her another swig of booze--it's good for what ails her!" bawled the "duck," inspired by the success of his previous venture. "don't mind him, nacha!" said one of the women coldly, not as much from real sympathy as from a sense of feminine loyalty. again there were outbursts of laughter in the group, and even from people at other tables who had begun to listen. the girl, embarrassed, mortified, looked timidly about in every direction. when her eyes met those of the man who was sitting alone her self-consciousness increased. the orchestra came to the end of a tango and, in the quiet which followed, the members of the _patota_ set out to "rag" nacha. one of them, who seemed to be her "man," egged the others on. the women playfully sided against her. soon almost all the cabaret was taking part in the game. at last nacha, unable to endure the banter longer, laid her face in her hands. the "duck" moaned in burlesque: "oh, oh, oh!" while some of the spectators near by almost unhinged their jaws in a roar of laughter, or chorused with the mourner in ridicule: "oh, oh, oh!" "see here, you are making a fool of me in public!" exclaimed nacha's lover--and he added an oath. again the orchestra struck up a tango. the languid notes, the limping rhythms, the thick, bee-like murmur of the mandola, came to drown both curses and laughter alike. again the couples were out on the floor, here swinging together in tight embrace, there stilting along with bodies stiffly erect and faces grave. nacha's "man" got up to dance with her. when, however, the girl resisted, he lifted her violently in his arms and set her down in the middle of the hall. "let me alone! i can't dance...." "you are going to dance, i tell you.... you are only putting on!" "but don't you see? i can't ... oh, please!" the fellow grasped her around the waist and plunged with her into the rhythmic whirl on the floor. the man who sat alone had started at the brutality he was witnessing, as though a question had suddenly been settled in his mind. something dramatic seemed about to happen, and many eyes watched him uneasily. nacha, with no heart for the dance, was not long in freeing herself and returning to the table; now it was quite unoccupied, since all her companions were on the floor. her escort followed smiling with rage, and sitting down beside her, began apparently to insult and threaten her. his lower jaw was thrown far forward as he spoke; his teeth came tight together, and his lips twisted themselves into all the grimaces expressing anger and contempt. "you'll pay for this ... as soon as we get out of here!" he said; and meanwhile he clutched her arm in a grip that hurt. the stranger was now looking closely at the man. the latter was a tall strapping fellow, stockily built. his wide, close-shaven face showed a scar across the chin. he had broad shoulders, a dark skin; and his small hard eyes glittered with something of an indian's haughtiness and sinister ferocity. a large pearl adorned his made-up necktie. he wore white spats over his patent leather shoes, and large rings on his fingers. there are plenty of men like this among the _porteños_! as vulgar as they are rich, they are always showing off their dollars and their women. they each set up a _ménage_ with some pretty girl--for otherwise they would lose "standing." they spend their evenings in the theatres and their nights in the cabarets or, for adventure, ragging with their pals and their sweethearts some convenient victim; drinking champagne, making an uproar, annoying everyone, bellowing at one another. noisy, aggressive, intrusive, they allow no one to look too pryingly, too persistently, at them! their right forefingers itch for the feel of a revolver--an appendage that nature should, to please them, have grown on their right hands. women, in their eyes, are mechanical toys, objects without human feelings, to be bought and sold as such. and yet women become attached to them; perhaps because they like the manliness that such violence attests; or because these fellows show their women off, give them distinction--of a certain kind. passion also inclines them to a certain fidelity at times. some of them moreover are university men, or belong to prominent families. however, they are all office-seekers, all gamblers. they "go across" to europe occasionally, insulting well-bred people by their arrogance and their grossness as _nouveaux riches_. in paris they are always accompanied by _cocottes_, and make disturbances in dance halls and cabarets to advertise their south-american spirit and self-sufficiency. a repulsive type, in short: a mixture of the barbarian and of the civilized human being, of the gangster and the respectable citizen. the urban descendent of the argentine cow-puncher is an individual without scruples, morals or discipline, with no law but caprice, and no ideal but pleasure. meanwhile nacha, her face in her hands, was weeping. her tormentor grew angrier, raised his voice to a higher, more resonant pitch, threatened her still more violently, called her hysterical, ridiculous, said she was surely "kidding." anything would succeed better with him, he shouted, than cry-babying, and putting on.... at the single table near by, the stranger was looking on intently, his features tense with silent determination. how much longer could a self-respecting man hold out against the challenge of that brutality? the rapier-thrust of a violin bow gave the death stab to a dying tango. the _patoteros_ and their women returned to their table. the fellow who had wept vociferously before broke out again into mock lamentations at sight of nacha's tears. he stood up, rubbing his fists into his eyes, and bawling grotesquely, like the dunce in school. his mirth caught the mood of the entire cabaret. every atom of it quivered in titters of laughter. the butt of all this humor, hardened by this time, was shedding her tears inwardly now. she even feigned indifference, shrugging her shoulders and forcing her lips into an expression of disdain. but the man who was watching saw confessed suffering in her still reddened eyes. when the next tango crushed this wretched farce under its innumerable feet, another of the _patota's_ members, a tall thin youth, with a girlishly slender waist, asked nacha to dance with him. "i said i didn't want to dance!" "what?" her lover sprang toward her and seized her by the arms, determined to force her to her feet. "oh, please! i can't! ... i can't!" "what do you mean--'can't'!" the contest lasted only a second. the man won, inevitably. pulling the girl out of her chair he dragged her along to the centre of the room, so that his friend could have a dance with her. but in his anger he gave one push so violent that she fell to the floor. and then something unheard of happened. the man who was alone had risen suddenly at the beginning of the struggle. now, to the stupefaction of everyone, he stepped coolly forward. the crowd quivered with excitement. a ring of uneasy faces formed around the chief actors in the scene. the tango was broken off; the sombre moan of the mandola was all that remained of it. "what do you mean?" the girl's lover spat at him, while a leer of primitive hatred flashed in his indian eyes, now smaller and harder than ever. the coolness of the intruder amazed the crowd. he faced the fellow calmly and addressed him with apparent indifference. nothing but a jerking of his lip muscles and a slight trembling of his hands betrayed the indignation in him. he looked steadily at the man in front of him and said slowly: "you will please stop ill-treating this girl!" no one could tell whether such coolness were due to foolhardiness or to real courage. the man was of average, if not less than average build, easy picking, obviously, for that semi-indian and his pals, who could finish him off in a jiffy, with fists or revolvers, as _patota_ preferences and custom might decide. the other members of the party meanwhile stood about in paralyzed amazement that any one should presume to call one of their fellows to account. "what's that?" the fellow asked, as though he had not heard distinctly. "stop ill-treating this...." a sudden attack from the four other members of the _patota_ cut off the end of his sentence. at the same moment the onlookers discreetly drew back. a chair was knocked over. there was a rush to get out through the narrow doorway. "hold on there! leave this fellow to me!" roared nacha's owner. the air was dotted for a moment with clenched, up-raised fists. seeing his friends still hedging the intruder about, their eagerness to attack unappeased, the fellow pushed them back one by one toward their table. then he wheeled around on the spectators. "this is nothing to stop dancing for, gentlemen!" to the musicians he shouted: "go on with the music! give us a tango!" the orchestra, which had disintegrated during the scene, assembled around the music-stands again. after a few moments of aimless strumming it began a dance in quick time. the crowd, partly out of respect for the bully, and partly out of anxiety to dance down an incident which, if repeated, could only end in a shooting, began another tango. no one cared to return to a danger once safely passed. meanwhile the two men stood facing one another. "you don't know me!" said the girl's lover at last, pulling at the rings on his fingers as though to busy his hands, so eager to be at the throat of the man opposite him. "you don't know me--but i know you! you are dr. fernando monsalvat. well sir, let me give you a suggestion. leave us alone, and get out of here at once. you are older than i--forty at least. i am only thirty, very fit, and used to these affairs; and my friends are with me, their sleeves rolled up already, you might say. just go along home! don't be throwing your life away! and if i give you so much good advice _gratis_, it's because i have my reasons for doing so!" the fellow's friends looked at one another inquiringly. who could that man be? what reasons did their comrade have to prevent them from breaking the presumptuous fool's head? the girl, seated at the table, kept her eyes on her champion. the orchestra was playing a wailing dance, limping with pauses, and mournful with the sighs of the mandola. there were many couples dancing, the women clinging to their partners' necks. monsalvat heard the man out in silence. he replied coolly: "you can keep your advice to yourself! meantime i want you to stop ill-treating that poor girl!" "that poor girl!" the fellow took a step backward as though about to "rush" his opponent. rapidly his eyes took in everything around him. one hand felt for his revolver. but monsalvat's self-possession held the rowdy in check. perplexed, and already beaten, he began to feel ridiculous. this man was not trying to provoke him; neither did he fear him. he saw that the crowd and his companions had not noticed his compromising move; and he decided he could calm down without loss of prestige. two or three minutes passed. monsalvat waited as though entrenched in silence and calm. something emanated from him which quite disconcerted his enemy. the latter lay aside his swaggering and said with a forced sarcastic laugh: "you know, i am afraid of you! that is why i don't touch you. you are a regular man-eater, you see,--and that makes me spare my friends! i don't want to see them beaten up!..." he stopped short, for his sarcasm quite obviously fell flat, even in his own estimation. he approached monsalvat, and putting a hand on his shoulder said: "see here, monsalvat, it's lucky for you that it was i you ran across here ... however ... well ... never mind all that.... i'm going to make you see you're wrong. i'm going to let you talk with her. you can ask her any questions you see fit." he went up to the girl and brought her back to introduce her. ashen-pale, embarrassed, she smiled an absurd little smile, probably to hide her fear of some fatal outcome to the scene. her eyes tremulously nestled for a moment in monsalvat's steady gaze; but the voice of her master drove them from that refuge. "this gentleman," he guffawed, "thinks i'm a blackguard more or less! well, i want you to tell him whether you are satisfied with what i do for you or not. tell him the truth, don't be afraid!" monsalvat, charmed and saddened, was still looking at nacha, though he scarcely saw her. his eyes, softened with a pity intense enough to be pain, were remodelling a truer image of this girl of the underworld. she did not dare look at him. her eyes were raised to her "man." her mute question did not, apparently, interest monsalvat, perhaps because he knew what the answer would be. "answer! are you satisfied?" "yes!" her voice was scarcely audible. "and you have an easy time of it! you have a home, haven't you?" nacha saw what she must do. she must speak, declare herself satisfied with her lot. to do anything else would be to draw down on herself this man's anger at her champion. so suddenly she began to talk in a torrent of rambling, half-coherent words. "yes. i am satisfied. why not? i have a home. i'm lucky all right. i don't have to chase around here and there the way i did before. and my home is fine. i have all the money i want to spend, and two servants. what more could i ask? and after all i went through before, it's quiet, and safe! you don't know what i went through!" and, once started, she went on endlessly. she seemed to be talking into space, not addressing anyone in particular, and as if for herself alone, as if to distract her own attention with her own words. all that was not for monsalvat's ears! she would have preferred that monsalvat should not hear her at all! the words came out, poured out, beyond the control of will, much like a somnambulist's chatter. monsalvat was not listening. it was enough for him to look at her and be conscious of her presence. her gentleness, the tremulousness of her words, the sadness of her eyes, were what absorbed his whole interest. what she was saying did not matter. the tango throbbing through the air made him the more aware of the despairing monotone of her voice. the mandola with its bitter wail made her tragic melancholy only the more poignant. even nacha's owner seemed for a moment to yield to the strange spell of these combining sounds. then he interrupted: "well! you see? are you convinced? didn't i say she was putting on?" throwing back his shoulders, he burst into a laugh that rang with contempt. the tango was over, so was its spell. the bully became the bully again. he approached his sweetheart, pushed her toward his comrades, who were sitting at their table waiting to see how it would all end. "now get out of here!" he said, turning to monsalvat; "but before you go, i'll tell you who i am. it's to your interest, friend--just a moment--we might meet again--take a look at me!" he was serious now. his right hand slipped through the opening of his tuxedo and rested on his belt. then he announced solemnly: "i am dalmacio arnedo, 'pampa arnedo,' as they call me." monsalvat started. instinctively he raised a hand, but immediately let it fall. the five of the _patota_ made a rush for him. at the same moment someone shouted: "the police!" the cabaret seethed in confusion. then suddenly an anxious calm fell on the room, a forced appearance of peaceableness, prearranged for the dull eyes of authority. from the first there had been among the onlookers a certain number who took sides with monsalvat. his manner toward the _patota_ won him sympathizers. some of them felt that the man had the strength to support his assurance. the girl herself aroused pity even though no one had had the courage to speak up in her defence. two or three of these most sympathetic, or most prudent, individuals had called for the police, to have help on hand in case of an outbreak from the rowdies. as the alarm was given the members of the _patota_ hurried back to their places. monsalvat, facing arnedo, exclaimed: "you rotter!" pampa arnedo, safely seated at his table, answered with a sinister smile, while his friends beside him made noises with their lips, grimaced, and began offering toasts, simulating exaggerated merriment. nacha looked pityingly at her protector. who was this man? what did he want of her? the police after a rapid glance around the room decided that "law and order" were still quite intact, and with solemn prudence went out again. monsalvat returned to his table and paid his reckoning. the duck began to sing the well-known tune from a popular variety show: "he's going now, he's going now!..." the other members of the _patota_, and even some neutrals, joined in the chorus, "now, now, he's going now!" monsalvat, as he got up, saw that the girl, too, was singing and laughing. he paused a moment, reproachfully it seemed, his eyes dimmed with tears. then quietly, without haste, he left the cabaret, while the fellow who had burlesqued nacha's weeping broke out again with his "oh, oh, oh!" chapter ii monsalvat had come to a crossroad in his life. for nearly forty years he had gone straight ahead, never hesitating as to which turning to take. but now, as though a complete transformation had occurred within him, he seemed a stranger to himself, and he did not know where this stranger was going. heretofore he had lived without criticizing the world of which he was a part--which means that he had been fairly happy. but during the past few months he had come to view life and himself from a critical point of view, and he had reached the conclusion that as human beings go, he was one of the unfortunates. he and his sister eugenia were illegitimate children. his father, of the aristocracy, and rich with many millions, had, some five years before, died suddenly without leaving a will. fernando was intelligent and had something of his father's manner and bearing; and as the legitimate heirs of the monsalvat fortune were all girls, fernando was given a good education while his father was still alive. in order to keep him away from his mother, an ignorant, irresponsible woman of the immigrant class, the boy was sent to a boarding school. it was only during vacations that he saw her. fernando remembered his father's visits, the discussions with his mother, the admonitions he himself always received. once his father had taken the boy to one of his ranches near buenos aires, a piece of property as big as an entire state, on which were marvelous forests, a house as magnificent as a palace, and paddocks full of splendid bulls and woolly sheep. more clearly than anything else, he remembered how his father took him along almost stealthily, and replied evasively when a friend, on the train, asked who the child with him was. later, at boarding school, some boys who knew his father's legitimate family, enlightened him as to his own birth. when he left college he took up law. he was an excellent student; and even before any regular admission to the bar, he was filling a place in the office of a well-known lawyer. later he became this man's partner, made money, and won recognition. for a scruple he left the law office and went to europe, remaining there two years. when he returned he was thirty-two. no longer wishing to continue in his profession, he finally obtained a consulship to an italian city. it was now six months since he had returned, after seven years' absence, to settle permanently in his own country. fernando's mother was still living. she was ill, and aged; indeed, although not yet seventy, she seemed quite decrepit. her son saw little of her. she lived with a mulatto servant in a rather poor neighborhood, in an apartment house facing lezama park. of his own sister he had seen little. monsalvat had lived as do most decent men of his social position. he had worked hard in his law office, and as consul had rendered services of distinction. from boyhood, books had been his chief companions. he had taken up sociology, and from time to time he got an article published. his opinions were respected and discussed in certain intellectual circles. though not socially inclined, and in spite of his timidity and lack of confidence, he frequented the clubs and theatres and race courses of buenos aires. he was not often present at more private social affairs, for the circumstances of his birth prevented his receiving invitations from certain quarters. while a student he lived on an allowance from his father. now, on his return from europe, he found himself possessed of no other income than three hundred _pesos_ monthly from a piece of property which his father had given him upon his passing his law examinations. the knowledge of his illegitimacy had exercised an incalculable influence on his character and general outlook on life. when he was a student certain youths of good family had made it plain that they did not desire his friendship; and later he had been socially snubbed on several occasions. he was, however, inclined to exaggerate the number of these slights. if an acquaintance failed to notice him, as he passed along the street, he believed the omission an intentional offense. if, at a dance, a girl chanced to refuse his proffered arm, he was beset always with the same thought.... "she does not dare to be seen with me.... she knows!..." if he received in his examinations a lower mark than the one he thought he must have earned, he did not for a moment doubt that it was the stigma of his birth which was to blame. not a day passed that he did not at some moment revert to this preoccupation. he bore society no grudge; on the contrary, it seemed to him quite natural that, dominant ideas being what they are, he should be thought less of. nevertheless he felt humiliated, with a vague consciousness that his value as a social being was diminished by a misfortune beyond his control. all this, of course, tended to isolate him, and confirmed his tendencies toward bookishness. he had no real friends. he felt himself to be quite alone in life--alone spiritually, that is; for social relations in abundance could not fail a man of his intellect and professional position, whose character, moreover, was above reproach, and who, in spite of an outward coldness and an almost savage shyness that frequently took possession of him, was a kind and likeable sort of fellow. this sense of solitude was tempered, if at all, by one or two experiences in love. his dealings with women were not those current among the young men of his generation. gossip attributed, nevertheless, sentimental affairs to him, some of them with women of prominence in the life of the capital. for monsalvat, as his acquaintances noted, knew how to please. there was something that appealed to women in the soft inflections of his voice, and in the deep seriousness of his eyes. but the secret of his successes probably lay in the fact that he awakened in women that compassion which is so ruinous to them--so much so that monsalvat was quite as often the pursued as the pursuer. two or three times he had thought himself in love--mistakenly, as he soon discovered; and women for their part had loved him, and with passion. but these affairs were, after all, nothing but passing gratifications of the instinct of playfulness--little love episodes at best. in other respects his life might have been considered a model and an exception. he was courteous and simple in manner, with no violent dislikes for anyone. kind, always ready to do a good turn, he pushed considerateness even to extremes. he lived scrupulously within his means. he never paid court to those in whose power it was to further his advancement. he never indulged in petty disloyalties toward his friends nor paid off injury with injury. his relations with people were always sincere and free from intrigue. a useful and an honest fellow fernando monsalvat might have been considered by anyone. yet, these several months past, he had been coming to the conclusion that he had lived in a useless sort of way, that his life had been selfish, mediocre, barren of any good. he was most of all ashamed of his articles on moral and social subjects, all of them colored with "class" prejudice, mere reflections of the conventional, insincere, and rankly individualistic standards which pervaded the university, and which never failed of approval from climbing politicians as well as from the cultured _élite_. monsalvat despised himself for having lived and thought like any other man of his social group. what real good had he ever accomplished? he had lived for himself alone; worked for the money that work might bring him; written to gratify an instinct of vanity, a desire for prominence, for applause. now he endured a hidden torment: he was disgusted with himself, with society, and even with life, repenting, in his soul's secret, of so many wasted years. to generous spirits, such moral crises are natural; moments are sure to come when they must view their own conduct critically; and at such junctures they loathe their sterile past. but how many ever succeed in changing the direction of their lives? most of us stifle this moral unrest in the depths of our consciousness; discontented and pessimistic, we go on living a life we hate, tempering the noble impulses that beset our guilty consciences with considerations of personal, even petty, interests that bid us take things as we find them. this latter was the case with monsalvat. two trifling events of his days in paris had cast a gloom over his outlook on life. convinced that he ought to put an end to his solitude, he decided to marry; and he paid court to a girl of good family with whom he had been on pleasantly cordial terms in rome. but no sooner did the family and the girl herself become aware of monsalvat's intentions, than all friendliness on their part vanished. an officious friend intimated to monsalvat--he never knew whether at the girl's own request, or that of her parents--that his attentions were not desired. later, at the hotel where he was stopping, he made the acquaintance of another fellow countrywoman. friendship and flirtation followed. monsalvat became interested to the point of believing himself in love. he made an offer of marriage and was contemptuously rejected, as though such an idea on his part were in itself an insult. in situations of this kind monsalvat did not suffer so much on his own account; it was not shame of being what he was that hurt him, but a deepening sense of the injustice inherent in people and in things. he had given barely a thought to the imperfection, the inequalities, of the world he was living in. full of his own thoughts, his own books, his own pleasures, he had paid no attention to the cry of anguish rising from the depths of the social order--as an established, an immutable order he had accepted it all along. the fact that not till he had felt them himself had he opened his eyes to the flagrant injustices of society aroused a deep self-reproach in monsalvat. it seemed to him that at the bottom of his new opinions purely selfish motives lay. on the other hand, it was to the universal, the human aspects of his own case that he gave his attention. besides, does not selfishness play a little part in our striving toward the greatest ends? it was some six months before the scenes in the cabaret, that fernando monsalvat, disheartened and disillusioned, had arrived in buenos aires. at first it startled him to find himself judging people and institutions so mercilessly. why did he see everything in its darkest colors? had he become an incorrigible cynic? eventually he came to understand that the severe judgments he was formulating were the natural consequence of the critical spirit now aroused within him. in the complex motivation of the finest, noblest, most heroic gestures of men, how many small, unconfessable impulses always have their play? one afternoon chance revealed to him in vivid colors the degree to which his life had been self-centered. the taxi in which he happened to be riding came to a standstill at a turning in lavalle square. a crowd was coming toward him, singing. it was a sunday afternoon. he noticed that all the doors of the neighborhood were closed. the singing came nearer, swelling up from the street, rising above the tree tops. it was an irritated, exasperated, tumultuous mob which was approaching; and a song which both alarmed and attracted him was resounding from hundreds of mouths, its spirit typified in the red flag waving above the multitude. he got out of the taxi, and at that moment a bugle sounded. the mob fell in on itself like a punctured balloon. there was a volley of rifle shots, and in the confusion he could see the police charging blindly with their swords. the song continued, however, for a time; then the regimented violence of the law was stronger than the impulsive violence of the _internationale_. the rabble broke into the side streets and dispersed. the swords of the police eagerly sought out the wretches crouching for shelter in the doorways. other wretches were in headlong flight, their eyes wide with terror. no one was paying any attention to the dead or wounded. doors and windows remained closed and silent. to monsalvat, sick with indignation, his soul flaming in outrage, this very silence seemed a horrible complicity in a crime. his transformation, however, was purely an inner one. to be sure, he had somewhat changed his manner of living: he no longer went to his club nor to parties; he avoided most of his former friends. but, after all, what had he actually done these six months past? had he perchance even discovered the road he really wanted to take? he was ceaselessly tormented by these questions, which plunged him for hours at a time into inconclusive meditations. on one point he was resolved: he would not resume his practice of law. what need had he to earn money? to save it up? to spend it on amusements? at any rate, he might give it away. but to whom, and how? a friend, a successful lawyer, who had a high opinion of monsalvat's judicial learning, proposed making him a partner in his firm; but monsalvat did not accept the offer. he thought, finally, he would prefer a clerkship in the department of foreign relations, where his seven years as consul would count, and where, too, he was already looked upon with great favor. the minister had promised him a post and the appointment would be coming along almost any day. meanwhile he roamed the streets, gloomy and preoccupied, fleeing from his acquaintances and the centennial festivities of the fashionable quarters to wander through the tenement districts and the slums. sometimes he would join the spectators of some street entertainment; and as he listened to the talk of those about him, or spoke to them, men and women, it surprised him to feel suddenly so much at home with these poor people, so at one with them; till he remembered that through his mother--born of laborers who had worked their way up to the shopkeeping class--he, too, was _pueblo_, very much _pueblo_, a true child of the proletariat. one day he went to see the building--a small tenement--on the income from which he was living. the house was a loathsome plague-spot in which some fifteen wretched families lodged. how was it that it had never before occurred to him to look this house up, he wondered, disgusted with himself. and why had his agent never reported such conditions? then he remembered that he had visited the property in person several times before his second trip to europe; save that then all this poverty and squalor seemed to him a natural, even an excellent, thing! was it not just this sort of surroundings which pricked the ambition of these laboring people, spurred them to work their way up to the comfort they had learned through hard experience to appreciate? was not this very misery the first rung on the ladder of progress in this blessed country of opportunity, where "no one need be poor unless he chooses to be"? monsalvat thought with shame of his earlier adherence to "economic liberalism," a toothless theory, surely invented by the rich that they might continue to exploit the poor! how much he would have given now never to have written those fine articles of his! he went away resolved to mortgage the tenement, and put the money into improvements which would make the building sanitary at least. the people of his old world, his men friends especially, made fun of his new views. he had not been talking much of his recent mental struggles; but his aloofness, coupled with a few articles of his giving voice to the protest within him, annoyed not a few of the distinguished persons who had been wont to applaud him. something had gone wrong inside this man; and society commented on the change without forbearance. some said he was crazy, others thought there was something off with his liver or his spleen. more than one of his old admirers looked at him with a kind of fear. what was he going to do next? perhaps break with all established institutions. monsalvat, however, was nobody's enemy. feelings of revolt could not live long in his heart, but became transformed, soon after birth, into a nameless anguish, a physical and moral uneasiness. he hated only himself. his rebellion was a rebellion only against his own selfish years. what was it he wanted now? what was he looking for? what road was he going to choose? he did not know. around him he felt a great emptiness that was ever growing greater. wherever he went a sense of infinite loneliness accompanied him. he spent hours pondering the future. meanwhile he had grown strangely sensitive emotionally; and it seemed as though the moment had come when his outward life, as well, must undergo its transformation. one night idle curiosity led him to a cabaret. he knew little of this form of diversion. the "show" entertained him; the tangos and the orchestra stirred his emotions. this place of amusement seemed to be a note of color in the bleak immensity of buenos aires. on the other hand, he felt more alone than ever before. in all that dancing, in all that music, he found, he scarcely knew why, the same sadness which was in his soul. at times when the mandola wailed in a crescendo from the depth of some vulgar popular tune--fraught with all the coarseness and abjections of the tenements of the city--he seemed to hear in it a cry of loneliness, despair, and bitterness rising from the dregs of life itself. it was on that night that his eyes first met nacha's. they looked at one another with surprise, and with a shade of embarrassment, as though they knew one another. the girl lost her composure, lowered her eyes, twisted her fingers nervously. for two hours monsalvat lingered in the cabaret, persisting in this flirtation. he did not understand why he had never liked loose women; indeed, it all seemed to him rather absurd--though the girl did have pretty eyes! perhaps she was not what she seemed! perhaps she might some day love him, chance permitting. perhaps his loneliness would be more bearable if a woman like her were there to sympathize with him. when she left the cabaret, he followed in a taxi. with her companion, she went into a house. monsalvat concluded that she lived there. he got out of the taxi, and loitered about in the middle of the dark street. she came out on the balcony for a moment, casting two or three rapid glances in his direction. a few nights later monsalvat returned to the cabaret. he did not find her there. his loneliness again became unbearably acute, and his restlessness intolerable. it seemed to him more than ever imperative that he find some purpose in life again, some clear comprehension of his mission and destiny. a few days later the scene in the cabaret occurred. chapter iii it was one o'clock when monsalvat came out of the cabaret. as he stepped out on the sidewalk the cold, waiting thief like at the door, leapt at his throat and face. he turned up the collar of his overcoat and walked slowly away, careless of direction, his eyes following the sidewalk in front of him as a wheel follows a groove. at the first street corner he paused. people were leaving theatres and cafés, whirling away into the dark in taxis and automobiles. the trams were crowded. the cross-streets, of unpretentious apartment houses and second-rate shops, all darkened and asleep, were poorly lighted; but at its southern end, the center of the capital's night life dusted the sky with a golden sheen. monsalvat turned in that direction, walking on mechanically till he came out on the brilliantly illuminated avenue. through the immense plate glass windows of the cafés he could see the multitudes of little tables, and topping them, hundreds of human torsos gesticulating under thick waves of cigarette smoke, pierced with colored lights; while through the opening and closing doors, tango music broke in irregular surges, now strong, now weak. the street corners were sprinkled with men stragglers or survivors from larger groups of joy-seekers. automobile horns, conversations in every tongue, the bells of blocked street-cars, rent the lurid glow with resounding, impatient clangor. but in spite of all the animation and illumination of the theatre district, the merry-making had not the enthusiasm of the earlier hours. only that irreducible minimum of vitality remained, that residue of joy-thirst, which survives evenings of revelry, clinging tenaciously to the later hours, and scattering over the after-midnight streets a pervading sense of weariness. indifferent to the animation of these glittering thoroughfares, concentrated on his own inner misery, bewildered in the maze of conflicting emotions within him, monsalvat went on his way, but walking more and more slowly now. he tried to analyze the thoughts and sensations that were tormenting him; but the effort served only to exasperate his distress. he had never suffered like this. all he knew for the moment was that his heart, with an impulsiveness which he felt certain was quite disinterested, had gone out to a girl he saw doomed, the victim of her own will to live and of the evil nature of others. how cowardly, futile, he had felt himself in the presence of her helplessness and humiliation! and then something overwhelming, imperious, had seemed to stir in his being, filling him with a courage strangely unfamiliar to him, lifting him from his chair, and throwing him forward against the girl's tormentors. but had he not played the simple fool--in public? had not even nacha joined in the mockery as he left the room, proving incapable of loyalty even toward the man who had defended her? then that final thrust of the bully: "take a good look at me! i am dalmacio arnedo! pampa arnedo!" in the days of his thoughtless prosperity as a student and man of promise, fernando had thought little of the sister, eugenia monsalvat, who shared his own position in his father's family. a touch of shame and sorrow had come to him when he learned that she had left her--and his--mother's home--disappearing from even that penumbra of respectability, to live as the mistress of a man named arnedo. so this was the man, thus crossing his path a second time, rising before him leering and insulting, and pronouncing his own name as a symbol of redoubled scorn for the name of monsalvat! and that sister, again! had he done anything to prevent her fall, in the first place, or to redeem her, now that she had fallen? he was still walking slowly down the avenue of white lights when he felt a touch on his arm. it was hamilcar torres, one of the most intimate of his few intimate acquaintances. "give me a few moments, monsalvat. let's go in here, shall we?" they entered one of the large cafés. the orchestra here, composed of girls, was playing a languid gypsy waltz, the music and the musicians, in combination, evoking expressions of melting languor on the faces of the males who were assembled there, most of them, at this advanced hour, gazing about in stupid rapture over wine glasses that were being filled and filled again. "it was i who sent for the police," said torres, when they had taken a table. he brought out the words very deliberately, marking the syllables, and in a tone calculated to emphasize the allusion, though his manner at once changed from a mood of reproving seriousness to one of amusement, and bantering knowingness. torres was a physician; his strikingly white teeth, crisp curly hair, eyebrows prominent over deep-set black eyes, suggested a trace of african blood in his veins. under a thick black mustache, rather handsomely set against rosy, smooth-shaven cheeks, he smiled continuously, sometimes sadly, sometimes ironically, sometimes with affected malevolence and shrewdness. monsalvat did not reply. the doctor, turning sideways to the table, crossed his long legs, and, thrusting them far beyond the limits of the space which might reasonably be allowed to each patron of the café, obstructed all passage near him. "i followed along after you," he said, shifting uneasily on his chair and turning his head so as to face monsalvat, "because i wanted to put you on your guard. you've got to be careful with these people, old man! i know them--they won't stop at anything--and i saw that you ... and the girl ... well ... er ... eh?" his right finger pointed, on the query, to his own right eye, then he waggled it at monsalvat. again his face varied from a rather exaggerated severity to a knowing smile; and turning his head so that it was once more in line with his body, and he had to look sideways at monsalvat, he added: "no need to deny it, my boy! after all, the girl is pretty enough! but--be careful.... when women like that get a hold of a fellow...!" "aren't you putting it rather strongly, torres? i have a feeling that this particular girl is not of just the kind that...." "just the kind that what?" snapped the doctor, still eyeing fernando sidewise, and with a mocking smile. "you don't know her!" then facing monsalvat, and mustering a choleric frown for the occasion, he added impressively in a mysterious and earnest tone of voice, as if revealing something from a transcendental source: "more than one man has gone to the dogs on that girl's account!" whereupon, with an air of philosophical indifference, he settled back to his former comfortable position. monsalvat was not convinced. nacha's gentle eyes seemed to refute the miserable innuendos torres was making. and yet, supposing it were all true? what then? a wave of passionate curiosity swept over monsalvat. he wanted to know more. he must know more! yet he said nothing. he could not bring out the question that was hanging on his lips. torres divined what his friend was thinking, and pleased to be able to show how intimately he knew the ins and outs of life in buenos aires, he began: "this arnedo fellow--pampa, as they call him--is real low-life, the kind who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through your body, or forge your name. two or three times he has come near going to jail. and you saw how he treats the girl! an out and out bully!" "what's her name? who is she?" interrupted monsalvat, with ill-concealed eagerness. "she's known as lila about town; but her real name is ignacia regules--nacha, as most people call her for short. her mother kept a student's boarding house--still does, for that matter. i knew her mother ... because once...." "keep to nacha, won't you?" "i see; you want to hear all about the girl! that's the important subject!" the doctor looked slyly at monsalvat, enjoying the latter's confusion at this sudden self-betrayal. "i'll tell you something of what i know--not all, of course. i'm obliged to keep the most interesting parts to myself. well, this nacha, while still living in her mother's boarding house, fell in love with a student and ran away with him. he kept her a couple of years or so; then he left her, and at a very critical juncture--she was in the hospital, with a child that, fortunately, did not live. when she came out she took a job in a store. probably she was willing enough to live a decent life, but the bad example of some of her girl friends was too much for her. she began to earn ten times more than what she got in the store--in a different way." torres winked as he now looked at monsalvat. "and how do you know all this?" the latter inquired. "my dear fellow, that is something i don't tell." the doctor did not wish to modify the effect of his story by simply stating that nacha had known a friend of his, and once, when she was ill and torres had been attending her, she had given him her whole story. torres enjoyed mystification for its own sake, and preferred, just for the fun of it, to keep monsalvat on edge a little longer. and this game, for that matter, was working well. in utter distress, monsalvat stared fixedly, now at his friend, now at the orchestra, now at the unknown faces about the great hall. but he did not see what was before his eyes. his mind was filled with the image of his own sister, abandoned to misfortune, perhaps now a common woman of the streets; of his mother weeping her life out over her own and her daughter's shame; of nacha regules, caught in the brutal clutches of pampa arnedo; and finally of his own past self, happy, free to travel, flirting with handsome women, courting literary fame, lounging at his club, or attending fashionable parties! while he had been idling thoughtlessly along in this relative but still gilded luxury, eugenia monsalvat was falling lower and lower in the social scale! his sister! but not his sister, only! millions of women were enduring a misery like hers! and a world of well-nourished, "successful" men and women went gaily on its way, indifferent to the ceaseless suffering of these other women, proud of its money, and its easy virtue, robbing the poor of sisters and daughters, buying them, corrupting them, enjoying life. "and then?" asked monsalvat, noticing that torres was studying him, and eager to learn everything he could about the life of this girl, who seemed to him at that moment to represent all the unfortunate women of the earth in her person. "well, she left the store--you would never guess why! she wanted to be 'respectable'! she took up some kind of work, i forget what; but eventually she drifted into a café, as a waitress. can you imagine 'respectable'--and a café waitress!" monsalvat, more and more irritated at his companion's flippancy, suggested that these attempts of nacha to work and to be "respectable" were certainly nothing against her. she might be a good girl, after all! "good? of course! these girls are all good--almost all, at least. we do judge them harshly, i realize. if they do wrong, it is without knowing exactly that it is wrong. and some of them really have a high moral code--for instance...." torres was not smiling now. memories of the numberless poor creatures he had known, memories of extraordinary cases of generosity, and loyalty, and even heroism, for the moment drove his superficial cynicism from him. monsalvat was not interested however, obsessed as he was by the image of nacha, who seemed to be appealing to him to rescue her. and rescue her he would! he would save her from her present tragic situation, from fearful hours awaiting her in the future, and from the memory of frightful hours of the past. an idea that he must see her, speak to her again, somehow, somewhere, took possession of him. but how? and where? and supposing he should meet her again? what would he say to her? he did not know; but his determination was not shaken on that account. he would see her--and save her; not for her own sake, nor because he was himself an "unfortunate" in society; nor because she was beautiful, and his eyes had dwelt upon her; but for love of his sister rather, for the sake of his own real self! "these poor girls are simply victims of conditions, i suppose," continued torres. "nacha told me once that wherever she went, in shops, or workrooms, or business offices, the men were after her. and it's true, isn't it? we men, even the best of us, are a bad lot. i'd like to know how a girl who hasn't enough to eat, and who lives in the worst sort of surroundings, can resist temptation, especially when it comes in the form of a good-looking fellow who offers to take her out of the hell she is living in.... no, they are not to blame...." meanwhile the "merry widow" waltz floated languidly through the thick air of the café like a maze of shimmering diaphanous silk or impalpable tulle. but to monsalvat it seemed that this music was winding itself about him, body and soul, a merciless bandage which bound him tighter and tighter, treacherously increasing the pain it promised to soothe. the sadness dwelling at the core of all worldly pleasures fell from each musical phrase, each bar, each note, on the heavy air of the café. music in such places as this always distressed monsalvat. tonight his whole being was an open wound, over which the ceaselessly moving grind of the music grated until he wondered that he did not scream with pain. was his own record absolutely clean? had he, too, not bought favors from women--be it, indeed, with flattery and favors returned? and where were those women now? had they, too, by selling themselves, lost all right to the world's respect, the right to be treated as human beings, to be pitied? his fault? he despised himself utterly. only the violence of his self-reproach gave him the strength to bear his pain. "and then what?" he queried, rousing himself from his abstraction. torres, who had been silent for a time, now answered the question that came almost mechanically from monsalvat's lips, and told all he knew of nacha's history. outstanding in her checkered career had been her love affair with the young poet, carlos riga. together they had endured the most frightful poverty in the argentine bohemia. nacha had left him finally, driven away by sheer hunger--and the thought that perhaps her being always with him was an unjust burden on her penniless lover. in these circumstances she'd concluded that it was no use trying to be a "decent" girl; and she had gone off "on her own," taking up with a man--who was soon followed by another--better able to support her. one day the idea came into her head that exclusive devotion to any one protector meant a sort of unfaithfulness to riga, whom she really adored. from that moment she gave herself up to the roving life of the cabarets and places of amusement. it was during this time that she met arnedo. he found her pretty, intelligent, admired the ease of manner she had acquired in her mother's boarding house, was impressed by the smatterings of culture she had absorbed from riga and other young writers she had known in riga's company--in short, decided that nacha was the jewel he was looking for--a girl he could "flash" on capitol sportdom, and "show off" as his "woman" among people appreciative of such display. "a horrible story!" exclaimed monsalvat, gloomily. "can there be many girls like that?" "thousands of them. and i really know something about it.... i have long been a police physician. my dissertation was on that very subject!" and he lectured at length on the theme, sparing no details of the traffic which has made buenos aires famous as a market of human flesh. monsalvat could not speak meanwhile. he was thinking of his sister, trying to picture to himself what her lot must be. he saw her in the abandonment that followed her disgrace, struggling not to lose her grip on life, failing, struggling again to evade the deeper degradations of the outcast she saw below her; and finally sinking in the loathsome mire, dragged into its depths, by a trader's claws, perhaps, tortured, enslaved, and--who could say!--dead! he listened with speechless intentness. "what a ghastly nightmare this world is!" he stammered at last: "and what is being done to remedy all this?" "what is there to do, my dear fellow? we would have to destroy everything and construct society anew!" at these words monsalvat seized his friend's arm with violence; his eyes were moist with emotion and his voice rang with a strange solemnity, as he said slowly: "exactly! exactly! well, everything is being destroyed, and a new society is coming into being!" torres assented, as far as his facial muscles were concerned, responding to the suggestiveness of monsalvat's moral earnestness, to the emotion which his friend's vision of a great and approaching good stirred in his own sluggish depths. he even went so far as to nod.... then came reaction. his inner, his real self recovered from the momentary spell of monsalvat's ingenuous and lyric optimism. one look about at the café's noisy and drunken hilarity, and the man of generous instincts disappeared, giving place again to the man of the world, the man like any other man, stamped with all the ideas and sentiments of his kind. to torres the words monsalvat had spoken, his quixotic theories, his grief over things that were not only irremediable and accepted, but even sanctioned, and necessary, began to appear ridiculous, and speaking as a doctor, trained to seek the origin of all human abnormalities in overstrung nerves and disturbed physical or mental equilibrium, he replied lightly and skeptically as before: "the problem, you see, is too complex ... there is no solution really...." monsalvat did not hear him. another voice was filling his ears, a voice from a thousand throats, convicting him of his own responsibility, too, for the world's crimes. his heart seemed to him a mournful, hollow, and despairing bell; his eyes saw the world as a scene ready set for tragedy--the tragedy, first, of his mother, deceived, suffering all her life, and handing on suffering to her children; then his sister's; then nacha's. in an eternal chorus of tears rose the lamentations of the lost women of the earth, the weeping of their parents, their brothers; the cries of the children they were driven to destroy; their own screams of shame, and clamorings of hunger. "why, man, what's the matter with you?" asked torres finally. "hadn't we better be going? it's three o'clock." monsalvat nodded and got up. he took leave of torres at once, on the pretext he did not feel well, and started off for the south end, toward the _avenida de mayo_, where he lived. he went to bed at once upon reaching his rooms. but he could not sleep. he did not know why it was; but the sound of the shots that had brought down some of the human creatures in the mob at lavalle square, and the song they had sung, became interwoven with one of the cabaret tangos he had just been hearing. this strange music haunted his ears and drove sleep far from him. later, when he had fallen into a kind of half slumber, there came towards him a procession of frightful figures, howling and groaning louder and louder as they approached; and he knew that this procession was humanity. it was already dawn when he began to sleep--uneasily and for only a little while. but even this semblance of slumber brought with it a nightmare. a monstrous phantom, covered with gold, silks, and precious stones, its jaws those of an apocalyptic beast, its claws, too, dripping blood, was there before him, in his room, although scarcely contained by it. the monster approached his bed, showing its fangs, about to devour him; and this monster, with its charnel house of a belly, where lay countless generations of the world's unfortunates, was injustice. monsalvat got up late. he was quiet now. at last there was new life within him. everything had new life, new meaning. what this new life was he could not have said. but he knew that within him there was now a sense of clearness where before there had been nothing but confusion and obscurity. he breakfasted and went out, thinking, rather vaguely, that he would go to his mother's. but, as he walked on, he turned in another direction. moving absent-mindedly, yielding to a new sweet sense of inner calm, he seemed not to notice the streets along which he passed. when he came to himself, he noted that he was within a few yards of nacha's house. without hesitating, certain now that he was doing the right thing, he went up the steps and rang the bell. chapter iv nacha had not been able to sleep. rarely, even in her unhappy life, had she spent so bad a night. on arriving home from the cabaret, arnedo had gone to bed in silence. this indian-like taciturnity of his always terrified her. dread of the man's violence, fear of being once more abandoned, and forced to return to her former precarious circumstances, mingled with the anxieties the day had brought her. carlos riga, she had only that morning learned, was dying in a hospital ward. yet curiously, what tortured her more than grief for her former lover or fear for her own life, was the uneasiness aroused within her by the memory of how she had treated that unknown man who had so chivalrously come to her defense in the cabaret. he had been ready to risk his life for her, and she had rewarded him with a laugh, a laugh half of fear, half of distraction; but to him it must have seemed one of treacherous mockery. into her heart that night a new, a strangely engrossing uneasiness had come, a presentiment which she could not have explained, but which she knew she must conceal from arnedo as though it were a crime. it was a sense of impending evil, an accumulation of forebodings--reminiscences that the news of riga's condition had brought up, memories of the evening itself; bits of her own past; pictures, which her frightened imagination painted, of a terrible future--a future with at best such poor, such ill-nourished, such unsubstantial hopes--all blending into a vague conviction that fate had decreed some great misfortune for her. how she longed for the relief of slumber! she would need to look fresh and happy when she faced arnedo the following day. this preoccupation filled her insomnia with a sort of hectic frenzy. to destroy all traces of the hours of torment she was enduring, she imagined herself digging little graves for them, and burying them one by one under a dust of forgetfulness. meanwhile, in her desire for the dawn, she turned on the light every few minutes to see what time it was. four o'clock, half-past four, five! never had a night lasted so long! she thought the clock must be slow, and got up to see if there were any signs of coming day. darkness was still unbroken. only a faint glow in the depths of the sky seemed to presage the possibility of morning. how she hungered for light in that overwhelming darkness! and meanwhile the image of the man in the cabaret haunted her. he looked at her so strangely! no one else had ever looked at her in just this fashion. there was not in his eyes that desire which she saw in the eyes of other men. it was something else, something else! especially from the moment when all the café had turned on her! why had he gazed at her so persistently? a few nights before, in this same cabaret, her eyes had met those of this man. she had not been able to keep from looking at him; she had not been able to avoid his gaze when he looked her way. and then he had followed her home--doubtless to find out where she lived. she had seen him lingering there in the street and had stepped out on the balcony for a moment.... who was he? did he want to take her from arnedo, to have her for himself? why should he wish to defend her when his doing so could only injure her? he was to blame, in large measure, for pampa's bad humor. as for pampa, she hated him; but she could not leave him. he had broken her spirit. he could insult her and knock her about; but instead of turning against him, she would become more submissive and obedient than before. why? how strange life was! she would never understand herself. at times it seemed as though another being dwelt within, forcing her to do things she could not otherwise account for. why else, for example, should she have behaved so meanly, so contemptibly, towards this man who had defended her; who, clearly, was interested in her; who was, perhaps, in love with her? why? why? that whole long night she had tried not to think of this stranger; but to no avail. there was something about the way he held himself, something in his eyes, and in the words he spoke, which set him apart from everyone else she knew. and this distinction fascinated her. with what spirit he had faced that hostile gang! something was drawing her towards him. it would frighten her to meet him again--yet she longed for just such an encounter. why should she want to see him? she did not know! she refused to know! only the memory of the poet who had been her lover softened the pain of that unending night. he at least was good! he was loyal! he was compassionate! his heart knew the most beautiful words in the world with which to console; he had developed her intelligence, taught her to bow her head to irremediable injustice. only this, perhaps, had saved her from the hard, cynical desperation of other women who had, like her, been overcome by wrong. and now he was dying. he was perhaps already dead. she had seen a report of his illness in a newspaper the night before; and the shock of it had left her helpless to disguise the sadness which possessed her as she sat with the others in the cabaret. she felt responsible in a certain way for riga's death. had she not abandoned him at the very moment when he most needed her support? and why had she behaved so? why was there this incessant contradiction in her life? she had run away from home at the very time when she had become most attached to her mother and her sister. she had loved riga passionately, and she had fled from him. she felt sympathy and admiration for the man in the cabaret, and she had mocked him. why did she always act in this unaccountable way? then riga took entire possession of her thoughts, and she lived over again the time that had elapsed between their first meeting and her tragic abandonment of him. it was in her mother's boarding house that they had begun their friendship. later, after her misfortune, she learned of the poet's difficulties. surrounded as she was by gross, vulgar people, she thought of him as a noble and pure spirit. years later, when she was working as a waitress in a café, she met him again. they saw one another several times, compared their troubles, were touched by each other's sufferings. so they went to live together. this union lasted three years; and in the midst of poverty, grief and despair, they came to adore one another. they both worked hard; but destiny seemed bent on sucking their blood. as their circumstances became poorer and poorer, riga took refuge in drink and stopped writing. she had gone hungry, taking the bread from her own mouth to feed him, to keep him alive. but a day came when she had no more reserves of courage. she had endured all she could. life and youth cried out for their rights; and she went away, exhausted physically and morally, weeping out all the remaining strength of her broken heart. a little before seven o'clock, taking care not to waken arnedo, she got out of bed again, and tiptoed to the door of the apartment, stepped out to the elevator and rang the bell. when the car came up she asked for the _patria_, the newspaper to which arnedo subscribed. the postman had not yet delivered the mail and nacha sent the boy out to get the paper. while waiting for him to come back she walked restlessly back and forth, from the window opening on the street, to the front door. it was a dull, oppressive, cloudy morning; the sky had a yellowish, dirty look. the air was very damp and on the window-panes and outside woodwork large drops of moisture hung. nacha had a painful presentiment. certainly such a day could bring nothing good. pale, trembling, she ran to the door the moment she heard the elevator start again. she snatched the paper eagerly from the boy's hand, opened it and looked frantically at the inner page. the item, alas, was there, the news which pierced her heart, and seemed like a claw tearing at her breast! shrinking, scarcely able to stand upright, she went to the sitting-room and, still clutching the newspaper, threw herself on the sofa. now it seemed to her that her life was indeed all spent. she lay there a long time, weeping. this man, to whom the newspaper bade farewell with words of affection, was carlos riga, the poet who was all generosity, all goodness, the boy who had been her lover and her friend in the best years of her life! he was the inspired dreamer who had freed her soul from the vulgar preoccupations of her kind; he was the idealist who had shared illusions and hopes with her; he was the man who had never spoken to her a word that was not kind and affectionate. no tears were enough for this loss. what though she never saw him and could not see him? she needed to know that he was alive, so as not to be altogether bad, so as not to become utterly unworthy. she wept. for death, in taking riga away, broke her last connection with the only happy hours she had known in her life as slave and outcast. she sat up on the sofa at last and read and re-read the _patria's_ tribute to the dead poet. then she went to a closet and took from it riga's "poems," which she had bought before he became her lover--later he had written in a dedication which filled the first two blank pages. with tears in her eyes she glanced over the well-known verses, but as some of pampa's snores echoed through the apartment, she hastily kissed the volume, and put it back in its hiding place, fearful lest pampa should appear. she must also conceal the traces of her weeping lest arnedo get up suddenly and see her swollen face. she returned to the sitting-room with the idea of writing perhaps to her sister. she heard the cook stirring about in the kitchen. a talk with the woman might distract her. with affected cheeriness she went out and ordered breakfast. how afraid she was to linger in any place where she might encounter arnedo! but she knew that he would demand an explanation of her gloom of the night before, of her refusal to obey his orders and dance. she went to the dining-room, in the corner of the apartment farthest away from the room where pampa was sleeping. these devices seemed to postpone for awhile the moment she dreaded. what was pampa going to say? he might beat her! he might drive her out of the house! what could she look forward to? several times she asked the maid whether _el señor_ was getting up. in this way she learned when he was awake, when he asked for his breakfast, when he went to take his bath. strange he should not be asking for her. and this silence terrified her! finally, at noon, knowing that he must be nearly dressed, she tried to prepare herself to face him; but she was restless, anxious and nervous. she heard his step approaching the dining-room. the door opened. scarcely glancing at her, and without a word of greeting, from the threshold pampa motioned to her to come to him. as she went into the sitting-room, nacha felt arnedo's piercing gaze upon her face. she did not know where to turn her eyes. back to a table, his hands in his pockets, pampa stood watching her with a hard smile, apparently enjoying her distress. "well," he said at last, "i want to know what was the matter with you last night?" "nothing! i was ill--i told you." she sat down as she spoke. pampa, paying no attention to her answer, began to whistle a tango. half dead with fear, nacha had scarcely been able to articulate the words. "sick, eh?" his hard eyes swept the girl sarcastically. a long silence followed, broken only by the jangling of some keys which pampa was turning over and over in one of his pockets. he pretended to smile; then suddenly, exasperated, almost shouting, and with an ugly word, he broke out, "sick! do you think you can get away with that excuse?" nacha, in terror, drew back towards the sofa, her knees and hands unsteady. stammering, half crying, she begged him not to shout so. she had not meant to offend him! "i've good reason to shout," he continued. "i've told you, haven't i, that i wouldn't stand your making up to anybody! you wore that fool face of yours last night because you think you're in love with someone--for all i know with that mangy cur who butted in. well, i'm not going to be made a fool of, understand? i'm not going to support a woman who goes around cry-babying and putting on." "i was sick, i tell you." "and i tell you, you weren't! if you say that again, i'll break every bone you've got in your body!" "pampa! please, don't talk so loud!" arnedo began to pace up and down, a torrent of vituperation and curses flowing from his lips, his eyes glittering with savage cruelty. nacha thought for a moment of telling him the truth, that her tears were due to her grief for the death of a man she had loved; but she knew arnedo would not believe her. besides, would not her feeling for a man she had broken with, irritate pampa for the very reason that he could not understand such subtleties of emotion? it seemed safest to be silent, to endure his insults and his anger without replying. at last, having worked off some of his temper, arnedo announced that he was going out, and would not be back for lunch. nacha followed him to the door, submissive, and still frightened. she even drew up to him as though expecting a caress; but arnedo brushed her aside contemptuously and slammed the front door behind him. though nacha could not restrain an access of nervous weeping she felt, after all, a sort of relief. the scene had "ended well" for her! her thoughts were free now to return to riga. she would go to the cemetery, and at least see where they were burying him. and she would wear black, very simple black, so as not to attract attention! in those moments at least she must appear worthy of the humble poet who had loved her! she had just finished dressing when the maid announced a caller. "who is it?" "a gentleman. he will not give his name." nacha's heart began to beat more quickly, and with an unaccountable expectancy. "you know very well that i don't receive calls from gentlemen.... is he well dressed?" the maid nodded. "tell him i am not at home. just a moment--well--yes, tell him i am not at home!" the maid left the room, but returned almost immediately. "he wouldn't go, ma'am," she reported, considerably alarmed; "he walked right in.... he looks all right, but...." nacha, with some uneasiness, went into the sitting-room. to her amazement she found herself face to face with the stranger of the cabaret. chapter v "who are you?... what do you want?..." asked nacha after the first moment of astonishment. "who am i? nobody in particular! just someone who has guessed that you are unhappy, and is anxious to help you." "but ... you must have understood that i didn't want to see you again! i can't receive you here. you shouldn't have come to this house. it's hard on me! think of the consequences! perhaps i may lose my place here!" "your place here is what you hate more than anything else in the world!" "how do you know? i'm not so sure.... i have a quiet home--and i'm free!" the way the man looked at her made her break off. they were both silent for a time, the stranger, however, not taking his eyes from nacha for a moment. she could see that he wanted to speak, but evidently did not dare. at last, in a low voice and with visible emotion, he began: "nacha--you see i know your name--you are not telling me the truth! you are not free!... you are suffering; and last night i saw how much! from the moment i first saw you i have felt a tremendous pity for you." "oh, really?" nacha exclaimed, with a laugh of affected irony, calculated to put an end to the conversation with this man who had forced his way into her house, whose presence there was compromising to her, and who now, into the bargain, was allowing himself to express pity for her. "yes, real pity!" he repeated, evidently not understanding that her laugh was aimed at him. "how kind of you! you must be an unusual sort of person!" nacha said again, laughing scornfully. "your life is nothing but suffering," he continued, rather as though he were talking to himself and had not heard what nacha said. "here you live in humiliation, worry, perpetual terror of what is about to happen. that is not _living_, nacha!" "call it dying if you like then. you are very amusing. i am sorry you must go at once! but if pampa should find you here.... i wish he would come!" they stood facing each other there in the middle of the room, the stranger listening quietly while nacha poured out her nervousness in words, and yet more words, hurriedly, interrupting herself with her own forced laughter, and distractedly moving her hands and arms. "did you think you had made a hit with me? how funny! but don't fool yourself! i can't help laughing though, at the very idea! you're crazy. only crazy people act the way you do. anyway, i love pampa. so there! you see what women are. he treats me badly, he despises me, he beats me--but i wouldn't leave him for the first booby who comes along!" by way of reply he took her hand and led her to the sofa, where obediently she sat down. in a low voice that had in it the same ring of sincerity and feeling as before, he went on: "nacha, you accept this man's ill treatment because you are afraid of something worse. you cannot bear to think that tomorrow, or whenever he leaves you, you will have to go from one man to another--" "this is too much! who gave you the right to insult me? i am a decent woman!" and then, finding her own words ridiculous perhaps, she began to laugh; and the laugh, this time, seemed to reveal her scorn for herself and her pride withal in living as she was living. the man's compassion grew. "why do you do it nacha?" "what?" she exclaimed, without checking her laughter. "you are trying to bring together things that don't belong together. you are trying to make yourself out a bad woman, while really you are good." nacha, abruptly, became serious. she lowered her eyes and for several seconds sat motionless, looking at the floor, seemingly preoccupied. finally she raised her head, and slowly turned her gaze upon this unknown friend. the peace she found in his eyes astonished her. after a long silence she asked him gently: "who are you? what is your name?" he told her. "fernando monsalvat...." she repeated, as though trying to inscribe the syllables on her memory. then, apparently more at ease, she added with a smile, "why did you come to this house? not to do me harm?" "to do you good, little friend." the girl smiled again, and again lowered her eyes, only to raise them once more to monsalvat's face. "little friend--i like those words! will you really be my friend, really, in your heart? it does me good to hear you speak to me that way. you don't know what it means to me to be told i am not bad. but, just the same, i am bad! only i do everything i can to make people think i am even worse than i am." she spoke in a yet lower tone as she went on, somewhat ill at ease from the intimacy of her confession: "we girls have to make a show of being what we are not. it's easier that way for us to forget our real selves: we seem to become somebody else. i even go so far as not to blame the girl i was yesterday for all that makes me the girl i am today." she was silent awhile, apparently searching her memory. "why do you try so hard to forget?" asked monsalvat, "wouldn't it be better to remember--if the present is so sad?" "sad? no, it isn't sad. other people might think so. but really it isn't. it is worse than that rather: it is empty, without any feeling at all. we live in a sort of perpetual confusion. it's almost like not knowing whether you're alive or not." "but why not remember what is good in the past? why not dream?" "remember?" her expression suggested that a world full of past sufferings had taken possession of her imagination. "why remember? just to feel bad?" "yes, little friend, to feel, and to suffer. if you didn't suffer, you would be horrible, all of you. it is because you suffer that you deserve pity and sympathy; and so you ought to seek out pain, and treasure it." nacha raised her hands to her face. in his own trouble, and in the compassion nacha aroused in him, monsalvat began to feel a kind of satisfaction. if she could still feel so deeply, there was hope. "no, no!" she broke out suddenly. "we haven't the right to suffer!" "human beings have no greater and more sacred right." "but don't you see that we girls must always be gay, dance, laugh: our profession is joy, not suffering. if we're glum, we lose our jobs. if we are not ready for gaiety and caresses, we're accused of not earning our pay." her lips smiled bitterly. monsalvat, sitting with one elbow on his knee, and his chin resting on his hand, was looking at her as though trying to drink in her very soul. "we have to make ourselves over," nacha continued, "change our natures as well as our names. do you think it is only out of shame, or because of our families, that we hide our identities? no, it isn't wholly that. taking another name makes us seem different somehow. it's like the carnival. under a disguise, you can do and say all the crazy things that come into your head. are you ashamed afterwards? no, because when you take off your mask you are no longer the person who played all those wild pranks." "and last night"--monsalvat asked, after a brief pause, "why were you so unhappy?" through his conversation with torres he knew the answer to this question; yet he listened anxiously for her reply. "there you see what comes of being out of sorts!" she said at last. "why should anyone go to a cabaret to gloom and whimper like a simpleton? pampa had a right to be angry. i couldn't help it. i had just learned that the only real friend i ever had, the only man i ever really loved, was dying.... and you can imagine how i feel today. it's lucky i can be alone.... i can afford to let myself cry ... and remember!..." monsalvat had started at these words. he was glad to know that nacha was still capable of feeling. at the same time, what she said about her love for riga filled him with a vague uneasiness. interrupting, he told her that he had known the poet. "you knew him? really? when? where?" from that moment nacha looked upon monsalvat as a brother. the wave of feeling carrying her towards him reached its height. she warmly took his hand for a moment and asked him to talk to her about carlos riga. there was tenderness in her eyes now. the last vestiges of distrust had vanished. she could have told him everything in her life, shown him the very bottom of her soul. he had known riga! he need offer no other credentials to claim her friendship! they talked a long time of the poet, whom monsalvat had met through edward iturbide. the two men had never become intimate friends; for monsalvat did not frequent the literary bohemia that had known riga best. nacha eagerly sang the praises of her dead friend. never had there lived so fine a soul, so generous a heart, so kind a spirit! talking of him seemed to intoxicate her. she spoke confusedly, and at times wildly, in a jerky monologue of broken phrases. the moment came when her eyes filled with tears and she shook with emotion. "and to think that i, who am speaking to you like this, i left him--the best man who ever breathed! all because i was afraid of poverty, afraid of hunger! it's true i've suffered, monsalvat, in the life i have been leading: no one can know how much. but all i have been through was nothing compared to the despair i felt when i deserted riga...." the poor girl began to sob with great gasps that shook her from head to foot. monsalvat tried to comfort her in words that astonished him, as he uttered them, for their consoling intensity: never had he heard nor spoken such words before. they seemed to well up from the very depths of suffering in which the girl before him was engulfed. "i remember so well the morning when i left him," nacha continued, "i shall remember it all the days god lets me live. we had a poor little room, dark, without air, the most miserable hole in a horrible tenement; and we had no furniture--just two wretched cots, old and broken and dirty. i hadn't slept that night, for i was crying all the time, going over my plans, and imagining how he would feel when he found i had gone." she stopped a moment to check a sob, and then went on: "at daybreak i dressed and made a little bundle of the few rags i owned, and all quite calmly. i wanted to put off the terrible moment as long as i could. but at last it came. i was going to leave him--and he loved me! it was so hard to do what i had made up my mind i must do. i went to take a last look at him. he was still asleep. i crept up to him on tiptoe, and kissed him, on the forehead. i don't know what happened then: i had to lean against the wall, for it seemed as though the whole world were falling away from me. my heart must have stopped beating. i thought i was dying and stayed there a long time, without moving, just stupified. when i could move i sat down on my cot and cried, then i got up to go. every step hurt. i went so slowly, it seemed as though years must have passed--and at the door i looked back.--why was i leaving him? why? why?... at last i crept out into the hall, and began to run, to run like mad, down the stairs, and out into the street...." "you must tell me your whole life, from the time when you left your mother's," said monsalvat after a pause. nacha hesitated, unwilling for a moment to comply. at last she told him her first tragic adventure; her love affair with one of the young men boarding in her mother's house; his brutality towards her when her timidity and shame placed her at his mercy; his attempts to exploit her, and the illness that followed. she recounted her attempts to support herself, afterwards, by honest work, the usual story of poverty, temptation and despair. "there was no help for me. what could i do? i struggled from week to week; but debts, hunger, the need of clothes to put on my back, the luxury i saw around me!... one day i told a girl who worked in the store and was my friend that i would do whatever she advised ... and she took me to a house she knew...." nacha lowered her eyes, shame-faced. "did you live long in this fashion?" he asked when she had lapsed into silence. "six months! then one day i couldn't stand it any longer: i left the store; and never went back to that house. i did sewing, i made artificial flowers; but ... i had no luck. i took any work that came my way; but there were always back debts to pay off ... and all the while every man who came near me made love to me. more than once i left my job in order to get away from them.... i hated them, feared them, loathed them. at last, after several years of this struggle, i got a job as waitress in a café. there i was more annoyed by men than ever; but i earned enough to be able to afford a decent room and some furniture of my own. and there i met riga!" "and then?" "after i left him? i went down again, this time for good and all. it was then that arnedo took me." they were silent for a space. nacha did not move. wide-eyed, she sat staring straight in front of her. what did she see? what were her thoughts? monsalvat, watching her with an intensity that he had never before experienced, thought the critical moment had come. "nacha," he said, "you must get out of all this!" without looking at him, she slowly shook her head. "but your repentance...?" "i do not repent." the words came out slowly and deliberately, and she turned to look straight at monsalvat. "i did not intend any wrong. what should i repent for?" "but you are dissatisfied with the way you're living?" "god knows! i have suffered frightfully. how could one help being sorry for such an unhappy life?" "well then, why don't you make up your mind to leave it?" "i want to, but i can't. it's fate! i was destined to be a bad woman!" all the energy of his spirit rushed to monsalvat's lips in words frantically shaped to arouse in nacha the decisive will to free herself from evil, to find good at last. he seized both her hands. feebly she tried to pull away from him. "nacha, you must change your way of living. you must be yourself! you must cease being someone else! you must learn to live! to live, do you hear? so as to be able to dream, to love--to remember! your soul wants to be free, and together we are going to free it. this is slavery! you have been speaking of what you have already suffered. but that is nothing to the agonies that lie in wait for you. youth too will leave you; and the day will come when you will be old, sick, worn out, a human rag, falling lower and lower. at last you will be, not only morally, but physically, a slave--the trader who is even now awaiting you will get you into his clutches. you will become a beast of pleasure, locked up in a house of evil; and you will have lost life, and hope--and love, too; for love has little to do with the criminal instincts of the men who will live on what you earn. you will be sold like a thing, at auction. 'how much is this woman worth? so much--take her! she is yours!' and then you will fall so low that only the dens of the underworld, only the gutters of the slums, will be open to you; for you will be old, your beauty eaten away.... then finally you will die and no one will know that you have gone. then nacha, you, you whom i am speaking to now, will be tossed into the potter's field like a dead dog." she was in a paroxysm of weeping now, writhing under this merciless attack, throwing back her head and tossing out her arms in tragic appeal to him to stop. there was a ring at the front door. nacha started to her feet, and tried to remove the traces of her weeping. however, it was only the servant bringing in a letter from arnedo. nacha, dazed, had not the courage to open it. she asked monsalvat to read it to her. arnedo announced that he was dining that evening with some friends. taking the letter nacha stood motionless and silent, staring straight before her. when monsalvat spoke, she neither answered nor looked up. a tragic expression settled on her face. she was trembling violently. suddenly, raising her hands to her head, she cried: "no, no, it can't be! it is madness. go away at once! i never want to see you again. i was crazy. go, i say!" monsalvat looked at her in amazement. he did not know what to do. could he have lost her? why a moment ago it seemed.... he tried to speak, to explain. but she pointed to the door with an obstinacy and an energy he had not dreamed she possessed. there was nothing for it but to obey--but this was an overwhelming catastrophe falling on his life.... his heart was breaking.... as he left the room nacha did not even bid him good-bye. arnedo's two lines had sufficed to remind her of reality, or rather of what she believed reality to be. with a great effort she stopped weeping and recalling scenes of the dead past. she was a different nacha now; she was lila, the tango dancer, lila, the delight of the cabarets. for a moment, she forgot even riga. but, towards five o'clock, her heart triumphed over her will. suddenly, desperately, fearful of being late, she put on her hat, rushed to the street, and took a taxi to the cemetery. the services had begun. anxious not to be noticed, she hovered on the edge of the cluster of people gathered there. it saddened her to see that scarcely twenty of the poet's admirers had escorted him to his grave. when they had all gone, she drew near to the spot where her friend's body had been laid. her handkerchief over her eyes, she stood there a long time, motionless, clad in black, silently weeping, an image of grief itself. the sky was overcast; the cold drizzle was gradually turning to rain. as the first gusts reached the mound on which she lingered, nacha slowly walked away, and returned to arnedo's apartment. chapter vi monsalvat wondered how, after the events of the previous night and those of the afternoon, he could bring himself to dine that evening in ruiz de castro's palatial residence, in company with various worldly persons of the latter's selection. was he not betraying his real self, being unfaithful to the new monsalvat, born of his recent struggles? as he looked about him he could think only of the contrast between nacha's unhappy life and that of these pretty women; and how different was the tragic dialogue which had occurred between him and that poor child, from the gay conversation buzzing about this aristocratic table! strange that contact with reality should have made him forget the occurrences of the afternoon! at this moment he had only a vague notion of the things he had so recently been feeling, of the things he had so recently been doing. he knew simply that he had just been living hours of intense spiritual excitement--an exhilaration approaching delirium, dominated by an obsession which had severed every connection between him and his material surroundings, and left him completely indifferent to whatever lay outside of his own inner preoccupations. after leaving nacha's apartment he had wandered about the streets for a time. then, a little quieted, he had called at the ministry, less to inquire about the position promised him than to give himself something to do. there he met ruiz de castro, who had a few days before invited him to dinner, and who now insisted on his acceptance for that evening. he did not refuse. why should he? was he, perhaps intending to withdraw from society altogether? at any rate, here he was now, surrounded by elegant women, and by fashionable men of the world. ruiz de castro, a classmate of monsalvat's, was a likable fellow. his principal occupation was making himself agreeable to everyone, old or young, man or woman. he was a tall man and held himself extremely well, though his carefully nursed mustache, the height of his collars, the variety and splendor of his cravats, the profusion of jewelry on his fingers, left a faint suggestion of the don juan and of the fop in the total impression he made. never had anyone seen ruiz de castro in clothes which did not look fresh from the tailor's; and he never failed to wear gloves even on the most terrible of summer's days. to a small fortune of his own he had added that of a millionaire's widow. his principal social hobby was the giving of suppers and small receptions to persons chosen from the most select circles of buenos aires. a lawyer by profession, he had read a great deal on all sorts of subjects and could talk entertainingly on art, and letters in particular; indeed by virtue of this intellectual pose, he considered himself superior to his surroundings. his guests were always men of recognized talent; doctors, distinguished lawyers, university professors, men prominent in politics or literature. at such intimate parties these "highbrows" and their wives, all of whom were art enthusiasts, talked painting and sculpture, music and verse. of course, for this élite, nothing done in argentina was of any account. to monsalvat the women seemed to be better informed on the whole, more sensitive and discerning than the men. of the ten there assembled, all of them elegant, beautiful, and witty--were they not argentine?--one wrote with real talent, though not for the public; another knew the art and literature of france better than a majority of argentine novelists of much more serious pretentions to learning; still another, a young woman who was seated near monsalvat, had studied philosophy diligently and had even attended bergson's seminars in paris. on this particular evening they were discussing rodin, debussy, strauss and zuloaga whose pictures at the exposition had aroused general enthusiasm among the artists and amateurs of the capital. monsalvat felt out of place in this atmosphere. most of the young women he had not met until then, though he had some acquaintance with their husbands. his being there at all was due to ruiz de castro's affection for him. de castro, a good argentine and a good _porteño_, instinctively admired success; and from his law school days had been wont to see in this young fellow, who always came out highest in examinations, and delivered the most impressive dissertations in class, a quite exceptional being, destined to social and public recognition. monsalvat, for that matter, possessed a genuine distinction of his own in castro's eyes. his natural and simple manners were a delight to the more sophisticated attorney, as were his quiet and correct conduct, his way of never calling attention to himself even by his clothes, his manner of speaking--which was not the fruit of careful premeditation, but the spontaneous expression of a real preference for simplicity. it was ruiz de castro who had done most to draw monsalvat towards society, literally dragging him into the jockey club, and then prompting various of his invitations to society functions; for the ambitious lawyer felt certain that a man of monsalvat's promise would never fail to do honor to his sponsor; and he was ingenuously eager out of sincere friendship to have his friend's personal worth recognized by his own particular set. monsalvat, however, was too modest for the rôle assigned him: he had an exaggerated fear of appearing ridiculous. dread of standing awkwardly in the limelight, of doing the wrong thing there, always made him keep his opinions to himself, no matter how much to the point they might have been. timid, lacking confidence in himself and in others, he never gave anyone a glimpse of his real nature. only a few intimate friends, among them the women who loved him, knew and appreciated his qualities. for them his was a deep, a noble, a generous spirit, modest and simple, without ambitions; a man who lived a satisfying inner life, and possessed an unusually rich culture. for others he was a colorless uninteresting individual, a bore and a nonentity. the subjects touched upon in the conversation at the dinner-table developed nothing in common between monsalvat and his neighbors. art had never attracted him; and he knew little about literature. he had read voraciously, but rarely a novel or a volume of verse, or of literary criticism. thus it was that when the ladies around him talked in dithyrambic ecstasies of chabas or loti, the conviction that he did not belong in these surroundings, bore in upon him not without a twinge of shame. monsalvat was not then thinking, nor did he wish to think, of what had so profoundly absorbed him during the afternoon and the preceding evening. nacha's final attitude towards him, the manner of his dismissal, had deeply humiliated him, and made him long for the seclusion of his customary mode of living. what a fool to have believed it possible to regenerate such a woman! but his dinner-coat helped him to forget all this, clothing him for the moment with self-importance, and inclination toward frivolity. he put his sister, pampa arnedo, his conversation with torres, all out of his mind. one of the only two bachelors present among all these married people, monsalvat had been seated between two _niñas_, "girls," as unmarried women, of whatever age, are chivalrously called in the argentine. the one on his right, elsa, was a delightful creature, blond, virginal, with the unspoiled, however mature, freshness of her twenty-five years. the rather angelic slenderness of her shoulders gave her something of the ingenuously innocent appearance of botticelli's maidens, with which the burning roses of her cheeks and lips scarcely harmonized. but she differed from the paintings of the early masters in not having a line that was either angular or rigid. roundness, indeed, was the conspicuous trait in the lines of her figure, the slope of her shoulders, the modelling of her cheeks and chin. she spoke with a certain ingenuous and charming candor, turning to full account her acquaintance with books and authors, which was remarkably varied. monsalvat had known her in paris five years before, and had called at her rooms there. he had observed with astonishment that this botticellian virgin had among her favorite volumes the _satiricon_ of petronius, willy's latest novels, and other productions of the same outlook on life. elsa's main sport was playing with men and their foibles. her wide blue eyes, of a surpassing beauty, gazed out at the world in such fashion that no male could long resist their spell. she would smile maliciously at her victim and assail him on the side of vanity, praising his talents, or whatever claim to distinction he might have. she would listen to the frankest allusions--provoked, of course, by her--without a trace of embarrassment or annoyance, though she herself always avoided improprieties in speech, indeed every word that came from her lips seemed the very breath of youthful innocence itself. nevertheless there were hostile tongues to criticise elsa. when an unfavorable comment reached her ears she would evince a discreet amount of alarm, and then smile to show how little importance she attached to such matters after all. as to love and marriage she had no illusions. how could she, when every husband who came her way, no matter how exemplary by reputation, made love to her at the slightest provocation? looking at the world through _fin de siècle_ french novels and the anecdotes of her friends, she judged it even worse than it is, seeing in it only the play of gross or perverted instincts. never having felt or inspired love, she could not recognize it in the world about her. as to her women friends, they interested her so little that she never thought of inquiring what women were really like. in her heart she despised them and thought them poor fools to be talking of the love their sweethearts and husbands had for them. she "knew!" on more than one occasion, when she had heard a husband praised for his faithfulness, she found a way of having a few moments' conversation alone with him; and infallibly the model of fidelity soon was a model no more. monsalvat had had with her several diverting and flirtatious conversations. but now, in his present critical state of conscience, at the awakening within him of far different desires, he could not possibly talk with her in the same tone. the young woman on his left, addressed as isabel, had a lively intelligence but few physical charms. nevertheless she displayed a certain attractiveness that evening. she knew how to make the most of her few good points, chief among which were her eyes, eager, sympathetic, trusting, questioning, quick to show embarrassment. her face was too long, her mouth too large. though her teeth were not pretty, she knew how to laugh--the clear, happy laughter of youth--and she showed them constantly. her temperament and ideas were the exact opposites of elsa's. coming from a family of the old spanish stock, and of devout catholicism, isabel was always talking "tradition"; while elsa, from one of the newer families, typified the modern pagan and cosmopolitan spirit of buenos aires. isabel was all prejudices and enthusiasms. she talked excitedly, with passion. she was incapable even of suspecting the true nature of elsa's cynical temperament. to her the world seemed better than it is. only unmarried men interested her, though the idea of marrying frightened her. some of the world's injustices were quite beyond her ken; but she believed that whatever they might be, one should practise resignation. for priests, whose words on any theme were pure gospel for her, she had a superstitious reverence; she believed them pure and saintly all. monsalvat and his neighbors had maintained the most trifling of conversations. elsa, as was her way, tried to give it a suggestion of intimacy, to which monsalvat did not lend himself very cordially. he would have preferred to talk to isabel. but was even this pious woman, with her dogmatic education, her habit of never doubting anything, likely to understand the complex anxieties besetting him? he reached the conclusion that he had nothing in common with his neighbors on either side, addressed them only when courtesy required, and directed his attention to the plump young woman opposite him, a rather amusing person, well-read, talkative, and critical of things and persons. at the moment she was running on about the theatres. "you simply can't go to the _odéon_! at least not on subscription nights! it's scandalous, the plays those french writers give the public! there's never a decent character in them. what right have they to oblige the people who really support the theatres to listen to plays full of workmen, strikers, thieves--all the rabble! i'm sure i don't understand why the managers present such stuff!" isabel, and nearly everyone else who was listening, approved the speaker's view of the matter. elsa looked at monsalvat out of the corner of her eye, and smiled at him. for his part, he felt hot indignation against this woman who mentioned working men and thieves in the same breath, and would have nothing to do with humanity's troubles. a reply rose to his lips; but he was afraid of appearing ridiculous, and kept it to himself. "tell her what you think--you ought to!" said elsa. this half mischievous encouragement seemed suddenly to re-enforce the imperative of monsalvat's own conscience. he felt somehow that he could no longer avoid speaking. with a smile at the plump lady, he said in a good-natured tone: "but, dear madame, it is for people like you that just such plays are given. how else could elegant and distinguished ladies of your world know anything at all about human suffering?" "but," said the devout isabel, "one goes to the theatre to be amused!" "if the show or the book is not to your liking...." monsalvat began; but he was interrupted by several voices, among them that of dr. ercasty, who was sputtering about and exchanging knowing winks with his neighbors at the table. dr. ercasty had long had his doubts about that fellow, monsalvat! the plump lady's voice rose above the others: "and why should we be bored with that sort of thing, mr. monsalvat? i don't think i need to. of course everyone is free to do as he likes. i have my own troubles, and i believe everyone has at some time or other; but i don't go about unloading them on everybody; so why should i be made to listen to other people's tales of woe? anyway, they don't ever show us moral struggle, but just hatred, crime, and insults to society. if there are people who are hungry, why don't they work? but i don't care to go to the theatre to hear about things that don't interest me, and that i can't help; and i care even less to hear myself being blamed for all sorts of things i never heard of. the other day i saw an impossible thing called "Élise of the underworld." i never was more disgusted! what on earth have we to do with that kind of women? no, monsalvat, you are defending ideas that i know you can't really believe in." ercasty nodded congratulations to the plump lady and good humoredly suggested that monsalvat had better throw up the sponge in the argument. ercasty was a physician, though he had abandoned practice to fill an important government position. in addition to a prominent paunch, and forty years of experience in this world, his chief distinction was his bland adeptness in the use of weapons little known in argentine society--paradox, irony, sarcasm. in spite of his smoothness, however, ercasty was a dangerous foe. when wounded he could fight back like a lion at bay. reactionary in everything, he would make no terms with democracy, liberalism, or even individualism. "society" was his god. "society" provided him with the ideas and sentiments he lived by. to express an opinion contrary to those approved in the best society, seemed to him a breach of good form, an offense as obnoxious as a crime. years before, when monsalvat was writing for the _patria_, the articles which "society" had so much applauded, wherein, with talent and learning, he justified all the iniquities usually defended by daily newspapers, distinguished persons, fashionable writers, and all good christians who interpret the teachings of christ to the advantage of their own worldly self-seeking, ercasty had been a good friend of his. now the doctor would have enjoyed seeing him come to a violent end. "don't plead the cause of those people, monsalvat, for heaven's sake!" exclaimed the plump lady. "of what people?" "oh, the rabble, the bad people, 'the people,' in short!" "the sovereign people!" offered ercasty contemptuously. "don't defend them!" continued the lady. "see what they tried to do last may, just when we had a lot of very distinguished foreigners here, ambassadors and their wives, representatives of european nobility even! they wanted to make someone pay for their own laziness! so they tried to cast discredit on their own country, and spoil the centennial celebration--a disgusting performance if ever there was one! what can our distinguished visitors have thought? and to take advantage of such an occasion to gain their ends! there's no name for such conduct, monsalvat!" "and if i had been the government," said the doctor venomously, "i would have taken all these gringo organizers, soap boxers, agitators and strikers, and the bad argentines who followed their example, stood them in a row on the plaza de mayo and shot them down. that would have been a number on the centennial program, and example to the rabble!" monsalvat could listen no longer. he was quivering with indignation. usually serene, quiet, and incapable of hating anybody, he would at this moment have enjoyed strangling the individual who was taunting him so flippantly. now he realized that all the men and women around him were his enemies, representatives of his old out-worn ideas, of prejudices which he had come to abhor. on their faces he could see only insolent satisfaction with good living, a proclamation of inhuman selfishness, a spirit of evil, hypocrisy, pride, an absence of all human sympathy. what were their lives but one continuous lie? these men and women had no real existence. they were insipid creatures of something they called public opinion, thinking the thoughts of their crowd, following the morals, the standards, the tastes, the fads of their crowd! their opinions were but a false semblance of opinion, their feelings but imitations of other people's feelings, their tastes, even their loves and their hates, mere aping pretense! life for them was a gigantic farce. had any of them ever thought of living sincerely, of seeking any meaning in all they were doing? and these people with their accommodating philosophy, their pretentious political economy, their hypocritical charity, were responsible for the poverty in the world, for the misery of girls like nacha, for the sufferings which social injustice was heaping up on every hand! why had he had to live forty years before understanding this? how could he have sat at this table a whole hour, forgetting all he had been through that afternoon? but no! he was not sorry he had come! henceforth he could have no doubts as to his place in the general scheme of things: he belonged in the front line of the attack on pride and falsehood and evil! all these individuals around him were so many tools in the hands of injustice; and someone must put an end to their privileges, their ideas, their unfeeling self-approval! at any cost, even at the cost of blood and fire, brotherly love must be made to prevail over brute force! these men who called themselves christians must be taught what christian love really meant! and the young ladies, the one on his left and the one on his right? to him they seemed instruments of wrong, monsters of selfishness, beings without hearts. one represented the selfishness of pleasure, the other, the selfishness of class. they could think only of themselves, of their amusements, their clothes, their reading, their suitors, their pet vices, or of their religious and social practices. to them the world seemed quite satisfactory as it was; and everything could go on in the same way to the end of time. in them there was no strong, spontaneous desire for the happiness of others. they were innocent of any attempt to relieve the pain of those who writhed in anguish in the world's black depths. they were little china figures, fashioned to adorn the society in which they lived, interested in knowing only the pleasant aspects of life. now and then, from a play or a book, they received tidings of some one of life's tragedies; but always they turned away with disgust: such things were not for their fragile and aristocratic souls! monsalvat was amazed at the ignorance, the unconscious cruelty their attitude toward life brought with it; and he could not help thinking of the outcry rising from the great city's multitudes who might some day clamor for vengeance as well as for justice! but at the same time monsalvat wondered if his present views might not perhaps be due to an attitude toward society engendered by his illegitimacy. his enemies would say so at any rate. they would attribute his bitterness to consciousness of his shameful birth, suspect him of trying to avenge his mother's disgrace on society at large. with how much truth? with none, whatever! of that he was sure. for beyond all such considerations, the question of justice itself remained; and this justice, unaffected by personal wrongs, superior to any mean satisfactions, condemned evil as evil, and indeed,--it could not be otherwise--had decreed already the death of all that monsalvat so intensely hated. at last, when he could no longer contain the indignation burning within him, he began to speak; and the consternation was general. ruiz de castro, who knew that his friend was an exceptionally timid person, loath to attract any attention whatever, stared at monsalvat in astonishment. the doctor kept executing fidgety gestures of annoyance and tried a number of times to interrupt. isabel seemed to be agreeing with monsalvat's tirade, but refrained from committing herself since she was unable to decide whether what she was hearing was for or against religion. elsa was enjoying the whole situation as if this outburst were a new kind of lark. she sat looking at monsalvat with smiling delight. what was he talking about? of social inequalities; of the fact that some of us have millions while others cannot buy even bread: that some of us live in great palaces set in handsome parks; while others, in dank, filthy, tenements, exist in a monstrous promiscuity which pens ten and twelve human beings in one room; that some have a superfluity of everything--property, comfort, pleasure, culture, education--and that this superabundance does no one any good, since it does not go to those who lack everything; that some women possess dozens of costumes and necklaces worth thousands of dollars--every kind of luxury and ornament--while other women have to sell their bodies, give up life, health, their very souls, barely to clothe their nakedness, to have just enough bread to keep alive! "well, why don't they work?" the plump lady who had been listening horror-struck angrily inquired. "because they can't get work, madame! because work, as things are now organized, is another privilege which we selfishly keep for our own purposes. i don't know how it happens that all the masses we trample on have not risen to exterminate us!" indignant protests greeted this explosion. elsa, vastly entertained, laughed and applauded. isabel became definitely hostile. all he was saying she had finally concluded, was contrary to the views of the church fathers. how frightful! the plump lady was quite frankly calling monsalvat an anarchist, an assassin, and an enemy of the established order. the guests had risen from the table and gathered into small groups. the plump lady seemed determined to argue with monsalvat. ruiz de castro approached them, smiling. "are you two bent on rearranging the whole universe?" he asked in a tone of conciliating banter. "do you know, this monsalvat has become a dangerous anarchist!" the woman replied. "yes! nothing is so dangerous as telling the truth!" was fernando's rejoinder. "but some individuals are even more dangerous than the truth--the dreamers, i mean. isn't that so?" ruiz de castro addressed the remark to the plump lady. "certainly! and just consider what monsalvat was saying about those women! why, he was practically blaming me for the fact that--that they--well, you understand. indeed you understand these matters only too well! i believe that what is wrong with all those creatures is that they lack the fear of god. before giving themselves up to such a life they ought to beg, take places as servants, go to houses of charity, bestir themselves at any rate! there's no lack of work...! let them do like the men; but instead of turning into anarchists or socialists and going about from strike to strike, they ought to submit to the will of god, and resign themselves to their lot! as we all have to!" "yes, that is true," exclaimed isabel, emphasizing the last word as if she were impressed in advance by what she was going to say, and with all the conviction of a person who has found a clinching argument. "that is very, very true! why stir up strikes? it's so wrong, so wrong!" the plump lady added with a sigh of melancholy resignation: "everyone must accept his lot in life!" "when it is yours," said ruiz de castro, smiling, "one can well afford to think so. but i, instead of your lot, would choose your husband's!" "mine?" she exclaimed, passing over this gallantry. "but we are almost poor! i can't say we are actually hard up; but aside from my husband's salary as deputy, we have nothing but the rents from a few insignificant pieces of property and a farm near buenos aires. still, i don't complain. others have millions--very well! i don't envy them: i accept god's will." monsalvat began to wonder why he was lingering among these people, the object of their general contempt. for that matter, he had no right to be there. he took leave of his hosts and went away. the night air cleared his brain; but how tired he was, how sick! as he walked on, he began to feel in better spirits. he would have no more to do with what he called organized injustice. he saw now the road he must henceforth follow. good dwelt with the oppressed; and the only work worthy of a man was to fight for the down-trodden. he would give his life and the little money he had to the poor of the earth. people said he wanted vengeance? very well! that would be his vengeance! it was midnight when he reached his rooms; there dissatisfaction with himself came over him again. he took off his evening clothes, and tossed them carelessly aside. his thoughts reverted to nacha. why had she dismissed him after listening so long to him, after confiding her own history so intimately? could he have fallen in love with her? was this the explanation of his actions that evening? oh, nacha, nacha! what would he not give to see her, for even the hundredth part of a second! as his eye wandered about the room, he saw a letter lying on the table. it was from his mother. she was asking him to come to her for she was very ill, and believed death near. a few seconds later monsalvat was hurrying in a taxi toward lezama park. chapter vii monsalvat's mother had been a very pretty girl; but at sixty she possessed not even the remnants of her earlier beauty. aquilina severin had left her parents' modest shop to work at a fashionable dressmaker's establishment on florida avenue. one fine day fernando's father met her on the street, made love to her in due form, and succeeded in winning her. aquilina was twenty when her son was born. soon after this her lover, claudio monsalvat, married a girl of his own social position; which did not prevent his giving aquilina an allowance and visiting her from time to time. ten years later a girl eugenia, came into the world. claudio had made over a piece of property to aquilina, but died without bequeathing anything to his natural children. their mother had urged them to contest the will made wholly in favor of the legitimate family; but fernando, then in europe, refused to consider such a suggestion. his mother lived on the two hundred or so _pesos_ which were the income from her property, until she sold it on the advice of an attorney of the neighborhood. the proceeds of the sale were turned to good account by various speculators; and shortly thereafter aquilina found herself in the street, penniless. from that time on her son supported her. of scant native endowments, aquilina severin had had little education, and remained a stupid, incompetent woman. the comforts supplied by claudio represented the height of wellbeing in her eyes. she believed herself a fine lady, deserving of the world's envy. her parents had not been married, and she had none of the current prejudices in favor of legal unions. she considered love the important thing in these matters and had for that sentiment a high regard, though the word "love" had a very elastic scope in the usage of this unfortunate derelict. her daughter's education, under the circumstances, could only be disastrous. fernando at various times tried to take a hand in his sister's training. he advised his mother to send her to school, and to discourage certain of eugenia's undesirable friendships. but aquilina always replied: "and why? what will she get out of it? i never went to school, and i came out all right! i know what i am doing, and it's nobody's business!" eugenia therefore got her schooling in the streets. she spent her days with other small girls on the sidewalk, or on the window balconies, where her graceful figure and fine black eyes attracted plenty of attention. when eugenia was twenty she made certain attempts to overcome the waywardness naturally resulting from this bit of mistraining. she even tried to get work in a shop. but aquilina objected, saying that the pay was an insult, that the girl would kill herself with work, come to look old before her time, and by accepting such a lowly station, harm her father and brother in the bargain. it was aquilina's desire that eugenia meet some rich or distinguished man who would fall in love with her and set her up in an establishment of her own. she knew that no one but a laborer or some socially insignificant person would marry her daughter; and she preferred one of those extra-legal arrangements which she took as a matter of course without the slightest scruple. aquilina could conceive of nothing better for her daughter than a situation resembling her own. she believed romantically in eternal love, in everlasting fidelity--and in men's promises! she never spoke of these ambitions to her daughter, much less to her son; but eugenia divined something of them just the same. in the house next door lived a family of position and wealth. one of the sons of the family was wont to make eyes at eugenia whenever he caught sight of her, without going so far as to speak--out of fear for fernando perhaps, who in those days used to visit his mother two or three times a week. one day aquilina observed to eugenia in a tone which expressed her meaning even more clearly than did her words: "now we'll see if you can land your _beau_.... he's a fine young man--and he's rich!" "but, mother, do you think he will marry me?" "i don't know. we'll find that out later; but if he's reliable, and faithful, and affectionate, it doesn't matter much." she stopped at the look of disgust and sadness in her daughter's eyes; for eugenia, curiously enough, was a very normal girl at bottom. she wanted a husband and a home, but from all she had heard her mother say on this topic, she believed that, preliminary to "landing" men, it was necessary to angle for them. it was at this time that aquilina took into her service the woman, celedonia, who from then on, for ten years, was her constant companion. celedonia, a talkative, rather handsome creature, and of mixed blood, kept the whole neighborhood busy talking scandal about her. fernando frequently begged his mother to get rid of her; but for aquilina, her new servant was the most entertaining of company. she brought home all the gossip of the block; the deceptions practised by supposedly rich people to make an impression at little expense; the quarrels of husbands and wives; the love affairs of daughters or servants; the pranks of the men in the various families; the vices, in short of everybody. during carnival, celedonia always went, in costume and mask, to the balls at the victoria theatre, where she encountered others of mixed blood like herself. the next day she would come home, still half drunk, and spend the afternoon telling her mistress what she had seen. to aquilina these stories of low-life were like a window opening on a world of gaiety denied her. she would rock with laughter at the anecdotes, enjoying descriptions of things of which she could have no experience, and almost envying celedonia her good times. sometimes eugenia too was present, listening to these stories; and it never occurred to her mother to cut them short on account of her daughter's presence. not long before fernando left on his second trip for europe, eugenia made arnedo's acquaintance. he was a bold, handsome, domineering youth, apparently good-natured; and it did not take eugenia long to fall in love with him. the first time he saw her, as he chanced to be passing the house she lived in, he made clear, in unmistakable fashion, what a profound impression she made on him. catching sight of her in her doorway, he stopped a moment, on the sidewalk, then took up a position on the street corner; after a while he walked past her several times and finally approached. eugenia, who was alone, stepped back a little; but arnedo snatched at her hand, and in an imperious tone, ordered her to stay. "but someone may be coming!" "i don't care. i am crazy about you!" he declared, in a simulated burst of emotion. they talked awhile. they told one another their names; and arnedo as he caressed her hand, declared a consuming passion. for several evenings they continued their conversations in the vestibule. eugenia never doubted arnedo's sincerity when he promised to marry her very soon. from that moment arnedo was her master. aquilina and celedonia knew what was going on but did not interfere. the girl's mother believed that here at last was the man she was hoping for; and she was quite confident that her daughter would know how to manage him; celedonia was not the one to discourage such conduct, surely. fernando was in europe when eugenia ran away with arnedo. her mother imagined that this was a desirably decisive act. she did not quite understand it, for the young people could perfectly well have taken her into their confidence; but she thought that perhaps methods in these matters had changed since her youth. as for eugenia, she was quite ready to believe, when arnedo took her to his quarters, that the affair was "serious." nevertheless arnedo left her at the end of a year. eugenia returned to her mother's; and aquilina's only reproach was on her lack of skill in managing men. for several weeks the girl was keenly conscious of shame, especially when she met her acquaintances of the neighborhood. one day she decided that she could no longer live with her mother, whom her presence in the apartment disgraced; and besides her mother's toleration of her conduct was extremely distasteful to her. she went away, leaving no word as to where she was going. for several months aquilina had no news of her. eugenia's first flight had not been mentioned to fernando; but when letters from her ceased to come he demanded an explanation. on his return from europe, he got the whole story; eugenia was living somewhere with arnedo--this was all the mother knew. fernando was not only distressed, but somewhat alarmed at this news, which, he believed, might harm him in his profession if it were widely known. his sister's conduct had a great deal to do with his leaving the country a second time, and remaining away for seven years. since his return fernando had visited his mother very little, in spite of her ill-health. the mulatto woman, whom he intensely disliked, was always present during his interviews with her. once he had suggested asking her to leave the room; but aquilina begged him not to do so. for that matter celedonia needed no authorization from her mistress for what she did or did not do. she ruled the establishment as absolute sovereign, managing aquilina's funds, and sharing life with her mistress on equal terms. aquilina adored her son, but she could not prevent the mulatto's exhibiting some of the hatred monsalvat inspired in her; and the very natural effect of this was to discourage his visits. when he reached the apartment that night, he found the outer rooms crowded with people. this convinced him that his mother must be dying; and with a sinking heart he rushed to her bedroom. the mulatto and another woman were there preparing hot applications; and he noticed also a young girl of some twenty years who appeared both pretty and respectable. monsalvat brushed the women aside and leaned over to kiss his mother. "have you sent for the doctor?" he asked turning around. "doctor! why a doctor?" exclaimed the mulatto scornfully. "here is mamita juana, who knows more than all your doctors put together!" without replying, fernando went to the door and addressing the men gathered there asked if there was anyone who could deliver a letter for him at once. a gray-haired old fellow with a long beard, his shoulders bent, and his clothing quite disreputable, pressed forward, holding out his hand. "don't you remember me, doctor monsalvat? don't you remember moreno, the attorney? that's me! why, we worked together once!" monsalvat remembered that he had given this man employment in his office for a short time. later he had found the old fellow again, earning a miserable pittance from odd jobs in the law courts. monsalvat took a pencil from his pocket and wrote something on a card, while moreno went on talking: "here i am, doctor, still alive, and that's some job! those days are over--my law days, i call them. don't think i'm stuck on myself; but just the same i'm proud of the work i did back there. the law in this country of ours owes me something, doctor! i helped it along. we took part in some big law suits, and we won them. i say 'we' because, after all, the other fellow did his share of the work. and here i am, doctor, with ten children on my hands, poor as a rat, and going down hill fast...." in spite of his shabbiness, moreno still possessed some of the manners of a more cultivated society than the one that now knew him. he smelt of cheap whiskey and his person was none too clean; but the semi-obscurity of the hall was to his advantage. "deliver this letter to this address at once. take a cab, and wait for an answer! bring dr. torres back with you." fernando gave him some money, urged him to hurry, and was about to return to his mother's bedside when a woman near by said: "don't let him go alone, sir. he'll stop for a drink in the first saloon he sees." "this is the companion of my sorrows," proclaimed moreno, "and see how she treats me! she owes me everything; i have given her ten children and my name, raising her to my own social position--" "he's just talking, sir. we have no ten children--only seven. he thinks you'll give him some money." the woman was half angry, half smiling; and the others standing around, who seemed to have quite forgotten the sick woman, burst out laughing. "you'd better let my husband go with him," said one of the women, pointing to her man. "all right. will you?" asked monsalvat. moreno, with an offended expression, placed one hand on his chest, and declared oratorically: "doctor, what has been said is offensive to my...." "stop talking, my good moreno, and hurry, if you please!" monsalvat interrupted. "i'll pay you well for your trouble." "at your orders, doctor, whatever you say," the man replied, inclining his head in humility. "it's you that asks it, sir, and i'll do anything for you! just as in those distant days which never will return, moreno, attorney at law, will always...." the man who was to accompany him grasped his arm and hustled him away. fernando returned to his mother's room. aquilina was seriously ill. from her rapid pulse monsalvat guessed she must be suffering from a heart attack. but what was there to do? he thought of cold applications and asked the girl, moreno's oldest daughter, to prepare them. the woman quack remained in the room, partly enjoying the prospect of witnessing the doctor's failure, and partly bored. celedonia sat at the bedside, casting contemptuous glances at monsalvat. "leave me with my mother," he ordered, and the women went out, grumbling. when aquilina found herself alone with her son, she began to weep. up to this moment she had been overwhelmed by the fear of death. but now her son's presence seemed to comfort her. "fernando," she began, when she was able to speak, "i have been a bad mother. if i could only see eugenia before i go! look for her ... find her ... so that she will come tomorrow. i was a bad mother i guess! it was my fault she went away! i knew what she was doing; i allowed her to go on." fernando tried to console her, assuring her that she was exaggerating her responsibility. he was sincere in this, for he could not believe his own mother had consented to her daughter's wrong-doing. in the miserable wretch before him he could see not a bad but an ignorant woman, doomed by her own foolishness, and by the circumstances of her life. "yes, a bad woman," repeated aquilina. "after eugenia had given herself up to a bad life, i let her come here, and i let her give me money. at first, after arnedo left her, she came back, and wanted to be a good girl. but celedonia couldn't let her ... and i knew it all the time. oh, fernando, can you forgive me? can you forgive me for all the harm i did you, too? i saw more than once how unhappy you were on account of me. if i had been a good mother, i would rather have died than harm you!" fernando scarcely heard the words. his mother's confession had made him draw his hand away, instinctively. he sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, his eyes closed. what pain this was, penetrating to every fibre of his body! his mother's self-accusation gave him a sense of unendurable shame; but at the same time the load of responsibility resting on his shoulders seemed to grow lighter. aquilina had grown quieter after making her confession; and now he, too, felt a certain measure of peacefulness creeping into his heart. when he first listened to his mother's strange words he thought he was going to hate her, loathe her; but now, on the contrary, he loved her more than before. all the pity he was capable of seemed too little for this poor, foolish, dying mother of his; he began to sob, kissed her, put his arms around her with a tenderness which was the poor woman's only comfort during those moments. "mother, it is my fault, not yours," he assured her, when he could speak. "i intended coming to tell you so, even before you sent for me. all the responsibility is mine. i have had a better chance than either you or eugenia; i knew more about life, and i should have taken care of you, both of you, protected you--tried to educate you. that was the task i should have set myself! instead, i came here as little as possible, because i didn't want to be reminded of the facts i hated. i never really took any interest in you. eugenia owes me nothing, because i never gave her anything; i never spoke to her openly, frankly; i never helped her by word or act. instead of staying with you both to take care of you, i went to europe, to get away from my mother and sister, to forget them." "i brought disgrace upon you. you are paying for what is my fault, fernando." "no, it is not your fault! something far more guilty than you is to blame! but, never mind! all this is very far away from us now, mother. at last i have come to know myself, and to know the world we live in." aquilina suddenly grew worse. fernando, anxiously waiting for the doctor, sent moreno's wife to watch for him at the street door. his mother seemed to be struggling for breath, and he thought oxygen would help her. "you must find eugenia," she gasped. "i need to know that she forgives me. look for her ... tell her...." fernando was afraid to think where he might find eugenia. what had become of her by this time? his thoughts turned to nacha; and he wondered if those two had perhaps met. nacha, eugenia!... surely his was a strange destiny, to have spent all his life far from this class of women, and now to find himself taking a part in their lives. nacha! eugenia! was he in love with nacha? if not, why did he think of her all the time even on such an occasion as this one? and where would such a love lead him? if he found eugenia, he would take her to live with him. why should not nacha live with them also, in fraternal companionship? eugenia, nacha! the two seemed only one now. their souls, their lives, even their forms, seemed to blend into one haunting symbol of human sorrow. selfishness, ignorance and evil were their relentless enemies, and worse than any of these was the smug indifference of the prosperous. the doctor's arrival roused him from his ponderings. torres sent him at once for some oxygen, and he took moreno with him. in the hack he asked the old attorney if he knew where to find eugenia. moreno knew perfectly well, but he did not wish to part with his information too lightly. he assured monsalvat that he did not know, but that he could find out. "it will be a hard piece of work, doctor; but as long as it's for you.... i'm pretty hard up. you see how it is...." "i'll give you whatever money you need. but you are to bring her to her mother's the very first thing in the morning, understand?" moreno promised. he began to talk of eugenia, of her beauty, of the luxury amid which she was reported to be living. it was a shame ... but what could be done about it? and he added philosophically, as if it might console monsalvat: "you mustn't take it too hard, doctor. that's the way things go in this world." when they returned to the apartment with the oxygen, aquilina was dead. chapter viii the fit of anger during which nacha had ordered monsalvat out of her house had quite passed by the time she returned from the cemetery. she could only marvel at her sudden refusal to hear more of what but a few moments before had offered her starving life the ideal it craved. nevertheless, the regretful gentleness pervading her now was due undoubtedly to the soothing effect of her visit to riga's grave. the thought of the dead poet made her repent of her sudden harshness towards monsalvat. after that silent leave-taking from her friend, how indeed could she help yearning to turn away from the life she was leading? and yet could she accomplish that? no practicable plan occurred to her; monsalvat might have helped; but she, stupidly, had driven him away. strange how certain she felt, nevertheless, that he would not continue offended, that he would forgive her for everything in the end. still, it was not probable now that he would look for her. where could she find him? what were his occupations? what places did he frequent? alas! she knew nothing of him at all, except his name. by some strange confusion in her imagination, the figures of monsalvat and riga began to blend in her memory. she could not think of one apart from the other. was there, perhaps, some spiritual resemblance between them? outwardly they were such different men. monsalvat gave an impression of serenity, of poise; riga, on the contrary, seemed all nerves, all tension. what had riga, weak, sensitive, the typical neurotic, the creature of whim and circumstance, to set against monsalvat's strength of mind and will? evidently this courageous stranger who had broken his way into her intimacy so suddenly had most of the requirements for success. riga was one of those men born to fall of their own weakness, even before the battle of existence overwhelms them. but both were generous, high-minded, incapable of envy, or meanness of any kind. what good luck to have met a friend like monsalvat at just this moment! and what an irreparable misfortune to have lost him forever! when arnedo came home early in the evening, he brought his friends, and their women, with him as usual. nacha was once more lost in gloom. she tried to talk, and jest in the spirit of the party, but her words seemed to stick in her throat, and her laughter had in it no note of gaiety. moreover, all her attempts to conceal her real state of feeling were useless. arnedo and his companions were not to be deceived; and pampa's face openly expressed the displeasure he was experiencing. finally he called one of the other men to an adjoining room and nacha, suspecting something, and listening intently, overheard this dialogue between them. "why don't you get rid of her, old man? when a woman goes around looking like good friday all day long...." "she never used to be like that. there was no one could beat her when it came to dancing, and seeing that things went right in the kitchen, and dressing, and singing and playing, and entertaining people generally. she always gave a fellow a good time, nacha did. she was good-natured, full of spirit, and...." "well, what's happened to her, do you suppose?" "i don't know. anyhow i'm going to let her go. you know, i told you about that matter, down at belgrano.... well, it's just like this." and pampa gave a claw at the air with his fingers closing. "i see," his companion replied. "so you've got a substitute for nacha! what about today's trip out there? anything doing?" nacha did not care to listen further. she joined the other girls, and was now apparently in better humor. when the two men came back she plunged with deliberate fervor into the merriment, reaching out for the champagne, and pretending drunkenness--not for arnedo's edification, indeed; she knew now that her fate was settled--but to leave a good impression on all these people whom perhaps she would never see again. meanwhile the memory of monsalvat and of riga was vivid in her mind; their image looked up at her from the hollow of her wine glass; she seemed to see them standing in the doorways, their eyes sad with reproach; now they were directly in front of her, now she felt them by her side. one of arnedo's friends was speaking, and she thought surely it was monsalvat's voice she heard and was about to call his name. later she had the impression that riga was about to come into the room; and she actually looked around at the door--not without some alarm, on her companions' account. how terrified they would be at this intrusion of the dead! arnedo and his guests were talking of the centennial celebration; of "shows" and cabaret performances, of chorus girls and races. there were three women and four men at the table, only one of the latter in evening clothes. all of them had been present in the cabaret at the time of the quarrel with monsalvat; and, since that whole occurrence was not an ordinary one, they soon began to discuss it. "who was that fool?" asked "the duck," who had led the chorus of burlesque weepers in the cabaret. at this question everyone looked at nacha, who sat there anxiously shifting her eyes from one to another of her inquisitors. "why," drawled arnedo, with an air of importance nevertheless, "he is the brother of one of my best conquests. don't you all remember eugenia?" nacha turned cold. did monsalvat know? where was this eugenia? was she, too, part of "the life"? ah, yes; that was it! that explained monsalvat's actions, and his fervent words of that afternoon. so, then, he was not in love with her! the interest he showed in her was the interest he had in all girls sharing his sister's lot. how stupid not to have thought of that before! of course! how could a man like monsalvat care for an outcast like "lila," like nacha regules! another guest, the man in the dinner-coat, a tall and skinny youth, whom his companions, out of regard for his large-boned nose, called "the parrot," declared that monsalvat wrote for the _patria_, where articles had appeared signed with that name; whereupon all four men felt moved to express their scorn for this "literary fellow," a man who spent his time reading trash and writing nonsense and could only be an utter ninny. these young descendants of moreira were, for that matter, quite sincere in the contempt they voiced. products of the aggressive money-making illiteracy of the argentine, they instinctively hated the "intellectual" as a menace to the power of their class, and could not look upon students and scientists save with disdainful hostility. from their point of view any man under forty who lived for something besides "a good time" was beyond comprehension. they despised books and newspapers; for they vaguely realized that in these lay a power of intelligence destined sooner or later to put an end to the half-breed barbarism incarnate in themselves. as the dinner went on, the _patoteros_ tried to exhibit their brilliancy. but wit for them consisted at best in anecdotes of the sort known in argentina as "german jokes"; in pelting one another with bread pills; or in suddenly bursting out with some deafeningly loud rendition of a snatch from a music hall ballad. one of their best numbers was "the duck's" weeping act, his most successful parlor stunt. then "the parrot" would rise from his place, disappear, and return wearing a woman's hat; or pampa, flourishing his revolver, would pretend he was fighting a duel, seasoning his antics with picturesque obscenities from the jargon of a well-known vaudeville act. the others, meanwhile, acted as chorus and audience, laughing, and contributing an assortment of musical accompaniments. nacha was now quite merry; she began to sing, beating time on her glass with a spoon. the others took up the suggestion, and improvised an orchestra. "the parrot" jumped up on the table to conduct, the others remaining in their places. "get down off of that!" yelled arnedo. the maid stopped in the doorway, doubling up with laughter at this uproarious scene. shrieks, explosions of mirth, snatches of song, the clink of glasses, exclamations, and words from the gutter mingled in a deafening din. suddenly it occurred to nacha to begin a _jota_. arnedo rushed at her, clasped her in his arms and bellowed: "that's the way i like to see you, my little nigger!" "i suppose so," said nacha, throwing him off, "but what about your 'nigger' in belgrano? you can do without me, now that you've found someone who can stand you!" arnedo stopped short, paralyzed for the moment. then his eyes slowly went the rounds of his friends. befuddled as he was, he could not remember to which one of them he had mentioned this affair. he turned, finally, on nacha. "who told you that? come, speak up, this moment. have you had a detective trailing me? you're mean enough to!..." nacha looked at him in astonishment, pretending she did not understand. "what is the matter? what did i say?" arnedo staggered towards her, an arm lifted to strike. nacha covered her face with her hands to ward off the blow. the man was beside himself with fury. it was not so much that nacha knew about his adventures; he had boasted of them to her more than once himself. what irritated him, because it lowered his prestige with his "crowd," was the fact that she was breaking with him. that was his right!... and that she had found a pretext for doing so.... besides, he got it into his head that nacha was going to monsalvat; and the thought that the man he had offended was turning the tables on him was unbearable. a new idea, however, suddenly thrust itself upon him. "was it one of these girls who told you?" he broke out, facing the two startled women. "what's it all about?" asked one of them. "this is the first i've heard of it," declared the other. arnedo seized his glass, which was full of wine, and drained it at a gulp. he stood brooding for a few seconds at the table; then, thrusting his right hand inside his belt, he cried out to the man with whom he had been talking when nacha overheard him: "now i remember! of course it was you.... you thought you'd play a joke on me by blabbing! you always were a dog; but now you're going to pay up!" therewith he jerked out his revolver and began pointing it about in various directions. his friends seized his arm, but in healthy fear of an accident, refrained from any effort to take the weapon from him. the scene was well on its way to a bad end, when a man named amiral walked in upon the group. this fellow, the perfect type of the impoverished rake, was always to be found hovering about some couple or other, never under any circumstances accompanied by a woman; he would have to pay for her drinks. he shared the champagne other people bought, rode in taxis other people paid for, and even gathered a few crumbs from other people's love affairs. very tall, very thin, with extremely long arms, skeleton-like legs, a wan face, thick up-turned mustache, and bulging, glassy eyes, he was far from prepossessing in appearance. though his perpetual penury made him something of a joke with women, amiral was born for "gallant" adventure. in the eighteenth century he would have been a marquis of marivaux or a count of goldoni, prodigal of love and madrigals. in the less favorable present, his position in society, such as it was, derived from his trips to europe. in argentina there is no more valid claim to consideration than foreign travels. the oftener one goes abroad, the greater one's "prestige," and amiral "went across" every two years. he travelled parsimoniously, carried his own luggage, never used a cab, and was extremely sparing of tips. generally he took lodgings in paris, where he lived on borrowings from his fellow-countrymen. he knew nothing of the french capital save the life of the boulevards, of the abbaye de thélème, of the cabarets, and of the furnished apartments on the chaussée d'antin. however, in argentina, this was readily marketable knowledge; a number of _patotas_ tolerated amiral for his amiable discourses on the gay life of paris. his inevitable stock in trade was to expatiate on the theme that buenos aires had "no atmosphere"; and could the authority of such a widely travelled man be questioned in these matters? when, in the circles he frequented, the discussion turned to women, someone could always be heard to quote amiral's oracular utterances: "amiral says that in paris..." and the point under discussion was settled. "why, my good friends, what's all this, anyway? are you rehearsing for the movies?" said the new arrival, coming into the room with his accustomed laugh, his grotesque arms describing absurdly elongated arcs in the air. "why, you boys aren't serious, are you? oh, say.... really now, good fellows like you...." the intervention had a quieting effect on arnedo, who put his revolver away. one of the women tried to explain the scene to the newcomer, but amiral held her off at the ends of unbelievably long arms. "no, no! no post mortems, please! the act is all over, my young friends. now for a merry little interlude. come, bring on the suds! say, girl, hasn't pampa got a couple of bottles of champagne? i like mine dry." the servant made haste to obey the order. amiral punctiliously drank a toast to the mutual love of "the arnedos," and once more laughter, shouting, dancing, clinking of spoons on glasses, general uproar, became the order of the evening. arnedo, supported by the hilarious demands of the company, insisted that nacha declare she had no intention of leaving him; and yielding to this unanimous pressure, she obeyed. thus, under amiral's protection, a reconciliation was accomplished. arnedo took nacha from her place and made her sit on his lap, while jests at this public flirtation began to fly back and forth. the first bottle had been drunk, and they were making good headway with the second, when nacha, who had been gradually returning to her depression, burst into tears: "what's the meaning of this?" asked amiral. "oh, nothing!" arnedo growled. "show her the label on a bottle and she gets one of these fits." now completely succumbing to the champagne, her face distraught and her arms and body twitching in absurd gestures, nacha began to talk in a rambling, incoherent jumble of words that moved the company to uncontrollable hilarity. "i loved him so much, and he died!" she moaned. "he was here this afternoon, and he told me he loved me; and now he is dead. there never was another man like him--so good, so brave! no one else would have done what he did in the cabaret--carlos riga was his name. oh, poor girl that i am! he told me i would suffer--that i must suffer--but i want to live--to live--i want to live and to suffer! he said he would be my friend. why did he do that? and then go and die right afterwards? everyone who loves me goes and dies! you're laughing at me! why? isn't it the truth? i may be all you say i am, but i know what love is, and i'm not going to leave this house...." "she has a fine one on, has nacha!" "that's a shine for a cloudy day!" but nacha had lost consciousness of everything about her. her eyes were heavy with sleep. she sagged forward in her chair, till her head rested on her arms, and, still at the table there, she fell fast asleep. it was late the next day when she woke in bed; and the servant was bringing her a note from arnedo. in it he explained that he did not care to have her remain a moment longer under his roof, that she was free to go to monsalvat or to whomever she preferred. with the message he enclosed a hundred _peso_ bill. nacha read the letter without emotion. her first thought was one of shame at the spectacle she must have made the night before. as for arnedo, she was glad to have her relations with him end in this fashion. a sudden and immediate break--yes, that was better! it was clear he was still fond of her, otherwise he would have told her to go himself, or have had the servant put her out. consideration for her feelings to such an extent as the letter showed was an incredible act of delicacy on pampa's part, had he been serious! she was tempted to remain, just to go him one better. but no! she was through with pampa and his kind. monsalvat had told her she was a good, a noble woman, at heart. could she not be, if she tried? try she would, at any rate. she wrote a few words to her former lover, assuring him that she bore him no ill-will, and returning the hundred _pesos_. then she quietly packed her belongings, dressed, had her trunk carried downstairs, and getting into a cab, gave the driver the address of a boarding house she had selected from a list in the _patria_. "strictly respectable," the advertisement had declared. nacha felt quite elated now. to herself she seemed to have already gone a long way on the road to respectability. chapter ix the shock of his mother's death, and quite as much the story of eugenia she had told, left monsalvat for some days in a veritable stupor. he just let himself live on, listlessly yielding to the stream of passing hours much as water-grasses in mid-river bend and curl to the current. his mind was a blank, incapable of thinking, unresponsive alike to memory and to hope. at intervals, indeed, in some chance moment of awakened introspection, it occurred to him that this present spiritual passivity must be very like nacha's habitual condition--a barely conscious drift down the course of events, thoughtless, will-less, purposeless. but such spiritual torpor could not last long in a man of monsalvat's vigor. eventually he began to feel the need of action, and two immediate projects seemed to present themselves: he must find his sister, and he must attend to the restoration of his tenements. one morning the broker he had commissioned to execute the mortgage announced that he had drawn up the necessary papers, and that they were ready for his signature. a bank was advancing forty thousand _pesos_ on the security of the improved property. monsalvat gaily hurried to announce the news to his tenants. to his surprise he saw no results of the various measures toward cleaning up which he had suggested to the janitor. "why didn't you carry out my orders?" he asked the latter, a lean, loose-jointed immigrant from aragón, whose arms bobbed up and down against his enormously wide hips as he talked with a slightly andalusian lisp that had the intention of humor in it. "i have, sir, i have. but these people--why, sir, what can a fellow do with them? take a look at them! born pigs, pigs they will remain." his labored jocularity failed, however, in quite concealing the uneasiness the man was feeling at this unexpected visit from his employer. as monsalvat started for the door of the tenement the janitor resumed: "going to talk to them? what's the use? they'll only lie to you. what such folks need is the stick, i'm telling you, and not kind words, nor favors." but brushing him aside, monsalvat went on into one of the apartments on the ground floor, the door of which was open. in it lived an italian, with his wife and two children. the man, a laborer on some municipal building job, was away at work. monsalvat asked the woman if the superintendent had conveyed his orders to her. "there! didn't i tell you?" the janitor commented triumphantly, at the reply that he had not. and he added, with a burst of ill-natured laughter, "the people, the sovereign people--pah!" monsalvat invited the fellow to leave him alone with the tenant. "how much did you pay this month?" he inquired when the man was gone. foreseeing a raise in her rent, the woman put her apron to her eyes and began wailing about the poverty, debts, and sickness in her family. monsalvat repeated his question. "twenty _pesos_," she replied, trembling. monsalvat had ordered his caretaker to reduce the rents by a half, and his face flashed with anger. the woman, however, misinterpreted her landlord's expression, which she thought due to surprise at the smallness of the sum. now, surely, he was going to raise the rent. oh, this america! so from apartment to apartment monsalvat went on pushing his inquiries. some of the tenants were not in, but he managed to visit a dozen or more of them. it was the same story everywhere. he hurried down to the superintendent's quarters and ordered him to assemble all the tenants in the courtyard. when they had gathered there, he denounced the trickery of his agent and discharged him on the spot. "your rents are reduced by one-half," he then explained to the crowd. "but this will not be for long, because i am going to make some expensive alterations. i want you to be comfortable in clean homes, with plenty of air and sunlight. i want you to live like human beings, and not like animals. when the contractors begin work here you will probably have to move to some other house; but later when this building has been made a fit and pleasant place to live in, you can return here." to his astonishment, his words were welcomed with no enthusiasm whatever. instead of pleasing his listeners, indeed he seemed to have insulted them. some commented with a shrug of their shoulders; others began whispering together. one old woman burst out weeping. a man who talked with a galician accent voiced the protest that was in all their minds. they were being put out of the house, just as a pretext for higher rents afterwards. calling the man by name, monsalvat tried to explain. "don't you understand? i am thinking only of your own good. if you live under hygienic conditions, with plenty of air and light, you will have less sickness, and lose less time from your work. life will be that much easier for you, anyway." but the man did not understand. if they were satisfied, why force on them something they did not ask for? they lived like pigs? well, had they ever lived any other way? hygiene and air were all right for rich people. but poor folks had always gotten along without air; and as for hygiene,--what was hygiene anyway but some new fad of the white-collared crowd? anyway, if poor people had a hard life, the rich needn't try to improve it with their uplift. everybody knew only too well what rich people were like. if they were easy with you one moment, it was only to take it out on you at some other time. mr. landlord could leave them alone with his lower rents and his remodelled tenements. they wouldn't have the lower rents, and they wouldn't move a stick or stone out of there. the galician looked defiantly at monsalvat as he talked. his auditors, evidently a majority of the tenants in the building, loudly applauded his concluding words. "he's right! he's right!" and monsalvat saw more than one hostile glance coming his way. disheartened now, he did not care to reply. what could he say that he had not said? merely assuring them again that the month's rent for each apartment would be ten _pesos_ instead of twenty, he went away, leaving his tenants to continue discussing their grievances together. as he walked toward his lodgings, he tried to convince himself that this incident was not a proper cause for discouragement; that, on the contrary, it emphasized the need of going on, of struggling with these people, even against their wills, for their own good. their ignorance was the natural consequence of such absorbing poverty. when had culture ever existed apart from a certain amount of material wellbeing? and how really poor in every sense were these unfortunate tenants of his; their minds dulled by the grind of daily toil, their vision blurred to the most obvious beauties of life. it was understandable, indeed, that they should mistrust everything, even the best intentions of people who really had their welfare at heart. but he was sure of his road now; all doubt and faltering had left him. the difficulties he encountered only spurred him to new energy and a light was shining in his heart. he had reached the steps leading up to his house when someone, from a carriage window, beckoned to him to stop. it was ruiz de castro, smart, dapper, gloved and perfumed as usual, bearing himself with his customary correctness and as always looking quite the conqueror. and following him out of his conveyance came ercasty, who greeted monsalvat with an affected courtesy quite in contrast with his obvious annoyance at this encounter. "my dear fellow," ruiz exclaimed, "you have no idea what an uproar you caused the other night. i have been busy apologizing for you ever since." and he laughed with his characteristic mannerliness, trying to appear amused as though it were all a joke. the doctor, however, eyed monsalvat with aggressive hauteur, gazing skyward with intentional rudeness, whenever fernando began to speak. "certainly it would never have occurred to anyone but fernando monsalvat to defend those women seriously." castro continued: "all the ladies have decided you must be the wildest libertine in buenos aires. something of a reputation, eh?" "the injustice of such an inference must be rather obvious," said monsalvat. "it offends me, however, only in the abstract, as something wrong, and therefore ugly. so far as i am concerned personally, it is nothing to me at all. "i shall continue being what i am--regardless of what people think." the doctor, much annoyed, suddenly abandoned his passive attitude. it was incompatible with his veneration for "society" to admit that an individual could be other than what "society" declared him to be. "that is sheer nonsense," he broke in aggressively. "what counts is public opinion. a man is, in any practical sense, exactly and only what people consider him to be." monsalvat took no notice of the interruption. "i am not sorry that i spoke up in defense of those poor women," he said, addressing his remarks to ruiz de castro alone. "i assure you, we do not know them. to us they seem like animals, things without souls, without personalities. well, we're wrong. they are human beings. they feel, and love, and hate, like any one of us. but even though it should not be so, granted they are virtually animals, whose fault is it?" "it's idiotic to blame society for the manner of living of these people," the doctor asserted roundly. "they behave as they do because they are degenerates." "no, not degenerates: victims! many of them try to work. pitiful salaries, with debts they can't avoid, drive them into the power of vice. a few of them may, indeed, be degenerates--off-spring of feeble-minded or alcoholic parents for whom, in a more roundabout way, we are perhaps just as much to blame. but, on the whole, the cause of the social evil, as of other evils, is in me, in ruiz, in you, in the man going by there in that automobile, in the factory owner, in the store proprietor, in the criminal laws which give a sanction to economic injustice, in our moral ideas, in our conceptions of life--in our civilization, in short. the fact is, we have no human sympathy, no sense of justice, no pity. countless numbers of these poor girls might still be saved, because they have not yet completely lost their self-respect. but what have we ever done to rehabilitate one of them? do we ever go into the places where they live with any purpose but a shameful one? do we ever extend the hand of christian fellowship to the outcast? can any one of us say that he has never, even by tacit complicity, helped to bring about the degradation of any woman? no, we are all the accomplices, witting and unwitting, of an infinitude of crimes. and yet those girls are our sisters; creatures, as people say, with souls to save, unfortunates feeling the same call to life that we all feel, and, like all of us, destined to the death that engulfs all our hopes and all our sorrows...." ruiz de castro, from temper of mind, and in spite of the circumstances in which life placed him, was not insensible to an idealistic appeal. his face showed the impression monsalvat's words made on him. not so his companion, however, who in this case, as in all others, was quite indifferent as to whether monsalvat was right or not. for him the important point was that the whole discussion annoyed him, as something improper, in bad taste. it was ercasty's belief that an educated man like monsalvat, a "gentleman" in other words, ought to have the ideas and sentiments of his class. in defending workmen and prostitutes, and other kinds of low people, monsalvat, in his opinion, was behaving like a vulgar plebeia. the doctor would have conceded to anyone the right to defend fend such unfortunates in the conventional way--with condescending charitableness, or with witty paradoxes; but this fellow was talking like a social agitator; attacking society, insulting class, ignoring tradition. what were policemen's clubs for except to use on such dangerous lunatics? as ruiz and his companion bowed him a cold "good day," monsalvat went up toward his front door. chancing to turn around before going in, he caught a glimpse of the doctor still sputtering abuse in his direction. for his own part he pitied the man, with that exultant sense of superiority which a new vision brings. as it was still only eleven o'clock, he decided to go at once to the house where his mother had lived, for a further talk with moreno. at the door he met the latter's daughter. monsalvat had first noticed irene moreno the night of his mother's death, and he had taken a liking to her. she had been so gentle, so affectionate towards aquilina severin, so skillful in tending her, so ready to do anything she could. the sight of the poor child now caused him a most painful impression: slight of frame, but graceful, nervous, agile, under a shock of almost blonde hair, she seemed a pretty little flower that was being trampled upon, bruised and soiled in that life of the tenements. to atone for the utter incompetence of the father, she and her mother sewed, embroidered, and in other ways made frantic efforts to assemble the pennies needed for the daily bread of that household. to irene fell the care of her six younger brothers and sisters; and it was she who delivered her mother's and her own needle work at the stores. "i am going next door for a moment," the girl replied to a question from monsalvat, looking up at him shyly out of her dark, steel blue eyes. "there is a woman there who has just lost her little boy. he was only two years old. the poor thing is a widow and has no work." "won't you take her something from me--from us both?" "i have something already," irene answered. knowing the circumstances of the moreno family, monsalvat wondered how much such alms could amount to; and irene, though much embarrassed by his insistence, could not evade confessing that she was taking the woman one _peso_, the total of her ready cash. monsalvat put into her hand all the money he had in his pocket, not daring, however, to suggest that she keep that poor little _peso_ for herself. then he followed her back into the moreno apartment. moreno was out, as usual. that systematic ne'er-do-well was scarcely ever at home if he were sober enough to be elsewhere. his wife, too, was absent, for the moment, trying, as irene explained, to place her eldest son as an errand boy somewhere. with the children running in and out, hungry, squawling, half-naked, the rooms were in a disorder, which irene, visibly troubled at being taken thus unawares, kept trying to excuse, betraying her uneasiness further by a constant fluttering of the eyelids which, to monsalvat, somehow seemed particularly appealing. monsalvat turned the conversation, as soon as possible, upon the subject of his sister, whom irene said she also had known. "eugenia was such a generous girl," she added. "i grew to be very, very fond of her. and she dressed so wonderfully! people said she had piles of money. but she was always doing something for somebody. she never forgot to bring us some little present whenever she called on aquilina; and i remember, too, that she never went away without telling me to be a good girl. that always amused me. but eugenia was so pretty!" "and did she ever mention me?" monsalvat asked anxiously. "yes," said irene, "often! though she seemed to feel you did not much approve of her." "and where is she now? do you think your father will really find her?" irene reddened, and seemed reluctant to answer. when fernando repeated his question she replied that her father certainly did not know where eugenia was. no one did, for that matter, as eugenia never would tell her address. moreno was just trying to get money out of monsalvat. "and please don't give him any more," she begged. "he only drinks it up, and he always makes a lot of trouble for us here in the house when he gets drunk." in irene's opinion, it was useless to look for eugenia. no one had any idea as to where she was living. it would be better just to wait. she would turn up sooner or later to see her mother. then they would tell her about the poor woman's death, and let her know that her brother was anxious to see her. "and tell her, too, as simply as you can, irene, that i hold nothing against her; and that i want her to come and live with me." monsalvat spoke with an emotion which, without his being aware of it, found a responsive chord in irene's starved little heart. as their eyes chanced to meet, monsalvat divined that this poor child was in love with him. "and you," he exclaimed, "why haven't you some kind of work?" "i've looked for work, outside, but without much success. we take in sewing, you see, mother and i. she knows how to embroider, and she is teaching me how to do it. but we make so little at it." irene's eyes filled with tears, as memories of her hardships rose before her. while monsalvat sat silent, moved by what he heard, she told him that moreno sometimes beat her; but that was nothing to the agony she endured when the children cried with hunger. "i can't bear it. it breaks my heart to hear them." and she began to sob. monsalvat tried to comfort her, and talked to her awhile, as a brother might. suddenly he got up to leave. nacha's image, persistent and irresistible, was taking possession of him. irene gave a quick glance at him and saw that he was going. seizing his hand, she threw herself on the ground before him. "take me with you!" she cried. "i will be your servant, your slave, anything you wish, because i know you will help mother and father--and the children. it will be your bread they eat. only take me away, please. i love you, i respect you. if you don't take me, what's to become of me? i'll go away with the first man who comes along. yes, i will! i'll be like eugenia--but at least the family won't starve." "please get up," said monsalvat, embarrassed. they stood facing one another. saddened and silent, he looked at her. "a year ago i would have taken you with me, irene. now it is impossible. but you don't need to humiliate yourself to persuade me to help your people. they shall have everything i can give them. now, promise me you will not do anything foolish. i shall be your friend, and come to see you." irene, without replying, went into a corner of the room, and began to weep heart-rendingly. what could he do? profoundly distressed, monsalvat went away. all day the thought of irene troubled him; but towards evening he decided he must make two calls: one upon nacha, the other upon torres. it was impossible to wait longer; he must see nacha, and as to torres, he needed his help in looking for eugenia. he went to nacha's apartment. his jerk at the bell brought him suddenly face to face with arnedo. he turned cold.... the latter surveyed him from head to foot, in utter astonishment. "so it's true she was carrying on with you, is it? what did you come here for? to find her? don't you know i threw her out ten days ago? she's probably running around the streets, like the rest of her kind." he tried to make his tone scornful; he did not want to betray the anger monsalvat's presence aroused in him. but monsalvat had recovered his self-command. quite serenely he declared that he had had nothing to do with nacha. the proof of this was that he had not until that moment known that she had left. if there had been anything between them, wasn't it rather strange that ten days should pass without their seeing one another? "just the same," said arnedo, yielding to this argument, "you have no business to come here. and you can get out at once. if you don't, i'll throw you down those stairs!" monsalvat was unruffled. he looked into arnedo's eyes with so quiet and peaceable an expression that the latter could not but restrain his violence. "why do you take things that way?" said monsalvat. "i wish you would listen to me with a little patience. i did come to see nacha, not with the intentions you may have supposed, but for her good. i know that she wants to lead a decent life. don't you think it is only just and human to encourage her? if you have ever cared for her, don't stand in her way now! at least let her save herself, if she can!" arnedo listened, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. at first he wanted to laugh; for this all seemed so ridiculous, and sentimental. but suddenly he became serious, as though monsalvat's words were sinking in. "but it isn't only on nacha's account that i came. i also wanted to talk with you. i wanted to ask you where eugenia monsalvat is." he spoke gravely and in a tone which seemed to make an impression on the young _patotero_. "my mother has died, and she asked me to look for her. i want to keep my promise that i would. no one knows where my sister is, arnedo. do me a kindness and tell me." "i don't know where she is. if i find out...." as they parted, they shook hands. arnedo was beginning to understand monsalvat. he knew that this man, who seemed to have forgotten the scene in the cabaret, was no coward; that there was in him something that he had known in no one else. he went with fernando to the elevator and again shook hands with him. monsalvat found torres in his office. in order not to add to his friend's shame and grief, the doctor listened without looking up. monsalvat had found it easy enough to speak of his sister to arnedo; but to speak of her to torres--what an effort it cost him! and he had something even harder to do; he must tell him he was also looking for nacha. torres would think that he was in love with the girl, and perhaps laugh. yet, when monsalvat, with a tremendous effort, told him that there was need of finding nacha, too, torres gravely replied that nacha must be found. for he, too, was beginning to understand monsalvat. chapter x the boarding house to which nacha had fled belonged to an old maid of french extraction known as mlle. dupont. this elderly landlady quite won nacha's heart with her amiability and delicate ways, her politeness and her unquestionable respectability. poor nacha had never in her whole life been so well treated; the years she had last lived through had prepared her to be particularly surprised and pleased by the attentions with which she now found herself surrounded. she attributed to kindliness and goodness of heart the courtesies which were due to "mademoiselle's" punctilious ceremoniousness; and she thought that her landlady did her a great honor in demonstrating so much affection for her. as a matter of fact, mlle. dupont had as many wrinkles in her soul as on her face. her apparent amiability expressed itself chiefly in certain phrases of endearment or pity such as _ma petite_, _ma chérie_, _oh, quel malheur_! and others of the same nature. to hear her, one might have thought that to this sensitive being everything was delicious, enchanting, exquisite, worthy of compassion or sympathy. the daughter of bayonne protestants, she had turned catholic, and was, at bottom, a narrow, egotistic, rather ridiculous old woman. she treated all her boarders as she treated nacha, and was prodigal to them of similar amenities. she must have been about forty-five; but she looked more than fifty. she was tall, angular, stiff in her movements, with masculine features, and hair and eyebrows of a reddish cast. her nose was sharply molded, and her hair, combed high in an ancient style, covering the greater part of her forehead and her ears, and hanging down the sides in ringlets that were not always in curl, gave her a somewhat ludicrous appearance. when she wished to appear particularly sweet-natured, she would lean ceremoniously toward the person addressing her, all the while smiling and blinking her small eyes. mlle. dupont would quite frequently visit nacha in her room. "always alone!" she would exclaim, clasping her hands, and shaking her head. "would you care for a little company?" "yes, indeed; i'd be delighted!" then she would sit down beside nacha and tell her what a fancy she had taken to her, and how she hoped she would never leave her house, and how much she enjoyed her. "you are such a good girl, nacha!" "oh, 'good,' mademoiselle!" her landlady continued in eulogistic strain; and then came the moment for exchanging confidences! she wanted to know "everything" about her new friend, about her family, about the kind of work she had done, and what she lived on.... nacha trembled before this curiosity. what should she reply? such questions from anyone else would have annoyed her; but in "mademoiselle's" case they seemed prompted by the affection she professed for her new friend, and a desire to be useful to her, and to know her better. "why do you want to know?" nacha would ask. "oh, mlle. nacha! nothing! nothing at all! you wouldn't believe me if i told you--it's just because i'm so fond of you, you are so good, so--how shall i say--so innocent!" nacha reddened. mlle. dupont, watching her out of the corner of her eye, and a little constrained, reddened also. "oh, i can tell at a glance! you are not like some of the other girls i have known. as for me i admire goodness so much that i cannot understand how some women ... i don't know how it is! ... you see i was brought up on very religious principles; and i can't help having such high standards about character that i really can't endure the thought of the slightest slip.... no, i always say; let a woman have all the faults she likes: but let her morals at least be above reproach!" nacha, terrified, was wondering if "mademoiselle" knew anything about her life; but she could only conclude that her being allowed to remain under that roof at all proved that her hostess was in total ignorance of her history. all these declarations of lofty principles and integrity of character, confirmed by the obvious austerity of her daily life, caused poor nacha to look upon mlle. dupont as a superior being. here at last was someone worthy of her intense admiration! she went so far as to try to model her conduct upon that of her landlady, and avoided going out, believing that temptation and vice hovered outside the precincts of that house of refuge. so she remained all day long in her room, going over the incidents of the day just passed, dreaming, wondering who monsalvat could be, and what he wanted of her. was he really what he appeared? or had he practised a miserable deception on her, making use of his eloquent words to get her away from arnedo, for his own advantage? this was not impossible; for to men all means are justified when the end is the woman their caprice has fastened upon. and she could not doubt that she was pleasing to monsalvat. she remembered how he had looked at her, the first time they had ever seen one another, in the cabaret; he had followed her to the house--he had gone again to the cabaret to see her--and then how he had defended her! it couldn't be merely out of pity that he had risked incurring the insults and the violence of the _patota_! does a man take such risks except for love? no, there could be no doubt: he was in love with her.... but, did she want him to be? what was the strange feeling she had for the man? love or hate? sometimes she thought she loved him with all the strength of her being; but when she remembered that she was now without resources, and that she would sooner or later be forced to have recourse to the means of livelihood so loathsome to her, she hated him. why had he come to her house to torment her? why had he spoken to her that way, knowing as he must that a woman of her kind is an outcast, and cannot change the manner of life that makes her so? was he perhaps a lunatic, who took pleasure in doing her harm? her head swam with all these questions and uncertainties. then again at times she reproached herself for having driven monsalvat away. how happy it made her even to remember that he had thought they might be friends! meanwhile nacha was living on the money she had raised by pawning a few jewels. she was sorry now not to have accepted the sum arnedo had offered her. why so many scruples about accepting money? they became her strangely! mlle. dupont required payment in advance; so that she had had to part with a small brooch on the very day of her arrival in the boarding house. the jewels she still possessed were of a very modest sort and would scarcely provide her with means for even a month. when she left arnedo's apartment it was not with the intention of trying to lead a decent life. convinced that she could not help being what she was, she had resolved to go on making a living as before. but now two things held her back; the memory of monsalvat, and her regard for mlle. dupont. never, while in that house, could she fall short of her "mademoiselle's" ideals! the frenchwoman's eloquence on the subject of "character" had impressed her. she felt the charm and the tranquillity of living respectably; and it was not merely the happy freedom from remorse which soothed her: the decency within her seemed, at last, to have found a home. more helpful than anything else, however, was the thought of monsalvat. in spite of her apparent evasion, he had conquered her, leaving on her spirit an ineffaceable imprint. simply remembering him made it impossible for her to take up again her shameful profession; and when, hard pressed by need of money, or by habit of mind, she thought of yielding, monsalvat's image appearing before her, imperious yet kind, strengthened her impulse to resist. a month and a half passed while nacha lived on in a beclouded dream, completely inactive. she got up at eleven, lunched with the other boarders, spent the afternoon in an easy chair, dreaming, reading, letting her somewhat indolent imagination wander; or she would lend herself to confidential chats with "mademoiselle." she almost never went out. in the evening, after dinner, she joined the other boarders at their card games, and then went to bed late. she did not care to call on her friends, for fear they would drop in to see her and compromise her with "mademoiselle." sometimes she thought she would go out to try to discover monsalvat's whereabouts; but she knew nothing of his occupations, his associates, or the places he frequented. she felt certain that his being in the cabaret was quite accidental, and that, as he could scarcely hope to see her there, he would never go back. she had spoken of him with some of the other people in the house, but they knew nothing she did not already know. one of them mentioned having read an article of monsalvat's in the _patria_, and nacha telephoned to the newspaper office to ask for monsalvat's address. however, no one there knew it. on the few occasions when nacha went out it was with mlle. dupont. one afternoon the latter insisted on nacha's accompanying her to a "meeting." nacha, curious, and eager for diversion, accepted the invitation, and together, they drove to a house in independence street. on the door nacha saw a sign bearing a proper name and under it the legend "happiness taught here." beyond this door, in a room of small size, were several benches and chairs, occupied by a scattering of people. an individual, who looked like a gypsy, was standing before this audience addressing it. just as nacha and mlle. dupont came in, he gave the order "grand chain!" and nacha could not help laughing at this reminiscence of a country dance. "mademoiselle" looked solemn reproof at her. the participants in the performance, men and women, as soon as they heard these words, took hold of hands and stood in a circle until the gypsy-like performer, with a sanctimonious air, announced that "the spirit" had taken possession of him. one of the audience asked the spirit several questions, which the man answered in a faint, doleful, ghostly voice that seemed to come from beyond the tomb. when the questions were disposed of, nacha, who had been frightened at first, wanted to speak with riga. if she could only ask him what she should do! but she did not dare. besides it was late and the man announced that the séance was over. after their return to the house nacha and mlle. dupont could talk of nothing but the spiritualist meeting. mademoiselle was a fervent believer in all such manifestations, which did not prevent her being an extremely devout catholic, and the esteemed friend of some french priests who frequently called upon her. nacha inquired of "mademoiselle" if spirits knew everything. "_ah, mais oui!_ everything--the past, the future, what one ought to do--they can tell you everything, _ma, chère_!" "they are better than cards then? or fortune tellers?" "oh, much better, cards sometimes lie, but spirits, never, _ma petite_, never! how could a spirit lie! _mais ce n'est pas possible, mon amour!_" nacha liked to have her fortune read from cards at frequent intervals. now she thought she would prefer to talk with riga, the "professor of happiness" acting as medium. riga would not lie to her. nevertheless, on the two or three other occasions when she went to a spiritualist séance she had not the courage to ask that riga's spirit be summoned. it was not so much shyness nor shame which held her back, as fear--riga would be sure to reproach her for her manner of living.... but one day a strange thing happened! nacha unwittingly came upon mlle. dupont in circumstances so compromising to that lady that nacha, confused, and distressed, thought only of relieving her friend's embarrassment. nothing, thought nacha, but her entire confidence could show mlle. dupont that she still held her in high regard. so, swayed by a generous impulse, she told her hostess the story of her own life. and when she had done so mlle. dupont turned upon her with a request for the month's rent! another crumbled illusion! nacha wept bitterly over its ruins. it was faith in this woman's strength which had helped her all this while to resist despair; now she had lost the only refuge she knew in the whole world; and tomorrow she would lose what would cost her more than either of these: she would lose hope in herself. she would have to go back to the world which had doomed her to a disreputable life, which would allow her to live no other.... she decided, however, before taking any other measure to meet mlle. dupont's demands for money, to call on torres for help. but, the next day, early in the morning, the servant told her that one of the priests who frequently called on mlle. dupont wanted to speak to her. nacha went to the parlor. father duchaine, round of figure and of face, sat there waiting for her. his gestures too were round, as were his short fat fingers; and he spoke with a round little mouth. nacha did not conceal her astonishment at this unexpected call. "mademoiselle, the fact is...." he stood, apparently searching for words with which to state the fact, gazing at the floor, placing his right hand on his mouth, and taking it away when his meaning required the elucidation of a circle described by a fat arm in the air. "you know mademoiselle! such a saint! her parents, although they were not catholics, were good people, god-fearing, virtue-loving. providence was watching over our dear mademoiselle! when they died, her aunt, a good religious woman, took her to live with her; and in this aunt's house mademoiselle became a convert." nacha, gazing wide-eyed at the priest, wondered what this was all about. "well, you know, you understand of course--in short, it seems that your life has not been exactly--what can i say--exemplary! perhaps i am not clear.... you know, you understand, that in this house ... where ... how shall i put it?..." his eyes rolled upward, and he wriggled in search of elusive phrases. his arm beat the air when suddenly the desired words slipped into place, and beaming, he exclaimed, "where virtue is crystal pure! you see that you ... with your way of living ... and no ... that is to say ... well, it really will not do for you to remain here!..." "you mean, she is putting me out of the house!" exclaimed nacha, with indignation. "ah!... you understand.... yes, you understand--precisely!..." "very well, i shall go today. now be so kind as to leave me." the priest made a well rounded bow, and went out. scarcely had he set foot in the hall than he returned, for he had heard nacha calling him. "you wish...?" nacha had for a moment thought of throwing more light on the "crystal pure" virtue to which the priest had alluded. she would have enjoyed the relief of striking out once at least at the perversity and hypocrisy her landlady represented.... "what is it, señorita?" but nacha suddenly felt that such vengeance was a small piece of business. no, it was not in her to be petty in this fashion! let this woman put her out on the street; let her tell her priests what nacha had told her in confidence in order to console her; let her do what she would! she, at least, nacha regules, could not betray to anyone what she had promised never to reveal! "nothing, father! leave me, please!" she went to her room, dressed as carefully as the day before, and went out to the street. there she took a passing taxi, giving the chauffeur the address of a boarding house in lavalle street. she would never be asked if her past life had been "exemplary" before being admitted to lodge in this house! chapter xi mme. annette's house, facing a well-known park, was the most aristocratic of its kind in all buenos aires. it was a resort of millionaires, prominent politicians, and representatives of the city's best families. at times half the cabinet was to be found there, not, of course, assembled in council. public report had it that when the chamber of deputies lacked a quorum, it was customary to telephone to mme. annette's; and never had this measure, unparliamentary though it might be, failed to produce satisfactory results. at the very entrance one began to breathe an air of luxury; then one stepped into a world of silks, embroideries, gilt furniture, rich rugs, and heavy hangings. a persistent aroma of rose water was wafted through the rooms, where a subdued, mysterious, light invited to low-voiced conversation. nacha was waiting in a small inner reception room. a woman, whom she did not know, was also sitting there; "madame" had left them for a moment to receive a caller. suddenly a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. "amelia!" nacha, with an exclamation of surprise, ran to meet her friend, and kissed her. "you here! why, didn't you get married?" she lowered her voice at the question. amelia might feel ashamed in the presence of the strange woman.... "yes, i got married.... but ... here i am just the same!" she talked in a very loud voice, laughed boldly, and emphasized whatever she had to say with graceful movements of her snake-like body and her long thin arms. she was dressed in a somewhat fantastic and exuberant fashion, not without elegance. a strong scent of violets pervaded the atmosphere about her. "i should worry!" she continued; "listen, little one. i'll admit that when i got married i had some idea of living respectably. that's the truth. you can say what you like. but you don't know what i married. he used to work when he was a bachelor--in a dry goods store. but after we were married he left his job, and wanted to live on me--thought i could go right on doing what i did before. well, this is what i said to him: i said, "all right. i'll go back to the old life; but feed you with the money i earn? not much! so here i am. how do i look? not getting old very fast, eh?" "you look splendid, amelia, and more attractive than ever. what a figure you have!" "it isn't so bad, is it? but it's wasted on the old fogies who come here. it makes you tired. say, do you remember the wild times we had, nacha, when we were just kids, and i called myself an anarchist, and said everybody ought to have one good fling at life?" "and aren't you an anarchist now?" "me? you're crazy, little one. no more of those fool ideas for me. listen, i'm convinced now that we girls of the profession are one of the strongest pillars of society...." she flung this out in ringing tones; and then, at nacha's horrified expression, burst out laughing, throwing herself over to one side of her chair with the sensuous grace and calm indifference of a cat. madame's arrival interrupted this conversation. when she saw amelia she greeted her with flattering warmth, and immediately left the room with her. the stranger looked at nacha and seemed about to speak. but nacha was lost in wonderment over all the things that may drive a woman to her ruin. amelia was frankness itself, and if she said she had married with the hope of leading a decent life, it must be true; so then it was her husband, on whom she had built all her hopes of decency, who had thrust her back into vice! she was interrupted in her thoughts by the entrance of a very young girl, at whom nacha gazed, charmed and astonished by the grace, and innocent expression, of this delightful little person. she could not take her eyes away from her; the girl, answering her shy smile, asked, simply, "what's your name? you look so good!" "i'm not good, but i should like to be!" the child--she seemed no older--sat down beside nacha, and began to talk with her. although she was actually seventeen, her slight, almost frail, figure made her seem barely fourteen or fifteen. nacha was horrified by this little creature's presence in that place. didn't her parents know where she was? and how could mme. annette let her come there? and the men, those respectable gentlemen who were such good friends of madame's, how could they fail to utter a word of protest or of pity? no, she could not understand the world; for it despised her and all women like her, insulted her and pushed her towards crime and every form of misery; yet she was capable of feeling pity for the girl at her side; and she knew many women of her sort who would not have allowed a horror such as this child's presence there, to be committed. she wanted to ask this young thing to tell her how she came to be in such a place, but she hesitated. the other woman's presence embarrassed her. "tell me," nacha whispered, taking the girl's hand. "why is it--how does it happen that--?" the child raised her clear innocent eyes to nacha's, in wonder. "why do you come to this house?" nacha asked finally, blushing for her curiosity. the girl raised troubled eyes to nacha; then she replied quite simply, without the slightest suggestion of reproach toward anyone in her voice: "my aunt sends me." "and how long have you been coming here?" "two months." "and before that--you had a sweetheart? who deceived you?" "no, i never had a sweetheart. my aunt made me come--" "i can't believe it! so this is what life has become for you! why, you ought to be out playing with other children. "yes." nacha could scarcely breathe for indignation. then little by little, she brought out the child's story. about eight years before, the girl's aunt had visited her parents, who were spanish and lived in great poverty in la coruña. this aunt was rich, and owned a store in buenos aires. her little niece attracted her; and as the child's parents had ten other children, they gave her up to what seemed to them a prosperous future. her aunt took her back with her, always treated her kindly; but the store no longer prospered, and finally, she was forced to close it. she told her little niece one day that they were so poor she would have to earn some money. "we hadn't anything to eat," the child went on. "i didn't see what my aunt could do. and i didn't know what the place was she was sending me to. so i came, as she told me. but when i went home i cried, and said to my aunt i couldn't come to this house any more.... my aunt begged me to be brave, and told me that she was responsible for everything. but--it seemed so bad to me! i felt everything was all wrong. but my aunt says that when people do what they are forced to do, they are not really bad.... can that be true? tell me what you think?" nacha overwhelmed with horror, did not know what to reply. "and is it wrong?" mme. annette came in at this point and took the girl away with her. nacha got up from her chair and rushed after them; but from the threshold of the room into which madame had swept, she caught sight of a man and stopped short. then she came back to the strange woman, towards whom, until this moment, she had felt a slight hostility. "what a shame that is!" she broke out. "i have never in my life heard anything like that child's story. exploited by her own aunt!" "don't be so angry," said the woman gently, as nacha, beside herself with indignation, sat down. "it's no good complaining. i have seen so many awful things that nothing shocks me, absolutely nothing!" her words were correct but had a foreign accent. she was neither pretty nor well dressed; but she had marvellous blue eyes, and looked intelligent. nacha, who until then had scarcely noticed her, now felt strongly attracted to her; and as they waited there they talked with increasing confidence to one another. nacha learned that she was of a respected and well-known family of a town in northern france, and that she had come to south america under contract to give some concerts. but the theatres in which her manager required her to sing were of such a kind--the royal, for instance--that she refused. she had, however, no resources, so finally she made terms with the company, and was taken to a "_pension d'artistes_," at which she was expected to live. she soon found out what sort of a "_pensión_" it was, and rebelled against the conditions of life there. after leaving the place abruptly, she tried to earn a living by working in an art shop. the usual temptations followed. then came a love affair with one of its patrons: it ended badly.... she smiled ironically as she looked at the tangled skein of her memories. "when i think of my parents," she continued, "i am very unhappy. i would give my life to see them--but it costs so much to go to europe!" madame came bustling in. "nacha, will you come, please. i want to introduce you to an old friend of the house--a good friend. let me see--are you well dressed? your stockings might be better. next time do be careful about your foot-wear." nacha was about to address her, but madame began again: "be a good girl, child. you're pretty enough--and you have pretty manners, too, i know you have, when you want to!" leaving nacha under the august protection of a venerable "father of his country," madame took up a position on the balcony of one of the rooms facing the street, and began peering with great interest through the branches of the trees in the park; for it was time for her little daughter to come home from the convent where she was being instructed in all the virtues and accomplishments befitting a young lady of the wealthy classes. and madame dreamed a little of this tender off-spring who, in a few years, if all her schemes went well, would be happily married, and highly respected; and she would owe this happiness to her mother's skill in managing a business that had no equal in buenos aires;--on the champagne alone she made a hundred pesos a day! yes, "madame" flattered herself that she knew the value of institutions; with her talent for managing, her tact, and her french ways, she had succeeded in accumulating a large fortune--thanks to the support and approval of politics, finance and aristocracy! a commotion behind her interrupted her reveries. she turned and saw the worthy senator, now sputtering with rage. his story was soon told. with a flounce "madame" hurried out to find nacha who had fled to the little reception room, empty now, where she was standing in front of a mirror, arranging the disorder of her hair. "nacha, what does this mean? do you want to ruin the reputation of my house?" "no, madame. but i've had enough of it." "you're a fool! you're old enough to have got rid of your silly notions." nacha's cheeks turned a flaming red and her eyes shone with anger as she screamed at madame: "don't you dare say a word to me or i'll get the police! what do you mean by taking a child of seventeen into this house? you miserable old woman!" "so you're going for the police are you? well, it happens that the police take their orders from me! so don't waste your time telling them tales about this house. i never ruined any woman! you and your like ruin yourselves, because you want to, because you take to vice like ducks to water, because you are...." but it was little use for "madame" to wear herself out screaming and running after nacha; for nacha, with her hands over her ears, refused to hear, which enraged "madame" all the more. the girl was running through the rooms, slamming doors, and shrieking out words certain to be offensive to "madame's" professional dignity. in this fashion, nacha in the lead, and "madame" after her, they reached the stairway, down which nacha passed light as a breeze. as she opened the sumptuous glass entrance door, and saw "madame" at the top of the stairs, she stuck out her tongue at her qualifying the dignified lady's trade with certain terms which even her long experience had not prepared her to hear with equanimity. "you old criminal!" "get out of here, viper!" the door slammed, and nacha jumped into a cab and drove home. scarcely had she reached her room when she took off her hat and threw herself down on her bed, weeping convulsively. her whole body was shaking with a nervous chill. she tried to muffle the sounds of her weeping, but could not. a girl who occupied the room next to hers, came in, greatly alarmed. should she send for the doctor?-- "just leave me alone, i want to be alone...." "are you angry with me?" asked the girl gently. she was a plump little person with black eyes and dark, soft skin, and was called julieta. nacha, suddenly yielding to the girl's gentleness, sat up and kissed her; but she could not check her sobs and asked again to be left alone. "and what about the doctor?" asked julieta. "you had better have him. you are not well." "all right. get him!..." nacha turned toward the wall, still weeping. in the evening the doctor arrived. nacha who had not eaten anything was still lying on her bed, and still in her street clothes. the doctor declared the attack to be entirely a matter of nerves and prescribed rest and quiet. the succession of shocks she had just lived through; mademoiselle's treachery; the loss of a cherished illusion; the suppression in her of any hope of leading a new life; worst of all, the effect of her decision to return to her former mode of living, had all been so many blows at her strength, physical and moral. in her sufferings and vacillations, nothing had caused her so much torment as the thought of monsalvat. even worse than the certainty that her life was now definitely ruined, was the despair which took possession of her whenever she thought of this man.--she no longer doubted she loved him! his image, always present to her eyes, had assumed gigantic proportions in those moments when she was committing acts that were fatal to all her hopes. as she entered that house of evil it seemed to her that monsalvat's spirit was waiting there on the stairs, trying to prevent her from passing. she had closed her eyes, and lowered her head, and she had walked straight through the shadowy figure that was trying to save her.... but, all the time she was there, he haunted her. the slightest noise made her think he was coming into the room. a voice in the corridor made her start for fear it was his voice. once she had even thought she saw him pass by the open door.... where was he now? she wondered. why did he not look for her? couldn't he guess how much she needed his protection? without it she could not help but fall from depth to depth of degradation. why had not monsalvat appeared in that house of vice as she so desperately hoped, to rescue her? why didn't he come now to free her from all this suffering? then she remembered that monsalvat had told her, on the one occasion when they had talked together, that she ought to suffer--only so could she deserve pardon and pity. those were his words.... she brooded over them. nothing else gave any meaning to her miserable existence. she would welcome suffering then, and resign herself to grief! a little quieted, she went to sleep. chapter xii september! springtime! buenos aires with all the handsome trees of its avenues, its parks and open squares, and of its wide promenades along the river bank, was turning green as if by magic, offering to the delighted eye every conceivable shade of verdure. it was as though the hand of a great and invisible artist were retouching the somewhat faded picture winter had turned over to him. he crushed under his swift brush the emerald of english lawns, spattered canary yellow on the shoots of young shrubs, with an impatient stroke of the knife scraped from the leaf fronds their velvety coverings of dull blue, burnt sienna and fawn, in order to freshen them up with aurora yellow, sepia, cobalt; poured out on the great parks all the chromes of his cosmic palate; rejuvenated the willows with ingenious splashes of those gamboge shades which remind one of fantastic tropical climes; and turned high noon into a glittering dream of gold. oh, springtime in buenos aires! season of awakening grace and enchanting harmony, with nothing of the torpor of hot climates, the over-vivid colorings of the tropics, nor of the sluggishness of those lands where nature puts human energy to sleep through a long winter! springtime in buenos aires! the air quivers with a dust of gold, which seems to float down from the brilliant sky, emanate from the trees, the flowers, and the grass, enveloping the buildings and transfiguring the human beings who pass through it. springtime in buenos aires! but for monsalvat the spring was a season of sadness. to him the light and color and sounds of the reinvigorated city were meaningless. he noticed neither the satisfaction of the plants and grasses in the stir of life within them, nor the delight shining in the faces about him. he was alone in the universe, a stranger to the world he lived in, for that world was now his enemy; a stranger also, through birth and station, to the world of those who are down-trodden, and oppressed. his mother dead, his sister lost, and that other woman in whom his new life had taken form, as yet unfound, he was alone. the friends of former times laughed at his ideas and ideals, said he had a new "pose," thought him crazy. what could he discuss with them except the trivial events of the social farce? they neither understood him nor wished to understand. he was utterly and irrevocably alone. if some one chanced to mention the beauty of the day, he answered--but to himself--"what is that to me?" what is there beyond our own sensations? does even the material world exist save as our senses make us aware of it? and his sensations told him that there was nothing but sadness, grief, loneliness and gloom in all the human beings around him. the world was his own unhappy creation, the work of his agonized spirit. no, that springtide was for him a time of bitterness. all the while nacha, with her somewhat ingenuous aspirations to a new kind of life was hiding at mlle. dupont's, monsalvat had been searching for her. with torres, he had sought her at mme. annette's toward the beginning of september, about a month before nacha had gone there. he had been also to the house of juanita sanmartino, and the more recent disappointment of not finding nacha there filled him with gloomy foreboding. where was she? no one knew. torres was certain she had not returned to her former means of livelihood; for in that case she would have appeared at one of these houses. it was torres' theory that she was living with someone, perhaps some former friend, perhaps a recent chance acquaintance. and eugenia monsalvat? no one could give him any clue to her whereabouts either. had she changed her name? was she dead? or dragging out a wretched existence in the big city's underworld? towards the end of september, an appointment as second chief of staff in a department of the ministry of foreign relations came to distract monsalvat from his obsession of loneliness and failure. he began now to spend all his afternoons working at the ministry. some of his colleagues, who had heard the rumors current about monsalvat's opinions and eccentricities, tried to make him talk, to force him to commit himself; but he maintained his reserve, and skillfully turned aside the indiscreet insinuations aimed at him. on a certain morning of this same month, monsalvat betook himself to his mother's former lodgings, for he thought it time to call upon the morenos. since the morning when he had suspected that irene was in danger of falling in love with him, he had avoided seeing her. what might such a feeling on her part lead to? yet, free as he was from other entanglements why should he not accept the affection of this pretty and passionate girl? she was experienced enough to know what she was doing--there would be no deception.... in his solitude, with no friend on all the wide horizon of his life, why run away from irene?... but there was nacha.... what though his search had been useless, and he had no news of her, nor any kind of assurance that she ever thought of him? no; he could not, now, permit himself to love another woman. he was bound as by a vow. was he then in love with nacha? one whole week he fought out the answer; called himself ridiculous, despised himself, tried to detach his thoughts from everything which might draw him towards her; it was of no avail. on the contrary, the more he thought of her the more he longed to find her. but he had not forgotten irene. he did not go to see her; but he sent her money in amounts which to her family seemed enormous. irene wrote to thank him and asked to be allowed to see him in his rooms if he would not come to call on her. on this september afternoon monsalvat found the entire moreno family at home, to his relief; for he did not want to be alone with irene. "my protector," exclaimed moreno, at sight of him, "my doctor, savior of my accursed tribe, light of legal science! model of generosity!" monsalvat protested at these eulogies and tried to escape from moreno's determined embrace. his wife was laughing at her husband, and at the same time, crying, as she kissed monsalvat's hand and pointed to the children. "we cannot permit such modesty, doctor. we are yours, entirely yours. to think that the whole moreno family, and moreno himself ... _quantum mutatus ab illo!_ as cicero said. you see i do not forget my latin! culture, doctor! i was a man of law once, i lived among books and historic cases--and now i am a pauper, a drunkard, a...." irene, standing in a corner of the room, covered her face, ashamed. from the moment monsalvat had come into the room she had not moved, waiting for the avalanche of thanks she had foreseen, to pass. monsalvat, as embarrassed as she by moreno's words, finally made his way through the huddling children and held out his hand to her. "the flower of my house!" exclaimed moreno, adding in a melancholy tone, "ah, if we were not so poor, i would give her to no one but a prince--or--pardon me--to a dr. monsalvat, who is like a prince; for he is a prince of jurisprudence...." neither monsalvat nor irene were listening. monsalvat had started when he felt irene's burning hand in his, and saw her eyes, darkened with the passion that consumed her. he looked at her a moment and, not knowing what to say, turned to address moreno's fawning flattery. monsalvat then took leave, saying he had come especially to learn if irene had some news for him. "i am going to tell it to you. come!" irene replied with a strange burst of energy; and she faced him with flashing eyes and quivering lips. monsalvat shook hands with her parents and followed to the narrow hallway which led to the stairs. moreno was coming along too but irene told him to stay with her mother. "she gives the orders! now you see, doctor, what has become of my paternal authority. i'm just the watch-dog. i hear and obey, for fear of the whip! when your career is over, that's what you get! my dear doctor, i am your servant!" monsalvat followed irene down the dark hall for a few yards. they came closer to one another, his clothing touched hers. he was conscious of the girl's burning passion, he felt himself being drawn towards her. in the semi-darkness irene's brilliant eyes gleamed strangely. "well, what news?" asked monsalvat uneasily. "news!" irene with quick violence pulled monsalvat's face toward hers and placed on his mouth her hot, trembling lips. he turned faint. his will abandoned him. he heard the wild, mad words irene was saying. "he must take her away!" she pressed her trembling body close to his. suddenly monsalvat came to himself. nacha's image arose before his eyes.... with a strength which came from the depths of his soul he pushed irene away from him. this poor passionate girl was threatening his ideal. all that he had so far accomplished was in danger of crumbling to dust. the only justification of his life would, with a moment's weakness, be lost. he said good-bye to her, asked her to forgive him and walked quietly toward the stairs. "don't leave me this way," she cried. "if i can't work for you, live for you, i shall die, i shall kill myself ... if you won't take me with you!" but monsalvat did not hear. he was already in the street. irene, shaken by violent shudders and sobs, with a wild cry, threw herself against the wall. after this episode he was more eager than ever to find nacha. he began to make the rounds of cabarets, restaurants, and theatres. but day after day passed, and there was not the slightest news of her. he began to despair when it occurred to him that the streets might furnish him the information he so anxiously sought. he became a vagabond, roaming about hour after hour, morning, afternoon, and night. the avenues in the centre of the city, those where women of pleasure passed, came to know him. he thought he saw nacha, quickened his step, followed the woman. it was not she. he sought her face in the crowds that all morning wander idly up and down the _avenida florida_. he sought it in the throngs loitering on the wide promenade when the lights of the shop windows drive back the shadows of the high buildings. he sought her among the young and pretty women who surreptitiously pass up and down the avenue, in quest of bread, love, pleasure. he sought her at night in the streets leading toward the theatres, the movies, the cabarets. and his shadow passing up and down these places was no different from that of a man timidly seeking a daughter of joy. the thousand noises of the street, the cries of newspaper venders, automobile horns, street-car gongs, phonographs playing in the shops, the persistent scraping of shoe leather on the sidewalk, the voices of the toy venders, of the sellers of lottery tickets, of the flower girls, rang out in the strange chaotic symphony of the city. but he was deaf to it all. lights glittered, electric street-signs flashed; blue, red, green, yellow lamps shone out from windows, sometimes far above the street; but he went by unaware of all this nightly brilliancy. the show windows tempted with jewels, flowers, books; he was blind to them. he went on, heedless of the marvelous spectacle offered by the streets of cosmopolitan exuberant, noisy, energetic, restless buenos aires. he was incapable of seeing anything but the face he sought: nacha's face. and while he searched for nacha, he searched the streets for his sister also. but not with the same eagerness. for eugenia, whom he scarcely knew, he had never had much affection. besides, there was so little hope of finding her in this fashion! in the ten years that had passed since he had seen her, the transformation of an innocent twenty year old girl into a courtesan must have been thoroughly accomplished. how could he recognize her even if he met her? he wanted to come upon her and help her, yes;--but from sense of duty; and because of his mother's last wish. october now. a month and a half had passed in useless searching. discouraged, he thought of giving up all hope, and returning to his former way of life, since he had failed in his first duty, that of finding nacha. he tried to discover arguments to justify his abandoning what he called his "duty." what was nacha after all? well then--was he going to fall in love with that kind of a woman, and make her represent an ideal, a duty, a reason for living? had he brought ruin upon her? why did he want to see her? he began to think that he would never find her, that she was irrecoverably lost. and it was his fault! it was he who had gone to see her, tried to influence her, caused trouble between her and her lover. it was only just that he should help her to regain her moral independence, the right she shared with every human being to hope and to love. he could not let her continue in slavery, any more than he could allow any other human beings whom he, personally, knew, to remain enslaved! but he hoped also, in saving her, to save himself. it was not exploitation by others that threatened him, but his own coldness of fear, and the uselessness of his empty life. he wanted to free himself from the clutch of vanity, from the all-enveloping net of human selfishness. he must accomplish something good and great! to redeem the slaves of degrading labor, of destructive passion, of vice and greed, there was a man's task. well, the opportunity for that might come.... but meanwhile there was a girl who was unhappy, who needed his help. would it be such a small thing to save her? he could imagine himself quite content were that accomplished. suddenly hope sprang up in the midst of his discouragement. if his tenants refused to allow the improvements he had wanted to make in the tenement, he would use the forty thousand _pesos_ of his mortgage in carrying on a thorough search of the city. surely nacha would be found! before long, however, he had to part with a considerable sum to pay off his mother's debts; and to buy from celedonia some letters of eugenia's which the mulatto intimated she could profitably sell to the newspapers. monsalvat had an uneasy feeling that this procedure of hers had been suggested by that enthusiastic admirer of his, moreno. one october afternoon torres, whom he met on the street, exclaimed, "i have some news. nacha has gone back to the profession. a few days ago she was at madame annette's." this was a blow as well as a relief. but his friend's words seemed to summon nacha from the air. all that afternoon, all night, all the next day, and the days following, nacha was with him, and in the midst of intense suffering he felt a new, strange joy.... chapter xiii during the ten days when nacha lay ill in bed her story reached the ears of everyone in the boarding house and aroused general interest. the girls of this calling, who are not yet hardened by cynicism and despair, are for the most part sentimental, even romantic, and invariably sympathize with the hero or the heroine, as the case may be, of a moving love story. nacha was reported to be suffering from a passion for a man who had spoken to her only once; it was asserted also that she knew neither who he was, nor where he came from; but the fact that she must needs be unfaithful to this platonic and strange love, could not fail to arouse the liveliest sympathy among all these girls. they pitied her from their hearts, and considered it quite natural that she should be ill under the circumstances. when a girl loved a man as much as this, it was a shame that she should have to live as nacha was living! what did this man look like, they wondered, and what could he and nacha have talked about in that one fatal conversation? then from trying to imagine what this love story must have been, they began to recall others in which they had played a part. but none of them was like nacha's which, they agreed, surpassed even the "daily love stories" of the newspapers. and they envied nacha, and hoped for an experience like hers, even though, like her, they might have to suffer hunger and sickness. the owner of the house, doña lucía, was a silent little old woman. she kept two rooms, spotlessly clean, and entirely unattractive, for her own use. she never ate with her boarders and was too timid to call on them in their rooms or make any advances to them. of a good provincial family, she concealed her name, for she thought it discreditable to have such lodgers in her house. her family was little known in buenos aires, and as a matter of fact, she had little affection for any of its members; nevertheless she had a superstitious respect for "good blood" and would have suffered anything rather than disgrace an old name. poor and alone, forgotten by her relatives, this widow of an officer who had died insane, had taken up her quarters in a boarding house kept by a friend. even then lodgers of doubtful respectability were frequenting it. doña lucía was aware of this fact but never dared mention it to her friend, and when the latter died, she kept the house going. she had resolved to take in no one without references, but she was too timid to insist on this point. moreover she always found it hard not to believe what she was told. after awhile she grew accustomed to the class of boarders who sought her house; and the girls had a genuine respect for this old lady who went to church so often, and looked so severe. when nacha was well enough to get up, she went to call on doña lucía, to thank her for kind attentions such as goblets of port wine, and the paying of her medicines at the drug store during her illness. doña lucía revealed that all this had been done at the expense of three of the lodgers, julieta, sara and ana maría. these girls barely knew her and nacha was touched by their generosity. she was well aware that sara earned little having recently had difficulties with the police; julieta was a quiet little person who made barely enough to live on, and ana maría's own bad health required a considerable expenditure for medicines. their care of nacha must have been at the cost of their own necessities. nacha could not but admit that she would have done as much for julieta and sara, who were already her friends; but it surprised her very much that ana maría should have shared in this expense. ana maría had visited her only twice during her illness. the first time she had come in with julieta, and nacha had been disagreeably affected by her presence. she was painfully emaciated, her cheeks sunken and yellow and her wide eyes looked frightened. nacha decided she must be consumptive. she noted that her features were fine, of an aristocratic caste. during that first visit nacha could not keep from staring at ana maría's wasted form, her prominent shoulder blades, her sunken chest, the transparent skin of her hands. the girl spoke slowly and there was in her voice a haunting melancholy. no one knew much about her. she claimed that her name was ana maría gonzalez, but offered nothing to prove it. she seemed destitute of plans, of desire to live, of interests. julieta had heard, from a friend, that ana maría had once possessed every luxury. a success in the "profession," she had owned a fine house, plenty of money, her own automobile; but quite recently, and very suddenly had come the decay of fortune and health. there was something mysterious about her which excited nacha's curiosity. the second time she saw her, nacha was alone in her room. ana maría, staring at her with her wide strange eyes, questioned her about her life. nacha's answer appeared to interest her but little; indeed, she seemed at times not to be listening. when nacha began to talk about monsalvat, however, ana maría suddenly became all attention. she seemed to be absorbing this part of the story with all her senses, with all her soul; yet, when nacha had ended, she left the room without a word. since that afternoon nacha had not seen her, but she spoke of her to julieta and sara. julieta, plump and gentle, with velvety eyes and red lips, still retained a great deal of girlish modesty. she cherished the dream that a grand passion would come to her rescue. at times she became melancholy, even pessimistic, but she did not yet count herself among the lost. one result of this was that the other girls considered her "respectable." among these others was sara, who had all the appearance of having fallen very low indeed, yet she had led this life scarcely a year. vice had, however, set its mark on her. she liked coarse stories, and obscene words. when, in the dining-room, some one of the men living in the house told a questionable anecdote, sara never failed to respond with something worse. she was tall, thin, quick of movement with long arms and legs. her face was sufficiently pretty, but it was her mouth people noticed; a mouth that was large, the lips mobile, and curving slightly upward, red as pomegranates, and moist. when talking, she moved her head constantly, gesticulating with her long arms. she rarely sat still, preferring to walk up and down, and she could not say a sentence without covering a distance of two or three yards, lifting her feet as though about to execute a dance step, laughing and opening her mouth wide so that one could see her long uneven teeth. there was not the slightest reserve nor modesty about her and she sought her patrons in the street with an indifference to appearances which distressed julieta. sara seemed oddly unaware of her situation, and of the difference between her and decent women. as to men, they were all the same to her. she liked them all, and never attempted to claim any one of them. doña lucía could not bear her and would have put her out had she dared, for sara and her friends, when they were in a merry mood, would sing, talk loud, and burst into roars of laughter, all to the great distress of doña lucía, who implored the saints to free her from this disgraceful boarder. sara's one fear was the police. she had only lately been arrested on the street and since then had become very cautious. ana maría gave every evidence of thoroughly disliking her; and several times when sara indulged in coarse speeches, she had left the table. this always seemed a good joke to sara, who, between bursts of laughter, would call ana maría "madame pompadour," though no one knew where she found this name, nor why she applied it to ana maría. "ana maría must be half crazy," nacha was saying. "i am afraid of her." "you needn't be," julieta replied. "she suffers a good deal. nobody knows what she's been through before coming to this. i'm sorry for her. the poor girl has a kind heart." "yes, of course!" exclaimed sara, with a laugh, walking up and down in the room. "you always think they have 'kind hearts.' i think she's got a lot of silly pride. she thinks herself better than the rest of us." "well, isn't she?" asked julieta. nacha, now almost well, dreaded the moment of complete recovery. that moment would exact her return to what she hated. she would have given years from her life to be able to live as a decent girl. moreover she was afraid of having another attack of illness if she could not have the decency she craved. but it was neither for fear of illness, nor love of decency that she wanted to keep "straight." it was for monsalvat, who was in her thoughts night and day, whether she slept or lay awake, when she talked with her companions, and when she read, alone in her room. one afternoon when julieta came in nacha said to her, "i want to be good--on his account, you see, julieta. i'd do anything, work in a store, or whatever comes along. do you think there's any chance--of my being what i ought to be?" julieta, who had been listening with a woeful expression in her dark eyes, smiled gently, and caressed nacha's hand, but she did not look at her friend. "why don't you answer me? do you think it impossible that i--that any woman--for love, and thinking all the time of him...? is it impossible? tell me the truth. if you don't tell me what you really think you're not my friend. is it possible? answer me!" "it would be if it depended only on us. but people make it so hard for us! they don't want us to be good, nacha!" both girls knew how true that was, and remained silent a long time, saddened, hurt, looking at one another like little children who have lost their mother. nevertheless nacha determined to make one more attempt to save herself. she would find monsalvat. she would seek him to the ends of the earth! so she began questioning the two students who lived in the house, a pair of lazy rascals, who took small interest in anything beyond their immediate horizon. one of them, grajera, a short dark youth, as ugly as he was talkative, a chronic law-student, dissipated, incapable of telling the truth, had tried every makeshift for raising money. he had taught the art of skating, delivered lectures on tuberculosis, acted in cheap theatres, written articles for small town newspapers, and invented a system for never paying hotel or boarding house bills. nacha had known him years ago in her mother's boarding house, and, because grajera had made riga's acquaintance there, was on friendly terms with him. he was besides an amusing table companion. nacha implored him to find out where monsalvat lived, and grajera willingly promised to do so. the only trouble was that he always forgot to attend to this commission. the other youth, also nominally a student, although it would have been hard to discover of what, was of a family from córdoba, the son of a well-known judge, whose death after a laborious and austere life, had been generally lamented. panchito, who had been sent away from home on account of early misbehavior, returned to córdoba after his father's death, but was now once more in buenos aires, incorrigible as ever, always on the lookout for a chance to play a trick to his advantage, always running after women and always lying to everybody. nacha asked him also to try to discover monsalvat's whereabouts; but panchito never thought about anything except the next races, handicaps, betting favorites and other topics of the turf. he always jotted down in a note book the wind velocity, the weight of each horse, the condition of the track, and other highly significant details. yet, notwithstanding all this care, and the scientific accuracy of the data on which panchito based his calculations, he invariably lost. when she saw that her friends were not going to help her much, nacha had recourse to a woman who told fortunes from cards. she had been recommended by sara, who asserted that she never failed to foretell exactly what was going to happen. nacha sent for her, and watched breathlessly, in tense excitement, while the dirty, yellow-skinned old sybil prepared to read her fate from a greasy pack of cards, which had been shuffled by nacha, and cut with her left hand. "the ace of diamonds and the four of clubs mean recovery from sickness. but here's the four of hearts; that means successful love; completely successful; because here's the two of hearts, do you see, which means a proposal! then--here's a dark woman, and serious illness!" "yes. it's a woman. but there's nothing here that means love. it's certainly a woman, miss." nacha tried to find an interpretation that would fit all of this. could monsalvat be ill? or in love with another woman? such an idea was unbearable. then she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind. "where did monsalvat live?" "here's the king of hearts! that means a dark man, of strong character, and generous." "that's it, of course! well, where is he?" "this doesn't say. but here's the two of spades. that means a letter, or news, or an arrival. either the dark man is going to write to you; or he is coming here at any moment." nacha gladly paid the old woman the five _pesos_ she charged for her services. this left her penniless, but she was happy! everything looked hopeful now. several times during the day she thought monsalvat was about to arrive on the scene. the following day, she felt so certain that someone was coming that she waited in the courtyard; and she was immensely surprised when some newcomers turned out to be a man and wife with their twelve year old daughter, relatives of panchito's, and just landed from córdoba. no sooner were they installed in their rooms than there was a general rush to panchito's quarters for an explanation. panchito, still half asleep, was forced to receive his callers in bed. grajera, in the bedroom opposite, was snoring and sara tried to rouse him with ticklings, slaps, and cold water, until there was a general protest. meanwhile panchito tried desperately to piece together an explanation of his relatives' arrival at his boarding house. "just like that donkey to come here," he was saying. "i told him what kind of a house this was, and what made him bring his family here, i don't know! oh, i've got it! i didn't see through it before! this is some of my old woman's work, that's what it is! of course! i wrote her that i was living in a very respectable house, with a highly religious family, and that they made me go to confession twice a month--and the old woman must have repeated all this to that bumpkin uncle of mine who lives out in the country, in saint joseph's sleepy hollow--and he took it into his head to come here...." "where did you say he lived?" inquired sara, her mouth open from ear to ear. "saint joseph's sleepy hollow--a little village over toward...." but the name called forth a series of witticisms at which sara was nearly beside herself with mirth. panchito implored the girls to behave properly. he didn't want his relatives to become aware of their mistake if it could be prevented. then he drove all his visitors out, and went back to bed. that afternoon grajera and panchito presented themselves, in throes of laughter, at nacha's door. they had just beheld sara reclining on a couch, her long legs waving in the air, while she lent an obliging ear to a detailed account of all the troubles, sicknesses and operations of the lady from córdoba, who had evidently taken a great fancy to this sympathetic listener. doña lucía was delighted with her new boarders, though somewhat astonished when they informed her that they had selected her house because it had been recommended to them for its atmosphere. doña lucía could only nod and curtsey, and turn every color of the rainbow. she perceived, however, that her guests from córdoba would require her to set a good table; and, against her will, she found herself forced to ask nacha for her board. this was what nacha had been dreading. she could not blame doña lucía, who was well within her right. all night long she tried to devise some means of escaping the inevitable. should she try a hand at a gambling table, buy a lottery ticket, ask someone to lend her money...? but at two o'clock the next day she put on her street clothes and started off for the house of signora sanmartino, avoiding julieta's clear eyes as she did so; for she was ashamed, not so much because of the act itself as because of what it signified, the betrayal of a feeling which had ennobled her and purified her in the eyes of her companions. nacha knew juanita sanmartino of old. although juanita was an italian she might have been queen victoria's own sister. the same complexion, the same downward curving nose, the same odd and rather ridiculous way of wearing her hair. like mme. annette, she had a daughter, and for her daughter's sake traded in the misfortunes of other women. her daughter, a pretty girl of fourteen, lived in the house; and her pristine innocence seemed quite untouched by her surroundings. nacha returned crushed. she paid for a few days' board; then went to her room, and threw herself on her bed, weeping. suddenly she felt a presence in the room and sat up. more skeleton-like than ever, ana maría stood looking at her. nacha gave a little scream. the girl tried to take her hand, but nacha drew away, shuddering, from the touch of her skin. "why ... are you afraid ... of me?" ana maría's words struck her ear like a voice from beyond the grave. it was growing dark; but nacha had not the courage to get up and turn on the light, nor did she know what to reply. so she waited, hoping julieta would come in. "tell me again about monsalvat," commanded ana maría feverishly. "i think he must have loved me very much, don't you? who else would have done what he did for me? and yet sometimes i think it was not for me at all, but for his sister who was betrayed, and who is lost, as i am lost. i think he did for me what he wanted to do for her." ana maría's expression was very strange, her eyes wild as though she saw something as ghastly as death. nacha, terrified, was about to cry out; but ana maría sat silent, her wasted body scarcely able any longer to hold the unhappy spirit that was trying desperately to tear itself out of it. finally she stood up and went out of the room, but with an unsteady step, leaning on the articles of furniture she passed. when julieta and sara came in, nacha told them about ana maría's unaccountable behavior. "perhaps she knew monsalvat. perhaps he was a lover of hers," suggested sara. "oh," cried nacha, with a start. "i see what it is. i see! his sister!" julieta rushed to the girl's room to discover if this were true. she found ana maría lying on her bed, motionless, apparently asleep. while julieta stood looking at her, she opened her eyes once or twice but apparently saw nothing. julieta spoke to her, but received no reply. she knew this was all very strange, but stood hesitating, not knowing what to do, until ana maría grew restless and began to murmur unintelligibly. then julieta called sara and nacha. it occurred to them to give the sick girl some brandy; but she grew worse, and began to moan. then she became delirious. they sent for the doctor. the whole house was curious, now, to see what was going on. some of the boarders crowded into the room, others stood around the door asking questions. doña lucía, full of scruples, did not venture to come in. when the doctor arrived, ana maría was dying. he was not long in discovering what had happened, for a morphine syringe lay on the floor, and on the table by the bed there was a bottle of the drug. julieta and nacha searched through the dead girl's belongings for a clue to her name; and they soon came upon some old letters tied up in blue ribbon. almost everyone began "dear eugenia" and ended "your brother" or "fernando." among them were three photographs, one of an elderly man, one of a woman, and one of fernando monsalvat. nacha took possession of this last. there could no longer be any doubt. the unfortunate morphine addict was eugenia monsalvat.... nacha had never seen death at close hand before. obsessed by the scene she had just witnessed, she imagined herself dying, forsaken by everyone she knew. the horrible pictures monsalvat had painted of what lay in store for her rose threateningly in her memory; and she was so terrified by her imaginings that she could not bear to be alone for a single moment, nor could she bring herself to go to bed. once when she tried to sleep fully dressed, she awoke suddenly, uttering a shriek which startled the entire household. in her dream she had been locked in a coffin.... panchito's aunt, and doña lucía set the room in order, and performed the last services for poor ana maría. sara, whose custom it was to go out to the streets every night after dinner, remained in the room, silent, and full of grotesque fears. as the women sat watching the dead girl one of them began to pray, and the girls joined in, shaken and weeping. the rough pine coffin, the two yellow tapers, the tearful prayers for the unhappy creature who had died in poverty, and far from any of her kin, the grief of these other girls, who wept as if repentent of all the tawdry weakness of their lives, formed a scene impressive even to the three or four men looking on. it seemed as though ana maría's long days of suffering, and short hours of joy, her caresses and her laughter, the goblets of champagne that those dead hands had raised to then living lips, and the soft silks that had once touched that cold body, were transformed into tears now, blinding the eyes of these girls, who wept for her past, for her death, for her suffering, but above all, for her despair. at a certain moment, when the women began to pray, the two students, empty-headed and irreligious as they were, had the same impulse. they too wished to offer something to the dead; and at precisely the same moment, hastily, and each trying to hide the gesture from the other, they crossed themselves. at any other time this would have been the occasion of ridicule; but now each turned away with a smile that had in it more of pity than anything else; for even they felt that there was in that room something more than a tragic death; to cross ones-self in the presence of these even more tragic lives seemed indeed a small thing. chapter xiv the doctor's words rang in monsalvat's ear. "nacha has returned to the profession." how ironical the phrase! profession, in truth, but of despair instead of faith in god, in law, in science! yet oddly enough, this very relapse of hers gave him hope. he knew now where to look for her; and at the thought his blood ran faster. the very signs on the street corners spoke of finding her; automobile horns, the cries of street venders, all the incongruous voices of the enormous city, clamored to him that soon he would find nacha. when his thoughts dwelt on all that was horrible, inhuman and painful in the life the girl must at that very moment be leading, his heart seemed to grow cold. no, it was better not to think.... yet, were it not for these facts too horrible to think of, he might never trace her! so, with his friend the doctor, he began the search for nacha, and also for his sister, although his recovery of eugenia was now a secondary interest. together they started on a painful and long journey through the circles of that living hell reserved for fallen women, a martyrdom among other more frightful martyrdoms. yet these stages of his journey led him through only the first circles of that inferno; for it was in these first circles that he expected to find the two women he was seeking. there are other circles more frightful and more tragic still. with the doctor as his guide monsalvat descended into these regions. the entrance gate was madame annette's front door; and upon it might very well have been blazoned forth "through me you pass into the city of woe, through me you pass into eternal pain, through me among the people lost for aye!" but, alas, these were not the only gates of hell! their number was infinite, and the women who passed through returned no more. however, the door of mme. annette's house was the principal gate, the gate of gold! "nacha regules?" the french woman repeated coldly. "i don't know her." the doctor persisted however in his inquiries, for he had caught a false intonation in the woman's denial. mme. annette kept to her first statement; and as he watched her vulgar gestures and listened to her displeasing voice, monsalvat felt an indefinable uneasiness. how could such a woman, disagreeable, coarse, bad-tempered as she appeared, have the patrons of the sort torres asserted she had? surely crime lurked under the apparent luxury of this place; and if this evil enchantress succeeded in satisfying her aristocratic clients, it was with morsels of delicate flesh obtained by the most unspeakable deceptions and cruelties! "shall i call in the girls?" mme. annette asked abruptly, mistrustful of her callers; for she scarcely knew torres and she had noticed monsalvat's disgust. "let us go to the dining-room. ask them to have a glass of champagne with us," the doctor replied. three of the girls came in. one of them was the child with whom nacha had made friends. monsalvat started at sight of this young thing. his eyes flashed anger as he looked at mme. annette, who lowered hers, more frightened than ashamed. torres called the child to him and she sat down on the sofa beside him. mme. annette left her callers for a moment while she went to prepare the champagne. a fine-looking brunette, who declared herself a paraguayan, entered into conversation with monsalvat. her eyes, indeed all her features, and her manner of speaking, bore witness to not very remote indian ancestors. she knew nothing of nacha or eugenia, had never heard of them. monsalvat, who thought every woman in this profession must be the victim of hostile circumstances, asked her to tell him her story. no doubt she too had suffered at the hands of father, or lover, or some exploiter of women! the girl, however, protested that the life she was leading was the only life for her. it meant pleasure, freedom, money; she did not have to work and heard nothing but pretty speeches from men. as she spoke a savage sensuality played about her eyes and lips. obviously she loved pleasure for pleasure's sake. while she praised her profession she blew kisses into the air or pressed her arms tightly against her breasts in a kind of ecstasy; and she drank her champagne slowly, tasting its sweetness to the full, licking her lips, and looking mischievously at monsalvat out of the corner of her eye. he was thinking meanwhile that though she was far from looking upon herself as a victim, she was one nevertheless. who could tell what fatal inheritance was hers? the descendant perhaps of alcoholics who had sought in liquor some alleviation for the misery of their material circumstances, or for that other misery caused by the hatred and prejudices of their neighbors! a link by itself meant nothing. one had to consider the whole chain; evil could be born only of evil. meanwhile torres was obtaining information. the child beside him knew nothing of eugenia but she recalled very distinctly a girl who had come there one afternoon. "she felt so sorry for me," the child went on, "and her name was nacha. she went away, because she had a quarrel with madame--i don't know what about--." madame meanwhile had admitted to torres, when he told her that they wanted to find nacha for some reason connected with "justice," that she had been there. "you put her in jail, do! that's where she belongs! you ought to hear the language she uses! i'm a respectable woman: i don't owe a cent to anybody, and i'm a good mother! there aren't many who pay more for their daughter's education! some of the best people in buenos aires are my friends and that impudent little hussy allows herself to talk back to me!" as the two men were leaving they met an acquaintance of the doctor's at the curb. just as she was getting out of a taxi torres inquired of the seductive amelia if she could give him any news of nacha. "go to juanita's. someone told me only yesterday that she went there. i must say i don't understand nacha. juanita's of all places! such a crazy thing to do! one must keep up one's position, don't you think? there's no need of stepping down in the world before one has to. she just lowers herself going to juanita's.... how am i looking, darling doctor? am i getting old, do you think? well, so long! good-bye, old man!" it was still only about six o'clock; and they decided to go to the sanmartino house then and there. juanita received them in a large parlor, stuffy with hangings and filled with pretentious furniture. with her usual stately dignity and victoria-like appearance, mme. sanmartino met her two callers very graciously. monsalvat who was standing in the middle of the room saw a little girl of thirteen or so pass through the hall. he felt that behind the portières of the doorway women were watching; and it seemed to him that everywhere in that house, in the air, in the furnishings, were traces of nacha; yet he divined also that he would not find her there. "yes, she used to come here," juanita was saying in an ingratiating tone, slowly moving her head up and down. "a very nice girl, too. quite pretty! but she doesn't come any more. no doubt she has found somebody to take care of her...." she stopped, and looked at both men fearing her words might have wounded one of them. monsalvat had not been able to control a start. "well, anyway, she doesn't come here any more, but i don't know why. sometimes our patrons take girls away from the house--and set them up. but i don't think that in this case...." monsalvat turned pale. he had lost her again! but torres inquired the name of the patron who had made friends with nacha, and juanita gave it to him at once. then, in the silence that followed, the doctor looked at his friend and nodded. monsalvat understood. now was the time to ask about eugenia; but he had not the courage. torres came to his rescue, but obtained no satisfaction. perhaps the girl had changed her name! monsalvat described her. but what good was his description? there were several girls in that very house who answered it. "did you see that child in the hall?" monsalvat asked nervously when he and torres reached the street. "that's juanita's daughter. it's strange, isn't it? juanita is sacrificing herself for that child. she hopes to work up a business that's good enough to sell, and then retire on a small fortune. it's for her daughter's sake that she exploits other women!" monsalvat demurred. "why did she keep her daughter in such surroundings?" "why, those girls wouldn't say a word in that child's presence that she oughtn't to hear! of course, now and then, they may let something slip without thinking. but, after all, that child couldn't help but consider that the relations between men and women are nothing but a simple business arrangement. she will see that the girls she knows sell themselves, and she too will sell herself, to some good fellow with a fortune; but her price will be not twenty or thirty thousand dollars but a hundred thousand. she'll make a good match." monsalvat was losing hope. that inferno was too vast, the catacombs of this subterranean world too obscure and intricate! torres, as if to cheer him, drew a paper from his pocket. it was a sinister, a terrifying list of two hundred houses of the kind they had just visited, some of them aristocratic, some of them middle class, most of them modest or shabby; and somewhere in these houses were the women they sought! monsalvat kept the list, but decided to continue his search alone. he could not take up more of the doctor's time. torres insisted, however, on taking him to a house where there was a good chance of obtaining information. they sent in their names and a servant ushered them into a room which had none of the perfumed, wholesale, elegance of mme. annette's house, nor the heavy, mediocre luxuriousness over which juanita queened it. here everything was extremely simple without being actually shabby. the owner of the establishment was not long in appearing. "florinda," said the doctor, "this is my friend monsalvat--and this is my friend florinda, the most charming of creoles...." "at your service, gentlemen. i am entirely at your orders, but don't believe what this flatterer says. he's an old friend--from good old times, long past. but sit down sir! so honored by your call...." florinda, a creole, in the forties, tall and thin and decidedly plain, was married, and had a battalion of children whom she kept at the back of the house. the youngest was six months old. her husband was obligingly unaware of his wife's occupation; and he was too prudent, "too good-natured," florinda put in, to inquire as to the source of the money which supported him. he always left the house early in the morning and returned late at night. he loved and admired his faithful consort, model of wives and housekeepers, and always proclaimed her a "thorough lady." his own claims to distinction, a slow and pompous manner of speaking, exaggerated manners, constant praise of his wife's good qualities and his amazing physical beauty, attached her with unbreakable bonds to this ideal husband. "oh, you want to know something about nacha, sir?" florinda murmured, in her thin and somewhat sleepy voice. "yes, i know her. distinguished, isn't she? always very correct, and very kind! i know her. i have the pleasure of her acquaintance, and i have always been very fond of her, for i know how to value people, and i always recognize good breeding. i can't bear people who are ill-bred. and i always say that breeding is something that can't be taught. you get it in your cradle. good blood is the best certificate...." the conversation went on at length. torres always found this woman amusing. now and then he produced a word or phrase of double meaning, whereupon florinda would lower her eyes, and smile, looking like a plump, good-natured cat. however, she did not know nacha's lodging place, and had never heard of eugenia. the two friends left, florinda taking leave of them with a whole series of bows, pretty speeches, and every manner of courtesy. "now there's a woman who really thinks she's respectable and she sold her own daughter. queer, isn't it?" "we are all responsible for things such as that," monsalvat exclaimed, as if thinking aloud. "in that sale, the man who bought the girl was guilty, and the parents and friends of the man to whom she was sold had their share of guilt; and the teachers who taught that man; and the authors of the books he read. for who of all these prevented that sale? and what law have the law-makers devised to abolish these evils? and weren't all those who looked on, and did nothing to prevent, accomplices?" torres did not accept this collective guilt. from his point of view the man responsible for a crime was the man who committed it or the man who helped directly. society? bah! what was society but an abstraction? only the individual exists, and society is made up of individuals. monsalvat took leave of the doctor because he did not want to discuss theories with him; he was in no mood for discussion. he affirmed, and roundly, dogmatically, sometimes with the ideas and often in the very language of the prophets.... monsalvat, his list in his pocket, continued his journey next day through the regions of the accursed. two days later, as his eye fell quite by chance on the police news in the morning paper, he learned of his sister's death. the item gave the drug addict's name, mentioned her career as a courtesan; and after thus delivering over to public ignominy a respected name, went on to moralizings of the kind always available in the make-up rooms of certain newspapers. eugenia's death, and under such conditions, was a heavy blow. monsalvat suddenly grew ten years older. now he was indeed alone. his attempts to find nacha became frantic; failure exasperated him. no sooner was he out of his office in the afternoon than he jumped into a taxi and started off on his search; so all october passed. but these regions of the lower world cannot be traversed with impunity by the first corner. monsalvat did not know the ways of these circles; and he experienced annoyances, insults, all manner of humiliation. in some houses they demanded money. in one he was robbed. on more than one occasion he failed to gain admission and was bespattered with gross words from within the fast-locked doors; and all the while he suffered for these unhappy inmates as well as for himself, and came out from his exploration of the dark wood of evil, his heart bleeding, his soul aching, and his brain confused and exhausted. everything was useless! nowhere was there trace of nacha. time and hope were passing, and monsalvat began to have periods of doubt. perhaps he would not find nacha; perhaps he had not found himself! in moments of weakness he regretted the comparative happiness of his former life. he began to believe himself defeated, and fell into profound discouragement. he tried to forget; he planned several articles; he thought again of his proposed remodelling of the tenement building, held in check by the obstinacy of his tenants. poor creatures! exploited for centuries, their grand-parents, their parents, they themselves, knew nothing else; how could they then sense his good intentions? their whole experience prevented it. they could not help believing that his plans concealed a new form of exploitation; and they considered his request for them to move as an infringement on their rights. they were now protesting angrily against the regulations of the new superintendent who was trying to make his tenants observe a few elementary practices of public hygiene. monsalvat was anxious to have the work begun; for the sum lent him by the bank was in danger of disappearing what with his constant charities to people who really needed aid, and to those who imposed upon his good faith and sympathy. one afternoon in november he went to the tenement house. in its over-shadowed courtyard hungry, ragged children were running about; a few women waiting for a husband or a daughter to come home, sat paring vegetables, while someone at the back of the house played an accordion. the yard was littered with boxes, boards, baskets, broken flower-pots, and all sorts of articles. at sight of monsalvat, the children began rushing from one end of the house to the other yelling that the landlord had come. one might have thought from their mother's expressions that they were announcing an enemy. the court was soon full of people, for many of the tenants were home from work at that hour. monsalvat noticed a girl, rather well dressed, and wearing a large hat, who drew near to one of the groups as he began speaking: "you showed me a little while ago that you did not trust me; and when i thought it over, i decided you did right, for i hadn't talked to you sincerely, although i tried to. but i didn't know how to tell you what is so simple after all; and it is that i can't help thinking of you all as my brothers, because you _are_ my brothers; and i want to free you from needless suffering. i'm not much. i can't do a great deal for you. i can't even give you this house because it's mortgaged; but it's mortgaged so that you can have air and light and sanitary conditions, so that you can live like human beings. all the money raised on this house will be spent on it to make it a good house to live in. then you will come back to it and you will pay me very little rent, less than you pay now. all i want from you is enough to pay the interest on the mortgage. i could sell this house and rent another; but i cannot have you herded together like cattle! please don't doubt me. i am not your enemy, i am your friend...." but they did not understand. "he's some joker," a sharp voice exclaimed. someone else invited him to shut up and go away. that struck the crowd as humorous and there were bursts of laughter. the children, no longer scared, clapped and shouted. a creole, who was a typesetter and an anarchist, was about to make a speech in behalf of those who refused to accept the plan, when there was a sudden commotion. "there's that street-walker turned traitor!" yelled one of the women shaking her fist at the girl monsalvat had noticed. everyone turned on her, insulting her and threatening her. the girl defended herself vigorously; until suddenly she began to cry. this pacified the tenants. only the women scoffed at her tears, not believing that one such as she could really weep. they would have liked to scratch her and tear out her hair in vengeance for her hats and dresses which seemed so fine to them. how ironical that this girl should be the only one of his audience to try to defend monsalvat, and to insist that the plan he proposed was to everyone's advantage! earlier in his career monsalvat would have been amazed that of all these people, a good sort after all, no one but this girl should understand him! but now it seemed to him quite natural. he had learned that girls such as she know the full meaning of suffering; and he knew now that grief was the school for kindness and understanding. moreover, a girl of this profession, even though born into the laboring class, does not belong to it. through her dealings with the rich, she acquires the ways of the rich and she learns to understand these ways. in addition her experience of men teaches her that, if some of them are possessed of perversity and cruelty hard to conceive of, others have an equally unbelievable kindness of heart. monsalvat saw that it was impossible to convince these people by any such methods as those he had tried, and went away. but he returned the next day, and every day; for he was determined to make friends with his tenants. he found work for some of those who needed it, and he was generous to those who could not pay their rent. one day he talked with the girl who had taken his side in the courtyard scene. she was a short, sad-faced little thing, who behaved so properly in the house that no one could have guessed the nature of her trade. he listened with sympathy but with no particular interest to the story she was telling him of her experiences, until she began talking about florinda. then it occurred to him to ask if she knew nacha. she replied that she did not; but a week or so later she announced to him with a smile that she had just met the girl he had asked her about. "you called her nacha, didn't you? a slender girl who lived awhile with pampa arnedo? well, go to this address. the house belongs to a woman who is paralyzed and pushes herself about in a wheel chair. i go there quite often; and nacha and i are getting to be good friends." but monsalvat was no longer listening. he could hear nothing now in the whole wide universe but the words ringing in his heart.... nacha found! nacha at this address! and he actually held the address on a slip of crumpled paper in his hand! never had nacha seemed so near as at this moment.... chapter xv that fifteenth of november was, for nacha regules, one of the unforgettable days of her life; for it brought her intense happiness and at the same time almost unbearable sorrow. she had not gone to the house of the paralytic the day before, as she was occupied in moving to another boarding house. doña lucía's had become distasteful to her since she had discovered that one of the men there was accustomed to spend the afternoon reading in one room while his wife received men in another. she had made inquiries of the other boarders, expressed her indignation, complained to doña lucía. the husband thereupon sought an interview with her. he was a vigorous blond, with a yellow mustache, prominent eyes, and a misshapen mouth. "you have the wrong idea about me," he began. "i'm an honorable man; i never owed a cent to anybody, and what's more, i don't owe anybody a cent now; and what my wife does is her own business, a private matter...." nacha did not care to talk with him; so she told him he was quite right and put an end to the interview. however she left the house two days later. on account of an unpleasant incident at juanita's she ceased going there also; and julieta introduced her to her friend, the paralytic. she arrived at this woman's house early one afternoon, and found her alone. the paralytic asked to be read to and nacha began reading aloud the interminable novel her employer was engaged upon. nacha had felt depressed and nervous when she arrived, although she had no special reason for feeling so; but this narrative full of absurd adventures, related in an even more absurd style, amused and diverted her. she read for nearly an hour. the paralytic, by no means stupid nor illiterate, had no very high opinion of such hair-raising stories; but she had no other book on hand to entertain herself with. at three o'clock the servant, with a suggestion of mystery in her manner, called her mistress out of the room. the paralytic rolled herself down the hall to the parlor. in a short time she returned and told nacha someone wanted to see her. "who is it? tell me! if you don't i won't go--i can't--" her heart was pounding violently as if it were the clapper of a swinging bell. fear vibrated through her and an indefinable distress; though she knew that monsalvat was there ... and yet ... trembling, she hesitated, not knowing whether to run away or throw herself into his arms. "it's a friend of yours. why do you want to know who it is? i don't know him. he looks all right, and that's enough for me. he's waiting for you. go along! i tell you he's a friend--but what's the matter with you? are you afraid of something? if there is anything wrong i won't let you go--" this put an end to nacha's indecision. fear of not seeing him took possession of her, soul and body, and pushed her down the corridor to the room where he was waiting. she was still trembling; she did not know what she was going to say, nor how she was going to act, and she wanted to cry. even at the door she hesitated, and felt faint; everything grew blurred around her. she heard the voice of the paralytic following her down the hall, calling, "go in! go right in!" she heard a voice clamoring from her heart commanding her to open the door.--then what happened she never knew. someone must have opened the door from within, and then closed it. she was trembling and weeping, her hands pressed to her face. she could not see monsalvat; but she felt his presence beside her. when she raised her eyes she saw what anguish was, an anguish made up of torturing memories, and the presentiment of a fatality even then rearing insuperable obstacles between them; yet this pain only added to the intense joy of that moment. "nacha, why did you drive me away that afternoon? that was the beginning of all the unhappiness i have had since. perhaps i didn't act as i should have done. well, then, i ask you to forgive me. since that day i have thought only of you. the problem of your life has become the problem of mine. i have searched for you in all the places i could think of--and how it hurt, nacha, not to find you...." they stood there facing one another, her hands in his. nacha, in her emotion, lowered her head. she did not know how to act with this man who was so simple and so good. she felt that she too must be frank and straightforward. she had no right to conceal anything from him, disguise her real thoughts, lie to him. she could not foresee what the outcome of this meeting was to be. should she let herself be carried along by whatever happened? if monsalvat should want her, why she was his, body and soul! if not, what then? and now she was beside him on the sofa, listening to what he was saying; and while he told her of all the efforts he had made to find her he wondered if the woman sitting beside him could be worthy of a passion such as his. fearful of analyzing his emotion, fearful that his thoughts might dwell too long on this doubt, he tried to put all his feeling and enthusiasm into his story. his words summoned before nacha, breathlessly listening, the long caravan of his dreams, his life of other years, and his life now; he talked to her of the ideals which tormented him, and without which he could not live; and he told her that at last he had found out the purpose of a man's life: to work for others, to live for those who have need of us. nacha was listening in silence. sometimes she had dreamed of what this meeting of theirs would be like; and she had imagined that nothing at such a moment could serve their emotion but abandonment--kisses, caresses more than humanly sweet. for such, to her then, was love; but now she understood that there was a love greater than that. she was undaunted, but surprised. she did not know whether to delight in it or be saddened by it. the man she was listening to was not of her world; to her he was an enigma, something perhaps too far above her for her groping comprehension. she could not hope ever to understand him. how could she, poor fallen woman that she was, destitute of every possession, rise to the world of a being such as he? and sadness cast a beautifying shadow over her face. monsalvat noticed the distress in her eyes and asked why she was troubled. she made a great effort not to burst into tears, using all her strength of will to master her weakness. and she won. suddenly she perceived that she too was strong, for her will had made its decision. "i am sad ... because ... i do not love you. and i know that i never shall!" monsalvat, in complete stupefaction, looked at her. he could not understand. he had always believed this woman loved him. he had felt, as one feels a human presence that can neither be heard nor seen, the presence of a great love between them. and now ... it was impossible! what was the secret of this baffling mystery? could nacha be once more under arnedo's control? he tried to prove to her that it was himself she loved; and as do all lovers, he presented arguments that sober sense would have declared absurd. the whole strength of his case lay in the tone of his voice, and the sincerity of his emotion. "no, i do not love.... it's no use. i can never love you. you have been very kind to me, very generous, and loyal. i love you as a friend ... but that is all." her words seemed only to show monsalvat to what extent this passion possessed him. at times he had believed that the feeling animating him was simply a desire to regenerate this girl who was worthy of a better fate than the one he saw her struggling with, a desire to save another human being from falling to the lowest depths of evil, a desire to accomplish something for the sake of good; since, up to that time he had lived only for himself. at the same time he believed that he loved her; but this love of his seemed to mingle with all these other feelings and desires. now, with genuine terror, he saw that all his ideals, all his desires of regeneration for her and for himself, were either disappearing, or retreating to the background of his consciousness. at that moment he was nothing but a man in love, and she the adored woman! nacha was no longer a wanton needing to be saved. all that had not the slightest importance. it was blotted out of his mind, in fact; and there remained only the body and soul of a woman for whom he would have given his life. in his absorption in this tremendous fact he quite forgot himself; and he was shaken by a convulsion that rose from the depths of his soul. "yes, you love me, nacha, and you must belong to me--for life. i promise to make you happy. whatever tenderness, whatever good there is in me is all for you, nacha. i'll do whatever you want, whatever you command...." he was suddenly startled and he checked himself. how far was he going? the idea of offering himself as a husband passed through his mind. he grew red, and was deeply distressed. the idea seemed absurd. then, as it occurred to him that this was the only means of winning nacha, he clung to the idea desperately. she could not refuse such an offer. it would make her understand the extent of this affection. a man of his position, a man of talent, respected in the community, marrying a girl who had offended against its code! nacha would be thankful; she would know how to value such a sacrifice. "nacha," he began solemnly, "i shall make you my wife. you must marry me...." nacha was profoundly stirred. she tried to speak and could not, so hard was she fighting for self control. she only could know what a ghastly struggle that was because she knew how she loved him. she had loved him too much before. it was worse now, after hearing his generous words. a voice whispered to her to throw herself into his arms. something in the very centre of her being was impelling her towards him; but another voice told her she had no right, outcast as she was, to marry this man; that such an act would make her guilty forever of having destroyed him as a part of society. a sacrifice was demanded of her! she must be more generous even than he, subdue herself, suffer, submit to her fate, refrain from dragging him down with her! she did not know where the voice came from. it may have been crying out to her from that afternoon when she first listened to monsalvat telling her to suffer in order to find redemption; but it was a voice that awed her tormented soul even while it bade her speak and leave this man. then the strange serenity of sacrifice came to her rescue. she was pale as death, and smiled so as not to weep. she summoned all the love within her not to let her yield. "yes, you must marry me," monsalvat was insisting desperately. "no." "what is it, nacha? why are you so strange? i love you, you love me...." her will triumphed. she called to mind other moments of her life and made one supreme effort. then she began to laugh. "no, i couldn't love you. all this is ridiculous anyway! such make-believe is unworthy of you. i put you out of my house once before, and i'll do it again. you simply want to make fun of me, because i'm a poor girl, and defenceless. you wanted to make a fool of me, getting me to swallow all this stuff! but now it's my turn to laugh at you, just as i did in the cabaret. i--married! and to you, a crazy man!" she broke into a laugh that was loud and false and harsh. monsalvat remained seated, his hands clasped over his head; he was dizzy with pain, and he could not understand.... "you are mad ... you have gone mad!" he exclaimed. was she really fainting? she saw monsalvat cover his face with his hands; she turned to the wall and leaned against it, letting herself weep for a brief moment. there was relief in that. with renewed strength, she sat down on a chair and waited. soon monsalvat stood up. he too was pale as he came near her and, barely looking at her, held out his hand. "some time ... you will ... let me see you?" he faltered. "no. why should i? i don't love you. leave me. and if it's true that you love me, forget me as soon as you can. go, please! i am ill, and want to be alone...." monsalvat did not insist. he could not have done so. he took his hat and went away, stumbling like a man who has come to the end of his strength. one might have thought him sick, or crazy, or perhaps drunk, as he staggered out. crossing that threshold was like wrenching his soul from his body; and in the little parlor that knew only shabbiness and shame, grief remained, lending it a dignity it had never known before. nacha could no longer hold her anguish at bay. she snatched off her hat with a frantic gesture, and tore it into bits. moaning and weeping she fled into one of the other rooms and threw herself down on the bed. the cripple rolled her wheel chair to the door and looked in. believing that she understood nacha's trouble, she did not disturb her, but went away again. she talked to the girls awhile; but the tragedy she saw close at hand saddened her; for it reminded her of old intimate griefs of her own. she too, in her youth, had known love, in far away italy; and that love had been maimed and destroyed. after that, dishonor and vice seemed a small matter; yet, at times, even now, she went back in thought to the home of her childhood, so different in its simple beauty from the wretchedness of her present surroundings. but here she was, old, crippled, with no choice but to go on in the familiar rut. why let herself be saddened then? she had known life, and found that melancholy had a bad effect on the liver! so she chatted with the girls, merrily, as was her custom whenever she felt a touch of sadness. but someone came in, and asked for nacha. the cripple rolled her chair into the bedroom where the girl was still weeping, her head almost hidden by the pillow. "nacha child! don't cry that way! why let yourself suffer so? no man is worth it. you know that. you are worth more than the best of them, you have a good heart ... and they...." she muttered an obscene word to herself and began to laugh. "come, nacha, someone wants to see you. they are all alike! no one of them is worth more than another. they're all rotten--just good to ruin women and then desert them. come, child, come--here's a friend!" she patted nacha on the shoulder, and told her she would send her caller in. nacha suddenly sat up. she wiped away her tears and said quietly, "no, señora. don't send him. i am going away for good." "but, child, why? are you angry with me?" the old cripple exclaimed, astonished by nacha's tone. "aren't you ever coming back to my house?" "neither to your house nor to any other. i am not angry. you have been very kind to me, and i shall never forget it." "well then...." the woman did not know what to make of the girl's words. nacha was silent while she smoothed her hair, and straightened her dress. then she kissed the cripple, took both her hands and said, her lips quivering with pain: "it's because ... i want to be worthy ... of that man's love...." "oh, i see. you want to be respectable for awhile, and then get married...." the cripple spoke with the certainty of a woman who understands what she is talking about. nacha's expression, however, indicated that her purpose was not quite as the cripple supposed. "what is it then? tell me. you know i like you, child, and respect you. and i'd do for you anything you ask. if you want to live decent, and need money, i'll give it to you--i'll save so i can!" nacha was touched. "you are good, señora. i thank you from my very heart; and because i know how good you are, i'll tell you. no, i'm not going to get married. i couldn't let him marry me. but he loves me--so much! and if he gives me such great love, i want to be decent. not to get married, no, just to be worthy of living in his thoughts, and in his heart...." the paralytic drew the girl's head down to her twisted old lips and kissed her. freeing herself from the woman's embrace, nacha hastily left the room. as she fled down the stairs she realized that it was many years since she had felt as happy as at that moment! chapter xvi one afternoon as torres was lunching with ruiz de castro in a restaurant on the esmeralda he thought he caught a glimpse of nacha. as a matter of fact it was nacha. she was returning to the store where she had been employed some six years earlier, and with her were a number of other girl employees, for it was nearly two o'clock, the end of the lunch hour. torres would have gone up to speak to her if he had been alone; but ruiz was relating his adventures with that plump lady who had carried on so persistent a discussion with monsalvat at de castro's dinner party, and had so eloquently defended established institutions. "you don't say!" murmured torres, absently; for all his attention was fixed on the slender figure hovering in front of the huge shop door which was about to open and swallow her up. "she's a wonder, my friend," proclaimed ruiz, who was given to committing indiscretions in words as well as actions. "what passion! and how she can sob!" when torres reached his house he went at once to talk to monsalvat who was now living with him. after the serious illness that had followed close upon his interview with nacha, torres had taken him in hand, and when he discovered that his patient was paying no attention to doctor's orders, had carried him off to his own home where he could insist on obedience. he persuaded monsalvat to ask for a two months' leave, for there was no doubt that he was suffering from brain-fag and serious nervous derangement. torres had a theory that monsalvat's condition was not entirely due to his passion for nacha. he knew the history of his friend's moral struggles, and he believed that the causes of monsalvat's illness were numerous and complex. the latter's abrupt change of attitude towards life could not but profoundly affect his whole nature. following this, had come several months of constant self-reproach, and self-disgust for the uselessness and selfishness of his life up to that time. he went as far as to blame himself for his inability to transform the world. torres had tried, vainly, to prove to him that he was far from useless, and that no one could have called him selfish. his conduct compared surprisingly well with that of other men of his generation; and his reputation indicated general recognition of that fact. monsalvat protested that all this might be true from a superficial and worldly view of his life, but it only proved how false were society's standards. "useless and selfish," monsalvat repeated. "not less so than prominent politicians or ranch owners, lawyers, and men in society. we are all selfish. i do not condemn myself only. i condemn all the rest as well. the world is full of evil, selfishness, meanness--and i have shared in it all. that is why i despise myself, and abhor my past life." torres wisely kept silent, for fear of exciting his patient. it was clear also that the knowledge of his sister's mode of life, and of the degradation his mother had fallen into before her death, had seriously injured monsalvat's nervous system. the scene with irene, his worrying about the tenement, the anxieties of that search through the world of fallen women, the sight of so many horrors, had all left their mark on him; and finally the shock of eugenia's death, intensified by the manner in which he had learned of it, had played its part in undermining his health. obviously his love for nacha, his unsuccessful attempt to save her, the knowledge that she was leading a vicious life, perhaps because of him, were the principal causes of his breakdown, but all these other matters played an important part in bringing about his present condition. now, however, after two months of rest and quiet, monsalvat was beginning to be himself. the companionship of torres had done him a great deal of good. the doctor made him eat, gave him stimulants when he needed them, encouraged him to spend most of his time out of doors and even stayed up with him on the nights when he was unable to sleep. torres might have accomplished a complete cure, had not the evil that flourishes in certain human hearts prevented. monsalvat had recently received some anonymous letters, four in all. one of them insulted him by insulting his mother, another called him to account for living on women, and being an anarchist! the other two were content with intimating that he belonged in a lunatic asylum, and would soon be put there. the effect of these letters was to excite him so that he could neither sleep nor eat. the first especially reawakened in him his life-long obsession, cruelly reminding him of what was, in his estimation, the reason for his moral bankruptcy. the doctor wondered who could have sent these letters, for monsalvat's position was not such as to excite envy. at the ministry his new ideas had become known, and monsalvat was looked upon with hostility or contempt. even the minister mistrusted him now. in the social circles where he was once respected, he had lost all consideration. ercasty was methodically discrediting him, with admirable persistence and thoroughness. informed by mutual acquaintances of monsalvat's views with respect to nacha and other girls of her sort, and of that frantic search through houses of ill-fame, he confirmed the rumor that monsalvat had fallen very low indeed. at first he was content with making insinuations; but finally he came out with the bald statement that monsalvat was a vulgar exploiter of women. of course there were not lacking those who accused him of participating in frightful anarchist plots, and preparing bombs for wholesale assassinations. financially too he was ruined. the forty thousand of the mortgage raised on his property had melted away. his mother's debts, the mulatto's blackmail, moreno's incessant appeals, had taken several thousand. his excursion through the city's public houses had cost him four thousand _pesos_. ten thousand _pesos_ had gone for improvements on the tenement. monsalvat decided he would have to sell the building, for his salary was barely enough for his own expenses, and his tenants either paid no rent or paid very little. that afternoon monsalvat was reading as he lay in bed. the book beside him was the new testament. on his face was reflected something of the serenity of late afternoon. when torres opened the window to let in air and sunshine, everything in the room seemed to draw a breath, and grow animate. a bar of light like a luminous golden coverlet spread over the bed. "look at that!" exclaimed the doctor. "and you spend your time shut up here almost in the dark. you'll never get well that way. you ought to go to palermo, stay out in the sun--and not read or write a line." "i know what i need," replied his friend quietly. "what do you need? you are always mysterious." monsalvat went on reading. torres remained with him for a few moments and then withdrew without a word. the doctor had been observing his friend for over a month, with constantly growing curiosity. monsalvat's intelligence seemed to have grown sharper and deeper. he was still weak in body but his mind was keener than ever. he reasoned with irrefutable logic, and divined his opponent's arguments at a word. torres attributed this mental fitness to mental exercise. his patient talked with no one but his host, did not go out, read very little; but all day long he was occupied in thinking and remembering, trying to interpret his past life, trying to understand the significance of the life he was then experiencing. he spent hours analyzing the persons he knew, and with extraordinary penetration. torres was more than once overcome with amazement when monsalvat guessed his thoughts. "why should you be startled?" monsalvat asked him on a certain occasion. "what has happened is simply this. i am living from within now. up to six months ago i lived from without, superficially; and the life i lived seemed to be the life of other people rather than my own. it was an objective, a false, a lying kind of life. just like your own and that of nearly everyone. a materialistic kind of life, never transcending the commonplace, devoid of mystery, and of genuinely spiritual anxiety. but now my eyes are open and i begin to understand. i have analyzed myself, i have looked within; and i have discovered a great many things there that i knew nothing of. i know now what there is in me, and what parts of it are worth something, and what i must give to others. and i even begin to suspect why i am alive!" "i knew before that...." torres stopped abruptly, not caring to end his sentence. he pretended to have forgotten what he wanted to say. "why don't you go on? have you really forgotten what was on the tip of your tongue? well, i know what it was. you were going to say that all that happened this past year, and the love i found, would lead me straight to ... mysticism!" "what? no, no, not that, exactly." but that was exactly what he had been thinking. monsalvat knew how abhorrent to a man as orderly and normal, as submissive to society's dicta, as torres, the word "mysticism" must be. the doctor had come to admit society's responsibility for much of the unhappiness in the world; but he had no sympathy for those heroic acts necessary to drive out injustice. he admired monsalvat but at the same time considered his passion for redeeming others a form of insanity. according to torres a normal man should accept things as they are. the rebel, he who at sight of the suffering of life's victims, breaks out into indignant accusations or takes up some useless but heroic work, was, in his estimation, a madman. since his recent glimpse of nacha, torres had been anxious to talk to her. once or twice he watched the girls coming out of the shop. he saw nacha again, but it was very evident that she avoided him. convinced that nacha did not care to hear any news of monsalvat, whose friendship with him she must have known, he gave up his attempt to communicate with her. the days went by. monsalvat never spoke of nacha and little by little torres came to the conclusion that he had forgotten her. one morning, in march, torres went to his guest's room at a very early hour, to dissuade him from going away. "why leave me, monsalvat? stay here a couple of months longer, until you are quite all right again. the kind of breakdown you're just getting over is no joke, my dear boy. and where are you going without a cent to your name, eh? back to your quixotic notions about righting all humanity's wrongs, and redeeming people who have nothing to redeem about them? that's all nonsense, and leads nowhere. one man alone can't accomplish anything. all you can do is harm, filling the heads of those poor people with wild ideas. no, my son. the world is full of evil. well, what's to be done? you have to take it as it is, and get what good you can out of it, and--'forward, march!' eh?" monsalvat did not reply. he lay on his side, his elbow resting on the pillow, his hand on his breast, and his eyes turned towards the window. but he was not looking at what was out there beyond him: he was looking within, searching his own heart and the hearts of a multitude of other human beings whom he saw there standing between him and his friend. the doctor's words reached him from far, far away--so far that he scarcely understood them. meanwhile the window seemed to be catching fire, making its offering of light to monsalvat as from a golden, quivering sheet of flame! the doorbell rang. without moving, monsalvat said: "that's the postman. he is bringing a letter from nacha--for you." torres smiled at this prophecy; a forced smile, however, for he feared that it might be true. he got up and was about to leave the room when the maid came in with a letter. the doctor signed the receipt for which the messenger was waiting, placing it for that purpose on the table near monsalvat's bed. he did not notice that monsalvat's eyes were fixed intently on the small bit of paper. then he opened the letter and looked at its signature, disconcerted. monsalvat laughed, enjoying his friend's confusion. "it's from ruiz de castro. he wants to see me ... some affair of his ... he doesn't say what ..." stammered torres, thrusting the letter into his pocket. then he went out, embarrassed and perplexed, while monsalvat smiled to himself. for the letter actually did come from nacha! she wrote that she wanted to see torres, but not at the entrance to the shop. from her letter it appeared that she did not know where monsalvat was. she wanted to find out--that was why she wrote about him. she had learned that he was ill; "was it true?" she asked; and "was she to blame?" that evening torres went to the lodgings at the address nacha had sent him. he found a respectable house, the tenants of which appeared to be shop employees and their families. "you don't know what i've been through," murmured nacha. "we met one afternoon, and i--" torres knew something of this meeting. "but you don't know why i acted as i did," nacha continued. "it was because i loved him; because i didn't want to do him harm. so that he, distinguished and fine as he is, shouldn't be ruined by associating his life with that of a ... someone like myself.... you see? since that day i have lived straight; and somehow, i'm still alive, although really i am dying ... with grief.... but this i accept, for his sake, and to make up for the kind of life i led before. i accept it so that he may not have to suffer, so that he will forget me, and be happy, and go on with the kind of life he ought to have--even though i die of it. what good am i?" they were alone, facing each other over a small table, lit by a small lamp which had been pushed to one side. torres felt the shadows of the room pressing around his throat, choking him. nacha's face alone stood out, catching the light. the doctor was thinking of the frightful pranks destiny can play. but this emotion passed, and the man of the world, laden with prejudices, falsehood, cruelties--and good, withal, replaced the plain and honest man of feeling. "you couldn't know what i've been through," nacha repeated. "since that afternoon i have earned my living by work. first there were days of discouragement, when i went hungry. then i found employment in a shop. eleven hours a day and thirty dollars a month! i get a bonus too. but there are fines for the slightest thing. altogether i earn about sixty dollars more or less--there's no rest during those eleven hours. sometimes they send me with a load of goods up to the fifth floor. we aren't allowed to use the elevators. it isn't a gay life, you see. but it's for him, so i don't mind! not so that he'll love me--i'm not worthy of living with him--just to deserve, even at a distance, a little of the love he has for me!" torres looked away from her; it occurred to him that this change in nacha was a danger for monsalvat. he believed he must save his friend once for all, and to accomplish that required a lie. he reflected that it was really too bad that deceit should at times be necessary, even to accomplish good results. something inquired of him if he really believed that the purpose he had in view was "good." he hesitated a moment; but he remembered the world's opinion, the world's morality, the world's sentiments. he turned towards nacha, and with a gesture as if he was casting from him an unpleasant thought, and in a hard voice, he said: "you must not see him again, nacha, ever. anyway, he has forgotten you. yes! he is in love with another woman, and is thinking of getting married. you don't want to wreck his plans, eh?" she could not see. everything was dark. she felt a "yes" come mechanically from her throat, and she put out a hand, so inert, that it barely felt the rapid pressure of another hand. then came the noise of a closing door, and the sound of retreating footsteps. but darkness remained, empty ... and endless. * * * * * as she sat at the small table, her senses dull to everything, she did not hear a knock at her door; nor was she aware that a man had come in and was there, before her, waiting. a sudden leap of her heart, and a flash of consciousness made her raise her eyes. she thought she must be feverish, in a delirium! she would have cried out, but something within her, that overpowered her, muffled her voice. "nacha!" he said. "is this true? it is not a dream? not a dream?" they were face to face, but they could not speak. no words could express what shone in monsalvat's eyes, and echoed in nacha's breathless weeping. the room seemed to fill with memories of the distant past, scenes fraught with sorrow, and ancient longings, taking on a strange, mysterious life, like an old temple that has heard the prayers of centuries. nacha's tears were for what had been, and what ought to have been; for what she had not wanted to be, and what the world had forced her to become. monsalvat sat at her side, caressing her hands; but he saw facing him the two men he had been in his lifetime, and he demanded an account of them for what his life had been, looking into their very souls, cursing them; and before nacha passed the different women who had dwelt in her body, the bad woman, and the good, the victim and the weakling. and in that dim light, they understood one another, these two suffering human beings. the light in the heart of each shone out to the other. their heads drew close together. without knowing it, without seeking it, they kissed gently, like children of one mother. chapter xvii monsalvat that very afternoon had taken lodgings in the house in order to be near nacha. as torres signed it, he read the receipt of the special delivery letter; and he hurried to the messenger service bureau and there learned nacha's address. when he reached the building where she lived he noticed a sign announcing a furnished room to let in this tenement which was an old family dwelling, now rented out to numerous lodgers. monsalvat took the room on the top floor facing the street. thus, it happened that when he appeared in nacha's quarters he was already a tenant in the same house. torres' efforts to find out what had become of monsalvat were all unsuccessful. he even wrote to nacha, who replied that she had not seen him nor had any news of him. these falsehoods did not much trouble her conscience. she wanted to keep monsalvat near her, have him for herself alone; and she was fearful of his friends, of his associates at the ministry, of everything which threatened to interrupt her possession of him. when, in the afternoon, she came home from work, she could scarcely breathe with the anxiety and the fear of no longer finding him there. but the emotion she felt was to all appearances purely fraternal. suffering had spiritualized it. the first kiss had been the last. nacha knew how little the physical aspect of love meant. she could not offer her lover something of as little price as her body. to monsalvat she would give her heart and soul and whatever good there was in her; her tenderness, as immeasurable as space, and her suffering, as deep as the sea. nor did he desire her. nacha was no longer a mere woman to him; she had become a symbol, tremendously significant, of all women who pay the penalty she was paying, of those victims rejected by society--daughters of the mire and of human misery; and she was his sister as well. if at times he desired nacha, the desire was fleeting, a passing sentiment. he knew that it was this sentiment which had drawn him towards her; and in this fact he saw a proof of the wisdom of instinct, of nature's fundamental soundness; for desire had, in moments of vacillation and uneasiness of conscience, led him to the right road. now he was no longer a man of the world, nor a distinguished lawyer, nor anything else that he had been. as far as the world was concerned, he was a ruined man. but in his own eyes he had saved himself, found a purpose for his life; the purpose to give everything he had to others, and to suffer for them. what did all the rest matter if, in this course of conduct, he found what he recognized as the "good" he craved? and so time passed. nacha went to the shop in the morning, and returned at night. monsalvat went out only to go to the ministry, and to offer relief to those in great need. when he came back from the office he gathered the children in the house together and taught them to read; and his evenings were for nacha, for long waking dreams--a book in his hands, and silence keeping watch over them like a faithful dog. his evenings were for that idealized love which nacha too now understood. but one evening nacha told him of the doubts that troubled her. why sacrifice one's life, and tranquillity, and happiness, for others? with so much wretchedness in the world, what could one man's slow and small accomplishment matter? and why give one's whole soul to something that offered no visible reward? "nacha," he replied, "to sacrifice ourselves for others is a duty. it is the only reason for our living. if we all accepted this principle, life would be inconceivably beautiful. and what other principle makes our lives consistent with our opinions and our ideals--granted we have opinions and ideals? it is an obligation we owe to those from whom we have taken their share of happiness. there are not many who pay this debt, not many who comply with this law. people not only resist the law of love implicit in sacrifice, but they will to be selfish, and bad. but doesn't that make it all the more our duty, nacha, to do what we can? we must win forgiveness for the wrongs we do our brothers, for the guilt of society in which we all share." he stopped, and looked dreamily before him, as though he saw some luminous object in the distance. then, after a moment of silence, he added: "the work of one individual has tremendous value as an example. good work is not lost. it arouses other souls; and each one of these will waken others, who, but for them, would continue to sleep. so, little by little, daylight will come; injustice will cease; and poverty will be a word." monsalvat was at work on two plays which nacha helped him to copy. they proved to be somewhat incoherent compositions, full of anguish, and love, and pity. they excited keen interest among the theatrical managers to whom he submitted them but no one cared to produce them. some one of the readers who examined them called the plays "anti-social"; and they were generally considered dangerous to established order. in truth, they contained too much human sympathy: but it may well be that justice, or even simple honesty, is a serious menace to society! one sunday afternoon julieta came to call on nacha. she was no longer the smiling julieta of old. bad luck had been haunting her footsteps of late; and for the last few weeks she had known what it was to go hungry. while she was telling nacha her troubles monsalvat came in. julieta did not know him, and stopped short. "it is my friend," said nacha. "he can help you. go on!" julieta, reassured as much by a glance at monsalvat as by nacha's words, told how her small savings had all been spent to help sara who had suddenly developed a horrible disease. "i thought i could earn more if i had to," said julieta, "but i haven't been able to. i've had to give up my room at lavalle street; and they are going to put me out of the lodging house where i have been staying, because my rent isn't paid. i can't go out on the street! but i'm discouraged. what can i do? i had hoped to get away from this life somehow; and now it seems as though i would have to go deeper into it than ever before--and after seeing what has happened to poor sara! oh, i can't bear to think of it!" "everything is going to come out right for you," monsalvat said to her gently. "what little i have is yours. don't thank me. no, i shall be angry if you do. it isn't mine after all. no one is the _owner_ of money. it's stupid to think so! don't lose heart. i'm going to take care of all your troubles. no, it isn't only for you i am doing this. it's for myself, you see." monsalvat had received his salary that afternoon. he had just paid his rent; and he gave all that remained to julieta, who let herself be persuaded finally to accept it. then he left the girls alone. as he went out of the door, he found, leaning against the wall opposite, his legs crossed, an ill-favored individual who looked at him with an impudent and sinister smile. nacha could not endure this cross-eyed and thoroughly unprepossessing loafer, who, it was rumored, was a police spy. his small, close-set eyes, low forehead, crushed-in nose and vicious expression all suggested the jail bird; and nacha could never see him without having a ghastly vision of all the crimes a man is capable of; nor was she alone in fearing him. but she learned on a certain occasion that he knew her past life, and the discovery kept her awake many nights. as the days passed without her hearing anything more from him, she put aside the worst of her fears. the man watched monsalvat closely and even followed him on the street. when monsalvat returned to nacha's room, julieta had gone. nacha was depressed and this he naturally attributed to julieta's trouble. but nacha was tormented by various concerns of her own, of which she never spoke. one was her wretched poverty. to eke out her salary she took in sewing, and was often at work until midnight. at a word from her monsalvat would have given her every cent he had, and gladly have gone penniless and hungry. but nacha had told him that she was earning enough to live on. she would not speak of her difficulties; besides if she did, monsalvat would work himself into a fever of indignation against the exploiters of women workers. but nacha had other troubles too. latterly a terrifying idea had taken possession of her: she had seen pampa, and believed that he was again pursuing her. one afternoon as she left the store she caught a glimpse of him, and she slipped into the thick of the crowd waiting for a street-car. when she saw, however, that he had stopped on the corner and was looking this way and that for her, she hastily got into a cab. once again she saw him prowling in the vicinity of the shop as she was going to work. she was terrified, and clutched her companion's arm so tight the girl gave an exclamation of pain. after that she met arnedo every day. sometimes he had a friend with him. just the day before, as she was going into the store a little late, and alone, he spoke to her. strange that he should remember her so tenderly! his voice had grown soft as he spoke her name, and his eyes seemed to look deep into hers. she trembled; and her fear prevented her from uttering a word; but, with terror, she realized that she could never feel indifferent to this man. and at home, sitting opposite monsalvat, she suffered torment, for the thought of arnedo would not give her any peace. her conscience seemed to have become an inquisition; her thoughts, instruments of torture that hurt her physically, clouded her eyes, and kept her from working over her seams. once, at midnight, while she was sewing, the evil thought which until then had remained something vague, distant, nebulous, suddenly took definite and horrible form. she struggled not to think what she did not want to think. she would rather have died than think it. for it had occurred to her there in her room that night that it could not be her destiny to live the life that she was then leading. if it were, why couldn't she be happy? why couldn't she have even peace? why so much suffering? what was in store for her? what was she looking forward to, there? she told herself that this was only a transitory stage in her life, only a bridge perhaps, leading to something else. but whither? why was she living there near that man? marry him? no, she had never taken that seriously! that was a beautiful dream--a dream that she had no right to! be his mistress then? oh that, never! nor did he desire it. then she wondered what this emotion that she felt for him could be. did she love him? she admired him: never had she believed there could be such a great soul as his. to her he represented all the goodness in the world. but did she love him the other way--with her senses? yes, perhaps, when she first met him in the cabaret! but not now! now he was like a father, a brother, a son. she loved him too much to love him that way. and with what pity she loved him! for he was wasting his life for her, giving up his position, his friends, neglecting even his work, living alone and in poverty, all for her! then the evil thought returned. supposing she should run away? supposing she should feel perfectly certain that she was destined not to be good, and should return to the old life? and there was arnedo! what could he want of her? she compared the two men, monsalvat, all soul, all gentleness, all idealism; and arnedo, physical strength, brutality, materialism. monsalvat attracted her soul, her thoughts--the best in her. she trembled to think that pampa might again attract her physically, inflame her senses, rouse all the desires in short, which were the worst in her! she shuddered at the thought that arnedo might regain the control over her he once possessed: and in this torment she wept for monsalvat--and for herself. chapter xviii one afternoon in june, distressed by the oppressive humidity and suffocating heat that precedes a storm, monsalvat went out on the balcony of his room, and from there he saw nacha coming home. her slow dragging step startled him, seeming to announce a catastrophe. he met her in the court and asked what had happened. nacha, speechless, held out her hand to him. she seemed crushed, defeated by life. monsalvat felt certain that something serious must have happened, or nacha, reserved as she always was, would never have clung in such fashion to his hand in the presence of others. heads were poked out of the windows and the women and some of the men talking or working in the _patio_ looked at one another and began to laugh. however, monsalvat and nacha were too much preoccupied by their anxiety to separate. monsalvat took nacha to her room, supporting her by an arm; and there she told him what had happened. she had for some days recently felt tired and ill, the result of standing so many hours at a stretch, and so frequently climbing three or four pairs of stairs, as the employees were not allowed to use the elevators. that afternoon she had been ordered to carry a mannequin down several flights. she demurred, saying that her strength would give out; but the manager turned a deaf ear. laden with the heavy wooden figure, she reached the bottom of the first flight, staggering and faint with the strain. she set it down resolved to go no further with it; but a message reached her to the effect that if she did not comply with her orders, she would be dismissed. so she attempted to go down another flight, some of the employees laughing at the ridiculous figure she presented, others silently pitying her. she tried to pull herself together for a final effort, went down a few steps, and then--she did not know how it happened--she fell, and rolled down a half flight to the landing. when she regained consciousness, she found herself surrounded by employees. the manager, watch in hand, was observing her, and the mannequin lay in pieces near by. she asked to go home and was told that she would forfeit her pay for the hours she was absent, also for the time during which she had lain unconscious. that explained the manager's presence with his watch! and somehow this last cruelty, trifling as it was, took the heart out of her. what was she but a slave, worth only so many hours work to her owner? then she was also told that she must pay for the mannequin.--pay for it? cold, frightened, wide-eyed, she had scarcely understood what they were saying. pay, yes, pay so much every month, ten dollars a month knocked off her salary. that was what they meant. "how was she going to live on what was left?" "you can manage," they replied. "that's your business, not ours." she had no strength to argue the matter. money, tradition, power were all against her. probably they had right on their side too, as they had everything else! when monsalvat left her, he found mauli and some others of his neighbors near the door. they grimaced at him. the caretaker, who had just left the group, to avoid fernando's seeing him, stepped into a doorway and turned his back. monsalvat passed by quite indifferent to the manoeuvre. but no sooner was he out of sight than the man turned around and went to nacha's door and knocked. nacha, still crying, let him in. he was a person of disagreeable aspect, due chiefly to his over-meek and righteous expression, and his trick of keeping his eyes on the ground, and never looking at anyone he was speaking to. he never laughed, and walked very softly, with his arms close to his body. to his tenants he was merciless. should they perchance fall two weeks behind with their rent, they were dispossessed even though sick in bed. a coward, he could nevertheless always count on the protection of the police in case of need. "i have come ... miss--(or would madame, perhaps, be more appropriate?) to say that i am obliged--to give you notice. i hope you understand. your conduct in this house cannot be allowed by any one who takes his responsibilities--as i hope i take mine--seriously. my landlady has the utmost confidence in me, and, under the circumstances...." nacha did not understand. she looked at the deceptive, hypocritical face, trying to guess what words it was going to utter. she could not imagine what this man wanted of her. "there now--you're playing innocent. well, i don't like to explain too much in detail.... it would be better if you noticed for yourself that this is a decent house, and it isn't a house where women--ah--women, such as you.... ha! ha! in short, miss, or missus, no more calls from gentlemen! if you want that kind of thing, you know, there are ... well, there are places...." "you are mistaken!" cried nacha, suddenly springing to her feet. the man lowered his eyes with an exaggeration of humility, and seemed to shrink, as he replied: "of course we are all human, and of course, likely to make mistakes. ha-ha! but we know something about you, miss. no, i'm not saying anything ... but.... can you deny having lived in a certain "house" on ---- street, eh? am i mistaken about that, eh? ha ha!" nacha, in a fury, drew near him. she was impelled to strike him and drive him out of there by main force; but she thought of the scandal it would cause, and of monsalvat; and she remembered that the odious creature in front of her had certain powers, as representing the landlady: he was the figurehead for a multi-millionairess, ruling for her, collecting her rents.... to prevent her losing thirty or forty dollars he put the hungry or the sick out on the street, or widows with their broods of children. it was his function to turn over the entire amount of monthly rent to the fine lady, his employer, so that she could eventually distribute handsome sums to convents and sisterhoods! "for all of me, miss, you could stay. i don't interfere with people's business. but the landlady--ha-ha!--doesn't want women of your kind...." nacha was losing her self-possession, and with a scream of anger, she broke out, "shut up, you devil! what kind? get out of here this instant, you coward!" he opened the door and from the threshold shouted so that every one could hear him, but all the while keeping his appearance of humility: "what kind? your kind, missus, and we don't want none of your kind here!" nacha threw herself on the floor, trembling, and with no strength left; and she heard a laugh, cruel and startling, coming up from the _patio_. it went through her like a knife. her whole being rebelled. she wanted to shout out in protest; but she could only be vanquished. then a chill crept in through her body to her very heart and soul. she shook for hours in its grip. monsalvat knew nothing of what had happened; for it chanced that he had lessons to give that evening and during the moment when he stopped at nacha's room on his return from supper, she did not let him see how ill she was. he was still concerned about her accident at the store, and urged her not to take it too much to heart. he was going to sell his tenement very soon, and whatever money he received from it would be hers. three nights a week monsalvat held classes for some of the workmen in the district. he had begun with three or four pupils, but they had increased in numbers until now he had a class of twenty or thirty. they all knew how to read. he talked to them about history, about the different countries he had travelled in, about ethics. his simple eloquence attracted these simple workers. as he commented upon some of the day's occurrences, or a passage in some book, he summoned before them a vision of a new society, of an era of love, and justice. at such times his voice rang with human sympathy and a strange mystic fervor. but on that night monsalvat could not speak to his class in this strain; for there was hate in his heart. the cruel treatment nacha had suffered in the store had stirred him to the depths of his consciousness, and a multitude of details accumulated there and forgotten, had risen to the surface, looming large with sudden significance. as the workmen filed into the room they shook hands with monsalvat and exchanged a few words with him. he always asked after their children, or their wives and mothers. then most of them sat down. a few preferred to stand, leaning against the wall. "today," he was saying, "i came to understand something which i have never understood before, though it is something true, something fundamental! i have been talking to you about love's power to change the world. well, i was wrong! love cannot transform the world. it is nineteen hundred years since the world heard the most sublime definition of love. none since has surpassed it, for none can. yet this love, in spite of the example given us with its definition, has accomplished nothing. what then can we accomplish? if the words that were spoken those many years ago have never been understood by mankind, that must mean that men will never understand any words of love. so then, we must preach hate. for to preach love is to become the accomplice of injustice. to preach love is to work for the preservation of things as they are, to wait for the advent of a day that will never come! love is almost always passive, inert. hate is action. hate will give us strength; and with this strength we shall succeed in winning the world to love. this then is what we must do. through hate, move on to love. through violence, the instrument of hate, impose peace, fraternity, justice! moreover, when we use hate and violence, we who are the underdogs, you and i, my friends, will only be using the methods used toward us. those who control, despise and hate us, and use violence against us every moment of their lives. they have organized hate and violence. they use force not only in secret, but in broad daylight. i have seen how they use it on the human body, its life and health, imposing monstrous and destructive tasks on human beings! i have seen how they use it on human minds, condemning them to eternal ignorance! i have seen them use it on women, and on children. even those who come to us with gentle words, hate us and only want our servitude to continue. no, my friends. love will not set us free. will the british shareholder who receives enormous dividends for his capital invested in our railroads, in our large stores, in our packing houses, listen to the voice of love? will the tenement landlords who throw women and sick children out on the street listen to the voice of love? do you believe they will? will they listen to any language other than that of check and bank note? but there is another language which they can understand even though they don't want to, the language of our violence!" his pupils listened, motionless, but stirred. some of them seemed uneasy, as at the memory of a wrong; others looked at their teacher with pity and with pain; others appeared rapt in a vision of new worlds. it was evident too that more than one of them had difficulty in understanding, and that nearly all of them were trying to establish a relation between their own past and the words they were listening to. for they had led lives of suffering always. they knew squalor, and hunger; but with the years they had grown accustomed to misery and poverty. there was a pause. no one moved. no one, not even monsalvat, dared to speak. something impressive was there among those men, like a visible presence, and they seemed all to be gazing at it; and it was everywhere. it was in each one of them, and in their comrade's eyes, in the echo of their teacher's words that haunted their ears, in the deep stillness of the room, in the rapid beating of their hearts. the silence continued. one man tried to speak, but he looked about him at his listeners, and said no more. at last they understood that there was nothing to say, and they all got up simultaneously. one by one they shook hands with monsalvat. never had those hands of theirs seemed so warm, so vibrant, so vigorous. some of the men had tears in their eyes, one could not have told whether from joy or sadness. when his class had gone, monsalvat felt that he had accomplished an act of justice, that he had taken a step, at least, toward the world's transformation. living as he did on sentiment and imagination, with little or no sense of reality, he believed in the efficacy of the vague abstract formulas he preached. in his ardent desire for a better world there was a deal of mysticism: he lacked concrete rules, plans of action, the realization that discipline is the basis of progress. in his individualistic and lyric exaltation, he imagined that by means of the just and tragic emotions of revolt, such as he had that evening preached, and only through such means, could a better society be brought about. the next day he received a summons from the police. he was not disturbed; but he supposed that the secret-service had reported him. on arriving at headquarters he was led to the chief's office, where he found himself face to face with an official personage who affected napoleonic brusqueness and thoroughness, and tried hard, in spite of a sharp, thin face, to look like that conqueror. monsalvat knew him, which did not prevent the chief's adopting a condescending manner towards him. "it's a bad plan, my good fellow, to talk as you've been doing," the officer said, slowly walking up and down, his hand on his sword-belt, and putting a degree more of stiffness into his rigidly erect carriage. "dangerous theories.... it's incomprehensible to me that a man of your station in life should plot against our government, against our country--as if conditions here were not the best to be found anywhere! as if anyone who wanted to couldn't become rich in this country! you people get a few ideas out of anarchist literature, and lose your heads over them. all that stuff comes from your old and rotting europe. it has no possible application in a country like this, where every man has a chance, where no one need go hungry, where no one can complain of injustice...." monsalvat, who was staring hard at the orator, started, then looked his amazement. surely the man was joking! but no, he was perfectly serious, and perfectly convinced. monsalvat then remembered having heard this identical speech a hundred, a thousand times before. worse than that, he remembered having written those very words himself! it was not likely that he would be convinced by all this, nor attempt an answer. even the chief of police was aware of that, and ended the interview. before dismissing monsalvat, however, he made him read a social law which he was formulating. monsalvat glanced through it and took himself off, honoring the officer with the slightest of bows. although the incident was trifling, it depressed monsalvat. it made clear to him what he had become in this last year he had lived through. standing in that room at police headquarters, observing the chief's attitude towards him, interpreting the mere fact of his being thus summoned, he saw clearly both what he had been, and what he had ceased being. before, he had had position, money, a flattering reputation, friends. now he had nothing; he was but a poor devil, at the mercy of the police. and all for what? what had he accomplished in a year? he had lifted three or four women out of the gutter, taught a few men to read--but what did that signify in the infinite sea of human misery and ignorance? monsalvat was strong in his convictions and in his moral health, strong with love of the good, strong in gentleness and pity; but now doubt was for the moment stronger than he, and he knew the all-permeating bitterness of temptation. in a moment of moral weakness he thought of giving up this hopeless task, of returning to his own world, and to his former station in it. a sadness, as vast as the universe, chilled his heart, and soul, and mind. he was wandering alone and forgotten in a ghastly wilderness; and this loneliness in the death-like, icy solitude of the world was too frightful to endure. he had sought out this life he was leading for the good of others; he had given what he had to others; he had devoted himself to his task, with joy and faith, with physical and moral courage; but now he broke down, for his whole life seemed a failure; he wept for that monsalvat of whom he had hoped so much, not knowing that the strongest falter on their way and that such weaknesses are but a respite, a halt, giving renewed strength to go on with the day's march! chapter xix that same afternoon, while monsalvat was wrestling with his doubts, nacha was on the way to belgrano to see julieta. tormented by her anxieties, the slow progress of the street-car racked her nerves. she would never get there! and now it was stopping again! she looked angrily at the woman who dawdled cumbersomely in getting on or off. didn't they care how long they took? why were they so fat? two or three men near her attempted to flirt, but nacha's contemptuous eyes discouraged them. at the end of the first half hour she bought a newspaper, but when she tried to read it, she found that she did not understand a word. she made repeated efforts to fix her attention on the police news. at the end of two or three phrases, a line perhaps, her mind jumped to other things. then she realized that she was not reading and began again, with the same result. at last she tossed the newspaper away. the car had now reached streets where there was little traffic, and went more rapidly. at the end of an hour, it had arrived at belgrano. nacha got out and walked along silent avenues that were well shaded by fine trees. in her nervous haste she almost ran past pretty villas, with their flower-filled gardens, that spoke of peace and comfort. over some of the streets the trees formed an arch and the air was sweet with perfume. only the footsteps of an occasional passer-by broke the silence of this suburb, apparently the home of calm and contentment. but nacha could not yield to this atmosphere. grief and terror drove her relentlessly on. julieta was working in belgrano in a shop on cabildo street. like nacha, she earned very little; but her expenses were slight, for she was living with friends who accepted only a small sum in payment for her room and board. before concluding arrangements with the husband and wife, people from her home town who had known her family, she told them the kind of life she had led up to that time. the wife hesitated a moment; but the husband, who was a militant socialist, declared in a loud voice, with sweeping gestures and oratorical phrases, that there were no prejudices in his home, that he considered it a duty to contribute to the moral regeneration of anyone who needed it! while nacha waited for julieta to come home, the socialist and his wife chatted with her while their brood of children flocked around with staring eyes. the man's countless questions distracted her a little from her worries. but it required a great effort to attend to what he was saying. every once in a while her expression grew blank, and her eyes opened wide as though she were in a paroxysm? of fear. when julieta finally appeared, she took nacha to her room. "what is the trouble?" she exclaimed. "something has happened! come, tell me about it," and they sat down on the edge of the bed. "i am running away!" nacha said in a quivering voice. "running away! from whom?" "i don't know. from monsalvat, from arnedo, from that awful man in the house there--from myself! i am afraid of myself, julieta! if you knew what presentiments i have! everything is black, and full of horror--and crimes--and ... oh, i don't know what!" "presentiments?" "yes, something horrible is going to happen to me. julieta listen! i have a presentiment that...." she could not go on, for her teeth chattered; her throat worked convulsively, and her eyes were starting from her head with terror. julieta looked at her with gentle, sad eyes, and murmured affectionately to her, as to a child. "no, no! i must tell you. you must know about it--this feeling i have almost drives me crazy! it makes me desperate!" "but," said julieta, "what is the matter?" nacha told her about arnedo's renewed pursuit of her. he wanted to carry her off! and he was obstinate, and wild, and bad! and he always got what he wanted! and what could she do to stop him? he had such will power! and then ... why did she feel this strange attraction towards him? she didn't love him. she hated him rather--he was so brutal with her! and yet, she never would have left him of her own accord; and now she was sure she would go away with him if he insisted very much. that was what terrified her. to go away with arnedo, after all her struggles to be decent! to make monsalvat suffer so, when he was so good to her, and had given up everything for her sake! to go down again into that evil world from which he had rescued her! "but nacha, you must not lose courage! i thought you were quite safe. it was you who saved me! why must you go back again, if you don't want to?" "i have to! it's fate! i always said i was destined to be a bad woman! every time i tried to be good something happened to break up all my plans. now it seems impossible for me to be decent. everything is against me! look at what happened to me in the store! why should everything be so hard for me?" "but why don't you tell him about it--fernando, i mean? he worships you, and he'll make everything right. i am sure that he is more than a match for arnedo. why doesn't he have the man arrested? or you can both leave the house!" "but julieta, you don't know what has happened! that awful man, mauli, knows about me; and he told everyone in the building--that's why they're all after me, laughing at me and insulting me! the superintendent called me a name--that i deserved perhaps, once.... oh, if you only knew! and they say mauli is a police agent, a spy--today, when i left the store, i saw him talking to pampa! i couldn't move i was so scared--just stood there frozen on the sidewalk. they tried to get out of sight, but i could see they were on friendly terms. who knows but that they are planning something, julieta! i have imagined so many awful things. i couldn't go home, that's why i came here. i want to get away from those men, from monsalvat, from myself, from all the things i am afraid of! for something is sure to happen--today or tomorrow, or ... sometime." julieta insisted that nacha should tell monsalvat everything. "but how can i tell him that i am likely to go away with pampa!" "don't you love monsalvat, nacha? i don't understand you! you used to adore him! why, you talked of nothing else! and now...." "now i love him more than i ever did. i know how fine he is, how good--whatever you want to call it! he wanted to marry me...." "and why didn't you let him, nacha?" "just because i love him so much. he has lost everything on my account, position, money, friends--even his health! i can't let him go on like that. he ought to go back to his place in life, and leave me to my fate. a girl like me has no right to marry a man as good as he is and ruin him. he was generous towards me, and i want to be generous too. if he has sacrificed everything for me, and the sacrifice turns out to be of no avail, i ought to pay him back, make him give up leading a life that is so useless!" "useless, nacha? haven't we both a chance to be decent? didn't he make you become the girl you are? what more could any one do?" nacha was silent. then she came closer to julieta and said, speaking very low: "i'll be good, yes! but i shall never, never be happy. i am more unhappy now than i ever was. bad luck follows me everywhere. i can't be meant for this kind of life! if i was, i ought not to be so uneasy all the time, i ought to feel contented at least! but i don't, i don't! and it grows worse every day!" julieta, however, was determined to convince her friend that she must talk things over with monsalvat. nacha consented finally to go back with her after supper, and discuss her fears with him. monsalvat meanwhile was anxiously awaiting nacha's return. when, after reaching home from his visit to police headquarters, he discovered that she was not in, he became alarmed. a woman who lived next door told him that nacha had probably gone out to find new quarters, as the superintendent had "ordered her out." monsalvat at once went down to the _patio_ in search of an explanation of this report. it was already dark. the air in the courtyard was heavy with the smell of cooking. mothers were crooning to their babies, and children were whimpering. from one of the windows came the strumming of a guitar; and in a corner of the courtyard two old men were gossiping in genoese. the superintendent had, until that moment, been quite servile in his attitude toward monsalvat. but he knew now that this tenant of his had been called to account by the police, and he intended to use this bit of information. he began, however, by attracting an audience. he intensified his attitude of humility. as he bent his head before monsalvat's energetic accusations, he had all the appearance of being bullied by his lodger. "yes, sir. you can shout if you like, and insult me, and even strike me. i'm only a poor man, so what does it matter? but i have to carry out my orders. and the landlady, who is a fine woman, and highly respectable, doesn't want anyone in this house with dangerous ideas in their heads, nor any woman like that!" monsalvat lost all the serenity that still remained to him after the events of the day. he clenched his fists, ready to attack this man, at the first word of allusion to nacha. "so that's why, sir, i'm asking you to let us have your room. we are very sorry, of course; but it can't be helped! as to the young lady you're so friendly with, let me tell you--if my respectable tenants here present will excuse the word--we don't want any street-girls in this house!" his hearers, now fairly numerous, burst into a loud guffaw. monsalvat, exasperated beyond endurance, seized the man by the shoulder and said to him in a voice that shook with anger: "you'll get what's coming to you, you hypocrite!" but something made him glance around. mauli was standing close to him, smiling his crooked smile. he stopped short. this evil-looking individual represented law and order, force and reason, organized society, of which he was one of the props! he was the enemy, hidden until that moment, but now revealed, his enemy, indeed, for monsalvat felt himself to be the only champion there of the justice and goodness in human nature! the superintendent made no move to defend himself from monsalvat's threatened attack, but appeared to shrink, become more humble still. he smiled however, a treacherous and evil smile, and with lowered eyes, he murmured meekly: "you ain't fair to me--but i don't need to defend myself! i'll trust to getting my reward in heaven! no, i'm not going to fight this here gentleman, but i am going to ask the landlady to get him a pretty suit of striped clothes, and have his head shaved, and put him where he can have plenty of cold showers...." his audience greeted this allusion with explosions of mirth; and encouraged by his success, the superintendent continued: "as to the young lady--excuse me, sir, the princess, i mean--as to the fair princess in room no. , i'll present her with...." monsalvat had turned his back on the man, and was trying to force his way out of the crowd. but people, eager to prolong the scene as much as possible, got in his way. "what? what will you present her with?" shrilled the women. "i'll present her with--excuse the expression, ladies!--with a yellow ticket!" coarse, brutal laughter greeted this witticism and people gathered round the superintendent to make him repeat his part of the dialogue. as monsalvat went slowly up the stairs it seemed to him that these people were all flaunting their heartless mirth in his face. he was incapable of seeing or hearing anything. his feeling for nacha had, for a moment, carried him away, spurred him to violence! but instantly, he had realized that if he did not curb it, it would be ruinous to himself, as well as to her. no, he could not risk leaving her alone, abandoned to herself, and to the cruelties she would be sure to experience. after reaching his room, he began thinking of that humanity, whose foul words and coarse laughter were even then following him up the stairs. now at last he saw how useless his ideals and his work were. what could he accomplish while men continued to be so full of evil? yet whose fault was it? whose but that of the men and women who allow the poor to wallow in poverty, ignorance, and the grossness which is perhaps but a protection necessary for self-preservation? no, the evil in these people was not inborn! it was acquired; it came from hunger, from disease, from the sense of being shut out from the banquet of life at which so many feast! and little by little he began to think of those who were still laughing at him under his window as no more than unconscious victims; and he pitied them, he even forgave them! there was a knock at the door, and nacha appeared, accompanied by julieta. mauli, lounging about the front door, was the only person in the house who had seen them come in. as they passed, he turned aside, but no sooner were they on their way up the stairs than he ran to get the superintendent; and together they tiptoed to monsalvat's door, where they stood with an ear to the panel, listening, and kneeling to look through the keyhole. what they saw was a girl sobbing, and a man looking very wretched; but this of course failed to arouse any compassion in them. finally when they saw that the girls were taking leave of their host, they scuttled away. no sooner had nacha and julieta left him than monsalvat went to the police station. he had no fears on mauli's account; for, unpleasant as the man was, he was nevertheless in the employ of the department, and not likely therefore, monsalvat thought, to take direct part in any plot of arnedo's. so he had assured nacha, quieting her fears a little. at the station they promised him to assign a special watchman to the house; and the latter returned with him, went up to nacha's door, and told monsalvat he would keep watch all night. monsalvat could not bring himself to believe that he had correctly heard the unbelievable things that nacha was saying. how was it possible that nacha should no longer love him, that she should be able to go away with arnedo when, if what she declared was true, she hated the fellow! at certain moments he thought he must have dreamed the cruel words that rang in his ears: and that night as he lay in bed, despair blew with icy breath upon his hands, and lips, creeping through his blood to his heart, and to his brain, threatening to wither forever the warm hope that was his life. the next morning nacha went to the store, and returned in an almost happy frame of mind. it had made her feel freer to tell monsalvat how she felt towards him. up to that moment it had seemed to her that she was deceiving him, and not treating him fairly. now an enormous weight had been lifted from her conscience. also she knew that monsalvat had understood. her words had caused him keen suffering, but now he would return to his old world and forget her! monsalvat did not see her when she returned from work. he had gone directly from his office to see torres. the doctor had just come in from his calls. "i told you so," torres asserted, after monsalvat had related his conversation with nacha. "no good can come of dealing with such women. you have got nothing out of it but disillusionment and bitterness: you've lost almost a year of your life--and that isn't all! your reputation is quite done for, my boy. you'll have a job of it, to rehabilitate yourself socially!" monsalvat listened, wondering how this friend, the only one now left him, could know him so little. he had come to confide his trouble to the only human being of his own class who would consent to listen to him: and he had been misunderstood! it seemed useless to explain. abruptly, without shaking hands with torres, he went away, downcast and ill. why hope for anything from anyone? life weighed too heavy on him; he had no illusions, no hopes; and then it was that he knew what the frigid abysses of solitude are really like! abysses into which everything falls away, and vanishes, and nothing, not even feeling remains.... not caring to go home he wandered about the streets. at dinner time he went into a coffee house and drank a little coffee. then he continued his aimless walk for several hours, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, or of the passing of time. at last he went back to his room and tried to read, but with no success. finally he wrote nacha a long letter, in which he tried to convince her that she loved him; strove to communicate his own feeling to her, painted the serene and happy days awaiting them if only nacha would accept the love stretching out its imploring hands towards her! an hour passed, two hours, three hours. monsalvat wrote for a time, then broke off, then resumed writing. he would get up, pace to and fro, sit down again. it was now two o'clock. everything was silent; the house, and the street outside. but suddenly the silence was broken. he heard a noise like that of an automobile stopping near by. then a door opened, and there was a subdued sound of footsteps in the courtyard. monsalvat leaned out of his window, which opened on the street; but he could distinguish nothing. then he went out to the narrow hallway which led to his room. from there he could not see the lower hall; so he went downstairs. there was no one to be seen in the _patio_, and everything was silent once more. only in mauli's room, almost directly facing nacha's, was there a light. it must have been he coming home, monsalvat concluded; and he returned to his room. then he lay down, and quite exhausted, fell into a heavy sleep. a few minutes later, however, a strange noise aroused him. he thought it must have been a scream; not a sharp cry, but muffled, stifled, as though coming from a distance. then, as his brain cleared a little, he decided it had been from close at hand--from the street, from the front door, perhaps. he heard men's voices, the noise of footsteps, and an automobile approaching. jumping up from his bed, he leaned out from the window. he must have uttered a frantic cry; for what he saw was as distinct and horrible and swift as the visions in a dream.... four men came out from under the archway of the front door. they were carrying something, a dark huddled form that moved; and now they were thrusting it into the automobile drawn up at the curb. a woman! chapter xx he did not know what to do. at the police station they could give him no information concerning nacha's whereabouts. it had been ascertained, from the testimony of three watchmen, that on the night of her disappearance an automobile was noticed about two o'clock in the morning, going full speed in a southerly direction. one of the watchmen declared he had seen a woman in the car, and that several men were holding her down. another asserted that there was no woman in the automobile he had noticed. torres, when monsalvat consulted him about the matter, openly expressed his satisfaction. in his opinion the abduction was only simulated. he believed that nacha had been a party to it, that she wished to leave monsalvat, and had not known how to go about it. "the probabilities are that she has gone off with arnedo. was it likely that this girl could continue long in the nunnery you condemned her to? of course she wanted pampa! those fellows know how to keep the interest of women. when a girl falls in love with one of them she never gets over it. i know dozens of cases! it's as though they were bewitched. well, now you're free! that scheme of yours really was ridiculous!" monsalvat looked at him hard. torres was aware of his friend's reproach but did not desist from his criticism. they stood facing one another in the doctor's consultation room. torres in his long white apron looked even more like a moor than usual, for the enveloping white brought out sharply the blackness of his eyes and crisply curling hair. "yes, ridiculous!" he repeated. "do you think that such magnanimous acts suit these times? it's all right to want to rescue a girl from living as nacha was doing--you may even go so far as to fall in love with her and want to marry her! that kind of thing happens every day. but the absurdity in all this is that a man with your gifts should devote himself to missionary work and go about among lost women with the idea that he is going to save them!" monsalvat did not care to hear more of this and went away. within a few days a letter reached him from nacha. its few short lines had evidently been written in haste. she had been locked up, she wrote, in a house of ill-fame in the _la boca_ section; and she added that she was not seeing pampa. monsalvat must not look for her! it was her destiny to be "bad," and she had to fulfill this destiny. she hoped he would be happy, and go back to his place in the world, to that carefree life from which, all unknowingly, she had drawn him away. monsalvat remained a long time looking at this letter, reading it over and over, pausing at every word. if only between the lines, he might discover the address of the house where nacha was being held-- not yet defeated, he once more set out on a search for her. he looked at the list of houses the doctor had given him to see if there were any house in la boca mentioned there; but there was none. however, there were ten or twelve in the barracas quarter. one afternoon, after leaving the ministry he set out to visit one of these. in a low section of the city, at the back of a two-storied house, in a dark corner of a street that led nowhere, he found the wretched house that was listed. at his knock at the door a toothless and unkempt old hag appeared. she was standing barefoot in the dirty water that she was swishing over the stone floor with an old broom. monsalvat had never seen so lamentable a specimen of humanity. the bony old creature was scantily covered by a wrapper which, as it flapped open, revealed the appalling ugliness of her shrunken, discolored flesh and deformed body. when monsalvat asked for the proprietor of the house, this human remnant showed her livid gums, and assured him she was the person in question. with a few apologies, she made him come in, and leaving him, went to put on more decent attire. monsalvat found himself in a room permeated by a peculiar smell compounded of incense and smoke from the stove. it amused him to observe that the walls were papered with pictures of saints. in a corner, a candle was burning in front of st. anthony. the chromos covered everything, even the head of the wooden bed, and the door. the old woman returned somewhat tidier in appearance, and accompanied by a red-haired girl of about seventeen, poorly dressed, and very deaf. monsalvat thought she must be a servant in one of the wretched houses of the neighborhood. he informed the old woman of his purpose in coming, and she at once asked for money. he gave her ten _pesos_ which she acknowledged by telling him that the day before a girl had told a story about a woman who had been stolen and locked up in a certain house in _la boca_. where could he see the girl? the old woman screamed into the red-haired girl's ear inquiring who had told her this story. she mentioned a name. "it's someone who just happened to be here--she isn't likely to come back. but i'll tell you where you can see her. do you know the basque woman's house? well, they're going to have a party there tomorrow night, and the girl is sure to be there. ask for gertrude. she's a thin, dark piece ... puts on lots of airs." monsalvat could not leave without calling the old woman to account for her trade, or at least for having such young girls about. the hag laughed shrilly, opening her toothless mouth wide, and rocking her body back and forth. whenever she stopped a moment in her glee she wiped her nose on her arm. "so you think we ruin girls, do you? that's a good one! listen, tell me! how old do you think i am? fifty-two--not a year more! well, look, in all the twenty years i've been in this business i never deceived nor ruined any woman. a good one, that is! i don't force women to this kind of work. criminal, you call it? well, what about the 'city of paris' that pays its employees so little they have to get money somewhere else? what do you call that? say, i know something about what's going on! i used to be up in the world once! you ought to have seen the folks who came to my house! yes, a fine idea, you have! but i don't take advantage of anybody--talk to me! say, listen! women don't ruin other women! it's you fine gentlemen that ruin them! that's a good one! ha-ha! and if some woman helps to ruin another it's not us poor ones! that's a good one all right!" the next evening monsalvat set out for the basque woman's house, where he was to inquire for "gertrude." he went through dark sinister streets and at last came to what he thought must be the place. it was in a junction of two alleys, near the _hospicio de la merced_. a desolate quarter of the town it was, depressing in lines and color. a short narrow street went upgrade between two high walls, then turned abruptly. from the direction in which monsalvat was approaching, the walls and trees of the women's insane asylum alone were visible. all the rest was sky and night. silence like that of the desert reigned, and a solitude fit for nameless crimes. monsalvat shivered with a vague uneasiness. he turned at the end of the passage, and saw a multitude of distant lights. the view widened. something ominous breathed in the thick darkness. on one side of the street stretched a low wall; and in the distance, beyond that, the wide inky railroad. the huge formless bulks of empty cars mingled in undistinguishable masses down there in those dreary yards; and beyond, from the skyline of the city electric lights were glittering. here and there yellow signals glowed in the blackness, and to the left stretched a line of dingy houses. the house monsalvat was seeking must be one of these. in a building in front of him a door was open. he could hear talking inside, laughter, the sound of a piano. he called out to announce his presence. someone shouted to him to come in. from the other end of the entrance hall a girl, who was having some beer with her escort, called out to ask him what he wanted. perhaps monsalvat's appearance aroused mistrust in her companion. at any rate they replied that the lady of the house was busy and that a party was going on. monsalvat however was persistent. finally they let him pass into an inner room. the proprietress, a very tall and heavy basque, whom he encountered in the _patio_, seemed to have her doubts about him too. monsalvat made up some pretext for staying there a few moments, and in addition gave the woman money. the girl who was drinking beer turned out to be gertrude. the proprietress called her aside so that monsalvat could talk to her. "how should i know?" exclaimed gertrude. "i heard the story; but who knows if it's true? and what's more i don't remember anything about it. that was a good many days ago." "it isn't so many days ago, because all this happened last week." "i tell you i don't know anything about it. i wasn't the one who told the story in the first place. it was somebody else." monsalvat noticed that the youth who had been drinking beer with her was watching him. in the inner room a tango was going on. from the _patio_ monsalvat could see the profile of a tall mulatto who was playing the piano, in a very temperamental style, striking the piano case, whistling, breaking out into song. the air was heavy with odors and smoke, and the sensuousness of the dance floated out into the _patio_ like the scent of an overripe fruit. monsalvat was on the point of leaving, tired of his vain attempt to get information, when the girl suddenly changed her manner. monsalvat thought he had noticed the youth making signs to her, but at the time attached no importance to this detail. gertrude, now gracious and smiling, said that she would give him the address of the house the girl was supposed to be in; but begged him not to tell anyone she had done so, or they would kill her. at this point the youth drew near, and in greeting to monsalvat, removed his cap. gertrude mentioned a street and number, and explained to the youth what it was all about. the latter offered to accompany monsalvat. he knew the house in question, and if the gentleman went alone, they would not let him in. the young fellow appeared good-natured, and monsalvat concluded that he was probably a young workman. with his characteristic hopefulness where human nature was concerned he accepted the proffered company, and, after the youth had taken leave of three or four friends there, they started off together. for a quarter of an hour they walked through dark streets entirely unknown to monsalvat. then they came out on a wilderness of vacant lots. suddenly, as they turned a corner, his guide gave a peculiar whistle so shrill that it pierced the darkness like a knife. before monsalvat could ask what this meant he saw four toughs descending on him with pointing revolvers. obviously this was no time for talk, nor for complaint. resignedly he handed over all the money he had with him. he was not disheartened, however, nor was he angry with the thieves. he told himself that the poor devils no doubt needed the money, and thought no more of the incident. following, as he believed, the same road he had come by, he reached the river, and at sight of it, felt that he had returned again to civilized regions. after inquiring his road, he started off on foot, for he had no other way of covering the long distance separating him from _la boca_. as he went along he pondered his situation; and doubt tormented him. failure appeared constantly in his path. for the hundredth time he went over the confession nacha had made to him in julieta's presence on the eve of her abduction. how could she possibly fear being attracted by arnedo, brutal and tyrannous as he was? how, after several months of an honest and decent life, could it be so easy for her to go back to a vicious world? yet that was what her return to arnedo meant. what unfathomable depths, what mysteries there are in human hearts! he could not believe that nacha had ceased to love him. she loved him, not only, as she supposed, as a daughter loves her father, or as a sister her brother, or a believer god: she loved him with her whole being. but nacha must have had her moments of doubt too, and it was then that the memory of her life with pampa, its violences and its caresses, must have pursued her as pampa himself was doing; and her very honesty with herself would in such a case make her feel ashamed, and confirm her fears that she was destined to an evil life. he was following the river bank where old boats lay sleeping. a sailor's chanty disturbed the silence. taverns, bearing exotic names that recalled all the countries of the earth, lined the other side of the street, and within, grimy men were drinking. monsalvat thought of his earlier years, of his travels, of his sojourns in italy, of the women who had loved him, of his carefree and happy life. and there he was, on his way back from a house of ill-fame, fresh from the society of a thief, trudging along in this wretched district, in search of a lost woman! and he felt an immense pity for himself.... he asked a passer-by to direct him to the address gertrude had given him. it was not far from there. with a good-bye to the river, which had summoned before him some of his happiest memories, saddening him withal, he set out for his destination. now he was passing through a street which had on one side a high wall, possibly that of a cathedral, or a convent, or perhaps merely that of a factory, a black railing topping it; and now he was going down another street lined with taverns, and scandinavian lodging houses. monsalvat looked in through some of the open doorways, his eye attracted by foreign wall decorations. in one of these lodging places, the proprietor and his family were entertaining the boarders. a small house, its balconies full of potted flowers, rubbed shoulders with a tightly closed hovel in front of which was a street lamp bearing the legend "fram." in another of these taverns an old street-walker, wearing an extraordinary assortment of garments, and ironically enough preserving, even in her present decay, something of the unusual, even noble beauty she had once possessed, was amusing, with her drunken antics, four tall, fair-haired and silent men who were evidently sailors. monsalvat passed on through another street, shaded by a few trees; and the taverns here, with their walls of one color, vivid blues, or greens, suggested the decorations of russian ballets. finally, among the shanties built on piles, because of flood tides, and constructed of the cheapest sort of wood, with tin roofs, he found the address gertrude had mentioned; for it was not fictitious. pushing open the door, he went in. no, nacha could not possibly be here. no one could be capable of holding a woman prisoner in such a place. only the off-scourings of the human race could frequent such a den as this! the _patio_, of large proportions, opening into low-ceilinged rooms, was roofed over. about fifty individuals, dirty and ill-smelling, sat, or stood about, in groups. there were even some negroes there, clearly north americans. no one was talking. three or four women, dressed in screaming red, were running about from one group to another.... no! nacha was not there! and monsalvat went away convinced that he had been the victim of a brutal joke. the following day, desperately anxious to find nacha, and save her from the fatal surroundings into which she had probably fallen, he returned to the house near the _hospicio de la merced_. by dint of money he succeeded in interviewing gertrude alone. the girl, with admirable levity, laughed at the trick she had played him. then she tried to put the blame on the youth who had led monsalvat into the ambush. "and how is it you are living with a thief?" monsalvat inquired. "oh, i don't pry into other people's business!" "but you know that he assaults people and robs them?" "well, what of it? and what's that to you?" after a long discussion and the promise of more money if it proved that she had not deceived him again, monsalvat obtained the address he wanted. it was that of a house of good appearance between lezama park and la boca; and it cost him a considerable sum to get into it. at his request the proprietress introduced all the girls who were there at the moment. but nacha was not among them. one girl, however, turned out to have been a member of the group who had been with nacha in the cabaret on the night he came to her defence. monsalvat took her aside. she was a fat, stupid-looking creature, sniffling constantly. "i saw you that night, you remember? and i wanted to know you. what luck to meet you at last, old fellow!" this was very friendly treatment from a person he had never spoken to before. monsalvat explained the object of his visit. the girl looked disappointed, but gave him what information she had. "i don't know anything, you understand! but i heard talk about something going on. one night they brought a girl here, and kept her two days--but i was away all that time. then they took her somewhere else. and you say it was nacha? who would have thought it! and she was always so stuck-up--to think of what's happened to her now!" monsalvat asked her to explain what she meant. "why they say that she was taken to one of those houses--oh, the very worst! somewhere in olavarría street, or necochea--i'm not sure which. if you want to find her, go to those houses and inquire." monsalvat started out again. twice he had gone down into this hell; he had never thought he would have to descend to the very lowest circles of the abyss. but for nacha's sake he went even into those ghastly caverns where lie the unhappy beings who have lost not only their bodies, but their minds and their souls too. and as he wandered among the shades there--they could not be called living beings--monsalvat wondered how this last of all crimes could be allowed in a world that also contains beauty and kindness; for these women had been degraded from the human estate to that of beasts. and other human beings had allowed this to happen; and still other human beings had caused it.... chapter xxi the quest through _la boca_ proved vain. no one would give him any information. but he was sent hither and yon, serving now as a joke and now as a prey to robbers. he was always assured that such and such an individual could no doubt tell him what he wanted to know, and monsalvat would run this clue down, from café to café, from tavern to tavern. in this fashion he traversed the entire district of _la boca_, that sinister "tenderloin" of buenos aires. he went to gaming houses, lupanars, saloons. he entered cheap hotels and lodging houses. here english or german phrases fell on his ear; there he heard norwegian, russian, or finnish. in another quarter he found a medley of balkan tongues, and in yet another he recognized the barbarous arab dialects of northern africa. one day he found himself at a korean bar; on another in a chinese eating house. once he made his way into a gathering of turks. in the course of one month he encountered all kinds of people. a motley throng of gamblers, down-and-outs, and criminals passed before him: yet all was useless. he learned nothing of nacha. he went back one afternoon to the house where she had been kept a few days, and wondered why he had not thought of doing so before. instead, however, of questioning the girls, he interviewed the proprietress in person, and offered to give her a thousand _pesos_ if she could provide him with reliable information concerning nacha's whereabouts. the woman was an old creature full of cunning and lies, hard to understand because of her mumbling and her odd use of words. she was smoking stubby cigars which she made herself, from paraguay tobacco. but the sum this caller offered for a little information made her open her wrinkled eyelids wide. she began to tell him all she knew. it so happened also that she detested pampa. he had treated her badly on various occasions, using her for the accomplishment of his crimes, and then failing to pay for her services. with the help of his _patota_, and mauli, he had brought nacha to her house where she was kept locked up like a prisoner. she would not allow any man to come near her, however, screaming, scratching and biting like a fury. finally arnedo, revolver in hand, made her write to monsalvat, thinking to tame her in that way and show her how useless any resistance was. "how did she receive arnedo's attentions?" monsalvat asked. "you ought to have seen her!" the old woman replied, drawing at her cigar butt. "she called him names, just the way she did me, and everyone else she could think of. what words she used! and he didn't run after her much either! i guess he brought her here to get even with someone. with whom? how should i know, son?" "and you don't know where nacha is?" "yes. she's...." she moved her cigar stump to the other side of her mouth. "see here, young man, if you put down fifty _pesos_ of that thousand now, i'll give you a pretty little piece of information. true as i'm telling you! this old body wouldn't lie! i was raised to speak the truth, and i'll die doing the same!" monsalvat handed her the sum she asked, and the old creature gave him two bits of advice. he was to talk to a certain amiral, a poor wretch who was a friend of arnedo's, and who, for money, would get the truth out of pampa. however, the other, and the better course to follow, in her opinion, was to see a washerwoman named braulia, who knew all the vicious resorts of the district for she kept them "stocked" with girls. braulia proved to be a negress, who lived in a shanty, at the back of a vacant lot. after much chattering she told him that she would answer his question the following night, when he was to meet her at a certain café, on the river bank. fearing a decoy, for he had learned to be mistrustful, he asked her why he could not wait on the street corner, or in some café he knew. the negress replied that he would have to go where she told him, and if that didn't suit him he could go without what he was looking for. the next evening he went to the café designated. his entrance there appeared not to attract attention. as a matter of fact its patrons had instantly spotted him, but they pretended not to notice his presence. the place was a foul den, much like a cave, so low was its roof. the chairs, benches and tables were greasy and ill-smelling. a mulatto in his shirt-sleeves was waiting on the customers. three north american negroes, so drunk they could not stand, were singing something with a cakewalk rhythm. opening their mouths wide, they stretched their thick lips from ear to ear, showing their red gums and gleaming white teeth. one of them was playing a large accordion. from the table where monsalvat was sitting he could see the port light of a boat, and above, the starry sky. every few minutes a drunken man staggered up the street. while he was waiting for some message from the negress, a man came up to him, and, telling him he belonged to the secret police, advised him to leave. "this is no place for you," he said. "whoever it was told you to come here is just planning to rob you." monsalvat left the place, and never returned to it. he decided to see amiral; but this turned out to be more easily planned than done. amiral apparently never ate at home and rarely slept there; and it was of course useless to write to him since he was quite likely to show the communication to arnedo. so, while trying to find the elusive amiral, monsalvat continued his seeking of nacha. he was beginning now to absent himself from his office for entire afternoons. list in hand, he went about stirring up all the back waters of this dismal slough of despond. "she is not here. we don't know her," they would tell him. then he would go to another house, and another, and yet another. he would explain his object, argue with the unfriendly "madames," give countless details about nacha. at times he begged for help; but at others, he would become enraged and insult the woman who told him "she is not here." exasperated, maddened, he would rush out and stumble into the first taxi that passed, giving addresses of yet other houses. for he could think of nothing but this purpose. he came to the point of believing that everyone was in league to outwit him. but he would succeed yet! he had one irresistible ally: the will to find her! "she is not here. we don't know her." "what? not here either?" then the earth must have swallowed her! they all knew nothing about her, these people? that was a lie! they wanted to lead him on, exploit him, as they had done countless times. there was nothing but lies and hypocrisy and evil in these women. and he had defended them, ruined himself for them! ah, nacha! nacha! what had her unhappy destiny brought her to? she asked him not to look for her, since she was destined to a bad life! but all the more would he persist, with all the more eagerness, all the more desperation! he would seek her, not for love, but to save her from those stagnant waters on whose brim ill-fated women and girls lurched and staggered, dizzy with the poisonous gases of that loathsome morass! "she is not here. we don't know her." every word fell on him like a whip-lash. he would come out of these accursed houses, sick, in physical pain; and he could not grow used to disappointments. at first his heart had been high with hope. but now his step was beginning to falter, and a strange expression had come over his face. his eyes glanced nervously about at people and objects in the room, or stared at the woman he was questioning. he knew that she too would say, "she is not here." yet he went on to the next house and to the next, repeating his frantic question. then, almost invariably, without a word more he would rush out; though once, to the stupefaction of the women, he uttered an exclamation of anguish, and staggered to a chair. "she is not here. we don't know her," was the unvarying reply. at the thought that she might be dead his throat tightened and closed, while the rest of his body felt the oppression as of a great weight of earth upon it. nacha dead! what was he to do in a world without nacha? should he return to the place he had formerly occupied in life? or consecrate himself to those other wretches of the underworld? but then nacha could not have died without his feeling it, without his knowing it! no, nacha could not be dead! she was alive! she loved him! she was waiting for him! "she is not here. we don't know her." well, didn't he know that nacha wasn't there? nacha loved him, and was expecting him, somewhere. that much was sure! if he had come to this particular house to inquire it was merely to be thorough. the people there could all go to the devil for all he cared! he wasn't going to ask any favors of them! nacha was waiting for him.... what did the rest of the world matter ... society, or its victims, or the cabaret, or the workmen murdered in the square, or his mother's death, or his sister's! nacha was expecting him! his heart, where a sweet, incessant song was singing, leapt, mad with joy, like the throbbing breast of a bird! nacha was expecting him.... but where? meanwhile monsalvat was not altogether unmindful of himself. he noticed that at times his mind became blank, and that at such moments he would turn deathly pale, and be unable to walk. then again he suffered from pains at the base of his brain, as if a wedge had been hammered into his skull at that point. he wondered if this presaged mental derangement. was he going mad? he ate next to nothing, and slept little. worried about his condition, he spent a week in bed. one afternoon a letter came from the ministry. it contained his dismissal. monsalvat read the document, smiling. with it was a letter from the under-secretary who expressed his chief's regrets at being forced to take such action; but monsalvat's frequent absences from the office, his lack of attention to his work, which, of course, might result in serious consequences, left the minister no choice in the matter. monsalvat tossed both communications to the floor. "what does such nonsense matter to me? nacha is waiting for me!" the "nonsense," nevertheless, had serious implications. november was upon him and he had paid only a third of the interest on the mortgage. the bank was insisting on payment, but he had no idea where to get the three thousand _pesos_ needed. moreover he was constantly giving away more than he could possibly afford, and naïvely letting himself be robbed on every hand. he had borrowed at high rates and had never paid any of the accumulating interest. the bank, however, came to his rescue by selling the tenement, obtaining scarcely sixty thousand at the auction, which occurred on an oppressive november day. very few bidders appeared; for it was just the beginning of that financial crisis which was to come to a head some fifteen months later, in . property values were going down. money stringency was acute. no one was risking investment in real estate except at a bargain. the bank recovered its forty thousand _pesos_ with the interest. monsalvat paid his minor borrowings and in the end found himself possessed of some ten thousand _pesos_. he now felt quite at ease. on that sum he could live two years in case he found no work. but it was written that bad luck was to pursue him. the bank in which he deposited his money failed within three months! he met amiral one morning, and, without preamble, told him that he wanted him to find out from arnedo, as skillfully as possible, where nacha was. amiral, at mention of this name, smiled understandingly. he stroked his long brown mustache, and stretching out his thin arms, he exclaimed: "just what i always said! of course a man like you who has lived in paris--why, when they told me you were trying to reform our girls over here, i wouldn't believe them, for i felt sure you knew better.... well, i'm glad to see i was right!" monsalvat wanted to knock the fellow down but contained himself. amiral, thoroughly pleased with his penetration, added, in a confidential tone: "it was clever of you to think of this disguise; because here in buenos aires, alas! there is no atmosphere.... one has to provide it ... ha! ha! ... provide it!" monsalvat wasted no time trying to correct amiral's interpretation of his conduct, but with brutal directness offered him a thousand _pesos_ to find out where nacha was. amiral staggered back dramatically. he thought that it perhaps became him to be angry; but, having consulted his conscience, he decided to accept. there was no need of being offended for so small a sum! had it been fifty or a hundred thousand...! several days passed. monsalvat was frightened by a rapid change for the worse in his nervous condition. one afternoon as he was drinking some coffee in a pastry shop near the business centre of the town, the mental blankness he knew and dreaded came upon him. his hands trembled, and he broke into a cold sweat. a waiter helped him into a cab. when he reached his room he found he could neither read nor write. his mind seemed scattered, broken into bits. all his strength was gone. from day to day his organism seemed to lose coordination, as if all the parts of his being had escaped the control of his will. different men seemed to manifest themselves within him; as he wonderingly observed them, he found the acts and thoughts of these other monsalvats quite inexplicable. finally, one december morning, amiral told him that arnedo knew nothing about nacha. after keeping her several days locked up in a certain house, he had taken her to another, from which, after a week or two, she had run away. monsalvat believed her lost forever. at the same time he was astonished at the slight impression amiral's words seemed to make on him. he stood motionless for a long time gazing blankly into the distance, but he felt so ill that he yielded to a desire to go to some friend. he called on de castro, preferring not to see torres, who might think him either sick or insane. ruiz was profoundly distressed at sight of him. monsalvat noticed his friend's pitying expression and stammered some incoherent words. then he collapsed. a deep, painful night had settled on him, body and soul, nor could his mind see in that sudden darkness. his whole being had become insensible. for him now there was no longer either nacha or monsalvat; nor struggling nor rest; for him there was neither truth or beauty; the world had been blotted out. chapter xxii the storm had passed. calm had returned to the world. monsalvat was living in a sanatorium at almagro, to which his friends had taken him. tranquil and silent, he spent nearly the entire day in the small park, with its lofty eucalyptus groves, thinking of nothing, trying not to think. he was new-born. what did the past matter? he was going to look ahead! life lay before, not behind, him! even nacha no longer existed; or rather, had ceased to exist for him! with her, a whole universe--all that he knew and loved, all that his feelings and thought had created in him--had vanished from his heart and mind. not that he denied the reality of the past year; but, the storm weathered, he found himself looking at a new world, and he could not live in its presence with the same opinions and feelings as before. peace had come to him; but he lacked something that he loved even more than peace: freedom; and now that he felt sane and sound, he wanted to escape from his present surroundings. moreover, two inoffensive maniacs had recently come to the sanatorium. their presence annoyed monsalvat, for he could not see that they differed very much from himself. at times he wondered if his attempts to reform the world might not become a mania also, and bring him down to the level of these harmless lunatics. his friends came but rarely to see him, for the sanatorium was a little distance out of town. their consciences were clear since they were paying monsalvat's expenses. one afternoon, however, after monsalvat's complete recovery, ruiz de castro and torres called on him. they sat in the garden, talking and for the first time since his illness, touched on the forbidden subject. monsalvat had perhaps led them on, by confiding to them his curious sensation of having just come to life, as fresh and new as a new-born baby. with a view to determining his friend's actual state of mind, torres observed: "so you see how useless all those efforts of yours really are...." "not at all," monsalvat declared. "it is never useless to try to help people." "granted that you help others," de castro broke in, "just the same, you did yourself a lot of harm!" "you are quite mistaken. i have done myself a great deal of good--so much good that today i am not the discontented, dejected man i was a year ago. i don't know what i shall do tomorrow; but i know that if i am really a different man, i shall owe the transformation to my idealistic view of life." "so you're going right on with that fool business!" torres exclaimed. "i fail to see the new man in you. on the contrary, i should say your trouble is that life doesn't teach you anything. after a year of failure--failure in every sense of the word--you are still planning to reform the world, and all by yourself!" monsalvat was silent a moment. then he answered calmly: "it is life--not my failures, because i didn't fail--that has taught me how powerless individual effort is. i believe now that not only would i fail to reform the world, but also that a million men setting about it each on his own hook, as i did, would fail too." "well, at last!" exclaimed ruiz de castro. "it's about time you became convinced that the world can't be changed." "i didn't say that. on the contrary i consider it more capable of reform now than ever it was. but i also know that a program is necessary, and a method, and training! i know now that the idealism of one individual, the action of one man, does not help much to bring about ultimate success. but i do not go back on individual ideals, individual accomplishment; because it is the individual who provides the impulse, the forward push, the motive power, if you like, without which nothing can move. the only trouble is that all these energies are isolated, uncoordinated.... however, you see my point: before you can have action to accomplish a purpose, you must have a vision of what the purpose is. the ideal precedes and accompanies the accomplishment of reform--that you understand! the world must be reformed, must be built up again rather, from its foundations. we must go about such a matter slowly--but not too slowly--and so, little by little...! but every so often the idealist, the dreamer, the madman and the fool, all those who fight the great battle with their hearts, must give a vigorous thrust forward!" his two friends looked at one another.... a hopeless case! "but why so many reforms in the world? just so that you can marry a prostitute?" torres brutally rejoined. monsalvat did not reply; and the doctor, ashamed of his outbreak, tried to make up for it by a show of affection. monsalvat sat beside him on a bench; and as torres went on to trivial matters, he patted his patient on the shoulder now and then. after a while they went away, none too well pleased. monsalvat saw plainly that everything about him--his opinions, his recent life, his feelings--were compromising these friends of his. they were kindly and relatively generous fellows, but he knew that they were weak in the presence of social pressure. however much they might care for him, if they should have to choose between him and society, they would without question side with the latter. the moment this became clear to him, he thought of nothing but of making his escape. he did not want his friends to know where he was going. if he was compromising them he would spare them the trouble and the annoyance of having to desert him. he would desert them. he would rather appear ungrateful than accept the unpleasant situation which is bound to arise when people want to cut a friendship short, and have not the courage to do it. monsalvat wished to be free also; free, not economically,--for he could earn a living somehow--but free from those friends who constituted the only bond still tying him to society. one day he fled from the sanatorium. as he possessed only the clothes he was wearing and his pockets were empty, he walked from almagro to the capital. it was dawn when he started out. the limpid sky deepened into a blue which still showed a few stars. in the streets the shadows were slowly drawing back into such retreats as the trees offered, hanging veil-like about their trunks and branches, and in the distance, out towards the harbor, a delicate rose light had risen to view. what an extraordinary sensation, this first contact with living things, after months of isolation! how innocent life seemed, and young! oh, surely, the world was new, it had been born again! passing along the solitary streets, he lived in his dream, feeling neither cold nor fatigue. everything had been made over. the sky was clearer than before, objects had an unknown beauty, men were living in harmony. then it occurred to him that so it must always seem to one who wanders alone under a sky, and amid colors that offer love to a world awakening to the day; and then he remembered that of all men, only the humble of the earth see this dawn-light, and carry something of its tenderness in their hearts. was it this, perhaps, which kept them from noticing the approach of another dawn, already sending its heralds across the sky? he had left the tree-bordered avenues now. the city was awakening. poor folk, laborers for the most part, passed him now at every step. house doors were opening. the deep blue of the sky had given place to a luminous clarity, and the world was rosy for a moment, enveloped in a shining softness. then the sun rose, and morning filled with sounds and lights, joys and sorrows. life! monsalvat took a deep breath; for it seemed that with this air he breathed in freedom too. he felt that he was sound and good. but suddenly fatigue overtook him. he tried to distance it, but in vain. it hung on his legs, weighting down his body, making it hard for him to walk. when he reached the plaza del once he sat down on a bench, and rested there for an hour, dozing a little. then he began to consider his situation. where should he go? first of all he must find lodgings. in a miserable hotel on the plaza, they refused to give him a room because he had no luggage; and be met with the same refusal in other cheap inns. so the morning passed. finally he bethought him of a spaniard whose wife kept a boarding house on the plaza lavalle, and for whom he had once done a favor; so he set out for this address. it was already past noon and he began to feel the pangs of hunger. he tried to pass quickly by the court buildings in the plaza lavalle, anxious to escape the notice of his former colleagues. but suddenly, as he was crossing the street, he saw in front of him a shabbily dressed individual who was bowing to him with exaggerated servility. it was none other than moreno, still haunting the courts in quest of copying to do, or errands to run. monsalvat inquired after his wife and irene. "oh, doctor, misfortune has taken possession of my hearth and home! irene--but why speak of past troubles? some other time, doctor, i'll tell you this melancholy story. now we are struggling, with a little success, i may say, against the cruel persecutions of the fates. my wife has a position as janitress in a tenement house. it's a little distance out, over barracas way, near the bridge. but we manage to keep alive." as he went on talking it occurred to monsalvat that he had found a solution for his problem. he asked moreno if there were any unoccupied rooms in the house he spoke of. "yes, doctor, there are. but why this question?" "because i wish to take one of them at once." moreno stood open-mouthed with astonishment. then he protested in a welter of words. he could never permit doctor monsalvat, that light of the law, to live in the wretched hovel which he inhabited. monsalvat, however, insisted that that was his affair. moreno concluded that monsalvat had chosen that section of the city to carry out some kind of philanthropical scheme, and consented to take him home. besides, he was sure to profit eventually by monsalvat's presence in the same house! a _peso_ here and there, for a quiet little session in a saloon now and then, to say nothing of the pretexts he could find for borrowing--urgent creditors, need of clothing, food, and so on! moreno was giving his address when some words of monsalvat's thrust him into unfathomable depths of bewilderment. the doctor was actually asking him for carfare! moreno stood transfixed, his arms outspread, a look of terror on his sallow face. "you're surely joking, doctor!" he exclaimed, incredulous. "can it be that moreno, poor pariah that he is, moreno, stepson of providence, should be asked to lend a--a nickel--to the learned and illustrious doctor fernando monsalvat?" he looked at his admired protector and saw that now, at least, the man was not to be envied. he was on the point of taking back what he had said about a room to let in his tenement house. finally, in a burst of generosity, he took a dime from his pocket and gave it to monsalvat. as the latter walked away, moreno stood a full quarter of an hour, his arms crossed on his chest, meditating and philosophizing on the vicissitudes of human destiny. monsalvat took up his abode in the tenement. he wrote to his father's wife, suggesting a cash compromise for the rights to his father's property that he might claim from the surmised existence of an early will, rights that ruiz de castro had always urged him to assert. as long as he had enough to live on, he had seen no reason why he should claim any of the monsalvat property. his letter was modest in its tone, intimating that only a distressing financial situation could have persuaded him to bring up the question of his father's testamentary provisions. moreno delivered the letter. his father's wife had never been kindly disposed toward him, had in fact injured him in every way she could. determined that her daughters should know nothing of their father's illegitimate family, she had never permitted him even to meet his half-sisters. they had been led to believe that fernando monsalvat was a distant relative. the letter itself remained unanswered; but its recipient sent back a fifty _peso_ bill. money meant nothing to monsalvat and, always slow to perceive bad intentions in others, he did not catch the offensive tone of the reply. on the contrary, he acknowledged the remittance in cordial fashion, and felt quite happy about having received it. he purchased a few articles of clothing, paid his rent, and rewarded moreno for his services. during the next month he lived on the good will of moreno's wife, who let him stay on without paying, telling the landlord that the room occupied by her protégé was without a tenant. she also saw to it that he had something to eat, giving him whatever was left over from her own table; and that was little enough. meanwhile he wrote articles and sent them out to newspapers and periodicals. he was convinced that he now had something to say, and decided henceforth to give his energies to writing. one review accepted an article, sending him thirty _pesos_, which he at once handed over to his protectress. two months passed, two strange months during which he lived indoors, entirely shut up within himself, far from everyone and everything. often he spent the day in bed, talking only to moreno, who frequently came to provide him with conversation. more than once the man recalled irene's tragic story; but monsalvat listened to it with interest every time, stirred by the curious spectacle of this father, who in telling of his daughter's sufferings, lost something of his absurdity; and not unmindful of the part he himself had played in the girl's unhappy life. according to moreno, irene had fallen in love with someone who could not share her passion; as a result she had for several weeks been crazed with grief. at the slightest provocation she would fly into a rage, threaten her mother, insult moreno, attack the children. then a suitor presented himself, a young man who worked in a barber-shop near by. he was an ugly, dark-skinned, almost grotesque fellow; but irene accepted him, no one knew why, for plainly she cared nothing for him. however, someone in the neighborhood told her that her betrothed had a mistress. as a matter of fact he had put an end to these relations; but irene, humiliated, hurt and angered by the deception, went out of her head, called a man in from the street, told him what had happened, and offered herself to him. her suitor heard gossip of the incident, rushed to irene's room, and tried to shoot her. he missed his aim, was arrested, tried, and imprisoned. then irene ran away. all that moreno could discover about her after that was that every week she visited the fellow at the prison. how she made a living, he did not know. "she's lost, doctor, lost!" moreno would sob. "the flower of the family! so good, and such a worker--as pretty as they make them! and to think that i am the guilty one, i, most contemptible of drunkards! there you see the consequences of vice--for my poor little girl is the child of alcohol! that's why she turned out as she did--my fault!" and he covered his unwashed face with his two hands, and occupied monsalvat's only chair while the latter dressed. one day monsalvat decided to go out. he had just put on a summer overcoat--directly over his shirt, for his jacket and waistcoat he had pawned--when moreno's wife came in to announce some ladies who were asking to see him. he looked sternly at the woman. he was sure she had reported the sad case of "the poor fellow starving on the top floor" to some charitable society! he went out to the _patio_ resolved to pay no attention to the ladies. noisy outcries were coming from one of the rooms--a woman's voice cursing these charity visitors who had refused her any help, because she had a child and wasn't married, and screaming denunciations of charity organizations in general and of the poor wretches who toadied to these fine ladies so as to get money out of them. the visitors seemed neither angered nor intimidated. evidently they were accustomed to such scenes. "is what that woman says true?" asked monsalvat. "why i know you!" exclaimed the other--the plump lady who, at a dinner at ruiz de castro's, had been so oratorical in her defense of the established order. monsalvat shook hands coldly with both ladies. they tried to conceal the surprise and pain his obviously distressful circumstances caused them. "is what that woman says true?" monsalvat inquired again. "yes, monsalvat, but--" he paid no attention to isabel's excuses. "then this woman is quite right. you have no charity in you. you are doing this kind of thing for selfish motives, and nothing else--just to occupy your time, fill conspicuous positions in charity organizations!" launched on this theme, he drove harshly, savagely ahead, as though executing judgment. wrapped in his overcoat which was too loose for him, now and then moving his shoulders in a gesture of scorn, his eyes wide open, and seemingly larger so emaciated was his face, he presented an extraordinary spectacle as he denounced these stylish, distinguished, perfumed ladies, so out of place in that dreary courtyard of the slums. they listened to him without a word. isabel, indeed, unnoticed by monsalvat, softly stole from the group and went up to the woman whose outcries had started the scene, giving her all the money she had in her purse. nor did monsalvat observe that when she returned she removed a glove and took a ring from her finger. suddenly, and quite humbly she said: "here, monsalvat, take this, please sell it; and give the money to this woman." monsalvat took the ring. "and if you--" she looked at him fearful of offending: he was shaking his head. drawing him aside, she began to talk with him more in confidence. "you need to, monsalvat! please accept part of the ring's value! we all have to live. don't think us so bad--when i spoke as i did that night, you remember, it was because i knew nothing about life--i too have suffered since then, and now i understand many things...." though monsalvat was unyielding on this point, he shook hands with his callers in far more friendly fashion, and left the building accompanied by moreno, who could not get over his amazement at what was going on before his eyes. he did not lose much time before offering, unsuccessfully, to sell the ring himself. monsalvat saw that as a matter of fact these two women like many others of their class were not thoroughly bad as he had believed. if they appeared to disadvantage it was because of the atmosphere of gross selfishness in which they had been brought up, in which they had lived all their lives. the bad in them was not an individual thing inherent in their characters, but the result of prevailing ideas, the collective product of a self-satisfied and unintelligent, rather than unfeeling, society. they took a street-car going towards the business section of the city. monsalvat was glad of moreno's company; for a sudden fit of weakness had come over him. he had scarcely been able to walk the three blocks to the car line, so unsteady were his legs under him. in the tram he felt quite nauseated. houses and sidewalks were being pushed by some mysterious force out of their true plane, and were rising, sinking, retreating. the car was crowded. moreno moved forward to find a seat, leaving monsalvat sitting in the rear of the tram. they were passing through piedras street. at the corner of méjico, the man beside him rose to give his place to a woman. monsalvat did not look at her, merely noticing that she was in mourning. in a few moments, however, he felt that she was looking at him. an acquaintance perhaps who had recognized him! and he grew uneasily conscious of his bedraggled appearance. then he reflected that with his week's growth of beard and his thread-bare coat, his startling emaciation, his whole air of weakness and sickness, he must be quite secure. no one would know him. the thought consoled him, but he turned carelessly towards the window, so as to hide his face. suddenly he heard a soft voice murmuring his name. he turned pale, and his hands began to tremble. a whole row of houses plunged several yards into the ground, changing color as they sank. the car seemed to lurch to one side threatening to fall over on itself. "it's so long since we have seen one another," the voice was saying. "my mother died, and i am living in tacuarí street, in our boarding house. i have been there some time. my sister runs the house--and i--" monsalvat had regained a more normal state of consciousness, but he said nothing. he could not speak. nacha's voice was like a music infinitely sweet, echoing in his ears as in a delicious dream, something vague and hazy like a memory from a past beyond any but the vaguest sort of remembering.... finally he looked into her eyes. in his stained clothing, in his pitiful weakness nacha read his tragic story at a glance. here was a sick man! his eyes had lost the keenness they once possessed. they were faded and glazed, apparently incapable of concentrating on any object. as the car crossed the avenida de mayo a fellow of very ordinary appearance, apparently a rustic, came up to nacha and touched her on the shoulder. she introduced him to monsalvat. "we are to be married soon," she said. "i met him in the boarding house where i live. we are going to the country, to his ranch--" nacha's fiancé was looking at monsalvat with evident mistrust, and showed his impatience to get off the car. "where do you live?" asked nacha, as they were leaving. "where do i live?" he exclaimed, as though that were the most singular of inquiries. then he grew pale again; and again his hands began to tremble. "i want you to be a witness at our marriage," she pleaded as she pressed his hand with a tenderness he could not remember ever to have felt before. "come, come, we must be going!" the fiancé protested with ill-concealed annoyance. "you can't refuse, monsalvat. please! be good to me for this last time--tell me where you live!" monsalvat heard a voice giving his address. "he lives in my house, madame. i am moreno, the attorney, at your service. i consider myself a faithful friend of this illustrious gentleman. i belong to the ancient family of the morenos of chivilcoy; and though the unkind fates...." monsalvat no longer felt the pressure of that warm hand. nacha, on the arm of her future husband, had stepped down from the car. chapter xxiii arnedo kept her locked up in first one house and then another, and nacha's hatred of him grew until the intensity of her feeling frightened her. such hate as this threatened to swallow up all other feelings, to absorb her utterly in itself, poisoning and destroying her. if she had been attracted to him before he carried her off, it was because she believed that he desired her. when she discovered, however, that his abduction of her was not for love, but for vengeance, to get even with monsalvat; when she saw that he was actuated by something evil in him, which he could not have changed even though he had wanted to, she began to think of him as something monstrous and diabolical. he was the savage with no rôle to play in civilization, powerless--save for evil! in the first prison he put her in she saw him only once, on the occasion when, pointing a revolver at her, he forced her to write the letter which was to be a final blow at monsalvat. the effect of this incident on nacha had been to rouse in her profound pity for the man she was so wounding. again she was causing him suffering! she imagined him searching for her through all the dreary reaches of the city; and her constant thinking of him always brought her to one conclusion; for her, happiness could consist only in offering up her whole being in sacrifice for this man! the owners of both houses had presented her to their best patrons. nacha, frantic with rage, had driven them out of her presence. she was determined to escape and threatened to get the police. but so close was the watch kept over her that she could not even get a letter into the mail-box. in the second house she was sent to she made friends with one of the girls, the unfortunate daughter of an english drunkard whose stepmother had driven her away from home. nacha, through laura's help, succeeded in having her case brought to the attention of two men who frequented the house on laura's account. one of them, an influential lawyer, informed the police of the situation and nacha was given her freedom. pampa would have gone to prison if nacha had not refused to admit that she knew who was responsible for her abduction. nacha was taken from this house to the police station, to state her case. the lawyer talked to her awhile; and, when he understood her situation, offered her money, and asked her what she was going to do. "what can i do, sir? follow my destiny...." "your destiny? that word doesn't mean anything. every one makes his own destiny. you ought to go back to your mother's." "they won't take me back!" "very well then. i'll go see them and settle the matter." nacha meanwhile lived in the house where julieta was lodged. together the two girls went to the tenement where nacha had been living, to get her furniture and clothes. although the room had been rented to someone else the caretaker very humbly and sanctimoniously collected half a month's rent from them, saying that nacha would have to pay storage on her things before she could have them. she inquired for monsalvat and learned that he had gone away. a few days later the lawyer told nacha that she could return to her home. her mother had died, and her sister, catalina, was running the house. her sister received her with the indifference she might have shown to a stranger. when she found herself in her childhood home, nacha could have wept, so many were the scenes that passed again through her memory. she thought of her absent mother, and of her meeting in that very house with riga! but her sister's abrupt manner, assumed to conceal her feelings, nacha believed--restrained her. "when did--it happen?" asked nacha. "a month ago." "did she speak of me? did she forgive me before she died?" "yes. and she asked me to look for you. but i scarcely knew where to find you." this implied an effort which catalina, as a matter of fact, had never made; nor had she any intention of looking for her sister. her hope was that nacha would never turn up, that she would thus be left in undisturbed possession of her mother's house. soon after nacha's disappearance, cata had married a fellow quite inferior to her own station. her mother had been much offended at the match and refused to see cata, choosing to consider her as completely lost as nacha. but when the husband died, her mother consented to have her return to live with her. the property left the two daughters consisted of a small house in liniers and the furnishings of the _pensión_--some thirty thousand _pesos_ all told. nacha found her sister much changed. ten years earlier cata had been a lively and not unattractive young person. now she was slow in movement and heavy, and as she was very short, there was nothing graceful about her figure. in the old days, although they squabbled a great deal, the sisters had managed to get along together. but cata's disposition had soured, though her ill-temper could not have been guessed from her fair-skinned and pretty face. nacha noticed this change with alarm. how could she have become so bitter, and sharp-tongued, when she had once been so cheerful? what made her sister so envious and jealous, and full of petty meanness? nacha settled down in the house. she rarely went out, because she did not want to arouse suspicions in her sister. she helped with the multitudinous tasks of the household, and little by little took on all the work, as cata skillfully disengaged herself from it. with the students and other men boarders nacha's dealings were of the briefest. she barely spoke to them, so fearful was she of having cata doubt her intentions of being an honest woman. but it was written that nacha must suffer in every relationship. cata was constantly spying upon her. if nacha stopped a moment in the _patio_ to exchange a few words with a boarder, her sister would eye her suspiciously and take up a position somewhere near at hand, so as to observe her. nacha could not discuss the most trifling matter with her sister without hearing allusions to her past life. if they happened to be commenting on some one of the boarders, such as, for instance, the desirability of giving the preference to one student instead of another, in the question of terms, cata would grow impatient. "of course, you must be right. you have known so many men...." nacha might have borne such jibes in private. but her sister often got them off at table in front of everyone. some of the boarders would laugh. others felt secretly sorry for nacha. once, when nacha did not eat what was on the plate before her, cata asked: "doesn't this fare suit you? i suppose at the famous houses that you are used to living in, they had better cooks." she was no more successful in finding happiness in other quarters. at first she had searched persistently for monsalvat but had not obtained the slightest news of him. torres or ruiz de castro could, she believed, have told her where he was, but she did not care to see either of these men. she remembered how torres had lied to her, telling her that monsalvat was in love with another woman. she had no reason to believe that he would not lie to her again. in torres' opinion, as doubtless in ruiz de castro's, she was to blame for monsalvat's situation; she was an enemy, to be kept at a distance! nevertheless, as the months went by and her anxiety concerning him increased, she went one day to torres' office, and with tears in her eyes asked for news of her friend. torres told her the truth. monsalvat had been very ill, had fled from the sanatorium, and no one had the slightest idea where he was. nacha, however, believed that torres was trying to put her off, and left after reproaching him for his past cruelty towards her. one morning there arrived at the _pensión_ a boarder who seemed startlingly out of place in that student boarding house. he was a corpulent fellow, heavy-shouldered, slow-moving, with enormous hands, and short fat fingers. his face was not altogether ugly: the features were large and firmly cut, and as immobile as though carved in oakwood. on the day of his arrival he wore riding breeches and boots. he spoke rarely, as though he feared his voice might sound too loud; but he burst into great shouts of laughter at the nonsensical stories with which the students regaled the dinner-table. cata found out all there was to learn about his life. he was rich--owned a ranch in pergamino--and had come to the _pensión_ because it had been recommended to him by one of the students who worked as one of his hands during the holidays. little did he suspect that the young man in question had congratulated himself on thus providing his fellow students with excellent first-hand material for their amusement! cata, however, would not allow the slightest disrespect to this "native" of whom she made a protégé. by good-natured jokes at the beginning of their acquaintance, followed by maternal advice, cata succeeded in bringing about certain changes in his attire, and modifying some of his rustic habits. the fellow was a good sort at bottom, and lent himself willingly to cata's polishing, much to the amazement both of nacha and the students who wondered what all this might portend. one fine day nacha discovered the explanation of her sister's conduct. the rancher began making love to her, and nacha sensed that he did so at cata's skillfully disguised instigation. still nacha could not understand cata's sudden affection for her since the new boarder's arrival. then she perceived that cata was planning to get rid of her and was counting on the rancher's pliability in her determined hands, and also on nacha's attractions. his gallantries were far from being agreeable to nacha, who did not find them improved by the fact that he was well provided with money. she was quite determined to refuse him when he finally declared his intentions. she had not foreseen that cata would speak for him. "you have no reason to refuse. why should you be so hard to suit?" nacha lowered her head and remained silent a long time. "your presence here is compromising to me. everyone knows about you, even though you appear to be respectable now. but some day you are sure to go back to your old ways. i'm still young enough to marry again--in fact i'm thinking quite seriously of it. your being here is really inconvenient. it may interfere with my plans. don't be angry! i'm only telling you the truth!" cata went on at some length advising her sister to make this sacrifice in atonement for her past sins--though really there was no great sacrifice in becoming a married woman at last and in going to live on a fine ranch with a man who was so good and so much in love! when cata stopped talking nacha raised her tear-filled eyes and said simply: "very well. i accept him." her suitor then discussed the matter with her. nacha thought it only honest to tell him all about herself. "so they told me!" the rancher replied with a coarse laugh. nacha was blank with amazement. never had she believed her sister's perfidy could go so far! "but look here, girlie, i rounded you up with the idea of getting married. it's fierce for a man to live alone all his life; and i thought it would be fine to have some one like you around!" and he licked his lips at the prospect of the life awaiting him with nacha as a companion. then she learned another detail concerning her sister's manoeuvres. a doctor in one of the distant provinces was paying court to cata. although he was poor, her scheming young sister had resolved not to let him escape. that had been her reason for speeding nacha's departure. the rancher had said something about marriage to nacha; but cata, fearing that such formalities might involve too great delay, told him her sister's story and insinuated that he might take her away with him as his mistress. "there are plenty of cow-punchers who carry off a girl and put her in the ranch house with no question of marriage! it's better for them not to marry, of course. i don't say i approve of that sort of thing; but i can see that it's more convenient, and practical--and it's cheaper! then, after a while, if they still like the girl, they can marry. if she doesn't suit, or they find another one they like better, they can let the first one go.... they all do that, all of them!" then, as if to put the finishing touch on her speech of persuasion, she added: "that's what you men are like. you know how to live!" at first her protégé listened to these words with stupefaction; then he assumed a greedy smile. just to think that he might have been fool enough to get married! country folk had reason to distrust these city people! but nacha resigned herself to the conditions devised, unknown to her, by her sister. she would suffer and serve; and after a few years of fidelity and submission on her part, the man might marry her. so the honest woman she was going to be would atone for the ten misspent years of her life. it was a tragic solution of her problem, for it took her away from monsalvat forever--for all the rest of the time she might live on earth.... since resigning herself to this sacrifice she viewed the rancher with changed eyes. she discovered now that he had a few really admirable qualities. he was loyal, sincere, manageable and plucky, like the good son of the pampas that he was; and he showed no small amount of genuine feeling. nacha began to think that a woman of intelligence and skill might civilize this rough fellow without encountering very much discouragement. on the morning when she met monsalvat, the rancher, really in love with her, and delighted with nacha's sweetness of disposition, had promised to marry her there in buenos aires, before going to the ranch, sparing her the humiliation of the trying-out process to which he had intended to subject her. nacha went occasionally with him to the shops, to buy furnishings for the ranch house. it was on one of these shopping tours that she met monsalvat. monsalvat was reading in bed next morning when there came a knock at the door. "come in!" he called. in the opening doorway nacha appeared. she was dressed in black as on the preceding afternoon, and this sombre mourning emphasized the fairness of her skin, enhancing its charm. she seemed happy, light-hearted, as though her problem in life had been well disposed of. monsalvat lay back among his pillows at her request. his sight had grown very poor and persistent efforts to read had done him a great deal of harm. that morning his eyes were paining him severely. all the objects he looked at had the vague uncertain outline one sees in certain impressionist paintings. without saying a word, nacha noticed all the details of the room. then she took off her hat, and, looking attentively at her friend, said, simply: "i have come to stay." "i knew you would come!" he replied, holding out a hand to her. "but i never dared hope that you would stay--" "always!" she said, taking his hand, and sitting down on the edge of the bed. "always?" he wondered. "how is that possible? aren't you going to get married?" "no--you need someone to take care of you. i can't marry now!" "why, nacha?" "because such a marriage would be a lie...." was he dreaming? there was no happiness such as this in the waking world! nacha went on to say that she did not love the man she had intended marrying, nor could she ever love him. why should she sacrifice herself?" "you are right," monsalvat exclaimed. "a sacrifice without a purpose, of no real utility, is absurd--more than that, is immoral! we ought only to sacrifice ourselves when we love our sacrifice. i believe, nacha, that sacrifice ought to give us our highest spiritual enjoyment!" nacha was silent; but she was thinking that the sacrifice she was then entering upon was of such a kind. had she married her rancher she would have had among other advantages, that security in life which only a vagabond or a woman such as she had once been, could appreciate fully. money, a home, comforts, all these would have come to her with this marriage. and then if this man, fifteen years older than she, should die before she did, she would be free, and in possession of a fortune. on the other hand, with monsalvat, nothing but anxiety and trouble awaited her. instead of a ranch, she would have a room in a tenement house; instead of a home, a poor friend in need of her care; instead of comfort, poverty; and instead of the day of liberation and inherited riches, long years of suffering at the bedside of a sick man. two ways of sacrifice lay before her. but she did not hesitate now. her lot was with monsalvat. what though it should prove unhappy? in it she could find in the midst of suffering and pain, love and joy, without which, now that she had glimpsed them once again in monsalvat's face, she could not live.... chapter xxiv nacha's disappearance caused her sister profound disgust. there were not hours enough in the day for the stories she told the boarders about her sister, in an attempt to discredit nacha forever. the rancher was thoroughly indignant, believing that he had been made a fool of. he had always had his suspicions of city folk! and he stamped out of the house booted and spurred as on the day of his arrival, confident that his prompt withdrawal from this society was a means of getting even with cata, her sister, the students, who now openly tittered at him, and all the rest of the capital's inhabitants. a few days after taking a room in the house where monsalvat was lodging nacha wrote to her sister. she assured cata she need no longer fear being compromised by her presence, since her desire to free herself of nacha's society had been accomplished, even though not quite as she had planned. her way lay open now to marriage with the doctor. nacha would never annoy her nor see her again, if that suited cata's desires. as to the rancher, cata could throw all the blame on her in order to appease him, say what she would of her, even attribute to her the whole plan of the engagement. in this fashion cata could wash her hands of the whole affair, and the rancher need not leave the _pensión_. nacha wanted to ask him to forgive her for the trouble she had caused him; but she reflected that he probably would not understand her nor would anyone else for that matter. she had better let him think whatever had been put into his head by her sister. nacha borrowed a little money from the lawyer who had so disinterestedly come to her help before. this sum she hoped to return when her mother's house had been sold and she received her share of the inheritance. she paid monsalvat's debts and used the rest of her money to provide him with clothing, monsalvat protesting all the while, and even growing angry. but whenever nacha threatened to leave him, he meekly allowed her to do as she pleased. little by little he grew better. nacha's presence was a powerful tonic. every afternoon they went out together for a walk to palermo, to the zoological gardens, to lezama park. in a few months monsalvat had recovered from his seriously weakened condition. but while his general health improved, his eyesight grew steadily poorer. newspapers were now quite beyond him. he could read nothing but books in large type, and then only with the help of a magnifying glass. one morning he had to admit that even that had become impossible. the objects in his room had receded, and came forward only to meet his outstretched hands. he was living in a mysterious, all-enveloping, and constantly deepening dusk. up to that moment he had paid small heed to this trouble, believing it would pass with the rest of his ill-health. but on that morning the cruel thought came to him in all its horror--night was falling on his life! he was alone in a vast solitude, cut off from the world, from his friends, from nacha. the realization of what was happening to him taxed all his resources of courage. as he searched the depths of his soul for the needed help, the world seemed to grow small, as ephemeral as a glittering bubble. after all, this last and greatest catastrophe was but a trifling detail in the universal tragedy! the ideas he had lived by lost their significance too in the slow, throbbing ache of this new pain. death had already claimed a part of him! he had mentioned to nacha on several occasions that his sight was dim, and she, from her own observations had been well aware of it. quite recently he had taken to leaning on her arm when they went out walking. but he could speak of this trouble only so long as he thought it unimportant. now he was afraid to speak of it. doing so might make it worse! he would say nothing; and when it had passed, he would remember his fears and confess them to nacha. but would it pass? monsalvat tried to use the power of suggestion on himself, fill his mind with hope, not so much for the sake of the hope itself as to be able to live, to go on living. how face the prospect of endless night? how endure the touch of death's hand on living eyes? but when nacha came to his room one morning she understood what had happened. she did not utter a word; but monsalvat felt that she had sensed his fear, his certainty! as she stood beside him, emotion mastered him for the moment. holding out his arms to her, he drew her to him. "nacha!" his voice broke and he made a quick gesture, hinting at the cause of his distress. "don't feel so badly about it. we'll go to the doctor's this afternoon. surely they will get well...!" but her eyes filled with tears and, though he could no longer see her, she hid her face. nacha had already spoken of her fears to torres, who called on his friend and watched him intently. he gave nacha little encouragement. this had prepared her somewhat for an unfavorable report from the specialist. but she had spent the interval between torres' visit and this call at the clinic in a state of increasing anxiety. whenever she was with monsalvat she could not keep her eyes away from his, as though her own clear sight must somehow summon his vision from the depths into which it had retreated. the specialist made a long and thorough examination, and shook his head. there was no hope---- "your case is not so serious, brother!" he said to monsalvat. "i'll give you some drops which will improve your general eye condition a little." "you think i will get better then?" "a little--yes. it's quite possible. science can do a great deal--and nature too has her surprises. in short, there's no reason to despair. i've seen worse cases!" they left the clinic and went home. they must be alone for awhile! in spite of the doctor's words, monsalvat thought that despair would choke him; and nacha could not bear to watch his suffering without trying to console him. besides, an idea had occurred to her after her recent interview with torres, an idea, which even in the midst of the dejection she shared with monsalvat, had the power to bring her great happiness. on reaching the house they went to monsalvat's room, and nacha turned the key in the lock to keep out the moreno children. "i want to tell you something," she began, helping monsalvat to find a chair, and sitting down beside him. "how ghastly this thing is, nacha!" he murmured. "we'll find a way out. every problem in life has an answer--if we can only find it!" she drew his head towards her and kissed him on the forehead, while her hand caressed his neck and eyes. at any other time monsalvat would have been startled by such tenderness on her part. only three or four times, on the occasion of some surpassing emotion, had they ever kissed; and then as brother and sister might. but now he did not know how to interpret her caresses. was it possible that nacha loved him? loved him as a lover, and not as she had so persistently believed? his old passion for her stirred within him anew, and an immeasurable sweetness poured through his being. yet he exclaimed: "it isn't worth while living like this!" the words were decisive for nacha. she did not look at him but she knew that he was waiting; and slowly, with tears in her eyes, she brought her head close to his and kissed him on the lips. "you must not say that," she whispered. "you must not say anything against life--the life god made!" and strangely, in the midst of this new and overwhelming trouble, monsalvat tasted happiness. nacha loved him! and nacha for her part wondered how it was that she had never before known how great was her love for this man, who sat there blind and silent before her. it was better that it should have come about in such a fashion, better that her love had so delayed in revealing itself. now it could soften the blow fate was dealing him! "i want you to listen," she said. "i have found the answer...." monsalvat turned towards her as if to look at her. no words came from his lips but his expression showed that he felt he was in the presence of something surpassingly beautiful, something which was to consecrate his life. his heart-beats quickened. in that silence he lived with an intensity that crowded years into those few moments. his soul was waiting, with an anxiety mixed with pain and faith and love; and there was in this pause something of that breathless suspense which comes before a storm, or descends upon an artist as he listens to the voices crying out to him to create them in beauty. in the darkness around him he heard nacha's voice, warm with emotion, but confident, resolute. "once, more than a year ago, you asked me something. i refused then, though i loved you in my heart!... it was because i did not want to hurt you, to spoil your chance in life. you had given everything you had for me, and lost everything through me. now i can ask the same thing of you...." she stopped. in a flash the future swept before her: she saw monsalvat as he was, sick, blind, forever incapable of earning enough to live on; alone in the world, with nothing before him but suffering and endless night. she grew pale and looked away. "now i want you ... to marry me ..." she said slowly. he dropped his head and was silent. for some time neither of them stirred. neither cared to break that pause in which the tragedy of each of their lives was to find its solution. "no!" he said at last. he heard nacha sob. "i love you too much, nacha," he went on, "to accept such a sacrifice. stay with me, take care of me for a little while--yes--that i can allow--but to let you unite your life that is still so young with that of a broken invalid--no! i cannot." his words, falling like so many blows on her heart, only strengthened her resolution. "i am not doing this out of affection nor out of gratitude. it is for my own sake!" "nacha, you are young! you must not sadden your whole life--look at the situation i am in. it is more than probable that i shall have hunger, poverty at least, to look forward to." "i can resign myself to all that. you told me once that it was necessary to suffer--i have never forgotten what you said!" "but a whole lifetime of it, nacha!" "a whole lifetime then! i accept it--i desire it. i want to redeem the past--i want to deserve forgiveness...." "who is there to forgive you, nacha?" he exclaimed, drawing her toward him. "i don't know--god, perhaps, if he exists. life, against which i have sinned--love, that i have wronged--myself--myself especially: i need to earn forgiveness from myself!" and slowly, wonderingly, but inevitably, monsalvat found her lips. she was answered! "your life is mine, fernando," she said gently, and monsalvat knew from her voice that she was smiling. "your suffering is my suffering, your joy my joy! only death can part us." and on those blind eyes a great light descended, infinite, filling the world; and he knew that some of this radiance sprang from the depths of his own soul, glorifying the years that lay before him, and before all his suffering, hungering, striving human brothers.... epilogue two years had passed since their marriage. nacha had taken up the management of her mother's house, and was proving skillful at a task which her sister's flight to a distant province with her new husband greatly simplified for her. for monsalvat her devotion knew no bounds. with nacha beside him he scarcely needed eyes; but he could not reconcile himself to his uselessness. if he had only been able at least to go on working for the poor and the oppressed! he had to content himself with gathering together the children of the neighborhood and teaching them whatever he could, without the use of his sight. it annoyed him not to be able to teach them to read; for he believed that if ever the world was to be made new it would be through love, and through books! of these last he gave as many as he could afford to the boys and girls who showed promise of making good use of what he taught them. the presence of this blind man was a strange note in the little middle class boarding house. the students all felt a deep and affectionate veneration for him. many of them became his friends, and not a few his true disciples. they read to him, and together they discussed articles and books; but these young people liked best to hear him talk of that vision which never ceased to shine in his darkness. at times his words flamed with the passion for justice within him. at others they seemed to pour out quietly and evenly like so many beams of that light in which, to his listeners, beauty and truth was revealed. since he had come there to live, gross words and vulgar anecdotes had vanished as if by magic. at the long dinner-table there seemed now always to be something to talk about; for the students shared their day's experiences and discoveries with don fernando, and the ideas they had found interesting grew and became animate as they discussed them with their blind host. when they sat together in the evening, talking and dreaming of new forms of beauty which might come into being on the earth, there would come a hush as the blind man spoke of his gods: life and love, and mankind. his fervent words sowed faith in the young hearts of his hearers. so the days passed, and the night in which he lived was no longer tragic as at first; but sweet, peaceful, and alive with familiar voices. for him there gleamed little familiar stars in the depths of that all-enveloping darkness. weeks and months passed; and the last days of july arrived in a tragic year, feverish days when war stepped into the scene and claimed every conversation wherever a group gathered. the sirens of the newspaper buildings gave the news which set moving through the city crowds sick with dread, bewildered, obsessed by images of war, delirious. newspaper headlines, infected by the general madness, grew to enormous size, quivering before the eyes of their troubled readers; and the familiar world was clad in the terrible strangeness of a bad dream. monsalvat could not escape learning the monstrous news. his face drawn and pale, he listened to the reading of newspapers, countless newspapers; and in the squares and public places he heard the distress and horror of the throng. yet even then his hard-won serenity did not abandon him. the great war began, and one afternoon in august the students brought in the news that the german cavalry was invading france. most of the students were already at the dinner-table. those who came in cried out from the doorway: "it's begun. germany has invaded french soil!" the brutal news was a whip-lash to all those gathered there. they were silent a moment, and then came a flood of words, words of amazement, of imprecation, or of sympathy. one student jumped to his feet with a cry of "_vive la france!_" but the blind man said nothing. he seemed lost in his own thoughts. at last, at a chance word, he began to speak, and his voice betrayed his distress, though serenity, optimism, illusion, still possessed him. "this war is a monstrous crime," he said, "the greatest crime ever yet committed on this earth. not so much on account of the millions of human beings it will destroy, as because it tears to shreds one of the finest illusions ever dreamed by generous hearts." a shadow passed over his face: "but in spite of everything, let the infamy of this war be welcome! _they_ have willed it, _they_ shall have it!" his hearers looked at one another with questioning eyes. then in a flash they understood. "who are _they_?" "those," he replied, "who, controlling forces, abuse them; who, possessing plenty, let the hungry starve; who, enjoying happiness, stir not a finger to make a better world, that all may have their chance to live, and love, and give! the powerful, i mean, who change life to death, and love to hatred!" "but the day _is_ coming," he cried. "this war is indeed the beginning of _der tag_! i feel it coming--a part of it is here already within my heart. i do not know how it is to come, whether little by little, or suddenly, flamingly, like an avenger!" "but i know that the day is coming--the day that will be sacred to justice!" in the silence that followed, the young minds to whom he had spoken thought of what such a day would mean, to each of them, to all whom they knew; and the eyes of some of those who listened, dreaming and desiring better things, grew wet.... at the far end of the table, monsalvat, head erect, sat gazing at the future, at what lay beyond the great crime, at that dawn whose splendor would justify the hopes of the dead, and the efforts of the living. and his night lifted and lightened with the radiance of innumerable stars. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. in the spanish original version of this work the author quoted the province of córdoba, in argentina. however, in the present english translation the province is named cordova. to avoid confusion with the spanish city of córdova, in the present transcription the name has been changed to córdoba. a number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. for the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept. obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected. the first capture or _hauling down the flag of england_ by harry castlemon _author of "the gunboat series," "houseboat series," "war series," etc., etc._ _illustrated_ the saalfield publishing co. new york akron, o. chicago copyright, , by the saalfield publishing co. contents. chapter page i. the battle of lexington ii. enoch's home iii. zeke lewis iv. zeke's proposition v. a rebellion in the court-room vi. getting ready for the fray vii. the bucket of yeast viii. under way ix. the "aggressive" tory x. a visit to the jail xi. a plan that did not work xii. different opinions xiii. the cheer xiv. the chase xv. hauling down the flag of england xvi. after the battle xvii. zeke's exhibition of strength xviii. what to do with the schooner xix. conclusion the first capture chapter i. the battle of lexington. it happened on the morning of the th day of may. the little village of machias in the far away colony of maine was lively enough as far as fishing towns go, but on this particular time it was in a regular turmoil. men had jumped up leaving their breakfast half eaten and ran out bareheaded to gather round a courier, who, sitting on a horse that had his head down and his flanks heaving as if he were almost exhausted, was telling them of a fight which had occurred just twenty days before. there was nothing to indicate that the men were excited except their pale faces and clenched hands, but the looks they turned upon one another had a volume of meaning in them. what had the messenger to communicate that had incited such a feeling among those who listened to him? he was describing the battle of lexington which had been fought and won by the patriots on the th day of april. we did not have any telegraph in those days, and the only way the people could hold communication with one another was by messengers, mounted on fleet horses, who rode from village to village with the news. the courier was so impatient to tell what he knew that he could not talk fast enough, but the substance of his story was as follows: general gage, the commander of the british troops who were quartered in boston about this time, had become a tyrant in the eyes of the people. when spring opened he had a force of three thousand five hundred men. boston was the headquarters of the rebellion. he determined with this force to nip the insurrection in the bud, and his first move was to seize and destroy the stores of the patriots at concord, a little village located about six miles from lexington. to carry out this plan he sent forth eight hundred men under the command of colonel smith and major pitcairn with orders to "seize, burn and otherwise render useless" everything in the shape of munitions of war that they could find. he supposed he went about it secretly, but the ever-vigilant patriots were awake to all his movements. a watch was established at concord, and everywhere the minute-men were ready with "burnished muskets, fixed bayonets, and well-filled cartouches." they left boston about midnight, but it so happened that the minute-men became aware of their expedition almost as soon as it was ready to start. paul revere was there and ready to undertake his famous midnight ride. no sooner was the trampling of soldiers heard than two lights were hung in the steeple of christ church in charlestown. paul revere saw the lights, and he forthwith mounted his horse and started to carry the warning to every village in middlesex.[ ] the british did not see the beacon fire blazing above them, but marched away silent and still, arresting everybody that came in their way "to prevent the intelligence of their expedition being given." [footnote : "he said to a friend, 'if the british march by land or sea from the town to-night, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the old north tower as a signal light-- one if by land, two if by sea, and i on the opposite shore will be ready to ride and spread the alarm through every middlesex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm.'"] as the day began to dawn in the east the british reached lexington, and there they found a company of minute-men gathered on the green. to say that they were amazed at the sight would be putting it very mildly; but major pitcairn, after a short consultation with his superior officer, rode up and flourished his sword as if he meant to annihilate the minute-men then and there. his officers followed him and his troops came close behind him in double quick time. but the patriots stood their ground, and the redcoats shouted angrily at them-- "disperse, you villains! lay down your arms! why don't you disperse, you rebels?" but our men had not come out there to be dispersed by shouting. utterly ignorant of the ways of civilized warfare they continued to hold their ground, and for a time it looked as though there was going to be bloodshed sure enough. major pitcairn did not care to come too close to them but wheeled his horse, discharged his pistol and shouted "fire!" and the british obeyed him. the front rank fired, and when the smoke cleared away, seven men, the first martyrs of the revolution, were found weltering in their blood. that was too much for the patriots. they did not suppose that the british were going to shoot them down like dogs. they scattered in every direction, and the redcoats, having nothing further to oppose them, kept on and destroyed the stores. "colonel, i don't like the way those rebels retreated," said major pitcairn, as he kept a close watch upon the neighboring hills. "they fell back as though they would come again." "if they were soldiers we would know how to take them," replied colonel smith. "but being rebels, we have nothing further to fear from them." major pitcairn, however, kept a bright lookout, and very soon he became uneasy at the rapidity with which the militia increased in numbers. he called the attention of his superior to it, and very shortly the latter gave the order to retreat; and it was not a moment too soon. the whole region flew to arms, for remember that paul revere had aroused to vigilance the inmates of every house he came to, and from every one there came a man or boy who was strong enough to handle a rifle, and hurried to the help of his countrymen. it seems that colonel smith had more to contend with than mere rebels. it appeared, too, that one who afterwards wrote about that battle was there to have seen it for he tells us in his poem: "and so through the night rode paul revere, and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every middlesex village and farm-- a cry of defiance and not of fear, a voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, and a word that shall echo for evermore. for, borne on the night-wings of the past, through all our history to the last, in the hours of our darkness, peril, and need, will the people waken to listen, to hear the hurrying foot-beats of that steed, and the midnight message of paul revere." the minute-men gathered as if by magic. they did not come out and form themselves in line for the purpose of being shot down by the redcoats, but remembering their skulking habits which they learned while fighting the indians, they hid behind trees, fences, and rocks, in front, flank, and rear, and poured so galling a fire upon the britishers that if it had not been for reinforcements not one of those eight hundred men would ever have reached the city alive. as one of their officers expressed it: "the militia seemed to have dropped from the clouds," and the flower of that british army must have surrendered to those patriots if relief had not arrived. their retreat was regarded as a defeat and a flight, and at every corner were heard the jeers and mockings of the people regarding that "great british army at boston who had been beaten by a flock of yankees." at any rate the jubilee trumpet was sounded proclaiming "liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." the power of all the royal governors was broken, from massachusetts to georgia. this was the substance of the news which was brought to machias twenty days after the fight. the people were both astonished and angry--astonished to know that the british soldiers, who had been regarded as invulnerable, could be outdone with american bullets, and angry to learn that so many of their friends[ ] should have been killed during their conflict with them. [footnote : lossing says: "the british lost killed, wounded, and made prisoners; in all . the americans lost killed, wounded, and missing; in all .] "this thing has got to be settled now," said zeke lewis, turning away and flourishing his fists in the air. "that is too many of our men to go up after fighting those redcoats. boston has been standing all the brunt of tyranny so far, and we had better join in. now there's that--" the man suddenly paused and looked about him. almost every face he saw was that of a patriot, but there were a few who were known to be tories, and it would not do to express his thoughts too freely before them. "go on, zeke," said a friend at his elbow. "there's what?" "when i get you fellows all by yourselves i will explain things to you," said zeke, after holding a short consultation with a young man who stood close beside him. "there are too many britishers here." "yes; and they ought to be shot down as those redcoats were at lexington," said another. any one who had been there could easily have picked out the tories by the expression of their faces. they were amazed by the news. british soldiers whipped by a mob! they would have been glad to deny it if they could, but there were too many stalwart sailors standing around whose opinions differed from their own, and they thought it would be the part of wisdom to keep their thoughts to themselves. they turned toward their homes, but they had plenty of opportunity to exchange ideas with one another. the most of those who had listened to the messenger's news also turned away when he got through speaking and walked with their heads on their breasts and their eyes fastened thoughtfully on the ground. among them was one, enoch crosby by name, who seemed to think that the world was coming to an end because the british soldiers had been fired upon; but he did not believe as the tories did by any means. he was an american; he could not forget that. among all the boys of his acquaintance there was no one more loyal to king george than he was. his father had been an officer in the service of the crown before he died, and enoch believed that a monarch who had been selected to reign over a country, was placed there by divine right. the people had nothing to do with it except to hold themselves in readiness to obey his orders. he had english blood in his veins, and, although he felt the soil of america under his feet, he had been, almost ever since he could remember, a good and loyal subject of great britain, and hoped some day to serve king george with his sword. to have all this thing wiped out in a day by a fight, was rather more than the boy could live up under. but he was an american. it came upon him with a force sometimes that almost took his breath away. he could still be loyal to his sovereign and ready to smite hip and thigh any one who said anything against him, but his sailor's love of fair play would not let him stand by and see his neighbors imposed upon. enoch had been watching this thing for two years and all the while he felt the ropes of tyranny growing tighter. ever since general gage had taken up his quarters in boston he had been growing more and more severe in his treatment of the patriots. the stamp act, the boston massacre, the tea party, and the conduct of his soldiers in destroying the ice on which the boys were accustomed to spend their half holidays--all these were galling to enoch, and he hoped that the time would soon come when something would induce the king to do differently. but when christopher snyder was killed by richardson for looking on at a mob who were engaged in throwing clods and stones at him, and governor hutchinson refused to sign richardson's death warrant, it opened the eyes of enoch and he began to see things in a plainer light. the man was put into prison, but at the end of two years was pardoned out by the king. enoch found that it was necessary to fight in order to secure his rights, and it cost him a long and severe struggle to come to that conclusion. he was thinking about these things as he walked slowly homeward and went into the house. his mother, with snowy hair and steel-bowed spectacles, raised her eyes from her knitting, and one glance was enough to show her that something had gone wrong with enoch. if there was anybody on earth enoch loved it was his mother. all her surroundings bore evidence to that fact. enoch was a sailor--he had made a good many trips along the coast in little trading vessels--but when he was at home he was not idle. his mother had enough from the earnings of her husband to support her in as good a style as she cared to live; the raiment of herself and son was neat and comely, but that did not prevent her from sticking close to the new england maxim: "those who do not work should not eat." she had plainly brought enoch up with the same ideas, for when he was ashore he was always at work at something. mrs. crosby did not go out to listen to the news the messenger had to bring, but enoch went, and the face he brought back with him excited his mother's alarm at once. like her son she had been waiting for this day, but she little dreamed that it would come so soon. "what is it, boy?" she asked, dropping her knitting into her lap. "that man's horse seems to be near tired out. has he come far?" "he came from out west somewhere," said enoch, dropping into the nearest chair. "but i don't know whether he came from lexington or not." "what should be going on at lexington?" asked mrs. crosby; although something told her that the news the messenger brought was worse than any she had heard yet. "they have had a fight out there," said enoch, resting his head on his hands. "king george can make up his mind to one thing, and that is, he had better keep his men at home. the provincials whipped them because they destroyed property that did not belong to them." "and they did have a fight sure enough?" said his mother. "they had such a fight as they used to have with the indians. they killed almost three hundred of them." mrs. crosby settled back in her chair and looked at enoch without speaking. chapter ii. enoch's home. "enoch," said his mother, rising from her chair after a moment's pause and leading the way toward the kitchen, "breakfast is ready and waiting. while you are eating it i shall be pleased to hear something more about this fight. it looks to me now as though we had got to do battle with the king." "that is the way it looks to me, too," said the boy. the crosby house would have been an object worth seeing if it had stood in this century. it was a double house built of logs, the places where they met being chinked with clay and the roof was thatched with long grass or rye straw. the windows consisted of small lead frames set with diamond plates of glass hung so that they opened inward instead of outward. as the building stood facing the south the "sun shone squarely in at noon," and gave warning that the dinner hour was approaching. there were two rooms in which mrs. crosby took delight--her "best room" and her kitchen. the best room was used only on state occasions, that is, when the minister came to see them or some old-time friends dropped in for an hour or two. the andirons were of brass and shone so brightly that one could see his face in them, and in summer time the fireplace was always kept garnished with asparagus and hollyhocks. on the rude mantelpiece stood the high candlesticks made of the same material, and close beside them lay the tray and the snuffers. here also was the library, small, it is true, for reading in those days was undertaken for improvement and not for pleasure. books were scarce and cost money; but among them could be found the family bible, watts' poems, young's night thoughts, and milton's paradise lost. the best room for the family was in the kitchen, and that was where enoch always liked to be. sometimes in winter when he did not have to go to sea he read one of the well-thumbed volumes by the aid of a tallow dip. the blaze in the fireplace was always piled high, but even this was but little if any shelter from the cold. the places where the chinking did not fit were numerous, and the way the cold wind poured into the room made the words of an old writer perfectly apparent: "while one side of the inmate was toasting the other was freezing." to make matters still worse "the smoke escaping into the room by no means favored study or any other employment requiring the use of the eyes." when enoch followed his mother into the kitchen he saw there a well-filled table which had often made him hungry when he did not want anything to eat; but it had little effect upon him now. there was hot salt pork, vegetables, and bannocks,[ ] which were all their simple tastes required. in the place of tea they had milk; for those one hundred and forty men had long ago thrown the tea overboard in boston harbor, and all that mrs. crosby had left was some tied up in a paper and stowed away in one of her bureau drawers. before they seated themselves at the table they took their stand behind their chairs with bowed and reverent heads, while his mother offered up thanks to the giver of all good for the provisions set before them. this was a plan always followed in enoch's home. when his mother was away, at a quilting bee or sitting up with a sick person, enoch never forgot the custom, but offered up prayers himself. [footnote : bannocks are something like the present "hoecakes" of the south--merely flat cakes of indian meal or rye, wet with water and baked over the hot coals on the hearth.] "now, boy, i should like to hear something about that fight," said mrs. crosby, seating herself in her chair. "have we got to fight the king, sure enough?" "the things indicate that fact," said enoch, helping his mother to a piece of the pork and to a potato which had been baked in the ashes on the hearth. "king george has not acted right with us anyway. when young snyder was killed in boston because he happened to be near a mob who were throwing stones at richardson, the king went and pardoned out richardson, who had been put into prison for it, after he had been there for two years. that does not look as though he felt very kindly toward us, does it?" "and then the tea," said his mother, who came as near being angry as she could whenever she thought of that. like all old ladies she loved the "cup which cheers but does not inebriate," and she could not bear to have it taken away from her. "the king ought not to have taxed us for that." "he might if he would allow us to be represented in parliament," said enoch, "but he would not do it. if we have got to be taxed to help carry on the government of great britain, we want some men of our own over there to see about it." "now tell me about the fight. you said we killed almost three hundred of them." "why, mother, you say 'we' as though you were there and helped shoot at those redcoats," said enoch. "of course i do, my son. if your father were here now, he would have taken that old flint-lock down and had it put in running order before this time," said his mother, pointing to the weapon which occupied its usual position over the fireplace. "we are americans, and whenever we are shot at, we must shoot in return." enoch was delighted to hear his mother talk in this way. it showed that she was not loyal enough to king george to fight against her own countrymen at any rate. the boy began and told the history of the fight as he had heard it from the messenger, and, as he talked and told how the minute-men had concealed themselves behind every rock and tree that they came to, his mother's eyes sparkled, and she said that she almost wished that she had been a man and lived in lexington so that she could have been there too. "i really wish i had been there," said enoch, glancing affectionately at the old flint-lock as he said this. "of course i could not shoot with those who hunt squirrels every day, but i could have made a noise. and to talk about those british soldiers being invulnerable! i tell you they could not stand before the minute-men." "and to think that we should be called '_rebels_,'" said his mother, who could scarcely restrain herself. "but i say we are not rebels," said enoch emphatically. "the people in boston told the king just what they wanted to do, and he turned around and made them do something else. there was not any more loyal paper gotten up than they sent to him." a long talk on such matters as these occupied them while they were at breakfast, and just as enoch arose there came a sound like the rattling of a stick between the pickets of the front fence. the boys had not learned to whistle in those days to let a comrade know that there was some one outside waiting for him. whistling is easier, but the boys made each other known in spite of it. "that is caleb young," said enoch. "i know him by the way he rattles his stick. i hope we shall hear something more about that fight." enoch put on his hat and went out, and there he saw caleb, dressed after the fashion of a seafaring man as he was himself, leaning on the gate and whistling softly to himself. "have you got anything more to tell about it?" said enoch, coming up to him. "no more than what the courier has already told," said caleb. "but say! there is something in the wind." "i gained an idea from something zeke said that he was thinking of something else," said enoch, sinking his voice to a whisper because caleb did the same. "he would not tell us what it was because there were too many tories near." "no, but he was thinking and talking about it since, and he has made up his mind that we are going to do something to equal that battle of lexington in some way," said caleb. "he has been talking to that joseph wheaton, and he has been advising zeke what to do. he says it is not right for those boston people to take all the hard knocks while we get none of them." "that is what i say. if we are going to hang, we will all hang together." "but we are not going to hang--none of us," said caleb, striking the nearest picket with his closed hand. "there are three vessels in the harbor----" "yes; and i am going to keep away from them," said enoch, pushing himself away from the fence. "you don't make a pirate out of me. i have made my living honestly and i intend to keep on doing it." "that is me," said caleb. "i have worked for every cent i have and i am not ashamed to let everybody know it; but if we can capture that vessel we will show the boston people that they are not alone in this business." "what vessel do you mean?" "i mean the margaretta. she is here as convoy for those two sloops that are loading with lumber, and she is in the service of the crown. if we can get her we will have the sloops easy enough." "why, caleb, that would be piracy," said enoch, fairly aghast at the proposition. "the margaretta has not done anything to us." "of course she has not, but she is in the service of the king. those men who went out to destroy those stores were in the service of the king, too; but they got neatly whipped for their pains. zeke and joseph wheaton would not have proposed that plan if they did not think we would make something by it. you ought to have heard mother talk to me while we were at breakfast. she said that if father was alive now he would have taken his old flint-lock down and shot every tory he could find." "i guess i know about what your mother said, for mine talked to me in the same way," said enoch, with a laugh. "are you one of those who are going to capture that schooner?" "i am! i am one of the fifteen men and boys who have agreed to be on hand when they hear a cheer sounded. that is going to be our rallying cry, and we must all go to where we hear it. what are you going to do? you are not a tory." "don't you call me that," said enoch, opening the gate and coming out to meet his friend. "when that cheer is sounded you will see me on hand. when do you propose to take the schooner?" "why as to that we have not had a chance to talk it over," said caleb. "zeke only spoke of it just a little while ago to see how many men we could raise; and to-night--here come two of those tories now," continued caleb, pushing his hat on the back of his head and shoving up his sleeves. "now let us see what they have got to say about that fight at lexington. i do not wish them any harm, but i would like to know that they had been there and i kneeling a little way off with my father's flint-lock in my hand." "then you would not have heard anything about that fight," said enoch, with a laugh. caleb was noted for his sharp shooting, and if he had got a bead on one of those fellows it would have been all over with him. "i will bet you i would have shot pretty close to him," caleb added. "now don't you go to picking a fuss with them," said enoch in a lower tone, "because i will not have it." "oh, i will pick no fuss with them at all," said caleb, turning his back to the approaching boys and resting his elbow on the fence. "but they must not say anything against the minute-men. if they do somebody will get licked." the two boys came nearer, and presently drew up beside the fence beside which enoch and caleb stood. they did not expect any greeting, for that happened long ago to have gone out of style between the tories and the provincials. whenever they met on the street they looked straight ahead as if there was nobody there. they did not want to speak to each other for the chances were that there would be a game of fisticuffs before they got through with it. these boys were evidently better off in the world than enoch and his friend. they wore cocked hats, neat velvet coats, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with huge silver buckles. but their queues were what they prided themselves upon. they were neatly combed and hung down upon their coat collars. the arms of their coats were "slashed" in several places to show the fine quality of their underwear. if they had been boys in our day we should have been obliged to introduce them with cigarettes in their hands. these sprucely dressed young fellows were tories of the worst description, but they followed in the footsteps of their fathers. one was a "passive" tory and the other was an "aggressive" tory. how these two men differed in opinion and actions shall be told further on. chapter iii. zeke lewis. have you ever met a new england man whom your grandparents used to regard as the very personification of all that was utterly worthless so far as the labor with his hands was concerned? we do not mean by saying this that zeke lewis was lazy--the old folks had a milder term for it. he was always at work at something, but he was shiftless. nothing that he could do appeared to get him ahead any. work always looked for him; he never looked for work. if anybody wanted a pair of shoes mended zeke was always the man looked for. he was generally to be found at the tavern (zeke did not drink any, we'll say that much for him), or loafing around the corner grocery, and he was always "lying on his oars," that is, ready to pull in any direction in which work was to be found. zeke would work early and late upon those shoes until he got them done, and he carried his money straight to his wife, who had the faculty of making a shilling go farther than he would. if a vessel was ready to sail, either up or down the coast or on a fishing trip, zeke always got the first berth. he could do more work in less time and with less trouble than any two men you could find. and he was brave, too. no one ever saw zeke refuse to go where duty called him. he was just such a man as you would expect to see after this description of his way of doing business. he was tall, and so round-shouldered that he did not look as though he had any chest at all; he was strong; so strong that when he got hold of a rope everybody knew he was there. there were two things about him that were noticeable--his smiling, good-natured face and his queue, which was always freshly combed and looked as though it had come from the hands of a dresser. but then his wife always attended to that. she took it down and combed it every day. zeke was always in straits where money was concerned. no matter how hard he worked or how little money he spent upon himself he never could make both ends meet. one night he came home after a hard day's work in the hay-field. he found his wife sitting in the kitchen engaged in knitting, but she made no efforts at all to get supper for her husband. zeke thought she looked a little paler than usual, but then he was used to that. the patient little woman never had a word of fault to find with him. she believed that zeke was doing his best, and with that she was satisfied. "sick?" asked zeke. "no, i am not ill," answered his wife. "i feel as well as usual." "something is the matter with you and i know it," said zeke. "i guess i will have to go to work and get my own supper. i am hungry." "you will not find a crust of bread in the house," said his wife. "you don't tell me!" exclaimed zeke. "i have looked the house over and i cannot find anything. you ate the last this morning." "bussin' on it!" gasped zeke, backing toward the nearest chair. "and you did not have any?" "i thought you were at work in the field and would need it more than i. so i let you take it all." "whew!" whistled zeke. "and i thought there was not more than enough to keep a hen from starving when i ate it. mr. howard owes me five shillings, but i don't like to ask him for it." "are you working for that man? then you will never get your money." "what for won't i?" "because he will cheat you out of it just as he has cheated everybody else who has worked for him." "eh? do you see these arms?" asked zeke, getting upon his feet and stretching himself so that his wife could see on all sides of him. "i have not often slung these arms about loose and reckless since i went to school to old parson stebbins, and then i slung them at jeems howard because i thought he had tried to take my knickerbockers[ ] away from me. he has not forgotten that, i am proud to say. my wages will come due on saturday night and i shall get every cent that is coming to me. but you must have something to eat. bussin' on it! why did you not tell me?" [footnote : marbles.] zeke went out into his woodshed where he kept his shoemaker's tools and began to gather them up in his arms. a pang shot through him while he did so, for he could not help thinking what he was going to do if somebody came to him with shoes to mend while the tools were gone. "it can't be helped," said he, with a long-drawn sigh. "she took me for better or worst when she married me, and she has had the worst all the time. i will go and see jeems howard about them, and see what he will give me until next saturday. he is the only one around here that i know of who has got any money." as soon as he had gathered up all his tools zeke went out of the back door, for he did not want his wife to see him; but there were others that saw him as he walked along the street, and every one wanted to know where he was going to mend shoes. for in those days the cobblers always came to a person's house and did their work there. zeke always gave some good-natured reply, for no one ever expected anything else of him, and in a few minutes he had walked through mr. howard's yard and come up to the back steps. "i want to see if you will lend me five shillings on these tools until saturday night," said he, when he had brought the man for whom he was at work to the door. "we want something to eat at our house." if the man had possessed the semblance of a heart he would have pulled out some money and given it to zeke; but all was fish that came to his net, and he forthwith began to haggle with him in order to get them as cheap as possible. zeke wanted more for them than he could afford to give, and he concluded that two and a half shillings were all he could pay. he insisted so strongly upon it that zeke was about to close with his offer, when a new actor appeared upon the scene. it was jeremiah o'brien, of whom we shall have something more to say as our story progresses. something told him that zeke was in trouble, and he opened the gate and went in. like all the rest of the patriots he had but little love for men of howard's opinion, and he was not anyway backward about beginning his business. "zeke, what are you doing with your tools here?" he asked. "i want to sell them until next saturday night," returned zeke. "how much are you going to get for them?" "i want five shillings, but jeems allows that he can't give more than two and a half." "they are worth two pounds if they are worth anything," said o'brien emphatically. "i know they are. just see that knife. it is sharp----" "pick up your tools and come with me," interrupted o'brien. "where are you going?" "pick up your tools and come with me," insisted o'brien. "i don't want to tell you twice." zeke smiled, drew himself up to his full height and looked at o'brien. the latter returned his gaze with interest and zeke finally thought better of it, gathered up his tools from the step where had placed them and followed him out to the gate. "look here," said o'brien, when they reached the street. "the next time you want to sell your tools that you make a living with, i want you to come to me. don't go to that old tory, who is bound to cheat you out of everything you have. you say your wife has not had anything to eat?" "not a smell," said zeke looking down at the ground. "she gave me all she had for breakfast and never has had a bite all day." "well, lay your tools down here," said o'brien, when they came to zeke's house. "they can stay there until you come back." "bussin' on it!" exclaimed zeke. "what are you going to do?" "we will go up to the grocery and get some provisions. i am going to send out a vessel next week and you can pay me then." this made everything all right in zeke's estimation. he wanted credit, but he little knew how he could get it unless he was regularly employed in some business that would pay him in the end. of course, when he was at sea on one of mr. o'brien's vessels, his wife could go to the store and get anything she pleased; but zeke knew it was not so while he was working for james howard. the old tory was a cheat, and nobody except zeke or some other fellow who happened to be "hard up" would work for him. he accompanied o'brien to the grocery store and got everything he wanted. when he came back into his wife's presence he looked more like himself. this little episode will give the reader a pretty good idea of the kind of life zeke lewis led at machias. nothing bothered him. his wife being out of provisions was the nearest thing that came to throwing him off his balance; and when the goods obtained in this way were gone, why, then he would go to work at something and earn some more. we have said that nothing bothered zeke lewis. that was what all the people about machias said, and they had known him for a long time. a man who would not wake up from his shiftless habits and go to work at something in order to support his wife, who depended on him for everything, was not of much use in the world; but on this particular morning, after listening to the story of the battle of lexington, zeke began to take a little interest in matters. in fact the people had never seen him so worked up before. he held a short but earnest consultation with joseph wheaton, attended eagerly to what the man had to say, and then walked away with his head up, his fingers moving convulsively, and now and then he lifted his hands and brought them together with a loud slap. "what's the matter with you, zeke?" asked one of his companions who walked by his side. "are there any tories around here?" exclaimed zeke, casting his eye behind him. "then i guess i can speak out here as well as anywhere. i say we ought to go to work and do something to equal those fellows in boston." "but there are no troops here," said his companion. "these tories will not come out so that we can shoot them down as they did at concord." "no matter for that. they have got some property here, and we can capture it as well as not." "i am in for that. where is it?" "you know that the margaretta is here to protect two sloops that are loading up with lumber for the crown. what is the reason we cannot capture her?" "it would be all right if we could do it; but suppose we should fail? have you forgotten what the penalty for piracy is?" "no, i have not forgotten it, and furthermore, i know that we are not going to fail. i will make one of half a dozen men that will capture her to-night. where are the rest of you?" he continued, glancing around at the men who had come up, one by one, to listen to what he had to say. "are you all tories? if you are not, say you will join in." "she lies some little distance from the wharf," said one of his auditors. "are there not plenty of boats that we could get to take us out to her?" asked zeke. "some of you are afraid of being killed. that is what is the matter with you." "if the others are afraid of being shot at i am not," said mr. o'brien. "what are your plans, zeke? but first let us go somewhere so that we can talk without being overheard." it put a different look on the matter when mr. o'brien began to inquire into zeke's scheme. if he was not afraid to undertake it the rest were not. they crowded up around zeke to hear what he had to propose. chapter iv. zeke's proposition. "but first i want to see if there are any tories around here," said zeke, stopping in his walk and coming back to gaze fixedly into the face of every man who was following him. "we don't want to talk too loud for fear that everything we say will go straight to the ears of that schooner's crew. if there is any man here who can't be trusted let him say so and go back where he belongs." there were probably a dozen men and boys in the crowd, and every one of them wore a white face as he looked at it; but it was an expression of "defiance and not of fear." every one of them believed in capturing the schooner, but every one, too, if we may except zeke and o'brien and perhaps joseph wheaton, who was the first man to conceive of the thing, could not help thinking what their fate would be if they failed. the act they were about to perform was piracy, and they could not make anything else out of it. to board and capture a schooner which had come into their harbor on a friendly mission was something the law did not bear them out in. "i guess we are all true blue," said zeke, as he pushed a man out of his way and planted himself fairly in the middle of the group, "and i guess we can talk here as well as anywhere else, if we talk low. we want to keep the tories from knowing or suspecting anything about it." "do you want to seize the schooner?" asked mr. o'brien. "exactly," said zeke. "and you are going to take her out from under that flag whether the crew is willing or not?" "certainly. that cross of st. george does not stay above her after we get her into our hands." "and what will we do if they resist us?" "then they just make up their minds that they are going to keep company with those fellows at lexington." "hear, hear!" shouted one of the auditors. "silence!" whispered zeke in a low tone. "don't say anything to arouse the suspicions of the tories. we want to get this thing done before they know a thing about it. we will send them to keep company with the three hundred and more who fought our fellows at lexington," continued zeke, turning to o'brien, "and those of us who have guns will get them; and the rest will gather up clubs, pitchforks and anything else that we can make a good fight with. if we can once get a footing on her deck, she is ours." "some of the officers will be coming off to church to-morrow," said mr. o'brien. "that is just what i was thinking of, but i had not time to get that far," said zeke. "we can just go in after them and seize them in their seats, and then go back and finish those fellows left on the vessel." "i don't believe in any killing," said one. "you don't!" exclaimed zeke turning fiercely upon him. "no, sir, i don't. piracy is bad enough, but when it comes to killing folks that were put there by the king to look out for their vessel, i say i don't believe in it." "then you have no business here in this crowd," said zeke, taking off his hat and dashing it to the ground. a moment afterward he stepped forward and seized the man by both wrists. he did not attempt to throw him down, but he crossed his hands on his chest and held him there as if he had been in a vise. "and you don't want to hear what our plans are either. get away from here." "hold on," said the man, who was but an infant in zeke's grasp. "let me get through with what i was going to say. i don't believe in killing folks that are standing up for their rights, but if we are too many for them, why, then they will give up." "well, that is a little more sensible," said zeke, releasing his hold upon the man. "if they give up that is all we want. i did not mean to hurt you, zeb, but you don't want to talk that way in this crowd. old zeke has got his dander riz now, and any one who does not want to do as i say in this matter can just get right out." "but what will we do with the schooner after we get her?" said mr. o'brien, who wanted to know just how the thing was coming out before he went into it. "we will make a man-of-war out of her," said zeke. "we will capture those two sloops now loading up with lumber the first thing we do; then we will go to sea and capture every one who floats the cross of st. george at her peak." "hear, hear!" shouted that enthusiastic auditor again. "i like your pluck, jacob, because i know you will stand up to the rack when the time comes; but i would a little rather you would keep still now. all you fellows who want to go with me to capture that schooner step over this way." zeke walked away half a dozen paces, and when he turned about he found the entire group at his heels. "i knew we were all true blue," said zeke, striking his palms together. "i do not believe in killing men who are standing up for their rights," said zeb, who stepped over as promptly as the others did. "we must get up a crowd that is bigger than theirs, and then she will give up to us." "i believe in that, too," assented zeke. "now, as we have not got any fife or drum to call us together, let every one who hears a cheer sounded to-morrow come a-running to the wharf where that schooner lies, and bring along everybody that you think will aid in capturing her; but mind you, don't say a word to any of the tories. bring with you everything that you can put your hands on that will do to knock a man down with. we will have some small boats there ready to take us aboard of her, and when the schooner is our own, we will see what we will do next. that is about all we want to decide on to-day." "i declare, who would have thought there was so much in zeke?" said one, as he stood looking after him as he moved down the road. o'brien and wheaton went with him, and they were talking earnestly about something. "i tell you i thought there was a good deal in him when he grabbed me by the arms," said zeb, who had not yet got through rubbing the place where zeke's sinewy hands had clasped. "i felt as if i had let a forty-foot barn fall on me. if he deals with the schooner's crew as he dealt with me, they are ours, sure enough." "and to think that that man would let his wife starve," said another. "he has got something in him. it may be that young fellow they call wheaton is at the bottom of it." caleb young was there during the talk, and he was satisfied that war was coming. he was well acquainted with most of the officers and crew composing the company of the schooner, and he knew that they would never surrender their vessel without making a desperate resistance. she was armed, she had small arms aboard, and her crew were sufficiently trained to stand by their captain. as for the men who had talked so bravely about capturing her--they had no captain. everything thus far was going along as zeke had planned it; but when it come to a clash of arms, caleb wanted somebody on hand who knew what he was about to take command of him. he was bound to go for he had been one of the first to follow zeke when he stepped off a few paces; but he really wished he knew who was going to order the thing when he stood before the schooner's company. "if i am going into this thing enoch crosby has got to go too," said he as he bent his steps toward his friend's house. "he is a good boy, and i know he will fight if the worst comes. i want to know what he thinks about this piracy business." when caleb had almost reached enoch's house he began looking around for a stick with which to attract the boy's attention by rattling between the pickets. after a short search he found one, and enoch was prompt to answer the summons. they had but fairly got started on the subject of seizing the schooner when the two young tories, which were the objects of especial hatred to them, came in sight. they would rather have seen almost any one else than james howard and emerson miller. the sober look on the latter's face showed that they were not much elated, and the reason was because they did not like to believe that british regulars had been whipped by minute-men. young howard, who was always the first to speak wherever he might be, opened the conversation. "well, what do you fellows think of that fight?" said he. "we came out on purpose to hear you express an opinion," said enoch. "what do you think of it?" "i can tell you that in short order," said james. "every one of those men who had guns in their hands at lexington are going to be hung." "you will catch them first, will you not?" "oh, that is easy enough," said emerson. "when the regulars get to running around with ropes in their hands and calling for the men who were engaged in that massacre, everybody will be willing to tell on his neighbor. if caleb was in the fight you would say, 'here's one of them.'" "don't you wish you were there?" asked james, with a grin. "yes, i do," said caleb, promptly. "but i would have been on the side of the minute-men." "that may be a britisher's way of doing business, to tell on all those who were in the fight, but it is not our way," said enoch, quietly. "this thing has gone too far to admit of hanging. you will need an army to take them." "well, have we not got one, i would like to know?" asked james. "there will be more men here in a little while, and then you fellows will want to keep dark. what were those fellows talking about that were gathered on the corner so long? we wanted to go over there but did not dare." "it is just as well that you did not go over," said caleb. "you would not have heard anything anyway." "we heard somebody howling 'hear, hear!' at the top of his voice," said emerson. "i guess we would have heard something from him." "no, we would not," said james. "don't you know that they do not talk when tories are around? they are afraid we will tell of them." "and it is a mighty fine reputation for you to have," said enoch, in disgust. "if i could not keep still in regard to what my neighbors do, i would go out and hang myself." "oh, you will hang easy enough," said james, with a laugh. "don't you worry about that. i will be one of the first to grab the rope and pull you up." just how it happened enoch could not have told to save his life. the place whereon james was standing became suddenly vacant and the spot where his face was occupied by his heels. he fell like a tree struck by a whirlwind, and his head came in violent contact with the ground. he lay there for a second or two as if he did not have his wits about him, and caleb stood over him ready to receive him when he got up. seeing no move on his part, he turned to face emerson. [illustration: caleb stood over him ready to receive him when he got up.] "let us hear one word out of your head and i will put you down, too," said he. "go away," said emerson, tremblingly. "i have not done anything to you, and i want you to let me alone. there is a magistrate in this town----" "go on," said caleb. "you can get to the magistrate as soon as you please and tell him for me----" by this time enoch began to recover himself. he unlatched the gate, and seizing caleb around the waist fairly lifted him from the ground and carried him inside. then he shut the gate and looked over at emerson. "you had better go on your way," said he. "pick up your comrade and go about your business." "but i would like first to hear him say that he would like to haul enoch up with a rope," said caleb, trying hard to get on his feet. "i will knock him down as often as he can say it." these words caleb was obliged to shout over his shoulder, for enoch, still retaining his hold upon him, was carrying him along the walk toward the entrance of the kitchen. he pushed him into the house, and then closed the door behind him. having seen his enemy disposed of emerson bent over james howard to see if he was still alive. to his joy the prostrate boy opened his eyes and stared about him in a vacant manner. "that cowardly provincial is gone now," said emerson. "enoch took him into the house with him." "i never will put up with such a blow from a boy who is down on the king," said james, sitting up on the ground. "the young rebel strikes an awful whack, does he not? we will go and see the magistrate about it at once. i am all dirt, i suppose?" "no, but your queue is full of it," said emerson, brushing it off as well as he could. "i wish we dared lick him." "so do i, but we can't touch him now. wait until those reinforcements come up here that father was talking about last night, and i will have revenge for all that boy's actions. help me up. now we will go and see father about it the first thing we do. these rebels are coming to a high pitch when they can strike a gentleman for something he has said." the young tories had started out for a walk but they did not take it. they turned about and went back the same way they came, and in a few minutes drew up at mr. howard's gate. the old gentleman was at home, sitting in his easy-chair, but he was not taking life pleasantly. there was a scowl on his forehead, for he was thinking about the battle of lexington. there was one thing about it he said to his wife: those rebels had got to be whipped into submission, or he and his family must go back to england. how he wished he possessed the power to wipe all those who were in rebellion from the face of the earth! would not he make a scattering among them before the sun set? while he was thinking about it the boys came up to the gate. if such a thing were possible his son james' face presented a worse appearance than his own. in addition to the scowl which it wore, there was a lump under his eye which now began to grow black. mr. howard knew well enough what was the matter. chapter v. a rebellion in the court-room. "father, look at my face," said james, who was the first to begin the conversation. "just look at it." "yes, i see it," said the old gentleman, angrily. "you have been having an argument with some of those young rebels and you have got the knock-down end of it. i will wager that caleb young and enoch crosby know something about it." "they were both there," said james, seating himself on the steps, "but caleb was the only one who struck me. now, father, what am i going to do about it? i can't go around with my face this way." "do you mean to say that you gave up to caleb and that he struck you only once?" exclaimed mr. howard. "you would make a pretty fight, you would." "but, father, you don't know anything about the strength in that fellow's arms," whined james. "i would just as soon have a horse kick me. i want to see the magistrate about this." "let us go up there at once," said mr. howard, putting on his hat. "we don't want to let the grass grow under our feet until this thing is settled. these young rebels are getting altogether too brash. they want to be shut up for a while. i wish i had them in england. when they were there, they would find themselves among gentlemen, and they could not talk as they pleased." "do you believe you can put him under lock and key for hitting me?" said james. he began to be all excitement now. to see caleb young put in jail for what he had done would be ample recompense for him. "i assure you that i am going to try it. how did the argument begin in the first place?" james hesitated when his father propounded this question. when he came to think the matter over he found that he had given caleb good reason for knocking him down. he might have to make the complaint under oath when he came before the magistrate, and he concluded that it was best to tell the truth while he was about it. "i said that all those who were in that massacre would be hung some day," began james. "good enough. you told him the truth." "and i told him that if he were there i would be one of the first to grab the rope and haul him up," continued james. "caleb or enoch, i have forgotten which one, replied that if he went and talked that way about his neighbors, he ought to be hanged." "and he knocked you down for that?" exclaimed mr. howard. "you did perfectly right in saying what you did, and if i were magistrate i would shut him up for two or three days at least." these last words were spoken as they were passing along the streets toward the magistrate's office. there were many people loitering about, for the news of the battle of lexington had not been thoroughly discussed, and the inhabitants of machias could not get over it. every one knew what was the matter with james without any telling. the provincials smiled and nodded their heads in a way that showed young howard that he was served just right, while the tories grew angrier than ever, and insisted on hearing all about it. before reaching the magistrate's office james began to think that he was something of a hero in town, and fully expected to see caleb shut up for a long time. when they arrived at their journey's end they found the magistrate there as well as two constables, who were hanging around for a chance to serve some papers which were slowly being made out for them. the magistrate was surprised when he saw such a company of men coming into his office, for be it known that a good many people, both tories and provincials, had turned about and gone with them. they wanted to see what was going to be done in regard to it. "bless us!" he exclaimed, when he saw james' battered face. "what have you been doing?" "i have not been doing anything," said james, in an injured tone. "a young rebel got mad at me for something i had said and knocked me down." "aha! a young rebel!" said the magistrate, the scowl deepening upon his forehead; for he was one of those "aggressive" tories who believed in making war upon all those people who did not hold to his own opinions. "do you want to make out a complaint against him? i will fine him a pound at least. these rebels have got to be kept within bounds. i will make out the papers right away. here are two constables ready to serve them," he added, speaking in a low tone to mr. howard. "you had better have two go with them, for there are some rebels around here and maybe they will stand by to protect him." the magistrate made a great flourish and prepared to go on with his warrant, while james and his father took time to look about upon the crowd that had followed them in. there were more rebels than tories in the party, and that was easy enough to be seen. some of the former exchanged a few words in whispered consultation and then went out, but the tories stood their ground. "there!" said the magistrate, who at last turned about with the completed document in his hand. "kelly, take this, go up to young's house and arrest caleb in the name of the king. i need not add that if he does not come you will call upon any man present to help you." "i don't know as i had better go up there alone," whispered the constable. "the rebels are out in full force." "then take nolton with you. you surely do not need two constables to arrest a boy! take notice of the way he acts and i will fine him for that, too." the constables went out reluctantly, for they were about to undertake something which the magistrate himself would have shrunk from if he had been in their place. after thinking a moment mr. howard drew nearer to the judge. "you spoke of fining that boy just now," said he. "what is there to hinder you from shutting him up for three or four days? if the rebels are to be held within bounds, i don't know of a better way of doing than that." "that is what i think," whispered the magistrate. "but you can't do that for assault and battery. if you could prove that he tried to kill james, why then----" "how do we know that he did not try to kill him?" asked mr. howard. "he knocked him down and there he let him lie." "well, we will see about it when he comes. i will shut him up if i can." meanwhile the two constables had gone on toward caleb young's house, where they found his mother, who was overcome with alarm when they told her that they had come for the purpose of arresting her son. caleb was not at home, she said; she had not seen him since that man brought the news of the battle of lexington. she guessed he was down at crosby's house; but what did they want to arrest him for? the constables gave her no satisfaction on this point, but came out and hurried toward enoch's. they entered without ceremony[ ] and found caleb seated at the table with his friend enjoying breakfast. he had left home before breakfast was ready. [footnote : the constables were not in the habit of knocking at a private house. they heralded their approach by the command: "open in the name of the king!" and then went in and did their business.] "ah! here you are," said kelly. "come on. we want you." it was just what caleb expected. the boys had been obliged to tell mrs. crosby that they had a skirmish with james howard in front of the house, because she knew it all along. the tussle that enoch made in getting caleb into the house had told her that there was something unusual going on, and she was anxious to know all about it. "i am ready," said caleb, "at any time you are." "caleb, you did not kill him?" exclaimed mrs. crosby. "oh no," replied caleb, with a laugh. "i told you that i just knocked him down. it will teach him better than to talk of hauling honest boys up with a rope." enoch had sat there talking with caleb while the latter was eating his breakfast, and had never thought of saying a word; but when he saw his friend rise to his feet and pick up his hat, he took it as a signal that it was high time he was doing something. he jumped up and ran out of the house bareheaded and hurried off to find zeke lewis. he burst open the door without waiting to knock, and caught zeke in the act of picking his teeth after enjoying a comfortable breakfast. "say, zeke, the tories have come to arrest caleb!" said he, so impatient to tell what he knew that he could scarcely speak the words plainly. "do tell!" exclaimed zeke. "what has he been a-doing of?" "he knocked down james howard," said enoch. "serves him right. he has been saying something that he had no business to say. what did he get out this time." enoch repeated the conversation that his friend had with james, and zeke all the time nodded his head as if he knew all about it. when enoch had finished zeke wanted to know how he could assist him. "they are going to fine him for hitting that cowardly tory, and caleb has not got any money," said he. "he will have to go to jail, and i will wager that that is where james wants him to be." "he ain't got no money, ain't he? well, i have been that way myself, and we will see what we can do to help him out." it was strange what an uproar the giving of a warrant for the arrest of caleb young made in the village. those "rebels" who had pushed their way out of the court-room while james was making his complaint had found plenty of friends to tell it to, and by the time they reached the street they saw any number of people, all hastening with eager footsteps toward the magistrate's office. when zeke and enoch arrived in front of the store, in the back part of which the judge held his court, they found the apartment jammed and the highway for twenty feet each way was packed full. "zeke," said a companion, "you don't get a show here." "i must," replied zeke. "i have got to see that fellow out." "well, get in if you can and if you want any help, just sing out." it was a matter of some difficulty for zeke to work his way through the crowd and up within sight of the magistrate's desk, but his size and weight had a good deal to do with it, and enoch kept close behind him. when he got near enough to the desk he could hear that the magistrate was talking to the prisoner. "and so you knocked james down?" was the question he heard. "yes, sir, i did," answered caleb. "he said that----" "i don't want to hear what he said," interrupted the magistrate. "i want to know what you did. you knocked him down and left him lying there. you did not care whether you killed him or not. i shall have to fine you one pound and costs." if the magistrate had said that he would fine caleb one hundred pounds he would have stood just about as much chance of getting it as he did to fine him one pound. caleb had never seen so much money in his life, and he wondered where in the world it was to come from. seeing that he hesitated, the magistrate went on. "if you cannot pay that one pound i shall have to shut you up for twenty days," said he. "you will then pay it at the rate of one shilling a day. i think if more of you rebels were shut up, we should have peace here in the colonies." zeke had heard all he wanted to hear. it was enough for him to know that the magistrate wanted to shut up the rebels for a while, and that was more than they had power to do. working his way further toward the desk he seized caleb by the arm and pulled him back by his side; after which he placed his arms on his hips and looked at the magistrate as if to ask him what he was going to do about it. "what do you mean by such work as that?" demanded the judge. "we have two constables here----" "i don't care if you have a dozen," replied zeke, and his composure was not in the least ruffled by what had happened. "that boy ain't a-going to be shut up, and, furthermore, he has not money to pay his fine. you know that as well as i do. the only thing you can do, judge, is to let him go." "hear, hear!" exclaimed one of zeke's supporters. "keep silence in the court-room," exclaimed the magistrate. "kelly, you and norton arrest the first man who interrupts me. zeke lewis, i will fine you ten pounds and----" "you will fine nobody nothing," said zeke. "come on, caleb. let us go home." "c-c-caleb, don't you stir one peg from where you are," stammered the magistrate. "norton, arrest him if he moves." he was evidently frightened, for it was all he could do to keep up a steady tone of voice. on looking around he could see no tories present except the constables. the others had gone out as soon as zeke made a move, and there was no one left to help him. zeke showed what he thought of the magistrate's order by pulling caleb's arm through his own and starting for the door with him. the provincials moved on one side to let him pass, and two or three of them gave him a cheer. the magistrate was utterly confounded. he called upon the constables to do their duty, but none of them moved from his place. a glance into the eyes of the "rebels" standing around was enough to satisfy them that they had better keep their hands off. that was the first rebellion that had ever taken place in machias. chapter vi. getting ready for the fray. "three cheers for zeke lewis and caleb young!" shouted one of the provincials, when they came out of the door and appeared upon the street. "no, no, lads," said zeke, raising his hand as if to stop the demonstration. "we have got him out of being fined or going to jail, but remember that we are not done with it yet. it will not be long before we shall see some british regulars up here to ask us what we mean by it. we have got to fight, and we may as well make up our minds to it first as last." "hear, hear!" shouted three or four of those who stood around him. "if the regulars come at us, we'll serve them worse than they did at lexington. three cheers for them!" the cheers were given in spite of what zeke had said, and some of them persisted in shaking caleb by the hand. they passed on, and in a few minutes were out of the crowd and started toward home. there were three of them who kept caleb company to see that he reached the presence of his mother in safety, they were mr. o'brien, joseph wheaton and enoch crosby. they did not have much to say about what had happened in the court-room, but caleb knew why they went with him. on their way to his house they passed within plain sight of the harbor, and the first thing that attracted their attention was the schooner margaretta, riding proudly at her anchorage, and flying the flag of england from her peak. zeke thought this a good time to exhibit his hostility to that flag, which he did by shaking his fist at it. "if it had not been for wheaton here, i would not have thought of taking that schooner," said he. "i had an idea that somebody besides you thought of that," said o'brien, turning around and shaking wheaton by the hand. "it did not sound like you in the first place, but, when somebody else proposed it, you went in strong for it. what was the reason you did not propose it yourself, wheaton?" "you see i have not lived here long enough to become acquainted with everybody as zeke has," replied wheaton. "i lived in new york until a few months ago, and i thought the proposition had better come from an older inhabitant. they might think that i suggested it just to hear myself talk; but it would be different coming from zeke." "that is just what he told me," assented zeke. "and i kept thinking what a fool i was not to think of it long ago. wheaton, when we get that schooner, you must haul down that flag." "i will attend to that," said the young man, with a laugh. "if the flag of england is going to wave over us as an emblem of tyranny, we want it pulled down. but the fact of the matter is, we have not got any other flag to be hoisted in the place of it." "no matter for that," said mr. o'brien. "we will have that flag hauled down, and that is all we care for. now, caleb, go in and see your mother." caleb was not a boy who had been educated, but he knew enough to thank zeke for what he had done; but zeke patted him on the back and said that was all right, and pushed him through the gate that led into the yard. "remember now, that when you hear the cheer to-morrow you are to come down and help capture that schooner," said he. "and bring every friend you see. we may get her without a fight." "no, we won't," replied caleb. "i know the most of those men who belong to her, and i know that they will stand by their captain. we shall not have as many men when we get back as we have when we first go aboard that schooner." "i know them, too," said zeke, raising his left hand and slapping the other with it with a report like that of a pistol. "but i would stick a pitchfork into my own brother if he were there and should resist me. we are bound to have that schooner." all were encouraged to hear zeke talk in this way and caleb said he "hoped so" and went in to see his mother; while enoch, who had left the table bareheaded, started homeward on a rapid run. he did not find his mother as excited as she ought to have been. she was sitting in her easy-chair with her knitting before her, and looked at enoch's flushed face when he came in as calmly as though he had been to the store for some groceries. "well," she said, and her voice was as steady as usual, "you have had an exciting scene there in the court-room." "what do you know about it?" asked enoch in surprise. "i just judged by your face," replied his mother. "how did caleb get the fine that the judge imposed upon him?" "that old tory did not get it," exclaimed the boy. "i tell you we have got up a rebellion now, and we may have some soldiers to settle with before we get through with it. it beats anything i ever heard of." enoch then went on and told his mother as nearly as he could what had happened there in the court-room. his mother's eyes flashed and she laid down her knitting. he even told her about the plans that had been laid for seizing the schooner, but did not neglect to caution her not to say a word about it where the tories could overhear it. "i have agreed to go too, mother," he added. "well," she replied, glancing up at the old flint-lock over the fireplace, "that rifle will have to be cleaned up. and you will need some bullets, too. remember that when your father drew on an indian after he came out of the service, he was always sure to bring him." "and if i pull on a redcoat with that gun i don't believe he will do any more shooting at our side of the house," said enoch, getting up in a chair and taking the musket down. "it is awful heavy, is it not?" "yes, and that's the kind it needs to bring an enemy down every time you get a sight at him. clean it up bright for the least little speck of rust in it will throw your ball where you don't want it to go. i hope the britishers will give up before you have a chance to shoot at them." "but if they don't--then what?" "you must shoot to hit. bear in mind that you had an uncle in that fight at lexington, and we don't know whether he was killed or not. he did not miss, either. every time he pulled on a redcoat he could tell right where he hit him." "of course i can't shoot with him; but, as caleb said, i can make a noise. i can handle the halyards of a sail better than i can handle this thing." the cleaning of the gun occupied enoch for the next hour, and finally he got it so that the water came through clean and bright without a particle of rust in it. he had been outside the kitchen door engaged in his occupation, and when he came in to tell his mother what he had done, he found her in front of the fireplace running bullets. "mother, you have no business to do that," he exclaimed. "i want to get all the balls solid, for if you run them in haste you will see little holes in them," she replied. "the bullets thus formed always go wild, and you cannot do good shooting with them. now, enoch, have you got some powder? that you have in the horn has been there for a long time, and i fear that it has lost its strength. you had better go down to the store and lay in a new supply." enoch thought that his mother would have felt a little happier if she had been a man, so that she could have taken part in seizing the schooner. he wished that that cheer would sound out now, so that he could go into danger with his comrades and see wheaton haul that flag down; but he checked himself with the thought that that cheer was not to sound until to-morrow. he wanted to show something else that he had done, so he continued: "i have picked the flint so that it will strike fire every time. just see how it works." he cocked the flint-lock several times and pulled the trigger, and each time little sparks of fire shot down into the chamber. the gun was all right. it only remained for him to hold it true so that the bullets would reach their mark. "that is right, my lad," said his mother, approvingly. "before we get through we will show the redcoats that they are making war upon their brothers. send one shot, enoch, to pay them for taxing that tea." enoch accepted some money to pay for the powder he was to buy at the store, and when he reached the street he saw caleb coming along as if somebody had sent for him. his face, whenever he met enoch, was always wrinkled up with smiles, and it proved on this occasion to be the news of what enoch had already passed through--the getting ready for the assault upon the margaretta. "i went out to clean the gun and when i came back my mother was running bullets," said caleb; and he rubbed his hands together as if he could hardly wait for the cheer to sound. "she thinks that some of us are going to get hurt." "i guess i have been through the same thing," said enoch. "i'll wager that if mother were in my place she would not sleep at all to-night. she told me to give them one shot and think of the tea they have taxed against her. hallo! here comes zeke. he walks as though he was in a hurry." "bussin' on it!" exclaimed zeke, when he came up. "i would like to know what the magistrate and jeems howard has been aboard that boat for. you see, we were watching that boat to find out whether or not she was going to stay at anchorage until to-morrow, and that's the way we happened to see them." "let them go," said enoch. "they have probably been telling the captain about our rebellion there in the court-room." "well, he can't do anything," said zeke. "if he turns his guns loose on the town----" "he can't do that," said caleb. "war has not been declared yet." "there is no telling what these britishers will do when once they get their dander up. but i was just saying, suppose he did turn them loose; we have got two four-pounders that we could bring to bear on the schooner, and make her drop down away from there. but i hope that he won't get away before morning. if he does, i shall be sorry that we did not attack her to-night." "where are you going in such a hurry, anyway?" asked enoch. "i am going down to see wheaton about it. if you hear that cheer sounded to-night you will be on hand, won't you?" the boys said emphatically that they would, and then caleb went on to tell him what they had done to get ready for the assault, not forgetting to give all the praise to their mothers. "that's right," said zeke. "if all the boys were as plucky as their mothers we would have easy times of it. i haven't got any gun to take; but i have a pitchfork handy, and you will see some red dust on it before this thing is over." "oh, i hope they won't fight," said enoch. "we will get a bigger crowd than they can show----" "i don't care how big our crowd is, we are going to have a fight," interrupted caleb. "i will wager that you will see some mourning in machias before the sun gets where he is now." zeke walked off laughing as if that was a story rather hard to believe, and the boys kept on their way to the grocery store. they found emerson miller there, but he was not so talkative as he was a little while ago. the boys did not like the way the storekeeper acted. he was leaning over the counter talking to emerson, but when the two entered he straightened up and moved back to the rear end of the store. "i guess you have got some powder, haven't you?" said enoch. "well, if you have, i want a pound of it." "i would like to know what all you fellows are getting powder for," said the man. "do you expect the britishers up here to-night?" "i don't know about that," said enoch. "but we intend to be all ready for them when they do come. we will serve them as badly as they were served at lexington." "you will, eh?" said the grocery keeper, turning fiercely upon the boys. "what would you do if the margaretta should cut loose on us and burn the town?" "we would whip her, that's all," replied caleb. "she can't do it. she must wait until war is declared before she can do that." "i don't know whether i will give you any powder or not," said the man. "you boys act almost too independent." "just as you please, sir," retorted enoch, while caleb was angry in an instant. "if you don't want to sell us any powder, you can say so." "i will give you some this time, but if you come in here any more you don't want to be quite so bold in regard to what you would do and what you would not," replied the man; but enoch rightly concluded that this was not his reason. if he refused to give him what he called for, how long would it be before all the provincials in the village would hear of it and come there to see him about it? and if zeke came he was sure that he would not escape without a whipping. he went and got the powder, while the two boys stood looking at each other in amazement. when the article was done up enoch paid for it and the two left the store. chapter vii the bucket of yeast. "say," whispered caleb, as soon as they were out of hearing of the store, "that ledyard barrow is a tory." "that is just what i have been thinking myself," replied enoch, who was so surprised that he hardly knew what he said. "we have got to be awful careful about this thing or it will get out on us in spite of all we can do. i did not say anything wrong while i was talking to him, did i?" "no, indeed, you did not. the first thing you know we will have tories all around us, and the next thing will be for that vessel to trip her anchor and go farther off down the bay. say, enoch, i shall have to borrow a little of that powder of you until i can have--" "you may have it," interrupted enoch. "there is more here than i want. but to think that we have unearthed another tory. that is what gets to me." "it looks to me as though every neighbor was going to have to fight the man who lives next to him," said caleb, taking off his hat and scratching his head furiously. "well, i would rather they would make themselves known so that we may know just what we have to expect. i wish zeke would happen along here just now. i would like to know what he thinks about it." but zeke had business to attend to where he was, and the boys did not get a chance to speak to him that night. when they came to caleb's house, enoch turned in with him to give him what he thought he should want of the powder, and found caleb's mother engaged in knitting with her bible open on her knee before her. the boys looked for success in the size of their crowd to enable them to overcome the schooner's crew, while mrs. young, like enoch's mother, looked for it to a source from which it was sure to come if she asked for it in the right spirit. enoch hastily took off his hat when he entered the house. the presence of that open book upon her lap called for all the reverence he was capable of. "well, enoch, are you one of the few who have agreed to take the margaretta?" said mrs. young, greeting him with a smile. "i hope you have got your gun cleaned up, for caleb thinks there is bound to be a fight." "i don't _think_ so mother," answered caleb. "i _know_ so. machias is all right now, that is, there is not any mourning here, but you will see some when we get that schooner." "when it does come we shall have the satisfying knowledge that we tried to do our duty," said enoch. "you forget that there is a penalty for piracy," said mrs. young. "no, i don't," said enoch, promptly. "they will have to capture every provincial in town before they can begin hanging us. when they try that, you will see a fuss here in machias." "that is right, my boy," said the mother, reaching up with the endeavor to pat enoch on the head. "if you undertake this thing, i hope you will come out safely." caleb had by this time produced his powder-horn, and enoch proceeded to give him half the quantity he had purchased. when he had filled it half full caleb put in the stopper and slapped the horn into his open palm, giving enoch a mysterious wink as he did so. enoch had no trouble at all in interpreting that wink. by it caleb said that when he was face to face with the schooner's crew he would get at least one shot, if he did not get any more; and enoch knew what he meant by that. he was almost sure of the redcoat he pulled on, and there would be one less for them to encounter when the order was given to board her and clear her deck. "but, caleb, we don't know who our captain is," said enoch, giving utterance to the thought that had been uppermost in his mind ever since the capture of the schooner was proposed. "i don't care for that," said caleb. "when we get to work everybody will be captain. we all want the schooner, and the one that does the most is the best man." enoch was obliged to be satisfied with this, and as there was nothing further to detain him he made his best bow and went out. the boys now had nothing to do but various little jobs around the house until the sun rose the next morning. enoch did carpenter work, fitting some chinking into the walls where the winter's cold came in during severe weather, and caleb cut some wood and brought it into the house for fear that to-morrow night he might not be there to attend to it. "there is nobody except me that knows we are going to have a fight before we can claim that schooner," said he, as he paused with his ax raised in the air and glanced toward the place where the margaretta was lying at her anchorage. "because we have always been friendly with those boys it is no reason why they will not fight us when they see us coming. i know what i should do if i was there." with this thought caleb drove the ax into the log with all his force as if he felt that there was some enemy in there and he wanted to get rid of him, and then his mother called him to supper. he looked up and saw that it was getting dark. he put his ax away in the woodshed and went into the house, and when he was through with his meal his mother said to him-- "caleb, i wish you would take that little tin bucket from the third nail behind the door in the buttery and go over to mrs. crosby's, and ask her if she can spare me some yeast for to-night. i want to bake some bread early on monday morning, and i should thank her for a little." caleb at once put on his hat, took the bucket from the third nail in the pantry, bid his mother good-by, and went out. what a difference there was between him and the boys who flourish in our time! boys in our day would say "yes, ma'am," and loaf around and wait until they got a good ready to start; but to caleb, his mother's command had to be obeyed right away. he struck up a whistle when he went out, one of those old-fashioned songs that boys do not know in our day, telling himself in the meantime that it was about as dark as he ever saw it. but caleb knew the way, and he went on his road without a misstep. he arrived at mrs. crosby's house, made known his errand and came away again, not forgetting to exchange ideas with his friend enoch about the cheer that was to sound on the morrow. "i have not heard anything like a cheer since i have been out of the house," said caleb. "if i had heard it, you would not have seen me here. the fun will begin to-morrow when we follow them into the church. i hope we shall not do anything wrong by arresting them in their seats." "mother has not said a word about it, so i guess it is all right," said enoch. "it will show them that we are in earnest." caleb struck up another whistle and went on his way, and he had almost reached his home when something startling occurred to him. a man suddenly appeared before him and barred his way. caleb stopped and waited for him to make known his object, but seeing that the man did not speak, he turned out to go by him when the man suddenly reached out his arm and brought him to another standstill. "don't be in too big a hurry, my lad," said he, and it shot through caleb's mind on the instant that he must be a seafaring man, for the tone of his voice indicated it. "you don't know where caleb young lives about here, do you?" "well, if i do, that is my own business," replied caleb, once more making an effort to leave the man behind. "why don't you go to some house and inquire?" "because i think you are the man we want to see," was the reply. "come on, boys. keep still now, or it will be worse for you." in an instant three other men appeared as if they had risen from the ground, and caleb became aware that he was in the hands of the tories. it was too dark to see whether or not the men were armed, but something that stuck out by their sides made him think that each of them had a cutlass strapped to him. "look here," said he, backing off a pace or two. "do you mean to arrest me?" "we will tell you about that when we get you aboard the vessel," said the man who stood in front of him. "you rebels--head him off, lads. knock him down." the words "rebels" seemed to quicken caleb's ideas. he saw it all now. he was to be arrested and taken on board the margaretta and be taken off somewhere so that the magistrate could collect the fine he had imposed upon him. to think with him was to go to work. as quick as thought he ducked his head, not forgetting to throw his bucket loaded with yeast full into the face of the officer, for such caleb took him to be, and dodging the grasp the man made at him he ran furiously toward his own gate. but he had to deal with men who were as cunning as he was. a fourth man, who stood a little distance behind the officer, clasped him in his strong arms before he had made a dozen steps and threw him to the ground. "help!" shouted caleb, with all the power of his lungs. "stop that noise; quick!" exclaimed the officer. "choke him down." caleb did not have time to say all he meant to say when he lifted up his voice in shouting for help, for at that moment the man who had thrown him down changed his grasp from his arms to his throat, and the boy was rendered powerless. it was but the work of a few seconds to tie his hands, and scarcely more to jerk him to his feet and start him down the road toward the harbor. caleb went because he could not help himself. two tories followed close behind him. each one had hold of his collar, which was drawn so tight that he could not utter a sound. a boat that was drawn up on the beach was ready waiting for them, and caleb was thrown into it and dragged aft until he was brought up by the stern-sheets. the man whom he took to be an officer turned out to be one sure enough, for he took his seat beside caleb and went on brushing his coat with his handkerchief to wipe off the yeast. "i will get even with you, my lad, before we get to new york to pay you for throwing that stuff at me," said he, with something that sounded like an oath. "what was it, you rebel?" "it is something that won't hurt you any," replied the prisoner, striving to get his throat in order so that he could speak plainly. "what was it, i ask you!" said the officer, kicking caleb with his foot. "do you hear?" "it is nothing but yeast," said caleb. "i hope it will _raise_ you up so that it will put a little sense into your head." it was evident that the rough treatment to which he had been subjected had not taken all the pluck out of caleb young. the officer was astonished and gave him three or four kicks in the ribs to show that he did not admire such talk; but the position in which he lay, together with the narrow limits of the boat, rendered the kicks comparatively harmless. "shove off," commanded the officer. "give-away strong and let us get rid of this rebel as soon as we can." in a few minutes the boat was alongside the schooner, where they found captain moore and the other officers waiting for them. a lantern held over the side showed them that the officer had not come back empty-handed. "you got him, did you?" said the captain, and his voice sounded very unlike the polite tones in which he was accustomed to greet the villagers who came there to see him. he did not live in machias, but he had been there so often that he was pretty well known to all the towns-people. "yes, sir, i have got him," said the officer, touching his hat. "and the rebel threw a bucket of yeast on me when i took him." "well, you will pay him for that when we get him to new york," said the captain. "hoist him up here." this was the worst part of the treatment to which caleb had thus far been subjected since his capture. two of the boat's crew seized him, one at the head and the other at the feet, trying to take him by the clothes but not being particular if they caught up flesh with them, and raised him over their heads, from which position he was received by two more aboard the schooner, who hauled him over the rail and deposited him on the deck as if he had been a log of wood. "you have got his hands tied, have you not?" said the captain. "well, release them, and bo'son bring up a set of bracelets and put them on him." "do you treat all your prisoners this way, captain?" asked caleb. "we treat all rebels this way," was the answer. "the next time you do anything to bring you a fine, be sure you can pay it." "but, captain--" began caleb. "that's enough," said the captain, fiercely. "i know what you have done and so do you. if you talk any more to me i will put a gag in your mouth." caleb did not know what a "gag" was, but he came to the conclusion that it was something to add to his punishment, and so he did not say anything more. chapter viii. under way. the boatswain speedily returned with the "bracelets" which he had been sent to bring, and by that time some of the crew had untied his hands. they proved to be irons, one for his wrists and another for his feet. in less time than it takes to tell it the irons had been put on and now caleb was a prisoner, sure enough. "now, then, take him down and put him in the brig,"[ ] said the captain. "see to it that he does not get anything to eat or a drop of water to drink to pay him for insulting his majesty's officer by throwing a bucket of yeast at him." [footnote : the brig is a small, dark apartment on board a vessel in which culprits are confined.] captain moore acted as if he were mad about something, and for fear of the "gag" with which he had been threatened caleb was unable to say a word to him. the boatswain took him by the arm and hurried him forward. the prisoner was pushed rather than led down the gangway to the brig, which was ready to receive him. he saw that the grated door was open, and when he came opposite to it he was shoved headlong into the dark, not knowing where he was going to bring up. but the brig was not deep enough to permit him to fall. by putting his manacled hands in front of him he brought up against the bulkhead with stunning force, and for a moment he stood there not knowing where he was or what to do. [illustration: he was shoved headlong into the dark.] "there, you rebel," said the boatswain, "i guess you will stay there." the door was closed and locked behind him, and then caleb turned about. there was a lantern outside which threw its beams into the brig, and by their aid caleb was enabled to take a view of his prison. it was about six feet square, large enough to hold all the members of the schooner's company who were liable to be put there for various misdemeanors, and there was not a thing in the way of furniture in it--no stool to sit down on and no bed to sleep on. caleb drew a contrast between that room and his plainly furnished little apartment at home and drew a long-drawn sigh. "yes, i guess i will stay here," said he, as he seated himself opposite the door so that he could see all that was going on on deck. "am i a rebel because zeke lewis would not let that magistrate fine me? the magistrate did not care what james said, he wanted to know what i did; and if that is justice i don't want to see any more of it. and i must go to new york. and what is going to become of mother in the meantime? i tell you, i hope that the boys' attempt on this schooner to-morrow will be successful. how i can pass the night waiting for them i don't know." the first thing that attracted caleb's attention was that his irons were too tight. they pinched him in every way that he could place them, and he first tried to get them off; but his hands were too big. he did not think he could live that way until he got to new york, and he appealed to the first sailor that came along to take the irons off and replace them with some others; but the sailor smiled grimly and shook his head. "you threw some yeast at the officer, did you not?" said he. "he tried to take me while i was minding my own business," said caleb. "you would have done the same thing if you had been in my place." "well, you had better let the irons alone. they don't pinch half as hard as the rope will when you get it around your neck." here the sailor turned his head on one side and made a motion with his right hand as if he were pulling something up with it. "i will not be hanged for that, i tell you," said caleb. "if the officer wanted me, why did he not come up to the house and arrest me?" "you have insulted one of his majesty's officers by throwing that stuff on him, and you don't get anything to eat for a day," said the sailor as he turned away. "you will be hungry before you get your next meal." "then i have nothing left for it but to go to sleep," said the prisoner to himself. "that is, if i can go to sleep. if i was master of a vessel i would not treat a captive in this way." that was a long night to caleb, but he picked out as comfortable a position as he could on the brig's floor and fell asleep while thinking of his mother and enoch crosby. he was as certain as he wanted to be that enoch and zeke would turn the village up side-down to find what had become of him, and when they had made up their minds that he was on board the schooner, they would not rest easy until they had rescued him. he was aroused by the changing of watches, and then he did not know anything more until the boatswain called all hands in the morning. he straightened up and took his position opposite the door where he could see the crew as they passed to and fro engaged in their duties of the ship. he knew when the decks were washed down, and when they went to breakfast. there was a mess chest standing on the deck right where he could see it, and the tories took no little delight in biting off their hard-tack and eating their corned beef before him. but caleb knew that there was no breakfast waiting for him, although he was as hungry as he ever had been. after breakfast the decks were swept down, and then an order was passed which caleb could not understand; but he soon became aware that the crew were getting ready to go ashore. it was sunday, and of course the men dressed in white on that day. pretty soon an officer passed, and he was got up with all the gold lace that the law allows, but he paid no attention to the prisoner. presently a boat was called away, and then another, and caleb could hear the men scrambling down the side in order to get into them, and he knew that the crew had left barely enough men on board to look out for the safety of the vessel. what a time that would be for the men on shore to capture her! while he was thinking about it a sailor came up alongside the grating which formed the door, and after looking all around to make sure that no one was watching him, he put his hand into his bosom and slipped a small package in to the prisoner. "there you are," said he. "eat your fill." the sailor moved away as quickly as he had come, and caleb was not long in taking care of the bundle. he took it back out of sight, so that if any one chanced to look in to see what the prisoner was doing, he would not have seen him eating the contents of the package. for there was a good breakfast in there, and how the man had managed to steal it was something that caleb could not understand. "i wish i had taken a good look at him," said caleb, with his mouth full of hard-tack and meat. "i believe that when the attack is made, and it will not be long now, i can do him a favor. he is not a tory. he belongs on our side easy enough." caleb did not want as much to eat as he thought he did, for he stopped every few minutes to listen. but he did not hear any sound to indicate that an attack had been made on the schooner's crew, nor any cheer to tell him that all was ready. an hour passed--such an hour as that was, caleb hoped he should never live over again--and then hoarse commands were heard on the deck and then a commotion arose which was greater, if possible, than when the boats were called away. the prisoner arose hastily to his feet and pressed his face close to the grating to see if he could discover anything that created such a hubbub; but he could not see anything. but the men were all on deck, and pretty soon he heard the dropping of hand-spikes and the dash of ropes above him as if the crew were getting ready to train a gun upon the town. "bussin' on it!" whispered caleb, who was so excited by what he heard that he repeated zeke's favorite expression before he knew what he was doing. "it has come. the boys have made the attack and i shall soon be free. there are two persons i want to remember; one is the boatswain who threw me into this brig, and the other is the man who gave me my breakfast. it is coming sure enough." after the men had got their gun trained, for caleb was certain that was what they were doing, there was silence for a few minutes, and then he heard the splash of oars in the water. he heard captain moore's voice pitched in a loud key, and then he was sure that all of the crew who had gone off in the boats came aboard. that was something for which he could not account. if the attack was made it had failed, and the crew were on the lookout. "now, it is mighty strange how those men came aboard," said caleb, to himself. "and what was the reason they did not arrest them there in the church?" if caleb had been in the habit of using strong language he would have used it now, but he did nothing but stand there and wait. the men had taken the alarm, there could be no doubt about that, for presently he heard the vessel moving a little as if springs had been got out to her cables, and she was being moored broadside to the town. "i wonder if they are going to fire on the village?" said caleb in great alarm. "if she does, i wonder what will become of my mother? why can i not escape?" he seized the grating with both hands and exerted all his strength upon it, but, although he could make the gate rattle, the locks still held firmly in their place. fifteen minutes passed in this way, and then he heard a roar over his head as if heaven and earth were coming together. another followed it, and the prisoner, firmly believing that the schooner had opened on the town, for the purpose of setting it on fire, left the grating and seated himself once more in the further end of the brig. the firing continued--how long caleb did not know; but he realized that he was shutting his ears to all sound of the guns. "this thing has commenced war with me at any rate," said he, to himself, "and if i ever get free and have a gun in my hands that i can use, i will kill a person for every person in machias that has been struck by their shells." finally the firing ceased, and a sound was heard like a man's steps coming down the companion ladder. when he came nearer caleb saw that it was the man who had given him his breakfast. "say," said he, in a low tone. "how many of them did you kill?" the man looked around to make sure that there was no one in sight and then replied-- "none of them. we just fired a shot or two over the town to show them that we are on guard. have you got some relatives there?" he added, noticing that caleb drew a long breath of relief. "i should say so. my mother is out there." the prisoner was about to ask him what was the reason the attack on the schooner had failed, but he happened to think that by so doing he would let out some things that zeke had cautioned him particularly to guard against; and another thing was, the sailor passed on about his business. he did not have time to exchange another word with him. "it is lucky that i did not have time to ask him about the attack on the schooner," said caleb, once more returning to his seat. "he is not a tory, but i don't know that he is friendly enough to us to keep still about it. now i want to know what is the reason i did not hear that cheer." caleb did not have more than two minutes to turn this matter over in his mind, when some more sailors were heard coming down the ladder. they proved to be the watch who had been granted shore liberty that day, and their business was to change their holiday clothes for their working suits. they worked as if they were in a hurry, paying no attention at all to the prisoner, and as fast as they put on their working clothes they ran on deck. some more hoarse orders greeted them, and this time they were followed by the creaking of halyards and the singing of men, which told caleb that they were getting the ship under way. in a few minutes the rattling of the windlass joined in, and by listening intently caleb heard a man ordered to the wheel. this was as much as he cared to know. he covered his face with his hands and for a moment groaned aloud. he was off for new york, he would be put in jail there for not paying his fine and there was no telling what treatment he would receive after he got there. and his mother too, who was wondering all this time what had become of him! he did not know what to think about her. enoch and zeke would have to look out for her, for the chances were that he would never come back. while he was thinking about it, a sailor passed by so close to the grating that caleb put out his hand and stopped him. "are we going to new york now?" he asked. at this moment an officer, who had stood a little back out of his sight, stepped into view. it was the boatswain--the very man of all others of whom he had learned to stand in fear. "look here, you rebel," said he, shaking his brawny fist so close to the grating that caleb instinctively drew back. "if i hear another word out of you i will start you in a way that will make you open your eyes." the prisoner released his hold on the door and retreated to the opposite end of his cell. he knew what the boatswain meant by saying that he would "start" him. if he had taken pains to cast his eye about the schooner's deck when he was brought below, he would have seen the dreaded "cat" suspended from the main-mast. its thongs were all knotted to render the blows more severe, and they were covered with blood. the "cat" had evidently been used upon somebody's bare back, and caleb did not want to bring it into further use. the only thing he could do was to keep still and let time show him what was coming. chapter ix. the "aggressive" tory. to say that the magistrate was intensely surprised by the rebellion that had taken place in his office, would be putting it very mildly. he was completely taken aback, so much so, that, when he saw the coat tails of the last provincial disappearing through the door, he settled back in his chair, let his hands fall helplessly by his side, and looked at mr. howard with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets. mr. howard was equally astonished. he looked around for a chair and sank into it. "this beats me," were the first words that he uttered. "it is a--a--revolution," said the magistrate, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face with it. "the spirit that animated those fellows at lexington has got up here, has it not? nolton, you are not worth your salt. why did you not arrest zeke when he started to move away with that boy?" "you told me to do my duty," said the constable, "and i thought it my duty to remain quiet in my place. i wish you had been in my shoes. if i had touched that man i would not have known what hurt me." "if i was a constable and sent here to preserve order, i would have arrested that man in spite of everything the provincials could do to stop me," exclaimed the magistrate, doubling up his huge fist and pounding the desk with it. "it is all owing to you that this rebellion, or whatever you call it, has got to such a pass. now what are we going to do? must we stand by and let those rebels run things to suit themselves?" "by no means," said mr. howard hastily. "there must be some place in the colonies where our men are strong enough to collect that fine of caleb. what is the use of the margaretta here?" "do you want to send caleb off to new york?" whispered the magistrate, bending toward mr. howard, while his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "i never once thought of that." "i mean just that and nothing else," said mr. howard, in the same cautious tone. "i would like to see those men get up a rebellion in the face of captain moore. he would blow the town out of sight." "i don't know whether i want him to try that or not," said the magistrate, doubtfully. "i have a house up here and i don't want him to put any shells through that." "it would be very easy for him to send his shells wherever he wanted them to go. i believe in going down and calling upon him right away. you may rest assured that you will not do any more court business while this thing is hanging over you. besides, the governor may hear of it and put another man in your place." "let us go down and see him the first thing we do," said the magistrate, getting upon his feet. "you men stay here until we come back," he added, turning to the constables. "we may have more work for you." "well, you just wager that you can do it yourself," said kelly mentally, as he helped himself to a chair. "i am not going around where zeke is any more." kelly looked toward nolton as these thoughts passed through his mind, and from something he saw there he made up his mind that he was not alone in deciding this way. it was very easy for the magistrate to send men into danger, but he took good care to keep out of it himself. the magistrate put on his hat and led the way toward the door, and mr. howard and the two boys followed close at his heels. they stopped when they got to the door and held a consultation as to whether or not they should let the boys go with them, but after a little talk they decided that james should go on board the schooner to show the captain the lump on his eye, which grew bigger and blacker all the while, and emerson, who saw the assault, should be a witness to it. "i want to let the captain see that i fined him one pound and costs for a reason," said the magistrate. "then he will think that i was doing my duty." they found a boat at the wharf just preparing to go off to the schooner, and the parties all got down into it. the sailors looked at james with surprise and something very like a grin overspread their faces; but they were too well-trained to ask any news. they found captain moore in his quarters, and he had his coat off and was lying at his ease on a lounge reading a book. he got up and looked his astonishment when he shook james by the hand. "a rebel did that," said the boy. "what makes you call him a rebel?" asked the captain. "has that affair of lexington got up here?" "yes, sir," said the magistrate. "and thereby hangs a tale as long as your arm. i fined caleb young for striking james, but the rebels got around him and took him home." "and did he not pay his fine at all?" said the captain in surprise. "no, sir. one rebel told me that the boy had no money to pay his fine, and i should not be allowed to shut him up either, so the only thing i could do was to let him go. the spirit of rebellion is bigger than one would think for." "well, i should think it was," said the captain, angrily. "when they begin to interfere with a magistrate for the work he does on his bench, it is time they were being hanged, the last one of them. what did you do then?" the magistrate began his story at once and told it through without interruption. at last he came to the point which brought him there. he wanted caleb arrested, taken on board the schooner, and carried to new york and given to some power that could enforce the law. and captain moore was the only man they knew who could help them in the matter. "do you want my men to arrest him?" asked the captain. "yes; and you will have to be pretty quiet while you are about it. don't let him shout for help or anything else, for, if you do, you will have the village on you before you can think twice." "well, things have come to a pretty pass," said captain moore, rising to his feet and walking up and down the narrow limits of his quarters. "do you know that you have given me something hard to do? if i can catch him outside the house all would be well; but suppose i should have to go in after him? then what will happen?" "you will have to take your chances on that," said mr. howard, who was more in favor of his scheme than he was before. the captain seemed willing to undertake it, and he determined that he should undertake it if he could bring any arguments to make him think that way. "it all rests with you," said the magistrate. "i have tried to enforce the law and could not do it, and now i leave it to yourself to determine whether or not you have any authority in the matter." "i don't suppose i have, if you really come down to it," said the captain, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. "but i shall depend a good deal upon those magistrates in new york. they are not very lenient with any one who tries to get up a rebellion here in the colonies, and the news of that battle at lexington will urge them to be severe on all who try it. i will do it, but you must keep still about it until after i get away." "you may depend upon us for keeping still about it," said mr. howard. "i want that boy fined, and i shall not spoil the thing by saying a word to anybody. at what time do you think the sloops will get loaded up?" "i shall be ready to start on tuesday. if i can once get him on board my vessel i will risk anybody's getting him away." "i knew i would some day get even with that fellow," said james, as he arose to his feet and put on his hat. "i think he will learn that a gentleman has a right to say what he pleases without being knocked down by some rebel." "i guess he will too, james," said the captain, laying his hand confidentially on the boy's shoulder. "let me get my hands on him once and i will teach him a lesson." captain moore put on his coat and accompanied them to the deck, and in obedience to his order the cutter was called away for them. the captain watched them until they had gotten ashore, and then intimated to his first lieutenant (he is called the executive officer in our day) that he had something of importance to say to him in his cabin. the lieutenant went, and was thrown into as great a rage as the captain had been when he heard of the rebellion in the magistrate's office. "now, hobson, i want you to capture that fellow to-night," said captain moore, in conclusion. "do you think you can do it?" "yes, sir," was the reply. "if those constables are afraid to attend to their business on account of the rebels i am not." "my advice to you would be that you go ashore and walk twice by that house and see how things are located there. you may have to go in in order to get him. i need not tell you that you have got to be very careful about it. you know the boy when you see him?" "oh, yes, sir. and i will take particular pains that he does not call for help, either." the lieutenant was placed ashore, and walking with his hands behind him, as if he were out for the air and nothing else, he bent his steps toward caleb young's home. when he came within sight of it he found caleb standing in front of the woodshed door, cleaning up the old flint-lock. he was evidently getting ready for another lexington affair if the british troops came near machias. at least, that was what the officer thought. "but you will be safe in jail, paying that fine of yours," soliloquized the first lieutenant, as he walked on his way. "i know now how i am going to work it. as soon as it comes dark i will go to his house and demand admittance in the name of the king, and when i once get my hands on him i will choke him so that he can't holler." the officer returned on board the schooner in less than an hour, reported what he had seen and the way he was going to get around it. he noticed that his shoes were covered with dust during his walk, and he pulled out his handkerchief and dusted them with it. his brand-new uniform was somewhat dusty, too, and that came in for a share of his attention. he was a good deal of a "dude," this first lieutenant was, and he took pride in looking as neat as if he had just come out of a lady's band-box. he did not think how his uniform would look when he brought it into the presence of the captain all spattered with yeast. there were some hours of daylight still left, but all the lieutenant had to do was to pick out the men he wanted to accompany him and give them their instructions in regard to arresting caleb young. one, to have heard his orders in regard to being quick and still about it, would have thought that caleb was a big and powerful man, and that it was as much as all of them could do to manage him. but the trouble was the officer was not so much afraid of caleb as he was of the people who would come to the rescue if he succeeded in giving the alarm. supper over the foremast hands enjoyed their hour given to smoking and song, and then the lieutenant came up from below with his side-arms on. this was a signal to his men, who promptly armed themselves, and in a few minutes they were pulling across the narrow bay toward a place where boats did not often land. it was to be a secret expedition all the way through, and when they got back aboard their vessel with their prisoner, they did not want anybody to be the wiser for it. "keep as silent as possible," said the officer. "you know caleb young better than i do, and if you see him close with him at once. we will give these rebels a lesson that they will remember." it so happened that the lieutenant drew up behind a tree in front of caleb's gate just as the boy came out with a pail in his hand to go after the yeast. it was so dark that caleb could not see anything, and he struck up a whistle and went on all unconscious of the danger that threatened him. as soon as he was out of hearing one of the men whispered-- "that's him, sir." "i know it," replied the lieutenant. "he has gone off on an errand for his mother, but he will soon be back. that's the time we will catch him." we have already told how desperately caleb fought for his freedom and how he called lustily for help; but it was rather chilly in the evening, being in the month of may, the people were gathered about the fires in their kitchens with the doors closed, and caleb's yell did not reach any of them. he knew that he was in the hands of the tories, but to save his life he could not imagine what he had been captured for. he was choked so violently that he could not utter a sound until he got into the boat, and then he did make out to reply to a question by the officer who was wiping the contents of his bucket off his uniform. in a very few minutes caleb had been lifted out of the boat to the schooner's deck, the irons had been put on and he was safely in the brig. chapter x. a visit to the jail. for a wonder the evening following the day on which the news of the battle of lexington was received, was an evening of "do-nothing" with enoch crosby. he could not perform any of the odd jobs about the house, he could not read, and under almost any other circumstances he would have regarded the time as wasted. the next day was sunday, and enoch and his mother were very much opposed to doing any work of their own on that day; but they remembered the parable of the sheep who fell into a pit on that day, and the owner had pulled him out and carried him home on his shoulder. so they took that parable to themselves, and thought enoch would not be doing any wrong by attempting to seize the officers of the schooner when they came ashore to attend divine service. "i tell you, mother, we are already standing on the edge of a much worse pit than the sheep of old fell into," said enoch. "if the king does not wake up and do something very soon, we are going to see a war here." his mother did not attempt to deny it. she nodded her head and went on with her knitting, while enoch got down in front of the fire as close as he could, rested his elbows on his knees, and gazed thoughtfully at the floor. his mother thought he was growing down-hearted, and that would not do for a provincial; so she began and related some adventures of which his father had been the hero after he resigned his commission and came out of the service. enoch listened intently, and now and then he heard something that made his eyes flash, and he really wished he could have stood beside his father with another flint-lock in his hand. when caleb came over after the yeast enoch detained him as long as he could, but that was not very long, for caleb was on an errand for his mother. he got the yeast, promised that he would be on hand when that cheer was sounded on the morrow, and went out. something, we don't know what it was, prevented enoch from taking up his hat and accompanying caleb to his home. if he had done so, we should have had two boys in that brig instead of one. the hands on the old-fashioned clock that stood on the mantle were beginning to come around toward nine o'clock, the hour when all good persons ought to be in bed, when there came a timid knock at the kitchen door. wondering who could want to see any of his family at that hour enoch opened it and found mrs. young on the threshold. enoch thought she looked uneasy about something, and without saying a word she stepped into the kitchen and ran her eyes all around it. she was looking for caleb, but she failed to find him there. "has my boy been here to-night?" she asked, in a trembling voice. "i sent him over to borrow some yeast of you----" "he got the yeast and went home," said mrs. crosby. "have you not seen anything of him?" "no, i have not," said mrs. young, groping for the nearest chair and sinking into it. "he has not been near our house since he came over here." "where do you suppose he is?" said enoch. "if i knew where he was i should have gone after him," replied mrs. young. "he does not generally perform errands in this way." "no," said enoch, who grew angry when anything was said against his companion. "he generally does your bidding right up to the handle; and he would have been at your house unless something has happened to him." "happened to caleb!" exclaimed mrs. young. "why--what----" "i don't know," replied enoch. "but you will remember that he did not pay his fine to-day." the women looked at each other but did not say anything. "now it has just occurred to me all on a sudden that that magistrate is going to collect that pound and costs of caleb in some way," began enoch. "and has he arrested him for it?" stammered mrs. young. "i don't know, but i can soon find out," replied enoch. "i will go down and see zeke about it." "be careful, my son, that you don't fall into the hands of the tories yourself," said mrs. crosby, when she saw enoch taking down his hat. "they have not got anything against me," said enoch, as he opened the door. "i don't know what sort of stories james has told about me, but i know that i took caleb away from him when he had him down. he can't say anything hard against me for that." "but you are not a tory, and that will go against you." enoch went out, making no reply, and he left two very uneasy women behind him. they were not frightened, for in those days it took more than a supposition to alarm them. mrs. young felt uneasy in regard to caleb, and mrs. crosby felt that way when she considered that enoch was going out there in the dark and perhaps would run into the very trap that had been set for his friend. "i can't help it," said enoch, as he closed the gate behind him and set off at a rapid run for zeke's house. "he must be in jail, but i kept my mouth silent in the presence of his mother." enoch took to the middle of the street, for he concluded that he would be safer there than on the sidewalk. it was dark, but enoch knew the way, and presently was standing on zeke's back steps. it was all dark in the house and that proved that the man he wanted to see had gone to bed; but this was too serious a matter to admit of delay. "with his fist he pounded loudly upon the door, and a voice from the inside immediately asked-- "who is that out there?" "it is i--enoch crosby," replied the boy. "you'll have to get up and help us again. caleb is in trouble." it did not need any second call to bring zeke out of bed and to his feet. he opened the door, saying as he did so-- "that caleb beats all the boys in the world that i ever heard of. what has he been doing now?" enoch replied that he did not know. caleb had come over to his house to borrow something of his mother, and he had never gone home with it. his mother was at mrs. crosby's now looking for him. "beyond a doubt he is in jail," said enoch. "you know he did not pay his fine to-day, and i will bet that that magistrate has arrested him and locked him up." "bussin' on it, i believe you are right," said zeke, hurrying on his clothes. "if he is in jail i wager that he will come out. come in." "i guess i had better stay out here. you will have to take a lantern with you, for it is awful dark." in much less time than it takes to tell it zeke presented himself at the door arrayed in his usual costume, but he had something else that he did not carry in the daytime. it was a huge club, and he had fashioned it after a style of his own. the club looked too heavy for one man to manage, but zeke handled it as though it were a walking-cane. in his left hand he carried a lantern which he handed to enoch. "you don't think there is going to be a fight, do you?" asked the boy. "if you do i had better go home and get my flint-lock." "there is no knowing what will happen," returned zeke, with a peculiar twist of his head. "suppose he is in jail, and the magistrate has brought up some of them fellows from the margaretta to act as his guards. i don't know that he has done it, but it is well enough to be on the safe side. now let us go and see the place where caleb was arrested. we may be able to find out something from that." "now, zeke, do be careful of yourself," said his wife, who was sitting up in bed. "you never heard of zeke being captured yet, did you?" asked zeke. "well, you never will." enoch, being provided with the lantern, took the lead down the sidewalk toward the place where caleb had struggled so hard for his freedom. almost the first thing he saw was the bucket which had contained the yeast. it was thrown up on one side near the fence, and was jammed in the side; but it was empty. "here is the place where he was caught," said zeke, taking the lantern from enoch's hand and carefully examining all the footprints in the soft earth. "now, are these constables' tracks or tories' tracks?" enoch did not know. he was all in the dark in more respects than one, and he forbore to express an opinion. "now, we will visit the jail," said zeke, starting off with one of his long strides which compelled enoch to strike a trot in order to keep up with him. "if he is in there he will come out." "where are you going to get some help?" asked enoch. "i do not want help. that old tory knows me, and as soon as he knows my voice he will open that door. now you mind what i tell you." in a few minutes they ascended the steps that led to the jail, but all was dark inside. zeke lifted his club and pounded loudly upon the door. it seemed as if the echoes would arouse everybody within hearing. an answer came from the inside, but it was not such a one that suited zeke. "go away from there!" shouted a voice that was full of rage. "you are not a constable, i know, for they do not make such a noise when they come here. go away, now, or i will shut you up." so soon as this answer was received the club fell heavier than before; whereupon there was the creaking of a bed and the sound of bare footsteps on the other side of the door. "who's that on the outside there?" came the inquiry this time; and it was not nearly so full of rage as it was before. "it is me," answered zeke. "and if you want to see this door stay where it is, you will open it up pretty quick." "oh, zeke, is it you? i'll open the door directly. why didn't you tell me who you were?" "didn't i say he would open the door?" said zeke, hitting enoch in the ribs with his elbow. "he knows me." in process of time the door came open and zeke and enoch stepped inside of it. the tory was frightened, and he grew more so as he glanced at the club which zeke carried in his hand. "what do you want here at this time of night?" asked the jailer. "i haven't got but one with me here to-night----" "give me your keys," interrupted zeke. "now, zeke, is not that going pretty far?" asked the tory, who was really frightened now. "you know i haven't any right to give you my keys----." "give me your keys," said zeke in a louder tone, at the same time seizing the jailer by the collar with one hand while with the other he raised his club and held it over his head. "this is the last time i shall ask you." [illustration: "give me your keys," said zeke.] "of course if you are bound to have the keys there they are," said the jailer, going to his bed and feeling under his pillow. "you will remember that i give them up to you because i had to----" "that is all right," said zeke, who had kept close by his side. he threw the pillow off as the jailer felt under it, and there lay two heavy horse pistols, of which he took immediate possession. "i will leave these things on the other side of the way and you can easily get them after we go away," he added, as he pushed the weapons into his pocket. "now let us see if our man is in here." "who are you looking for?" asked the jailer. "there is not but one man in here, and he was put in for being drunk." zeke did not delay his search for what the jailer had said. he might be telling him the truth and then again he might not. he found the key which gave entrance into the cell-room, the doors of which were all open with one exception, and that one confined a prisoner. enoch and zeke were so surprised that they could not express themselves in fitting language. they looked at each other for a minute or two and then zeke said: "bussin' on it, caleb is not here." "are you speaking of caleb young?" asked the jailer. "i have not seen him. i did hear that he would be here to keep company with me to-night because he could not pay his fine which the magistrate imposed upon him, but i have not seen him or the constable either." "well, he is gone, if it will do you any good to know it," said zeke, thoroughly at his wits' end. "and now the next question is, where is he? i got that boy in a scrape, and i am bound to find him and give him up to his mother before i quit looking for him. enoch, where is he?" "have you got through with your business here?" asked enoch in reply. "if you have let us go. i will tell you what i think of caleb's disappearance when we get outside." chapter xi. a plan that did not work. "good riddance to bad rubbish," soliloquized the jailer, as he stood in his door and saw enoch and zeke cross the way and place his horse pistols close against the fence. "i kinder reckoned on seeing caleb here to-night, but i am glad he didn't come. that magistrate has arrested him for not paying his fine, but where is he? go your way," he added, shaking his fist at zeke, who was hurrying down the street engaged in an earnest conversation with his young friend. "it won't be long before i will have you here, too." "now, enoch, where is he?" said zeke, after he had placed the horse pistols where their owner could easily find them. "he is not in jail; we know that for a fact." "no, but he is shut up all the same," replied enoch. "if we don't find him to-morrow the next thing we shall hear of him he will be safe in new york." "bussin' on it, what do you mean?" inquired zeke, profoundly astonished. "who is going to take him to new york?" "the margaretta." "whoop!" yelled zeke. "i can't make head nor tail of what you are saying." "the magistrate and mr. howard have gone to work and had him arrested," said enoch, confidently. "they know he would be rescued if he was put in jail, and so they have taken him aboard that schooner." zeke stopped in his walk and held the lantern up and looked searchingly into enoch's face. he saw nothing there but an expression of pain, and he knew that enoch was in earnest in all that he said. "and when they get him to new york are they going to put him in jail until that fine is paid?" asked zeke. "i believe that is what they mean to do. i wonder why they don't take him to boston; but then i suppose the schooner is not going that way." zeke lowered his lantern and resumed his walk with his eyes fastened on the ground. enoch did not interrupt him, for he knew that he was meditating on something. "well, then, there is not anything more that we can do to-night," said he. "i believe you have hit the truth on the head. now you go home and let your mother see that you did not run into any traps while you were gone. i'll go and see mrs. young, and tell her that her boy will be all right to-morrow. you will be on hand when you hear that cheer?" "yes, and i will be on hand no matter whether i hear it or not. if caleb goes to new york i am going to go, too. i will be around when you take those men out of their seats in church." zeke did not say anything in reply. he was thinking too busily. he raised and lowered his lantern three times in succession, just as a man-of-war does when she meets one of our vessels at sea, and hurried off. enoch watched him until he saw him go into mrs. young's gate, and then turned toward his home. "it come onto me all of a sudden and so i spoke it out," said he, to himself. "it is the neatest thing i ever heard of. if he had been in jail we would have had him sure, for i never saw zeke so mad as he was when he held that club over that jailer's head. i wish i could get just one word to caleb. he would know that folks were suffering here on account of his long absence." it did not take long for enoch to explain the situation to his mother when he got home. mrs. young had gone away before he came, for she kept thinking that caleb would get away somehow and that he would come home and find her gone. "she need not have worried on that score," said enoch, when his mother explained this to him. "he is in the brig on board that schooner, and he will stay there until we capture the officers to-morrow. good night, mother, i guess i will go to bed." this was all an excuse on enoch's part. he went to bed, but not to sleep. he felt as many an old soldier feels on the night preceding a heavy battle. he knew that he had to take chances of coming out uninjured, and the thought of what those dear to him might say and feel if he should fall, effectually banished sleep from his eyes. not once did he close his eyes in slumber, but he was up at the first peep of day and engaged in building a fire. it might be the last fire that he would ever set to cook his own breakfast with, but his mother did not see any traces of misgiving on his part. he greeted her with his regular morning kiss, and went about his duties as he always did; but his ears were sharply tuned to catch that cheer which he knew would be sounded before night. "now, mother," said enoch, when nine o'clock was drawing near and the dishes had all been washed and put away, "i guess i will go down to the wharf and see what is going on there. if caleb is aboard that boat he has got to come off. what would i do if that fellow was in a new york jail? the magistrate fined him that much on purpose. it is more money than caleb ever saw." "be careful, my son, that you don't get into trouble yourself," said his mother. this was all the parting that took place between them. enoch went without his gun, for he did not want to attract attention, as he would have done if he had had the piece on his shoulder. more than that, zeke had not told him to bring anything with him, and he concluded that there would be enough men on hand to arrest all the officers who came ashore to church. before he had left his home fairly out of sight he found zeke loafing about on a corner. it was not often that zeke spent his time in that way. he was generally going ahead as if he had some business to attend to. "good morning," said enoch, as soon as he came within speaking distance. "you see i have not brought my gun with me." "that's all right," said zeke. "are you going to help take those fellows out of the church? all right again. now i am here, and o'brien and wheaton are on the other corners, to stop everybody that is on our side and tell them not to show themselves about the church until after the officers get safely in. then when you see us three moving up, you can come too." "have you heard anything about caleb?" "no, sir, not a thing. you hit it right last night the first time trying. he is aboard that boat." "now, zeke, you must capture that boat the first thing you do," said enoch, earnestly. "i did not go near his house this morning because i did not want to see his mother." "i have been up there, and she had her book open and was reading it. she seems to find a great deal of comfort in that book. now you slip around behind some of these houses, but be sure that you keep me in sight. i will tell you when the proper time comes." "and when that time does come remember that you don't stop for anything. my friend is on board that boat." zeke smiled but said nothing. he did not have his club in his hand, but he felt as confident as though he had it. enoch obeyed orders and sauntered out on a street which led him away from all sight of the church and the margaretta; but he took care to keep zeke's figure in sight. he found some other men there, too, who were there with the same object that he was, and one and all knew that caleb was a prisoner on board the margaretta. they were highly indignant over it, too, and enoch told himself that if they acted that way when they made the attack on the vessel, caleb would not remain a prisoner much longer. it seemed hard that, after taking so much pains to have their plans work correctly, they should turn out a failure at last. it all happened through the enthusiasm of that man, zeb short, who had been taken to task for saying that he did not believe in fighting the schooner's company. zeb was true blue; there was no doubt about that. but he did not obey the orders he had received and keep out of sight of the church. he sauntered around through the back streets, but he came back to the church as soon as possible, and loafed around there, watching all the people who went in. nobody had ever seen him go near a church before, and consequently their curiosity was excited. but zeb paid no attention to that. he was going to capture those officers if it lay within his power to do it, and if it came to a fight, why, he would be there to lend a hand in it. at last the captain was seen, with his white knee-breeches, velvet coat all covered with gold lace and his queue neatly done up behind. the captain saw zeb there, and for a moment stopped as if he wanted to speak to him, but he thought better of it and passed on into the church. he was gone but a minute and then looked cautiously out again. where was zeb short? he was some distance up the road going with all the speed he could command toward the place where he had left o'brien a few minutes before. at the same time three or four other men, whom the captain knew to be provincials, came toward the church from in front, and they were walking as though they had business on hand. "it has come, and much sooner than i had expected," said the captain. "we have got to get out of here now." captain moore stepped back into the church and closed the door behind him. he looked in vain for the key, but it was not there, so he was obliged to let it go unlocked. he went into the body of the church with a quick step, and bending down he whispered some words to each officer he came to. in an instant the officers arose and followed him. the captain spoke to every man who belonged to his schooner, and when they had all gotten upon their feet, he moved down the aisle toward the preacher's desk. the latter had just gotten up to read a hymn, but he stopped when he saw all those men coming toward him. the captain knew his man, and forthwith stepped up and said some words to him, while an officer who belonged to the schooner kept on ahead and hoisted one of the windows. then he stepped out lively, and hanging by his hands dropped to the ground. the other members of the schooner's company followed close behind him, the captain coming last, and the minister closed the window after them. "here we are, o'brien," panted zeb short, breathing hard after his rapid run. "they are all in. i saw the captain go in just now. hurry up." "where were you?" asked o'brien. "i was down there in front of the church," said zeb. "i wanted to be sure that they all went in and that they did not leave anybody outside to keep watch." "were you not ordered to keep out of the way of that church?" asked o'brien hotly. "course i was. zeke told me to go around the back way, but i did not stay there. we have got seven men to capture, and since zeke told me that there is fifteen in our party, i conclude that we are going to take them very easily." "well, you have raised a fight by your heedlessness," said o'brien, starting for the church. "those men are armed, and of course they will not give way to us. you have got to fight now whether you want to or not." "i am there," said zeb, drawing himself up to his full height. "it might as well be on shore as on the deck of the vessel." "there is zeke now, and he has got wheaton with him," said o'brien. "do not say anything to him about what you have seen, for if you do, you will have a fight on your hands before you bargained for it." "for doing my duty?" exclaimed zeb. "you did not do your duty. it was your place to keep out of the way of that church, and you ought to have done it. here comes zeke now, and he has got most of the fellows with him." "are you all ready?" asked zeke, as he came up. "all ready. we had better get into that church as soon as we can. there are seven of them." zeke raised his hand as if to intimate that that was his idea exactly, and he started off with the full expectation that in less than five minutes' time he and his party would have the most of the officers of the schooner's company at their mercy. when he got within hearing of the church he would not allow a single man to speak to him, but raised his hand to enforce silence upon every one of them. he cast his eyes around to see that they were all present, then with noiseless footfalls ascended the steps and opened the door. or, rather, he laid his hand upon the latch and was about to turn and give his whispered instructions: "don't say a word to anybody but go about it quick and still," when one of his followers happened to glance over his shoulder and saw a sight that filled him with amazement and alarm. "here, here, what's this?" he almost shouted. zeke turned and about two hundred yards away he saw the officers of the schooner, running close together so as to protect each other and going their level best to reach the wharf. they were going at a rapid rate, too. zeke saw at a glance that pursuit was useless. chapter xii. different opinions. "bussin' on it, they are gone!" exclaimed zeke, with a disconsolate air. "now some one of you is a traitor. he told him what we were up to, and he went in to get his other officers and got out of one of the windows. now which one of you is it?" if there had been a traitor in that little company who had come out to capture the officers of the schooner's crew, zeke did not take the proper way to find him. he was about as angry as he could well get. he took off his hat, slammed it down upon the ground, and glared from one to the other of his band as if he were just aching for one of them to declare that he was to blame for it. "never mind, zeke," said o'brien, who was as much cut up as anybody to find that the officers had escaped them. "there is another day coming. remember that we have not given that cheer yet." "i know that," said zeke, picking up his hat. "but we don't want a traitor among us when we go off to capture that schooner. no doubt he will go to the captain and tip him the wink, and the first thing we know she will be out at sea." "let us go down and see what they are going to do," said o'brien, walking toward the wharf. "perhaps they are going to stay right there." "i will bet you a shilling that that isn't what you would do if you was commander of the vessel," said zeke, falling in by the side of o'brien and moving along with him. "you would let the sloops go." "no, i would not. if i were sent here to protect them i would stay with them until we were all captured. if the captain pulls up his anchor and drops down the bay, he will stay there until the sloops are loaded and ready to start." zeke made no reply; he was too indignant to talk. he walked along by the side of o'brien, and when they came within sight of the margaretta they found that there was something of a commotion on board. the men were running everywhere about the vessel in obedience to the harsh orders which came faintly to their ears, and presently the sound of dropping hand-spikes was heard, and a group of sailors were seen gathering about a gun which was pointed over the town. "they are going to shoot at us!" shouted three or four of the men in zeke's company. "let them shoot!" replied zeb short. "if we don't leave men enough behind us to make them pay for every drop of our blood that they will spill here to-day, we ought to be killed." not a man was seen who showed a disposition to run and find a safe place from the ball in the cannon which they knew would come flying toward them in a minute more. they all stood up, and although there were some pale faces among them, they waited with a dogged determination to see if the captain was going to shoot them down. another minute passed, and then there was a roar aboard the schooner and something passed above their heads so close that they felt the wind of it. another and another followed it, and during all this time zeke and his men stood there on the wharf in plain sight, resolved that they would not go until the schooner got through firing. but not one of the balls entered the village. they all went over it and were intended, as the sailor had informed caleb young, to let the citizens of machias see that the crew of the margaretta were on the alert. finally the guns ceased firing and the crew proceeded to secure them; and when this was done they turned their attention to something else. the schooner was too far off for them to hear the orders that were issued, but they saw the motions, and knew that the vessel was getting under way. she was not going to wait for the sloops after all. "bussin' on it!" exclaimed zeke, taking off his hat and throwing it on the ground beside him. it seemed as if zeke's hat was the first thing to stand his exhibition of fury whenever he got that way. he plucked it off and threw it as far from him as he could, and then was ready to go on with his grievance. "are they going to get under way sure enough?" stammered enoch. "you have been to sea often enough to know what 'stand by the capstan' means," retorted zeke. "of course she is going to get under way and let these sloops take care of themselves. you have seen caleb young for the last time." "don't put too much faith in what zeke says," said mr. o'brien. "that schooner is going to get under way, but she is only going to drop down a few miles where she can have more sea-room. do you know that caleb is on board that schooner?" "no, sir; but he is not in jail, and i don't know where else he could be. i believe mr. howard had him taken on board, too." "let us go with her and see where she is going to bring up," said zeb short, who felt very uneasy every time he looked at zeke. "perhaps we can make her surrender." "yes, you will make her surrender," said zeke, in accents of disgust; but all the same he arose, as the others did, and walked along toward the point which was about three miles off. the schooner fairly beat them in the race because she had her mainsail up by this time, and was going ahead as fast as a four-knot breeze could send her. the men kept her in sight until she rounded to under the point and cast anchor about a quarter of a mile from shore. "do you see that, zeke?" said mr. o'brien, cheerfully. "she is going to wait for the sloops. when they come down all ready to sail she will go on with them to new york." "i am in favor of going up and getting one of the sloops and attacking her," said enoch, whose eyes brightened wonderfully when he saw the margaretta come to anchor. "we can't get her in any other way." "i believe the boy is right there," said wheaton. "if we are going to take that schooner at all, we must go out to her in some way." a long discussion followed on this point, some were decidedly in favor of wheaton's proposition and some were not. every man had something to say, but without coming to the point, and before long the sun began to sink out of sight behind the hills. "well," said o'brien, jumping up and turning his face toward home, "you have settled the matter for one day at least; but when to-morrow morning comes you will surely hear that cheer. we will take a sloop and come down here and capture that schooner." "hear! hear!" shouted one of the men. "all of you who are in favor of going with us we shall expect to see down here," continued o'brien. "those of you who don't favor it, stay at home." "of course if you are going to fight the schooner, we shall go too," said another, who could not see the beauty of taking a sloop to go out where the schooner was and be licked. "when you give that cheer you will find us all ready." "i wish you had been as ready to-day as you say you will be to-morrow for we would have had that schooner in an hour from now," said o'brien. "i hope you will come prepared to do your duty." zeke and his friends walked home, but they did not say much during their journey. he and enoch were very much disappointed, and they began to think that the enthusiasm that some of their party had displayed was all put on for the occasion. they had the best of reasons for believing that caleb was a prisoner on board that vessel, and that a few more hours would find him safe in new york and that they would never see him again. they were more anxious to fight now than they had ever been before; and when enoch parted from him at his gate, zeke said: "that's what comes of postponing a dangerous thing like this. those fellows yesterday were all eager to fight, and you saw how some of them backed out down there at the point." "you are going to take that schooner, are you not?" asked enoch. "to be sure we are," said zeke, striking his palms together. "if there is one man left of our party, he is going to sail that boat into the harbor." "i am glad to hear you say that," said enoch, smiling and rubbing his hands together. "the only brother i have is aboard that boat, and i am bound to get him out if i can." "you keep your ears open and you will surely hear the sign," said zeke, impressively. "then you come a running." enoch replied that he would be there as soon as any of them, and continued on his way toward home. on the way he was obliged to pass mr. howard's house, and he saw somebody sitting on the porch whom he hoped he might never see again. it was the boy whose father had placed caleb a prisoner aboard the schooner. he was sitting on the porch with his wounded eye done up, and when he saw enoch approaching he got up and came down to the gate; but enoch noticed that he did not come within reach of it. he stopped just outside of the touch of enoch's arm. "well, enoch, you did not get them, did you?" said he. "get what?" said enoch in reply. "oh, i don't suppose you know that there was fifteen or twenty men who went down to the church this morning to arrest the officers of the schooner," said james, with a laugh. "i know all about it. you did not guard the windows as well as the door, and so they slipped out. you will have to be sharper than that if you hope to gobble britishers." enoch thought he had got all he wanted to know out of james, and turned to go on again, but before he had made many steps james called after him. "i have got something more that i want to tell you," said he. "how many of you did they kill when they opened fire on you?" "they did not kill any of us. they shot over our heads just to let us know that they were on the watch." "yes; and they could have wiped you all out if they had had a mind to. you want to go easy around that schooner, for they have got one of you boys there in irons." "you know that, do you?" said enoch. he drew cautiously up to the gate, but james was on the watch and he stepped back a pace or two. "yes, sir, i know it. the captain said he would arrest him, and he was not with you fellows down to the church; so he must be on board the schooner. he is going to new york, and he will find men there who are strong enough to make him pay his fine." "if you will just step outside that gate for one minute i will put your other eye in mourning, and then you will have two eyes just alike," said enoch, who was almost beside himself with fury. "no, i thank you," said james, with a laugh. "my other eye suits me exactly. you will get yourself arrested, too, if you don't look out. caleb will pay his fine at the rate of a shilling a day, and that will take him thirty days to square it all up. thirty days shut up away from home and friends and surrounded with men who don't like you, will teach him a lesson." "well, i will tell you one thing," said enoch, whose pale face showed how angry he was. "don't let me catch you outside this gate again. and when caleb gets back--he will be out before the thirty days are up----" "he will, eh? how is he going to get out?" "he will get out; don't you forget it. and when he comes back, you had better stay in the house unless you want your other eye tied up too." james did not say any more, for something enoch had said had started a serious train of reflections in his mind. he looked sharply at enoch for a second or two, and then turned and walked into the house, while enoch kept on toward home. "if caleb won't lick him i will lick him myself," soliloquized the boy, who was so excited that he could scarcely keep from going back and assaulting james in his own dooryard. "i don't know now how i kept my hands off him." "well, what did that young rebel have to say to you?" said mr. howard, as james entered the sitting-room where his father was. "did you tell him about caleb?" "i did, and he was as saucy about it as you please," said james. "he says that caleb won't stay in prison for thirty days, and when he comes out he will fix my other eye to be tied up, too." "he won't stay there for thirty days!" said his father. "what does he mean by that? they can't capture the schooner, for if she sees a boat coming out with a lot of men on board, she will slip her anchor and put out to sea. i guess he will stay there thirty days." "i guess i had better stay in the house altogether," said james, with an air of disgust. "i have made enoch mad at me, and he will beat me if he sees me on the streets." "why don't you let him punch you?" said mr. howard. "then we will have him shut up too." james did not see fit to answer this question. he looked at his father with surprise and then walked out on the porch again. chapter xiii. the cheer. when enoch reached home it was pretty near night. he found his mother there, engaged in her usual occupation of reading the book, and without saying a word she put it down and got up and embraced her boy as though she had not seen him for long months. "why, mother, you must have thought i was in some danger," said enoch. "you failed, did you not?" asked his mother in reply. "we failed from not surrounding the church as we ought to have done," said enoch, in a discouraged tone. "they went straight through the house, hoisted the windows behind the preacher and so got away; and we never saw them at all until they were so far away that we could not catch them. there were seven of them there." "i wanted to go out when they were firing at you but i did not dare. they must have hit some of you, of course?" "they did not try to hit us. they just fired over our heads, and then got the schooner under way and dropped three miles down the bay. i wanted that the fellows should capture one of the sloops and go out there and take her, but they would not agree to it. caleb is on that boat and he is in irons, too." "how do you know that?" "james howard told me so, and it was all i could do to keep my hands to myself. if those men are not any braver to-morrow than they were to-day, we will not capture the schooner." enoch said this with a despairing air, as if he did not much care whether or not the schooner were captured, and then asked his mother if she had anything to eat. he had not had a mouthful since early that morning and he felt the need of something nourishing. his mother replied by serving up the dinner which she had kept warm for him, and enoch sat down to it with an appetite which not even the discouragements of the day could wholly interfere with. he told his mother everything that had happened to him since he took leave of her in the morning, including his conversation with james howard, and by the time he got through mrs. crosby was as disgusted as he was. "it seems to me that by the time that schooner got under way to drop down the bay would have been a good season to have followed her up," said she, picking up the book again. "i am afraid that some of you are going to get hurt to-morrow." "do you believe that they will make an attack on her?" exclaimed enoch. "of course i do. such men as zeke and o'brien will not let this thing go by default." "i hope to goodness you're right. the first thing i do when i find myself aboard that schooner will be to keep my eyes and ears open for caleb young. i tell you i will be glad to see him." his mother's words put a little encouragement into his heart, but still enoch did not feel inclined to talk. he kept thinking of caleb all the while, but bedtime came at length, and he kissed his mother good night and went off to his room. he slept, too, for you will remember that he didn't get any slumber on the previous night. he did not know anything more until his mother opened his door and called him to breakfast. "i declare, mother, i do not often let you get up and build a fire," said enoch, as he opened the door and walked out on the porch to wash his hands and face. "you see--what's that?" enoch paused with his hands full of soap, which he had been on the point of rubbing on his face, and straightened up. faint and far off, but still distinct, came the sound for which he had been so long waiting. clear and loud above all came the voice of zeke, so penetrating that there was not another voice in the company of men that he had gathered that could imitate him. "mother, mother!" exclaimed enoch, drying his face upon the towel. "the cheer has come. i must be off at once." "you will not have time to eat any breakfast, so i will fix up a snack for you to eat as you go along," said his mother, walking briskly to the table. "there is a gun, my boy, that never misses its mark," she continued, as enoch mounted into a chair and took the old flint-lock down from its place. "don't you get it into any bad habits. may heaven send you back to me safe and sound." there were no tears shed on either side. enoch was going to do his duty as any union-loving boy might, his mother was encouraging him in it, and both of them hoped for the best. enoch slung on his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, seized the bite which his mother had put up for him, and rushed out to the gate; but he had not made many steps when he saw mrs. young coming toward him. her face was pale, but she did not act as though she had been crying. "the next time you see me you will see caleb," said enoch, never once slackening his pace. "he is aboard that boat and i know it. good-by." "oh, enoch, be sure and release caleb for me," said mrs. young. "remember he is all i have." "when you see me you will see caleb, too. i shall not return without him." enoch ran along, not going half as fast as he might, for he had his breakfast to eat on the way, and when he arrived opposite mr. howard's house he saw all of the family out on the porch listening to the cheer which every few minutes came as long and as loud as ever. enoch was going by without speaking to them, but hearing the sound of his footsteps james came out to the gate and stopped him. "what is your hurry?" said he. "where are you going?" "i have business on hand, and i can't stop to talk you," was the reply. "that cheer must amount to something, or you would not be in such haste to answer it," said james. "does it mean that all you rebels are to go down there? there goes another," he added, pointing to a man who just then came out of a house and started toward the wharf, carrying a pitchfork in his hand. "you men are going to get into trouble." "well, we are not the only ones who will be there," said enoch, shouting the words over his shoulder. "you think you are going to get that schooner, don't you?" yelled james, for the rapid pace at which enoch was traveling took him almost out of the reach of his (james') voice. "wait until you come back. the last one of you will be in irons." we do not know whether these words reached enoch, but if they did they had no effect upon him. having crowded all his breakfast into his mouth, he carried his gun at "arms port" and ran with all speed toward the wharf. when he came within sight of it he found that the good work was already going on. there were thirty men there at work at one of the sloops throwing her deck-load overboard, and on the shore were the crew, standing motionless with their arms folded as if they were prisoners. the first man to discover enoch was o'brien, who, with his coat and hat off, was busily engaged with the others in unloading the sloop. "here you are," said he. "go up there and take the place of one of those men as guards of the prisoners, while the man you relieve comes here and helps throw off this lumber. you have got a gun. is it loaded?" "no, sir; but i can very soon put a load in," replied enoch. "i will wager that it will stop any tory inside of two hundred yards," he added, stepping up alongside of a man who stood there with a club in his hand. "how long has this thing been going on?" "we have but just commenced," said the man. "when i came down here they were just bringing these men off as prisoners." "are we going to take the sloop and go out and capture that schooner?" "that is the intention." "well, mr. o'brien told me to take your place here now, and you go and help unload that lumber. i have got a gun, and there's a bullet that will hit anything that tries to get away from me." he held up the bullet so that all the sailors could see it, and then pushed it home. then he took up his powder-horn and proceeded to "cap" his piece, which he did by pouring a lot of powder into the chamber. then he brought down the slide, pushed his hat back and was ready for some prisoner to try to escape. "you fellows are going to get licked as sure as the world," said one of the captives. "you can't take that schooner." "what makes you think we are going to try?" asked enoch. "that is where you are going with that sloop. there will be some troops up here directly, and then you will all go in jail." "well, you won't have to go with us to keep us company," said enoch, with a laugh. "you are mighty right i won't," said the man, with something that savored of a threat in his tones. "i am on the side of england every day in the week. she will brush you rebels off on one side----" "hold on!" exclaimed enoch, bringing his gun to a "ready." "you must not talk that way while i am about. when we come back we will be on board that schooner." the man muttered something under his breath and then relapsed into silence; while enoch turned his eyes toward the sloop to see how far they had progressed toward unloading her. the lumber was tumbled off any way, some going overboard into the bay and the rest being piled up helter-skelter on the wharf, and finally zeke raised his voice and shouted-- "all you men who are going off with us to capture that schooner come on board here." "does that mean me?" asked enoch. "yes, everybody. come on." "what shall we do with the prisoners?" "let them go where they please," answered mr. o'brien. "they can't hinder us." "now mark my words, sonny," said the man who had been talking to him a few moments before. "i haven't got anything against you, but i really wish you would not go off with that sloop. you are going to be killed, the last one of you." "we will not be the first men who have fallen before british bullets," said enoch, shouldering his gun and starting for the sloop. "look at the ones the redcoats killed at lexington. we are going to have revenge for that." when enoch got aboard the sloop he found o'brien at the wheel and zeke was ordering the lines hauled in. after that the mainsail and jib were hoisted--that was the only two sails she had--a shove was given at the bow while the stern-line held on, and as soon as the wind took the canvas she moved silently away from the wharf. she seemed to know that she was going on a dangerous mission, for not even her blocks creaked as the sailors pulled at the ropes. "well, enoch, you are here, are you not?" exclaimed a voice at his elbow. "you have got your gun all handy, too." "yes, but where is yours, zeke?" said the boy. "you haven't got anything." "yes, i have," said the man, pulling out his club from behind him. "if ever this falls on a tory's head it is my opinion that he will see stars." by this time the sloop was squared around with her bow pointed toward the sea and, contrary to the expectation of her company, she took a bone in her teeth and settled down to an exhibition of speed that surprised everybody. they were sure of one thing: the schooner must go faster than they had ever seen her go before in order to escape. "but perhaps she won't depend on her speed," said enoch, when somebody made use of this remark close at his elbow. "perhaps she will stay and fight it out." "i hope she will," was the reply; and the man showed a pitchfork which he had brought to assist in whipping the schooner's company. "if one of them gets a prod with this he will know what hurt him." "now i want all you men to gather here amidships where i can see you. i have something to say to you." he spoke in a loud voice, and when enoch turned to see who it was, he found wheaton standing near the main-mast with his hat off. none of the men knew what there was pending, and one of them inquired, as he moved over to wheaton's side-- "what's up?" "i will tell you right away," said he. "thus far in this business we have got along without a leader. we have agreed to everything that anybody had to propose, because we thought his proposition the best; but now we are coming to a point where we need a single mind to direct us. there is one man i have in mind who has done more to assist us in a quiet way than anybody else, and if you don't care i will propose him for our captain from this time on. i will nominate mr. o'brien. those in favor of it will manifest it by saying 'aye!'" "aye!" burst from a score of throats. there was no need of calling for the nays on this question. as soon as zeke heard the vote, he elbowed his way through the crowd and took off his hat and made a very low bow to his newly appointed commander. then he laid his hand on the wheel, which o'brien readily gave up to him. chapter xiv. the chase. when o'brien gave up his wheel to zeke he also took off his hat and moved a step or two nearer to his men. then followed an outcry from the crew which anybody has heard who has been tempted to attend a political meeting in america, to-wit-- "speech, speech!" chorused all hands! "i have not much to say to you beyond this," said the captain. "we have come out here to capture that schooner, and we are not going back with that flag flying at her peak." "hear, hear!" shouted zeb short. "we haven't got any guns, so we will run afoul of her and board her the first good chance we get," continued the captain. "if any man tells you that he surrenders--i never expect to hear any such cry from any man now before me--let him go and help him up and treat him as you would like to be treated if you were a prisoner. when we get aboard that boat, if none of her company pull down her flag, wheaton is the man to attend to it. he proposed this thing, has suggested me for captain and he ought to have the privilege of handling the flag. that ensign has floated the 'mistress of the sea' and i don't believe that any body of men has ever pulled it down before. we will show them before we get through with them that it can't stand up before a 'flock of yankees.'" the cheers which greeted this little speech seemed to have raised the sloop fairly out of the water. when she came down again she settled to her work and went ahead faster than ever. by this time she had rounded the point of land behind which the schooner had run for safety the day before, but to the surprise of everybody her berth was empty. the schooner during the night had pulled out and chosen another place of refuge. it looked as though she had abandoned the sloops and left them to watch out for themselves. "well, zeke, what do you think of this?" asked captain o'brien, seeking advice of his steersman. that was not exactly the proper thing to do, but this was a household matter, everybody in the village was bent on capturing the schooner, every man in his crew knew as much about handling a vessel as he knew himself, and he did not see why he shouldn't go for help where he was most likely to get it. "they are afraid of us, cap," replied zeke. "there isn't any other place that i know of where she can run for refuge, except it is that little harbor about five miles up the bay. she may have gone in there." "why, she could not get in," replied the captain. "she draws too much water." "she can go in there if the tide is up, and she will have to come out pretty soon or we will catch her, sure," said zeke. "if i was you i would go up and take a look at that place." the crew had by this time found out that the schooner's berth was empty, and they all crowded around their captain to see what he thought about it. contrary to the custom in these days, the captain explained his movements when he brought the sloop about and headed her up the bay, and the men all agreed that that was the place to find her. up to this time enoch had found so much else to occupy his mind that he had not thought to take notice of the crew, but he proceeded to do it now; and the conclusion he came to was that the schooner was never in so dangerous a position as she was at that moment. there were thirty of the company, as we have said, and upon the face of every one enoch saw an expression of calmness, not unmixed with firmness, which showed that they were fully alive to a sense of the peril they were about to encounter. there were no signs of giving up. they had come out there with a purpose in view, and that purpose must be accomplished before they went back. everybody expected, to quote from caleb young, that there would be mourning in machias when they got through, but every one hoped that _he_ would get through. remember that they had no discipline, they knew nothing of that 'shoulder to shoulder' drill which caused men to do their duty wherever they may be, but they simply went into it to let those men, who had been engaged at lexington, see that they were not the only ones who believed in nipping british tyranny in the bud. "i believe we are going to capture that schooner," said enoch, moving aft till he could talk to the man at the wheel. "oh, you do, do you?" said zeke, letting go of the wheel with one hand and pushing his hat on the back of his head. "course we are. if you see anybody in this crew who dares to say that we ain't a-going to capture her, just take him by the scuff of the neck and drop him overboard. he ain't got any business to travel in this party." when they had accomplished about two miles and a half of the distance they had to sail, an electric spark seemed to shoot through all the company when somebody descried the schooner coming out of that harbor and drawing a bee-line for sea. captain moore had not neglected to take particular pains to insure the safety of his vessel. the tops of her masts were higher than the surrounding headlands, and the first thing he did when he came to an anchor there, was to send a man up to the mast-head to act as lookout. he saw the sloop when she was coming out of the harbor of machias, and forthwith informed the deck; whereupon an officer ascended to his side, and with a glass distinctly made out the company of hostile men on board of her, and he could even see the guns and pitchforks with which they were armed. captain moore instantly saw that he must not be caught in that narrow harbor, for if he was, his capture was certain. he must slip his anchor and get to sea; and the sloop's company saw her when she was two miles and a half away. a cheer long and loud greeted her appearance, and zeke, who had been crowding the sloop all along so that a man standing in her lee rail could have dipped up a cup of water at any time, strove, if possible, to crowd her still more. the sloop responded nobly, and seemed to have reserved some of her speed for just this occasion, for she went ahead faster than ever. "i tell you, boy, it is coming now," said zeke, and for fear that his hat might bother him he took it off and pitched it overboard. "we will soon see how much pluck they have got." to enoch, had the contest been a friendly one, it would have been worth going miles to see the race between those two vessels. it seemed strange, too, for an armed boat to run away from a vessel that had nothing bigger than a flint-lock aboard of her, but the thought of what was in store for them should they succeed in coming up with the schooner brought many an anxious face. but there was no sign of backing out. the men having had their cheer out began stripping themselves, and in a little while enoch could see nothing but sailors with a pair of overalls on. everything else had been discarded, and the men lay along the rail and waited for zeke to lay her alongside. "i just wish we had another sail," said captain o'brien, closely watching the distance between the two vessels. "i am afraid she is going to get away from us, but i will follow her clear to england before i will give her up." "no need of doing that," said zeke, crowding the sloop until a wave came in over the starboard bow. "she is gaining a little--a little, to be sure, but you will be aboard of her in less than two hours." for an hour the schooner and sloop remained about the same, one trying her best to escape, and the other striving by every means in her power to lessen the distance between the two. captain o'brien kept a close lookout with his glass, and finally uttered an exclamation indicative of surprise and joy. "captain moore knows that the jig is nearly up," said he, passing his glass to one of his men. "he is going to cut away his boats." another cheer broke out from the men who heard this, but they kept watch of the schooner, and very shortly saw, one of her boats fall into the sea. another and another followed it, until four boats, which were just so much dead weight on the schooner, were following in her wake behind her. up to this time the sloop had gained half a mile, but before she had gained a mile, captain o'brien, who had the glass again, told his men something else. "they are going to shoot," said he. "all you men forward lie down." this was what the captain was afraid of. the schooner could bring one gun to bear upon her, and if she kept up the shooting long enough, she might hit the sloop's mast and that would end the chase in a hurry. but the schooner did not shoot right away. she wanted to be sure that her pursuer was in good range before she expended a shot upon her, and so beyond training the gun the crew stood about awaiting the order from the captain to fire. "he is going to make sure work of us when he does shoot," remarked zeke, as he looked up at the sails to see that they were kept full. "i wish he would go a little bit faster--hal--lo! that's in our favor." while zeke was talking there came a sudden gust of wind, stronger than any that had preceded it, and the schooner's main-topsail went by the board. of course that did away with two sails, the main gaff-topsail and the main trysail, and her speed was lessened materially. the sloop began to gain at once, and while a portion of the schooner's crew went aloft to clear away the wreck, the rest gathered about the gun and seemed disposed to risk a shot at the sloop. "lie down forward!" said captain o'brien, sharply. "you don't obey orders any better than a merchantman's crew. some of you will have your heads blown off directly." some of the company obeyed and some did not; but the moment there was a puff of smoke from the schooner's stern they laid themselves out flat on deck. "it is no use telling us to lie down for such shooting as that," said one of the crew, raising himself on his knees and looking aft to see where the shell exploded. "i would stand in front of a barn door and let them shoot at me all day." "they have not got the range yet," said captain o'brien. "and besides they want to scare us." "there is some men in this party who don't scare," replied zeke, trying to crowd his vessel a little more. "i know that. i should be sorry to think that any of us would scare; but they will get the range pretty soon, and you will see blood on this deck." shot after shot continued to pour upon the sloop from the stern gun of the schooner, and every one exploded nearer her than the preceding one. finally a shot passed through her mainsail, leaving a big rent behind it, and before the crew had fairly comprehended it, another came, passed through the port rail and exploded just as it got on deck. what a moment that was for enoch! he lay right where he could see the effect of the shell, and two of the men jumped to their feet, gasped for a moment or two and then fell prostrate back again, and one other man set up a shriek. "i have got it, boys, and we have not got a doctor aboard," said he, in a voice that sounded as though there were tears behind it. "now what am i going to do?" "hold your jaw for one thing," said another, sitting up and beginning to pull up his overalls. "do you think there is no body hurt but yourself? look at that." this man was much more to be pitied than the other one, for a piece of shell had cut his calf entirely away; while the one that made so much fuss about it had simply a crease on the top of his head. the second one made all haste to get below, while the other accepted some pieces of the shirt which captain o'brien speedily took off for him and coolly proceeded to tie up his wound. "say, cap, i can stop that fellow shooting that gun," said one of the crew. "i can take his head off easy enough." "take it off then," said the captain. all became silent expectation as the sailor crept up to a convenient place behind the bulwarks, rested his long flint-lock over it and drew a bead on several men who were working about the gun on the schooner's deck. one man was engaged in swabbing out the gun. he had run the swab in, took it out and was rapping it on the edge of a bucket to get off any particles of fire that might adhere to it, when the flint-lock spoke. the man stood for an instant as if overcome with astonishment, then dropped his swab, threw his arms over his head and sank out of sight. "i did it, cap, didn't i?" shouted the sailor, who, like all the rest, was surprised at the accuracy of his discharge. enoch was greatly excited at the outcome of this shot, so much so that he got upon his feet. he told himself that if one flint-lock would strike a man at that distance another might do it, too, and when the man fell he ran forward and knelt beside the sailor who had performed such a wonderful exploit. chapter xv. hauling down the flag of england. "ah! you have come with an old flint-lock, have you?" said the sharpshooter as enoch knelt beside him. "do you think you can hit one of those britishers working about that gun? now look here: sight your gun right there," he continued, making a mark with his thumb nail across the barrel. "of course if they were in any reasonable distance that would throw the ball away over their heads; but we don't want to kill them so much as we want to scare them. now try it at that." enoch drew up his flint-lock and one to have seen him would have thought that he meant to shoot at the cross-trees. just then a britisher ran forward with a cartridge in his hand to insert in the gun, but enoch was waiting for him. the flint-lock roared, and the man stopped, dropped his cartridge to the deck and hurried aft holding his right hand as if he were very tender of it. the old sailor had made his sights just right. "that's the way to do it," he exclaimed, stopping in his progress of driving a ball home long enough to pat enoch on the head. "throw the balls about their ears. that will frighten them even if it does not hurt them, and what we want is to keep them from firing that gun. now let me see if i will have as good luck as i did before." "that is to pay him for capturing caleb," said enoch. "i wish i knew where he is now. i don't want to send my bullets into the hull for fear that i will hit him." the sailor tried it again and with just as good fortune as he had the previous time. another britisher caught up the cartridge and was going to put it into the gun, but he also dropped it and lay on the deck where he had stood. by this time all the sloop's men who had guns were congregated in the bow, and before they had all fired one round the gun was deserted. "i knew we would put a stop to that," said the man who had fired the first shot. "hold her to it, zeke. we are gaining on her." but captain moore was not yet whipped. he had three guns on a broadside which had not yet come into play, and all of a sudden his sails were let out and the schooner veered around to bring them into action. before he had got fairly into position three flint-locks roared and two men dropped, one dead and the other seriously wounded. but the captain took up the position he wanted all the same, and the order to fire came distinctly to enoch's ears. he thought he had never heard such a roar before as those little guns made when they were turned loose on the sloop. he thought his time had come, and held his breath expecting every instant to be his last. but the shells all flew wild. not one of them came near the sloop. the provincials straightened up and fired three more bullets at the men who worked the guns, but the schooner was so obscured by the smoke of her cannons that they could not see what havoc they had made. during this maneuver on the part of the pursued, the sloop had gained amazingly, and now they were within earshot of the britishers. thinking to avoid the further effusion of blood by prolonging the fighting captain o'brien called out-- "do you surrender?" "no!" returned captain moore's voice. "we will surrender when the last plank goes down." and captain moore showed that he was in earnest. almost with the words he lighted a hand-grenade which he carried in his arms, and threw it toward o'brien. it did not come half way to the sloop but it exploded with stunning force and gave the provincials some idea of what was in store for them. "bring us alongside, zeke," exclaimed captain o'brien, so impatient that he could not stand still. "if you can not manage her let somebody else go to the wheel." "bussin' on it, captain, i am doing the best i can," replied zeke, working the wheel back and forth as if he hoped in that way to get some more speed out of her. "she will be alongside in five minutes." but those five minutes were a long time to wait. the flint-locks were in close range now, and every time one of them spoke some body on the britisher's side went down. it did not seem as though they had men enough to stand such a fusilade. captain o'brien was standing there with a rope in his hand, and when he had got it all coiled up he stepped over and took his place among the men who had flint-locks in their hands. "now, boys, protect me," said he. "whenever our boat comes near enough i am going to catch the schooner and lash them fast. enoch, go back and pick off the man at the wheel." the boy started at once and without making any reply. he kept along close under the rail to be out of range of any one who was watching him from the schooner's deck, and when he came within sight of zeke he was horrified to find him with his face all covered with blood. "oh zeke, they have hit you," exclaimed enoch. "don't i know that?" replied the wheelman, who stuck to his work as though there was nothing the matter with him. "but as long as they do not get me down i am going to stand up. do you see that man alongside the schooner's wheel? well he is the one that shot me." enoch took just one glance at the schooner and saw that the man referred to had just loaded his pistol and was now engaged in priming it. he cast frequent glances toward zeke and grinned at him the while as if to tell him that his second shot would go to the mark; but he did not take notice of enoch who, kneeling down behind the rail, brought his gun to bear on him. it spoke almost immediately, and the man dropped his pistol, turned part way around and sank down lifeless where he stood. "there!" exclaimed zeke. "that was a good shot. now see if you can get that man at the wheel. that will leave her without any guiding hand, and before she can bring another man to helm i may be able to come up with her." "i was sent here for that purpose," said enoch, rolling over on his back and reaching for his powder-horn. "i am going to pick off every man they send there." in a few minutes the gun was ready, after trying in vain to retain his hold of the spokes, the steersman went down in a heap. of course the schooner came into the wind, and zeke uttered a yell as she veered round broadside to the sloop; and in a moment more there was a rush of men from the deck and enoch and zeke were standing alone. "boarders away!" shouted captain o'brien, as he made the two vessels fast together. "now, boys, show what you're are made of." zeke released his hold of the wheel, and caught up his club which stood beside him where he could get his hands upon it at a moment's warning; he cleared the rails of the vessels without using his hands, and enoch lost sight of him in the fracas. somehow, enoch could not have told how it happened, he was close at his heels when he reached the schooner's deck, and between using his gun as a club to fell a man to the deck and making use of it as a parry to ward off a blow that somebody aimed at his head, he did not know anything more until he heard a voice exclaim in piteous accents: "i surrender! i surrender!" "who is that?" shouted captain o'brien. "do you all surrender? if you do, throw down your weapons." [illustration: the capture of the schooner.] there was a sound of dropping hand-spikes and cutlasses, and in an instant there was silence on the deck. the smoke of the hand-grenades with which the boarders had been greeted floated away after a while, and then the provincials were able to see what they had done and how great was the number of men that they had to mourn. enoch was astounded. it did not seem possible for him to step in any direction without treading upon the body of friend or foe. the two bodies of men opposed to each other were about thirty on a side, and at least half that number were lying on the deck dead, or wounded so badly that they could not get up. he looked everywhere for captain moore, and finally found him with a saber-cut in his side. his first action had proved his death. "now the next thing is caleb," said enoch, starting toward the gangway to go below. "i hope that nothing has happened to him." enoch did not want to go on talking to himself in this way, for something told him that he might find his friend caleb cold in death. he knew where the brig was and hurried down to it, and on the way he found half a dozen men who were wounded and the doctor and his assistant attending to their wants. it was a horrible sight, and enoch turned away his head that he might not see it. a few steps brought him to the brig, and there was a hand stuck out to grasp his own. it was caleb sure enough, and no signs of a wound on him. he was as jolly and full of fun as ever. "enoch, old boy, i knew you would not rest easy until you had got me," said caleb. "put it there." "are you not hurt a bit?" asked enoch. he almost dreaded to ask the question for some how he seemed to think that no living boy could come out of that fight without being desperately wounded. enoch did not stop to think of himself. he appeared to know that he was going to come out all right. "open the door and let me out," repeated caleb, taking hold of the grating in front of him and shaking it with all his strength. "i have been in here long enough." "who has got the key?" asked enoch. "if i can't find the key i shall have to chop the grating down." "do you know the boatswain?" enoch shook his head. "well, he is the one that has the key, and you will have to find him in order to get it. say!" said caleb, seizing his friend by the arm and pulling him up close to him. "i ought to 'start' that fellow. he was going to be awful mean to me if we had started for new york. why don't you go and get the key?" enoch went but he did not know where he was going to find the boatswain. at the head of the gangway he met a britisher coming down with his arm in a sling, and he asked him if he could show the man to him. "yes, i can," said the sailor. "he has gone to davy's locker sure. i'll bet he won't start me any more. come on and i will show him to you." enoch followed him to the deck and there, where the british had gathered to meet the boarders from the sloop and but a little way from his captain, lay the boatswain with an ugly thrust from a cutlass near his heart. by feeling of his pockets on the outside enoch soon discovered his bunch of keys, and he soon had possession of them. "you will not get a chance at that boatswain on this trip," said enoch, as he proceeded to open the door. "he has gone where he can't hurt you nor anybody else by 'starting' him. he is killed." he opened the door and caleb fairly jumped into his arms. after they had embraced each other for a minute or two caleb asked after his mother. "of course she felt very bad to know that you had been taken prisoner, but she did not cry," said enoch. "i told her that when i came back to-night i should fetch you with me, and i am going to keep my promise." "let us go on deck and see how things look up there," said caleb. "you had a lively time taking this boat. i never heard such a roar as these guns made." if caleb, when he was down below, thought things were lively, what must he have thought when he came out of the gangway and saw the number of men that had been killed and wounded during the fight! almost the first man he saw was captain moore. "how many men did you have on each side?" he asked in astonishment. "did you shoot that old flint-lock of yours?" "i did, but i shot to maim, not to kill. i couldn't do it. no doubt they would have used me worse than we will them, but you see they did not get the chance. there's wheaton pulling down the flag. let us go up and hear what he has to say." the flag was already down and wheaton was folding it up tenderly to carry it under his arm. probably if it had been an american flag and the victory had been the other way, there would not have been so much attention shown it by the britishers who pulled it down. wheaton shook caleb by the hand, asked him how he had fared as a prisoner in the power of the enemies of his country and said as he gathered up the flag-- "captain o'brien says that this is the first time this flag has ever been hauled down by a foe to england. she has made everybody strike to her, but _she_ has struck to nobody. it would not have been pulled down now if she had treated us right. she will find before she gets through with it that a little flock of yankees, to which her troops came so near to surrendering at lexington, are as good as they make them. we have met them, man for man, and whipped them all." chapter xvi. after the battle. "there, sir," said captain o'brien, drawing a long breath of relief and patting with his hand the british flag which wheaton carried under his arm, "the yankees have done the work. but there will be mourning when we get back to machias. who would have thought that those britishers would have fought so desperately." "captain, they had guns, you know, and we had nothing heavier than flint-locks. who would have thought that our men would have fought so desperately to accomplish an object? i tell you that each man deserves three hearty cheers to pay him for what he has done." the fight was over, but now the dead and wounded had to be taken care of. after a short consultation with wheaton and zeke the captain decided that all the wounded men should be taken on board the schooner where there was a doctor and his assistant to take care of them, and all the prisoners were to go on board the sloop. "you will have to stay aboard here with me and let the doctor look after your wound, zeke," said the captain. "it is bleeding fearfully." "bussin' on it, i won't do it," said zeke, earnestly. "as soon as i get some water to wash this blood off i will be all right. i stood at the helm of that sloop when she overhauled the schooner, and i am going to stand at her wheel when she goes into the harbor. that's a word with a bark on it." zeke turned away to hunt up a bucket to aid him in washing out his wound. zeb short was there with a club in his hand, and it was covered with blood, too. he had been listening to the words that passed between the captain and zeke, and was evidently waiting for a chance to put in a word for himself. "were you hit?" asked wheaton. "nary time," said zeb, and his words and actions showed that it would take a better man than was to be found in the schooner's company to lay him up with a wound. "i don't believe in fighting, and for saying them words zeke came pretty near punching me; but when you are in for it, why, you have got to do the best you can. how many men will you want to guard the sloop on the way in?" "let all the men who have flint-locks go aboard of her," answered the captain, "and let them stay around the wheel with zeke. but first you must put all the unwounded prisoners in irons. do you know where to find them?" zeb knew and dove down the hatchway out of sight. when he came back he had but six pairs of irons in his hand--"not enough to go all the way round," as he said. the prisoners who were still in a group on the forecastle, were ordered aft, and obediently held out their hands for the irons. enoch and caleb were close by watching the operation, and when the latter came to run his eye over the men he found that there was one of whom he had promised himself that he would say a good word if chance ever threw it in his way. it was the man who had given him the only bite to eat while he was in the brig. "there is one fellow that must not be put in irons if i can help it," said he, making his way toward the captain. "he belongs on our side of the house and i know it." captain o'brien listened with an amused expression on his face while caleb told his story, and presently beckoned to the man to come over to where he was. "what business have you got to serve under the british flag?" said captain o'brien. "i haven't got any business at all, sir," said the sailor. "i shipped on board of that schooner because i wanted something to do. i belong on the hudson river a little ways from new york." "you are sure your sympathies are not with her?" "no, sir. when i saw that flag come down it was all i could do to keep from cheering." "well, you don't want any irons on you. stand up here beside me and you will be safe." caleb and enoch were overjoyed to hear this decision on the part of their captain. when the sailor drew up a little behind o'brien the boys tipped him a wink to let him know that he was among friends. giving caleb that mouthful of food was the best thing he ever did. when the prisoners had been ironed they were ordered aboard the sloop and into the captain's cabin, where it was known they would be safe. to make assurance doubly sure enoch was stationed at the head of the companion-way with his flint-lock for company, and caleb stayed with him. the wounded were then transferred on board the schooner, and her new crew, without waiting orders to that effect, seized buckets and brooms and went to work to clear the deck of the battle-stains. of course caleb was anxious to know what had passed in the village during his absence, and his friend took this opportunity to enlighten him. "i knew in a minute as soon as i found that tin bucket of yours all jammed in, that you had been captured and taken aboard the schooner," said enoch. "zeke knew it too, for i went and got him as soon as i missed you." "did you know that i was going off to new york?" asked caleb. "well, we suspected as much, but we was not sure of it until james howard told me of it. i wonder if there is not some way by which we can get even with that fellow." "we will keep an eye on him when we get back," said caleb, who somehow grew angry every time james' name was mentioned in his hearing. "if he conducts himself as any other boy would, we can't do anything with him. they will think right away that we are down on him and anxious to be revenged; but if he goes to cutting up those shines of his, why, then, it will put a different look on the case." "are you all ready, zeke?" shouted captain o'brien, as he cast off the rope with which the vessels were lashed together. "all ready, cap," replied zeke, hurrying aft and placing his hand upon the wheel. "then fill away in my wake. zeb, go to the wheel. i am going as straight into machias as i can go." "i won't be far behind you. fill away as soon as you please." the two little vessels were pushed apart, the wind gradually filled their sails and they got under way for the harbor. things looked different to enoch from what they did when he came out. six of his men, whom he had shaken by the hand every day, were dead, and nine were so badly hurt that he did not know whether or not he was ever going to see them again. he always thought that war was terrible, but now he was sure of it. but there was one thing about it: he had helped save his friend and if he had got hurt himself he would not have said a word. every once in a while he let go of his gun with one hand and placed his arm around caleb's neck as if he never meant to let him go again. "say, caleb, you don't seem to have much to do but just to stay here and keep enoch company," said wheaton, who had been appointed commander of the sloop. "i wish you would take a small rope with you and go up and see if there is a block in that topmast. i am going to hoist this flag there, and then our friends on shore can see how we come out." "where's the rope?" said caleb. the rope was passed to him and caleb made it fast to one of his arms. then he settled his hat firmly on his head, went to the ratlines and in a few moments more was at the cross-trees. from this upward he had no ropes to assist him in climbing--nothing but twelve feet of a slippery topmast to which he had to cling in much the same manner that a boy would in climbing a tree. but this was no bar to caleb; he had been sent on such expeditions before. "on deck, there!" he shouted, when he had got up and placed his hand on the mast-head. "there is a block here but no rope." "all right," shouted wheaton in return. "reeve that rope through that you have got with you and bring it down here." to untie the rope from his arm, pass it through the block, twist it securely about his hand and go down to the deck with it was easily done. then wheaton began to fasten the flag to it, and presently it began to go aloft. "i wish there was a union on it so that we could hoist it union down," said wheaton. "but it is nothing but a union jack. whichever way you hoist it, it is right side up." "some of the people have glasses ashore and they can soon see the flag, and they will notice that it is not on board the schooner but on board the sloop," said enoch. "that will show them that the vessels have changed hands since we have been inside." "but i cannot get over the sorrow that will be occasioned among some of the people when they come to hear how many men it took to make that change," said wheaton, who acted very different from what he did when they went out. "i knew the britishers would fight, but somehow i did not think they would fight so hard." "i knew they would," said caleb. "if you had been on board that schooner you would have fought till you dropped before you would have given up." a loud cheer coming from the schooner's company interrupted their conversation, and the three turned to see what was the occasion of it. they were just entering the harbor. captain o'brien had taken his stand upon the windward rail so that he could have a fair view of the shore, and was waving his hat to the people on the wharf. the boys had no idea that there was so great a number of folks in machias as they saw at that moment. they stood there, eager to find out which side had whipped, but they dared not make a demonstration for fear that they might be cheering the wrong persons. even the schooner's flag at the mast-head of the sloop did not fully remove their suspicions. they had heard the firing, the sloop was badly cut up by the shells that had been rained upon her, and they thought they would let the vessels come a little nearer before they said anything. "you need not tell me anything about it," said james howard, who had come down there to hear all about the schooner's victory. "that sloop had no cannon, and how could she be supposed to go into a fight with an armed vessel? it is a great wonder to me that she did not sink the sloop when she was in pursuit of her." "she may have run away from the sloop," said emerson miller. "the schooner did not want to fight, for she knows that war hasn't been declared yet. you let captain moore alone for keeping out of trouble." "say!" whispered james, as with a pale face he passed his glass over to his companion. "just look at that man standing up there on the windward rail. if that was captain moore he would have his uniform on, would he not?" emerson took the glass, and as he looked the expectant expression went out of his face and it became as pale as death itself. the man standing up there was captain o'brien, and as he watched him he took off his hat and waved it over his head. "james, we are whipped!" he whispered. "that man is not captain moore." "that is just what i was afraid of. let us go home." emerson did not need any urging, but when james left the wharf he kept him close company. they had made but a few steps when a cheer came from the schooner, and james, glancing toward the boat, saw that that man was still standing there and swinging his hat violently around his head. not satisfied with this, a cheer arose from the sloop, and there was a man standing on her windward rail who, at that distance, looked exactly like wheaton. "we are whipped," repeated emerson. "now who in the world can account for that?" james did not say anything, for he was so nearly overwhelmed that he could not get his wits together. he hardly knew when he opened the gate and ascended the stairs to the porch. meanwhile the little vessels came gaily on. the people now were satisfied while heretofore they had been lost in doubt, and the cheers that went up were long and loud. the vessels were handled by sailormen,--zeke took command of the sloop when she approached the wharf--and they rounded to and came up with a force that would not have broken an egg-shell. parties on shore caught the lines for them, and shortly the gang-planks were pushed out so that the people could come on board. and such a rush as there was! caleb and enoch wanted to get ashore to see their mothers, but for a time there was no chance for them. zeke came up in the meantime, smiling and good-natured as usual, and the boys were about to tell him to go ahead and they would follow in his wake, when they saw him reach out his arm and stop a man who was just coming aboard. it was the storekeeper who had acted so mean about giving enoch his powder a few nights ago. chapter xvii. zeke's exhibition of strength. "say, hold on, friend," said zeke, reaching out his hand and laying a grip on the storekeeper's collar. "we don't want any men like you aboard here. that's the way ashore." "who made you master of this vessel?" answered the man, thrusting zeke's arm aside. "the captain says the wounded men are on board this ship and i want to see who they are. just keep your hands to yourself." zeke's whole appearance changed as if by magic. the good-natured smile gave place to a frown, and the hand which the storekeeper had thrown aside speedily caught its grip again, and this time it was there to stay. with the other hand he caught the man below the waist-band, and a moment afterward he gave a puff like a tired locomotive and the storekeeper was swung clear of the deck. lifting his victim until he was at arm's length above his head he walked across the deck to the other side, and sent him headlong into the water. it was an exhibition of strength on zeke's part that no one had ever seen before. he leaned over the rail until the man's face appeared at the surface and then shook his fist at him. "now don't you wish you had gone back my way?" said he. "swim around the sloop and get somebody to help you out. you can't come aboard here." "there," said enoch. "ledyard is a tory sure enough. zeke knew it all the time and took this way to wash some of his meanness out of him. i will have to go to his store to get some more powder," he added, holding up his horn so that he could see the inside of it. "i shot most of what i had away at the britishers who manned this schooner. come on, caleb. i think we can get ashore now." the boys made another attempt this time and were successful. every one they saw on the wharf was a provincial and wanted to shake hands with them. of course, too, everybody wanted to know what sort of treatment caleb had met with at the hands of the britishers, but the boys answered in as few words as possible and as soon as they were out of the crowd they broke into a run, headed for home. "come in and let mother thank you for rescuing me," said caleb, as they stopped at his gate. "she can do it better than i can." "i did not have more to do with your rescue than a dozen other men who were with me," replied enoch. "let me go home first and then i will come back." caleb reluctantly let his friend go, and enoch kept on his way toward home. he was thinking over the incidents that had happened during the fight and which he wanted to tell for his mother's satisfaction, when he came opposite the house in which james howard lived. he kept on without giving a thought to james except to wonder how he would feel to know that the schooner, in which he had so much confidence, had been beaten by an unarmed sloop, when he saw the boy at the gate waiting for him. his face was very pale, but it gave place to a flush of anger when he noticed the smile with which enoch greeted him. he backed away from the gate as our hero approached, and this showed that he did not mean to let himself get within reach of a provincial's arm. "you think you are smart, don't you?" was the way in which he opened the conversation. "well--yes; almost anybody would think himself smart under the circumstances," said enoch. "we whipped them in a fair fight." "i do not believe it," returned james hotly. "i do not ask you to take my word for it, but the wharf is not but a little way off, and you can go down and see for yourself," said enoch. "we heard the firing, and we came to the conclusion that your sloop had got sunk out of sight," said james. "but i see that the schooner brought her back with her." enoch made no reply. he wanted to see how much james knew about the fight. "how many of the men were killed and wounded on your side?" continued james, after a moment's pause. "about half." "i tell you the regulars fought, did they not? how many of them were hit on their side?" "about half." "do you mean to say that you killed as many of them as they did of you?" asked james, who was plainly astonished to hear it. "that is what i mean to say. we boarded their vessel and pulled down her flag----" "i tell you i don't believe any such stuff," shouted james, who was more surprised the longer the story went on. "you will never get your hands on that flag." "go down and see. that is all you have got to do." "i will wager that captain moore laid some of you fellows out. was that he standing on the rail waving his hat to us?" "no, it could not have been captain moore. he is dead." "what!" james almost stammered. "did one of you men dare to draw a weapon on him?" "yes, they did. he had weapons in his own hand----" "of course he did. he was defending his vessel." "and we wanted to take it and we were stronger than he was." "if some of you don't get your necks stretched before long i shall miss my guess," said james, walking up and down the path like a boy who had been bereft of his senses. "you have committed piracy, every one of you." "and you would be the first to grab a rope and haul us up, i suppose? look here, james, caleb has got back now----" "oh! did you find him and turn him loose? then he will not have to go to new york to pay his fine?" "not by a long shot. i found him locked in the brig and let him out." this news was more than james could stand. he pulled off his hat, dug his fingers into his head and acted altogether like a boy who was almost ready to go insane. "and if you are wise you and emerson miller will stay close about the house," said enoch, shifting his rifle to his other shoulder. "the first time he catches you on the street he will have his pay for that. so you want to watch out." enoch walked on toward his home and james went into the house so bewildered that he hardly knew which end he stood on. he found his father in the dining-room, pacing up and down the floor with his hands behind his back, but that terrible scowl that had come to his face when he first heard that james had been whipped by a rebel, was not there. his face was pale and his hands trembled. "father," whispered james, as though he hardly knew how to communicate to him the news he had just heard, "the dog is dead. captain moore has been killed and the rebels have taken the schooner." his father fairly gasped for breath. he raised his hands above his head as if to say that he did not want to hear any more, and then groped his way to a lounge and sank down upon it. "i have just seen enoch out there and he told me all about it," continued james. "the firing that we heard did not hurt the sloop at all. and the worst of it is, caleb has been turned loose and now i have got to stay about the house." "oh lord! oh lord!" groaned mr. howard. "now have i got to stand that?" said james in a resolute tone. he was always brave enough when he was in his own house and a perfect coward when he got out of it. perhaps his father could think of some other way to get rid of caleb and of enoch, too. "am i, a good, loyal friend of the king, and ready to go into a fight for him this minute, to be shut up in the house just because i say that those men, every one of them, had ought to have their necks stretched to pay them for what they have done?" continued james. "there must be some way in which we can get the start of those rebels." "i don't really see what you can do," said mr. howard. "the rebels are stronger than we are, and i guess both of us will have to stay in the house from this time on. such a thing was never heard of before. thirteen little colonies getting up a rebellion in the face of the king!" "but there must be some way out of it?" "of course there is. let the king send over an army to whip the rebels into submission. but before that thing can happen they may work their sweet will of us. i don't know any better way that we can do but to pack up and go to new york." "and leave this beautiful place to the rebels?" exclaimed james. "i tell you i should hate to do that." "i don't know what else we can do. we shall be among friends there, and can say what we think without some paltry little rebel telling us that we had better keep our mouths shut. but go away and leave me alone for a while, james. the news you have brought to me almost drives me crazy. do you _know_ that captain moore has been killed?" "all i know about it is what enoch told me. he said that the captain had weapons in his hand, but that the attacking party was too strong for him. he was the best man that ever lived, too, and i tell you it would give me joy to have hold of one end of a rope while the other was fast around the necks of those people." "be careful that you don't say that where anybody can hear it," said his father. "the rebels are in high feather now that they have got a victory, and they would be right on hand for something desperate." mr. howard settled himself into a comfortable position on the lounge and james, taking this as a hint that his presence was no longer desirable, picked up his cap and walked out on the porch. "i wish i dared go down to the wharf," said he. "but if i do that caleb young will be out, and there's no telling what he will do to me. i wish somebody would come along and give me some news of that fight." but james waited a long time before he got it. enoch and caleb were at home and holding their mothers spellbound with the various incidents that transpired before their sight, while james walked up and down the porch feeling as though he did not have a friend in the world. he looked in vain for emerson miller, but that worthy, who probably knew or suspected that caleb young had been found and released by this time, was not at all anxious to be seen in james's company and wisely kept his distance. "well, mother, i have got back and there is not a mark on me," shouted enoch, as he burst open the kitchen door and sprang into the presence of her who told him that she did not want him to get his gun into any bad habits. "i shot away all my powder and lead, and i guess that some of the tories that i aimed at have something to remember me by. why don't you say that you are glad to see me?" "how about caleb?" said his mother. "is he all right?" "i did not ask him, but i don't think he heard a bullet while he was in the brig." his mother had been knitting when he came in, and the book lay in front of her, open, on her knee. she put the book and her knitting away and got up, and folded enoch to her breast. she made no remark, but the boy was satisfied from the strength of her embrace that she was glad to welcome him home. enoch then sat down and told her everything connected with the fight, not forgetting how zeke had ducked the storekeeper in the harbor. "i never saw such an exhibition of strength in my life," said he, with enthusiasm. "he took the man this way"--here he got up and elevated his arms straight above his head--"walked across the boat with him and chucked him into the water. he would not let him come back aboard the sloop either, but told him to swim around and get somebody to help him out. i wish all the men we have were like zeke." of course there were many questions to be asked and answered on both sides--mrs. crosby was anxious to learn how the different men with whom she was acquainted had behaved during the fight, and enoch was equally desirous to know how the tories they had left behind them conducted themselves while they were at sea--and it was almost dark before they had got through talking. "i was particularly anxious to know what the tories would do when they heard that firing," said enoch. "i was afraid they would be excited and do something that we would have to settle with them for." "well, they did not," said mrs. crosby. "james and emerson walked up and down in front of our house when they heard the shooting going on, and asked us to listen to it. 'aha!' they said. 'the rebels are getting their fill now. after captain moore sinks that sloop he will have all he can do to pick up the dead and wounded ones.' it seems to me that they must be utterly confounded by the victory of the sloop over an armed vessel." "not only that, but they utterly refused to believe it," said enoch. chapter xviii. what to do with the schooner. enoch might have gone further and said that the tories not only refused to believe the evidence of their ears, but that they went to a greater distance and declined to believe the evidence of their eyes when they stood on the wharf and saw the dead and wounded taken off the two vessels and laid carefully away, the former with sheets spread over them. these were promptly taken care of by their friends, and in a short time there was no one around the wharf except the provincials and a few tories who wanted to hear more about the fight. "they did not pull down their flag, did they?" said one who made this inquiry of zeke. "no, sir. we pulled it down for them. the only man who had the power to strike it has just been carried away in that wagon," said zeke. "there is the man who pulled it down," he added, pointing to wheaton. "we are going to get a flag of our own to take its place when we haul the cross of england down." "some of you will go up by the neck before that happens," said the man, turning away and whispering the words to a tory who stood at his side. "and i will wager that zeke will go up for one." "i just wish i knew something about history," continued zeke, who, of course, did not hear this whispered conversation on the part of the tories. "they say that that flag has never been hauled down by any nation; but a 'flock of yankees' was too much for them. now, captain, what are we going to do with these vessels? we don't want to leave them alongside the wharf all night." captain o'brien had been thinking about this, and had already made up his mind what to do. of course the "rebels" had captured three boats--the schooner and the two sloops that were engaged in taking lumber on board for the new york market. he did not want to leave them alongside the wharf for the simple reason that, if the tories got up courage enough, it would be easy work for them to come down there with a party of men after it became dark, and recapture them. it would not be so easy a matter if they were moored a little way from shore. of course enoch and caleb were there waiting to see what further work there was to be done, and this time caleb had his flint-lock on his shoulder. they had remained at home until they had eaten a late dinner, and had then come down to their prize to do whatever else there was to be done. enoch had kept a good lookout for james, but when he saw him coming he went into the house. he did not want to hear another story of that victory. "enoch," said the captain, after thinking a moment, "have you had anything to eat?" "yes, sir, and caleb and i are out here for all night, if our services are needed that long," replied enoch. "all right. i will detail you two as guard to that schooner. you have your flint-locks with you, and, enoch, i know that you can shoot tolerably straight," said the captain, patting the boy on the shoulder. "don't you let anybody, even if they are 'rebels,' come aboard that boat. after the rest of us have had supper, i will appoint a commander for her, and then you can take some of these small boats and tow her out to her anchorage." the boys waited for captain o'brien to go on and tell them what else he had to say, but he had evidently gotten through and turned on his heel; whereupon the newly-appointed guards went on board the schooner and took their place by the side of the gangplank which led up to it. they leaned their guns against the rail, rested their elbows on the bulkhead before them and proceeded to watch what was going on on the wharf as well as to wait until some tory took it into his head that he would like to come aboard the boat. but no one came near them, and caleb finally fell to examining the bullet holes made by the rifles during the fight. while he was walking about the vessel he happened to cast his eyes toward the shore and saw two persons whom he had wished to see for a long time. enoch discovered them at the same moment, and when caleb, after pushing back his sleeves and settling his hat firmly on his head, was about to step upon the gangplank, he found enoch in his way. "what's to do here?" demanded enoch. "don't you see james howard over there?" asked caleb, in reply. "i have a fine chance to punish him now. i will give him two black eyes, but they will not make him suffer as i did while being shut up in that brig waiting to be carried to new york. stand out of the way here." "you have not been relieved yet," said enoch. "you must get somebody to take your place before you go ashore." "well, i can easily do that. oh, captain!" he shouted to o'brien, who was but a little distance off. "i want to go ashore for just about two minutes." "go on," said the captain. "i don't know as i am hindering you." "captain," said enoch, pointing up the wharf toward the two persons who were coming along, entirely ignorant of what was transpiring on board the schooner. "he has not been relieved yet. i do not want to stay here alone." the captain looked, and when he saw james coming toward the schooner he knew why enoch was standing in the way of caleb. he knew that those two boys must be kept apart or else there would be a fight; so he added hastily: "that's so. you have not been relieved yet. you stay there until i can send some one to take your place." "yes; and that will never be," said enoch, to himself. "enoch, i didn't think this of you," said caleb, leaving the gangplank and settling back against the rail. "you are a friend of james howard." "no, i am not, and nobody knows it better than you," said enoch. "why do you not let him go until a proper time comes?" "a proper time!" repeated caleb. "the proper time is whenever i can catch him." "i don't believe you could catch him any way," said enoch, pointing to james and emerson, who had stopped suddenly on discovering the boys, and did not seem inclined to come any closer. "they are going back again." once more caleb rested his arms upon the rail and watched the two tories, who had stopped and were regarding them with eyes of apprehension. they waited there for some minutes and not seeing any move on caleb's part they mustered up courage enough to come a little closer, until they were talking with some of the provincials who were in the fight. "enoch, will you let me go ashore?" said caleb. "i will never have a chance like this to get even with him." "the captain has not sent anybody to relieve you yet," said enoch. "don't i know that? he isn't looking for anybody. there they come," he added, when the two resumed their walk and came up to the shore end of the gangplank. "well, what do you think of it? we sent the bullets around her pretty lively, did we not?" the two boys did not say anything. they had probably come down there to use their eyes and not their tongues, and in that way escaped getting into argument with enoch and caleb which they were sure would end in something else. they looked all around the schooner and up at her sails, and finally having seen enough turned to go away; but caleb who was watching them told them to wait a minute. "james, i want you to remember that you put me in trouble through that tongue of yours, and that i shall bear it in mind," said he. "the only thing that saves you now is my being on guard on board this vessel." james waited until he thought caleb was through, and then hurried away without making any reply, and they blessed their lucky stars that they had got off so easily; but there was a threat contained under caleb's last words which rankled uneasily in james's mind. "i guess my father's way is the best," said the latter. "will you come, too?" "i hope so," replied emerson. "it is a beautiful thing to give up to the rebels, that place of ours, but it won't be forever. they will soon be whipped and then we can come back." the boys waited a long time for the rest of their friends to get through with their supper and come back to the wharf, and then they saw that captain o'brien had something on his mind, for he was going first to one man and then to another and having a talk with each. they were all in favor of it, too, for each one shook the captain's hand and patted him on the back as if they wanted to go at it right away. zeke appeared at last, and he was wild over what the captain said to him. he pulled off his hat--he had been home and got another one by this time--and swung it around his head, but he did not hurrah until he was red in the face as he usually did. he seemed to take his enthusiasm out in the violence of his motions. then he put his hat on his head and walked briskly toward the schooner. "now, boys," said he as he came up the gangplank. "say, zeke, what was it that the captain had to say to you?" asked caleb. "it must have been something patriotic, for you swung your hat and never hurrahed at all." "enoch, you jump down there and cast off the bow and stern lines," said zeke, looking all around as if to see what else ought to be done. "caleb, you go round on the wharf and find a small boat that you think will do to pull the boat out to her moorings. i will go to the wheel, and when all that is done i will tell you what the captain said to me." zeke never said a thing like this without meaning to be obeyed, and the boys knew that it was useless to argue the point with him. the sooner the work he had set for them to do was done, the sooner would they find out the captain's secret; so without hesitation they placed their guns where they would not be in anybody's way and went about their duties in earnest. enoch speedily cast off the lines, zeke staying on board to haul them in, caleb made his appearance sculling a boat that was to pull the little vessel out to her anchorage, and a line was passed down to him. "now, enoch, tumble in there and pull for all you are worth," said zeke. "you see the schooner's buoy over there? well, when you come up with it make this line fast to it and come aboard." of course these orders were quickly delivered, but it took longer to carry them out. the schooner moved but slowly in the water. the boys had to turn her around and pull her against the tide, which was coming in at about five miles an hour; but after a long siege they got the line fast and pulled back to the schooner pretty nearly exhausted. "that's all right," said zeke. "the next time the captain wants such work done he will have to send more men to do it." "go on now, and tell us what the captain had to say," said caleb, backing up against the rail and using his hat as a fan. "it did not amount to much, any way." "didn't, hey? then i guess you don't want to ship aboard this vessel." "what is she going to do?" asked enoch. "we lucky fellows will be coming ashore every month or so, and when you see us spending more money than you ever heard of----" "where are you going to get it?" interrupted caleb. "prizes, my boy; prizes," replied zeke, poking caleb in the ribs with his long finger. "we are not going to let the cross of st. george float out there alone, are we?" "no; but when we take the prizes what will we do with them?" "sell them to the highest bidder. you see the captain was thinking about this thing while he was eating his supper, and he came to the conclusion that since we have a fine vessel with guns and small arms for a crew of thirty men, we ought to use them. there are plenty of ships going by that are loaded up with stores for the king, and what is there to hinder our going out and capturing some of them?" "whoop!" yelled enoch. "that is what i thought, although i did not say it out quite so loud," said zeke, laughing all over. "we want to keep it as still as we can, for there are a good many tories around, and we want to keep them in ignorance of it. now you boys stay here and talk it over and i will go ashore and bring off the rest of our guard." "do you think your mother will let you go on this vessel?" said caleb, as he and enoch leaned upon the rail and watched zeke as he sculled the boat ashore. "let me go to fight against tyranny? of course she will." "you will be a pirate if you do." "no more than i am now." "and if they catch you----" here caleb drew his head on one side and straightened his left arm above his head as if he were pulling on a rope. "it is a good plan to catch your rabbit before you cook him," said enoch. chapter xix. conclusion. captain o'brien and the rest of the leaders who took part in that fight with the schooner, had plenty to do that night. among other things they were selecting the crew for their privateer, and they wanted to be sure that they got none but the best men. zeke was ashore for an hour or two before he sent the cutter back, and then he did not come with it but sent zeb short to scull the boat. there were nine men in the party, and each one brought with him a large bundle which contained some changes of linen and his bedclothes. "where is the mate?" asked enoch, as the men threw their bundles aboard and then proceeded to climb aboard themselves. "the mate!" exclaimed zeb short, as if he did not catch the boy's meaning. "yes; zeke told us to stay here until he came back." "oh. well, zeke is ashore helping the captain; and he told me to inform you boys that if you want to ship on board this vessel you had better go home and get some duds, for we are going to sail with the turn of the tide which takes place about four o'clock. of course you boys are going?" "you wager we are," said caleb. "take your guns with you," continued zeb. "we shall not want them any more. when we board the next britisher you will have a cutlass or pike in your hands." the boys clambered down into the boat with zeb short and were slowly sculled toward the shore. it looked to them as if they were in for fighting and nothing else. they did not stop to speak to the captain or any of the other men standing around but went straight for home as fast as they could go. there was one place where they were tempted to stop and exchange a few words with the inmates, and that was at james howard's house. the boys were sitting on the porch and were talking about what they had seen at the wharf. "there go a couple of those rebels now," said james, as enoch and caleb hurried by. "i hope i will be here to see them hung up." "enoch, i have the best notion to go back and whip him in his own dooryard," said caleb, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. "if you will keep the other off me, i can punish james in two whacks." "come on, now, and don't mind them," said enoch, taking caleb by the arm. "you may have some other fellows to fight some day, some that have weapons in their hands, and you can take revenge upon james in that way. come along." caleb reluctantly allowed himself to be led away, and presently he was dropped at his own gate. enoch broke into a run and entered the kitchen where his mother was busy with her usual vocations. he seized a chair, moved it up under the hooks on which his flint-lock belonged, placed it there with his bullet-pouch and powder-horn, and mrs. crosby looked at him with surprise. "what's to do, enoch?" she said at length. "mother, i want my bedclothes and a change of underwear to go out to sea," said enoch. "you see----" here the boy began and told his story in as few words as possible, and to his joy his mother did not say one word to oppose him. "there is one thing that does not look exactly right," he continued, "and that is i don't know what i am going to get for my trouble. i do not know that i am going to get a cent." "that is all in the future," said his mother. "do your duty faithfully and i will take care of myself." enoch said no more, but somehow he could not help wishing that he had some of his mother's pluck. when the things had been bundled up he kissed his mother good-by and went out of the house, wondering if he was ever going inside of it again. he found caleb at his gate with his bundle on his shoulder, and in half an hour from that time they were safe on board the schooner. "if no one has spoken for this bunk i guess i will put my things in here," said enoch, looking around upon the men who were busy at work making up their own beds. "there is a bunk for every man in the crew," said one. "put your things in there and say nothing to nobody." "all below, there!" shouted zeke. "come on deck, everybody." "we are going to choose our officers the first thing we do," said zeb short, who proved that he was a good sailor by leaving his bunk half made up and hurrying to obey the order. "my captain is o'brien, every time." the men hastened aft, and there stood o'brien with his hat off. the crew removed theirs out of respect, and the captain began a little speech to them. he repeated at greater length what he had told them ashore--that they now took their lives in their own hands and were about to go out to sea to do battle with the flag they had that day hauled down, and that if captured they could not expect but one thing, death at the yard-arm. if any of the men had time to think the matter over and wanted to back out-- "we don't," shouted zeke, in a voice that must have been heard on shore. "there is no one in this crew that thinks of backing out." "zeke speaks for all of us," said zeb short. "then we will proceed to elect officers," said captain o'brien. "you are, most of you, sailors, and i need not tell you that it is necessary that you select good men and those whose orders you are willing to obey." it did not take over ten minutes for the crew to select the men who were to command them. they had evidently made up their minds just whom they wanted, and each one proposed was accepted by acclamation. o'brien was chosen captain; no one could do better than he did in the fight with the schooner, and the men were sure that he could do equally well in a contest with another vessel. zeke was chosen first mate, zeb short second, and wheaton, who did not know the first thing about a ship, was appointed captain's steward. "what will i have to do?" asked wheaton; whereupon all the crew broke out into a hearty laugh. "you will have to see that i get enough to eat," said the captain. "i will wager that i do not go hungry while you are in office." "well, if it is all the same to you, captain, i won't take it," said wheaton. "let me be a foremast hand. i shipped to fight----" "you will have all the fighting you want to do as steward," said captain o'brien. "everybody will be on deck then." after a little more argument wheaton was induced to take the position, and the election of officers went on. the last one that was chosen was the man who had fed enoch while he was a prisoner in the brig; ezra norton was his name, and he was told to look out for the ammunition. he had served on board the schooner and knew pretty nearly where to go to find the charges for the guns. after that the crew were divided into watches, and in obedience to zeke's order: "all you starbo'lins below!" went down to their bunks to sleep until twelve o'clock. just at daylight the next morning--it was enoch's watch on deck now--there was great commotion on the schooner, for the lookout who was sitting on the cross-trees shouted down two words that sent a thrill to every heart. it did not create a hubbub or take the form of words, but it set them to scanning the horizon and exchanging whisperings with one another-- "sail ho!" "where away?" shouted zeke, who happened to be the only officer on deck. "straight ahead," was the answer. "can you make her out?" "i can see nothing but her top-hamper, but i think she is a schooner bound for new york." presently the hail came down again--another ship four points off the lee bow, and headed the same way that the other one was. the captain, on being summoned, came on deck and mounted to the cross-trees with a glass in his hand. he stayed there an hour, and when he came down again the vessels were in sight. "i will wager my hat against yours that those are two of the boats that we want," said he to zeke. "we will soon make them show their colors whatever they are." "wheaton, have you your flag here?" asked zeb short, turning to the steward who at that moment came on deck. "no, no; don't try that," said the captain, hastily. "we will approach her without any flag. we will not attempt to make her think we are friendly when we are not." the two vessels continued to approach each other, and finally the stranger, thinking that the schooner had some business with her, ran up the very flag they wanted to see--the flag of england. in answer to the question, "what schooner is that?" she replied that she was the spitfire, bound from halifax for new york with a cargo of supplies for the british government. "now, zeke, it all depends upon you," said the captain, jumping down from the rail on which he had stood while making his hail. "crowd all the men you can into a boat and go off and take possession of that schooner. send the officers to me and put the rest down below. fill away in my wake when i start for watertown. but first i must capture that other schooner." "i will send a boat aboard of you," said the captain, seeing that the spitfire was not decreasing her pace. to man the boat did not take very long on the part of the schooner's crew, for every one knew just what he had to do. to seize cutlasses and pistols from the rack, buckle them on and tumble over the side was but the work of a minute, and in hardly more time than we have taken to describe it, they had boarded the spitfire and a man was sent to her wheel. zeke pulled down the flag and waved it over his head. of course her officers were full of questions when they were brought aboard the schooner, and could not understand the matter at all; but the captain did not stop to enlighten them until the other vessel was captured. he ordered them down into his cabin, and there they remained while the schooner speeded on to make a prize of the other vessel which was found to be the storm king, bound to the same port and loaded with supplies. when the officers were all on board his vessel and prisoners in his cabin, the captain went down and explained matters to them. they did not know anything of the battle at lexington, and when they heard it their surprise knew no bounds. they plainly saw that their cruise had ended, and with that they were obliged to be satisfied until they were turned over to the authorities at watertown. captain o'brien's bravery did not pass unrewarded. his appearance in watertown with his prizes created a great commotion there, and he was appointed captain in the marine of the colony and sent to sea to capture some more vessels. his work in the revolutionary war was just begun, and those who went with him from machias stayed by him to the end. zeke lewis and zeb short were promoted to gunners, because it was necessary that they should have better educated men for first and second officers; at any rate they received thirteen dollars in their new position whereas in their old, they received only eight. enoch and caleb were not forgotten. by strict attention to their duties they received promotion one after the other, one to assistant sailmaker at twelve dollars a month and the other to yeoman at nine dollars. they were on every voyage with their beloved captain. when he received command of a privateer and had the whole ocean in which to search for his prizes, the boys went with him and did their best to establish his name. james and emerson did not long remain in machias. things became too unpleasant for them, and one morning their houses were not open as usual. of course their neighbors wanted to see what was the matter, and an investigation proved that the families had gone in the night-time to seek another haven of refuge. they brought up in new york and stayed there until the place was evacuated by the british. then they went to england, and it is to be hoped that they could talk their sentiments there without being threatened with a beating by a yankee. during the course of the long and bloody struggle that followed there was much depression in the provincial ranks. even the great heart of washington was bowed down by sorrow, and when "famine was stalking through the camp" and his enemies were hard at work to have a "new and a better man" appointed in his place, the leader never lost sight of the "justice of her cause or the sincerity of his country." read the following incident related by a man who was there and saw it all. it proves that general washington, in the troubles with which he was surrounded, found that there was a stronger arm than man's to lean upon.[ ] [footnote : condensed from lossing's field book.] isaac potts, at whose house washington was quartered, relates that one day while the americans were encamped at valley forge, he strolled up a creek that was not far from his house and heard a solemn voice. he walked quietly in the direction of it and saw washington's horse tied to a sapling. in a thicket near by he saw his beloved chief in prayer, and his cheeks suffused with tears. like moses at the bush, isaac potts felt that he was treading upon holy ground and withdrew unobserved. he was much agitated upon entering the room where his wife was, and he burst into tears. on inquiring the cause he informed his wife of what he had seen, and added: "if there is any one on this earth whom the lord will listen to, it is george washington; and i feel a presentment that under such a commander there can be no doubt of our eventually establishing our independence, and that god in his providence has willed it so." "oh, who shall know the might of the words he uttered there? the fate of nations that was turn'd by the fervor of his prayer? "but would'st thou know his name who wandered there alone? go, read in heaven's archives the prayer of washington." the end * * * * * young people's library a series of ten volumes, selected from the best works of the most popular authors. titles: =the story of electricity for amateurs and students= by james w. steele. the greatest facts of the present civilization set forth in a clear manner. many illustrations and diagrams. =the art of good manners= by shirley dare. lessons in regard to etiquette taught by this little book will be remembered long on account of the charming manner in which they are presented. =some queer americans= a gossipy sketch of the queer characters to be found in the blue ridge, their costumes, manner of living, and speaking. =mr. sweet potatoes= a story of a chinese milkman. =a night with paul boyton= an interesting experience with this noted sailor on a florida river, with descriptions of the quaint costumes worn on this excursion. =milton's mulberry tree= near the college at cambridge, and the care it receives. also five stories of colonial life, "murillo's boy," etc. =a queer letter-carrier= a massachusetts letter-carrier whose route was between two forts during the revolutionary war. =the ragamuffins and general washington= an attractive story for young patriots. =business openings for girls= by sallie joy white. a pure, earnest talk with girls. =a boy's race with general grant= a glowing description of a race on the plains of turkey between gen. grant and the son of the american consul. * * * * * john l. stoddard's popular pictorials =glimpses of the world= hundreds of full-page views portraying scenes all over the world, taken from photographs collected by the celebrated traveler and lecturer, john l. stoddard, who has charmingly described each one. unquestionably the finest work of the kind ever published. =from the atlantic to the pacific= a grand panorama of famous scenes and noted places on our own continent. most interesting to the student of art, science, or literature. read this page of the world's history first; be familiar with your own country. =sunny lands of the eastern continent= a pictorial journey through the tropical countries of the old world, containing the choicest views from italy, greece, turkey, india, syria, palestine, china, japan, egypt, africa, australia, etc. people interested in missionary work should possess this volume. =famous parks and public buildings of america= one hundred and twenty-eight full-page views of the marvelous works of nature in the new world. to those who have seen these grand originals, these pictures will prove charming souvenirs, and cannot fail to be interesting to all americans. =a tour through northern europe= a rare and elaborate collection of views in the historic countries of europe--a pictorial history of accomplished and fascinating races. a book of inestimable value when used in connection with the studies of history and geography. * * * * * children's bible stories by josephine pollard, one of the most charming and successful writers of children's books, whose songs are used in all our sunday schools. titles: =god made the world= =ruth, a bible heroine= =the good samaritan= =the boyhood of jesus= =the story of jesus told in pictures= a series of five volumes comprising the sweet stories of god's word told in simple language so the little ones themselves can read them and learn to prize them as the best of all books. they combine entertainment and moral instruction in the most fascinating manner, and will cultivate the child's taste for that which is beautiful and ennobling. to the young reader they make the bible seem like a new book. each volume is complete; is illustrated with scores of magnificent engravings; is printed on fine paper in large clear type, having words of more than one syllable divided so they may be easily pronounced by children; bound in cloth with emblematic cover designs, attractively stamped in three bright colors. * * * * * young people's bible stories by josephine pollard. titles: =history of the old testament= =history of the new testament= =bible stories for children= =sweet story of god= a series of four volumes containing historic incidents from the bible. they make a continuous record of the old and new dispensations, omitting all that is too abstract for young readers. the boys and girls reading these volumes will not only obtain the religious truths they need, but will also unconsciously derive invaluable lessons in the simplicity and power of their english mother-tongue. all are works of untold interest, and will prove a powerful influence for good in every home. * * * * * books by thomas w. knox _who, as a juvenile writer, has held a prominent place among the very best writers of boys' books in the world_ =boys' life of general grant= this account of our great general begins with the arrival of his ancestors on american soil; follows him through his childhood; his career at west point, and active military career thereafter. it will give the boy reader a clear idea of the mexican war, and quite a full account of the war of the rebellion. the general's voyage around the world also enlivens the narrative. told in the spirited and absorbing way that mr. knox has of writing for boy readers. =the lost army= a story illustrative of the camp and military life of the soldiers of the federal army in the civil war. "it is a stirring, well-told narrative of patriotic adventure and service, and will kindle the love of country and humanity in the young reader."--_congregationalist._ "it is full of stirring incidents."--_san francisco chronicle._ =captain john crane= the hero of this book tells his adventures on the sea from to ; his experiences with the pirates; the dangers of our ships during the trouble with france and tripoli; how british war ships overhauled our merchantmen; their manner of searching for deserters, etc., etc. sailors' superstitions are woven into the narrative in the most admirable manner. the story is historically correct and entertainingly related. =a close shave= or how major flagg won his bet, and journeyed around the world in seventy days. modern aids to travel and communication; valuable scientific discoveries and inventions brought to the reader's attention in an attractive form. the routes, time-tables, monsoons, etc., described in "a close shave" may be relied upon as being absolutely correct. an excellent description of the country between new york and san francisco; a train robbery with one of the notorious jesse james gang as a leader; an exciting experience with a school of whales; a typhoon and the wreck; the story about monsoons; chinese and malay pirates; a train accident in egypt, etc., etc. will prove exceedingly interesting to all boy readers. =the talking handkerchief= under this title, colonel knox, that inveterate globe-trotter and writer of stories for boys, has gathered a collection of absorbing tales of adventure in russia, china, india, and elsewhere, which will prove of deep interest to both young and old. * * * * * the boys' and girls' library a series of sixteen volumes, by the world's foremost juvenile writers. titles: =joe, the chimpanzee.= an account of a lady's visit to the cage of the famous chimpanzee of london. also stories of foreign countries. =david bushnell and his american turtle.= the first submarine boat used during the revolutionary war. dr. franklin is one of the characters in this interesting book. =a child in florence.= glowing descriptions of the beautiful paintings and sculpture in this city of art. ='mandy's quilting party.= how a little vermont girl invited her friends to a quilting party without the consent of her mother. =the wonderful cookie.= a true story of a german king, and the cookie which was baked especially for him. =aunt polly shedd's brigade.= a story of colonial times. =shetland ponies=, with a description of the shetland isle, the home of the famous pets. =choosing abe lincoln captain.= an interesting account of how abe's friends elected him captain during the black hawk war. also "sally's seven league shoes." =indian children and their pets.= =children of the koppenberg.= a new version of the famous old legend of the "pied piper of hamelin." =babouscka.= a russian christmas story. =the jewelled tomb.= the grandest sepulchre in the world, built by a king of india. =a hero.= a tale of revolutionary times. =secrets of success=--by rev. francis e. clark, "father of the christian endeavor." =st. botolph's town.= many interesting facts of the ancient city, which was our boston of to-day. =a hero in peace and war.= a character sketch of israel putnam and his bravery at bunker hill. also "the only woman in the town," a sweet old lady of boston, magnanimous enough to entertain her enemies during a siege in colonial times. * * * * * napoleon, the world's greatest hero =napoleon, lover and husband= by frederic masson, translated by j. m. howell. if there is any figure in the world's history that the present age might suppose that it knew, napoleon bonaparte would be taken as preeminently the best known; and yet, the real napoleon, the lover and husband, has been fairly left untouched until to-day. frederic masson reveals the lover side of napoleon in the most fascinating manner, and shows that his greatest enterprises have been to a grave extent influenced or modified by feminine associations. =napoleon's military career= by montgomery b. gibbs. a gossipy, anecdotal account of napoleon as his marshals and generals knew him on the battlefield and around the camp-fire. reveals something new on every page concerning this son of a poor corsican gentleman who "played in the world the parts of alexander, hannibal, cæsar, and charlemagne." "the illustrations beginning with the famous 'snuff-box' portrait are capital, and the book is a dignified adjunct to modern study of a redoubtable giant."--_chicago herald._ =napoleon from corsica to st. helena= by john l. stoddard. a pictorial work illustrating the remarkable career of the most famous military genius the world has ever known. it contains pictures of all of napoleon's marshals and generals, his relatives, the famous places where napoleon lived as emperor, and the monuments erected to perpetuate his brilliant achievements on the battlefields of europe. the pictures in themselves constitute a priceless collection, and the descriptions by john l. stoddard a truthful history of the great hero. =recollections of the private life of napoleon= by constant, premier valet de chambre; translated by walter clark. three superb volumes, cloth, handsomely stamped in gold. although first published in , it has just recently been translated into english. notes have been added by the translator, greatly enhancing the interest of the original work of constant. this man has been studied as a soldier, a statesman, an organizer, and a politician, but, although he was undeniably great in all, men will always seek to know something about napoleon as a man. these volumes will supply the desired information, for they are written by one who joined him in , and was with him constantly until he laid down the sceptre fourteen years later. napoleon's foibles, peculiarities, vices, kindness of heart, vast intellect, knowledge of men, extraordinary energy, and public spirit are depicted without reserve. * * * * * the famous otis books for boys _james otis, the popular juvenile writer, needs no introduction to the boys of to-day._ =telegraph tom's venture= a highly entertaining story of a boy who assisted a united states officer of the law in working up a famous case. the narrative is both interesting and instructive in that it shows what a bright boy can accomplish when thrown upon his own resources. throughout an intensely interesting and exciting story. =messenger no. = relates the experiences of a faithful messenger boy in a large city, who, in answering a call was the means of ferreting out a band of criminals who for years had baffled the police and detectives. the story tells of the many dangers and hardships these boys have to undergo; the important services they often render by their clever movements; and how by his fidelity to duty, messenger boy no. rose to a most important position of trust and honor. it teaches boys that self-reliance, pluck, and the faithful performance of duties are the real secret of success. =down the slope= the hero of this story is a boy, who, in order to assist his mother, works as "breaker" in a coal mine. the book tells how coal miners work; their social condition; their hardships and privations; and the older reader will get an excellent idea of the causes of labor troubles in this industry, and will become more sympathetic toward this class of people. the young readers will find in this book a high ideal of a boy's devotion to his mother, and will learn how manly courage and a brave heart will overcome great difficulties, and lead to success and honor. =teddy= a captivating story of how teddy, a village boy, helped to raise the mortgage on his mother's home, and the means he took for doing so. the obstacles his crabbed uncle placed in his way; his connection with the fakirs at the county fair; his successful cane and knife board; his queer lot of friends and how they aided him; and how he finally outwitted his enemies, are all set forth so clearly and attractively in this volume that we forget that the hero is not a real boy, and his trials and successes real occurrences. the characters are taken from life, mr. otis himself acting as "fakir" in order to become thoroughly acquainted with the surroundings. "teddy" is sure to win a warm place in the hearts of all boy readers. * * * * * mr. bunny, his book by adah l. sutton. illustrated by w. h. fry. the finest juvenile on the market. just published. far superior to anything of the kind ever before presented to the little ones. sure to attract and delight the children. the quaint characters, comical situations, laughable incidents, queer episodes, ridiculous personages, catchy rhymes, bright sayings and brilliant colors to be found in "mr. bunny, his book," will bring forth hearty laughter and attract and interest the little ones, proving an unfailing source of enjoyment to them. =living pictures from the animal kingdom= by dr. l. heck. a superb pictorial, showing reproductions of photographs of the rarest and finest specimens of the animal kingdom, _taken from life_. heretofore those interested in the study of animal life were confined to dull descriptions with no object lessons whatsoever; therefore this book, "living pictures from the animal kingdom," will undoubtedly greatly enhance interest in this branch of science, proving of inestimable value to the professor and student of zoölogy. every member of the household will welcome this beautiful book, for animal pictures of the size shown therein are a novelty. the foot-notes describing the habits, etc., of the originals of the lifelike illustrations will be found exceedingly interesting. [illustration: dan, the newsboy.] dan, the newsboy. by horatio alger, jr., _author of "the train boy," "the errand boy," "tony the hero," "tom temple's career," etc., etc._ [illustration: logo] new york: a. l. burt, publisher. copyright, , by a. l. burt. contents. chapter. page. i.--introducing dan ii.--dan at home iii.--gripp's clothing store iv.--an odd couple v.--effecting a loan vi.--more than a match vii.--mr. gripp is worsted viii.--mike rafferty's trick ix.--mike's theft is discovered x.--dan as a detective xi.--dan has another adventure xii.--a mysterious lady xiii.--althea xiv.--a new home xv.--dan becomes a detective xvi.--dan makes a discovery xvii.--talbot's secret xviii.--two knights of the highway xix.--dan as a good samaritan xx.--laying the train xxi.--twelve thousand dollars xxii.--talbot's scheme fails xxiii.--the calm before the storm xxiv.--old jack, the janitor xxv.--the burglary xxvi.--dan learns to dance xxvii.--in the dressing-room xxviii.--dan at the party xxix.--a ne'er do well xxx.--how hartley got a clew xxxi.--althea's abduction xxxii.--donovan's xxxiii.--althea becomes katy donovan xxxiv.--another little game xxxv.--dan disguises himself xxxvi.--dan makes a discovery xxxvii.--dan is discovered xxxviii.--unpleasant quarters xxxix.--dan discomfits the donovans xl.--hartley surprised xli.--dan is adopted xlii.--conclusion dan, the newsboy. chapter i. introducing dan. "_evening telegram!_ only one left. going for two cents, and worth double the money. buy one, sir?" attracted by the business-like tone of the newsboy, a gentleman paused as he was ascending the steps of the astor house, and said, with a smile: "you seem to appreciate the _telegram_, my boy. any important news this afternoon?" "buy the paper, and you'll see," said the boy, shrewdly. "i see--you don't care to part with the news for nothing. well, here are your two cents." "thank you, sir." still the gentleman lingered, his eyes fixed upon the keen, pleasant face of the boy. "how many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked. "thirty-six, sir." "were they all _telegrams_?" "no; i sell all the papers. i ain't partial. i'm just as willing to make money on the _mail_, or _commercial_, or _evening post_, as the _telegram_." "i see you have an eye to business. how long have you dealt in papers?" "three years, sir." "how old are you?" "fifteen." "what did you do before you sold papers?" a shadow rested on the boy's bright face. "i didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "my father was alive, and he was well off. we lived in a nice house up town, and i went to a private school. but all at once father failed, and soon afterward he died, and then everything was changed. i don't like to think about it, sir." the gentleman's interest was strongly excited. "it is a sad story," he said. "is your mother living?" "yes, sir. the worst of it is, that i don't make enough to support us both, and she has to work, too." "what does she do?" "she makes vests for a man on chatham street." "i hope she is well paid." "that she is not. he only allows her twenty cents apiece." "that is a mere pittance. she can't earn much at that rate." "no, sir; she has to work hard to make one vest a day." "the man can't have a conscience," said the gentleman, indignantly. "it is starvation wages." "so it is, sir, but he pretends that he pays more than the work is worth. oh, he's a mean fellow," pursued the boy, his face expressive of the scorn and disgust which he felt. "what is your name, my boy?" "dan, sir--dan mordaunt." "i hope, dan, you make more money than your mother does." "oh, yes, sir. sometimes i make a dollar a day, but i don't average that. i wish i could make enough so that mother wouldn't have to work." "i see you are a good son. i like to hear you speak in such terms of your mother." "if i didn't," said dan, impetuously, "i should deserve to be kicked. she's a good mother, sir." "i have no doubt of it. it must be hard for her to be so reduced after once living liberally. how happened it that your father failed?" the boy's pleasant face assumed a stern expression. "on account of a rascal, sir. his book-keeper ran off, carrying with him thirty thousand dollars. father couldn't meet his bills, and so he failed. it broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it." "have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?" "no, sir, not a word. i wish i could. i should like to see him dragged to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a living." "i can't blame you, dan, for feeling as you do. besides, it has altered your prospects." "i don't care for myself, sir. i can forget that. but i can't forgive the injury he has done my poor father and mother." "have you any idea what became of the defaulter?" "we think that he went to europe, just at first, but probably he returned when he thought all was safe." "he may have gone out west." "i shouldn't wonder, sir." "i live in the west myself--in chicago." "that's a lively city, isn't it, sir?" "we think so out there. well, my lad, i must go into the hotel now." "excuse me for detaining you, sir," said dan, politely. "you haven't detained me; you have interested me. i hope to see you again." "thank you, sir." "where do you generally stand?" "just here, sir. a good many people pass here, and i find it a good stand." "then i shall see you again, as i propose to remain in new york for a day or two. shall you have the morning papers?" "yes, sir; all of them." "then i will patronize you to-morrow morning. good-day." "good-day, sir." "he's a gentleman," said dan to himself, emphatically. "it isn't every one that feels an interest in a poor newsboy. well, i may as well be going home. it's lonely for mother staying by herself all day. let me see; what shall i take her? oh, here are some pears. she's very fond of pears." dan inquired the price of pears at a street stand, and finally selected one for three cents. "better take two for five cents," said the fruit merchant. "i can't afford it," said dan. "times are hard, and i have to look after the pennies. i wouldn't buy any at all if it wasn't for my mother." "better take another for yourself," urged the huckster. dan shook his head. "can't afford it," he said. "i must get along without the luxuries. bread and butter is good enough for me." looking up, dan met the glance of a boy who was passing--a tall, slender, supercilious-looking boy, who turned his head away scornfully as he met dan's glance. "i know him," said dan to himself. "i ought to know tom carver. we used to sit together at school. but that was when father was rich. he won't notice me now. well, i don't want him to," proceeded dan, coloring indignantly. "he thinks himself above me, but he needn't. his father failed, too, but he went on living just the same. people say he cheated his creditors. my poor father gave up all he had, and sank into poverty." this was what passed through dan's mind. the other boy--tom carver--had recognized dan, but did not choose to show it. "i wonder whether dan mordaunt expected me to notice him," he said to himself. "i used to go to school with him, but now that he is a low newsboy i can't stoop to speak to him. what would my fashionable friends say?" tom carver twirled his delicate cane and walked on complacently, feeling no pity for the schoolfellow with whom he used to be so intimate. he was intensely selfish--a more exceptional thing with boys than men. it sometimes happens that a boy who passes for good-hearted changes into a selfish man; but tom required no change to become that. his heart was a very small one, and beat only for himself. dan walked on, and finally paused before a large tenement-house. he went in at the main entrance, and ascended two flights of stairs. he opened a door, and found himself in the presence of the mother whom he so dearly loved. chapter ii. dan at home. while dan was strong, sturdy, and the picture of health, his mother was evidently an invalid. she was pale, thin, and of delicate appearance. she was sitting in a cane-seated rocking-chair, which dan had bought second-hand on one of his flush days at a small place on the bowery. she looked up with a glad smile when dan entered. "i am so glad to see you, my dear boy," she said. "have you been lonely, mother?" asked dan, kissing her affectionately. "yes, dan, it is lonely sitting here hour after hour without you, but i have my work to think of." "i wish you didn't have to work, mother," said dan. "you are not strong enough. i ought to earn enough to support us both." "don't trouble yourself about that, my dear boy. i should feel more lonely if i had nothing to do." "but you work all the time. i don't like to have you do that." in truth the mother was very tired, and her feeble fingers were cramped with the stitch, stitch, stitch in endless repetition, but she put on a cheerful countenance. "well, dan, i'll stop now that you are at home. you want some supper." "let me get it, mother." "no, dan, it will be a relief to me to stir around a little, as i have been sitting so long." "oh, i nearly forgot, mother--here's a nice pear i bought for you." "it does look nice," said mrs. mordaunt. "i don't feel hungry, but i can eat that. but where is yours, dan?" "oh, i've eaten mine," answered dan, hastily. it was not true, but god will forgive such falsehoods. "you'd better eat half of this." "no; i'll be----flummuxed if i do," said dan, pausing a little for an unobjectionable word. mrs. mordaunt set the little table for two. on it she spread a neat cloth, and laid the plain supper--a plate of bread, ditto of butter, and a few slices of cold meat. soon the tea was steeped, and mother and son sat down for the evening meal. "i say, mother, this is a jolly supper," said dan. "i get awfully hungry by supper-time." "you are a growing boy, dan. i am glad you have an appetite." "but you eat next to nothing, mother," said dan, uneasily. "i am _not_ a growing boy," said mrs. mordaunt, smiling. "i shall relish my supper to-night on account of the pear you brought me." "well, i'm glad i thought of it," said dan, heartily. "pears ain't solid enough for me; i want something hearty to give me strength." "of course you do, dan. you have to work hard." "i work hard, mother! why, i have the easiest time going. all i do is to walk about the streets, or stand in front of the astor house and ask people to buy my papers. oh, by the way, who do you think i saw to-day?" "any of our old friends?" asked mrs. mordaunt. "any of our old friends! i should say not," answered dan, disdainfully. "it was tom carver." "was it he? he used to sit next you in school, didn't he?" "yes, for six months. tom and i were chums." "did he say whether his family was well?" "what are you thinking of, mother? do you suppose tom carver would notice me, now that i am a poor newsboy?" "why shouldn't he?" demanded the mother, her pale face flushing. "why shouldn't he notice my boy?" "because he doesn't choose to," answered dan, with a short laugh. "didn't you know it was disgraceful to be poor?" "thank heaven, it isn't that!" ejaculated mrs. mordaunt. "well, it might as well be. tom thinks me beneath his notice now. you should have seen him turn his head to the other side as he walked by, twirling his light cane." "did you speak to him, dan?" "what do you take me for, mother? do you think i'd speak to a fellow that doesn't want to know me?" "i think you are proud, my boy." "well, mother, i guess you're right. i'm too proud to force myself upon the notice of tom carver, or any other purse-proud sneak." dan spoke with a tinge of bitterness, and it was evident that he felt tom's slight more than he was willing to acknowledge. "it's the way of the world, dan," said his mother, sighing. "not one of all my friends, or those whom i accounted such, in my prosperous days, has come to see us, or shown any interest in our fate." "they can stay away. we can do without them," said dan, sturdily. "we must; but it would be pleasant to see some of the old faces," said his mother, plaintively. "there is no one in this house that is company for me." "no, mother; you are an educated and refined lady, and they are poor and ignorant." "they are very good people, some of them. there is mrs. burke on the next floor. she was in this afternoon, and asked if she couldn't do something for me. she thought i looked poorly, she said." "she's a brick, mother!" "my dear dan, you do use such extraordinary language sometimes. you didn't talk so when we lived on madison avenue." "no, mother, but i associate with a different class now. i can't help catching the phrases i hear all the time. but don't mind, mother; i mean no harm. i never swear--that is, almost never. i did catch myself at it the other day, when another newsboy stole half a dozen of my papers." "don't forget that you are a gentleman, dan." "i won't if i can help it, mother, though i don't believe anybody else would suspect it. i must take good care not to look into the looking-glass, or i might be under the impression that i was a street-boy instead of a gentleman." "clothes don't make the gentleman, dan. i want you to behave and feel like a gentleman, even if your clothes are poor and patched." "i understand you, mother, and i shall try to follow your advice. i have never done any mean thing yet that i can remember, and i don't intend to." "i am sure of that, my dear boy." "don't be too sure of anything, mother. i have plenty of bad examples before me." "but you won't be guided by them?" "i'll try not." "did you succeed well in your sales to-day, dan?" "pretty well. i made ninety-six cents." "i wish i could earn as much," said mrs. mordaunt, sighing. "i can only earn twenty cents a day." "you _earn_ as much as i do, mother, but you don't get it. you see, there's a difference in earning and being paid. old gripp is a mean skinflint. i should like to force one of his twenty-cent vests down his miserly throat." "don't use such violent language, dan. perhaps he pays me all he can afford." "perhaps he does, but i wouldn't bet high on it. he is making a fortune out of those who sew for him. there are some men that have no conscience. i hope some time you will be free from him." "i hope so, too, dan, but i am thankful to earn something. i don't want all the burden of our maintenance to fall on you." "don't call it a burden, mother. there's nothing i enjoy so much as working for you. why, it's fun!" "it can't be fun on rainy, disagreeable days, dan." "it wouldn't be fun for you, mother, but you're not a boy." "i am so sorry that you can't keep on with your education, dan. you were getting on so well at school." it was a thought that had often come to dan, but he wouldn't own it, for he did not wish to add to his mother's sadness. "oh, well, mother," he said, "something may turn up for us, so we won't look down in the mouth." "i have got my bundled work ready, dan, if you can carry it round to mr. gripp's to-night." "yes, mother, i'll carry it. how many vests are there?" "there are six. that amounts to a dollar and twenty cents. i hope he'll pay you to-night, for our rent comes due to-morrow." "so it does!" ejaculated dan, seriously. "i never thought of it. shall we have enough to pay it? you've got my money, you know." "we shall be a dollar short." "even if old gripp pays for the vests?" "yes." dan whistled--a whistle of dismay and anxiety, for he well knew that the landlord was a hard man. chapter iii. gripp's clothing store. nathan gripp's clothing store was located about a quarter of a mile from the city hall, on chatham street. not many customers from fifth avenue owned him as their tailor, and he had no reputation up town. his prices were undeniably low, though his clothes were dear enough in the end. his patrons were in general from the rural districts, or city residents of easy tastes and limited means. the interior of the store was ill-lighted, and looked like a dark cavern. but nearly half the stock was displayed at the door, or on the sidewalk, mr. gripp himself, or his leading salesman, standing in the door-way with keen, black eyes, trying to select from the moving crowds possible customers. on the whole gripp was making money. he sold his clothes cheap, but they cost him little. he paid the lowest prices for work, and whenever told that his wages would not keep body and soul together, he simply remarked: "that's nothing to me, my good woman. if you don't like the pay, leave the work for somebody else." but unfortunately those who worked for mr. gripp could not afford to leave the work for somebody else. half wages were better than none, and they patiently kept on wearing out their strength that nathan might wax rich, and live in good style up town. mr. gripp himself was standing in the door-way when dan, with the bundle of vests under his arm, stopped in front of the store. mr. gripp was a little doubtful whether our hero wished to become a customer, but a glance at the bundle dispelled his uncertainty, and revealed the nature of his errand. "i've brought home half a dozen vests," said dan. "who from?" asked gripp, abruptly, for he never lavished any of the suavity, which was a valuable part of his stock in trade, on his work people. "mrs. mordaunt." "take them into the store. here, samuel, take the boy's bundle, and see if the work is well done." it was on the tip of dan's tongue to resent the doubt which these words implied, but he prudently remained silent. the clerk, a callow youth, with long tow-colored locks, made sleek with bear's grease, stopped picking his teeth, and motioned to dan to come forward. "here, young feller," he said, "hand over your bundle." "there it is, young feller!" retorted dan. the clerk surveyed the boy with a look of disapproval in his fishy eyes. "no impudence, young feller!" he said. "where's the impudence?" demanded dan. "i don't see it." "didn't you call me a young feller?" "you've called me one twice, but i ain't at all particular. i'd just as lief call you an old feller," said dan, affably. "look here, young chap, i don't like your manners," said the clerk, with an irritating consciousness that he was getting the worst of the verbal encounter. "i'm sorry for that," answered dan, "because they're the best i've got." "did you make these vests yourself?" asked the salesman, with a feeble attempt at humor. "yes," was dan's unexpected rejoinder. "that's the way i amuse my leisure hours." "humph!" muttered the tallow-faced young man, "i'll take a look at them." he opened the bundle, and examined the vests with an evident desire to find something wrong. he couldn't find any defect, but that didn't prevent his saying: "they ain't over-well made." "well, they won't be over-well paid," retorted dan. "so we're even." "i don't know if we ought to pay for them at all." "honesty is the best policy, young feller," said dan. "no more of your impudence!" said the clerk, sharply. "wait here a minute till i speak to mr. gripp." he kept dan before the counter, and approached the proprietor. "well, what is it, samuel?" asked mr. gripp, stroking his jet-black whiskers. "are the vests all right?" "pretty well, sir, but the boy is impudent." "ha! how is that?" "he keeps calling me 'young feller.'" "anything more?" "he don't seem to have any respect for me--or you," he added, shrewdly. nathan gripp frowned. he cared very little about his clerk, but he resented any want of respect to himself. he felt that the balance at his bankers was large enough to insure him a high degree of consideration from his work-people at least. "how many vests are there?" he asked. "half a dozen." "and the boy wants his pay, i suppose." "he hasn't asked for it, but he will. they always do." "tell him we only pay when a full dozen are finished and brought in. we'll credit him, or his mother, with these." "that'll pay them off," thought the astute clothing merchant. samuel received this order with inward satisfaction, and went back smiling. "well, young feller," said he, "it's all right. the vests ain't over-well done, but we'll keep 'em. now you can go." but dan did not move. "it seems to me you've forgotten something," he said. "what's that?" "you haven't paid me for the work." "it's all right. we'll pay when the next half dozen are brought in. will you take 'em now?" dan was disagreeably surprised. this was entirely out of the usual course, and he knew very well that the delay would be a great inconvenience. "we've always been paid when we brought in work," he said. "we've changed our rule," said the clerk, nonchalantly. "we only pay when a full dozen are brought in." "what difference does it make to you? we need the money, and can't wait." "it's my orders, young feller. it's what mr. gripp just told me." "then i'll speak to him," said dan, promptly. "just as you like." dan approached the proprietor of the establishment. "mr. gripp," said he, "i've just brought in half a dozen vests, but your clerk here won't pay me for them." "you will get your pay, young man, when you bring in another half dozen." "but, mr. gripp, we need the money. we haven't got a big bank account. our rent is due to-morrow." "is it, indeed? i don't see how that concerns me." "will you pay me to-night as a favor?" pleaded dan, humbling himself for his mother's sake. "i can't break over my rule," said nathan gripp. "besides, samuel says the work isn't very well done." "then he lies!" exclaimed dan, provoked. "do you hear that, mr. gripp?" ejaculated the angry samuel, his tallowy complexion putting on a faint flush. "didn't i tell you he was impudent?" nathan gripp's small black eyes snapped viciously. "boy," said he, "leave my store directly. how dare you address me in such a way, you young tramp?" "i'm no more a tramp than yourself," retorted dan, now thoroughly angry. "samuel, come here, and put out this boy!" exclaimed nathan, too dignified to attempt the task himself. samuel advanced, nothing loth, his fishy eyes gleaming with pleasure. "get out, you vagabond!" he exclaimed, in the tone of authority. "you're a couple of swindlers!" exclaimed dan. "you won't pay for honest work." "out with him, samuel!" ordered gripp. samuel seized dan by the shoulder, and attempted to obey orders, but our hero doubled him up with a blow from his fist, and the luckless clerk, faint and gasping, staggered and nearly fell. dan stepped out on the sidewalk, and raising his hat, said, with mock politeness, "good-morning, gentlemen!" and walked away, leaving gripp and his assistant speechless with anger. [illustration: "you're a couple of swindlers!" exclaimed dan. "you won't pay for honest work." page .] chapter iv. an odd couple. when dan's excitement was over, he felt that he had won a barren victory. he had certainly been badly treated, and was justified in yielding to his natural indignation; but for all that he had acted unwisely. nathan gripp had not refused payment, he had only postponed it, and as he had the decided advantage, which money always has when pitted against labor, it would have been well to have been conciliatory. now gripp would undoubtedly annoy him with further delay, and refuse to give mrs. mordaunt any further work. "i suppose i've acted like a fool," said dan to himself, with compunction. "my spunk is always getting the better of me, and i am afraid poor mother will have to suffer. well, there's no use crying for spilt milk; i must see what i can do to mend matters." while these thoughts were passing through dan's mind he found himself passing the clothing establishment of jackson & co., who were special rivals of mr. gripp. "perhaps i can get some work for mother here," thought dan. "i'll try, at any rate." he entered, and looking about him, attracted the attention of a clerk. "do you want something in our line to-day?" asked the clerk, pleasantly. "yes, i do," said dan, "if you're giving things away; but as i've got a note of ten thousand dollars to meet to-morrow, i can't pay anything out." "your credit ought to be good," said the salesman, smiling, "but we don't trust." "all right," said dan; "i may as well proceed to business. my mother makes vests for amusement. can you give her any work?" "i will speak to mr. jackson. one of our hands is sick, and if your mother understands how to do the work, we may be able to give her some." the young man went to the rear of the store, and returned with the proprietor. "has your mother any experience?" asked the proprietor, a big man, with sandy whiskers. he was an englishman, as any one might see, and a decided improvement on nathan gripp, whom he cordially hated. "yes, sir; she has been making vests for the last two years." "for whom has she been working?" "for nathan gripp." "humph! has gripp discharged her?" "no, sir; she has discharged him." mr. jackson laughed, and nodded to his salesman. he rather enjoyed this allusion to his rival. "then she didn't like gripp?" "no, sir. he paid her starvation wages and made her wait for the money. he's a mean fellow." "i don't admire him much myself," said the englishman. "how much now did he pay for vest-making?" "twenty cents apiece." "we don't pay much more ourselves. there is so much competition that we have to sell low." "mother would rather make for you at eighteen cents than for gripp for twenty," said dan. mr. jackson was pleased, but he said, by way of drawing out dan: "how do you know but i am a mean skinflint, too?" "you don't look like one," said the boy. mr. jackson smiled graciously. "joseph," said he, "have we any vests ready for making?" "yes, sir. we have some bundles of half a dozen each." "take this boy's name and address and give him one. my boy, we will pay your mother twenty-five cents each, but we expect good work." "you will be satisfied, sir," said dan, confidently, and he left the store in excellent spirits. "it's turned out right, after all," thought he; "but i am afraid we shall miss the money old gripp owed mother. i don't know how we are going to pay the rent to-morrow. we shall be over two dollars short unless something turns up." dan carried the bundle of work home, and told his mother what had happened. she was pleased with the increase of pay, but that was in the future. it would be a week before she could collect any pay from jackson & co., and the landlord would not wait. "i wish i could think of some way of raising money," said dan, putting his face between his hands and looking thoughtful. "if you only had some jewels, mother, that we could raise money on now, we would be all right." "i have nothing but my wedding-ring," said mrs. mordaunt, sadly. "you must keep that, mother. don't part with that unless you are obliged to." "i would rather not, dan, but if there is no other way----" "there must be another way. i will find another way. just don't think of it any more, mother. when does the landlord come?" "generally between twelve and one." "then we shall have all the forenoon to forage round in. it's only two dollars and a half we want. i ought to be able to raise two dollars and a half." "that is a great deal of money to us now, dan." "i wonder whether shorty wouldn't lend it to me?" said dan, reflectively. "who is shorty, my son?" "he is a little hump-backed dwarf that keeps a cigar stand down on broadway, not far from trinity church. he has a good trade, and doesn't waste his money. yes, i will ask shorty." "i hope he will be willing to grant your request, dan." "i hope so, too. he's a good-natured fellow, shorty is, and he'll do it, if he can. i'll see him the first thing to-morrow morning." somewhat cheered by dan's confident tone, mrs. mordaunt went to sleep as early as usual, forgetting the trouble possibly in store. the next morning, before selling his papers, dan went round to shorty's stand. "good-morning, dan," said the dwarf, in a singularly melodious voice. "good-morning, shorty. i thought i'd find you here." "yes, i begin business early." "i am going to ask a favor of you," said dan, abruptly. "what is it, dan?" "our rent's due to-day, and we are two dollars and a half short. i can make the fifty cents before noon. can you lend me two dollars till i am able to pay it?" to dan's dismay shorty shook his head. "i wish i could, dan, but there's something in the way." "if you're afraid i won't pay you back, you needn't think of that. i never went back on a fellow that lent me money yet." "i am not afraid of trusting you, dan, but i haven't got the money." "i understand," said dan, coldly, for he suspected this to be a subterfuge. "no, you don't understand," said shorty, eagerly. "you think what i say is a sham, but you wouldn't if you knew all." "if i knew all," repeated dan, surprised. "yes, i shall have to tell you. i didn't mean to, but i don't want you to misunderstand me. the fact is, dan," shorty added, sheepishly, "i've got more than myself to provide for now." "what? you don't mean to say?" ejaculated dan. "i was married yesterday, dan," said the cigar dealer, almost apologetically, "and i've been buying furniture, and the fact is, i haven't got a cent to spare." "of course you haven't," said dan. "i never dreamed of this. is your wife--about your size?" "no, dan, she's rather tall. there she is, crossing the street. do you see her?" dan looked, and saw a tall woman, of twenty-five or thereabouts, approaching the cigar stand. she was very plain, with a large mouth and a long, aquiline nose. "that's my wife," said the cigar dealer, regarding his tall partner with evident pride. "julia, my dear, this is my friend, dan mordaunt." "glad to see any friend of my husband," said the lady, in a deep, hoarse voice, which might have been mistaken for a man's. "he must come and see us." "so i will, thank you," answered dan, surveying the female grenadier with a wondering glance. "we live at no. -- varick street, dan, and i shall be very glad to see you any evening." "by gracious!" said dan to himself, "that's the queerest match i ever heard of. she might take shorty up in her arms and carry him off. i don't think he'll beat her very often," and dan smiled at the thought. the morning wore away, and at eleven o'clock dan had earned forty cents. he began to get discouraged. there didn't seem to be much prospect of raising the rent before twelve o'clock. chapter v. effecting a loan. as dan stood on the sidewalk with his bundle of papers, and only forty cents toward the two dollars and a half required for the rent, he felt like many a business man who has a note to meet and not enough money on hand to pay it. indeed, he was worse off, for generally business men have friends who can help them with a temporary loan, but dan's friends were quite as poor as himself. one, however, dick stanton, a mere boy, had the reputation of being more saving than his companions. it was known that he had an account in the bowery savings bank, and among the street boys he was considered wealthy. "perhaps i can borrow two dollars of him," thought dan, as dick passed him on his way to canal street. "i say, dick," said dan, "stop a minute. i want to speak to you." "go ahead, dan." "i want you to lend me two dollars. our rent is due, and i can raise it all but that." dick shook his head, and was about to speak, when dan said hurriedly, for he felt that it was his last chance: "you needn't be afraid of me, dick; i'll pay you sure, and give you more interest, too, than you get in the bank." "i haven't got any money in the bank, dan." "you had last week," said dan, suspiciously. "so i had, but i haven't now." "you don't want to lend--that's what's the matter." "you are mistaken, dan. i'm not a bit afraid of lending to you, but i have lent my money already." "who to?" asked dan, ungrammatically, falling into a mistake made by plenty of greater age and better experience than himself. "of course it isn't any of my business," he added, "if you don't want to tell." "i don't mind telling you, dan. i've lent it to my aunt. she's got two children, and a hard time to get along. perhaps i shall never see it again, but i couldn't refuse her." "of course you couldn't," said dan, heartily. "you've done right, and you won't be sorry for it. i wish i knew some way of making two dollars before twelve o'clock." "are you in urgent need of two dollars, my boy?" asked a pleasant voice. dan turned, and met the face of the stranger introduced in the first chapter. "yes, sir," he answered. "i want it the worst way." "have you been extravagant and run up bills, dan?" "no, sir; the only bill we have is the rent, and that comes due this noon." "how much is it?" "six dollars, sir." "i thought you said you wanted to borrow _two_ dollars." "i've got four dollars toward it, sir." "do you often fall behind when rent day comes, dan?" "no, sir; this is the first time in two years." "how do you account for it? has business been duller than usual during the last month?" "yes, sir, i think it has. there hasn't been as much news in the papers, and my sales have fallen off. there's another thing, too." "what is that?" "mother has a dollar and twenty cents due her, and she can't collect it." "is it for making vests?" "yes, sir. mr. gripp won't pay till she has made a full dozen." "that seems inconsiderate." "oh, he's a mean fellow." "i've a great mind to buy the debt of you." "i wish you would, sir," said dan, eagerly. "that would leave only sixty cents short, for i shall make ten cents more before twelve o'clock, it's likely." "it is only half-past eleven. to put you quite at ease, i mean to lend you five dollars, and help you collect your mother's bill." "you are very kind, sir," said dan, surprised and grateful; "but i don't need so much." "you may get short again when i am not here to assist you." "are you not afraid i shall never pay you, sir?" "that thought won't keep me awake nights," said the gentleman, laughing. "you sha'n't lose anything by me, sir; i promise you that," said dan, earnestly. "then come into the hotel with me, and we will arrange the matter in a business-like way." "all right, sir." dan followed his new friend into the astor house, and up stairs into a pleasant bedroom, which in its comfortable apartments reminded dan of the days before his father's failure. "i wish i could live so again," he thought. "i don't like a tenement-house." mr. grant--for this was his name--took writing materials from his valise, and seated himself at a table. "i am going to draw up a note for you to sign," he said. "i probably understand better than you the necessary form." "thank you, sir." his pen ran rapidly over the paper, and in a minute or two he handed dan the following form of acknowledgment: "new york, sept. , --. "for value received i promise to pay to alexander grant five dollars on demand with interest." "now," said mr. grant, "put your name at the bottom." dan did so. "i added 'with interest,' but only as a form; i shall require none." "i would rather pay it, sir." "that may be as you please. how much will six per cent. interest make it amount to in a year?" "five dollars and thirty cents," answered dan, promptly. "good! i see you have not forgotten what you learned in school." "i have ciphered through cube root," said dan, with some pride. "i am not sure whether i remember that now, but i could do any sum in square root." "it is a pity you could not have remained in school." "i should like to; but it's no use crying for spilt milk." "as long as you didn't spill it yourself," added mr. grant. "no, sir; it was not my fault that i had to leave school." mr. grant folded up the note and carefully deposited it in his wallet. "the next thing is to hand you the money," he said. "shall i give you a five-dollar bill, or small bills?" "small bills, sir, if it is just as convenient." mr. grant placed in dan's hands two two-dollar bills and a one. "one thing more," he said. "give me an order on mr. gripp for the money due your mother. it is as well to have it in your own handwriting. i won't tell you how to write it. see if you can find a way." dan wrote an order, which mr. grant pronounced satisfactory. "on the whole," said he, "i believe i will take you with me when i call upon mr. gripp. can you call here at three o'clock this afternoon?" "yes, sir." "that is settled, then. we will see whether mr. gripp will be any more polite to me than he was to you." "he will be surprised to see me in your company," said dan, laughing. "it is a good thing to surprise the enemy, dan. a surprise often leads to victory. when does your landlord call for his rent?" "between twelve and one." "then i won't detain you longer. remember your appointment at three." "i won't forget it, sir." "well, i'm in luck!" said dan to himself, as he emerged into the street. "who would have thought that a stranger would lend me so large a sum? he's a trump, and no mistake. now, if i could only sell the four papers i have left before twelve o'clock. i don't want to get stuck on them." fortune was not tired of favoring dan. in ten minutes he had sold his papers, and turned his steps toward the humble home where his mother was awaiting, not without anxiety, the visit of an unamiable landlord. chapter vi. more than a match. mrs. mordaunt looked up anxiously as dan entered the room. she had little expectation that he had been able in one morning to make up the large deficiency in the sum reserved for the rent, but there was a possibility, and she clung to that. dan thought of postponing the relation of his good news, but when he saw his mother's anxious face, he felt that it would be cruel. so when she said, "well, dan?" he nodded his head cheerfully. "i've got it, mother," he said. "thank god for all his goodness!" ejaculated mrs. mordaunt, fervently. "you see he hasn't forgotten us," said dan, gleefully. "no, my boy, it is a rebuke to my momentary want of faith. how could you raise so large a sum? surely you did not earn it in one forenoon?" "you're right there, mother. i'm not smart enough to earn two dollars before twelve o'clock." "but you've got the money, dan?" "look at this, mother," and dan displayed the bills. "where did you get them, dan?" asked his mother, astonished. "i borrowed them." "i didn't know we had a friend left, able or willing to lend us that sum." "i borrowed them of alexander grant, of st. louis, and gave my note for them," answered dan, in a tone of some importance. "alexander grant, of st. louis! i don't remember that name." "he's a new friend of mine, mother. i haven't known him over twenty-four hours. as the old friends have treated us so badly, i'm goin' in for new ones." "you quite mystify me, dan. tell me all about it." dan did so. "he's very kind to a stranger, dan. heaven will reward him, i am sure." "i hope it will, mother. i wish i was a rich man. i should enjoy helping those who needed it. if i ever get rich--though it doesn't look much like it now--i will do all the good i can. i wonder rich men don't do it oftener." "it springs from thoughtlessness sometimes, dan." "and from selfishness pretty often," added dan, whose views of human nature were considerably less favorable than they had been in his more prosperous days. "a good many men are like tom carver, as he is now and will be when he is grown up." "perhaps there are more good and generous men than we suppose, dan," urged his mother, who liked to think well of her fellow-beings. "like mr. gripp and our landlord, for instance. by the way, i hear mr. grab's steps on the stairs. i want to deal with him. just you step into the bedroom, mother." mrs. mordaunt had no desire to meet mr. grab, but she was a little afraid of dan's impetuous temper. "you will treat him respectfully, won't you, dan?" she urged, as she turned to go into the adjoining room. dan's eyes danced with fun. "i'll treat him with all the respect he deserves, mother," he answered. mrs. mordaunt looked a little doubtful, for she understood dan, but did not say more, for mr. grab was already knocking at the door. "don't come out, whatever you hear, mother," said dan, in a low voice. "i'll come out all right, though i shall tantalize him a little at first." the knock was repeated. "come in!" dan called out, in a loud, clear tone. the door opened, and a thin, undersized man, with bushy red hair and the look of a cross mastiff, entered the room. before his entrance dan had seated himself in the plain wooden rocking-chair with his feet on a cricket. he looked quite easy and unconcerned. "how are you, grab?" he said, in a friendly manner. "you might call me _mr._ grab," returned the landlord, angrily. "i've no objection, i'm sure, mr. grab," said dan. "how is your health? you're looking very yellow. got the jaundice?" "i am perfectly well, and i am not yellow at all. do you mean to insult me?" demanded grab, irritated. "i wouldn't do that for a cent, mr. grab. i am glad you feel well, though you ain't looking so. it's very friendly of you to come round to see me and mother." "where is your mother?" snapped mr. grab. "she is engaged just now, and won't have the pleasure of seeing you." "but i _must_ see her." "must! you are quite mistaken. you can't see her. you can see me." "i've seen more of you than i want to already," said grab. "that isn't talking like a friend, mr. grab," said dan, "when i'm so glad to see you. perhaps you have come on business." "of course i have come on business, and you know very well what that business is, you young monkey." "thank you, mr. grab, you are very complimentary. it isn't about the rent, is it?" "of course it is!" snapped the landlord. "oh, dear, how could i have forgotten that it was rent-day," said dan, with well-feigned confusion. mr. grab's brow grew dark. he concluded that he wasn't going to collect the rent, and that always chafed him. "it's your business to know when rent-day comes," he said, bringing down his fist with such emphasis on the table that he hurt his knuckles, to dan's secret delight. "please don't break the table, grab," said dan. "oh, blast the table!" said grab, surveying his red knuckles. "we haven't got any blasting powder, and i don't think it would be a very interesting experiment. it might blow you up, for you are nearest to it." "have done with this trifling, boy," said the landlord. "i am afraid you got out of the wrong end of the bed this morning, mr. grab. you should control yourself." "look here, boy," said the landlord, savagely, "do you know what i am tempted to do?" "no, what is it?" asked dan, indifferently. "i am strongly tempted to chastise you for your impudence." dan looked critically at the small, thin form, and secretly decided that mr. grab would find it difficult to carry out his threat. "oh, how you frighten me!" he said. "i don't believe i shall sleep any to-night." mr. grab made a motion to pound on the table again, but he looked at his red knuckles and wisely forbore. "i can't waste any more time," he said. "you must pay your rent, or turn out. i want six dollars." "won't it do, mr. grab, if we pay you next week?" "no, it won't. the rent must be paid to-day, or out you go." "why doesn't dan pay him?" thought mrs. mordaunt, uneasily. "really, he ought not to tease the poor man so. he has such a bad temper, he might hurt dan." "mr. gripp is owing mother for work. as soon as he pays her, i will call round at your office and pay you." "it won't do," said grab. "i won't let you stay here another night, and i mean to have security for my money, too." so saying, the landlord seized the bundle of vests which lay on the table beside him. this aroused dan to action. he sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. "put down that bundle, mr. grab!" he exclaimed. "then pay me my rent," said the landlord, recoiling a little. "put down that bundle before you say another word about rent. it isn't my mother's or mine. you have no business with it." "what do you mean, boy, by your impudence?" demanded the landlord, a little uneasily. "i mean that if you take that bundle from the room, i shall put you in charge of the nearest policeman on a charge of stealing." "that is nonsense," said grab; but he looked nervous, and laid down the bundle. "all right, grab," said dan. "now, as i don't want any more of your company, i'll pay the rent, if you'll give me a receipt." "have you got the money?" asked grab, astonished. "of course i have. i never told you i hadn't." "you made me think so." "it isn't my business what you think. there, that is settled, and now, mr. grab, i have the honor of wishing you good-evening. i hope you won't hurt your knuckles again." mr. grab left the room, inwardly wishing that he could wring dan's neck. "oh, dan, how could you?" asked his mother, reproachfully, as she re-entered the room. "he deserves it all," said dan. "didn't he turn out the poor donovans on a cold day last winter? i have no pity for him." "he may turn us out." "not as long as we pay the rent." chapter vii. mr. gripp is worsted. punctually at three o'clock dan knocked at the door of mr. grant's room in the astor house. that gentleman looked at his watch as he admitted our hero. "you are punctual to the minute," he said. "your watch keeps excellent time." "i'll tell you why," answered dan, smiling. "i always keep it at tiffany's. i don't dare to carry it for fear it will get out of order." "you ought to have a watch," said mr. grant. "that will come in time." "i hope so," said dan. "then i could be sure to keep my business appointments. now i have to depend on the city hall clock. i'd rather look at it than carry it round." "well, dan, do you think mr. gripp is prepared to receive us?" "he'll be glad to see you. he'll think you are going to buy some clothes. i don't think he'll be very happy to see me." "he must see us both, or neither. has he any good clothes?" "yes, sir--good enough for me. i don't think you would like to patronize his establishment." "by the way, dan, you have given me an order for money, and i have not handed you the equivalent." "you may not get the money, sir." "i will make the effort at any rate. by the way, dan, that coat of yours is getting shabby." "it is the best i have, sir. boys in my business don't have to dress much." "that gives me an idea. please hand me my hat, and we will start." the two left the astor house together. one or two of dan's associates whom they encountered on the way, were surprised to see him walking on terms of apparent friendly companionship with a well-to-do stranger, but decided that dan was probably acting as his guide. they found mr. gripp standing as usual in the door-way of his shop watching for customers. he did not at first observe dan, but his attention was drawn to mr. grant. "walk in, sir," he said, obsequiously. "you will find what you want here. styles fashionable, and as for prices--we defy competition." alexander grant paused, and looked critically about him. he understood very well the sort of establishment he was about to enter, and would not have thought of doing so but in dan's interests. he stepped over the threshold, and dan was about to follow, when the eagle eye of mr. gripp recognized our hero. "clear out, you young rascal!" he exclaimed. "don't you come round here any more." dan did not answer, for he knew mr. grant would do so for him. mr. grant turned back, and said, quietly: "to whom are you speaking, sir?" "i beg your pardon, sir--it's that boy." "then, sir, you will oblige me by stopping at once. that boy is in my company and under my protection." nathan gripp stared as if transfixed. "do you know him, sir?" he asked. "yes, sir." "you are mistaken in him, sir. he's an artful young rascal. he was here yesterday, and acted outrageously. he assaulted my clerk and insulted me." "i have nothing to do with that. he is in my company, and if i enter the store he will." "oh, of course, if he's with you he can come in. samuel, show the gentleman what he wants." dan smiled, and nothing but a sense of his own interest prevented mr. gripp from objecting to his entrance. "what will i show you, sir?" asked the callow young man named samuel, glaring at dan in vivid remembrance of the blow which had doubled him up. "have you any coats and vests that will fit this young gentleman?" "young gentleman!" repeated samuel, mechanically, glancing at dan in silent hatred. "that means me, samuel," said dan, mischievously. "samuel is an old friend of mine, mr. grant." "i think we can fit him," said samuel, by no means relishing the task of waiting upon his young opponent. "take off your coat, young feller." "don't be too familiar, samuel. you may call me mr. mordaunt," said dan. "i'll be ---- if i do," muttered the young man. dan took off his coat, and tried on the one submitted to his inspection. he afterward tried on the vest, and they proved to be a good fit. "do they suit you, dan?" asked mr. grant. "yes, sir, they fit as well as if they had been made for me." "what is the price of these articles, young man?" asked mr. grant. "twelve dollars," answered samuel. "he'll take eight," suggested dan, in a low voice. mr. grant knew well enough the ways of chatham street merchants to appreciate the suggestion. "that is too high," he said, quietly. samuel, who was trained to read customers, after a glance at mr. grant's face, prepared to reduce the price. "we might say eleven," he said, meditatively. "shall i put them up?" "not at that price." "you don't want us to give 'em away?" said samuel, in the tone of one whose reasonable demands had been objected to. "there is no fear of that, i apprehend," returned mr. grant, dryly. "i've no objection, i'm sure," remarked dan, on his own account. "i'd make a few remarks to you, young feller, if you were alone," he read in the eyes of the indignant salesman, and dan enjoyed the restraint which he knew samuel was putting upon himself. "you are still asking too much," said the customer. "what'll you give, sir?" asked samuel, diplomatically. "eight dollars." "eight dollars! why the cloth cost more than that!" protested samuel. "the work didn't cost you much, i presume." "we pay the highest prices for work in this establishment, sir," said samuel, hastily. he forgot that dan knew better. "so they do, mr. grant," said dan. "they pay twenty cents apiece for making vests." "we pay more than that to our best hands," said samuel. "you told me you never paid more," retorted dan. mr. grant interrupted this discussion. "young man," said he, "i will give you eight dollars for the clothes." "say nine, sir." "not a cent more." as the regular price was eight dollars--when they couldn't get any more--samuel felt authorized to conclude the bargain without consulting mr. gripp. "shall i do up the clothes?" he asked. "no," said dan, "i'll wear 'em. you may put up my old ones." samuel felt it derogatory to his dignity to obey the orders of our hero, but there was no alternative. the bundle was placed in dan's hands. "now write me a receipt for the price," said mr. grant. this was done. mr. grant counted out six dollars and eighty cents. "i have an order upon you for the balance," he said. "i don't understand," ejaculated samuel. "your principal owes my young friend, or his mother, one dollar and twenty cents for work. this you will receive as part of the price." "i must see mr. gripp," said samuel. mr. gripp came forward frowning. "we can't take the order, sir," he said. "the boy's money is not yet due." "isn't the work done and delivered?" "yes, sir; but it is our rule not to pay till a whole dozen is delivered." "then it is a rule which you must break," said mr. grant, firmly. "we can't." "then i refuse to take the suit." nathan gripp did not like to lose the sale on the one hand, or abdicate his position on the other. "tell your mother," he said to dan, "that when she has finished another half-dozen vests i will pay her the whole." he reflected that the stranger would be gone, and dan would be in his power. "thank you," said dan, "but mother's agreed to work for jackson. he pays better." "then you'll have to wait for your pay," said mr. gripp, sharply. "don't you care to sell this suit?" asked mr. grant, quickly. "yes, sir, but under the circumstances we must ask all cash." "you won't get it, sir." "then i don't think we care to sell," said gripp, allowing his anger to overcome his interest. "very good. i think, dan, we can find quite as good a bargain at jackson's. mr. gripp, do i understand that you decline to pay this bill?" "i will pay when the other half-dozen vests are made," said gripp, stubbornly. "i have nothing to do with that. the bill is mine, and it is with me you have to deal. the boy has nothing to do with it." "is that so?" asked gripp, in surprise. "it is. you may take your choice. settle the bill now, or i shall immediately put it in a lawyer's hands, who will know how to compel you to pay it." a determined will carries the day. "take this gentleman's money, samuel," said gripp, in a tone of annoyance. there was no further trouble. dan walked out of the store better dressed than he had been since the days of his prosperity. "how can i thank you, mr. grant?" he said, gratefully. "by continuing to care for your mother, my lad. you are lucky to have a mother living. mine is dead, god bless her! now, my lad, what do you think of my success in collecting bills?" "you were too many for old gripp, sir. he won't sleep to-night." "he doesn't deserve to, for he grows rich by defrauding the poor who work for him." opposite the city hall park dan and his friend separated. "i shall not see you again, my boy," said mr. grant, "for i take the evening train. if you ever come to st. louis, find me out." "i will, sir." "that's a good man," said dan, as he wended his way homeward. "if there were more such, it would be good for poor people like mother and me. if i ever get rich, i mean to help along those that need it." chapter viii. mike rafferty's trick. dan carefully husbanded the money which mr. grant had lent him, and the result was that for two months he was comparatively easy in his circumstances. his mother earned five cents more daily, on account of the higher price she received for work, and though this was a trifle, it was by no means to be despised where the family income was so small as in the case of the mordaunts. still dan was not satisfied. "mother," said he, "i suppose i ought to be contented with earning enough to pay our expenses, but i should like to be saving something." "yes, dan, it would be pleasant. but we ought to be thankful for what we are now receiving." "but, mother, suppose i should fall sick? what should we do then?" mrs. mordaunt shuddered. "don't mention such a thing, dan," she said. "the very idea terrifies me." "but it might happen, for all that." "don't you feel well, dan? is anything the matter with you?" asked mrs. mordaunt, anxiously. "don't be frightened, mother," answered dan, laughing. "i'm as strong as a horse, and can eat almost as much. still, you know, we would feel safer to have a little money in the savings-bank." "there isn't much chance of that, dan, unless we earn more than we do now." "you are right there. well, i suppose there is no use thinking of it. by the way, mother, you've got enough money on hand to pay the rent to-morrow, haven't you?" "yes, dan, and a dollar over." "that's good." the door of the room was partly open, and the last part of the conversation was heard by mike rafferty, the son of the tenant who occupied the room just over the mordaunts. he was a ne'er-do-well, who had passed more than one term of imprisonment at blackwell's island. his mother was an honest, hard-working washerwoman, who toiled early and late to support herself and her three children. mike might have given her such assistance that she could have lived quite comfortably, for her own earnings were by no means inconsiderable. her wash-tub paid her much more than mrs. mordaunts needle could possibly win, and she averaged a dollar a day where her more refined neighbor made but twenty-five cents. but mike, instead of helping, was an additional burden. he got his meals regularly at home, but contributed scarcely a dollar a month to the common expenses. he was a selfish rowdy, who was likely to belong permanently to the shiftless and dangerous classes of society. mike had from time to time made approaches to intimacy with dan, who was nearly two years younger, but dan despised him for his selfishly burdening his mother with his support, and didn't encourage him. naturally, mike hated dan, and pronounced him "stuck up" and proud, though our hero associated familiarly with more than one boy ranking no higher in the social scale than mike rafferty. only the day before, mike, finding himself out of funds, encountering dan on the stairs, asked for the loan of a quarter. "i have no money to spare," answered dan. "you've got money, dan; i saw you take out some a minute ago." "yes, i've got the money, but i won't lend it." "you're a mane skinflint," said mike, provoked. "why am i?" "because you've got the money, and you won't lend it." "what do you want to do with it?" "i want to go to the old bowery to-night, if you must know." "if you wanted it for your mother i might have lent it to you, though i need all i can earn for my own mother." "it's for my mother i want it, thin," said mike. "i guess i won't go to the theater to-night." "that's too thin. your mother would never see the color of it." "won't you lend me, thin?" "no, i can't. if you want money, why don't you earn it, as i do?" "i ain't lucky." "it isn't luck. if you go to work and sell papers or black boots, you will be able to help your mother and pay your way to the theater yourself." "kape your advice to yourself," said mike, sullenly. "i don't want it." "you'd rather have my money," said dan, good-humoredly. "i'll never see that. you're too mane." "all right. i'll be _mane_, then." "i'd like to put a head on you," muttered mike. "i've got one already. i don't need another," said dan. "oh, you think you're mighty smart wid your jokes," said mike. dan smiled and walked off, leaving mike more his enemy than ever. this was the boy who overheard mrs. mordaunt say that she had more than the rent already saved up. mike's cupidity was excited. he knew that it must amount to several dollars, and this he felt would keep him in cigarettes and pay for evenings at the theater for several days. "i wish i had it," he said to himself. "i wonder where the ould woman kapes it." the more mike thought of it the more he coveted this money, and he set to work contriving means to get possession of it. finally he arranged upon a plan. about three o'clock in the afternoon he knocked at mrs. mordaunt's door. she answered the knock in person. "mike rafferty!" she said, in surprise. "won't you come in?" "oh, no; i can't. it's bad news i bring you about dan." "what is it? tell me quick, in heaven's name!" she exclaimed, her heart giving a great bound. "he's been run over, ma'am, by a hoss, in front of the astor house, and they took him into the drug store at the corner. he wants you to go right over." "is he--badly hurt?" asked the agonized mother. "i guess he's broke his leg," said mike. in two minutes mrs. mordaunt, trembling with apprehension, her faltering limbs almost refusing to bear her weight, was on her way to the astor house. as mike had calculated, she did not stop to lock the door. the young scape-grace entered the deserted room, rummaged about till he found the scanty hoard reserved for the landlord, and then went off whistling. "now i'll have a bully time," he said to himself. "didn't i fool the ould woman good?" chapter ix. mike's theft is discovered. dan was standing in front of the astor house, talking to a boy acquaintance, when his mother tottered up to him in a state of great nervous agitation. "why, mother, what's the matter?" asked dan, in surprise. "what brings you out this afternoon?" "oh, dan!" she gasped, "are you hurt?" dan opened his eyes in wonder. it occurred to him that his mother must have lost her mind. "hurt!" he repeated. "yes; they told me you were run over, and had your leg broken." "my leg broken! who told you so?" "mike rafferty." "then i wish i had him here," said dan, indignantly; "i'd let him know whether my leg is broken or not. you bet i would!" "haven't you been run over, then?" "not that i know of, and i guess it couldn't be done without my knowing it." "i am so glad, so relieved!" sighed mrs. mordaunt. "i don't know how i got here, i was so agitated." "when did mike rafferty tell you this cock-and-bull story, mother?" asked dan. "only a few minutes ago. he said you had been taken into a drug store, and wanted me to come right over." "it's a mean trick he played on you, mother," said dan, indignantly. "i don't see what made him do it." "nor i," said mrs. mordaunt. "he must have meant it as a joke." "a pretty poor joke. i'll get even with him for that." "i don't mind it now, dan, since i have you safe. i am ready to forgive him. he didn't know how much he was distressing me." "then he ought to have known. you may forgive him if you want to; i sha'n't." "i will go home now, dan. i feel a good deal happier than i did when i was hurrying over here." "i will go with you, mother. i have sold my papers, and sha'n't work any more this afternoon. where did you leave mike? i hope i can come across him soon." "i left him at the door of our room." "did you lock the door when you came away, mother?" asked dan. "no; i believe not." "then let us go home at once. some one might get in." "there isn't much to take, dan," said mrs. mordaunt, with a faint smile. "there is our rent money, mother." "i didn't think of that." "we shall be in a pretty pickle if that is lost." "you don't think mike would take it do you, dan?" "i think he would if he knew where to find it." "i wish i had brought it with me," said mrs. mordaunt, in a tone of anxiety. "don't fret, mother; i guess it's all right." "perhaps you had better go home at once without waiting for me, dan. you can go quicker." "all right; i'll do it. where is the money?" "in my pocket-book, in the drawer of the work-table." "are the drawers locked?" "no." "then hereafter you'd better lock them. well, i'll be off, and will meet you at the room." dan was not long in reaching his humble home. the more he thought of it, the more he distrusted mike, and feared that he might have had a sinister design in the deception he had practiced upon his mother. to lose the rent money would be a serious matter. mr. grab hated him, he knew full well, and would show no mercy, while in the short time remaining it would be quite impossible to make up the necessary sum. dan sprang up the stairs, several at a bound, and made his way at once to the little work-table. he pulled the drawer open without ceremony, and in feverish haste rummaged about until, to his great joy, he found the pocket-book. his heart gave a joyous bound. "it's all right, after all," he said. "mike isn't so bad as i thought him." he opened the pocket-book, and his countenance fell. there was a twenty-five cent scrip in one of the compartments, and that was all. "he's stolen the money, after all," he said, his heart sinking. "what are we going to do now?" he waited till his mother reached home. she looked inquiringly at him. one glance told her what had happened. "is it gone, dan?" she gasped. "that is all that is left," answered dan, holding up the scrip. "mike could not be wicked enough to take it." "couldn't he, though? you don't know him as i do, mother. he's a mean thief, and he sent you off to have a clear field. i wish you had locked the door." "i couldn't think of that, or anything else, dan, when i thought you were hurt." "that's why he told you." "what can we do, dan? mr. grab will be angry when he finds we can't pay him." "i will try to find mike; and if i do, i will get the money if i can. that's the first thing." dan went up stairs at once, and knocked at mrs. rafferty's door. she came to the door, her arms dripping with suds, for she had been washing. "is it you, dan?" she said. "and how is your mother to-day?" "is mike in?" asked dan, abruptly, too impatient to answer the question. "no; he went out quarter of an hour ago." "did he tell you where he was going, mrs. rafferty?" "yes, he did. he said he was going over to brooklyn to see if he could get a job, shure. did you want him?" "yes, i did, mrs. rafferty. i'm sorry to tell you that mike has played a bad trick on my mother." "oh, whirra, whirra, what a bye he is!" wailed mrs. rafferty. "he's always up to something bad. sorra bit of worruk he does, and i at the wash-tub all day long." "he's a bad son to you, mrs. rafferty." "so he is, dan, dear. i wish he was like you. and what kind of trick has he played on your good mother?" "he told her that i had been run over and broken my leg. of course she went out to find me, thinking it was all true, and while she was away he took the money from her pocket-book." some mothers would have questioned this statement, but mrs. rafferty knew to her cost that mike was capable of stealing, having been implicated in thefts on several occasions. "was it much, dan?" she asked. "six or seven dollars. i can't say just how much." "oh, what a bad bye! i don't know what to do wid him, shure." "it was the money we were to pay our rent with to-morrow," continued dan. "it is a very serious matter." "i wish i could make it up to you, dan, dear. it's a shame it is." "you are an honest woman, mrs. rafferty, but you ought not to make it up. i wish i could find mike. do you think he has really gone to brooklyn." "shure, i don't know. he said so." "he might have done it as a blind, just to put me on the wrong scent." "so he might, shure." "well, mrs. rafferty, i can't stop any longer. i'll try to find him." he went down stairs and told his mother what he had discovered or failed to discover. "don't wait supper for me, mother," he said. "i'm going in search of mike." "you won't fight with him, dan?" said mrs. mordaunt, anxiously. "i can't promise, mother. i will only agree to be prudent. i am not going to submit to the loss without trying to get the money back, you may be sure of that." so dan went down stairs, considerably perplexed in mind. mike was sure to keep out of the way for a time at least, anticipating that dan would be upon his track. while our hero was searching for him, he would have plenty of opportunities of spending the money of which he had obtained unlawful possession. to punish him without regaining the contents of the lost pocket-book would be an empty triumph. in the street below dan espied terence quinn, an acquaintance of mike. "how are you, terence?" he said. "have you seen anything of mike?" "i saw him only a few minutes ago." "where did he go?" "i don't know." "i want to see him on business." "i'll tell you where he'll be this evening." "where?" "he's going to the old bowery, and i'm goin' wid him." "does he treat?" "yes." "where did he get the money?" "he didn't tell me," said terence. "he's taken the rent money. i'm sure of it now," said dan to himself. "i wish i knew where to find him." chapter x. dan as a detective. dan quickly decided that if mike had been going to brooklyn, he would not have announced it under the circumstances. "he meant to send me there on a wild-goose chase," he reflected. "i am not quite so green as he takes me to be." dan could not decide as easily where mike had gone. hood says in his poem of "the lost heir," "a boy as is lost in london streets is like a needle in a bundle of hay." a hunt for a boy in the streets of new york is about equally hopeless. but dan did not despair. "i'll just stroll round a little," he said to himself. "maybe i'll find him." dan bent his steps toward the courtlandt-street ferry. "perhaps mike has gone to jersey city," he said to himself. "anyway, i'll go over there." it was not an expensive journey. six cents would defray dan's expenses both ways, and he was willing to incur this expense. he meant to look about him, as something might turn up by which he could turn an honest penny. something did turn up. near him in the cabin of the ferry-boat sat a gentleman of middle age, who seemed overloaded with baggage. he had two heavy carpet-bags, a satchel, and a bundle, at which he looked from time to time with a nervous and uncomfortable glance. when the boat touched shore he tried to gather his various pieces of luggage, but with indifferent success. noticing his look of perplexity, dan approached him, and said, respectfully: "can't i assist you, sir?" "i wish you would, my boy," said the gentleman, relieved. "all right, sir. i'll take one of the carpet-bags and the satchel, if you like." "thank you; that will do nicely." so the two left the boat together. "where are you going, sir?" asked dan. "do you know the wharf of the cunard steamers?" asked the gentleman. "yes, sir." "is it far off?" "not more than five or six minutes' walk," answered dan. "can you help me as far as that with my luggage?" "yes, sir." "i will make it worth your while, and you will be doing me a great favor besides. i was brought down to the ferry, but the rascally hackman demanded five dollars more to carry me across and land me at the cunard pier. he thought i would have to submit to this imposition, but i was so indignant that i tried to handle all my luggage myself. i don't know how i should have managed without you." "i won't charge you so much, sir," said dan, smiling. "it isn't for the money i cared so much as for the imposition. i would rather pay you ten dollars than the hackman five." "be careful, sir," said dan, smiling, "or i may take advantage of your liberal offer." the gentleman smiled in turn. "you don't look like a boy that would take advantage of a traveler." "you can't judge from appearances, sir. i have been robbed of six dollars to-day, and i might try to make it up that way." "you have been robbed! how?" dan briefly related the circumstances. "was it all the money your mother had?" "yes, sir." "how did you happen to be coming across the ferry?" "i thought mike might be here somewhere." by this time they were in sight of the cunard wharf. "were you ever on a cunard steamer?" asked the gentleman. "no, sir." "help me on board with my luggage, and i will show you about." "i thought the steamers generally left in the morning," said dan. "so they do; but to-day the tide did not serve till later." dan helped mr. stevens down below with his luggage, and assisted him in storing them in his stateroom. he surveyed with interest the cabin, the deck, the dining-saloon, and the various arrangements. "well," said the gentleman, smiling, "how do you like it?" "first-rate, sir." "do you think you would like to be going with me?" "yes, sir, but for my mother." "of course, it won't do to desert her; otherwise i might be tempted to make you an offer. i am sure you would be very useful to me." "i should like it very much, if mother did not need me." dan went up stairs with mr. stevens, and remained till visitors were warned that it was time to go ashore. "i must go, sir," he said. mr. stevens drew a five-dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to dan. "i haven't any change, sir," said dan. "none is required," said the gentleman, smiling. "do you really mean to give me five dollars, sir?" "that is what the hackman wanted to charge me." "but it was too much." "it was too much for him; it is not too much for you, if i am willing to give it to you." "you are very kind, sir," said dan, almost doubting the reality of his good fortune. "it will prove that i spoke truly when i said i didn't care for the amount of money, only for the imposition. i am really very glad to give it to you. good-by, my boy." he offered his hand. dan shook it heartily, and, wishing him a pleasant voyage, descended the gangplank. "that is almost as much as mike robbed me of," he said to himself. "how lucky i came over to jersey city! now, if i could only get back part of the money mike robbed me of, i should be the better off for his mean trick." dan did not immediately return to new york. he had been so fortunate that he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon as he liked. he walked on for ten minutes, mike being temporarily out of his mind, when his attention was suddenly drawn to him. just in front of him he saw mike himself swaggering along, with a ten-cent cigar in his mouth, and both hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. he was strolling along in fancied security, not dreaming of the near presence of the boy whom he had so meanly robbed. dan's eyes sparkled when he recognized his enemy, and hastening his pace, he put his hand on mike's shoulder. mike turned quickly, and his countenance changed when he saw dan. "has he found it out?" suggested his guilty conscience. "anyway, he can't prove anything. i'll bluff him off." "hallo, dan!" he said, in affected cordiality. "what brings you over here?" "what brings _you_ over here, mike?" asked dan, significantly. "i'm looking for a job," said mike. "you look like it," retorted dan, "with both hands in your pockets and a cigar in your mouth! times seem to be good with you. how much did that cigar cost?" "i don't know," answered mike, with unblushing falsehood. "a man gave it to me for holdin' his hoss." mike was never at a loss for a plausible lie. "i thought you bought it." "i haven't got any money." "did they let you over the ferry free, then?" "oh, i had money enough for that." "i guess you have got more." "no, i haven't. ten cents was all i had." "then how are you going to take terence quinn to the theater to-night?" asked dan. even mike's brazen effrontery was hardly prepared to meet this unexpected question. "what do you mane?" he stammered. "terence told me you had invited him." "then he lies!" said mike, his self-assurance returning. "he invited me." "look here, mike rafferty," said dan, out of patience; "that won't go down! terence told the truth. i know where you got the money you were going to treat him with." "where, then?" "from my mother's pocket-book." "it's a lie!" blustered mike. "it's the truth, and if you don't hand over what's left without making any more trouble, i'll have you arrested." "you can't. we're in jersey----" "i shall have you arrested as soon as you get home." "i didn't take the money," said mike, sullenly. "you did, and you know it," said dan, firmly. "give me what you have left, and i'll make no trouble about it. if you don't, you're booked for another term at the island." mike tried to save his ill-gotten gains, but dan was persistent, and finally extracted from him four dollars and a half. the rest mike pretended he had spent. he was sly enough, however, to have saved enough to take him to the old bowery. on the whole, dan was satisfied, considering the five dollars he had received on the cunard steamer, but he could not forbear giving mike a farewell shot. "how did it happen, mike, that you took the jersey ferry to brooklyn?" mike did not deign a reply. "that is my first appearance as a detective," thought dan. "it seems to pay." chapter xi. dan has another adventure. it was only five o'clock when dan, returning from jersey city, found himself again in front of the astor house. "shall i buy any evening papers?" dan asked himself. "no, i won't. i've made enough to satisfy me for one day." dan stood at the corner of vesey street, glancing at the hurrying crowds. he rather enjoyed his temporary freedom from business cares. he had made a good day's work, the morrow's rent was provided for, and he felt like a gentleman of leisure. all at once his attention was drawn to a low sob. it proceeded from a little flower-girl of ten years, who usually stood near the hotel. "what's the matter, fanny?" asked dan, calling her by her name, for the little flower-girl was one of his acquaintances. "haven't you sold as many bouquets as usual?" "yes," said fanny, pausing in her sobs, "i've sold more." "then what's the matter? has any one been teasing you?" "no, but a young man passed a bad half-dollar on me." "let me see it." dan inspected the piece. he did not need to ring it, for it was dull in appearance and unmistakably bad. "when did you take it?" "just now. a young man came up and bought a five-cent bouquet, and gave me this to change." "didn't you see that it was bad?" "i didn't look at it till afterward. then it was too late." "so you gave him forty-five cents in good money, fanny?" "yes," said the little girl, again beginning to sob. "how many bouquets had you sold?" "seven." "then you have less money than when you began?" "yes, dan." "do you think the fellow knew the piece was bad?" "yes, for he hurried away." "which way did he go?" "down broadway." "maybe he was going to jersey city." "no, i saw him turn down fulton street." "then he was going to brooklyn. how did he look?" "he was short and had red hair." "how was he dressed?" "he had on a gray suit." "how long ago did this happen?" "about five minutes." "give me the bad piece, and i'll go after him. stay here till i come back." dan seized the money, and proceeded toward fulton ferry at a half run. "i hope he won't have taken the boat," he said to himself. "if he has i shall lose him." dan nearly overthrew an apple woman's stand not far from the ferry, but did not stop to apologize. he ran into a fat gentleman who looked daggers at him, but kept on. breathless he paid his ferriage, and just succeeded in catching a boat as it was leaving the new york pier. thus far he had not seen the young man of whom he was in search. "he may be on board the boat. i'll go forward," said dan to himself. he walked through the ladies' cabin, and stepped out on the forward deck. the boat was crowded, for it was at the time when men who live in brooklyn, but are employed in new york, are returning to their homes. dan looked about him for a time without success, but all at once his eyes lighted up. just across the deck, near the door of the gentlemen's cabin, stood a young man with red hair, holding a small bouquet in his hand. his face was freckled, his eyes small, and he looked capable of meanness. of course appearances are often deceptive, but not unfrequently a man's character can be read upon his face. "that's the fellow that cheated poor fanny, i'll bet a hat," dan decided within himself. "he looks like it." he immediately crossed to the other side of the deck. the red-headed young man was talking to another young man of about the same age. "where did you get that bouquet, sanderson?" asked the latter. "bought it of a little girl in front of the astor house," answered sanderson. "that settles it," thought dan. he waited to hear what would come next. "i suppose it is meant for some young lady," suggested the other. "maybe it is," answered sanderson, with a grin. dan thought it was about time to come to business. he touched the red-haired young man on the arm. sanderson looked round. "well, boy, what is it?" he asked. "you bought that bouquet of a girl near the astor house," said dan. "what if i did?" asked sanderson, uneasily, for he had a suspicion of what was coming. "you gave her a bogus half-dollar in payment," continued dan. "do you mean to insult me?" blustered sanderson. "be off with you." "i am sorry i cannot accommodate you," said dan, "but i want you to give me a good piece for this first." "i never saw that half-dollar before," said sanderson. "i gave her good money." "perhaps you can prove that before the court," said dan. "what do you mean?" demanded sanderson, uneasily. "i mean that you have passed counterfeit money, and unless you give me a good piece for it i will give you in charge as soon as we reach the pier," said dan, firmly. sanderson looked about him, and saw that the boy's charge was believed. soon his friend looked disgusted. dan followed up his attack. "fanny is a poor girl," he said. "i found her crying over her loss, for it was more than all the money she had taken to-day." "are you her friend?" asked sanderson, sneering. "yes, i am," said dan, stoutly. "this is a put-up job between you two," said sanderson. "gentlemen," said dan, turning and appealing to the passengers near him, "this young man has passed a bad fifty-cent piece on a poor flower-girl. shall he make it good?" "yes, yes!" exclaimed half a dozen, and several cried "shame!" with looks of scorn and disgust directed toward the young man with red hair. "i don't believe a word of it," he ejaculated, in a rage. "i gave the girl a quarter." "too thin!" said several. "but i'll give you the money to get rid of you," and he threw a half-dollar at dan with a look very far from amiable. "thank you, sir; here's your money," said dan. though sanderson had disclaimed all knowledge of the bogus half-dollar, he took it and put it carefully in his pocket. "keep it to pay your washerwoman with," said a jeering voice. it was a young fellow in the garb of a workman who spoke. the boat touched the pier, and sanderson was only too glad to hurry away from the unfriendly crowd. "you're a smart boy!" cried a keen-looking businessman, addressing dan. "how did you discover that this fellow was the one that passed the coin." "fanny described him to me." "then you hadn't seen him before?" "no, sir." "what are you doing for a living?" "selling papers, sir." "you are fit for something better. come and see me to-morrow." he placed in dan's hands a card bearing the firm's name barton & rogers, commission merchants, no. -- pearl street. "my name is rogers," he continued. "inquire for me." "thank you, sir." dan was so pleased at having recovered fanny's money that he gave little thought to this last incident, though it was destined to exert an important influence on his fortunes. he took the same boat back to new york, and hurried to the astor house. little fanny, the flower-girl, with a sad look upon her face, was still standing in her wonted place. "i've got your money back, fanny," said dan. "oh, have you?" exclaimed fanny, joyfully. "yes; i made the fellow give it up." "oh, how kind you are, dan!" there was a listener to what passed between the two children. a tall lady, standing at the corner of the street, regarded them attentively. she was evidently revolving some plan in her head. as dan was about turning away, she placed her hand on his arm. "young man," she said, "i want to speak to you." "all right, ma'am," said dan, surprised. chapter xii. a mysterious lady. dan thought it probable that the lady who accosted him might wish to send him on an errand, and his surprise vanished. she was tall, slender, and grave in appearance. she was probably not over thirty-five. her first words renewed dan's surprise. "have you a mother living?" "yes, ma'am." "a father?" "no, ma'am." "are you an only child, or have you brothers and sisters?" "there is only one of me," answered dan, humorously. "i suppose you are poor?" "if i were not, i would not sell papers for a living." "probably you live in a poor place?" "yes," answered dan, beginning to be tired of satisfying what might be only curiosity on the part of the lady. she noticed at once the change in his manner. "i am not making these inquiries out of curiosity," she said, quickly. "i have an object in what i ask." this naturally surprised dan the more. "all right, ma'am," he said; "i am ready to answer." "are you at leisure for an hour or two?" asked the lady. dan hesitated. "i suppose mother will be worried if i don't come home to supper," he said, hesitating. "can't you send her a message not to expect you? does this little girl know where you live?" "yes," answered fanny, readily. to her the lady turned. "little girl," she said, "go at once and tell this boy's mother that he will not be home till nine o'clock. say he is called away by business." "yes, ma'am." "this will pay you for your trouble." the little girl's eyes sparkled with joy as the lady placed fifty cents in her hand. "thank you. how glad mother will be!" she said. as for dan, he was puzzled to conjecture what the lady could want of him. what would justify such a handsome compensation to fanny merely to explain his absence to his mother? "now," said the lady, "if you will hail the next stage we will go up town." they had not long to wait. soon they were rattling over the pavements through thronged broadway. it was two years since dan had been in a broadway stage. he could not afford to pay ten cents for a ride, but when it was absolutely necessary rode in a horse-car for half price. dan looked about him to see if he knew any one in the stage. nearly opposite sat his former schoolmate, tom carver, with a young lady at his side. their glances met, and dan saw tom's lip curl with scorn. of course he did not betray any mark of recognition. "i like riding in a broadway stage," he heard the young lady say. "there is more to see as you go along. besides, the company is more select." "not always," said tom, with a significant glance at dan. dan felt indignant, but was too proud to show it. "the price excludes the lower classes from using the stage," said the young lady. "it ought to, but i have seen a newsboy in a stage." "how can they afford to pay ten cents for riding?" "i give it up," said tom, shrugging his shoulders. the lady who was with dan noticed the direction of tom carver's look. "do you know that boy?" she asked. "yes," answered dan, "i used to know him." "why don't you know him now?" "because my father lost his property." "i see," said the lady. "it is the way of the world. don't mind it." "i don't," said dan, promptly, returning tom carver's stare. tom could not help hearing this conversation, and learned for the first time that dan and the handsomely dressed lady beside him were in company. "what can they have to do with each other?" he asked himself, curiously. "she can't be a relation--she is too handsomely dressed." at this moment the young lady beside him dropped her handkerchief. before tom could stoop to pick it up dan had handed it to her with a polite bow. "thank you," said the young lady, with a pleasant smile. "you needn't have troubled yourself," said tom carver, irritated. "this young lady is under _my_ charge." "it is no trouble, i assure you," answered dan. "he is very polite," said the young lady, in a low voice, "and very good-looking, too," she added, with a second look at dan. "he is only a common newsboy," said tom, not relishing julia grey's tribute to a boy he disliked. "i can't help what he is," said the young lady, independently; "he looks like a gentleman." dan could not help catching the drift of their conversation, and his face flushed with pleasure, for julia was a very pretty girl, but not being addressed to him, he could not take notice of it otherwise. "he lives at the five points somewhere," muttered tom. the young lady seemed rather amused at tom's discomposure, and only smiled in reply. the stage kept on till it reached madison square. "will you pull the strap opposite the fifth avenue hotel?" said the lady, addressing dan. dan did so. he got out first, and helped his companion out. "follow me into the hotel," she said. dan did so. "what is your name?" asked the lady, as they ascended the stairs. "dan mordaunt." "i needn't ask if you have a good mother?" she proceeded. "one of the best," said dan, promptly. "you look like a well-bred boy, and i infer that your mother is a lady. come into the parlor. i wish to speak to you on business." dan followed her, wondering, and she signed to him to take a seat on the sofa beside her. "you have already told me that you have no sister," she began. "no, ma'am." "do you think your mother would enjoy the society of a little girl?" "i think she would." "i have a little girl under my charge--my niece--from whom, for reasons unnecessary to state, i am obliged to part for a time. do you think your mother would be willing to take charge of her? of course i would make it worth her while." "i am sure she would like it," said dan, for he saw at a glance that this would be a very desirable arrangement for them. "then you feel authorized to accept the charge in your mother's name?" "i do." "the little girl is five years old. your mother would be willing to teach her until such time as she may be old enough to go to school?" "oh, yes, ma'am." "i think little girls are best off at home until the age of seven or eight." "there is one objection," said dan. "what is that?" asked the lady, quickly. "we live in a poor room and a poor neighborhood." "that objection can be obviated. i shall pay you enough to enable you to take better rooms." dan heard this with satisfaction. "i may as well be explicit," said the lady. "i propose to pay fifty dollars a month for my ward's board, including, of course, your mothers care." "fifty dollars a month!" repeated dan, astonished. "if you consider that sufficient." "i am afraid it won't be worth it," said dan, frankly. "if althea is well cared for, as i am sure she will be, i shall have no fear of that. let me add that i shall allow your mother ten dollars per month extra for the child's clothing--say sixty dollars in all. for the present that will probably be enough." "oh, yes, i should think so," said dan. "when do you want her to come to us?" "now. you will take her back with you." "to-night?" asked dan, startled. "yes, to-night. i must leave new york early to-morrow. in fact, i leave the city by an early train." "she would have to come to our poor lodgings," said dan, hesitatingly. "one night there won't matter. to-morrow you can secure rooms up town." "yes, ma'am, i will. our month expires to-morrow." "now," said the lady, rising, "since the matter is settled, come up stairs with me, and i will show you the child." dan followed the lady up stairs, feeling as if he were in a dream, but a very pleasant one. chapter xiii. althea. as the lady entered the room a little girl, with an expression of joy, ran from the window from which she had been looking, and took her hand. "i'm so glad you've got home, auntie," she said. "i got tired of being alone." "i staid away longer than i intended, althea," said the lady. "i was afraid you would feel lonely." "i was _very_ lonely. i wanted to go out into the hall and play with a little girl that lives in the next room, but i thought you wouldn't find me." "i am glad you did not. i have brought you a playfellow, althea." this drew the little girl's attention to dan. unlike most girls of her age, she was not bashful. "what is his name?" she asked. "dan." "what a funny name! are you going to live with us, dan?" "you are coming to live with me," said dan, smiling. "will you be my brother?" "yes." "and will you play with me?" "sometimes." "i think i shall like you. you are nice-looking," said althea, in a matter-of-fact tone. dan blushed. he found the compliment agreeable, though it came from a little girl. "so are you, althea," he said. "i don't think i am," said althea. "i've black hair, and my skin is dark. you have nice brown hair, and are whiter than i am." "some like dark people best," suggested dan. "i don't. i asked auntie to buy me a big cake of soap to wash the brown off, but it wouldn't come." dan smiled. he thought the bright, vivacious little face, with the brilliant dark eyes, pretty, though althea did not. "you will like to live with dan, my dear?" said her aunt, inquiringly. "yes, if you come, too." "but i can't." "why, not, auntie?" "i have got to go away--on business." althea looked disappointed. "i don't want you to go away, auntie," she said. "dan and i can't live alone." "dan has a mother, who will be very good to you." "will she take care of me?" asked althea, brightening up. "yes, althea." "is she nice?" "yes." "then she will be my mother?" "yes; you can call her mother." "and you will come to see me some time, auntie?" "yes, my dear." "then i will go with dan;" and the little girl placed her hand confidingly in that of our hero. dan thought it would be pleasant for him to have a little sister, and he knew that it would brighten his mother's existence. "shall we go now, madam?" asked dan, turning to the lady. "not just yet. come here, dan." dan followed her to the window. she drew from her pocket a wallet containing a considerable sum of money. "i will hand you two months' payment in advance," she said, "and afterward i will remit you monthly, or direct you where to call for money. two months at fifty dollars will amount to one hundred, and twenty more for althea's dress will make it up to a hundred and twenty. have you a pocket-book?" "yes, ma'am." "are you careful of money?" "whenever i have any to be careful about," answered dan. "i hope you will be comfortably provided from this time. there is a little trunk of althea's clothes in the trunk-room below. i will write you an order for it, but you may as well wait till you have moved before carrying it away. it will save you trouble." "yes, ma'am." "have you had any supper?" "no, ma'am." "then you shall go into supper with althea and myself." "what! here, at the fifth avenue hotel?" asked dan. "certainly." "i'm afraid i don't look fit." "you look well enough. at any rate, it's nobody's business. we may as well go down now." there was nothing to say, so dan followed the mysterious lady into the supper-room, althea clinging to his hand. he felt awkward as he took his seat. suppose some one should recognize him as the newsboy who usually stood in front of the astor house! some one did recognize him. the young lady whom tom carver was escorting boarded at the fifth avenue hotel, and had alighted at the same time with our hero, though he did not observe it. tom had been invited to supper, and, with julia and her father, was seated at a neighboring table when dan entered. tom could hardly credit his eyes when he saw dan entering the supper-room, with the little girl clinging to his hand. "well, i'll be blowed!" he ejaculated, forgetting his manners in his surprise. "what did you remark?" asked julia, rather amused. "i beg your pardon, but i was so astonished. there is that newsboy coming into supper!" "where?" "there." "what a pretty little girl is with him!" "that's so. who can she be?" "you must be mistaken about your friend being a newsboy." "he is no friend of mine." "your acquaintance, then; though he is nice enough looking to be a friend. are you sure he is a newsboy?" "certain. i saw him selling papers yesterday in front of the astor house." "his business must be good, or he would not board at the fifth avenue hotel." "of whom are you speaking, julia?" asked her father. "of that boy at the next table, pa." "that boy! why, that's my young friend of the ferry-boat. tom, have the kindness to ask him to come here a moment and speak to me." much surprised, and considerably against his will, tom rose and walked over to where dan was sitting. "look here," said he; "come over to the next table, will you?" "what for?" asked dan. "there's a gentleman wants to speak to you." dan looked over and he recognized mr. rogers, of the firm of barton & rogers, who had asked him to call at his place of business on pearl street. "good-evening, mr. rogers," he said, politely. "good-evening, my boy. do you board here?" "not as a rule," answered dan, smiling. "my business don't allow it. i am dining here with some friends." "what's your name?" "daniel mordaunt. everybody calls me dan." "then, dan, let me make you acquainted with my daughter, julia." dan bowed and smiled. "i think you were sitting opposite me in the stage, mr. mordaunt," said julia. "yes, miss rogers." "you were polite enough to hand me my handkerchief when i awkwardly dropped it." "oh, don't mention it." "i hope to meet you again." "thank you." "what a pretty girl she is!" thought dan. "dan, this young gentleman is thomas carver. you must be nearly of an age. you ought to know each other." "i have known mr. carver a long time," said dan, smiling. "indeed!" said mr. rogers, surprised. "we used to sit together at school." "you didn't tell me that, tom," said julia rogers, turning to tom. "no," said tom, embarrassed; "it is a good while ago." "i won't detain you any longer from your friends," said mr. rogers, politely. "i shall see you at the office in the morning." dan bowed and withdrew. "where did you meet him, papa?" asked julia. her father told the story of dan's exploit on the ferry-boat. "he is a very smart boy," he said. "i shall probably take him into my employ." "i hope you will, papa. he is a very gentlemanly boy." all this was very disagreeable to tom carver, but he did not venture to say all that he felt, being somewhat in awe of mr. rogers. "they are making a great fuss over a common newsboy," he muttered to himself. after supper, dan prepared to take althea home with him. she felt so well acquainted already that she made no objection, but, hand-in-hand, left the hotel with dan. he halted a broadway stage, and they got in. "are you carrying me to where you live, dan?" asked the little girl. "yes, althea." "will your mother be glad to see me?" "yes, she will be very glad. she wants a little girl to keep her company." "then i'm glad i'm going." chapter xiv. a new home. mrs. mordaunt was apprised by fanny that dan had gone up town with a lady, and therefore was not alarmed when he did not return home at the usual time. she hoped he would clear fifty cents, but had no idea to what extent their fortunes would be advanced by dan's evening's work. "i will save dan some supper," she said to herself. "he will be hungry." so, mother-like, she supped economically herself, on a cup of tea and some dry bread, and bought a bit of steak for dan's supper, for she thought he would be very hungry at so late an hour. it was nearly half-past eight when she heard dan's well known step on the stairs. she opened the door to welcome him, but the cheerful welcome upon her lips died away in surprise when she saw his companion. "who is this, dan?" she asked. "she is going to be my little sister, mother," said dan, gayly. "will you be my mother?" said althea, releasing dan's hand, and putting her own confidingly in that of mrs. mordaunt. "yes, my dear," said the widow, her heart quite won by the little girl's innocent confidence, and she bent over and kissed her. "what does it all mean, dan?" she asked, in bewilderment. "it means that althea is to board with us, and be company for you. i have agreed with her aunt that you will take her." "but does her aunt know that we live in such a poor place?" asked his mother in a tone of hesitation. "yes, mother, but that makes no difference, as we shall move up town to-morrow." "i am sure you have acted for the best, dan, but it seems so strange." "will it seem strange to receive fifty dollars a month for althea's board?" asked dan. "fifty dollars a month!" repeated the widow, incredulously. "that's the figure, mother. i didn't suppose we ought to charge more." "more, dan! why, it is a fortune!" "i don't know. that depends on althea's appetite. are you a great eater, althea?" "sometimes i am," said the little girl, naively. "never mind, i guess there will be enough." "i nearly forgot, dan. you will want some supper. i didn't know there would be two, but i will go cut and buy some more meat, if you can wait." "i have had supper, mother, or dinner rather. i dined with althea and her aunt at the fifth avenue hotel." here was another surprise. "has althea been stopping there, dan?" "yes, mother." "then how can she stay even one night in this poor place?" "i will ask her. althea, do you mind stopping here just one night? we will go to a better place to-morrow." "no, dan, i don't care." "there, mother, i told you so, althea is a brick." "what a funny boy you are, dan! how can i be a brick? a brick is red and ugly, and i am not." "no, althea, you are not ugly, but your cheeks are red." "they don't look like a brick, dan." "no, they don't. i take it all back." "i had got your supper all ready, dan," said his mother, regretfully. "then eat it yourself, mother." "i have had my supper." "you didn't have any meat, i'll warrant. now, like a good mother, sit down and eat the steak." assured that dan had supped well, mrs. mordaunt didn't resist his advice. dan looked on, and saw with pleasure that his mother relished the meat. "we will be able to live better hereafter, mother," he said. "there won't be any stinting. fifty dollars will go a good ways, and then, besides, there will be my earnings. i forgot to tell you, mother, that i have probably got a place." "our good fortune is coming all at once, dan," said mrs. mordaunt, cheerfully. "so it seems, mother. i think it has come to stay, too." "i feel so tired," said althea, at this point. "can i go to bed?" "certainly, my dear child. you can go at once." in twenty minutes the little girl was in a sound sleep. dan was not sorry, for he wanted to tell his mother about the days adventures, and he could do so more freely without any one to listen. "so, mother," he concluded, "we are going to turn over a new leaf. we can't go back to our old style of living just yet, but we can get out of this tenement-house, and live in a respectable neighborhood." "god has been good to us, dan. we ought to feel grateful to him." "i know it, mother, but somehow i don't think of that as quick as you. who do you think i saw in the supper-room at the fifth avenue? who but tom carver. he was wonderfully puzzled to know how i happened to be there. he told the party he was with that i was a common newsboy." "he is a very mean boy," said mrs. mordaunt, indignantly. "after being so intimate with you too." "never mind, mother. he can't do me any harm, and i don't care for his friendship. the time may come when i can meet him on even terms." "you can now, dan." "i mean in a worldly way. i shall work along, and if i get rich i sha'n't be the first rich man that has risen from the ranks." "god grant you success, my son!" early the next morning dan started out in search of a new home. he and his mother decided that they would like to live somewhere near union square, as that would be a pleasant afternoon resort for their young boarder. "will you go with me, mother?" he asked. "no, dan, i have not time this morning. besides you know what will suit us." "very well, mother; i will do my best." dan crossed broadway, and took a horse-car up town. in west sixteenth street his attention was drawn to the notice, "furnished rooms to let," upon a good-looking brick house. he rang the bell, and asked to see the lady of the house. a stout, matronly looking woman, with a pleasant face, answered the servant's call. "i called to inquire for rooms," said dan. "for yourself?" asked mrs. brown. "for my mother, and sister, and myself." "i have a large back room on the third floor, and a small room on the fourth floor." "may i see them?" "come up stairs, sir." first dan went into the large room. it was neatly carpeted and furnished, and had a cheerful outlook. "this will do for mother and althea," he said. "will you look at the little room?" "yes, ma'am, but i am sure that will suit. it is for me, and i am not particular. but there's one thing that may trouble us." "what is that?" "where can mother prepare our meals? she can't cook in the bedroom." "i will give her the privilege of using my kitchen. i don't care to take boarders, as it would be too much care, but your mother is welcome to use my kitchen stove." "won't it interfere with you?" "leave that to your mother and myself," said mrs. brown, with a pleasant smile. "we can make some satisfactory arrangement." "how much do you want for your rooms?" asked dan. "will you be permanent?" "we will be permanent, if suited." "of course; that is all i ask. will four dollars a week suit you?" "we will pay it," said dan, quite relieved, for he feared he should have to pay more. "can we move in to-day?" "any time, sir." "thank you." "i generally ask a week's rent in advance," said mrs. brown, "but in your case i won't insist upon it." "oh, it is perfectly convenient," said dan, and he drew out his pocket-book containing the money--over a hundred dollars--which althea's aunt had given him. mrs. brown's respect for dan was considerably increased by this display of wealth, and she congratulated herself on securing such substantial lodgers. this business accomplished dan went down town, and informed his mother of the arrangement he had made. before night mrs. mordaunt, althea, and he were installed in their new home, much to the regret of mrs. rafferty, who regretted losing so good a neighbor. before this, however, dan sought the counting-room of barton & rogers. chapter xv. dan becomes a detective. barton & rogers evidently did business in a large way. they occupied an imposing-looking building of five stories, the greater part being used to store goods. dan entered and looked around him. a spare, dark-complexioned man of about thirty-five, with a pen behind his ear, was issuing orders to a couple of workmen. dan approached him. "is mr. rogers in?" he asked. "no, he is not," said the dark man, curtly. "will he be in soon?" "i don't know." "you might be more civil," thought our hero. he stood his ground, feeling authorized to do so because he had come by appointment. observing this, the book-keeper turned and said, sharply: "didn't you hear? i said mr. rogers was out." "i heard you," said dan, quietly. "then why do you remain? do you doubt my word?" "not at all, sir; but mr. rogers asked me to call this morning. i can wait." "you can tell me your business." "thank you, but i don't think that would do." the book-keeper eyed him sharply, and his face lighted up with a sudden discovery. "i know you now," he said. "you sell papers in front of the astor house, don't you?" "that has been my business." "i thought so; i have bought papers of you." "thank you for your patronage." "what can you want of mr. rogers?" "mr. rogers wants me, i suppose, or he would not have asked me to call," returned dan. "you are a cool hand." "not always," said dan, with a smile. "some hot days i am far from cool." "i suppose mr. rogers wishes you to supply him with an evening paper?" "perhaps he does," returned dan, with a smile. "confound the fellow! i can't make anything of him. when did you see mr. rogers last?" "in the supper-room of the fifth avenue hotel." "how happened you to be there?" demanded talbot, the book-keeper, in surprise. "i was taking supper," said dan, rather enjoying the others surprise, "and mr. rogers saw me from another table." "humph! do you often take supper at the fifth avenue hotel?" "not often." "selling papers must be very profitable." "i'm willing to change places with you." just then mr. rogers entered the warehouse. "ah! you are here before me, dan," he remarked, pleasantly. "have you been here long?" "no, sir; only about five minutes." "i must keep you waiting a few minutes longer while i look at my letters. the letters have arrived, have they not, mr. talbot?" "yes, sir." "amuse yourself as you like while you are waiting, dan," said the merchant. mr. talbot, the book-keeper, followed the merchant into the counting-room, and dan was left alone. he looked about him with interest, thinking it probable that this was to be his future business home. it would certainly be a piece of good fortune to become attached to so large and important a house, and he felt in very good spirits, though he foresaw that mr. talbot would not make it very pleasant for him. but with his employer on his side he need not be alarmed. fifteen minutes passed, and mr. rogers emerged from the counting-room. "i have to go out a few minutes," he said to dan. "come with me, and we can talk on the way." "certainly, sir." mr. talbot followed the two with a frown upon his brow. "how on earth has that boy managed to get round mr. rogers?" he asked himself. "i hope he won't be foolish enough to take him in here." talbot had a nephew whom he was anxious to get into the business, and dan's engagement would interfere with his little plan. this partly accounts for his brusque reception of dan on his first arrival. "well, how do you like our place of business, dan?" asked mr. rogers. "very much, sir." "would you rather sell papers or take employment with me?" "i should like very much to be in your employ, sir." "how much did you earn as a newsboy?" "when i was lucky i made a dollar a day." "then i ought to give you six dollars a week." "i will come for less, sir." "i will pay you what i said. it is more than boys generally get at the start, but i am willing to pay a good sum to a boy who suits me." "i will try to suit you, sir." "do you know why i take you into my employ?" "out of kindness, sir." "i feel kindly disposed to you, dan, but that is not my chief reason." dan was puzzled, and waited to hear more. "my attention was drawn to you on the ferry-boat. i observed your detection of the mean scamp who cheated a poor flower-girl by offering her bad money, and i inferred that you were sharp and keen." "i hope i am, sir." "that is the sort of boy i want just now. did you observe mr. talbot, my book-keeper?" "yes, sir." "what did you think of him?" dan smiled. "i don't think he admires me much," he answered. "he wanted to clear me out before you came in." "did he?" "yes; he recognized me as a newsboy." "i understand his reception of you. he has a nephew whom he wishes me to engage. he is jealous of all possible rivals." "perhaps his nephew would suit you better, sir," said dan, modestly. "are you willing to resign in his favor?" "i prefer to leave that to you, sir." "you can do so safely. the nephew is a disagreeable boy, who would not suit me at all. he thinks more of dress than of duty, and, if i read him aright, is lazy and incompetent. nevertheless, mr. talbot has spoken to me about taking him." "perhaps he doesn't know his nephew's faults." "he knows them well enough, but is desirous of promoting his interests. he won't look upon you very favorably when he learns that i have engaged you." "if you are satisfied, i won't care for that." "well spoken, my lad. and now for a few words in confidence," and mr. rogers lowered his voice. "our business is a large one, and the sums of money handled are necessarily large. three months since i ascertained that somewhere in my establishment there was a leak. we are losing money in some unexplained way. i believe that some one in whom i repose confidence is betraying me." dan listened in earnest attention. "do you suspect any one, sir?" he asked. "i suspect mr. talbot," he said, in the same low voice. dan started in surprise. "it seems strange, perhaps, that i should speak so confidentially to you--a mere boy--but i am impressed with the idea that you can help me." "if i can, sir, i will," said dan, earnestly. "i don't doubt it. my first injunction is to say no word, even to your nearest relations, of what i have told you." "i won't, sir." "next, keep a watch over mr. talbot. i want to know what are his habits, whether he uses money freely, with whom he associates. can you, without betraying to him that he is watched, find out some information for me on these points?" "i will try, sir." "if you secure any information, never communicate it to me in the office. either come to my house, or write me there." "yes, sir." "you understand that i am employing you in a detective capacity, and that your time will partly be taken up out of business hours. i intend to pay you extra, according to results. is that satisfactory?" "perfectly so, mr. rogers, but i am afraid you will be disappointed in me." "i will take my risk of that." "have you any directions to give me, sir, as to how to go to work?" "no; i am nothing of a detective myself. i leave that to you. i might, of course, employ a professional detective, but talbot is sharp, and he would suspect. you he will not suspect. he won't dream of my employing a boy. that is all i have to say for the present. when can you come to work?" "i can come to-morrow morning. to-day we are going to move." "to-morrow let it be, then. good-morning, dan." mr. rogers shook hands with our hero, and walked away. "i am afraid i have a hard job on my hands," thought dan, "but i will do my best." chapter xvi. dan makes a discovery. dan's mother was much pleased with her new quarters. the large room, occupied by althea and herself, was bright and cheerful, and well furnished. besides the ordinary chamber furniture, there was a comfortable arm-chair and a lounge. mrs. mordaunt felt that she would not be ashamed now to receive a visit from some of her former friends. she had anticipated some trouble about the preparation of meals, but mrs. brown made a proposition which wonderfully removed all difficulties. "mrs. mordaunt," she said, "your family is about the same as mine. i have a son who is employed in a newspaper office down town, and you have two young children. now, suppose we club together, and each pay half of the table supplies. then one day you can superintend the cooking--you will only have to direct my servant maggie--and the next day i will do it. then, every other day, each of us will be a lady of leisure, and not have to go into the kitchen at all. what do you say?" "the arrangement will be so much to my advantage that i can say only one thing--i accept with thanks. but won't you be doing more than your share? you will be furnishing the fuel, and pay maggie's wages." "i should have to do that at any rate. the plan is perfectly satisfactory to me, if it suits you." mrs. mordaunt found that the expense was not beyond her means. her income for the care of althea was fifty dollars a month, and dan paid her four dollars a week out of his wages, reserving the balance as a fund to purchase clothes. she went herself to market and selected articles for the table, and, for the first time since her husband's failure, found herself in easy circumstances. there was no need now to make vests at starvation prices. she had thought of continuing, but dan insisted upon her giving it up entirely. "if you want to sew, mother," he said, "you can make some of althea's clothes, and pay yourself out of the ten dollars a month allowed for her clothes." this was sensible and proper, and mrs. mordaunt decided to follow dan's advice. she lost no time in obtaining books for the little girl, and commencing her education. althea knew her letters, but nothing more. she was bright and eager to learn, and gained rapidly under her new teacher. naturally, dan and his mother were curious as to althea's early history, but from the little girl they obtained little information. "do you remember your mother, althea?" asked dan, one evening. "yes," said the little girl. "when did you see her last?" "not long ago. only a little while before you brought me here." "your mother isn't dead, is she?" "no; but she's gone away." "why did she go away?" "she is sick. that's what auntie told me. poor mamma cried very much when she went away. she kissed me, and called me her darling." "do you know where she went?" "no; i don't know." "perhaps her lungs are affected, and she has gone to a warmer climate," suggested mrs. mordaunt. "she may have gone to florida, or even to italy." "where is your father?" asked dan, turning to althea. "father is a bad man," said the child, positively. "he made mamma cry. he went away a good while ago." "and didn't he come back?" "he came back once, and then mamma cried again. i think he wanted mamma to give him some money." dan and his mother talked over the little girl's revelations, and thought they had obtained a clew to the mystery in which the child's history was involved. althea's mother might have married a man of bad habits, who wanted to get possession of her fortune, and rendered a separation necessary. ill health might have required her to leave home and shift the care of the little girl upon strangers. it seemed rather odd that she should have been handed over to utter strangers, but there might have been reasons of which they knew nothing. "we won't trouble ourselves about it," said dan. "it's good luck for us, even if it was bad luck for althea's mother. i like the idea of having a little sister." althea's last name was not known to her new protector. when dan inquired, he was told that she could pass by his name, so althea mordaunt she became. both dan and his mother had feared that she might become homesick, but the fear seemed groundless. she was of a happy disposition, and almost immediately began to call mrs. mordaunt mother. "i call you mother," she said, "but i have a mamma besides; but she has gone away." "you must not forget your mamma, my dear," said the widow. "no, i won't. she will come back some day; she said she would." "and i will take care of you till she does, althea." "yes," said the child, nodding. "i am glad i came to you, for now i have a brother dan." "and i have a little sister," said dan. while dan was away, and now he was away after supper regularly, althea was a great deal of company for mrs. mordaunt. in the pleasant afternoons she took the little girl out to walk, frequently to union square park, where she made acquaintance with other little girls, and had a merry time, while her new mother sat on one of the benches. one day a dark-complexioned gentleman, who had been looking earnestly at althea, addressed mrs. mordaunt. "that is a fine little girl of yours, madam," he said. "thank you," said mrs. mordaunt. "she does not resemble you much," he said, inquiringly. "no; there is very little resemblance," answered mrs. mordaunt, quietly, feeling that she must be on her guard. "probably she resembles her father?" again essayed the stranger. mrs. mordaunt did not reply, and the stranger thought she was offended. "i beg your pardon," he said, "but she resembles a friend of mine, and that called my attention to her." mrs. mordaunt bowed, but thought it wisest not to protract the conversation. she feared that the inquirer might be a friend of the father, and hostile to the true interests of the child. for a week to come she did not again bring althea to the park, but walked with her in a different direction. when, after a week, she returned to the square, the stranger had disappeared. at all events, he was not to be seen. we pass now to dan and his interests. mr. talbot heard of his engagement with anything but satisfaction. he even ventured to remonstrate with mr. rogers. "do you know that this boy whom you have engaged is a common newsboy?" he asked. "i have bought a paper more than once of him, in front of the astor house." "so have i," answered mr. rogers, quietly. "then you know all about him?" "yes." "it is none of my business, but i think you could easily get a better boy. there is my nephew----" "your nephew would not suit me, mr. talbot." the book-keeper bit his lip. "won't you give him a trial?" he asked. "i have engaged dan." "if dan should prove unsatisfactory, would you try my nephew?" "perhaps so." it was an incautious concession, for it was an inducement to the book-keeper to get dan into trouble. it was dan's duty to go to the post-office, sometimes to go on errands, and to make himself generally useful about the warehouses. as we know, however, he had other duties of a more important character, of which mr. talbot knew nothing. the first discovery dan made was made through the book-keeper's carelessness. mr. rogers was absent in philadelphia, when talbot received a note which evidently disturbed him. dan saw him knitting his brows, and looking moody. finally he hastily wrote a note, and called dan. "take that to -- wall street," he said, "and don't loiter on the way." the note was directed to jones & robinson. on reaching the address, dan found that jones & robinson were stock brokers. jones read the note. "you come from mr. talbot?" he asked. "yes, sir." "tell him we will carry the stocks for him a week longer, but can't exceed that time." "perhaps you had better write him a note," suggested dan, "as he may not like to have me know his business." "very well." so dan carried back the note. "i believe i have made a discovery," he said to himself. "mr. talbot is speculating in wall street. i wonder if he speculates with his own money or the firm's?" his face, however, betrayed nothing as he handed the note to the book-keeper, and the latter, after a searching glance, decided that there was nothing to fear in that quarter. chapter xvii. talbot's secret. some light may be thrown upon mr. talbot's operations, if the reader will accompany him to a brownstone house on lexington avenue, on the evening of the day when dan was sent to the office of the wall street brokers. mr. talbot ascended the steps, not with the elastic step of a man with whom the world is prospering, but with the slow step of a man who is burdened with care. "is miss conway at home?" he inquired of the servant who answered the bell. "yes, sir." "will you tell her i should like to speak with her?" "yes, sir." talbot walked in with the air of one who was familiar with the house, and entering a small front room, took a seat. the furniture was plain, and the general appearance was that of a boarding-house. talbot seemed immersed in thought, and only raised his eyes from the carpet when he heard the entrance of a young lady. his face lighted up, and he rose eagerly. "my dear virginia," he said, "it seems a long time since i saw you." "it is only four days," returned the young lady, coolly. "four days without seeing you is an eternity." the young lady smiled. it was easy to see that talbot was in love, and she was not. "a very pretty compliment," she said. "well, have you any news?" "not good news," said he, soberly. she shrugged her shoulders, and looked disappointed. before going further, it may be as well to describe briefly the young lady who had so enthralled the book-keeper. she had the advantage of youth, a complexion clear red and white, and decidedly pretty features. if there was a defect, it was the expression of her eyes. there was nothing soft or winning in her glance. she seemed, and was, of a cold, calculating, unsympathetic nature. she was intensely selfish, and was resolved only to marry a man who could gratify her taste for finery and luxurious living. she was the niece of mrs. sinclair, who kept the boarding-house, and though living in dependence upon her aunt, did nothing to relieve her from the care and drudgery incidental to her business. "it's too provoking," she said, pouting. "so it is, virginia;" and talbot tried to take her hand, but she quietly withdrew it. "you told me that you would have plenty of money by this time, mr. talbot." "i expected it, but a man can't foresee the fluctuations of wall street. i am afraid i shall meet with a loss." "i don't believe you are as smart as sam eustis--he's engaged to my cousin. he made ten thousand dollars last month on lake shore." "it's the fools that blunder into luck," said talbot, irritated. "then you'd better turn fool; it seems to pay," said virginia, rather sharply. "no need of that--i'm fool enough already," said talbot, bitterly. "oh, well, if you've only come here to make yourself disagreeable, i'm sure you'd better stay away," said the young lady, tossing her head. "i came here expecting sympathy and encouragement," said talbot. "instead, you receive me with taunts and coldness." "you are unreasonable, mr. talbot," said virginia. "i will be cheerful and pleasant when you bring me agreeable news." "oh, virginia!" exclaimed talbot, impulsively. "why will you require impossibilities of me? take me as i am. i have an income of two thousand dollars a year. we can live comfortably on that, and be happy in a snug little home." "snug little home!" repeated the young lady, scornfully. "thank you; i'd rather not. i know just what that means. it means that i am to be a household drudge, afraid to spend an extra sixpence--perhaps obliged to take lodgers, like my aunt." "not so bad as that, virginia." "it would come to that in time." "i am sure you cannot love me when you so coolly give me up for money." "i haven't given you up, but i want you to get money." "would to heaven i could!" "you could if you were in earnest." "do you doubt that?" "where there's a will, there's a way, mr. talbot. if you really care so much for me, you will try to support me as i want to live." "tell me, in a word, what you want." "well," said virginia, slowly, "i want to go to europe for my honey-moon. i've heard so much of paris, i know i should like it ever so much. then i want to live _respectably_ when i get back." "what do you call living respectably?" asked talbot. "well, we must have a nice little house to ourselves, and i think, just at first, i could get along with three servants; and i should want to go to the opera, and the theater, and to concerts." "you have not been accustomed to live in that way, virginia." "no; and that's why i have made up my mind not to marry unless my husband can gratify me." "suppose this is impossible?" "impossible for you!" said miss conway, significantly. "you mean you will look elsewhere?" said talbot, hastily. "yes, i think so," said virginia, coolly. "and you would desert me for a richer suitor?" he demanded, quickly. "of course i would rather marry you--you know that," said virginia, with perfect self-possession; "but if you can't meet my conditions, perhaps it is better that we should part." "you are cruel--heartless!" exclaimed talbot, angrily. "no; only sensible," she returned, calmly. "i don't mean to marry you and be unhappy all my life; and i can't be happy living in the stuffy way my aunt does. we should both be sorry for such a marriage when it was too late." "i will take the risk, virginia," said talbot, fixing his eyes with passionate love on the cold-hearted girl. "but i will not," said virginia, decidedly. "i am sure you needn't take it to heart, mr. talbot. why don't you exert yourself and win a fortune, as other people do? i am sure plenty of money is made in wall street." "and lost." "not if you are smart. come now, smooth your face, and tell me you will try," she said, coaxingly. "yes, virginia, i will try," he answered, his face clearing. "and if i try----" "you will succeed," she said, smiling. "well, i hope i may." "and now don't let us talk about disagreeable things. do you know, sir, it is a week since you took me to any place of amusement? and here i have been moping at home every evening with my aunt, who is terribly tiresome, poor old soul!" "i would rather spend the evening here with you, virginia, than go to any place of amusement." "then i can't agree with you. one gets tired of spooning." "i don't--if you call by that name being in the company of one you love." "you would, if you had as little variety as i have." "tell me one thing, virginia--you love me, don't you?" asked talbot, in whose mind sometimes there rose an unpleasant suspicion that his love was not returned. "why, of course i do, you foolish man," she said, carelessly. "and now, where are you going to take me?" "where do you want to go, my darling?" "to the italian opera. to-morrow they play 'the huguenots.'" "i thought you didn't care for music, virginia?" "i don't go for that. i want to go because it's fashionable, and i want to be seen. so, be a good boy, and get some nice seats for to-morrow evening." "very well, my darling." "and you'll try to get rich, for my sake?" "yes, virginia. how rich must i be?" "as soon as you can tell me you have ten thousand dollars, and will spend half of it on a trip to europe, i will marry you." "is that a bargain?" "yes." "then i hope to tell you so soon." "the sooner the better." when talbot left the house it was with the determination to secure the sum required by any means, however objectionable. his great love had made him reckless. virginia conway followed his retreating form with her cool, calculating glance. "poor man! he is awfully in love!" she said to herself. "i'll give him two months to raise the money, and if he fails, i think i can captivate mr. cross, though he's horrid." mr. cross was a middle-aged grocer, a widower, without children, and reputed moderately wealthy. when mr. talbot had entered the house, dan was not far off. later, he saw him at the window with virginia. "i suppose that's his young lady," thought dan. "all right! i guess he's safe for this evening." chapter xviii. two knights of the highway. stocks took an upward turn, so that talbot's brokers were willing to carry them for him longer without an increase of margin. the market looked so uncertain, however, that he decided to sell, though he only made himself whole. to escape loss hardly satisfied him, when it was so essential to make money. he was deeply in love with virginia conway, but there was no hope of obtaining her consent to a marriage unless he could raise money enough to gratify her desires. how should he do it? he was returning to his boarding-house at a late hour one night, when, in an unfrequented street, two figures advanced upon him from the darkness, and, while one seized him by the throat, the other rifled his pockets. talbot was not a coward, and having only a few dollars in his pocket-book, while his watch, luckily, was under repair at tiffany's, he submitted quietly to the examination. the pocket-book was opened and its contents eagerly scanned. an exclamation of disgust mingled with profanity followed. "only five dollars, mike!" muttered one of the ruffians. "why don't you carry money, like a gentleman?" demanded the man called mike. "ain't you ashamed to carry such a lean wallet as that there?" "really, gentlemen, if i had expected to meet you, i would have provided myself better," said talbot, not without a gleam of humor. "he's chaffing us bill," said mike. "you'd better not, if you know what's best for yourself," growled bill. "where's your ticker?" "my watch is at tiffany's." "that's too thin." "it's the truth. you ought to have waited till next week, when i'd have had it for you." "you're a cool customer." "why not?" "we might hurt you." "you have already. don't squeeze my throat so next time." "have you any jewelry about you?" "only a pair of sleeve buttons." "gold?" "yes; but they are small, and not worth much." "you've took us in reg'lar! a gent like you ought to have diamond studs, or a pin, or something of value." "i know it, and i'm sorry i haven't, for your sakes." "no chaffing!" said bill, with an ominous growl. "don't be afraid. i look upon you as gentlemen, and treat you accordingly. in fact, i'm glad i've met with you." "why?" asked mike, suspiciously. "i may be able to put something in your way." "are you on the square?" asked bill, rather surprised. "yes." "what is it?" "i can't tell you in the street. is there any quiet place, where we shall not be disturbed or overheard?" the men looked at each other in doubt. "this may be a plant," said mike, suspiciously. "on my honor, it isn't." "if it is," growled bill, "you'd better make your will." "i know the risk, and am not afraid. in short, i have a job for you." the men consulted, and finally were led to put confidence in talbot. "is there money in it?" asked mike. "two hundred dollars apiece." "we'll hear what you have to say. bill, let's go to your room." "is it far away?" asked talbot. "no." "lead on, then." the three made their way to a dilapidated building on houston street, and ascended to the fourth floor. bill kicked open the door of a room with his foot and strode in. a thin, wretched-looking woman sat in a wooden chair, holding a young child. "is it you, bill?" she asked. "yes, it's me!" growled her husband. "just clear out into the other room. me and these gentlemen have business together." she meekly obeyed the command of her lord, glancing curiously at talbot as she went out. mike she knew only too well, as one of her husband's evil companions. the door was closed, but the wife bent her ear to the keyhole and listened attentively. suspecting nothing, the conspirators spoke in louder tones than they were aware of, so that she obtained a pretty clear idea of what was being planned. "now go ahead," said bill, throwing himself on the chair his wife had vacated. "what's your game?" "can you open a safe?" asked talbot. "we might, 'specially if we knowed the combination." "perhaps i can manage that." "where is it?" talbot gave the name of his employer and the number of his store. "what have you got to do with it?" "i'm the book-keeper." "you are? what are you going to make out of it?" "leave that to me. i'll guarantee that you'll find four hundred dollars there to pay you for your trouble." "that isn't enough. the risk is too great." "it is only one night's work." "if we're caught, it'll be sing sing for seven years." "that's true. how much do you require, gentlemen?" the men consulted. "we might do it for five hundred apiece," said bill. there was a little discussion, but finally this was acceded to. various details were discussed, and the men separated. "i'm goin' your way," said mike. "i'll show you the way out." "all right, thank you, but we'd better separate at the street door." "why? are you too fine a gentleman to be seen with the likes of me?" demanded mike, feeling insulted. "not at all, my friend; but if we were seen together by any of the police, who know me as book-keeper, it would excite suspicion later." "you're right. your head's level. you're sure you're on the square?" "yes, my friend. i shouldn't dare to tamper with men like you and bill. you might find a way to get even with me." "that's so, stranger. i guess we can trust you." "you may be sure of that." "more crime!" said the miserable wife to herself, as she heard through the keyhole the details of the plan. "bill is getting worse and worse every day. where will it all end?" "here, nancy, get me something to eat," said bill, when his visitors had departed. "yes, bill, i will get you all there is." the wife brought out from a small closet a slice of bread and a segment of cheese. "pah!" said the burly ruffian, turning up his nose. "what are you giving us?" "it's all i've got, bill." "where's the meat, i say?" "there is none." "you and your brat have eaten it!" said he, irritably. "god help us, bill! we have had no meat for a week." "that's a lie! i can't eat such trash as that. do you mean to starve me?" "i can't make food, bill. if you will give money, i will provide better. i can't do anything without money." "whining, are you?" said the brute, furiously. "i'll teach you to complain of me. take that, and that!" and he struck the woman two brutal blows with his fist. one, glancing, struck the child, who began to cry. this further irritated bill, who, seizing his wife by the shoulders, thrust her out on the landing. "there, stay there with the cursed brat!" he growled. "i mean to have one quiet night." the wretched wife crept down stairs, and out into the street, scarcely knowing what she did. she was not wholly destitute of spirit, and though she might have forgiven personal injury, felt incensed by the treatment of her innocent child. "my poor baby!" she said, pitifully, "must you suffer because your father is a brute? may heaven avenge our wrongs! sooner or later it will." she sat down on some steps near by; the air was chilly, and she shivered with the cold, but she tried to shelter her babe as well as she could. she attracted the attention of a boy who was walking slowly by. it was dan, who had at a distance witnessed talbot's encounter with the burglars, and his subsequent friendly companionship with them, and was trying to ascertain the character of the place which he visited. "what's the matter with you?" asked dan, in a tone of sympathy. [illustration: "what's the matter with you?" asked dan, in a tone of sympathy. page ] "my husband has thrust me out of doors with my poor baby." "he must be a nice husband. do you want a lodging?" "i have no money." "i can let you have enough for that. there's a cheap hotel near by. i'll take you to it, and pay for your lodging, and pay for it in advance." "heaven bless you! you are indeed a friend." "take my arm." supported by dan, the poor woman rose and walked to an humble tavern not far away. "she may know something about talbot's visit. i'll question her," thought dan. chapter xix. dan as a good samaritan. "what made your husband treat you so badly?" asked dan. "rum!" answered the woman. "rum has been sinking him lower and lower, and it's easy to see the end." "what will be the end?" "the prison--perhaps the gallows." "you are taking too dark a view of your husband," said dan, soothingly. "he won't go as far as that." the woman shook her head. "i know him only too well," she said. "this very evening he has been planning a burglary." dan started, and a sudden suspicion entered his mind. "did you hear him doing it?" he asked. "yes." "do you know where it is?" he asked, eagerly. "yes; it is a store on pearl street." dan felt that he was on the track of a discovery. he was likely to be repaid at last for the hours he had spent in detective service. "who put him up to it?" he asked, fixing his eyes intently on the woman. "i don't know his name; he is a well-dressed man. i think he is in the store." "was it a man who came to your rooms this evening?" "yes." "is this the way he looked?" here dan gave a rapid description of talbot. "that is the man. do you know him?" "yes, i know him. he is the book-keeper of the firm." "he is a bad man. he is to pay a thousand dollars for the job. bill is to have half of it." "bill, i suppose, is your husband?" "yes." dan looked thoughtful. here was a most important discovery. he must consider what to do. by this time they had reached a small public-house, of humble exterior, but likely to afford his companion better accommodations than she had at home. "come in," said dan. the woman followed him, with the child in her arms. a stout german, who appeared to be the proprietor of the establishment, was sitting in an arm-chair, smoking a pipe. he scanned the party phlegmatically. "what you wants?" he asked. "can you give this lady a room?" asked dan. "is she your vife?" asked the german, with a broad grin. "no; she is an acquaintance of mine. her husband has driven her out of his house in a fit of drunkenness. can she sleep here?" "has she got any money?" asked the dutchman, shrewdly. "i will pay for her lodging." "that's all right. she shall stay here." "what will you charge?" "fifty cents a night for the lodging." "here it is." "will the lady go up now?" asked the landlord, upon whom the silver half-dollar produced a visible impression. "yes," said the woman; "my poor baby is tired." "you had better stay here two nights," said dan. "don't let your husband know where you are just yet. here is money to pay for another night's lodging, and enough to buy food besides." "god bless you, boy!" she said, gratefully. "but for you i should have had to stay out all night." "oh, no; some one would have taken you in." "you don't know this neighborhood; the policeman would have found me, and taken me to the station-house. for myself i care little; but my poor babe, who is worse than fatherless----" and she burst into tears. "keep up your courage, madam. brighter days may be in store," said dan, cheerfully. "i will come and see you day after to-morrow," said dan. "good-night." our hero must not be awarded too great credit for his generosity. he knew that mr. rogers would willingly defray all expenses connected with the discovery, and that the money he had advanced to his unfortunate companion would be repaid. had it been otherwise, however, his generous heart would have prompted him to relieve the woman's suffering. chapter xx. laying the train. very early the next morning dan rang the bell at mr. rogers' residence. "can i see mr. rogers?" he asked. "the master won't be up for an hour," said the servant. "tell him dan wishes to see him on business of importance." the girl shrugged her shoulders. "i don't think he'll see you. he was up late last night," she said. "never mind. let him know i am here." "it's very important you make yourself," said susan, crossly. "i _am_ a person of great importance," said dan, smiling. "mr. rogers will see me, you'll find." two minutes later susan descended the stairs a little bewildered. "you're to walk into the parlor," she said. "master'll be down directly." dan did not have long to wait. mr. rogers came down stairs almost directly in dressing-gown and slippers. "well, dan, what is it?" he asked. "the store is to be broken open to-night and the safe robbed!" said dan. "good heavens! by whom?" "by two men living in houston street--at least, one lives there." "have you any more to tell?" "yes, sir; they are employed by mr. talbot." mr. rogers started. "are you sure of this?" he asked. "quite sure." "how did you find out?" "partly by accident, sir." "go on. tell me all." dan rehearsed the story, already familiar to our readers, combining with it some further information he had drawn from the woman. "i didn't think talbot capable of this," said mr. rogers. "he has been in our employ for ten years. i don't like to think of his treachery, but, unhappily, there is no reason to doubt it. now, dan, what is your advice?" "i am afraid my advice wouldn't be worth much, mr. rogers," said dan, modestly. "i am not sure of that. i am indebted to you for this important discovery. you are keen and ready-witted. i won't promise to follow your advice, but i should like to hear it." "then, sir, i will ask you a question. do you want to prevent the robbery, or to catch the men in the act?" "i wish to catch the burglars in the act." "then, sir, can you stay away from the store to-day?" "why?" "your looks might betray your suspicions." "there is something in that. but how can i take measures to guard against loss?" "you can act through me, sir. is there much money in the safe?" "no; but talbot is authorized to sign checks. he will draw money if i am not at the store." "will he place it in the safe?" "probably." "then let him do so. he is to tell the burglars the combination. he will get it from the janitor." "the scoundrel!" "i will see the janitor, and ask him to give the book-keeper the wrong word." "what else?" "i will secretly notify the police, whom he will admit and hide till the time comes." "that is well planned." "then," continued dan, flushing with excitement, "we'll wait till the burglars come, and let them begin work on the safe. while they are at work, we will nab them." "you say we." "yes, sir; i want to be there." "there may be danger." "i'll risk it, sir." "dan, you are a brave boy." "i don't know about that, sir. but if anything is going on to-night, i want to be in it." "you shall, but be prudent. i don't want you to be hurt." "thank you, sir. if mr. talbot sends me with a large check to the bank, what shall i do?" "take it." "he may make off with the money during the day." "i will set another detective to watch him, and have him arrested in that event." "this is going to be an exciting day," said dan to himself, as he set out for the store. chapter xxi. twelve thousand dollars. as dan entered the store he noticed that talbot looked excited and nervous. ordinarily the book-keeper would have reprimanded him sharply for his late arrival, but he was not disposed to be strict this morning. "i'm a little late this morning, mr. talbot," said dan. "oh, well, you can be excused for once," said talbot. he wished to disarm suspicion by extra good humor. besides, he intended to send dan to the bank presently for a heavy sum, and thought it best to be on friendly terms with him. about ten o'clock a messenger entered the store with a note from mr. rogers to the book-keeper. it was to this effect: "i am feeling rather out of sorts this morning, and shall not come to the store. should you desire to consult me on any subject, send a messenger to my house." talbot read this note with great satisfaction. the only obstacle to carrying out his plans was the apprehended presence and vigilance of his employer. now he had a clear field. about one o'clock he called dan into the office. "here, dan," he said, "i want you to go to the bank at once." "yes, sir." "here is a check for twelve thousand dollars--rather a heavy amount--and you must be very careful not to lose any of it, or to let any one see that you have so much with you. do you understand?" "yes, sir. in what denominations shall i get the money?" "you may get one hundred dollars in fives and tens, and the remainder in large bills." "all right, sir." "he means to make a big haul," said dan to himself, as he left the store. "i hope our plans won't miscarry. i wouldn't like mr. rogers to lose so large a sum." as dan left the store a man of middle size, who was lounging against a lamp-post, eyed him sharply. as dan was turning the corner of the street he left his post, and, walking rapidly, overtook him. "where are you going?" he asked. "what is that to you?" demanded dan. "you are in the employ of barton & rogers, are you not?" "yes, sir." "is your name dan?" "yes, sir." "i am a detective, on watch here by order of mr. rogers. now will you answer my question?" "certainly. i am going to the bank." "to draw money?" "yes, sir." "how much?" "twelve thousand dollars." "whew! that is a big sum. who sent you?" "mr. talbot." "he is the book-keeper, is he not?" "yes, sir." "i will walk along with you. there is no need of watching till you bring back the money. where do you think talbot will put the money?" "in the safe, i think, sir." "i am not sure of that. i believe he will retain the greater part on his own person. if the men who are to rob the safe got hold of all the money they would be likely to keep it, and not limit themselves to the sum he agrees to pay them." "i suppose you are right, sir. what, then, are we to do?" asked dan, perplexed. "i shall take care to keep talbot in view. he doesn't propose to run away. he means to have it understood that all this money has been taken by the burglars, whereas but a tithe of the sum will be deposited in the safe." dan nodded assent. he was convinced that the detective was right. still he was anxious. "it seems to me there is a risk of losing the money," he said. the detective smiled. "don't be afraid," he said, confidentially. "talbot won't leave the city. i will take care of that." his words inspired confidence, and dan entered the bank without misgivings. the check was so large that the bank officials scrutinized it carefully. there was no doubt about its being correct, however. "how will you have it?" was asked. dan answered as he had been directed. "be very careful, young man," said the disbursing clerk. "you've got too much to lose." "all right, sir." dan deposited one roll of bills in the left inside pocket of his coat, and the balance in the right pocket, and then buttoned up the coat. "i'm a boy of fortune for a short time," he said to himself. "i hope the time will come when i shall have as much money of my own." dan observed that the detective followed him at a little distance, and it gave him a feeling of security. some one might have seen the large sum of money paid him, and instances had been known where boys in such circumstances had suddenly been set upon in the open street at midday and robbed. he felt that he had a friend near at hand who would interfere in such a case. "what time is it, boy?" asked an ill-looking man, suddenly accosting him. "half-past one." "look at your watch." "i don't carry one," said dan, eying the questioner suspiciously. "nor i. i have been very unfortunate. can't you give me a quarter to buy me some dinner?" "ask some one else; i'm in a hurry," said dan, coldly. the man went away muttering. "i'm not as green as you take me for," said dan to himself. he thought his danger was over, but he was mistaken. suddenly a large man, with red hair and beard, emerging from dan knew not where, laid his hand on his shoulder. dan turned in surprise. "boy," said he, in a fierce undertone, "give me that money you have in your coat-pocket, or i will brain you." "you forget we are in the public street," said dan. "no, i don't." "you would be arrested." "and you would be--stunned, perhaps killed!" hissed the man. "look here, boy, i am a desperate man. i know how much money you have with you. give me half, and go." dan looked out of the corner of his eye, to see the detective close at hand. this gave him courage, for he recognized that the villain was only speaking the truth, and he did not wish to run any unnecessary risk. he gave a nod, which brought the detective nearer, and then slipped to one side, calling: "stop thief!" the ruffian made a dash for him, his face distorted with rage, but his arm was grasped as by an iron vise. "not so fast, jack benton!" exclaimed the detective, and he signaled to a policeman. "you are up to your old tricks again, as i expected." "who are you?" demanded jack, angrily. "a detective." "the devil!" ejaculated the foiled burglar. "i have taken nothing," he added, sullenly. "that isn't your fault. i heard you threatening the boy, unless he gave up the money in his possession. take him away, officer. i will appear against him." "thank you, sir," said dan, gratefully. "all right. go on as quickly as possible. i will keep you in view." all this took a little time. talbot, whose conscience was uneasy, and with good cause, awaited dan's arrival very anxiously. "what made you so long?" he asked. "a man tried to rob me." "did he succeed?" asked talbot, quickly. "no; he was recognized by a policeman, who arrested him as he was on the point of attacking me." talbot asked no further questions, considerably to dan's relief, for he did not wish to mention the detective if it could be avoided. the book-keeper contented himself with saying, in a preoccupied tone, as he received the money: "you can't be too careful when you have much money about you. i am almost sorry i sent for this money," he proceeded. "i don't think i shall need to use it to-day." "shall i take it back to the bank, sir?" asked dan. "no; i shall put it in the safe over night. i don't care to risk you or the money again to-day." "that's a blind," thought dan. "he won't put it in the safe." chapter xxii. talbot's scheme fails. talbot went into the office where he was alone. but the partition walls were of glass, and dan managed to put himself in a position where he could see all that passed within. the book-keeper opened the package of bills, and divided them into two parcels. one he replaced in the original paper and labeled it "$ , ." the other he put into another paper, and put into his own pocket. dan saw it all, but could not distinguish the denominations of the bills assigned to the different packages. he had no doubt, however, that the smaller bills were placed in the package intended to be deposited in the safe, so that, though of apparently equal value, it really contained only about one-tenth of the money drawn from the bank. talbot was not conscious of observation. indeed, he was not observed, except by dan, whose business it was to watch him. the division being made, he opened the safe and placed the package therein. "not quite smart enough, mr. talbot," thought dan. "you will need more watching." he was anxious to communicate his discovery to the detective outside, but for some time had no opportunity. about an hour later he was sent out on an errand. he looked about him in a guarded manner till he attracted the attention of the outside detective. the latter, in answer to a slight nod, approached him carelessly. "well," he asked, "have you any news?" "yes," answered dan. "mr. talbot has divided the money into two packages, and one of them he has put into his own pocket." "what has he done with the other?" "put it into the safe." "as i expected. he means to appropriate the greater part to his own use." "is there anything more for me to do?" asked dan. "i don't know. keep your eyes open. does the book-keeper suspect that he is watched?" "i am sure that he doesn't." "that is well." "i am afraid he will get away with the money," said dan, anxiously. "i am not. do you know whether there's any woman in the case?" "he visits a young lady on lexington avenue." "do you know the number?" "no." "that is important. it is probably on her account that he wishes to become suddenly rich." this supposition was a correct one, as we know. it did not, however, argue unusual shrewdness on the part of the detective, since no motive is more common in such cases. dan returned to the office promptly, and nothing of importance occurred during the remainder of the day. when mr. talbot was preparing to leave, he called in the janitor. "you may lock the safe," he said. "very well, sir." "by the way, you may use the word 'hartford' for the combination." "very well, sir." "be particularly careful, as the safe contains a package of money--twelve thousand dollars." "wouldn't it have been better to deposit it in the bank, mr. talbot?" "yes, but it was not till the bank closed that i decided not to use it to-day. however, it is secure in the safe," he added, carelessly. "i have no doubt of that, mr. talbot." mr. talbot put on his coat and departed. in turning a street corner, he brushed against a rough-looking man who was leaning against a lamp-post. "i beg your pardon," said the book-keeper, politely. "what did you say?" growled bill. "hartford," said talbot, in a low tone. "all right, sir. if you apologize it's all correct." "they've got the word," said talbot to himself. "now the responsibility rests with them. now i will go and see virginia." his face flushed, and his eyes lighted up with joy, as he uttered her name. he was deeply in love, and he felt that at last he was in a position to win the consent of the object of his passion. he knew, or, rather, he suspected her to be coldly selfish, but he was infatuated. it was enough that he had fulfilled the conditions imposed upon him. in a few days he would be on his way to europe with the lady of his love. matters were so arranged that the loss of the twelve thousand dollars would be credited to the burglars. he would escape suspicion. if his european journey should excite a shadow of suspicion, nothing could be proved, and he could represent that he had been lucky in stock speculations, as even now he intended to represent to miss conway. he was not afraid that she would be deeply shocked by his method of obtaining money, but he felt that it would be better not to trust her with a secret, which, if divulged, would compromise his safety. "is miss conway at home?" he inquired. yes, miss conway was at home, and she soon entered the room, smiling upon him inquiringly. "well," she said, "have you any news to tell me?" "virginia, are you ready to fulfill your promise?" asked talbot, eagerly. "what promise?" "you know, surely." "i make so many promises, you know," she said, fencing. "your promise to marry me." "but there were conditions to that." "suppose that the conditions are fulfilled, virginia?" "do you really mean so?" she asked, betraying strong interest now. "have you been lucky in stocks?" "i took your advice, virginia. i dared everything, and i have succeeded." "as you might have done before, had you listened to me. how much did you make?" "ten thousand dollars--the amount you required." the girl's eyes sparkled. "and you will take me to europe?" she said. "we will make the grand tour?" "as soon as you please." "then you deserve a reward." she stooped and pressed a kiss lightly upon his cheek. it was a mercenary kiss, but he was so much in love that he felt repaid for the wrong and wickedness he had done. it would not always be so, even if he should never be detected, but for the moment he was happy. "now let us form our plans," he said. "will you marry me to-morrow evening?" "but that gives me no time." "you need no time. we will call on a clergyman, quietly, to-morrow evening, and in fifteen minutes we shall be man and wife. on saturday a steamer leaves for europe. we will start then." "oh, that will be nice. i can hardly believe that i shall so soon realize the dreams of years. i want to go to paris first." "anywhere you please. your wish shall be my law." "how can you be spared from your business?" asked virginia, after a pause. "i will plead ill health--anything. there will be no difficulty about that." "shall i tell my aunt?" "no; not till you are almost ready to start." "why not?" "it is better that there should be no gossip about it. besides, your aunt would probably be scandalized by our hasty marriage, and insist upon delay. that's something we should neither of us be willing to consent to." "no, for it would interfere with our european trip." "you consent, then, to my plans?" "yes; i will give you your own way this time," said virginia, smiling. "and you will insist on having your own way ever after?" "of course," she said; "isn't that right?" "i am afraid i must consent, at any rate; but, since you are to rule, you must not be a tyrant, my darling." talbot agreed to stay to dinner; indeed, it had been his intention from the first. he remained till the city clocks struck eleven, and then took leave of miss conway at the door. he set out for his boarding-place, his mind filled with thoughts of his coming happiness, when a hand was laid on his arm. he wheeled suddenly, and his glance fell on a quiet man--the detective. "what's wanted?" he asked, not dreaming of the truth. "you must come with me, mr. talbot," was the reply. "you are suspected of robbing the firm that employs you." "this is absurd nonsense!" exclaimed talbot, putting on a bold face, though his heart sank within him. "i hope so; but you must accompany me, and submit to a search. if my suspicions are unfounded, i will apologize." "hands off, fellow! i believe you intend to rob me. i will give you into custody." the detective put a whistle to his mouth, and his summons brought a policeman. "take this man into custody," he said. "this is an outrage!" exclaimed talbot; but he was very pale. "you will be searched at the station-house, mr. talbot," said the detective. "i hope nothing will be found to criminate you. if not, you shall go free." talbot, with a swift motion, drew something from his pocket, and hurled it into the darkness. but he was observed. the detective darted after it, and brought it back. "this is what i wanted," he said. "policeman, you will bear witness that it was in mr. talbot's possession. i fear we shall have to detain you a considerable time, sir." talbot did not utter a word. fate had turned against him, and he was sullen and desperate. "how did they suspect?" he asked himself; but no answer suggested itself. chapter xxiii. the calm before the storm. in the house on houston street, bill wasted little regret on the absence of his wife and child. neither did he trouble himself to speculate as to where she had gone. "i'm better without her," he said to his confederate, mike. "she's always a-whinin' and complainin', nance is. it makes me sick to see her. if i speak a rough word to her, and it stands to reason a chap can't always be soft-spoken, she begins to cry. i like to see a woman have some spirit, i do." "they may have too much," said mike, shrugging his shoulders. "my missus ain't much like yours. she don't cry, she don't. if i speak rough to her, she ups with something and flings it at my head. that's her style." "and what do you do?" asked bill, in some curiosity. "oh, i just leave her to get over it; that's the best way." "is it?" said bill, grimly. "why, you're not half a man, you ain't. do you want to know what i'd do if a woman raised her hand against me?" "well, what would you do?" "i'd beat her till she couldn't see!" said bill, fiercely; and he looked as if he was quite capable of it. "i don't know," said mike. "you haven't got a wife like mine." "i just wish i had. i'd tame her." "she ain't easy to tame." "just you take me round there some time, mike. if she has a tantrum, turn her over to me." mike did not answer. he was not as great a ruffian as bill, and the proposal did not strike him favorably. his wife was certainly a virago, and though strong above the average, he was her superior in physical strength, but something hindered him from using it to subdue her. so he was often overmatched by the shrill-voiced vixen, who knew very well that he would not proceed to extremities. had she been bill's wife, she would have had to yield, or there would have been bloodshed. "i say, bill," said mike, suddenly, "how much did your wife hear of our plans last night?" "nothing." "she might." "if she had she would not dare to say a word," said bill, carelessly. "you don't know. women like to use their tongues." "she knows i'd kill her if she betrayed me," said bill. "there ain't no use considerin' that." "well, i'm glad you think so. it would be awkward if the police got wind of it." "they won't." "what do you think of that chap that's puttin' us up to it?" "i don't like him, but i like his money." "five hundred dollars a-piece ain't much for the risk we run." "we'll have more." "how?" "if we don't find more in the safe, we'll bleed him when all's over. he'll be in our power." "well, bill, you know best. you've got a better head nor me." "and a stouter heart, man. you're always afeared of something." it was true that bill was the leading spirit. he was reckless and desperate, while mike was apt to count the cost, and dwell upon the danger incurred. they had been associated more than once in unlawful undertakings; and though both had served a short term of imprisonment, they had in general escaped scot-free. it was bill who hung round the store, and who received from talbot at the close of the afternoon the "combination," which was to make the opening of the safe comparatively easy. "it's a good thing to have a friend inside," he said to his confederate. "our money is as good as made." "there'll be the janitor to dispose of," suggested mike. "leave him to me. i'll knock him on the head." "don't kill him if you can help it, bill. murder has an ugly look, and they'll look out twice as sharp for a murderer as for a burglar. besides, swingin' ain't pleasant." "never you mind. i'll only stun him a little. he can wake up when we're gone, but we'll tie him so he can't give the alarm." "how cool you take things, bill!" "do i? well, it's my business. you just leave everything to me. obey orders, and i'll bring you out all right." so the day passed, and darkness came on. it was the calm before the storm. chapter xxiv. old jack, the janitor. the janitor, or watchman, was a sturdy old man, who in early life had been a sailor. some accident had made him lame, and this incapacitated him for his early vocation. it had not, however, impaired his physical strength, which was very great, and mr. rogers was glad to employ him in his present capacity. of his fidelity there was no question. when jack green--jack was the name he generally went by--heard of the contemplated burglary, he was excited and pleased. it was becoming rather tame to him to watch night after night without interruption, and he fancied he should like a little scrimmage. he even wanted to withstand the burglars single-handed. "what's the use of callin' in the police?" he urged. "it's only two men, and old jack is a match for two." "you're a strong man, jack," said dan, "but one of the burglars is as strong as you are. i have seen him, you know. he's broad-shouldered and big-chested." "i ain't afraid of him," said jack, defiantly. "perhaps not, but there's another man, too. you couldn't overcome both." "i don't know about that." but jack finally yielded, though reluctantly, and three policemen were admitted about eight o'clock, and carefully secreted, to act when necessary. jack pleaded for the privilege of meeting the burglars first, and the privilege was granted, partly in order that they might be taken in the act. old jack was instructed how to act, and though it was a part not wholly in accordance with his fearless spirit, he finally agreed to do as he was told. it is not necessary to explain how the burglars effected their entrance. this was effected about twelve o'clock, and by the light of a dark-lantern bill and mike advanced cautiously toward the safe. at this point old jack made his appearance, putting on an air of alarm and dismay. "who are you?" he demanded, in a tone which he partially succeeded in making tremulous. bill took up the reply. "are you the janitor?" he asked. "yes, gentlemen. what do you want?" "keep quiet, and we will do you no harm. we want you to open the safe." "i can't do that, gentlemen. i can't betray my trust." "all right; i'll do it myself. give us the key. what's the combination?" "hartford." bill glanced at mike significantly. the word agreed with the information they had received from talbot. it served to convince them that the janitor had indeed succumbed, and could be relied upon. there was no suspicion in the mind of either that there was any one else in the establishment, and they felt moderately secure from interruption. "here, old fellow, hold the lantern while we go to work. just behave yourself, and we'll give you ten dollars--shall we, mike?" "yes," answered mike; "i'm agreed." "it'll look as if i was helpin' to rob my master," objected jack. "oh, never mind about that; he won't know it. when all is over we'll tie you up, so that it will look as if you couldn't help yourself. what do you say?" jack felt like making a violent assault upon the man who was offering him a bribe, but he controlled his impulse, and answered: "i'm a poor man, and ten dollars will come handy." "all right," said bill, convinced by this time that jack's fidelity was very cheaply purchased. he plumed himself on his success in converting the janitor into an ally, and felt that the way was clear before him. "mike, give the lantern to this old man, and come here and help me." old jack took the lantern, laughing in his sleeve at the ease with which he had gulled the burglars, while they kneeled before the safe. it was then that, looking over his shoulder, he noticed the stealthy approach of the policemen, accompanied by dan. he could content himself no longer. setting down the lantern, he sprang upon the back of bill as he was crouching before him, exclaiming: "now, you villain, i have you!" chapter xxv. the burglary. the attack was so sudden and unexpected that bill, powerful as he was, was prostrated, and for an instant interposed no resistance. but this was not for long. "you'll repent this, you old idiot!" he hissed between his closed teeth, and, in spite of old jack's efforts to keep him down, he forced his way up. at the same moment mike, who had been momentarily dazed by the sudden attack, seized the janitor, and, between them both, old jack's life was likely to be of a very brief tenure. but here the reinforcements appeared, and changed the aspect of the battle. one burly policeman seized bill by the collar, while mike was taken in hand by another, and their heavy clubs fell with merciless force on the heads of the two captives. in the new surprise jack found himself a free man, and, holding up the lantern, cried, exultingly: "if i am an old idiot, i've got the better of you, you scoundrels! you'll open the safe, will you?" bill looked about him doggedly. it was hard for him to give in, but the fight was too unequal. "mike," said he, "this is a plant. i wish i had that cursed book-keeper here; he led us into this." "is it mr. talbot you mean?" asked the janitor. "yes," answered bill; "he put us up to this. curse him!" "no need to curse him," said jack, dryly; "he meant you to succeed." "didn't he tell you we were coming to-night?" "not he." "how did you find it out, then?" asked bill, quickly. "not through him. he was watched, for we suspected him. what did he promise you?" "five hundred dollars apiece." "was that all?" "it wasn't enough; but we should have got more out of him." "before you go away with your prisoners," said jack to the policeman, "i wish to open the safe before you, to see if i am right in my suspicions. mr. talbot drew over ten thousand dollars from the bank to-day, and led us to think that he deposited it in the safe. i wish to ascertain, in the presence of witnesses, how much he placed there, and how much he carried away." "go ahead," said the oldest policeman. the janitor proceeded to open the safe. "did we have the right combination?" asked bill. "no." "that cursed book-keeper deceived us, then." "you are mistaken. he was himself deceived. i gave him the wrong word." "curse you, then!" said bill, savagely. "suit yourself, mr. burglar," said old jack, indifferently. "there's an old saying, 'curses, like chickens, still come home to roost.' your cursing won't hurt me any." "if my curses don't my fists may!" retorted bill, with a malignant look. "you won't have a chance to carry out your threats for some years to come, if you get your deserts," said jack, by no means terrified. "i've only done my duty, and i'm ready to do it again whenever needed." by this time the safe was open; all present saw the envelope of money labeled "$ , ." the two burglars saw the prize which was to have rewarded their efforts and risk with a tantalizing sense of defeat. they had been so near success, only to be foiled at last, and consigned to a jail for a term of years. "curse the luck!" muttered bill, bitterly, and in his heart mike said amen. "gentlemen, i will count this money before you," said the janitor, as he opened the parcel. the count was quickly accomplished. it resulted, as my readers already know, in the discovery that, in place of twelve thousand, the parcel contained but one thousand dollars. "eleven thousand dollars short!" said jack. "gentlemen, will you take notice of this? of course it is clear where the rest is gone--talbot carried it away with him." "where is he?" inquired one of the policemen. "he ought to be pursued." "by this time he is in custody," said jack. "look here, old man, who engineered this thing?" demanded bill. "come here, dan," said jack, summoning our hero, who modestly stood in the background. "mr. burglar, this boy is entitled to the credit of defeating you. we should have known nothing of your intentions but for dan, the detective." "he!" said bill, scornfully. "why, i could crush him with one hand." "force is a good thing, but brains are better," said jack. "dan here has got a better head-piece than any of us." "you've done yourself credit, boy," said the chief policeman. "when i have a difficult case i'll send for you." "you are giving me more credit than i deserve," said dan, modestly. "if i ever get out of jail, i'll remember you," said bill, scowling. "i wouldn't have minded so much if it had been a man, but to be laid by the heels by a boy like you--that's enough to make me sick." "you've said enough, my man," said the policeman who had him in charge. "come along, will you?" the two prisoners, escorted by their captors, made their unwilling way to the station-house. they were duly tried, and were sentenced to a ten years' term of imprisonment. as for talbot, he tried to have it believed that he took the money found on him because he distrusted the honesty of the janitor; but this statement fell to the ground before dan's testimony and that of bill's wife. he, too, received a heavy sentence, and it was felt that he only got his just deserts. * * * * * * * on the morning after the events recorded above, mr. rogers called dan into the counting-room. "dan," he said, "i wish to express to you my personal obligations for the admirable manner in which you have managed the affair of this burglary." "thank you, sir," said dan. "i am convinced that but for you i should have lost twelve thousand dollars. it would not have ruined me, to be sure, but it would have been a heavy loss." "such a loss as that would have ruined me," said dan, smiling. "so i should suppose," assented his employer. "i predict, however, that the time will come when you can stand such a loss, and have something left." "i hope so, sir." "as there must always be a beginning, suppose you begin with that." mr. rogers had turned to his desk and written a check, which he handed to dan. this was the way it read: no. . park national bank. pay to dan mordaunt or order one thousand dollars. ($ , .) barton & rogers. dan took the check, supposing it might be for twenty dollars or so. when he saw the amount, he started in excitement and incredulity. "one thousand dollars!" he repeated, in bewilderment. "yes," said mr. rogers, smiling. "it is a large sum for a boy like you, dan. i hope you will invest it wisely." "but, sir, you don't mean all this for me?" said dan. "indeed i do. it is less than ten per cent on the money you have saved for us." "how can i thank you for your kindness, sir?" said dan, gratefully. "by continuing to serve us faithfully. by the way, what wages do we pay you?" "six dollars a week." "it is too little. from this time you will draw ten dollars." "you have made me rich, mr. rogers," said dan, gratefully. "it is a little better than selling papers in front of the astor house, isn't it, dan?" "a good deal, sir." "i hope you will continue to prosper. now, dan, let me give you two pieces of advice." "i wish you would, sir." "first, put this money in a good savings-bank, and don't draw upon it unless you are obliged to. let it be a nest-egg." "i mean to do that, sir." "and next, spend a part of your earnings in improving your education. you have already had unusual advantages for a boy of your age, but you should still be learning. it may help you, in a business point of view, to understand book-keeping." "i will learn it, sir." dan not only did this, but resumed the study of both french and german, of which he had some elementary knowledge, and advanced rapidly in all. chapter xxvi. dan learns to dance. several months passed without any incidents worth recording. punctually every month dan received a remittance of sixty dollars through a foreign banker, whose office was near wall street. of this sum it may be remembered that ten dollars were to be appropriated to althea's dress. of the little girl it may be said she was very happy in her new home. she formed a strong attachment for mrs. mordaunt, whom she called mamma, while she always looked forward with delight to dan's return at night. mrs. mordaunt was very happy in the child's companionship, and found the task of teaching her very congenial. but for the little girl she would have had many lonely hours, since dan was absent all day on business. "i don't know what i shall do, althea, when you go to school," she said one day. "i don't want to go to school. let me stay at home with you, mamma." "for the present i can teach you, my dear, but the time will come when for your own good it will be better to go to school. i cannot teach you as well as the teachers you will find there." "you know ever so much, mamma. don't you know everything?" mrs. mordaunt smiled. "compared with you, my dear, i seem to know a great deal, but there are others who know much more." althea was too young as yet, however, to attend school, and the happy home life continued. mrs. mordaunt and dan often wondered how long their mysterious ward was to remain with them. had she a mother living? if so, how could that mother voluntarily forego her child's society? these were questions they sometimes asked themselves, but no answer suggested itself. they were content to have them remain unanswered, so long as althea might remain with them. the increase of dan's income, and the large sum he had on interest, would have enabled them to live comfortably even without the provision made for their young ward. as it was they could do better. dan felt himself justified in indulging in a little extravagance. "mother," said he, one evening, "i am thinking of taking a course of lessons in dancing." "what has put that into your head, dan?" "julia rogers is to have a birthday party in two or three months, and i think from a hint her father dropped to-day i shall have an invitation. i shall feel awkward if i don't know how to dance. besides----" here dan hesitated. "well, dan, what besides?" "tom carver will be sure to be there, and if i don't dance, or if i am awkward, he will be sure to sneer at me." "will that make you feel bad, dan?" "not exactly, but i don't want to appear at disadvantage when he is around. if i have been a newsboy, i want to show that i can take the part of gentleman as well as he." "does the ability to dance make a gentleman, dan?" "no, mother, but i should feel awkward without it. i don't want to be a wall-flower. what do you say to my plan, mother?" "carry it out by all means, dan. there is no reason why you shouldn't hold up your head with any of them," and mrs. mordaunt's eyes rested with pride on the handsome face and manly expression of her son. "you are a little prejudiced in my favor, mother," said dan, smiling. "if i were as awkward as a cat in a strange garret, you wouldn't see it." "i am not quite blind, dan." dan accordingly decided to take lessons in dancing. he selected a fashionable teacher, although the price was high, for he thought it might secure him desirable acquaintances, purchased a handsome suit of clothes, and soon became very much interested in the lessons. he had a quick ear, a good figure, and a natural grace of movement, which soon made him noticeable in the class, and he was quite in demand among the young ladies as a partner. he was no less a favorite socially, being agreeable as well as good-looking. "mr. mordaunt," said the professor, "i wish all my scholars did me as much credit as you do. you dance beautifully." "thank you, sir," said dan, modestly, but he felt gratified. by the time the invitation came dan had no fears as to acquitting himself creditably. "i hope tom carver will be there," he said to his mother, as he was dressing for the party. chapter xxvii. in the dressing-room. mr. rogers lived in a handsome brown-stone-front house up town. as dan approached, he saw the entire house brilliantly lighted. he passed beneath a canopy, over carpeted steps, to the front door, and rang the bell. the door was opened by a stylish-looking colored man, whose grand air showed that he felt the importance and dignity of his position. as dan passed in he said: "gentlemen's dressing-room third floor back." with a single glance through the open door at the lighted parlors, where several guests were already assembled, dan followed directions, and went up stairs. entering the dressing-room, he saw a boy carefully arranging his hair before the glass. "that's my friend, tom carver," said dan to himself. tom was so busily engaged at his toilet that he didn't at once look at the new guest. when he had leisure to look up, he seemed surprised, and remarked, superciliously: "i didn't expect to see _you_ here." "why not?" demanded dan, who understood his meaning. "are you engaged to look after this room? if so, just brush me." "with all my heart, if you'll brush me," answered dan, partly offended and partly amused. "what do you mean?" demanded tom, haughtily. "just what i say. one good turn deserves another." "our positions are rather different, i think." "how so? you are a guest of miss rogers, and so am i." "you don't mean to say that you are going down into the parlor?" "why not?" "a boy who sells papers in front of the astor house is not a suitable guest at a fashionable party." "that is not your affair," said dan, coldly. "but it is not true that i sell papers anywhere." "oh, i forgot. you're a shop-boy now. you used to sell papers, though." "and i will again, if necessary," answered dan, as he took tom's place in front of the glass and began to arrange his toilet. then, for the first time, tom took notice that dan was dressed as well as himself, in a style with which the most captious critic could not find fault. tom was both surprised and disappointed. he would have liked to see dan in awkward, ill-fitting, or shabby clothes. it seemed to him that an ex-newsboy had no right to dress so well, and he was greatly puzzled to understand how he could afford it. "where did you borrow those clothes?" he asked, impudently. "where did you borrow yours?" retorted dan. "don't be saucy." "you set me the example." "it is not remarkable that i should be well dressed. i can afford it." "so can i," answered dan, laconically. "do you mean to say that you bought that suit and paid for it?" "i do." "it must have taken all your money." "you are very kind to take so much interest in me. it may relieve your mind to see this." dan took a roll of bills from his pocket, and displayed them to the astonished tom. "i don't see where you got so much money," said tom, mystified. "i've got more in the bank," said dan. "i mention it to you that you needn't feel bad about my extravagance in buying a party suit." "i wouldn't have come to this party if i had been you," said tom, changing his tone. "why not?" "you'll be so awkward, you know. you don't know any one except miss rogers, who, of course, invited you out of pity, not expecting you would accept." "did she tell you so?" asked dan, smiling. "no, but it stands to reason." "you forget i know you," said dan, smiling again. "i beg you won't presume upon our former slight acquaintance," said tom, hastily. "i shall be so busily occupied that i really can't give you any attention." "then i must shift for myself, i suppose," said dan, good-humoredly. "shall we go down?" "go first, if you like," said tom, superciliously. "i will follow directly." "he doesn't want to go down with me," thought dan. "perhaps i shall surprise him a little;" and he made his way down stairs. chapter xxviii. dan at the party. as dan entered the parlors he saw the young lady in whose honor the party was given only a few feet distant. he advanced with perfect ease, and paid his respects. "i am very glad to see you here this evening, mr. mordaunt," said julia, cordially. "what a handsome boy he is!" she thought. "i had no idea he would look so well." mentally she pronounced him the handsomest young gentleman present. "take your partners for a quadrille, young gentlemen," announced the master of ceremonies. "are you engaged, miss rogers?" asked dan. "not as yet," answered the young lady, smiling. "then may i have the honor?" "certainly." so it happened that as tom carver entered the room, he beheld, to his intense surprise and disgust, dan leading the young hostess to her place in the quadrille. "what a cheek that fellow has!" said tom to himself. "i suppose he never attempted to dance in his life. it will be fun to watch his awkwardness. i am very much surprised that julia should condescend to dance with him--a common newsboy." at first tom thought he wouldn't dance, but mrs. rogers approaching said: "tom, there's jane sheldon. she has no partner." accordingly tom found himself leading up a little girl of eight. there was no place except in the quadrille in which dan and julia rogers were to dance. tom found himself one of the "sides." "good-evening, julia," he said, catching the eye of miss rogers. "good-evening, tom. you are late." "i am too late to be your partner." "yes, but you see i am not left a wall-flower," said the young lady, smiling. "mr. mordaunt kindly relieved me of that apprehension." "you are fortunate," said tom, sneering. "i leave my partner to thank you for that compliment," said julia, determined not to gratify tom by appearing to understand the sneer. "there's no occasion," said tom, rudely. "i am glad of it," said dan, "for i am so unused to compliments that i am afraid i should answer awkwardly." "i can very well believe that," returned tom, significantly. julia did not smile. she looked offended rather for she felt that rudeness to her partner reflected upon herself. but here the music struck up, and the quadrille began. "now for awkwardness," said tom to himself, and he watched dan closely. but, to his surprise, nothing could be neater or better modulated than dan's movements. instead of hopping about, as tom thought he would, he was thoroughly graceful. "where could the fellow have learned to dance?" he asked himself, in disappointment. julia was gratified; for, to tell the truth, she too had not been altogether without misgivings on the subject of dan's dancing, and, being herself an excellent dancer, she would have found it a little disagreeable if dan had proved awkward. the quadrille proceeded, and tom was chagrined that the newsboy, as he mentally termed dan, had proved a better dancer than himself. "oh, well, it's easy to dance in a quadrille," he said to himself, by way of consolation. "he won't venture on any of the round dances." but as dan was leading julia to her seat he asked her hand in the next polka, and was graciously accepted. he then bowed and left her, knowing that he ought not to monopolize the young hostess. although tom had told dan not to expect any attentions from him, he was led by curiosity to accost our hero. "it seems that newsboys dance," said he. "does it?" asked dan, indifferently. "but it was not in very good taste for you to engage miss rogers for the first dance." "why not?" "it was making yourself too prominent." "somebody had to be prominent, or miss rogers would have been left to dance by herself." "there are others who would have made more suitable partners for her." "yourself, for instance." "yes." "i am sorry to have stood in your way." "oh, you needn't mind. i shall have plenty of opportunities of dancing with her, and you won't. i suppose she took pity on you, as you know no other young lady here." just then a pretty girl, beautifully dressed, approached dan. "good-evening, mr. mordaunt," she said, offering her hand with a beaming smile. "good-evening, miss carroll," said dan. "are you engaged for the galop?" miss carroll shook her head. "then will you give me the pleasure?" in a minute dan was whirling round the room with the young lady, greatly to tom's amazement, for edith carroll was from a family of high social standing, living on murray hill. "how in the duse does dan mordaunt know that girl?" tom asked himself, with a frown. "they spoke as if they were acquainted." to tom's further disappointment dan danced as gracefully in the galop as in the quadrille. when the galop was over, dan promenaded with another young lady, whose acquaintance he had made at dancing-school, and altogether seemed as much at his ease as if he had been attending parties all his life. tom managed to obtain edith carroll as a partner. "i didn't know you were acquainted with dan mordaunt," he said. "oh, yes, i know him very well. doesn't he dance charmingly?" "humph!" said tom, not very well pleased. "i thought him rather awkward." "how can you say so, mr. carver? why i think he dances _beautifully_, and so do all the girls." "how do the girls know how he dances?" "why he goes to our dancing-school. the professor says he is his best pupil. we all like to dance with him." "that's fortunate for him," said tom, with a sneer. "perhaps he may become a dancing-master in time." "he would make a good one, but i don't think he's very likely to do that." "it would be a good thing for him. he is poor, you know." "no, i don't. i am sure he dresses well. he is as well-dressed as any young gentleman here." this was true, and tom resented it. he felt that dan had no right to dress well. "he ought not to spend so much money on dress when he has his mother to support," he said, provoked. "it seems to me you take a great deal of interest in mr. mordaunt," said the young beauty, pointedly. "oh, no; he can do as he likes for all me, but, of course, when a boy in his position dresses as if he were rich one can't help noticing it." "i am sure he can't be very poor, or he could not attend dodworth's dancing-school. at any rate i like to dance with him, and i don't care whether he's poor or rich." presently tom saw dan dancing the polka with julia rogers, and with the same grace that he had exhibited in the other dances. he felt jealous, for he fancied himself a favorite with julia, because their families being intimate, he saw a good deal of her. on the whole tom was not enjoying the party. he did succeed, however, in obtaining the privilege of escorting julia to supper. just in front of him was dan, escorting a young lady from fifth avenue. "mr. mordaunt appears to be enjoying himself," said julia rogers. "yes, he has plenty of cheek," muttered tom. "excuse me, tom, but do you think such expressions suitable for such an occasion as this?" "i am sorry you don't like it, but i never saw a more forward or presuming fellow than this dan mordaunt." "i beg you to keep your opinion to yourself," said julia rogers, with dignity. "i find he is a great favorite with all the young ladies here. i had no idea he knew so many of them." tom gave it up. it seemed to him that all the girls were infatuated with a common newsboy, while his vanity was hurt by finding himself quite distanced in the race. about twelve o'clock the two boys met in the dressing-room. "you seemed to enjoy yourself," said tom, coldly. "yes, thanks to your kind attentions," answered dan, with a smile. "it is pleasant to meet old friends, you know. by the way, i suppose we shall meet at miss carroll's party." "are _you_ to be invited?" asked tom, in astonishment. "so the young lady tells me," answered dan, smiling. "i suppose _you'll_ be giving a fashionable party next," said tom, with a sneer. "consider yourself invited if i do. good-night, and pleasant dreams." but dan's dreams were by no means sweet that night. when he reached home, it was to hear of a great and startling misfortune. chapter xxix. a ne'er do well. at half-past twelve dan ascended the stairs to his mother's room. he had promised to come in and tell her how he had enjoyed himself at the party. he was in excellent spirits on account of the flattering attentions he had received. it was in this frame of mind that he opened the door. what was his surprise, even consternation, when his mother advanced to meet him with tearful eyes and an expression of distress. "oh, dan, i am so glad you have got home!" she ejaculated. "what is the matter, mother? are you sick?" asked dan. "i am quite well, dan; but althea----" and mrs. mordaunt burst into tears. "what has happened to althea? is she sick?" asked dan, alarmed. "we have lost her, dan." "lost her! you don't mean she is----" he couldn't finish the sentence, but his mother divined what he meant. "not dead, thank god!" she said, "but she has disappeared--she has been stolen." "you don't mean it, mother!" exclaimed dan, startled and grieved. "tell me about it." mrs. mordaunt told what she knew, but that related only to the particulars of the abduction. we are in a position to tell the reader more, but it will be necessary to go back for a month, and transfer the scene to another continent. in a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment at the west end of london sat the lady who had placed althea in charge of the mordaunts. she was deep in thought, and that not of an agreeable nature. "i fear," she said to herself, "that trouble awaits me. john hartley, whom i supposed to be in california, is certainly in london. i cannot be mistaken in his face, and i certainly saw him in hyde park to-day. did he see me? i don't know, but i fear he did. if so, he will not long delay in making his appearance. then i shall be persecuted, but i must be firm. he shall not learn through me where althea is. he is her father, it is true, but he has forfeited all claim to her guardianship. a confirmed gambler and drunkard, he would soon waste her fortune, bequeathed her by her poor mother. he can have no possible claim to it; for, apart from his having had no hand in leaving it to her, he was divorced from my poor sister before her death." at this point there was a knock at the door of the room. "come in," said the lady. there entered a young servant-maid, who courtesied, and said: "mrs. vernon, there is a gentleman who wishes to see you." "can it be hartley?" thought the lady, with quick suspicion. "did he give his name?" she asked. "yes, mum; he said his name was bancroft." "bancroft! i know no one of that name," mused the lady. "well, margaret, you may show him up, and you may remain in the anteroom within call." her eyes were fixed upon the door with natural curiosity, when her visitor entered. instantly her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with anger. "john hartley!" she exclaimed. the visitor smiled mockingly. "i see you know me, harriet vernon," he said. "it is some time since we met, is it not? i am charmed, i am sure, to see my sister-in-law looking so well." he sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation. "when did you change your name to bancroft?" demanded the lady, abruptly. "oh," he said, showing his teeth, "that was a little ruse. i feared you would have no welcome for john hartley, notwithstanding our near relationship, and i was forced to sail under false colors." "it was quite in character," said mrs. vernon, coldly; "you were always false. but you need not claim relationship. the slender tie that connected us was broken when my sister obtained a divorce from you." "you think so, my lady," said the visitor, dropping his tone of mocking badinage, and regarding her in a menacing manner, "but you were never more mistaken. you may flatter yourself that you are rid of me, but you flatter yourself in vain." "do you come here to threaten me, john hartley?" "i come here to ask for my child. where is althea?" "where you cannot get at her," answered mrs. vernon, coldly. "don't think to put me off in that way," he said, fiercely. "i will know where she is." "don't think to terrify me, john hartley," said the lady, contemptuously. "i am not so easily alarmed as your poor wife." hartley looked at her as if he would have assaulted her had he dared, but she knew very well that he did not dare. he was a bully, but he was a coward. "you refuse, then, to tell me what you have done with my child?" he demanded, at length. "i do." "take care, madam! a father has some rights, and the law will not permit his child to be kept from him." "does your anxiety to see althea arise from parental affection?" she asked, in a sarcastic tone. "never mind what it springs from. i have a right to the custody of my child." "i suppose you have a right to waste her fortune also at the gaming-table." "i have a right to act as my child's guardian," he retorted. "a fine guardian you would make!" she said, contemptuously. "why should i not?" he asked, sulkily. "why should you not, john hartley? do i need to answer the question? you ill-treated and abused her mother. you wasted half her fortune. fortunately, she escaped from you before it was all gone. but you shortened her life, and she did not long survive the separation. it was her last request that i should care for her child--that i should, above all, keep her out of your clutches. i made that promise, and i mean to keep it." "you poisoned my wife's mind against me," he said. "but for your cursed interference we should never have separated." "you are right, perhaps, in your last statement. i certainly did urge my sister to leave you. i obtained her consent to the application for a divorce, but as to poisoning her mind against you, there was no need of that. by your conduct and your treatment you destroyed her love and forfeited her respect, and she saw the propriety of the course which i recommended." "i didn't come here to be lectured. you can spare your invectives, harriet vernon. what is past is past. i was not a model husband, perhaps, but i was as good as the average." "if that is the case, heaven help the woman who marries!" "or the man that marries a woman like you!" "you are welcome to your opinion of me. i am entirely indifferent to your good or bad opinion. have you any more to say?" "any more to say! i have hardly begun. is my daughter althea with you?" "i don't recognize your right to question me on this subject, but i will answer you. she is not with me." "is she in london?" "i will even answer that question. she is not in london." "is she in england?" "that i will not tell you. you have learned enough." john hartley did not answer immediately. he appeared to be occupied with some thought. when he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone. "i don't doubt that she is in good hands," he said. "i am sure you will treat her kindly. perhaps you are a better guardian than i. i am willing to leave her in your hands, but i ought to have some compensation." "what do you mean?" "althea has a hundred thousand dollars, yielding at least five thousand dollars income. probably her expenses are little more than one-tenth of this sum. while my child is rich i am poor. give me half her income--say three thousand dollars annually--and i will give you and her no further trouble." "i thought that was the object of your visit," said mrs. vernon, coldly. "i was right in giving you no credit for parental affection. in regard to your proposition, i cannot entertain it. you had one half of my sister's fortune, and you spent it. you have no further claim on her money." "is this your final answer?" he demanded, angrily. "it is." "then i swear to you that i will be even with you. i will find the child, and when i do you shall never see her again." mrs. vernon rang the bell. margaret entered. "margaret," she said, coldly, "will you show this gentleman out?" john hartley rose and bowed ironically. "you are certainly very polite, harriet vernon," he said. "you are bold, too, for you are defying me, and that is dangerous. you had better reconsider your determination, before it is too late." "it will never be too late; i can at any time buy you off," she said, contemptuously. "all you want is money." "we shall see," he hissed, eying her malignantly. "margaret," said mrs. vernon, when her visitor had been shown out, "never admit that person again; i am always out to him." "yes, mum," said the girl. "i wonder who 'twas," she thought, curiously. chapter xxx. how hartley got a clew. john hartley, when a young man, had wooed and won althea's mother. julia belmont was a beautiful and accomplished girl, an heiress in her own right, and might have made her choice among at least a dozen suitors. that she should have accepted the hand of john hartley, a banker's clerk, reputed "fast," was surprising, but a woman's taste in such a case is often hard to explain or justify. her sister--now mrs. vernon--strenuously objected to the match, and by so doing gained the hatred of her future brother-in-law. opposition proved ineffectual, and julia belmont became mrs. hartley. her fortune amounted to two hundred thousand dollars. the trustee and her sister succeeded in obtaining her consent that half of this sum should be settled on herself, and her issue, should she have any. this proved to be a wise precaution. john hartley resigned his position immediately after marriage, and declined to enter upon any business. "why should i?" he said. "julia and i have enough to live upon. if i am out of business i can devote myself more entirely to her." this reasoning satisfied his young wife, and for a time all went well. but hartley joined a fashionable club, formed a taste for gambling, indulged in copious libations, not unfrequently staggering home drunk, to the acute sorrow of his wife, and then excesses soon led to ill-treatment. the money, which he could spend in a few years, melted away, and he tried to gain possession of the remainder of his wife's property. but, meanwhile, althea was born, and a consideration for her child's welfare strengthened the wife in her firm refusal to accede to this unreasonable demand. "you shall have the income, john," she said--"i will keep none back; but the principal must be kept for althea." "you care more for the brat than you do for me," he muttered. "i care for you both," she answered. "you know how the money would go, john. we should all be left destitute." "that meddling sister of yours has put you up to this," he said, angrily. "there was no need of that. it is right, and i have decided for myself." "your first duty is to your husband." "i feel that in refusing i am doing my duty by you." "it is a strange way--to oppose your husband's wishes. women ought never to be trusted with money--they don't know how to take care of it." "you are not the person to say this, john. in five years you have wasted one hundred thousand dollars." "it was bad luck in investments," he replied. "i am afraid you are right. investing money at the gaming-table is not very profitable." "do you mean to insult me, madam?" exclaimed hartley, furiously. "i am only telling the sad truth, john." he forgot himself and struck her. she withdrew, flushed and indignant, for she had spirit enough to resent this outrage, and he left the house in a furious rage. when hartley found that there was no hope of carrying his point, all restraint seemed removed. he plunged into worse excesses, and his treatment became so bad that mrs. hartley consented to institute proceedings for divorce. it was granted, and the child was given to her. hartley disappeared for a time. when he returned his wife had died of pneumonia, and her sister--mrs. vernon, now a widow--had assumed the care of althea. an attempt to gain possession of the child induced her to find another guardian for the child. this was the way althea had come into the family of our young hero. thus much, that the reader may understand the position of affairs, and follow intelligently the future course of the story. when john hartley left the presence of his sister-in-law, he muttered maledictions upon her. "i'll have the child yet, if only to spite her," he muttered, between his teeth. "i won't allow a jade to stand between me and my own flesh and blood. i must think of some plan to circumvent her." this was not easy. he had absolutely no clew, and little money to assist him in his quest. but fortune, which does not always favor the brave, but often helps the undeserving, came unexpectedly to his help. at an american banker's he ran across an old acquaintance--one who had belonged to the same club as himself in years past. "what are you doing here, hartley?" he asked. "not much. luck is against me." "sorry to hear it. by the way, i was reminded of you not long since." "how is that?" "i saw your child in union square, in new york." "are you sure of it?" asked hartley, eagerly. "are you sure it was my child?" "of course; i used to see it often, you know. she is a bright little thing." "do you know where she lives?" asked hartley. "did you follow her?" "don't _you_ know where she lives?" "no; her aunt is keeping the child from me. i am very anxious to find her." "that accounts for it. she was with a middle-aged lady, who evidently was suspicious of me, for she did not bring out the child but once more, and was clearly anxious when i took notice of her." "she was acting according to instructions, no doubt." "very probably." "i wish you had learned more." "so do i. why do they keep _you_ away from her?" "because she has money, and they wish to keep it in their hands," said hartley, plausibly. "the aunt is a very mercenary woman. she is living here in london, doubtless on my little girl's fortune." john hartley knew that this was not true, for mrs. vernon was a rich woman; but it suited his purpose to say so, and the statement was believed by his acquaintance. "this is bad treatment, hartley," he said, in a tone of sympathy. "isn't it?" "what are you going to do about it?" "try to find out where the child is placed, and get possession of her." "i wish you success." this information john hartley felt to be of value. it narrowed his search, and made success much less difficult. in order to obtain more definite information, he lay in wait for mrs. vernon's servant. margaret at first repulsed him, but a sovereign judiciously slipped into her hand convinced her that hartley was quite the gentleman, and he had no difficulty, by the promise of a future douceur, in obtaining her co-operation. "what is it you want, sir?" she asked. "if it's no harm you mean my missus----" "certainly not, but she is keeping my child from me. you can understand a father's wish to see his child, my dear girl." "indeed, i think it's cruel to keep her from you, sir." "then look over your mistress' papers and try to obtain the street and number where she is boarding in new york. i have a right to know that." "of course you have, sir," said the girl, readily. so it came about that the girl obtained dan's address, and communicated it to john hartley. as soon as possible afterward hartley sailed for new york. "i'll secure the child," he said to himself, exultingly, "and then my sweet sister-in-law must pay roundly for her if she wants her back." all which attested the devoted love of john hartley for his child. chapter xxxi. althea's abduction. arrived in new york, john hartley lost no time in ascertaining where dan and his mother lived. in order the better to watch without incurring suspicion, he engaged by the week a room in a house opposite, which, luckily for his purpose, happened to be for rent. it was a front window, and furnished him with a post of observation from which he could see who went in and out of the house opposite. hartley soon learned that it would not be so easy as he had anticipated to gain possession of the little girl. she never went out alone, but always accompanied either by dan or his mother. hartley was disappointed. if, now, althea were attending school, there would be an opportunity to kidnap her. as it was, he was at his wits' end. at last, however, opportunity favored him. on the evening of the party mrs. mordaunt chanced to need some small article necessary to the work upon which she was engaged. she might indeed wait until the next day, but she was repairing a vest of dan's, which he would need to wear in the morning, and she did not like to disappoint him. "my child," she said, "i find i must go out a little while." "what for, mamma?" "i want to buy some braid to bind dan's vest. he will want to wear it in the morning." "may i go with you, mamma?" "no, my child. you can be reading your picture-book till i come back. i won't be long." so mrs. mordaunt put on her street dress, and left the house in the direction of eighth avenue, where there was a cheap store at which she often traded. no sooner did hartley see her leave the house, as he could readily do, for the night was light, than he hurried to union square, scarcely five minutes distant, and hailed a cab-driver. "do you want a job, my man?" he asked. "yes, sir." "can you hold your tongue?" "yes, sir, if necessary." "it is necessary." "there is nothing wrong, sir, i hope." "certainly not. my child has been kidnapped during my absence in europe. with your help i mean to recover her." "all right, sir." "she is in the custody of some designing persons, who keep possession of her on account of a fortune which she is to inherit. she does not know me to be her father, we have been so long separated; but i feel anxious to take her away from her treacherous guardians." "you are right, sir. i've got a little girl of my own, and i understand your feelings. where shall we go?" hartley gave the proper address. fifteen minutes afterward the cab drew up before mrs. brown's door, and hartley, springing from it, rang the bell. it so happened that mrs. brown was out, and a servant answered the bell. she looked inquiringly at the visitor. "a lady lives here with a little girl," he said, quickly. "yes, sir; mrs. mordaunt." "precisely; and the little girl is named althea." "you are right, sir." "mrs. mordaunt has been run over by a street-car, and been carried into my house. she wishes the little girl to come at once to her." "is she much hurt?" asked nancy, anxiously. "i am afraid her leg is broken; but i can't wait. will you bring the little girl down at once?" "oh, yes, sir. i'll lose no time." nancy went up stairs two steps at a time, and broke into mrs. mordaunt's room breathless. "put on your hat at once, miss althea," she said. "what for?" asked the child, in surprise. "your ma has sent for you." "but she said she was coming right back." "she's hurt, and she can't come, and she has sent for you. don't cry, my dear." "but how shall i know where to go, nancy?" "there's a kind gentleman at the door with a carriage. your ma has been taken to his home." the little girl began to cry once more. "oh! i'm afraid mamma's been killed," she said. "no, she hasn't, or how could she send for you?" this argument tended to reassure althea, and she put on her little shawl and hat, and hurried down stairs. hartley was waiting for her impatiently, fearing that mrs. mordaunt would come back sooner than was anticipated, and so interfere with the fulfillment of his plans. "is mamma very much hurt?" asked althea, anxiously. "so she calls this woman mamma," said hartley to himself. "not very badly, but she cannot come home to-night. get into the carriage, and i will tell you about it as we are riding to her." he hurried the little girl into the carriage, and taking a seat beside her, ordered the cabman to drive on. he had before directed him to drive to the south ferry. "how did mamma get hurt?" asked the child. "she was crossing the street," said hartley, "when she got in the way of a carriage and was thrown down and run over." the child began to cry. "oh, she will die!" she exclaimed, sobbing. "no, she will not die. the carriage was not a heavy one, luckily, and she is only badly bruised. she will be all right in a few days." john hartley was a trifle inconsistent in his stories, having told the servant that mrs. mordaunt had been run over by a street-car; but in truth he had forgotten the details of his first narrative, and had modified it in the second telling. however, nancy had failed to tell the child precisely how mrs. mordaunt had been hurt, and she was not old enough to be suspicious. "where is mamma?" was the little girl's next question. "she is at my house." "where is your house?" "not far from here," answered hartley, evasively. "then i shall soon see mamma." "is she your mamma?" asked hartley. "no, not my own mamma, but i call her so. i love her dearly." "where is your own mamma?" "she is dead." "do you remember her?" "a little." "have you a papa?" "my papa is a very bad man. he treated poor mamma very badly." "who told you this?" demanded hartley, frowning. "was it mrs. mordaunt?" "no; it was auntie." "i thought this was some of harriet vernon's work," said hartley to himself. "it seems like my amiable sister-in-law. she might have been in better business than poisoning my child's mind against me." "who else lives with you?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, but mainly to occupy the child's mind, so that she might not be fully conscious of the lapse of time. "my brother dan." "how old is dan?" "i don't know. he is a good deal bigger than me." "do you like dan?" "oh, yes; dan is a nice boy. he buys me candy. he has gone to a party to-night." "has he?" "and he won't be home till late. he told mamma so." "i am glad of that," thought hartley. "it is the better for my purpose." "dan is a smart boy. he earns lots of money." "what does he do?" "i don't know. he goes down town every morning, and he doesn't come home till supper time." hartley managed to continue his inquiries about dan, but at last althea became restless. "are we most there?" she asked. "yes, we are almost there." "i don't see how mamma could have gone so far." john hartley looked out. "i see how it is," he said. "the cab-driver lost the way, and that has delayed us." this satisfied the child for a time. meanwhile they reached the south ferry, and hartley began to consider in what way he could explain their crossing the water. chapter xxxii. donovan's. after a moment's thought hartley took a flask from his pocket, into which he had dropped a sleeping potion, and offered it to the child. "drink, my dear," he said; "it will do you good." it was a sweet wine and pleasant to the taste. althea drank considerable. "what is it? it tastes good," she said. "it is a cordial," answered hartley. "i like it. i will ask mamma to get some. how long is it? are we most there?" "almost." "i feel very sleepy," said althea, drowsily, the potion having already begun to attack her. "lean back and shut your eyes. i will tell you when we have arrived." the innocent and unsuspecting child did as she was directed. her little head nodded. she struggled against the increasing drowsiness, but in vain. in five minutes she was fast asleep. "there will be no further trouble," thought hartley. "when she wakes up it will be morning. my plan has been a complete success." it might have been supposed that some instinct of parental affection would have made it disagreeable to this man to kidnap his own child by such means, but john hartley had never been troubled with a heart or natural affections. he was supremely selfish, and surveyed the sleeping child as coolly and indifferently as if he had never before set eyes upon her. two miles and a half beyond the south ferry, in a thinly settled outlying district of brooklyn, stood a three-story brick house, shabby and neglected in appearance, bearing upon a sign over the door the name donovan's wines and liquors. it was the nightly resort of a set of rough and lawless men, many of them thieves and social outlaws, who drank and smoked as they sat at small tables in the sand-strewn bar-room. hugh donovan himself had served a term at sing sing for burglary, and was suspected to be indirectly interested in the ventures of others engaged in similar offenses, though he managed to avoid arrest. john hartley ordered the hackman to stop. he sprang from the carriage, and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. donovan, a short, thickset man with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. there were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee. donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know. "where did you come from, mr. hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth. "hist! come out here," said hartley. donovan obeyed directions. "is your wife at home, hugh?" asked hartley. "yes, mr. hartley. she's up stairs." "i have a job for her and for you." "what is it now?" "i have a child in that carriage. i want her taken care of for a few days or weeks." "shure, the old woman isn't a very good protector for a gal. she's drunk half the time." "i can't help it. there are reasons--imperative reasons--why the girl should be concealed for a time, and i can think of no other place than this." "who is the girl?" "it is my own child." donovan whistled. "i see you are surprised. i have little time for explanation, but i may tell you that she has been kept from me by my enemies, who wanted to get hold of her money." "has she got money?" asked donovan, with curiosity. "she will have, sometime. she is her mother's heiress." "did the old lady leave it all away from you, then? shure, it's hard." "of course it is. the least i can expect is to be made guardian of my own child. but we are wasting time. is there no way of getting up stairs except by passing through the bar-room?" "yes, mr. hartley, we can go up the back way. just take the child and follow me." hartley did so. at the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms. donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his better-half--a tall, gaunt woman--reclining in a rocking-chair, evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed from a black bottle on a wooden table near by. she stared in astonishment at her husband's companions. "shure, hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?" "it's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of." "divil a bit do i want a child to worrit me." "you'll be well paid, mrs. donovan," said john hartley. "will i get the money, or hugh?" asked the celtic lady. "you shall have half, bridget," said her husband. "will you shwar it?" asked the lady, cautiously. "yes, i'll swear it." "and how much will it be?" "i will pay ten dollars a week--half to you, and half to your husband," said hartley. "here's a week's pay in advance," and he took out two five-dollar bills, one of which was eagerly clutched by mrs. donovan. "i'll take care of her," said she, readily. "what's her name?" "althea." "shure that's a quare name. i niver heard the like." "you needn't call her that. you can call her any name you like," said hartley, indifferently. "perhaps you had better call her katy, as there may be a hue and cry after her, and that may divert suspicion." "how old is the crathur?" "five or six--i forget which. where shall i put her?" "put her in here," said mrs. donovan, and she opened the door of a small room, in which was a single untidy bed. "she won't wake up till morning. i gave her a sleeping potion--otherwise she might have made a fuss, for she doesn't know me to be her father." "shure ye knew what to do." "now, mrs. donovan, i depend upon your keeping her safe. it will not do to let her escape, for she might find her way back to the people from whom i have taken her." "i'll see to that, mr. hartley," said donovan. "say nothing about me in connection with the matter, donovan. i will communicate with you from time to time. if the police are put on the track, i depend on your sending her away to some other place of security." "all right, sir." "and now good-night. i shall go back to new york at once. i must leave you to pacify her as well as you can when she awakes. she is sure to make a fuss." "i'll trate her like my own child," said mrs. donovan. had hartley been a devoted father, this assurance from the coarse, red-faced woman would have been satisfactory, but he cared only for the child as a means of replenishing his pockets, and gave himself no trouble. the hackman was still waiting at the door. "it's a queer place to leave a child," thought he, as his experienced eye took in the features of the place. "it appears to be a liquor saloon. the gentleman can't be very particular. however, it is none of my business. i suppose it is all right." "driver, i am ready," said hartley. "i'll go back with you." "all right, sir." "go over fulton ferry, and leave me at your stand in union square." the ride was a long one. hartley threw himself back on the seat, and gave himself up to pleasant self-congratulation. "i think this will bring harriet vernon to terms," he said. "she will find that she can't stand between me and my child. if she will make it worth my while, she shall have the child back, but i propose to see that my interests are secured." the next morning hartley stepped into an up-town hotel, and wrote a letter to his sister-in-law in london, demanding that four thousand dollars be sent him yearly, in quarterly payments, in consideration of which he agreed to give up the child, and abstain from further molestation. chapter xxxiii. althea becomes katy donovan. the sleeping potion which had been administered to althea kept her in sound sleep till eight o'clock the next morning. when her eyes opened, and she became conscious of her surroundings, she looked about her in surprise. then she sat up in bed and gazed wildly at the torn wall paper and dirty and shabby furniture. "where am i?" she asked herself, in alarm. "mamma, mamma!" the door opened, and the red and inflamed face of mrs. hugh donovan peered in. "what is it yer want?" she asked. "i want mamma," answered the child, still more frightened. "shure i'm your ma, child." "no, you are not," said althea. "i never saw you before." "didn't you, now? maybe you've forgotten. i sent you away to board, but you've come home to live with your ma." "you are telling stories. you are a bad woman," returned the child, ready to cry. "it's a purty thing for a child to tell her ma she's lyin'." "you're not my ma. you're an ugly woman. my ma hasn't got a red face." "hear till her now!" exclaimed mrs. donovan, indignantly. "don't you go on talkin' that way, but get right up, or you sha'n't have any breakfast." "oh, send me back to my mother and dan!" implored althea. "dress yourself, and i'll see about it," said mrs. donovan. althea looked for her clothes, but could not find them. in their place she found a faded calico dress and some ragged undergarments, which had once belonged to a daughter of mrs. donovan, now at service. "those clothes are not mine," said althea. "shure they are. what are yer talkin' about?" "i had a pretty pink dress and a nice new skirt. oh, where are they?" "shure you're dramin'. these was the clothes you took off last night," said mrs. donovan, with unblushing falsehood. "i won't put this dress on," said the child, indignantly. "then you'll have to lay abed all day, and won't get nothing to eat," said the woman. "maybe you'll like that now." "what is your name?" asked althea. "shure you're a quare child to ask your own mother's name. i'm mrs. donovan, and you're my katy." "i am not katy. my name is althea." "that's a quare name intirely. who put it into your head. i'm afraid you're gone crazy, katy." althea was bewildered. was it possible that she could be katy donovan, and that this red-faced woman was her mother? she began to doubt her own identity. she could not remember this woman, but was it possible that there was any connection between them? "are we in new york?" she asked, timidly. "no, we are in brooklyn." "i used to live in new york with mamma mordaunt." "well, you're livin' in brooklyn now with mamma donovan." "i never saw you before." "shure i shouldn't have sent you away from me to have you come home and deny your own mother." "will you let me go to new york and see mamma mordaunt?" asked althea, after a pause. "if you're a good girl, perhaps i will. now get up, and i'll give you some breakfast." with a shudder of dislike althea arrayed herself in the dirty garments of the real katy donovan, and looked at her image in the cracked mirror with a disgust which she could not repress. hartley had suggested that her own garments should be taken away in order to make her escape less feasible. she opened the door, and entered the room in which mrs. donovan had set the table for breakfast. as she came in at one door, hugh donovan entered at another. "come here, little gal," he said, with a grin. althea looked at him with real terror. certainly hugh donovan was not a man to attract a child. althea at once thought of an ogre whom dan had described to her in a fairy story, and half fancied that she was in the power of such a creature. "i don't want to," said the child, trembling. "go to your father, katy," said mrs. donovan. "he won't hurt you." this her father! althea shuddered at the idea, and she gazed as if fascinated at his one eye. "yes, come to your pa," said donovan, jeeringly. "i like little gals--'specially when they're my own." "i am not your child!" said althea, alarmed. "yes, you be, and don't you deny it. come and give your father a kiss." the little girl began to cry in nervous terror, and donovan laughed, thinking it a good joke. "well, it'll do after breakfast," he said. "sit up, child, and we'll see what the ould woman has got for us." mrs. donovan did not excel as a cook, but althea managed to eat a little bread and butter, for neither of which articles the lady of the house was responsible. when the meal was over she said: "now, will you take me back to new york?" "you are not going back at all," said hugh. "you are our little girl, and you are going to live with us." althea looked from one to the other in terror. was it possible they could be in earnest? she was forced to believe it, and was overwhelmed at the prospect. she burst into a tempest of sobs. men are less tolerant of tears than women. hugh donovan's face darkened, and his anger was kindled. "stop that howlin' now!" he said. althea continued to cry hysterically. "stop it now, if you know what's best for yourself!" althea was terrified, but she could not at once control her emotion. "old woman, get the whip!" said hugh, hoarsely. from a drawer mrs. donovan drew out a riding whip. her husband took it, and brandished it menacingly. "do you see that, now?" he said. "yes," said althea, trembling, stopping short, as if fascinated. "then you'll feel it if you don't stop your howlin'." althea gazed at him horror-stricken. "i thought you'd come to your senses," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "kape her safe, old woman, till she knows how to behave." in silent misery the little girl sat down and watched mrs. donovan as she cleared away the table, and washed the dishes. it was dull and hopeless work for her. she thought sorrowfully of mrs. mordaunt and dan, and wished she could be with them again. should she never, never see them? the thought so saddened her that she burst into a low moan, which at once drew the attention of mrs. donovan. "are you at it again?" she said. "i can't help it," moaned althea. "ye can't, can't ye? see here, now," and the woman displayed the whip with which her husband had threatened the child. "i'll give ye something to cry for." "oh, don't--don't beat me!" entreated althea. "then kape quiet!" "may i go out into the street?" asked the little girl. "ye want to run away," said mrs. donovan, suspiciously. "no, i don't. i mean i won't unless you let me." "i won't trust ye." "must i stay here all the time?" asked althea, with her little heart sinking at the thought. "no, katy, you may go wid me when i go to the market," answered mrs. donovan. "shure, if you'll be a good gal, i'll give you all the pleasure i can." althea waited half an hour, and then was provided with a ragged sun-bonnet, with which, concealing her sad face, she emerged from the house, and walked to a small market, where mrs. donovan obtained her supplies for dinner. troubled as she was, althea looked about her with a child's curiosity on her way through the strange streets. it served to divert her from her sorrow. "who's that little girl, mrs. donovan?" asked an acquaintance. "shure it's my little katy," said the woman, with a significant wink which prevented further questioning. althea wished to deny this, but she did not dare to. she had become afraid of her new guardians. oh, if she could only see dan! she felt sure that he would take her away from these wicked people, but how was dan to know where she was. the poor child's lips quivered, and she could hardly refrain from crying. chapter xxxiv. another little game. it was so late when dan heard of althea's disappearance that he felt it necessary to wait till morning before taking any steps toward her recovery. "i'll find her, mother," he said, confidently. "do not lie awake thinking of her, for it won't do any good." "how can i help it, dan? i didn't know how much i loved the dear child till i lost her." "you have not lost her, mother." "i am not so hopeful as you, dan. i fear that i shall never see her again." "i am sure we shall. now, mother, i am going to bed, but i shall be up bright and early in the morning, and then to work." "you won't have any time, dan. you must go to the store." "i shall take a week's vacation. i will write a note to mr. rogers, telling him my reasons, and he will be sure not to object. if althea is to be found, i will find her within a week." dan's confidence gave mrs. mordaunt some courage, but she could not feel as sanguine of success as dan. in the morning dan sought out nancy, and took down her account of how the little girl had been spirited away. "so she went away in a carriage, nancy?" "yes, master dan." "can you tell me what sort of a looking man it was that took her away?" "shure i couldn't. i was struck dumb, you see, wid hearing how your mother broke her leg, and i didn't think to look at him sharp." "you can tell if he was an old man or a young one." "he was naythur. he was betwixt and betwane." "very tall or very short?" "naythur. he was jist middlin'." "well, that's something. now, what kind of a carriage was it?" "jist a hack like them at the square." "you wouldn't remember the driver?" "no; shure they all look alike to me." dan made more inquiries, but elicited nothing further that was likely to be of service to him. after a little reflection he decided to go to union square and interview some of the drivers waiting for passengers there. he did so, but the driver who had actually been employed by hartley was absent, and he learned nothing. one driver, however, remembered carrying a gentleman and child to a house on twenty-seventh street, between eighth and ninth avenues. dan thought the clew of sufficient importance to be followed up. his courage rose when, on inquiring at the house mentioned, he learned that a child had actually been brought there. "may i see the child, madam?" he asked. "if you like," answered the lady, in surprise. she appeared in a short time with a boy of about althea's age. dan's countenance fell. "it is a little girl i am inquiring after," he said. "then why didn't you say so?" demanded the woman, sharply. "you would have saved me some trouble." "i beg your pardon, madam." "i begin to think i am not as good a detective as i thought," said dan to himself. "i am on a false scent, that is sure." so dan returned to union square. when he had been asking questions of the cab-drivers he had not been unobserved. john hartley, who knew dan by sight, laughed in his sleeve as he noted our hero's inquiries. "you may be a smart boy, my lad," he said to himself, "but i don't think you'll find the child. i have a great mind to give you a hint." he approached dan, and observed, in a friendly way: "are you in search of your little sister?" "yes, sir," returned dan, eagerly. "can you tell me anything about her?" "i am not sure, but possibly i may. i occupy a room directly opposite the house in which you board." "did you see althea carried away?" asked dan, eagerly. "yes; i was sitting at my window when i saw a hack stop at your door. the door-bell was rung by a man who descended from the hack, and shortly afterward your sister came out, and was put into the carriage." "what was the man's appearance, sir? the servant could not tell me." "so much the better," thought hartley, with satisfaction. "he was a little taller than myself, i should say," he answered, "and i believe his hair was brown"--hartley's was black. "i am sorry i can't remember more particularly." "that is something. thank you, sir. i wish i knew where the cab went." "i think i can tell you that. i came down into the street before the cab drove away, and i heard the gentleman referred to say, in a low voice, 'drive to harlem.'" "thank you, sir," said dan, gratefully. "that puts me on the right track. i shall know where to search now." "i wish i could tell you more," said hartley, with a queer smile. "thank you, sir." "if you find your little sister, i should be glad if you would let me know," continued hartley, chuckling inwardly. "i will, sir, if you will let me know your name and address." "my name is john franklin, and i live in the house directly opposite yours, no. --." "all right, sir; i will note it down." john hartley looked after dan with a smile. "my dear young friend," he said to himself, "it goes to my heart to deceive you, you are so innocent and confiding. i wish you much joy of your search in harlem. i think it will be some time before i receive intelligence of your success. still i will keep my room here, and look after you a little. i am really afraid your business will suffer while you are wandering about." john hartley had already written to london, and he was prepared to wait three weeks or more for an answer to his proposition. meanwhile he had one source of uneasiness. his funds were getting low, and unless harriet vernon responded favorably to his proposal, he was liable to be seriously embarrassed. he had on previous similar occasions had recourse to the gaming-table, but fortune did not always decide in his favor. he did not dare to hazard the small sum he had on hand, lest want of success should imperil the bold scheme for obtaining an income at his child's expense. at this critical point in his fortunes he fell in with a western adventurer, who, by a sort of freemasonry, recognizing hartley's want of character, cautiously sounded him as to becoming a partner in a hazardous but probably profitable enterprise. it was to procure some genuine certificates of stock in a western railway for a small number of shares, say five or ten, and raise them ingeniously to fifty and a hundred, and then pledge them as collateral in wall street for a corresponding sum of money. john hartley, if an honest man, would have indignantly declined the overtures; but he was not endowed with roman virtue. he made a cautious investigation to ascertain how great was the danger of detection, and how well the enterprise would pay. the answer to the second question was so satisfactory that he made up his mind to run the necessary risk. blake and he came to a definite understanding, and matters were put in train. certificates were readily obtained, and by the help of a skillful accomplice, who did the work for a specified sum, were ingeniously raised tenfold. then blake, assuming the dress and manners of a thriving business man from syracuse, negotiated a loan, pledging the raised certificate as collateral. the private banker put it away among his securities without a doubt or suspicion, and blake and hartley divided a thousand dollars between them. john hartley was very much elated by his success. the pecuniary assistance came just in the nick of time, when his purse was very low. "it's a good thing to have more than one string to your bow," he thought. "not but that my little game in getting hold of the child is likely to pay well. harriet vernon will find that i have the whip-hand of her. she must come to my terms, sooner or later." at that very moment harriet vernon was embarking at liverpool on a cunard steamer. she had received the letter of her brother-in-law, and decided to answer it in person. chapter xxxv. dan disguises himself. for several days dan strolled about harlem, using his eyes to good advantage. as a pretext he carried with him a few morning papers for sale. armed with these he entered shops and saloons without exciting surprise or suspicion. but he discovered not a trace of the lost girl. one day, as he was riding home in the third avenue cars, there flashed upon his mind a conviction that he was on a wrong scent. "is it probable that the man who carried away althea would give the right direction so that it could be overheard by a third party? no; it was probably meant as a blind, and i have been just fool enough to fall into the trap." so dan's eyes were partially opened. before the day was over they were wholly opened. he met john hartley on broadway toward the close of the afternoon. "well, have you heard anything of your sister?" he asked, with an appearance of interest. "not yet," answered dan. "that's a pity. do you go up to harlem every day?" "yes." "keep on, you will find her in time." after they parted, dan, happening to look back, detected a mocking glance in the face of his questioner, and a new discovery flashed upon him. hartley was making a fool of him. he had sent him to harlem, purposely misleading him. "what can be his object?" thought dan. "can he have had anything to do with the abduction of althea?" this was a question which he could not satisfactorily answer, but he resolved to watch hartley, and follow him wherever he went, in the hope of obtaining some clew. of course he must assume some disguise, as hartley must not recognize him. finally dan decided upon this plan. he hired a room on east fourth street for a week, and then sought an italian boy to whom he had occasionally given a few pennies, and with some difficulty (for giovanni knew but little english, and he no italian) proposed that the italian should teach him to sing and play "viva garibaldi." dan could play a little on the violin, and soon qualified himself for his new business. at a second-hand shop on chatham street he picked up a suit of tattered velvet, obtained a liquid with which to stain his skin to a dark brown, and then started out as an italian street musician. his masquerade suit he kept in his room at east fourth street, changing therefrom his street dress morning and evening. when in full masquerade he for the first time sang and played, giovanni clapped his hands with delight. "will i do, giovanni?" asked dan. "yes, you do very well. you look like my brother." "all right." giovanni was puzzled to understand why dan took so much pains to enter upon a hard and unprofitable profession, but dan did not enlighten him as to his motive. he thought it most prudent to keep his secret, even from his mother. one day he met her on the sidewalk, and began to sing "viva garibaldi." mrs. mordaunt listened without a suspicion that it was her own son, and gave him two pennies, which he acknowledged by a low bow, and "grazia, signora." "poor boy! do you earn much money?" she asked. "i no understand english," said dan. "i hope his padrone does not beat him," said mrs. mordaunt to herself. "i hear these poor boys are much abused. i wonder if i can make him understand? have you a padrone?" she asked. "si, signora, padrone," answered dan. "does he beat you?" "i no understand." "it is no use; he doesn't understand english. here is some more money for you," and she handed him a five-cent coin. "its a wise mother that knows her own child," thought dan. "hallo! there's hartley. i'll follow him." hartley boarded a university place car, and dan jumped on also. "i wonder where he's going?" thought our hero. italian boys so seldom ride that the conductor eyed dan with some suspicion. "five cents," he demanded. dan produced the money. "i thought you might be expecting to ride for nothing," said the conductor. "seems to me you're flush for an italian fiddler." "no understand english," said dan. "and i don't understand your lingo." a charitable lady inside the car chanced to see dan, and it occurred to her that she would do him a service. "can you sing, my boy?" she asked. "i sing a little," answered dan. "if the conductor doesn't object, you may sing while we are on our way. here's ten cents for you." dan bowed and took the money. "you can sing and play," said the conductor, good-naturedly. dan was not at all desirous of doing this, for hartley sat only three feet from him, and he feared he might recognize him, but it would not be in character to refuse, so he began, and sang his one air, playing an accompaniment. several of the passengers handed him small coins, among them hartley. "how well he sings!" said the charitable lady. "i can't agree with you, ma'am," said hartley. "i would rather give him money to stop." "his voice strikes me as very rich, and the italian is such a beautiful language." hartley shrugged his shoulders. "i have heard a good deal better performers even among the street boys," said hartley. "so have i," said dan to himself. "he doesn't suspect me; i am glad of that." hartley remained in the car till it reached the astor house, and so, of course, did dan. in fact, hartley was on his way to brooklyn to pay another installment to the guardians of the little girl whom he had carried off. dan, therefore, was in luck. hartley kept on his way to fulton ferry, dan following at a prudent distance. had hartley looked back, he would have suspected nothing, for he had not penetrated dan's disguise, and would therefore have been quite at a loss to understand any connection between the street musician and himself. they both boarded the same ferry-boat, and landed in brooklyn together. at this moment hartley turned round, and his glance fell upon dan. "hallo! you here?" he said, with surprise. "si, signor," answered dan, bowing deferentially. "what brings you to brooklyn?" "i sing, i play," said our hero. "and you do both abominably." "i no understand english," said dan. "it is lucky you don't, or you might not like my compliment." "shall i sing 'viva garibaldi?'" asked our hero, innocently. "no--good heavens, no! i've had enough of your squeaking. here, take this money, and don't sing." "si, signor," answered dan, assuming a look of bewilderment. hartley prepared to board a car, which was not yet ready to start. dan rapidly decided that it would not do for him to follow hartley any farther. it would certainly arouse his suspicions. but must he abandon the pursuit? that would not do either. looking about him, his eye fell on a bright-looking newsboy of about twelve. "do you want to make some money, johnny?" he asked. the boy surveyed him with astonishment. "did you speak to me, garibaldi?" he asked, jocosely. "yes, but i am no italian," said dan, rapidly. "i am on the track of that man, but he suspects me. i will give you a dollar if you will jump on the car and find out where he goes." "where's the dollar?" asked the boy, cautiously. "here. pay your expenses out of it, and i will pay you back when you report to me." "where will i find you?" "here. i will stay till you come back." "it's a bargain." "hurry; the car is starting." the newsboy ran, jumped on the car, and it moved on. "it is the best thing i could do," thought dan. "i hope the boy is sharp, and won't lose sight of him. i feel sure that he had something to do with carrying off poor little althea." for two hours dan lingered near the ferry, playing occasionally by way of filling up the time. it seemed to be a good location, for he received from fifty to sixty cents from passers-by. "when hard times come," thought dan, "i shall know what to do. i will become an italian street singer." after two hours the newsboy jumped off an incoming car, and approached dan. "did you find out where he went?" asked dan, eagerly. "yes," answered the boy. chapter xxxvi. dan makes a discovery. dan's eyes sparkled with joy at the success of his plan. "now tell me," he said, drawing the newsboy aside to a place where they would not be overheard. "first give me my car fare." "all right. here's a quarter. never mind the change." "you've made a fortun' by fiddling, you have," said the newsboy, in surprise. "i am not a fiddler. i am a detective." the newsboy whistled. "you're a young one." "never mind that. go ahead with your story." the newsboy described his following hartley to donovan's. hartley went in, and he directly afterward. "what sort of a place is it?" asked dan. "it's a saloon." "perhaps he only went in for a drink," suggested dan, uneasily. "no, he didn't call for nothing to drink. i saw him take out some money and give to the man and the woman." "what man and what woman?" "they was the donovans." "how long did you stay?" "ten minutes. i axed old donovan to buy a paper, and he wouldn't. then i sat down for a minute, makin' believe i was tired. they looked at me, but i didn't appear to be noticin' 'em, and they let me stay." "did you see anything of a little girl?" asked dan, eagerly. "yes, there was a little gal came in. the woman called her katy." dan's spirits sank. it was mrs. donovan's daughter, he feared, not the child he was seeking. "how did she look? how old was she?" "about five or six years old." he added a description of the little girl which quite revived dan's hopes, for it answered in every respect to althea. "did you hear the little girl say anything?" "yes, she told her mother she wanted to see dan." dan's eyes glistened. it was althea, after all. "it's all right," he said. "you needn't tell me any more. you're a trump." "have you found out what you want to know?" "yes. have you anything to do for the next two hours?" "no." "then i'll pay you another dollar to go to the place with me. i think i could find it myself, but i can't take any chances. and don't say a word about what you have seen." "i won't. is this little gal your sister?" "she is my adopted sister, and she has been stolen from us." "then i'd be willing to help you for nothing. i've got a little sister about her size. if anybody stole her, i'd mash him!" "come along, then." the two boys boarded a car, and in forty minutes got out. "that's the place," said the newsboy, pointing out donovan's, only a few rods away. "all right. you'd better leave me now, or you may be remembered, and that would lead them to suspect me. here's your money, and thank you." "i hope you'll find your sister." "thank you. if i do, it'll be through your help." dan did not at once enter donovan's. he stopped in the street, and began to sing "viva garibaldi." two or three boys gathered about him, and finally a couple of men. one of them handed him a three-cent piece. "grazio, signor," said dan, pulling off his hat. "what part of italy do you come from?" asked one of the men. "si, signor, i come from italy," answered dan, not considering it prudent to understand too well. "oh, he don't understand you. come along." "his hair doesn't look like that of most italians." "pooh! i'd know him for an italian boy anywhere." at this moment the door of the saloon opened, and dan, putting his violin under his arm, entered. chapter xxxvii. dan is discovered. donovan had two customers. one was an irishman, the other a german. both had evidently drank more than was good for them. dan looked in vain for althea. mrs. donovan had taken her up stairs. "well, boy, what do you want?" asked donovan, rather roughly. "will you have yer musique?" asked dan, uncertain whether he was talking as an italian boy might be expected to. "no; i don't want to hear any fiddle-scraping." "shure, let him play a little, mister donovan," said the irishman. "just as you like," said donovan, carelessly, "only i have no money for him." "faith, thin, i have. here boy, play something." dan struck up his one tune--viva garibaldi--but the irishman did not seem to care for that. "oh, bother ould garibaldi!" he said. "can't you play something else?" "i wish i could," thought dan. "suppose i compose something." accordingly he tried to play an air popular enough at the time, but made bad work of it. "stop him! stop him!" exclaimed the german, who had a better musical ear than the irishman. "here, lend me your fiddle, boy." he took the violin, and in spite of his inebriety, managed to play a german air upon it. "shure you bate the boy at his own trade," said the irishman. "you must be dhry. what'll you have now?" the german indicated his preference, and the irishman called for whisky. "what'll you have, johnny?" he asked, addressing dan. "i no drink," answered our hero, shaking his head. "shure you're an italian wonder, and it's barnum ought to hire you." "i no understand english," said dan. "then you're a haythen," said pat moriarty. he gulped down the whisky, and finding it more convenient to sit than to stand, fell back upon a settee. "i wish althea would come in," thought dan. at that moment a heavy fall was heard in the room overhead, and a child's shrill scream directly afterward. "something's happened to my wife," muttered donovan. "she's drunk again." he hurried up stairs, and the german followed. this gave dan an excuse for running up, too. mrs. donovan had been drinking more copiously than usual. while in this condition she imprudently got upon a chair to reach a pitcher from an upper shelf. her footing was uncertain, and she fell over, pitcher in hand, the chair sharing in the downfall. when her husband entered the room she was lying flat on her back, grasping the handle of the pitcher, her eyes closed, and her breathing stertorious. althea, alarmed, stood over her, crying and screaming. "the old woman's taken too much," said donovan. "get up, you divil!" he shouted, leaning over his matrimonial partner. "ain't you ashamed of yourself, now?" mrs. donovan opened her eyes, and stared at him vacantly. "where am i?" she inquired. "on your back, you old fool, where you deserve to be." "it's the whisky," murmured the fallen lady. "of course it is. why can't you drink dacent like me? shure it's a purty example you're settin' to the child. ain't you ashamed to lie here in a hape before them gintlemen?" this called althea's attention to the german and dan. in spite of dan's disguise, she recognized him with a cry of joy. "oh, dan! have you come to take me away?" she exclaimed, dashing past donovan, and clasping her arms round the supposed italian. [illustration: "oh, dan! have you come to take me away?" althea exclaimed.] "hillo! what's up?" exclaimed donovan, looking at the two in surprise. "oh, it's my brother dan," exclaimed althea. "you'll take me away, won't you, dan? how funny you look! where did you get your fiddle?" "so that's your game, my young chicken, is it?" demanded donovan, seizing our hero roughly by the shoulder. then pulling off dan's hat, he added: "you're no more italian than i am." dan saw that it would be useless to keep up the deceit any longer. he looked donovan full in the face, and said, firmly: "you are right, mr. donovan, i have come here for my sister." chapter xxxviii. unpleasant quarters. donovan's red face turned fairly purple with rage. "well, i'll be blowed!" he said, adding an oath or two. "you're a bold little pup! you dare to insult me! why, i could crush you with my little finger." "i have not insulted you," said dan. "i have only come for my sister." "i don't know anything about your sister. so you can go about your business." "that little girl is my adopted sister," said dan, pointing to althea. "ask her if she doesn't know me." "that is my daughter, katy donovan," said the saloon keeper. "no, i am not," said althea, beginning to cry. "i want to go away with my brother dan." "shut up, you little jade!" said donovan, roughly. "mrs. donovan," (by this time she was on her feet, looking on in a dazed sort of way), "is not this our little katy?" "shure it is," she answered. "you see, young man, you're mistaken. you can leave," and donovan waved his hand triumphantly. "that's too thin, mrs. donovan!" said dan, provoked. "that don't go down. i can bring plenty of proof that althea was until a week since living with my mother." "that for your proof!" said donovan, contemptuously snapping his fingers. "i know who stole her, and who brought her to this house," continued dan. donovan started. the boy knew more than he had expected. "the same man has been here to-day," added dan. "you lie!" retorted donovan, but he looked uneasy. "you know that i tell the truth. how much does he pay you for taking care of the girl?" "enough of this!" roared the saloon keeper. "i can't waste my time talkin' wid you. will you clear out now?" "no, i won't, unless althea goes with me," said dan, firmly. "you won't, then! we'll see about that," and donovan, making a rush, seized dan in his arms, and carried him down stairs, despite our hero's resistance. "i'll tache you to come here insultin' your betters!" he exclaimed. dan struggled to get away, but though a strong boy, he was not a match for a powerful man, and could not effect his deliverance. the irishman already referred to was still upon the settee. "what's up, donovan?" he asked, as the saloon-keeper appeared with his burden. "what's the lad been doin'?" "what's he been doin', is it? he's been insultin' me to my face--that's what the donovans won't stand. open the trap-door, barney." "what for?" "don't trouble me wid your questions, but do as i tell you. you shall know afterward." not quite willingly, but reluctant to offend donovan, who gave him credit for the drinks, barney raised a trap-door leading to the cellar below. there was a ladder for the convenience of those wishing to ascend and descend, but donovan was not disposed to use much ceremony with the boy who had offended him. he dropped him through the opening, dan by good luck falling on his feet. "that's the best place for you, you young meddler!" he said. "you'll find it mighty comfortable, and i wish you much joy. i won't charge you no rint, and that's an object in these hard times--eh, barney?" "to be sure it is," said barney; "but all the same, donovan, i'd rather pay rint up stairs, if i had my choice!" "he hasn't the choice," said donovan triumphantly. "good-by to you!" and he let the trap fall. "what's it all about now, donovan?" asked barney. "he wanted to shtale my katy," said donovan. "what, right before your face?" asked barney, puzzled. "yes, shure! what'll you take to drink?" asked donovan, not caring to go into particulars. barney indicated his choice with alacrity, and, after drinking, was hardly in a condition to pursue his inquiries. chapter xxxix. dan discomfits the donovans. dan found himself at first bewildered and confused by his sudden descent into the cellar. as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to get an idea of his surroundings. it was a common cellar with an earthen floor. ranged along one side was a row of kegs, some containing whisky, others empty. besides, there were a few boxes and odds and ends which had been placed here to get them out of the way. "not a very cheerful-looking place," thought dan, "though i do get it rent free." he sat down on a box, and began to consider his position. was there any way of escape? the walls were solid, and although there was a narrow window, consisting of a row of single panes, it was at the top of the cellar, and not easily accessible. he might indeed reach it by the ladder, but he would have to break the glass and crawl through, a mode of escape likely to be attended by personal risk. "no, that won't do," thought dan. "at any rate, i won't try it till other things fail." meanwhile donovan, in the bar-room above, was in high good humor. he felt that he had done a sharp thing, and more than once chuckled as he thought of his prisoner below. indeed he could not forbear, after about half an hour, lifting the trap and calling down stairs: "hallo, there!" "hallo!" said dan, coolly. "what are you doin'?" "sitting on a box." "how do you like it?" chuckled donovan. "come down and see." "you're an impudent jackanapes!" retorted donovan, wrathfully. "you'll get enough of it before you're through." "so will you," answered dan, boldly. "i'll take the risk," chuckled donovan. "do you know what you remind me of?" "suppose you tell me." "you're like a rat in a trap." "not exactly," answered dan, as a bright thought dawned upon him. "why not?" "because a rat can do no harm, and i can." it occurred to donovan that dan might have some matches in his pocket, and was momentarily alarmed at the thought that our hero might set the house on fire. "have you matches with you?" he asked. "no," answered dan. "if you had," said the saloon-keeper, relieved, "it would do you no good to set a fire. you would only burn yourself up." "i don't mean to set the house on fire," said dan, composedly. "then you may do your worst. you can't scare me." "can't i?" returned dan, rising from his seat on the box. "what are you going to do?" asked donovan, following with his glance the boy's motion. "i'll tell you," said dan. "i'm going to take the spigot out of them whisky-kegs, and let the whisky run out on the floor." "don't you do it!" exclaimed the saloon-keeper, now thoroughly frightened. "then let me up." "i won't." "all right. you must take the consequences." as he spoke dan dextrously pulled the spigot from a keg, and donovan, to his dismay, heard the precious liquid--precious in his eyes--pouring out upon the floor. with an exertion he raised the trap-door, hastily descended the ladder, and rushed to the keg to replace the spigot. meanwhile dan ran up the ladder, pulled it after him, and made his late jailer a captive. "put down the ladder, you young rascal!" roared donovan, when, turning from his work, he saw how the tables had been turned. "it wouldn't be convenient just yet," answered dan, coolly. he shut the trap-door, hastily lugged the ladder to the rear of the house (unobserved, for there were no customers present), then dashed up stairs and beckoned to althea to follow him. there was no obstacle, for mrs. donovan was stupefied by liquor. putting on her things, the little girl hastily and gladly obeyed. as they passed through the saloon, donovan's execrations and shouts were heard proceeding from the cellar. "what's that, dan?" asked althea, trembling. "never you mind, althea," said dan. "i'll tell you later." the two children hurried to the nearest horse-car, which luckily came up at the moment, and jumped on board. dan looked back with a smile at the saloon, saying to himself: "i rather think, mr. donovan, you've found your match this time. i hope you'll enjoy the cellar as much as i did." in about an hour and a half dan, holding althea by the hand, triumphantly led her into his mother's presence. "i've brought her back, mother," he said. "oh, my dear, dear little girl!" exclaimed mrs. mordaunt, joyfully. "i thought i should never, never see you again. how did you find her, dan?" but we will not wait to hear a twice-told tale. rather let us return to donovan, where the unhappy proprietor is still a captive in his own cellar. here he remained till his cries attracted the attention of a wondering customer, who finally lifted the trap-door. "what are you doin' down there?" he asked, amazed. "put down the ladder and let me up first of all." "i don't see any ladder." "look round, then. i suppose the cursed boy has hidden it." it was a considerable time before the ladder was found. then the saloon-keeper emerged from his prison in a very bad humor. "how did you get shut up there?" asked his liberator. "what business is it of yours?" demanded donovan, irritably. "i wish i had left you there," said the customer, with justifiable indignation. "this is your gratitude for my trouble, is it?" "excuse me, but i'm so mad with that cursed boy. what'll you take? it's my treat." "come, that's talking," said the placated customer. "what boy do you mean?" "wait a minute," said donovan, a sudden fear possessing him. he rushed up stairs and looked for althea. his wife was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, but the little girl was gone. "the boy's got her! what a cursed fool i have been!" exclaimed donovan, sinking into a chair. then, in a blind fury with the wife who didn't prevent the little girl's recapture, he seized a pail of water and emptied it over the face of the prostrate woman. mrs. donovan came to, and berated her husband furiously. "serves you right, you jade!" said the affectionate husband. he went down stairs feeling better. he had had revenge on somebody. it was certainly an unlucky day for the donovans. chapter xl. hartley surprised. after calling at donovan's, on the day when dan recovered althea, john hartley crossed the courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to philadelphia with blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. the two confederates had raised some pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the philadelphia market. they spent several days in the quaker city, and thus hartley heard nothing of the child's escape. donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw hartley's indignation down upon his head. one day, in a copy of the _new york herald_, which he purchased at the news-stand in the continental hotel, hartley observed the arrival of harriet vernon at the fifth avenue hotel. "i thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "i have her in my power at last. she must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether." "blake," he said, aloud, "i must take the first train to new york." "why, what's up, partner?" asked blake, in surprise. "anything gone wrong?" "on the contrary, i see a chance of making a good haul." "how?" "not in our line. it's some private business of my own." "all right. i wish you success. when will you return?" "that i can't exactly say. i will write or telegraph you." in the evening of the same day mrs. vernon sat in her room at the fifth avenue hotel. a servant brought up a card bearing the name of john hartley. "he is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "probably he has not heard of althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. i will humor him, in that case, and draw him out." "i will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said. five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told harriet vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans. "i heard of your _unexpected_ arrival, mrs. vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects." "your motive is appreciated, john hartley," she said, coldly. "i expected to see you." "that's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "may i beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the atlantic?" "don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature." "probably that is not meant to be complimentary. however, it can't be helped." "i suppose you have something to say to me, john hartley," said mrs. vernon, seating herself. "pray proceed." "you are quite right. i wrote you that i had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter." "you did." he looked at her a little puzzled. she seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed. "we may as well come to business at once," he said. "if you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms." "state them." "they are expressed in my letter to you. you must agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter." "it strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands." "i don't think so. at any rate, the money won't come out of you. it will come from my daughter's income." "so you would rob your daughter, john hartley?" "rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "she will have enough left. is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while i, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world." "i might sympathize with you, if i did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. as it is, it only disgusts me." "i don't want you sympathy, harriet vernon," he said, roughly. "i want four thousand dollars a year." "suppose i decline to let you have it?" "then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly. "what are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly. "that you and althea will be forever separated. she shall never see you again." he looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat. harriet vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever. "have you been in new york for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly. "why do you ask?" "i have a reason." "no, i have not." "so i thought." "why did you think so?" "because you don't appear to know what has happened." "what has happened?" he asked, uneasily. "mr. donovan can tell you. as for me, i bid you good-evening." a wild fear took possession of him. "what do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly. "i mean, john hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. i mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. you have no claim upon me, and i must decline your disinterested proposal." she left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied. "has donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "i will soon find out." he started for brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at donovan's. "where is the child?" he demanded, sternly. the rubicund host turned pale. "she's gone," he cried, "but i couldn't help it, mr. hartley. on my honor, i couldn't." "how did it happen? tell me at once." the story was told, donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him. "you're a fool!" said hartley, roughly. "i am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you." "that boy's a fox," said donovan. "he's a match for the old one, he is. i'd like to break his neck for him." "it's not too late. i may get hold of the girl again," mused hartley, as he rose to go. "if i do, i won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead." he left donovan's and returned to new york, but he had hardly left the fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer. "i want you," he said. "what for?" asked hartley, nervously. "a little financial irregularity, as they call it in wall street. you may know something about some raised railroad certificates!" "confusion!" muttered hartley. "luck is dead against me." chapter xli. dan is adopted. the morning papers contained an account of john hartley's arrest, and the crime with which he was charged. harriet vernon read it at the breakfast-table with an interest which may be imagined. "i don't like to rejoice in any man's misfortune," she said to herself, "but now i can have a few years of peace. my precious brother-in-law will doubtless pass the next few years in enforced seclusion, and i can have a settled home." directly after breakfast, she set out for the humble home of her niece. she found all at home, for dan was not to go back to business till monday. "well, my good friend," she said, "i have news for you." "good news, i hope," said dan. "yes, good news. henceforth i can have althea with me. the obstacle that separated us is removed." mrs. mordaunt's countenance fell, and dan looked sober. it was plain that althea was to be taken from them, and they had learned to love her. "i am very glad," faltered mrs. mordaunt. "you don't look glad," returned mrs. vernon. "you see we don't like to part with althea," explained dan, who understood his mother's feelings. "who said you were to part with the child?" asked mrs. vernon, bluntly. "i thought you meant to take her from us." "oh, i see. your mistake is a natural one, for i have not told you my plans. i mean to take a house up town, install mrs. mordaunt as my housekeeper and friend, and adopt this young man (indicating dan), provided he has no objection." "how kind you are, mrs. vernon," ejaculated mrs. mordaunt. "no, i am selfish. i have plenty of money, and no one to care for, or to care for me. i have taken a fancy to you all, and i am quite sure that we can all live happily together. althea is my niece, and you, dan, may call me aunt, too, if you like. is it a bargain?" dan offered her his hand in a frank, cordial way, which she liked. "so it is settled, then," she said, in a pleased voice. "i ought to warn you," she added, "that i have the reputation of being ill-tempered. you may get tired of living with me." "we'll take the risk," said dan, smiling. mrs. vernon, whose habit it was to act promptly, engaged a house on madison avenue, furnished it without regard to expense, and in less than a fortnight, installed her friends in it. then she had a talk with dan about his plans. "do you wish to remain in your place," she asked, "or would you like to obtain a better education first?" "to obtain an education," said dan, promptly. "then give notice to your employer of your intention." dan did so. mrs. vernon in a second interview informed him that besides defraying his school expenses, she should give him an allowance of fifty dollars a month for his own personal needs. "may i give a part of it to my mother?" asked dan. "no." his countenance fell, but mrs. vernon smiled. "you don't ask why i refuse," she said. "i suppose you have a good reason," said dan, dubiously. "my reason is that i shall pay your mother double this sum. unless she is very extravagant it ought to be enough to defray her expenses." "how liberal you are, mrs. vernon!" exclaimed dan, in fresh astonishment. "mrs. vernon!" "aunt harriet, i mean." "that is better." all these important changes in the position of the mordaunts were unknown to their old friends, who, since their loss of property, had given them the cold shoulder. one day tom carver, in passing the house, saw dan coming down the steps quite as handsomely dressed as himself. his surprise and curiosity were aroused. "are you running errands?" he asked. "no. what makes you think so?" returned dan, smiling. "i didn't know what else could carry you to such a house." "oh, that's easily explained," said dan. "i live here." "you live there!" ejaculated tom. "yes." "oh, i see. you are in the employ of the family." "not exactly," said dan. "i have nothing to do." "does your mother live there?" "yes." "you don't mean to say she boards there?" "we are living with my aunt." "is your aunt rich?" asked tom, in a more deferential tone. "i believe she is. at any rate she gives me a handsome allowance." "you don't say so! how much does she give you?" "fifty dollars a month." "and you don't have anything to do?" "only to study. i am going back to school." "what a lucky fellow!" exclaimed tom, enviously. "why, my father only allows me three dollars a week." "i could get along on that. i don't need as much as my aunt allows me." "i say, dan," said tom, in the most friendly terms, "i'm awfully hard up. could you lend me five dollars?" "yes," said dan, secretly amused with the change in tom's manner. "you always were a good fellow!" said tom, linking his arm in dan's. "i'm very glad you're rich again. you must come to see me often." "thank you," said dan, smiling, "but i'm afraid you have forgotten something." "what do you mean?" "you know i used to be a newsboy in front of the astor house." "that don't matter." "and you might not care to associate with a newsboy." "well, you are all right now," said tom, magnanimously. "you didn't always think so, tom." "i always thought you were a gentleman, dan. i am coming to see you soon. you must introduce me to your aunt." "i suppose it's the way of the world," thought dan. "it is lucky that there are some true friends who stick by us through thick and thin." mrs. mordaunt had an experience similar to dan's. her old acquaintances, who, during her poverty never seemed to recognize her when they met, gradually awoke to the consciousness of her continued existence, and left cards. she received them politely, but rated their professions of friendship at their true value. they had not been "friends in need," and she could not count them "friends indeed." chapter xlii. conclusion. six years rolled by, bringing with them many changes. the little family on madison avenue kept together. mrs. vernon was never happier than now. she had a hearty love for young people, and enjoyed the growth and development of her niece althea, and dan, whom she called her nephew and loved no less. dan is now a young man. he completed his preparation for college, and graduated with high honors. he is no less frank, handsome, and self-reliant than when as a boy he sold papers in front of the astor house for his mother's support. he looks forward to a business life, and has accepted an invitation to go abroad to buy goods in london and paris for his old firm. he was, in fact, preparing to go when a mysterious letter was put in his hands. it ran thus: "mr. daniel mordaunt:--i shall take it as a great favor if you will come to the st. nicholas hotel this evening, and inquire for me. i am sick, or i would not trouble you. do not fail. i have to speak to you on a matter of great importance. "john davis." "john davis!" repeated dan. "i don't know of any one of that name. do you, mother?" "i cannot think of any one," said mrs. mordaunt. "i hope you won't go, dan," she added, anxiously; "it may be a trap laid by a wicked and designing man." "you forget that i am not a boy any longer, mother," said dan, smiling. "i think i can defend myself, even if mr. davis is a wicked and designing person." nevertheless mrs. mordaunt saw dan depart with anxiety. to her he was still a boy, though in the eyes of others an athletic young man. on inquiring for mr. davis at the hotel, dan was ushered into a room on the third floor. seated in an arm-chair was an elderly man, weak and wasted, apparently in the last stages of consumption. he eyed dan eagerly. "you are daniel mordaunt?" he asked. "yes, sir." "son of lawrence mordaunt?" "yes. did you know my father?" the old man sighed. "it would have been well if he had not known me, for i did him a great wrong." "you!--john davis!" said dan, trying to connect the name with his father. "that is not my real name. you see before you robert hunting, once your father's book-keeper." dan's handsome face darkened, and he said, bitterly: "you killed my father!" "heaven help me, i fear i did!" sighed davis--to call him by his later name. "the money of which you robbed him caused him to fail, and failure led to his death." "i have accused myself of this crime oftentimes," moaned davis. "don't think that the money brought happiness, for it did not." "where have you been all these years?" "first, i went to europe. there i remained a year. from europe i went to brazil, and engaged in business in rio janeiro. a year since i found my health failing, and have come back to new york to die. but before i die i want to make what reparation i can." "you cannot call my father back to me," said dan, sadly. "no; but i can restore the money that i stole. that is the right word--stole. i hope you and your mother have not suffered?" "we saw some hard times, but for years we have lived in comfort." "i am glad of that. will you bring a lawyer to me to-morrow evening? i want to make restitution. then i shall die easier." "you might keep every dollar if you would bring my father back." "would that i could! i must do what i can." the next evening davis transferred to dan and his mother property amounting to fifty thousand dollars, in payment of what he had taken, with interest, and in less than a month later he died, dan taking upon himself the charge of the funeral. his trip to europe was deferred, and having now capital to contribute, he was taken as junior partner into the firm where he had once filled the position of office-boy. tom carver is down in the world. his father had failed disastrously, and tom is glad to accept a minor clerkship from the boy at whom he once sneered. julia rogers has never lost her preference for dan. it is whispered that they are engaged, or likely soon to be, and dan's assiduous attentions to the young lady make the report a plausible one. john hartley was sentenced to a term of years in prison. harriet vernon dreaded the day of his release, being well convinced that he would seize the earliest opportunity to renew his persecutions. she had about made up her mind to buy him off, when she received intelligence that he was carried off by fever, barely a month before the end of his term. it was a sad end of a bad life, but she could not regret him. althea was saved the knowledge of her father's worthlessness. she was led to believe that he had died when she was a little girl. and now the curtain must fall. dan, the young detective, has entered upon a career of influence and prosperity. the hardships of his earlier years contributed to strengthen his character, and give him that self-reliance of which the sons of rich men so often stand in need. a similar experience might have benefited tom carver, whose lofty anticipations have been succeeded by a very humble reality. let those boys who are now passing through the discipline of poverty and privation, take courage and emulate the example of "dan, the detective." the end. a. l. burt's publications for young people by popular writers, - - reade street, new york. +bonnie prince charlie+: a tale of fontenoy and culloden. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the adventures of the son of a scotch officer in french service. the boy, brought up by a glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the french coast, reaches paris, and serves with the french army at dettingen. he kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of prince charlie, but finally settles happily in scotland. "ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'quentin durward.' the lad's journey across france, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. for freshness of treatment and variety of incident mr. henty has surpassed himself."--_spectator._ +with clive in india+; or, the beginnings of an empire. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the period between the landing of clive as a young writer in india and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. at its commencement the english were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. at its close they were masters of bengal and of the greater part of southern india. the author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "he has taken a period of indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_scotsman._ +the lion of the north+: a tale of gustavus adolphus and the wars of religion. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by john schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty gives the history of the first part of the thirty years' war. the issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in germany. the army of the chivalrous king of sweden was largely composed of scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_times._ +the dragon and the raven+; or, the days of king alfred. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between saxon and dane for supremacy in england, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. the hero, a young saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by king alfred. he is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of paris. "treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_athenæum._ +the young carthaginian+: a story of the times of hannibal. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . boys reading the history of the punic wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. that it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of carthage, that hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the romans at trebia, lake trasimenus, and cannæ, and all but took rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. to let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world mr. henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "well constructed and vividly told. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_saturday review._ +in freedom's cause+: a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author relates the stirring tale of the scottish war of independence. the extraordinary valor and personal prowess of wallace and bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. the researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. the hero of the tale fought under both wallace and bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "it is written in the author's best style. full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_the schoolmaster._ +with lee in virginia+: a story of the american civil war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of a young virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under lee and jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. he has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "one of the best stories for lads which mr. henty has yet written. the picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_standard._ +by england's aid+; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ). by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of two english lads who go to holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting veres." after many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the corsairs. he is successful in getting back to spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of cadiz. "it is an admirable book for youngsters. it overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. the illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_boston gazette._ +by right of conquest+; or, with cortez in mexico. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. s. stacey, and two maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the conquest of mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. with this as the groundwork of his story mr. henty has interwoven the adventures of an english youth, roger hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship swan, which had sailed from a devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the spaniards in the new world. he is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an aztec princess. at last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the spaniards, and after the fall of mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming aztec bride. "'by right of conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that mr. henty has yet published."--_academy._ +in the reign of terror+: the adventures of a westminster boy. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by j. schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry sandwith, a westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a french marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to paris at the crisis of the revolution. imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. after hairbreadth escapes they reach nantes. there the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "harry sandwith, the westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat mr. henty's record. his adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... the story is one of mr. henty's best."--_saturday review._ +with wolfe in canada+; or, the winning of a continent. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in the present volume mr. henty gives an account of the struggle between britain and france for supremacy in the north american continent. on the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of north america, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. the fall of quebec decided that the anglo-saxon race should predominate in the new world; that britain, and not france, should take the lead among the nations of europe; and that english and american commerce, the english language, and english literature, should spread right round the globe. "it is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_illustrated london news._ +true to the old flag+: a tale of the american war of independence. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which american and british soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. the historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of lake huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "does justice to the pluck and determination of the british soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against american emancipation. the son of an american loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of hawkeye and chingachgook."--_the times._ +the lion of st. mark+: a tale of venice in the fourteenth century. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. the hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. he contributes largely to the victories of the venetians at porto d'anzo and chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of venice. "every boy should read 'the lion of st. mark.' mr. henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_saturday review._ +a final reckoning+: a tale of bush life in australia. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. b. wollen. mo, cloth, price $ . . the hero, a young english lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. a few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "mr. henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_spectator._ +under drake's flag+: a tale of the spanish main. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of the days when england and spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. the heroes sail as lads with drake in the pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. the historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "a book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_harper's monthly magazine._ +by sheer pluck+: a tale of the ashanti war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. his hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the english expedition on their march to coomassie. "mr. henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'by sheer pluck' will be eagerly read."--_athenæum._ +by pike and dyke+: a tale of the rise of the dutch republic. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by maynard brown, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an english boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--william the silent. edward martin, the son of an english sea-captain, enters the service of the prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. he ultimately settles down as sir edward martin. "boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_st. james' gazette._ +st. george for england+: a tale of cressy and poitiers. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . no portion of english history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of edward iii. cressy and poitiers; the destruction of the spanish fleet; the plague of the black death; the jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "st. george for england." the hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a london apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the black prince. "mr. henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of sir walter scott in the land of fiction."--_the standard._ +captain kidd's gold+: the true story of an adventurous sailor boy. by james franklin fitts. mo, cloth, price $ . . there is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. a vision arises before his eyes of swarthy portuguese and spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the spanish main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. there were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than capt. kidd. perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is mr. fitts' true story of an adventurous american boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. the document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of kidd's crew. the hero of this book, paul jones garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water new england ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. +captain bayley's heir+: a tale of the gold fields of california. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . a frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. the former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves england for america. he works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with indians to the californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "mr. henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of john holl, the westminster dustman, dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_christian leader._ +for name and fame+; or, through afghan passes. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . an interesting story of the last war in afghanistan. the hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the malays, finds his way to calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the afghan passes. he accompanies the force under general roberts to the peiwar kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to cabul, whence he is transferred to candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of ayoub khan. "the best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the afghan people."--_daily news._ +captured by apes+: the wonderful adventures of a young animal trainer. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, $ . . the scene of this tale is laid on an island in the malay archipelago. philip garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of new york, sets sail for eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. the vessel is wrecked off the coast of borneo and young garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. the lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. the brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. mr. prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. +the bravest of the brave+; or, with peterborough in spain. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . there are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the earl of peterborough. this is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of marlborough. his career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "mr. henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. lads will read 'the bravest of the brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_daily telegraph._ +the cat of bubastes+: a story of ancient egypt. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the egyptian people. amuba, a prince of the rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer jethro into slavery. they become inmates of the house of ameres, the egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of bubastes. in an outburst of popular fury ameres is killed, and it rests with jethro and amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "the story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. it is admirably illustrated."--_saturday review._ +with washington at monmouth+: a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . three philadelphia boys, seth graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the british officers;" enoch ball, "son of that mrs. ball whose dancing school was situated on letitia street," and little jacob, son of "chris, the baker," serve as the principal characters. the story is laid during the winter when lord howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the american spies who make regular and frequent visits from valley forge. one reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the british officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. +for the temple+: a tale of the fall of jerusalem. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by s. j. solomon. mo, cloth, price $ . . mr. henty here weaves into the record of josephus an admirable and attractive story. the troubles in the district of tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of jotapata, of gamala, and of jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the temple, and after a brief term of slavery at alexandria, returns to his galilean home with the favor of titus. "mr. henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless jewish resistance to roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_graphic._ +facing death+; or, the hero of the vaughan pit. a tale of the coal mines. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . "facing death" is a story with a purpose. it is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. the hero of the story is a typical british boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "the tale is well written and well illustrated and there is much reality in the characters. if any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_standard._ +tom temple's career.+ by horatio alger. mo, cloth, price $ . . tom temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of nathan middleton, a penurious insurance agent. though well paid for keeping the boy, nathan and his wife endeavor to bring master tom in line with their parsimonious habits. the lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. as tom is heir to $ , , he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. +maori and settler+: a story of the new zealand war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse. mo, cloth, price $ . . the renshaws emigrate to new zealand during the period of the war with the natives. wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. he has for his friend mr. atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. in the adventures among the maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant new zealand valleys. "brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_schoolmaster._ +julian mortimer+: a brave boy's struggle for home and fortune. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. there is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. the scene of the story lies west of the mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. one of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of indians. our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young american in every sense of the word. he enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. harry castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of america regard him as a favorite author. "+carrots+:" just a little boy. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations by walter crane. mo, cloth, price cents. "one of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_examiner._ "a genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate walter crane's illustrations."--_punch._ +mopsa the fairy.+ by jean ingelow. with eight page illustrations. mo, cloth, price cents. "mrs. ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. it requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius miss ingelow has and the story of 'jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_eclectic._ +a jaunt through java+: the story of a journey to the sacred mountain. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, hermon and eustace hadley, on their trip across the island of java, from samarang to the sacred mountain. in a land where the royal bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. there is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has mr. ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. the two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. they cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. +wrecked on spider island+; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . a "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. while in his bunk, seasick, ned rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on spider island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. while thus involuntarily playing the part of a crusoe, ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. raising the wreck; a voyage to havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. +geoff and jim+: a story of school life. by ismay thorn. illustrated by a. g. walker. mo, cloth, price cents. "this is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. both geoff and jim are very lovable characters, only jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_church times._ "this is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_schoolmaster._ "the story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_standard._ +the castaways+; or, on the florida reefs, by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this tale smacks of the salt sea. it is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. from the moment that the sea queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. off marquesas keys she floats in a dead calm. ben clark, the hero of the story, and jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. they determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. they take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. his style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. in "the castaways" he is at his best. +tom thatcher's fortune.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . like all of mr. alger's heroes, tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. the story begins with tom's discharge from the factory, because mr. simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. a few days afterward tom learns that which induces him to start overland for california with the view of probing the family mystery. he meets with many adventures. ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of john simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. the story is told in that entertaining way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. +birdie+: a tale of child life. by h. l. childe-pemberton. illustrated by h. w. rainey. mo, cloth, price cents. "the story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_new york express._ +popular fairy tales.+ by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "from first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_athenæum._ +with lafayette at yorktown+: a story of how two boys joined the continental army. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the two boys are from portsmouth, n. h., and are introduced in august, , when on the point of leaving home to enlist in col. scammell's regiment, then stationed near new york city. their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the colonial days. the lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under lafayette. once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the british camp, bringing away valuable information. the pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. the story is wholesome in tone, as are all of mr. otis' works. there is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of ben jaffreys and ned allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. +lost in the cañon+: sam willett's adventures on the great colorado. by alfred r. calhoun. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story hinges on a fortune left to sam willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. the vigilance committee of hurley's gulch arrest sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. this is in sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. a messenger is dispatched to get it. he reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. his father's peril urges sam to action. a raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. they fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. how the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and sam reaches hurley's gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps mr. calhoun as a master of his art. +jack+: a topsy turvy story. by c. m. crawley-boevey. with upward of thirty illustrations by h. j. a. miles. mo, cloth, price cents. "the illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of waterworld, where he goes though wonderful and edifying adventures. a handsome and pleasant book."--_literary world._ +search for the silver city+: a tale of adventure in yucatan. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . two american lads, teddy wright and neal emery, embark on the steam yacht day dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. all hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of yucatan. they come across a young american named cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful silver city of the chan santa cruz indians. cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. at last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. mr. otis has built his story on an historical foundation. it is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. +frank fowler, the cash boy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . thrown upon his own resources frank fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister grace. going to new york he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. he renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of new jersey and held a prisoner. this move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. mr. alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. +budd boyd's triumph+; or, the boy firm of fox island. by william p. chipman. mo, cloth, price $ . . the scene of this story is laid on the upper part of narragansett bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, budd boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. chance brings budd in contact with judd floyd. the two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. the scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of thomas bagsley, the man whom budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. his pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. in following the career of the boy firm of boyd & floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. +the errand boy+; or, how phil brent won success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . the career of "the errand boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad who at an early age was abandoned by his father. philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named brent. the death of mrs. brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. accident introduces him to the notice of a retired merchant in new york, who not only secures him the situation of errand boy but thereafter stands as his friend. an unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, however, brings philip and his father together. in "the errand boy" philip brent is possessed of the same sterling qualities so conspicuous in all of the previous creations of this delightful writer for our youth. +the slate picker+: the story of a boy's life in the coal mines. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . this is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of pennsylvania. there are many thrilling situations, notably that of ben burton's leap into the "lion's mouth"--the yawning shute in the breakers--to escape a beating at the hands of the savage spilkins, the overseer. gracie gordon is a little angel in rags, terence o'dowd is a manly, sympathetic lad, and enoch evans, the miner-poet, is a big-hearted, honest fellow, a true friend to all whose burdens seem too heavy for them to bear. ben burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the kohinoor coal company. +a runaway brig+; or, an accidental cruise. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . "a runaway brig" is a sea tale, pure and simple, and that's where it strikes a boy's fancy. the reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with harry vandyne, walter morse, jim libby and that old shell-back, bob brace, on the brig bonita, which lands on one of the bahama keys. finally three strangers steal the craft, leaving the rightful owners to shift for themselves aboard a broken-down tug. the boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure, then a storm comes on and the tug is stranded. at last a yacht comes in sight and the party with the treasure is taken off the lonely key. the most exacting youth is sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. +fairy tales and stories.+ by hans christian andersen. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "if i were asked to select a child's library i should name these three volumes 'english,' 'celtic,' and 'indian fairy tales,' with grimm and hans andersen's fairy tales."--_independent._ +the island treasure+; or, harry darrel's fortune. by frank h. converse. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry darrel, an orphan, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea with a boyish acquaintance named dan plunket. a runaway horse changes his prospects. harry saves dr. gregg from drowning and the doctor presents his preserver with a bit of property known as gregg's island, and makes the lad sailing-master of his sloop yacht. a piratical hoard is supposed to be hidden somewhere on the island. after much search and many thwarted plans, at last dan discovers the treasure and is the means of finding harry's father. mr. converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. +the boy explorers+: the adventures of two boys in alaska. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . two boys, raymond and spencer manning, travel from san francisco to alaska to join their father in search of their uncle, who, it is believed, was captured and detained by the inhabitants of a place called the "heart of alaska." on their arrival at sitka the boys with an indian guide set off across the mountains. the trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. reaching the yukon river they build a raft and float down the stream, entering the mysterious river, from which they barely escape with their lives, only to be captured by natives of the heart of alaska. all through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. +the treasure finders+: a boy's adventures in nicaragua. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . roy and dean coloney, with their guide tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. the boys eagerly explore the dismantled temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. they escape with the greatest difficulty; by taking advantage of a festive gathering they seize a canoe and fly down the river. eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. mr. otis is the prince of story tellers, for he handles his material with consummate skill. we doubt if he has ever written a more entertaining story than "the treasure finders." +household fairy tales.+ by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "as a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this work ranks second to none."--_daily graphic._ +dan the newsboy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . the reader is introduced to dan mordaunt and his mother living in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of new york. a little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the mordaunts. at the same time the lad obtains a position in a wholesale house. he soon demonstrates how valuable he is to the firm by detecting the bookkeeper in a bold attempt to rob his employers. the child is kidnaped and dan tracks the child to the house where she it hidden, and rescues her. the wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir, and the conclusion of the book leaves the hero on the high road to every earthly desire. +tony the hero+: a brave boy's adventure with a tramp. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of rudolph rugg, a thorough rascal, shiftless and lazy, spending his time tramping about the country. after much abuse tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. tony is heir to a large estate in england, and certain persons find it necessary to produce proof of the lad's death. rudolph for a consideration hunts up tony and throws him down a deep well. of course tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act makes a rich friend, with whom he goes to england, where he secures his rights and is prosperous. the fact that mr. alger is the author of this entertaining book will at once recommend it to all juvenile readers. +a young hero+; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the misses perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. fred sheldon, the hero of this story and a friend of the old ladies, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. after much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward for its restoration. during the narrative a circus comes to town and a thrilling account of the escape of the lion from its cage, with its recapture, is told in mr. ellis' most fascinating style. every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. +the days of bruce+: a story from scottish history. by grace aguilar. illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "there is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about all of grace aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the interest and admiration of every lover of good reading."--_boston beacon._ +tom the bootblack+; or, the road to success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . a bright, enterprising lad was tom the bootblack. he was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. his guardian, old jacob morton, died, leaving him a small sum of money and a written confession that tom, instead of being of humble origin, was the son and heir of a deceased western merchant, and had been defrauded out of his just rights by an unscrupulous uncle. the lad started for cincinnati to look up his heritage. but three years passed away before he obtained his first clue. mr. grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. the plan failed, and gilbert grey, once tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. this is one of mr. alger's best stories. +captured by zulus+: a story of trapping in africa. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story details the adventures of two lads, dick elsworth and bob harvey, in the wilds of south africa, for the purpose of obtaining a supply of zoological curiosities. by stratagem the zulus capture dick and bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. the lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. they are pursued, and after a rough experience the boys eventually rejoin the expedition and take part in several wild animal hunts. the zulus finally give up pursuit and the expedition arrives at the coast without further trouble. mr. prentice has a delightful method of blending fact with fiction. he tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. +tom the ready+; or, up from the lowest. by randolph hill. mo, cloth, price $ . . this is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder--the gate of the poorhouse--to wealth and the governorship of his native state. thomas seacomb begins life with a purpose. while yet a schoolboy he conceives and presents to the world the germ of the overland express co. at the very outset of his career jealousy and craft seek to blast his promising future. later he sets out to obtain a charter for a railroad line in connection with the express business. now he realizes what it is to match himself against capital. yet he wins and the railroad is built. only an uncommon nature like tom's could successfully oppose such a combine. how he manages to win the battle is told by mr. hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. +roy gilbert's search+: a tale of the great lakes. by wm. p. chipman. mo, cloth, price $ . . a deep mystery hangs over the parentage of roy gilbert. he arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the great lakes on a steam launch. the three boys leave erie on the launch and visit many points of interest on the lakes. soon afterward the lad is conspicuous in the rescue of an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. later on the cruise of the launch is brought to a disastrous termination and the boys narrowly escape with their lives. the hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. +the young scout+; the story of a west point lieutenant. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the crafty apache chief geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of geronimo's last raid. the hero is lieutenant james decker, a recent graduate of west point. ambitious to distinguish himself so as to win well-deserved promotion, the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. the story naturally abounds in thrilling situations, and being historically correct, it is reasonable to believe it will find great favor with the boys. in our opinion mr. ellis is the best writer of indian stories now before the public. +adrift in the wilds+: the adventures of two shipwrecked boys. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price, $ . . elwood brandon and howard lawrence, cousins and schoolmates, accompanied by a lively irishman called o'rooney, are en route for san francisco. off the coast of california the steamer takes fire. the two boys and their companion reach the shore with several of the passengers. while o'rooney and the lads are absent inspecting the neighborhood o'rooney has an exciting experience and young brandon becomes separated from his party. he is captured by hostile indians, but is rescued by an indian whom the lads had assisted. this is a very entertaining narrative of southern california in the days immediately preceding the construction of the pacific railroads. mr. ellis seems to be particularly happy in this line of fiction, and the present story is fully as entertaining as anything he has ever written. +the red fairy book.+ edited by andrew lang. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "a gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk who have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories."--_literary world._ +the boy cruisers+; or, paddling in florida. by st. george rathborne. mo, cloth, price, $ . . boys who like an admixture of sport and adventure will find this book just to their taste. we promise them that they will not go to sleep over the rattling experiences of andrew george and roland carter, who start on a canoe trip along the gulf coast, from key west to tampa, florida. their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. next they run into a gale in the gulf and have a lively experience while it lasts. after that they have a lively time with alligators and divers varieties of the finny tribe. andrew gets into trouble with a band of seminole indians and gets away without having his scalp raised. after this there is no lack of fun till they reach their destination. that mr. rathborne knows just how to interest the boys is apparent at a glance, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. +guy harris+: the runaway. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . guy harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the great lakes. his head became filled with quixotic notions of going west to hunt grizzlies, in fact, indians. he is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. he ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. he deserts his ship at san francisco and starts out to become a backwoodsman, but rough experiences soon cure him of all desire to be a hunter. at st. louis he becomes a clerk and for a time he yields to the temptations of a great city. the book will not only interest boys generally on account of its graphic style, but will put many facts before their eyes in a new light. this is one of castlemon's most attractive stories. +the train boy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . paul palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on one of the trains running between chicago and milwaukee. he detects a young man named luke denton in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady, and also incurs the enmity of his brother stephen, a worthless fellow. luke and stephen plot to ruin paul, but their plans are frustrated. in a railway accident many passengers are killed, but paul is fortunate enough to assist a chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. paul is sent to manage a mine in custer city and executes his commission with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. this is one of mr. alger's most attractive stories and is sure to please all readers. archive and the university of connecticut. the lower depths by maxim gorky [frontispiece: a scene in act i of maxim gorky's masterpiece, "the lower depths," at the moscow art theatre. stanislavsky in the rÔle of satine sits on the table] the moscow art theatre series of russian plays ----------------------- _edited by_ oliver m. sayler the lower depths _a drama in four acts_ by maxim gorky _english translation by_ jenny covan new york brentanos publishers copyright, , by morris gest all rights reserved introduction _de profundis ad te clamavi._ in this phrase, with his penchant for epitome, the late james huneker summarized the masterpiece of russia's single living master of the drama, maxim gorky, as he saw it in berlin under the german title of "nachtasyl" or "night lodging." "na dnye" is the russian--literally "on the bottom." partly because "the lower depths" is a more faithful rendering of the original than "night lodging" and partly because it implies so vividly the play's keynote as the shrewd huneker detected it beneath a guise alien to both russian and english, the title adopted by laurence irving for the british version has been preferred for its introduction to american audiences by the company which discovered it and first set it on its stage in moscow, december (our calendar), . in "the lower depths" more than in any other single play throughout its history, the moscow art theatre concentrates its dramatic ideals and methods, its esthetic theory and practice, and through the production of this play it most emphatically justifies its artistic faith in spiritual or psychological realism as a dramatic medium of expression. the plays of tchekhoff, of course, serve the same ends, but no single one of them does so quite as richly as does gorky's masterpiece. at the hands of stanislavsky and his associates, "the lower depths" draws much of its convincing power from its unusual use of and dependence on the channels of expression which are peculiar to the art of the theatre. it is almost wholly independent of drama as literature. less than any play i know, is it possible to imagine its potential effect in the theatre from a reading of its printed lines. in my book, "the russian theatre," i have thus analyzed this factor: "'the lower depths' is not so much a matter of utterable line and recountable gesture as it is of the intangible flow of human souls in endlessly shifting contact with one another. awkward but eloquent pauses and emphases, the scarcely perceptible stress or dulling of word or gesture, the nuances and the shadings of which life is mostly made and by which it reveals its meaning--these, and the instinctive understanding of the vision of the playwright by those who seek to interpret him, are the incalculable and unrecordable channels through which 'the lower depths' becomes articulate at the moscow art theatre." just as this theatre discovered or, rather, rescued tchekhoff as a dramatist, so it first stood sponsor for the author of "foma gordeyeff" as a playwright. during the first half of the season of - , two of his plays were produced--"smug citizens" and "the lower depths." the latter was recognized at once as a work of supreme merit and moment. tchekhoff himself had written to its youthful author five months before its première: "i have read your play. it is new and unmistakably fine. the second act is very good, it is the best, the strongest, and when i was reading it, especially the end, i almost danced with joy." at the première, the rival dramatist's verdict was publicly ratified, for gorky was called before the curtain twenty times, and the press was unanimously enthusiastic. the play has held its place in the repertory of the moscow art theatre ever since, and eight of its most important rôles are still played by those who created them, just two decades ago. miss covan's translation of this play, i believe, deserves particular attention. there have been numerous translations, differing only in the nature of their ineptitude. here for the first time, the vigor, the virility, the humanity and the humor of the original survive the transfer from the russian tongue to our own, without mysterious and vaguely symbolic "meanings" gratuitously appended. as nearly as it is possible with printed words to convey the impression which gorky desires and obtains through the intangible media of the living stage, the following version succeeds. i realized for the first time, as i read it, that the overwhelming impression of the play at the hands of the moscow art theatre is due as much to the genius of the playwright as to that of his interpreters. the editor. cast of characters. mikhail ivanoff kostilyoff--_keeper of a night lodging._ vassilisa karpovna--_his wife._ natasha--_her sister._ miedviedieff--_her uncle, a policeman._ vaska pepel--_a young thief._ andrei mitritch kleshtch--_a locksmith._ anna--_his wife._ nastya--_a street-walker._ kvashnya--_a vendor of meat-pies._ bubnoff--_a cap-maker._ the baron. satine. the actor. luka--_a pilgrim._ alyoshka--_a shoemaker._ krivoy zob } } _porters._ the tartar } night lodgers, tramps and others. the action takes place in a night lodging and in "the waste," an area in its rear. act one. _a cellar resembling a cave. the ceiling, which merges into stone walls, is low and grimy, and the plaster and paint are peeling off. there is a window, high up on the right wall, from which comes the light. the right corner, which constitutes pepel's room, is partitioned off by thin boards. close to the corner of this room is bubnoff's wooden bunk. in the left corner stands a large russian stove. in the stone wall, left, is a door leading to the kitchen where live kvashnya, the baron, and nastya. against the wall, between the stove and the door, is a large bed covered with dirty chintz. bunks line the walls. in the foreground, by the left wall, is a block of wood with a vise and a small anvil fastened to it, and another smaller block of wood somewhat further towards the back. kleshtch is seated on the smaller block, trying keys into old locks. at his feet are two large bundles of various keys, wired together, also a battered tin samovar, a hammer, and pincers. in the centre are a large table, two benches, and a stool, all of which are of dirty, unpainted wood. behind the table kvashnya is busying herself with the samovar. the baron sits chewing a piece of black bread, and nastya occupies the stool, leans her elbows on the table, and reads a tattered book. in the bed, behind curtains, anna lies coughing. bubnoff is seated on his bunk, attempting to shape a pair of old trousers with the help of an ancient hat shape which he holds between his knees. scattered about him are pieces of buckram, oilcloth, and rags. satine, just awakened, lies in his bunk, grunting. on top of the stove, the actor, invisible to the audience, tosses about and coughs._ _it is an early spring morning._ the baron. and then? kvashnya. no, my dear, said i, keep away from me with such proposals. i've been through it all, you see--and not for a hundred baked lobsters would i marry again! bubnoff [_to satine_] what are you grunting about? [_satine keeps on grunting_] kvashnya. why should i, said i, a free woman, my own mistress, enter my name into somebody else's passport and sell myself into slavery--no! why--i wouldn't marry a man even if he were an american prince! kleshtch. you lie! kvashnya. wha-at? kleshtch. you lie! you're going to marry abramka. . . . the baron [_snatching the book out of nastya's hand and reading the title_] "fatal love" . . . [_laughs_] nastya [_stretching out her hand_] give it back--give it back! stop fooling! [_the baron looks at her and waves the book in the air_] kvashnya [_to kleshtch_] you crimson goat, you--calling me a liar! how dare you be so rude to me? the baron [_hitting nastya on the head with the book_] nastya, you little fool! nastya [_reaching for the book_] give it back! kleshtch. oh--what a great lady . . . but you'll marry abramka just the same--that's all you're waiting for . . . kvashnya. sure! anything else? you nearly beat your wife to death! kleshtch. shut up, you old bitch! it's none of your business! kvashnya. ho-ho! can't stand the truth, can you? the baron. they're off again! nastya, where are you? nastya [_without lifting her head_] hey--go away! anna [_putting her head through the curtains_] the day has started. for god's sake, don't row! kleshtch. whining again! anna. every blessed day . . . let me die in peace, can't you? bubnoff. noise won't keep you from dying. kvashnya [_walking up to anna_] little mother, how did you ever manage to live with this wretch? anna. leave me alone--get away from me. . . . kvashnya. well, well! you poor soul . . . how's the pain in the chest--any better? the baron. kvashnya! time to go to market. . . . kvashnya. we'll go presently. [_to anna_] like some hot dumplings? anna. no, thanks. why should i eat? kvashnya. you must eat. hot food--good for you! i'll leave you some in a cup. eat them when you feel like it. come on, sir! [_to kleshtch_] you evil spirit! [_goes into kitchen_] anna [_coughing_] lord, lord . . . the baron [_painfully pushing forward nastya's head_] throw it away--little fool! nastya [_muttering_] leave me alone--i don't bother you . . . [_the baron follows kvashnya, whistling._] satine [_sitting up in his bunk_] who beat me up yesterday? bubnoff. does it make any difference who? satine. suppose they did--but why did they? bubnoff. were you playing cards? satine. yes! bubnoff. that's why they beat you. satine. scoundrels! the actor [_raising his head from the top of the stove_] one of these days they'll beat you to death! satine. you're a jackass! the actor. why? satine. because a man can die only once! the actor [_after a silence_] i don't understand-- kleshtch. say! you crawl from that stove--and start cleaning house! don't play the delicate primrose! the actor. none of your business! kleshtch. wait till vassilisa comes--she'll show you whose business it is! the actor. to hell with vassilisa! to-day is the baron's turn to clean. . . . baron! [_the baron comes from the kitchen._] the baron. i've no time to clean . . . i'm going to market with kvashnya. the actor. that doesn't concern me. go to the gallows if you like. it's your turn to sweep the floor just the same--i'm not going to do other people's work . . . the baron. go to blazes! nastya will do it. hey there--fatal love! wake up! [_takes the book away from nastya_] nastya [_getting up_] what do you want? give it back to me! you scoundrel! and that's a nobleman for you! the baron [_returning the book to her_] nastya! sweep the floor for me--will you? nastya [_goes to kitchen_] not so's you'll notice it! kvashnya [_to the baron through kitchen door_] come on--you! they don't need you! actor! you were asked to do it, and now you go ahead and attend to it--it won't kill you . . . the actor. it's always i . . . i don't understand why. . . . [_the baron comes from the kitchen, across his shoulders a wooden beam from which hang earthen pots covered with rags._] the baron. heavier than ever! satine. it paid you to be born a baron, eh? kvashnya [_to actor_] see to it that you sweep up! [_crosses to outer door, letting the baron pass ahead_] the actor [_climbing down from the stove_] it's bad for me to inhale dust. [_with pride_] my organism is poisoned with alcohol. [_sits down on a bunk, meditating_] satine. organism--organon. . . . anna. andrei mitritch. . . . kleshtch. what now? anna. kvashnya left me some dumplings over there--you eat them! kleshtch [_coming over to her_] and you--don't you want any? anna. no. why should i eat? you're a workman--you need it. kleshtch. frightened, are you? don't be! you'll get all right! anna. go and eat! it's hard on me. . . . i suppose very soon . . . kleshtch [_walking away_] never mind--maybe you'll get well--you can never tell! [_goes into kitchen_] the actor [_loud, as if he had suddenly awakened_] yesterday the doctor in the hospital said to me: "your organism," he said, "is entirely poisoned with alcohol . . ." satine [_smiling_] organon . . . the actor [_stubbornly_] not organon--organism! satine. sibylline. . . . the actor [_shaking his fist at him_] nonsense! i'm telling you seriously . . . if the organism is poisoned . . . that means it's bad for me to sweep the floor--to inhale the dust . . . satine. macrobistic . . . hah! bubnoff. what are you muttering? satine. words--and here's another one for you--transcendentalistic . . . bubnoff. what does it mean? satine. don't know--i forgot . . . bubnoff. then why did you say it? satine. just so! i'm bored, brother, with human words--all our words. bored! i've heard each one of them a thousand times surely. the actor. in hamlet they say: "words, words, words!" it's a good play. i played the grave-digger in it once. . . . [_kleshtch comes from the kitchen._] kleshtch. will you start playing with the broom? the actor. none of your business. [_striking his chest_] ophelia! o--remember me in thy prayers! [_back stage is heard a dull murmur, cries, and a police whistle. kleshtch sits down to work, filing screechily._] satine. i love unintelligible, obsolete words. when i was a youngster--and worked as a telegraph operator--i read heaps of books. . . . bubnoff. were you really a telegrapher? satine. i was. there are some excellent books--and lots of curious words . . . once i was an educated man, do you know? bubnoff. i've heard it a hundred times. well, so you were! that isn't very important! me--well--once i was a furrier. i had my own shop--what with dyeing the fur all day long, my arms were yellow up to the elbows, brother. i thought i'd never be able ever to get clean again--that i'd go to my grave, all yellow! but look at my hands now--they're plain dirty--that's what! satine. well, and what then? bubnoff. that's all! satine. what are you trying to prove? bubnoff. oh, well--just matching thoughts--no matter how much dye you get on yourself, it all comes off in the end--yes, yes-- satine. oh--my bones ache! the actor [_sits, nursing his knees_] education is all rot. talent is the thing. i knew an actor--who read his parts by heart, syllable by syllable--but he played heroes in a way that . . . why--the whole theatre would rock with ecstasy! satine. bubnoff, give me five kopecks. bubnoff. i only have two-- the actor. i say--talent, that's what you need to play heroes. and talent is nothing but faith in yourself, in your own powers-- satine. give me five kopecks and i'll have faith that you're a hero, a crocodile, or a police inspector--kleshtch, give me five kopecks. kleshtch. go to hell! all of you! satine. what are you cursing for? i know you haven't a kopeck in the world! anna. andrei mitritch--i'm suffocating--i can't breathe-- kleshtch. what shall i do? bubnoff. open the door into the hall. kleshtch. all right. you're sitting on the bunk, i on the floor. you change places with me, and i'll let you open the door. i have a cold as it is. bubnoff [_unconcernedly_] i don't care if you open the door--it's your wife who's asking-- kleshtch [_morosely_] i don't care who's asking-- satine. my head buzzes--ah--why do people have to hit each other over the heads? bubnoff. they don't only hit you over the head, but over the rest of the body as well. [_rises_] i must go and buy some thread--our bosses are late to-day--seems as if they've croaked. [_exit_] [_anna coughs; satine is lying down motionless, his hands folded behind his head._] the actor [_looks about him morosely, then goes to anna_] feeling bad, eh? anna. i'm choking-- the actor. if you wish, i'll take you into the hallway. get up, then, come! [_he helps her to rise, wraps some sort of a rag about her shoulders, and supports her toward the hall_] it isn't easy. i'm sick myself--poisoned with alcohol . . . [_kostilyoff appears in the doorway._] kostilyoff. going for a stroll? what a nice couple--the gallant cavalier and the lady fair! the actor. step aside, you--don't you see that we're invalids? kostilyoff. pass on, please! [_hums a religious tune, glances about him suspiciously, and bends his head to the left as if listening to what is happening in pepel's room. kleshtch is jangling his keys and scraping away with his file, and looks askance at the other_] filing? kleshtch. what? kostilyoff. i say, are you filing? [_pause_] what did i want to ask? [_quick and low_] hasn't my wife been here? kleshtch. i didn't see her. kostilyoff [_carefully moving toward pepel's room_] you take up a whole lot of room for your two rubles a month. the bed--and your bench--yes--you take up five rubles' worth of space, so help me god! i'll have to put another half ruble to your rent-- kleshtch. you'll put a noose around my neck and choke me . . . you'll croak soon enough, and still all you think of is half rubles-- kostilyoff. why should i choke you? what would be the use? god be with you--live and prosper! but i'll have to raise you half a ruble--i'll buy oil for the ikon lamp, and my offering will atone for my sins, and for yours as well. you don't think much of your sins--not much! oh, andrushka, you're a wicked man! your wife is dying because of your wickedness--no one loves you, no one respects you--your work is squeaky, jarring on every one. kleshtch [_shouts_] what do you come here for--just to annoy me? [_satine grunts loudly._] kostilyoff [_with a start_] god, what a noise! [_the actor enters._] the actor. i've put her down in the hall and wrapped her up. kostilyoff. you're a kindly fellow. that's good. some day you'll be rewarded for it. the actor. when? kostilyoff. in the beyond, little brother--there all our deeds will be reckoned up. the actor. suppose you reward me right now? kostilyoff. how can i do that? the actor. wipe out half my debt. kostilyoff. he-ho! you're always jesting, darling--always poking fun . . . can kindliness of heart be repaid with gold? kindliness--it's above all other qualities. but your debt to me--remains a debt. and so you'll have to pay me back. you ought to be kind to me, an old man, without seeking for reward! the actor. you're a swindler, old man! [_goes into kitchen_] [_kleshtch rises and goes into the hall._] kostilyoff [_to satine_] see that squeaker--? he ran away--he doesn't like me! satine. does anybody like you besides the devil? kostilyoff [_laughing_] oh--you're so quarrelsome! but i like you all--i understand you all, my unfortunate down-trodden, useless brethren . . . [_suddenly, rapidly_] is vaska home? satine. see for yourself-- kostilyoff [_goes to the door and knocks_] vaska! [_the actor appears at the kitchen door, chewing something._] pepel. who is it? kostilyoff. it's i--i, vaska! pepel. what do you want? kostilyoff [_stepping aside_] open! satine [_without looking at kostilyoff_] he'll open--and she's there-- [_the actor makes a grimace._] kostilyoff [_in a low, anxious tone_] eh? who's there? what? satine. speaking to me? kostilyoff. what did you say? satine. oh--nothing--i was just talking to myself-- kostilyoff. take care, brother. don't carry your joking too far! [_knocks loudly at door_] vassily! pepel [_opening door_] well? what are you disturbing me for? kostilyoff [_peering into room_] i--you see-- pepel. did you bring the money? kostilyoff. i've something to tell you-- pepel. did you bring the money? kostilyoff. what money? wait-- pepel. why--the seven rubles for the watch--well? kostilyoff. what watch, vaska? oh, you-- pepel. look here. yesterday, before witnesses, i sold you a watch for ten rubles, you gave me three--now let me have the other seven. what are you blinking for? you hang around here--you disturb people--and don't seem to know yourself what you're after. kostilyoff. sh-sh! don't be angry, vaska. the watch--it is-- satine. stolen! kostilyoff [_sternly_] i do not accept stolen goods--how can you imagine-- pepel [_taking him by the shoulder_] what did you disturb me for? what do you want? kostilyoff. i don't want--anything. i'll go--if you're in such a state-- pepel. be off, and bring the money! kostilyoff. what ruffians! i--i--[_exit_] the actor. what a farce! satine. that's fine--i like it. pepel. what did he come here for? satine [_laughing_] don't you understand? he's looking for his wife. why don't you beat him up once and for all, vaska? pepel. why should i let such trash interfere with my life? satine. show some brains! and then you can marry vassilisa--and become our boss-- pepel. heavenly bliss! and you'd smash up my household and, because i'm a soft-hearted fool, you'll drink up everything i possess. [_sits on a bunk_] old devil--woke me up--i was having such a pleasant dream. i dreamed i was fishing--and i caught an enormous trout--such a trout as you only see in dreams! i was playing him--and i was so afraid the line would snap. i had just got out the gaff--and i thought to myself--in a moment-- satine. it wasn't a trout, it was vassilisa-- the actor. he caught vassilisa a long time ago. pepel [_angrily_] you can all go to the devil--and vassilisa with you-- [_kleshtch comes from the hall._] kleshtch. devilishly cold! the actor. why didn't you bring anna back? she'll freeze, out there-- kleshtch. natasha took her into the kitchen-- the actor. the old man will kick her out-- kleshtch [_sitting down to his work_] well--natasha will bring her in here-- satine. vassily--give me five kopecks! the actor [_to satine_] oh, you--always five kopecks--vassya--give us twenty kopecks-- pepel. i'd better give it to them now before they ask for a ruble. here you are! satine. gibraltar! there are no kindlier people in the world than thieves! kleshtch [_morosely_] they earn their money easily--they don't work-- satine. many earn it easily, but not many part with it so easily. work? make work pleasant--and maybe i'll work too. yes--maybe. when work's a pleasure, life's, too. when it's toil, then life is a drudge. [_to the actor_] you, sardanapalus! come on! the actor. let's go, nebuchadnezzar! i'll get as drunk as forty thousand topers! [_they leave._] pepel [_yawning_] well, how's your wife? kleshtch. it seems as if soon--[_pause._] pepel. now i look at you--seems to me all that filing and scraping of yours is useless. kleshtch. well--what else can i do? pepel. nothing. kleshtch. how can i live? pepel. people manage, somehow. kleshtch. them? call them people? muck and dregs--that's what they are! i'm a workman--i'm ashamed even to look at them. i've slaved since i was a child. . . . d'you think i shan't be able to tear myself away from here? i'll crawl out of here, even if i have to leave my skin behind--but crawl out i will! just wait . . . my wife'll die . . . i've lived here six months, and it seems like six years. pepel. nobody here's any worse off than you . . . say what you like . . . kleshtch. no worse is right. they've neither honor nor conscience. pepel [_indifferently_] what good does it do--honor or conscience? can you get them on their feet instead of on their uppers--through honor and conscience? honor and conscience are needed only by those who have power and energy . . . bubnoff [_coming back_] oh--i'm frozen . . . pepel. bubnoff! got a conscience? bubnoff. what? a conscience? pepel. exactly! bubnoff. what do i need a conscience for? i'm not rich. pepel. just what i said: honor and conscience are for the rich--right! and kleshtch is upbraiding us because we haven't any! bubnoff. why--did he want to borrow some of it? pepel. no--he has plenty of his own . . . bubnoff. oh--are you selling it? you won't sell much around here. but if you had some old boxes, i'd buy them--on credit . . . pepel [_didactically_] you're a jackass, andrushka! on the subject of conscience you ought to hear satine--or the baron . . . kleshtch. i've nothing to talk to them about! pepel. they have more brains than you--even if they're drunkards . . . bubnoff. he who can be drunk and wise at the same time is doubly blessed . . . pepel. satine says every man expects his neighbor to have a conscience, but--you see--it isn't to any one's advantage to have one--that's a fact. [_natasha enters, followed by luka who carries a stick in his hand, a bundle on his back, a kettle and a teapot slung from his belt._] luka. how are you, honest folks? pepel [_twisting his mustache_] aha--natasha! bubnoff [_to luka_] i was honest--up to spring before last. natasha. here's a new lodger . . . luka. oh, it's all the same to me. crooks--i don't mind them, either. for my part there's no bad flea--they're all black--and they all jump-- . . . well, dearie, show me where i can stow myself. natasha [_pointing to kitchen door_] go in there, grand-dad. luka. thanks, girlie! one place is like another--as long as an old fellow keeps warm, he keeps happy . . . pepel. what an amusing old codger you brought in, natasha! natasha. a hanged sight more interesting than you! . . . andrei, your wife's in the kitchen with us--come and fetch her after a while . . . kleshtch. all right--i will . . . natasha. and be a little more kind to her--you know she won't last much longer. kleshtch. i know . . . natasha. knowing won't do any good--it's terrible--dying--don't you understand? pepel. well--look at me--i'm not afraid . . . natasha. oh--you're a wonder, aren't you? bubnoff [_whistling_] oh--this thread's rotten . . . pepel. honestly, i'm not afraid! i'm ready to die right now. knife me to the heart--and i'll die without making a sound . . . even gladly--from such a pure hand . . . natasha [_going out_] spin that yarn for some one else! bubnoff. oh--that thread is rotten--rotten-- natasha [_at hallway door_] don't forget your wife, andrei! kleshtch. all right. pepel. she's a wonderful girl! bubnoff. she's all right. pepel. what makes her so curt with me? anyway--she'll come to no good here . . . bubnoff. through you--sure! pepel. why through me? i feel sorry for her . . . bubnoff. as the wolf for the lamb! pepel. you lie! i feel very sorry for her . . . very . . . very sorry! she has a tough life here--i can see that . . . kleshtch. just wait till vassilisa catches you talking to her! bubnoff. vassilisa? she won't give up so easily what belongs to her--she's a cruel woman! pepel [_stretching himself on the bunk_] you two prophets can go to hell! kleshtch. just wait--you'll see! luka [_singing in the kitchen_] "in the dark of the night the way is black . . ." kleshtch. another one who yelps! pepel. it's dreary! why do i feel so dreary? you live--and everything seems all right. but suddenly a cold chill goes through you--and then everything gets dreary . . . bubnoff. dreary? hm-hm-- pepel. yes--yes-- luka [_sings_] "the way is black . . ." pepel. old fellow! hey there! luka [_looking from kitchen door_] you call me? pepel. yes. don't sing! luka [_coming in_] you don't like it? pepel. when people sing well i like it-- luka. in other words--i don't sing well? pepel. evidently! luka. well, well--and i thought i sang well. that's always the way: a man imagines there's one thing he can do well, and suddenly he finds out that other people don't think so . . . pepel [_laughs_] that's right . . . bubnoff. first you say you feel dreary--and then you laugh! pepel. none of your business, raven! luka. who do they say feels dreary? pepel. i do. [_the baron enters._] luka. well, well--out there in the kitchen there's a girl reading and crying! that's so! her eyes are wet with tears . . . i say to her: "what's the matter, darling?" and she says: "it's so sad!" "what's so sad?" say i. "the book!" says she.--and that's how people spend their time. just because they're bored . . . the baron. she's a fool! pepel. have you had tea, baron? the baron. yes. go on! pepel. well--want me to open a bottle? the baron. of course. go on! pepel. drop on all fours, and bark like a dog! the baron. fool! what's the matter with you? are you drunk? pepel. go on--bark a little! it'll amuse me. you're an aristocrat. you didn't even consider us human formerly, did you? the baron. go on! pepel. well--and now i am making you bark like a dog--and you will bark, won't you? the baron. all right. i will. you jackass! what pleasure can you derive from it since i myself know that i have sunk almost lower than you. you should have made me drop on all fours in the days when i was still above you. bubnoff. that's right . . . luka. i say so, too! bubnoff. what's over, is over. remain only trivialities. we know no class distinctions here. we've shed all pride and self-respect. blood and bone--man--just plain man--that's what we are! luka. in other words, we're all equal . . . and you, friend, were you really a baron? the baron. who are you? a ghost? luka [_laughing_] i've seen counts and princes in my day--this is the first time i meet a baron--and one who's decaying--at that! pepel [_laughing_] baron, i blush for you! the baron. it's time you knew better, vassily . . . luka. hey-hey--i look at you, brothers--the life you're leading . . . bubnoff. such a life! as soon as the sun rises, our voices rise, too--in quarrels! the baron. we've all seen better days--yes! i used to wake up in the morning and drink my coffee in bed--coffee--with cream! yes-- luka. and yet we're all human beings. pretend all you want to, put on all the airs you wish, but man you were born, and man you must die. and as i watch i see that the wiser people get, the busier they get--and though from bad to worse, they still strive to improve--stubbornly-- the baron. who are you, old fellow? where do you come from? luka. i? the baron. are you a tramp? luka. we're all of us tramps--why--i've heard said that the very earth we walk on is nothing but a tramp in the universe. the baron [_severely_] perhaps. but have you a passport? luka [_after a short pause_] and what are you--a police inspector? pepel [_delighted_] you scored, old fellow! well, barosha, you got it this time! bubnoff. yes--our little aristocrat got his! the baron [_embarrassed_] what's the matter? i was only joking, old man. why, brother, i haven't a passport, either. bubnoff. you lie! the baron. oh--well--i have some sort of papers--but they have no value-- luka. they're papers just the same--and no papers are any good-- pepel. baron--come on to the saloon with me-- the baron. i'm ready. good-bye, old man--you old scamp-- luka. maybe i am one, brother-- pepel [_near doorway_] come on--come on! [_leaves, baron following him quickly._] luka. was he really once a baron? bubnoff. who knows? a gentleman--? yes. that much he's even now. occasionally it sticks out. he never got rid of the habit. luka. nobility is like small-pox. a man may get over it--but it leaves marks . . . bubnoff. he's all right all the same--occasionally he kicks--as he did about your passport . . . [_alyoshka comes in, slightly drunk, with a concertina in his hand, whistling._] alyoshka. hey there, lodgers! bubnoff. what are you yelling for? alyoshka. excuse me--i beg your pardon! i'm a well-bred man-- bubnoff. on a spree again? alyoshka. right you are! a moment ago medyakin, the precinct captain, threw me out of the police station and said: "look here--i don't want as much as a smell of you to stay in the streets--d'you hear?" i'm a man of principles, and the boss croaks at me--and what's a boss anyway--pah!--it's all bosh--the boss is a drunkard. i don't make any demands on life. i want nothing--that's all. offer me one ruble, offer me twenty--it doesn't affect me. [_nastya comes from the kitchen_] offer me a million--i won't take it! and to think that i, a respectable man, should be ordered about by a pal of mine--and he a drunkard! i won't have it--i won't! [_nastya stands in the doorway, shaking her head at alyoshka._] luka [_good-naturedly_] well, boy, you're a bit confused-- bubnoff. aren't men fools! alyoshka [_stretches out on the floor_] here, eat me up alive--and i don't want anything. i'm a desperate man. show me one better! why am i worse than others? there! medyakin said: "if you show yourself on the streets i smash your face!" and yet i shall go out--i'll go--and stretch out in the middle of the street--let them choke me--i don't want a thing! nastya. poor fellow--only a boy--and he's already putting on such airs-- alyoshka [_kneeling before her_] lady! mademoiselle! _parlez français--? prix courrant?_ i'm on a spree-- nastya [_in a loud whisper_] vassilisa! vassilisa [_opens door quickly; to alyoshka_] you here again? alyoshka. how do you do--? come in--you're welcome-- vassilisa. i told you, young puppy, that not a shadow of you should stick around here--and you're back--eh? alyoshka. vassilisa karpovna . . . shall i tune up a funeral march for you? vassilisa [_seizing him by the shoulders_] get out! alyoshka [_moving towards the door_] wait--you can't put me out this way! i learned this funeral march a little while ago! it's refreshing music . . . wait--you can't put me out like that! vassilisa. i'll show whether i can or not. i'll rouse the whole street against you--you foul-mouthed creature--you're too young to bark about me-- alyoshka [_running out_] all right--i'll go-- vassilisa. look out--i'll get you yet! alyoshka [_opens the door and shouts_] vassilisa karpovna--i'm not afraid of you--[_hides_] [_luka laughs._] vassilisa. who are you? luka. a passer-by--a traveler . . . vassilisa. stopping for the night or going to stay here? luka. i'll see. vassilisa. have you a passport? luka. yes. vassilisa. give it to me. luka. i'll bring it over to your house-- vassilisa. call yourself a traveler? if you'd say a tramp--that would be nearer the truth-- luka [_sighing_] you're not very kindly, mother! [_vassilisa goes to door that leads to pepel's room, alyoshka pokes his head through the kitchen door._] alyoshka. has she left? vassilisa [_turning around_] are you still here? [_alyoshka disappears, whistling. nastya and luka laugh._] bubnoff [_to vassilisa_] he isn't here-- vassilisa. who? bubnoff. vaska. vassilisa. did i ask you about him? bubnoff. i noticed you were looking around-- vassilisa. i am looking to see if things are in order, you see? why aren't the floors swept yet? how often did i give orders to keep the house clean? bubnoff. it's the actor's turn to sweep-- vassilisa. never mind whose turn it is! if the health inspector comes and fines me, i'll throw out the lot of you-- bubnoff [_calmly_] then how are you going to earn your living? vassilisa. i don't want a speck of dirt! [_goes to kitchen; to nastya_] what are you hanging round here for? why's your face all swollen up? why are you standing there like a dummy? go on--sweep the floor! did you see natalia? was she here? nastya. i don't know--i haven't seen her . . . vassilisa. bubnoff! was my sister here? bubnoff. she brought him along. vassilisa. that one--was he home? bubnoff. vassily? yes--natalia was here talking to kleshtch-- vassilisa. i'm not asking you whom she talked to. dirt everywhere--filth--oh, you swine! mop it all up--do you hear? [_exit rapidly_] bubnoff. what a savage beast she is! luka. she's a lady that means business! nastya. you grow to be an animal, leading such a life--any human being tied to such a husband as hers . . . bubnoff. well--that tie isn't worrying her any-- luka. does she always have these fits? bubnoff. always. you see, she came to find her lover--but he isn't home-- luka. i guess she was hurt. oh-ho! everybody is trying to be boss--and is threatening everybody else with all kinds of punishment--and still there's no order in life . . . and no cleanliness-- bubnoff. all the world likes order--but some people's brains aren't fit for it. all the same--the room should be swept--nastya--you ought to get busy! nastya. oh, certainly? anything else? think i'm your servant? [_silence_] i'm going to get drunk to-night--dead-drunk! bubnoff. fine business! luka. why do you want to get drunk, girlie? a while ago you were crying--and now you say you'll get drunk-- nastya [_defiantly_] i'll drink--then i cry again--that's all there's to it! bubnoff. that's nothing! luka. but for what reason--tell me! every pimple has a cause! [_nastya remains silent, shaking her head_] oh--you men--what's to become of you? all right--i'll sweep the place. where's your broom? bubnoff. behind the door--in the hall-- [_luka goes into the hall._] nastinka! nastya. yes? bubnoff. why did vassilisa jump on alyoshka? nastya. he told her that vaska was tired of her and was going to get rid of her--and that he's going to make up to natasha--i'll go away from here--i'll find another lodging-house-- bubnoff. why? where? nastya. i'm sick of this--i'm not wanted here! bubnoff [_calmly_] you're not wanted anywhere--and, anyway, all people on earth are superfluous-- [_nastya shakes her head. rises and slowly, quietly, leaves the cellar. miedviedieff comes in. luka, with the broom, follows him._] miedviedieff. i don't think i know you-- luka. how about the others--d'you know them all? miedviedieff. i must know everybody in my precinct. but i don't know you. luka. that's because, uncle, the whole world can't stow itself away in your precinct--some of it was bound to remain outside . . . [_goes into kitchen_] miedviedieff [_crosses to bubnoff_] it's true--my precinct is rather small--yet it's worse than any of the very largest. just now, before getting off duty, i had to bring alyoshka, the shoemaker, to the station house. just imagine--there he was, stretched right in the middle of the street, playing his concertina and yelping: "i want nothing, nothing!" horses going past all the time--and with all the traffic going on, he could easily have been run over--and so on! he's a wild youngster--so i just collared him--he likes to make mischief-- bubnoff. coming to play checkers to-night? miedviedieff. yes--i'll come--how's vaska? bubnoff. same as ever-- miedviedieff. meaning--he's getting along--? bubnoff. why shouldn't he? he's able to get along all right. miedviedieff [_doubtfully_] why shouldn't he? [_luka goes into hallway, carrying a pail_] m-yes--there's a lot of talk about vaska. haven't you heard? bubnoff. i hear all sorts of gossip . . . miedviedieff. there seems to have been some sort of talk concerning vassilisa. haven't you heard about it? bubnoff. what? miedviedieff. oh--why--generally speaking. perhaps you know--and lie. everybody knows--[_severely_] you mustn't lie, brother! bubnoff. why should i lie? miedviedieff. that's right. dogs! they say that vaska and vassilisa . . . but what's that to me? i'm not her father. i'm her uncle. why should they ridicule me? [_kvashnya comes in_] what are people coming to? they laugh at everything. aha--you here? kvashnya. well--my love-sick garrison--? bubnoff! he came up to me again on the marketplace and started pestering me about marrying him . . . bubnoff. go to it! why not? he has money and he's still a husky fellow. miedviedieff. me--? i should say so! kvashnya. you ruffian! don't you dare touch my sore spot! i've gone through it once already, darling. marriage to a woman is just like jumping through a hole in the ice in winter. you do it once, and you remember it the rest of your life . . . miedviedieff. wait! there are different breeds of husbands . . . kvashnya. but there's only one of me! when my beloved husband kicked the bucket, i spent the whole day all by my lonely--just bursting with joy. i sat and simply couldn't believe it was true. . . . miedviedieff. if your husband beat you without cause, you should have complained to the police. kvashnya. i complained to god for eight years--and he didn't help. miedviedieff. nowadays the law forbids to beat your wife . . . all is very strict these days--there's law and order everywhere. you can't beat up people without due cause. if you beat them to maintain discipline--all right . . . luka [_comes in with anna_] well--we finally managed to get here after all. oh, you! why do you, weak as you are, walk about alone? where's your bunk? anna [_pointing_] thank you, grand-dad. kvashnya. there--she's married--look at her! luka. the little woman is in very bad shape . . . she was creeping along the hallway, clinging to the wall and moaning--why do you leave her by herself? kvashnya. oh, pure carelessness on our part, little father--forgive us! her maid, it appears, went out for a walk . . . luka. go on--poke fun at me . . . but, all the same, how can you neglect a human being like that? no matter who or what, every human life has its worth . . . miedviedieff. there should be supervision! suppose she died suddenly--? that would cause a lot of bother . . . we must look after her! luka. true, sergeant! miedviedieff. well--yes--though i'm not a sergeant--ah--yet! luka. no! but you carry yourself most martially! [_noise of shuffling feet is heard in the hallway. muffled cries._] miedviedieff. what now--a row? bubnoff. sounds like it? kvashnya. i'll go and see . . . miedviedieff. i'll go, too. it is my duty! why separate people when they fight? they'll stop sooner or later of their own accord. one gets tired of fighting. why not let them fight all they want to--freely? they wouldn't fight half as often--if they'd remember former beatings . . . bubnoff [_climbing down from his bunk_] why don't you speak to your superiors about it? kostilyoff [_throws open the door and shouts_] abram! come quick--vassilisa is killing natasha--come quick! [_kvashnya, miedviedieff, and bubnoff rush into hallway; luka looks after them, shaking his head._] anna. oh god--poor little natasha . . . luka. who's fighting out there? anna. our landladies--they're sisters . . . luka [_crossing to anna_] why? anna. oh--for no reason--except that they're both fat and healthy . . . luka. what's your name? anna. anna . . . i look at you . . . you're like my father--my dear father . . . you're as gentle as he was--and as soft. . . . luka. soft! yes! they pounded me till i got soft! [_laughs tremulously_] curtain. [portrait: maxim gorky: russia's greatest living playwright] act two. _same as act i--night._ _on the bunks near the stove satine, the baron, krivoy zob, and the tartar play cards. kleshtch and the actor watch them. bubnoff, on his bunk, is playing checkers with miedviedieff. luka sits on a stool by anna's bedside. the place is lit by two lamps, one on the wall near the card players, the other is on bubnoff's bunk._ the tartar. i'll play one more game--then i'll stop . . . bubnoff. zob! sing! [_he sings_] "the sun rises and sets . . ." zob [_joining in_] "but my prison is dark, dark . . ." the tartar [_to satine_] shuffle the cards--and shuffle them well. we know your kind-- zob and bubnoff [_together_] "day and night the wardens watch beneath my window . . ." anna. blows--insults--i've had nothing but that all my life long . . . luka. don't worry, little mother! miedviedieff. look where you're moving! bubnoff. oh, yes--that's right . . . the tartar [_threatening satine with his fist_] you're trying to palm a card? i've seen you--you scoundrel . . . zob. stop it, hassan! they'll skin us anyway . . . come on, bubnoff! anna. i can't remember a single day when i didn't go hungry . . . i've been afraid, waking, eating, and sleeping . . . all my life i've trembled--afraid i wouldn't get another bite . . . all my life i've been in rags--all through my wretched life--and why . . . ? luka. yes, yes, child--you're tired--never you mind! the actor [_to zob_] play the jack--the jack, devil take you! the baron. and we play the king! kleshtch. they always win. satine. such is our habit. miedviedieff. i have the queen! bubnoff. and so have i! anna. i'm dying . . . kleshtch. look, look! prince, throw up the game--throw it up, i tell you! the actor. can't he play without your assistance? the baron. look out, andrushka, or i'll beat the life out of you! the tartar. deal once more--the pitcher went after water--and got broke--and so did i! [_kleshtch shakes his head and crosses to bubnoff._] anna. i keep on thinking--is it possible that i'll suffer in the other world as i did in this--is it possible? there, too? luka. nothing of the sort! don't you disturb yourself! you'll rest there . . . be patient. we all suffer, dear, each in our own way. . . . [_rises and goes quickly into kitchen_] bubnoff [_sings_] "watch as long as you please . . ." zob. "i shan't run away . . ." both [_together_] "i long to be free, free-- alas! i cannot break my chains. . . ." the tartar [_yells_] that card was up his sleeve! the baron [_embarrassed_] do you want me to shove it up your nose? the actor [_emphatically_] prince! you're mistaken--nobody--ever . . . the tartar. i saw it! you cheat! i won't play! satine [_gathering up the cards_] leave us alone, hassan . . . you knew right along that we're cheats--why did you play with us? the baron. he lost forty kopecks and he yelps as if he had lost a fortune! and a prince at that! the tartar [_excitedly_] then play honest! satine. what for? the tartar. what do you mean "what for"? satine. exactly. what for? the tartar. don't you know? satine. i don't. do you? [_the tartar spits out, furiously; the others laugh at him._] zob [_good-naturedly_] you're a funny fellow, hassan! try to understand this! if they should begin to live honestly, they'd die of starvation inside of three days. the tartar. that's none of my business. you must live honestly! zob. they did you brown! come and let's have tea. . . . [_sings_] "o my chains, my heavy chains . . ." bubnoff [_sings_] "you're my steely, clanking wardens . . ." zob. come on, hassanka! [_leaves the room, singing_] "i cannot tear you, cannot break you . . ." [_the tartar shakes his fist threateningly at the baron, and follows the other out of the room._] satine [_to baron, laughing_] well, your imperial highness, you've again sat down magnificently in a mud puddle! you've learned a lot--but you're an ignoramus when it comes to palming a card. the baron [_spreading his hands_] the devil knows how it happened. . . . the actor. you're not gifted--you've no faith in yourself--and without that you can never accomplish anything . . . miedviedieff. i've one queen--and you've two--oh, well . . . bubnoff. one's enough if she has brains--play! kleshtch. you lost, abram ivanovitch? miedviedieff. none of your business--see? shut up! satine. i've won fifty-three kopecks. the actor. give me three of them . . . though, what'll i do with them? luka [_coming from kitchen_] well--the tartar was fleeced all right, eh? going to have some vodka? the baron. come with us. satine. i wonder what you'll be like when you're drunk. luka. same as when i'm sober. the actor. come on, old man--i'll recite verses for you . . . luka. what? the actor. verses. don't you understand? luka. verses? and what do i want with verses? the actor. sometimes they're funny--sometimes sad. satine. well, poet, are you coming? [_exit with the baron_] the actor. i'm coming. i'll join you. for instance, old man, here's a bit of verse--i forget how it begins--i forget . . . [_brushes his hand across his forehead_] bubnoff. there! your queen is lost--go on, play! miedviedieff. i made the wrong move. the actor. formerly, before my organism was poisoned with alcohol, old man, i had a good memory. but now it's all over with me, brother. i used to declaim these verses with tremendous success--thunders of applause . . . you have no idea what applause means . . . it goes to your head like vodka! i'd step out on the stage--stand this way--[_strikes a pose_]--i'd stand there and . . . [_pause_] i can't remember a word--i can't remember! my favorite verses--isn't it ghastly, old man? luka. yes--is there anything worse than forgetting what you loved? your very soul is in the thing you love! the actor. i've drunk my soul away, old man--brother, i'm lost . . . and why? because i had no faith. . . . i'm done with . . . luka. well--then--cure yourself! nowadays they have a cure for drunkards. they treat you free of charge, brother. there's a hospital for drunkards--where they're treated for nothing. they've owned up, you see, that even a drunkard is a human being, and they're only too glad to help him get well. well--then--go to it! the actor [_thoughtfully_] where? where is it? luka. oh--in some town or other . . . what do they call it--? i'll tell you the name presently--only, in the meanwhile, get ready. don't drink so much! take yourself in hand--and bear up! and then, when you're cured, you'll begin life all over again. sounds good, brother, doesn't it, to begin all over again? well--make up your mind! the actor [_smiling_] all over again--from the very beginning--that's fine . . . yes . . . all over again . . . [_laughs_] well--then--i can, can't i? luka. why not? a human being can do anything--if he only makes up his mind. the actor [_suddenly, as if coming out of a trance_] you're a queer bird! see you anon! [_whistles_] old man--_au revoir!_ [_exit_] anna. grand-dad! luka. yes, little mother? anna. talk to me. luka [_close to her_] come on--let's chat . . . [_kleshtch, glancing around, silently walks over to his wife, looks at her, and makes queer gestures with his hands, as though he wanted to say something._] luka. what is it, brother? kleshtch [_quietly_] nothing . . . [_crosses slowly to hallway door, stands on the threshold for a few seconds, and exit._] luka [_looking after him_] hard on your man, isn't it? anna. he doesn't concern me much . . . luka. did he beat you? anna. worse than that--it's he who's killed me-- bubnoff. my wife used to have a lover--the scoundrel--how clever he was at checkers! miedviedieff. hm-hm-- anna. grand-dad! talk to me, darling--i feel so sick . . . luka. never mind--it's always like this before you die, little dove--never mind, dear! just have faith! once you're dead, you'll have peace--always. there's nothing to be afraid of--nothing. quiet! peace! lie quietly! death wipes out everything. death is kindly. you die--and you rest--that's what they say. it is true, dear! because--where can we find rest on this earth? [_pepel enters. he is slightly drunk, dishevelled, and sullen. sits down on bunk near door, and remains silent and motionless._] anna. and how is it--there? more suffering? luka. nothing of the kind! no suffering! trust me! rest--nothing else! they'll lead you into god's presence, and they'll say: "dear god! behold! here is anna, thy servant!" miedviedieff [_sternly_] how do you know what they'll say up there? oh, you . . . [_pepel, on hearing miedviedieff's voice, raises his head and listens._] luka. apparently i do know, mr. sergeant! miedviedieff [_conciliatory_] yes--it's your own affair--though i'm not exactly a sergeant--yet-- bubnoff. i jump two! miedviedieff. damn--play! luka. and the lord will look at you gently and tenderly and he'll say: "i know this anna!" then he'll say: "take anna into paradise. let her have peace. i know. her life on earth was hard. she is very weary. let anna rest in peace!" anna [_choking_] grandfather--if it were only so--if there were only rest and peace . . . luka. there won't be anything else! trust me! die in joy and not in grief. death is to us like a mother to small children . . . anna. but--perhaps--perhaps i get well . . . ? luka [_laughing_] why--? just to suffer more? anna. but--just to live a little longer . . . just a little longer! since there'll be no suffering hereafter, i could bear it a little longer down here . . . luka. there'll be nothing in the hereafter . . . but only . . . pepel [_rising_] maybe yes--maybe no! anna [_frightened_] oh--god! luka. hey--adonis! miedviedieff. who's that yelping? pepel [_crossing over to him_] i! what of it? miedviedieff. you yelp needlessly--that's what! people ought to have some dignity! pepel. block-head! and that's an uncle for you--ho-ho! luka [_to pepel, in an undertone_] look here--don't shout--this woman's dying--her lips are already grey--don't disturb her! pepel. i've respect for you, grand-dad. you're all right, you are! you lie well, and you spin pleasant yarns. go on lying, brother--there's little fun in this world . . . bubnoff. is the woman really dying? luka. you think i'm joking? bubnoff. that means she'll stop coughing. her cough was very disturbing. i jump two! miedviedieff. i'd like to murder you! pepel. abramka! miedviedieff. i'm not abramka to you! pepel. abrashka! is natasha ill? miedviedieff. none of your business! pepel. come--tell me! did vassilisa beat her up very badly? miedviedieff. that's none of your business, either! it's a family affair! who are you anyway? pepel. whoever i am, you'll never see natashka again if i choose! miedviedieff [_throwing up the game_] what's that? who are you alluding to? my niece by any chance? you thief! pepel. a thief whom you were never able to catch! miedviedieff. wait--i'll catch you yet--you'll see--sooner than you think! pepel. if you catch me, god help your whole nest! do you think i'll keep quiet before the examining magistrate? every wolf howls! they'll ask me: "who made you steal and showed you where?" "mishka kostilyoff and his wife!" "who was your fence?" "mishka kostilyoff and his wife!" miedviedieff. you lie! no one will believe you! pepel. they'll believe me all right--because it's the truth! and i'll drag you into it, too. ha! i'll ruin the lot of you--devils--just watch! miedviedieff [_confused_] you lie! you lie! and what harm did i do to you, you mad dog? pepel. and what good did you ever do me? luka. that's right! miedviedieff [_to luka_] well--what are you croaking about? is it any of your business? this is a family matter! bubnoff [_to luka_] leave them alone! what do we care if they twist each other's tails? luka [_peacefully_] i meant no harm. all i said was that if a man isn't good to you, then he's acting wrong . . . miedviedieff [_uncomprehending_] now then--we all of us here know each other--but you--who are you? [_frowns and exit_] luka. the cavalier is peeved! oh-ho, brothers, i see your affairs are a bit tangled up! pepel. he'll run to complain about us to vassilisa . . . bubnoff. you're a fool, vassily. you're very bold these days, aren't you? watch out! it's all right to be bold when you go gathering mushrooms, but what good is it here? they'll break your neck before you know it! pepel. well--not as fast as all that! you don't catch us yaroslavl boys napping! if it's going to be war, we'll fight . . . luka. look here, boy, you really ought to go away from here-- pepel. where? please tell me! luka. go to siberia! pepel. if i go to siberia, it'll be at the tsar's expense! luka. listen! you go just the same! you can make your own way there. they need your kind out there . . . pepel. my way is clear. my father spent all his life in prison, and i inherited the trait. even when i was a small child, they called me thief--thief's son. luka. but siberia is a fine country--a land of gold. any one who has health and strength and brains can live there like a cucumber in a hot-house. pepel. old man, why do you always tell lies? luka. what? pepel. are you deaf? i ask--why do you always lie? luka. what do i lie about? pepel. about everything. according to you, life's wonderful everywhere--but you lie . . . why? luka. try to believe me. go and see for yourself. and some day you'll thank me for it. what are you hanging round here for? and, besides, why is truth so important to you? just think! truth may spell death to you! pepel. it's all one to me! if that--let it be that! luka. oh--what a madman! why should you kill yourself? bubnoff. what are you two jawing about, anyway? i don't understand. what kind of truth do you want, vaska? and what for? you know the truth about yourself--and so does everybody else . . . pepel. just a moment! don't crow! let him tell me! listen, old man! is there a god? [_luka smiles silently._] bubnoff. people just drift along--like shavings on a stream. when a house is built--the shavings are thrown away! pepel. well? is there a god? tell me. luka [_in a low voice_] if you have faith, there is; if you haven't, there isn't . . . whatever you believe in, exists . . . [_pepel looks at luka in staring surprise._] bubnoff. i'm going to have tea--come on over to the restaurant! luka [_to pepel_] what are you staring at? pepel. oh--just because! wait now--you mean to say . . . bubnoff. well--i'm off. [_goes to door and runs into vassilisa._] pepel. so--you . . . vassilisa [_to bubnoff_] is nastasya home? bubnoff. no. [_exit_] pepel. oh--you've come--? vassilisa [_crossing to anna_] is she alive yet? luka. don't disturb her! vassilisa. what are you loafing around here for? luka. i'll go--if you want me to . . . vassilisa [_turning towards pepel's room_] vassily! i've some business with you . . . [_luka goes to hallway door, opens it, and shuts it loudly, then warily climbs into a bunk, and from there to the top of the stove._] vassilisa [_calling from pepel's room_] vaska--come here! pepel. i won't come--i don't want to . . . vassilisa. why? what are you angry about? pepel. i'm sick of the whole thing . . . vassilisa. sick of me, too? pepel. yes! of you, too! [_vassilisa draws her shawl about her, pressing her hands over her breast. crosses to anna, looks carefully through the bed curtains, and returns to pepel._] well--out with it! vassilisa. what do you want me to say? i can't force you to be loving, and i'm not the sort to beg for kindness. thank you for telling me the truth. pepel. what truth? vassilisa. that you're sick of me--or isn't it the truth? [_pepel looks at her silently. she turns to him_] what are you staring at? don't you recognize me? pepel [_sighing_] you're beautiful, vassilisa! [_she puts her arm about his neck, but he shakes it off_] but i never gave my heart to you. . . . i've lived with you and all that--but i never really liked you . . . vassilisa [_quietly_] that so? well--? pepel. what is there to talk, about? nothing. go away from me! vassilisa. taken a fancy to some one else? pepel. none of your business! suppose i have--i wouldn't ask you to be my match-maker! vassilisa [_significantly_] that's too bad . . . perhaps i might arrange a match . . . pepel [_suspiciously_] who with? vassilisa. you know--why do you pretend? vassily--let me be frank. [_with lower voice_] i won't deny it--you've offended me . . . it was like a bolt from the blue . . . you said you loved me--and then all of a sudden . . . pepel. it wasn't sudden at all. it's been a long time since i . . . woman, you've no soul! a woman must have a soul . . . we men are beasts--we must be taught--and you, what have you taught me--? vassilisa. never mind the past! i know--no man owns his own heart--you don't love me any longer . . . well and good, it can't be helped! pepel. so that's over. we part peaceably, without a row--as it should be! vassilisa. just a moment! all the same, when i lived with you, i hoped you'd help me out of this swamp--i thought you'd free me from my husband and my uncle--from all this life--and perhaps, vassya, it wasn't you whom i loved--but my hope--do you understand? i waited for you to drag me out of this mire . . . pepel. you aren't a nail--and i'm not a pair of pincers! i thought you had brains--you are so clever--so crafty . . . vassilisa [_leaning closely towards him_] vassa--let's help each other! pepel. how? vassilisa [_low and forcibly_] my sister--i know you've fallen for her. . . . pepel. and that's why you beat her up, like the beast you are! look out, vassilisa! don't you touch her! vassilisa. wait. don't get excited. we can do everything quietly and pleasantly. you want to marry her. i'll give you money . . . three hundred rubles--even more than that . . . pepel [_moving away from her_] stop! what do you mean? vassilisa. rid me of my husband! take that noose from around my neck . . . pepel [_whistling softly_] so that's the way the land lies! you certainly planned it cleverly . . . in other words, the grave for the husband, the gallows for the lover, and as for yourself . . . vassilisa. vassya! why the gallows? it doesn't have to be yourself--but one of your pals! and supposing it were yourself--who'd know? natalia--just think--and you'll have money--you go away somewhere . . . you free me forever--and it'll be very good for my sister to be away from me--the sight of her enrages me. . . . i get furious with her on account of you, and i can't control myself. i tortured the girl--i beat her up--beat her up so that i myself cried with pity for her--but i'll beat her--and i'll go on beating her! pepel. beast! bragging about your beastliness? vassilisa. i'm not bragging--i speak the truth. think now, vassa. you've been to prison twice because of my husband--through his greed. he clings to me like a bed-bug--he's been sucking the life out of me for the last four years--and what sort of a husband is he to me? he's forever abusing natasha--calls her a beggar--he's just poison, plain poison, to every one . . . pepel. you spin your yarn cleverly . . . vassilisa. everything i say is true. only a fool could be as blind as you. . . . [_kostilyoff enters stealthily and comes forward noisily._] pepel [_to vassilisa_] oh--go away! vassilisa. think it over! [_sees her husband_] what? you? following me? [_pepel leaps up and stares at kostilyoff savagely._] kostilyoff. it's i, i! so the two of you were here alone--you were--ah--conversing? [_suddenly stamps his feet and screams_] vassilisa--you bitch! you beggar! you damned hag! [_frightened by his own screams which are met by silence and indifference on the part of the others_] forgive me, o lord . . . vassilisa--again you've led me into the path of sin. . . . i've been looking for you everywhere. it's time to go to bed. you forgot to fill the lamps--oh, you . . . beggar! swine! [_shakes his trembling fist at her, while vassilisa slowly goes to door, glancing at pepel over her shoulder_] pepel [_to kostilyoff_] go away--clear out of here-- kostilyoff [_yelling_] what? i? the boss? i get out? you thief! pepel [_sullenly_] go away, mishka! kostilyoff. don't you dare--i--i'll show you. [_pepel seizes him by the collar and shakes him. from the stove come loud noises and yawns. pepel releases kostilyoff who runs into the hallway, screaming._] pepel [_jumping on a bunk_] who is it? who's on the stove? luka [_raising his head_] eh? pepel. you? luka [_undisturbed_] i--i myself--oh, dear jesus! pepel [_shuts hallway door, looks for the wooden closing bar, but can't find it_] the devil! come down, old man! luka. i'm climbing down--all right . . . pepel [_roughly_] what did you climb on that stove for? luka. where was i to go? pepel. why--didn't you go out into the hall? luka. the hall's too cold for an old fellow like myself, brother. pepel. you overheard? luka. yes--i did. how could i help it? am i deaf? well, my boy, happiness is coming your way. real, good fortune i call it! pepel [_suspiciously_] what good fortune--? luka. in so far as i was lying on the stove . . . pepel. why did you make all that noise? luka. because i was getting warm . . . it was your good luck . . . i thought if only the boy wouldn't make a mistake and choke the old man . . . pepel. yes--i might have done it . . . how terrible . . . luka. small wonder! it isn't difficult to make a mistake of that sort. pepel [_smiling_] what's the matter? did you make the same sort of mistake once upon a time? luka. boy, listen to me. send that woman out of your life! don't let her near you! her husband--she'll get rid of him herself--and in a shrewder way than you could--yes! don't you listen to that devil! look at me! i am bald-headed--know why? because of all these women. . . . perhaps i knew more women than i had hair on the top of my head--but this vassilisa--she's worse than the plague. . . . pepel. i don't understand . . . i don't know whether to thank you--or--well . . . luka. don't say a word! you won't improve on what i said. listen: take the one you like by the arm, and march out of here--get out of here--clean out . . . pepel [_sadly_] i can't understand people. who is kind and who isn't? it's all a mystery to me . . . luka. what's there to understand? there's all breeds of men . . . they all live as their hearts tell them . . . good to-day, bad to-morrow! but if you really care for that girl . . . take her away from here and that's all there is to it. otherwise go away alone . . . you're young--you're in no hurry for a wife . . . pepel [_taking him by the shoulder_] tell me! why do you say all this? luka. wait. let me go. i want a look at anna . . . she was coughing so terribly . . . [_goes to anna's bed, pulls the curtains, looks, touches her. pepel thoughtfully and distraught, follows him with his eyes_] merciful jesus christ! take into thy keeping the soul of this woman anna, new-comer amongst the blessed! pepel [_softly_] is she dead? [_without approaching, he stretches himself and looks at the bed._] luka [_gently_] her sufferings are over! where's her husband? pepel. in the saloon, most likely . . . luka. well--he'll have to be told . . . pepel [_shuddering_] i don't like corpses! luka [_going to door_] why should you like them? it's the living who demand our love--the living . . . pepel. i'm coming with you . . . luka. are you afraid? pepel. i don't like it . . . [_they go out quickly. the stage is empty and silent for a few moments. behind the door is heard a dull, staccato, incomprehensible noise. then the actor enters._] the actor [_stands at the open door, supporting himself against the jamb, and shouts_] hey, old man--where are you--? i just remembered--listen . . . [_takes two staggering steps forward and, striking a pose, recites_] "good people! if the world cannot find a path to holy truth, glory be to the madman who will enfold all humanity in a golden dream . . ." [_natasha appears in the doorway behind the actor_] old man! [_recites_] "if to-morrow the sun were to forget to light our earth, to-morrow then some madman's thought would bathe the world in sunshine. . . ." natasha [_laughing_] scarecrow! you're drunk! the actor [_turns to her_] oh--it's you? where's the old man, the dear old man? not a soul here, seems to me . . . natasha, farewell--right--farewell! natasha [_entering_] don't wish me farewell, before you've wished me how-d'you-do! the actor [_barring her way_] i am going. spring will come--and i'll be here no longer-- natasha. wait a moment! where do you propose going? the actor. in search of a town--to be cured--and you, ophelia, must go away! take the veil! just imagine--there's a hospital to cure--ah--organisms for drunkards--a wonderful hospital--built of marble--with marble floors . . . light--clean--food--and all gratis! and a marble floor--yes! i'll find it--i'll get cured--and then i shall start life anew. . . . i'm on my way to regeneration, as king lear said. natasha, my stage name is . . . svertchkoff--zavoloushski . . . do you realize how painful it is to lose one's name? even dogs have their names . . . [_natasha carefully passes the actor, stops at anna's bed and looks._] to be nameless--is not to exist! natasha. look, my dear--why--she's dead. . . . the actor [_shakes his head_] impossible . . . natasha [_stepping back_] so help me god--look . . . bubnoff [_appearing in doorway_] what is there to look at? natasha. anna--she's dead! bubnoff. that means--she's stopped coughing! [_goes to anna's bed, looks, and returns to his bunk_] we must tell kleshtch--it's his business to know . . . the actor. i'll go--i'll say to him--she lost her name--[_exit_] natasha. [_in centre of room_] i, too--some day--i'll be found in the cellar--dead. . . . bubnoff [_spreading out some rags on his bunk_] what's that? what are you muttering? natasha. nothing much . . . bubnoff. waiting for vaska, eh? take care--vassilisa'll break your head! natasha. isn't it the same who breaks it? i'd much rather he'd do it! bubnoff [_lying down_] well--that's your own affair . . . natasha. it's best for her to be dead--yet it's a pity . . . oh, lord--why do we live? bubnoff. it's so with all . . . we're born, live, and die--and i'll die, too--and so'll you--what's there to be gloomy about? [_enter luka, the tartar, zob, and kleshtch. the latter comes after the others, slowly, shrunk up._] natasha. sh-sh! anna! zob. we've heard--god rest her soul . . . the tartar [_to kleshtch_] we must take her out of here. out into the hall! this is no place for corpses--but for the living . . . kleshtch [_quietly_] we'll take her out-- [_everybody goes to the bed, kleshtch looks at his wife ever the others' shoulders._] zob [_to the tartar_] you think she'll smell? i don't think she will--she dried up while she was still alive . . . natasha. god! if they'd only a little pity . . . if only some one would say a kindly word--oh, you . . . luka. don't be hurt, girl--never mind! why and how should we pity the dead? come, dear! we don't pity the living--we can't even pity our own selves--how can we? bubnoff [_yawning_] and, besides, when you're dead, no word will help you--when you're still alive, even sick, it may. . . . the tartar [_stepping aside_] the police must be notified . . . zob. the police--must be done! kleshtch! did you notify the police? kleshtch. no--she's got to be buried--and all i have is forty kopecks-- zob. well--you'll have to borrow then--otherwise we'll take up a collection . . . one'll give five kopecks, others as much as they can. but the police must be notified at once--or they'll think you killed her or god knows what not . . . [_crosses to the tartar's bunk and prepares to lie down by his side._] natasha [_going to bubnoff's bunk_] now--i'll dream of her . . . i always dream of the dead . . . i'm afraid to go out into the hall by myself--it's dark there . . . luka [_following her_] you better fear the living--i'm telling you . . . natasha. take me across the hall, grandfather. luka. come on--come on--i'll take you across-- [_they go away. pause._] zob [_to the tartar_] oh-ho! spring will soon be here, little brother, and it'll be quite warm. in the villages the peasants are already making ready their ploughs and harrows, preparing to till . . . and we . . . hassan? snoring already? damned mohammedan! bubnoff. tartars love sleep! kleshtch [_in centre of room, staring in front of him_] what am i to do now? zob. lie down and sleep--that's all . . . kleshtch [_softly_] but--she . . . how about . . . [_no one answers him. satine and the actor enter._] the actor [_yelling_] old man! come here, my trusted duke of kent! satine. miklookha-maklai is coming--ho-ho! the actor. it has been decided upon! old man, where's the town--where are you? satine. fata morgana, the old man bilked you from top to bottom! there's nothing--no towns--no people--nothing at all! the actor. you lie! the tartar [_jumping up_] where's the boss? i'm going to the boss. if i can't sleep, i won't pay! corpses--drunkards . . . [_exit quickly_] [_satine looks after him and whistles._] bubnoff [_in a sleepy voice_] go to bed, boys--be quiet . . . night is for sleep . . . the actor. yes--so--there's a corpse here. . . . "our net fished up a corpse. . . ." verses--by béranger. . . . satine [_screams_] the dead can't hear . . . the dead do not feel--scream!--roar! . . . the dead don't hear! [_in the doorway appears luka._] curtain. act three. _"the waste," a yard strewn with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. back, a high brick wall which shuts out the sight of the sky. near it are elder bushes. right, the dark, wooden wall of some sort of house, barn or stable. left, the grey, tumbledown wall of kostilyoff's night asylum. it is built at an angle so that the further corner reaches almost to the centre of the yard. between it and the wall runs a narrow passage. in the grey, plastered wall are two windows, one on a level with the ground, the other about six feet higher up and closer to the brick wall. near the latter wall is a big sledge turned upside down and a beam about twelve feet long. right of the wall is a heap of old planks. evening. the sun is setting, throwing a crimson light on the brick wall. early spring, the snow having only recently melted. the elder bushes are not yet in bud._ _natasha and nastya are sitting side by side on the beam. luka and the baron are on the sledge. kleshtch is stretched on the pile of planks to the right. bubnoff's face is at the ground floor window._ nastya [_with closed eyes, nodding her head in rhythm to the tale she is telling in a sing-song voice_] so then at night he came into the garden. i had been waiting for him quite a while. i trembled with fear and grief--he trembled, too . . . he was as white as chalk--and he had the pistol in his hand . . . natasha [_chewing sun-flower seeds_] oh--are these students really such desperate fellows . . . ? nastya. and he says to me in a dreadful voice: "my precious darling . . ." bubnoff. ho-ho! precious--? the baron. shut up! if you don't like it, you can lump it! but don't interrupt her. . . . go on . . . nastya. "my one and only love," he says, "my parents," he says, "refuse to give their consent to our wedding--and threaten to disown me because of my love for you. therefore," he says, "i must take my life." and his pistol was huge--and loaded with ten bullets . . . "farewell," he says, "beloved comrade! i have made up my mind for good and all . . . i can't live without you . . ." and i replied: "my unforgettable friend--my raoul. . . ." bubnoff [_surprised_] what? what? krawl--did you call him--? the baron. nastka! but last time his name was gaston. . . . nastya [_jumping up_] shut up, you bastards! ah--you lousy mongrels! you think for a moment that you can understand love--true love? my love was real honest-to-god love! [_to the baron_] you good-for-nothing! . . . educated, you call yourself--drinking coffee in bed, did you? luka. now, now! wait, people! don't interfere! show a little respect to your neighbors . . . it isn't the word that matters, but what's in back of the word. that's what matters! go on, girl! it's all right! bubnoff. go on, crow! see if you can make your feathers white! the baron. well--continue! natasha. pay no attention to them . . . what are they? they're just jealous . . . they've nothing to tell about themselves . . . nastya [_sits down again_] i'm going to say no more! if they don't believe me they'll laugh. [_stops suddenly, is silent for a few seconds, then, shutting her eyes, continues in a loud and intense voice, swaying her hands as if to the rhythm of far music_] and then i replied to him: "joy of my life! my bright moon! and i, too, i can't live without you--because i love you madly, so madly--and i shall keep on loving you as long as my heart beats in my bosom. but--" i say--"don't take your young life! think how necessary it is to your dear parents whose only happiness you are. leave me! better that i should perish from longing for you, my life! i alone! i--ah--as such, such! better that i should die--it doesn't matter . . . i am of no use to the world--and i have nothing, nothing at all--" [_covers her face with her hand and weeps gently_] natasha [_in a low voice_] don't cry--don't! [_luka, smiling, strokes nastya's head._] bubnoff [_laughs_] ah--you limb of satan! the baron [_also laughs_] hey, old man? do you think it's true? it's all from that book "fatal love" . . . it's all nonsense! let her alone! natasha. and what's it to you? shut up--or god'll punish you! nastya [_bitterly_] god damn your soul! you worthless pig! soul--bah!--you haven't got one! luka [_takes nastya's hand_] come, dear! it's nothing! don't be angry--i know--i believe you! you're right, not they! if you believe you had a real love affair, then you did--yes! and as for him--don't be angry with a fellow-lodger . . . maybe he's really jealous, and that's why he's laughing. maybe he never had any real love--maybe not--come on--let's go! nastya [_pressing her hand against her breast_] grandfather! so help me god--it happened! it happened! he was a student, a frenchman--gastotcha was his name--he had a little black beard--and patent leathers--may god strike me dead if i'm lying! and he loved me so--my god, how he loved me! luka. yes, yes, it's all right. i believe you! patent leathers, you said? well, well, well--and you loved him, did you? [_disappears with her around the corner_] the baron. god--isn't she a fool, though? she's good-hearted--but such a fool--it's past belief! bubnoff. and why are people so fond of lying--just as if they were up before the judge--really! natasha. i guess lying is more fun than speaking the truth--i, too . . . the baron. what--you, too? go on! natasha. oh--i imagine things--invent them--and i wait-- the baron. for what? natasha [_smiling confusedly_] oh--i think that perhaps--well--to-morrow somebody will really appear--some one--oh--out of the ordinary--or something'll happen--also out of the ordinary. . . . i've been waiting for it--oh--always. . . . but, really, what is there to wait for? [_pause_] the baron [_with a slight smile_] nothing--i expect nothing! what is past, is past! through! over with! and then what? natasha. and then--well--to-morrow i imagine suddenly that i'll die--and i get frightened . . . in summer it's all right to dream of death--then there are thunder storms--one might get struck by lightning . . . the baron. you've a hard life . . . your sister's a wicked-tempered devil! natasha. tell me--does anybody live happily? it's hard for all of us--i can see that . . . kleshtch [_who until this moment has sat motionless and indifferent, jumps up suddenly_] for all? you lie! not for all! if it were so--all right! then it wouldn't hurt--yes! bubnoff. what in hell's bit you? just listen to him yelping! [_kleshtch lies down again and grunts._] the baron. well--i'd better go and make my peace with nastinka--if i don't, she won't treat me to vodka . . . bubnoff. hm--people love to lie . . . with nastka--i can see the reason why. she's used to painting that mutt of hers--and now she wants to paint her soul as well . . . put rouge on her soul, eh? but the others--why do they? take luka for instance--he lies a lot . . . and what does he get out of it? he's an old fellow, too--why does he do it? the baron [_smiling and walking away_] all people have drab-colored souls--and they like to brighten them up a bit . . . luka [_appearing from round the corner_] you, sir, why do you tease the girl? leave her alone--let her cry if it amuses her . . . she weeps for her own pleasure--what harm is it to you? the baron. nonsense, old man! she's a nuisance. raoul to-day, gaston to-morrow--always the same old yarn, though! still--i'll go and make up with her. [_leaves_] luka. that's right--go--and be nice to her. being nice to people never does them any harm . . . natasha. you're so good, little father--why are you so good? luka. good, did you say? well--call it that! [_behind the brick wall is heard soft singing and the sounds of a concertina_] some one has to be kind, girl--some one must pity people! christ pitied everybody--and he said to us: "go and do likewise!" i tell you--if you pity a man when he most needs it, good comes of it. why--i used to be a watchman on the estate of an engineer near tomsk--all right--the house was right in the middle of a forest--lonely place--winter came--and i remained all by myself. well--one night i heard a noise-- natasha. thieves? luka. exactly! thieves creeping in! i took my gun--i went out. i looked and saw two of them opening a window--and so busy that they didn't even see me. i yell: "hey there--get out of here!" and they turn on me with their axes--i warn them to stand back, or i'd shoot--and as i speak, i keep on covering them with my gun, first the one, then the other--they go down on their knees, as if to implore me for mercy. and by that time i was furious--because of those axes, you see--and so i say to them: "i was chasing you, you scoundrels--and you didn't go. now you go and break off some stout branches!"--and they did so--and i say: "now--one of you lie down and let the other one flog him!" so they obey me and flog each other--and then they begin to implore me again. "grandfather," they say, "for god's sake give us some bread! we're hungry!" there's thieves for you, my dear! [_laughs_] and with an ax, too! yes--honest peasants, both of them! and i say to them, "you should have asked for bread straight away!" and they say: "we got tired of asking--you beg and beg--and nobody gives you a crumb--it hurts!" so they stayed with me all that winter--one of them, stepan, would take my gun and go shooting in the forest--and the other, yakoff, was ill most of the time--he coughed a lot . . . and so the three of us together looked after the house . . . then spring came . . . "good-bye, grandfather," they said--and they went away--back home to russia . . . natasha. were they escaped convicts? luka. that's just what they were--escaped convicts--from a siberian prison camp . . . honest peasants! if i hadn't felt sorry for them--they might have killed me--or maybe worse--and then there would have been trial and prison and afterwards siberia--what's the sense of it? prison teaches no good--and siberia doesn't either--but another human being can . . . yes, a human being can teach another one kindness--very simply! [_pause_] bubnoff. hm--yes--i, for instance, don't know how to lie . . . why--as far as i'm concerned, i believe in coming out with the whole truth and putting it on thick . . . why fuss about it? kleshtch [_again jumps up as if his clothes were on fire, and screams_] what truth? where is there truth? [_tearing at his ragged clothes_] here's truth for you! no work! no strength! that's the only truth! shelter--there's no shelter! you die--that's the truth! hell! what do i want with the truth? let me breathe! why should i be blamed? what do i want with truth? to live--christ almighty!--they won't let you live--and that's another truth! bubnoff. he's mad! luka. dear lord . . . listen to me, brother-- kleshtch [_trembling with excitement_] they say: there's truth! you, old man, try to console every one . . . i tell you--i hate every one! and there's your truth--god curse it--understand? i tell you--god curse it! [_rushes away round the corner, turning as he goes._] luka. ah--how excited he got! where did he run off to? natasha. he's off his head . . . bubnoff. god--didn't he say a whole lot, though? as if he was playing drama--he gets those fits often . . . he isn't used to life yet . . . pepel [_comes slowly round the corner_] peace on all this honest gathering! well, luka, you wily old fellow--still telling them stories? luka. you should have heard how that fellow carried on! pepel. kleshtch--wasn't it? what's wrong with him? he was running like one possessed! luka. you'd do the same if your own heart were breaking! pepel [_sitting down_] i don't like him . . . he's got such a nasty, bad temper--and so proud! [_imitating kleshtch_] "i'm a workman!" and he thinks everyone's beneath him. go on working if you feel like it--nothing to be so damned haughty about! if work is the standard--a horse can give us points--pulls like hell and says nothing! natasha--are your folks at home? natasha. they went to the cemetery--then to night service . . . pepel. so that's why you're free for once--quite a novelty! luka [_to bubnoff, thoughtfully_] there--you say--truth! truth doesn't always heal a wounded soul. for instance, i knew of a man who believed in a land of righteousness . . . bubnoff. in what? luka. in a land of righteousness. he said: "somewhere on this earth there must be a righteous land--and wonderful people live there--good people! they respect each other, help each other, and everything is peaceful and good!" and so that man--who was always searching for this land of righteousness--he was poor and lived miserably--and when things got to be so bad with him that it seemed there was nothing else for him to do except lie down and die--even then he never lost heart--but he'd just smile and say: "never mind! i can stand it! a little while longer--and i'll have done with this life--and i'll go in search of the righteous land!"--it was his one happiness--the thought of that land . . . pepel. well? did he go there? bubnoff. where? ho-ho! luka. and then to this place--in siberia, by the way--there came a convict--a learned man with books and maps--yes, a learned man who knew all sorts of things--and the other man said to him: "do me a favor--show me where is the land of righteousness and how i can get there." at once the learned man opened his books, spread out his maps, and looked and looked and he said--no--he couldn't find this land anywhere . . . everything was correct--all the lands on earth were marked--but not this land of righteousness . . . pepel [_in a low voice_] well? wasn't there a trace of it? [_bubnoff roars with laughter._] natasha. wait . . . well, little father? luka. the man wouldn't believe it. . . . "it must exist," he said, "look carefully. otherwise," he says, "your books and maps are of no use if there's no land of righteousness." the learned man was offended. "my plans," he said, "are correct. but there exists no land of righteousness anywhere." well, then the other man got angry. he'd lived and lived and suffered and suffered, and had believed all the time in the existence of this land--and now, according to the plans, it didn't exist at all. he felt robbed! and he said to the learned man: "ah--you scum of the earth! you're not a learned man at all--but just a damned cheat!"--and he gave him a good wallop in the eye--then another one . . . [_after a moment's silence_] and then he went home and hanged himself! [_all are silent. luka, smiling, looks at pepel and natasha._] pepel [_low-voiced_] to hell with this story--it isn't very cheerful . . . natasha. he couldn't stand the disappointment . . . bubnoff [_sullen_] ah--it's nothing but a fairy-tale . . . pepel. well--there is the righteous land for you--doesn't exist, it seems . . . natasha. i'm sorry for that man . . . bubnoff. all a story--ho-ho!--land of righteousness--what an idea! [_exit through window_] luka [_pointing to window_] he's laughing! [_pause_] well, children, god be with you! i'll leave you soon . . . pepel. where are you going to? luka. to the ukraine--i heard they discovered a new religion there--i want to see--yes! people are always seeking--they always want something better--god grant them patience! pepel. you think they'll find it? luka. the people? they will find it! he who seeks, will find! he who desires strongly, will find! natasha. if only they could find something better--invent something better . . . luka. they're trying to! but we must help them girl--we must respect them . . . natasha. how can i help them? i am helpless myself! pepel [_determined_] again--listen--i'll speak to you again, natasha--here--before him--he knows everything . . . run away with me? natasha. where? from one prison to another? pepel. i told you--i'm through with being a thief, so help me god! i'll quit! if i say so, i'll do it! i can read and write--i'll work--he's been telling me to go to siberia on my own hook--let's go there together, what do you say? do you think i'm not disgusted with my life? oh--natasha--i know . . . i see . . . i console myself with the thought that there are lots of people who are honored and respected--and who are bigger thieves than i! but what good is that to me? it isn't that i repent . . . i've no conscience . . . but i do feel one thing: one must live differently. one must live a better life . . . one must be able to respect one's own self . . . luka. that's right, friend! may god help you! it's true! a man must respect himself! pepel. i've been a thief from childhood on. everybody always called me "vaska--the thief--the son of a thief!" oh--very well then--i am a thief-- . . . just imagine--now, perhaps, i'm a thief out of spite--perhaps i'm a thief because no one ever called me anything different. . . . well, natasha--? natasha [_sadly_] somehow i don't believe in words--and i'm restless to-day--my heart is heavy . . . as if i were expecting something . . . it's a pity, vassily, that you talked to me to-day . . . pepel. when should i? it isn't the first time i speak to you . . . natasha. and why should i go with you? i don't love you so very much--sometimes i like you--and other times the mere sight of you makes me sick . . . it seems--no--i don't really love you . . . when one really loves, one sees no fault. . . . but i do see . . . pepel. never mind--you'll love me after a while! i'll make you care for me . . . if you'll just say yes! for over a year i've watched you . . . you're a decent girl . . . you're kind--you're reliable--i'm very much in love with you . . . [_vassilisa, in her best dress, appears at window and listens._] natasha. yes--you love me--but how about my sister . . . ? pepel [_confused_] well, what of her? there are plenty like her . . . luka. you'll be all right, girl! if there's no bread, you have to eat weeds . . . pepel [_gloomily_] please--feel a little sorry for me! my life isn't all roses--it's a hell of a life . . . little happiness in it . . . i feel as if a swamp were sucking me under . . . and whatever i try to catch and hold on to, is rotten . . . it breaks . . . your sister--oh--i thought she was different . . . if she weren't so greedy after money . . . i'd have done anything for her sake, if she were only all mine . . . but she must have someone else . . . and she has to have money--and freedom . . . because she doesn't like the straight and narrow . . . she can't help me. but you're like a young fir-tree . . . you bend, but you don't break . . . luka. yes--go with him, girl, go! he's a good lad--he's all right! only tell him every now and then that he's a good lad so that he won't forget it--and he'll believe you. just you keep on telling him "vasya, you're a good man--don't you forget it!" just think, dear, where else could you go except with him? your sister is a savage beast . . . and as for her husband, there's little to say of him? he's rotten beyond words . . . and all this life here, where will it get you? but this lad is strong . . . natasha. nowhere to go--i know--i thought of it. the only thing is--i've no faith in anybody--and there's no place for me to turn to . . . pepel. yes, there is! but i won't let you go that way--i'd rather cut your throat! natasha [_smiling_] there--i'm not his wife yet--and he talks already of killing me! pepel [_puts his arms around her_] come, natasha! say yes! natasha [_holding him close_] but i'll tell you one thing, vassily--i swear it before god . . . the first time you strike me or hurt me any other way, i'll have no pity on myself . . . i'll either hang myself . . . or . . . pepel. may my hand wither if ever i touch you! luka. don't doubt him, dear! he needs you more than you need him! vassilisa [_from the window_] so now they're engaged! love and advice! natasha. they've come back--oh, god--they saw--oh, vassily . . . pepel. why are you frightened? nobody'll dare touch you now! vassilisa. don't be afraid, natalia! he won't beat you . . . he don't know how to love or how to beat . . . i know! luka [_in a low voice_] rotten old hag--like a snake in the grass . . . vassilisa. he dares only with the word! kostilyoff [_enters_] natashka! what are you doing here, you parasite? gossiping? kicking about your family? and the samovar not ready? and the table not cleared? natasha [_going out_] i thought you were going to church . . . ? kostilyoff. none of your business what we intended doing! mind your own affairs--and do what you're told! pepel. shut up, you! she's no longer your servant! don't go, natalia--don't do a thing! natasha. stop ordering me about--you're commencing too soon! [_leaves_] pepel [_to kostilyoff_] that's enough. you've used her long enough--now she's mine! kostilyoff. yours? when did you buy her--and for how much? [_vassilisa roars with laughter._] luka. go away, vasya! pepel. don't laugh, you fools--or first thing you know i'll make you cry! vassilisa. oh, how terrible! oh--how you frighten me! luka. vassily--go away! don't you see--she's goading you on . . . ridiculing you, don't you understand . . . ? pepel. yes . . . you lie, lie! you won't get what you want! vassilisa. nor will i get what i don't want, vasya! pepel [_shaking his fist at her_] we'll see . . . [_exit_] vassilisa [_disappearing through window_] i'll arrange some wedding for you . . . kostilyoff [_crossing to luka_] well, old man, how's everything? luka. all right! kostilyoff. you're going away, they say--? luka. soon. kostilyoff. where to? luka. i'll follow my nose . . . kostilyoff. tramping, eh? don't like stopping in one place all the time, do you? luka. even water won't pass beneath a stone that's sunk too firmly in the ground, they say . . . kostilyoff. that's true for a stone. but man must settle in one place. men can't live like cockroaches, crawling about wherever they want. . . . a man must stick to one place--and not wander about aimlessly . . . luka. but suppose his home is wherever he hangs his hat? kostilyoff. why, then--he's a vagabond,--useless . . . a human being must be of some sort of use--he must work . . . luka. that's what you think, eh? kostilyoff. yes--sure . . . just look! what's a vagabond? a strange fellow . . . unlike all others. if he's a real pilgrim then he's some good in the world . . . perhaps he discovered a new truth. well--but not every truth is worth while. let him keep it to himself and shut up about it! or else--let him speak in a way which no one can understand . . . don't let him interfere . . . don't let him stir up people without cause! it's none of his business how other people live! let him follow his own righteous path . . . in the woods--or in a monastery--away from everybody! he mustn't interfere--nor condemn other people--but pray--pray for all of us--for all the world's sins--for mine--for yours--for everybody's. to pray--that's why he forsakes the world's turmoil! that's so! [_pause_] but you--what sort of a pilgrim are you--? an honest person must have a passport . . . all honest people have passports . . . yes . . . ! luka. in this world there are people--and also just plain men . . . kostilyoff. don't coin wise sayings! don't give me riddles! i'm as clever as you . . . what's the difference--people and men? luka. what riddle is there? i say--there's sterile and there's fertile ground . . . whatever you sow in it, grows . . . that's all . . . kostilyoff. what do you mean? luka. take yourself for instance . . . if the lord god himself said to you: "mikhailo, be a man!"--it would be useless--nothing would come of it--you're doomed to remain just as you are . . . kostilyoff. oh--but do you realize that my wife's uncle is a policeman, and that if i . . . vassilisa [_coming in_] mikhail ivanitch--come and have your tea . . . kostilyoff [_to luka_] you listen! get out! you leave this place--hear? vassilisa. yes--get out, old man! your tongue's too long! and--who knows--you may be an escaped convict . . . kostilyoff. if i ever see sign of you again after to-day--well--i've warned you! luka. you'll call your uncle, eh? go on--call him! tell him you've caught an escaped convict--and maybe uncle'll get a reward--perhaps all of three kopecks . . . bubnoff [_in the window_] what are you bargaining about? three kopecks--for what? luka. they're threatening to sell me . . . vassilisa [_to her husband_] come . . . bubnoff. for three kopecks? well--look out, old man--they may even do it for one! kostilyoff [_to bubnoff_] you have a habit of jumping up like a jack-in-the-box! vassilisa. the world is full of shady people and crooks-- luka. hope you'll enjoy your tea! vassilisa [_turning_] shut up! you rotten toadstool! [_leaves with her husband._] luka. i'm off to-night. bubnoff. that's right. don't outstay your welcome! luka. true enough. bubnoff. i know. perhaps i've escaped the gallows by getting away in time . . . luka. well? bubnoff. that's true. it was this way. my wife took up with my boss. he was great at his trade--could dye a dog's skin so that it looked like a raccoon's--could change cat's skin into kangaroo--muskrats, all sorts of things. well--my wife took up with him--and they were so mad about each other that i got afraid they might poison me or something like that--so i commenced beating up my wife--and the boss beat me . . . we fought savagely! once he tore off half my whiskers--and broke one of my ribs . . . well, then i, too, got enraged. . . . i cracked my wife over the head with an iron yard-measure--well--and altogether it was like an honest-to-god war! and then i saw that nothing really could come of it . . . they were planning to get the best of me! so i started planning--how to kill my wife--i thought of it a whole lot . . . but i thought better of it just in time . . . and got away . . . luka. that was best! let them go on changing dogs into raccoons! bubnoff. only--the shop was in my wife's name . . . and so i did myself out of it, you see? although, to tell the truth, i would have drunk it away . . . i'm a hard drinker, you know . . . luka. a hard drinker--oh . . . bubnoff. the worst you ever met! once i start drinking, i drink everything in sight, i'll spend every bit of money i have--everything except my bones and my skin . . . what's more, i'm lazy . . . it's terrible how i hate work! [_enter satine and the actor, quarreling._] satine. nonsense! you'll go nowhere--it's all a damned lie! old man, what did you stuff him with all those fairy-tales for? the actor. you lie! grandfather! tell him that he lies!--i am going away. i worked to-day--i swept the streets . . . and i didn't have a drop of vodka. what do you think of that? here they are--two fifteen kopeck pieces--and i'm sober! satine. why--that's absurd! give it to me--i'll either drink it up--or lose it at cards . . . the actor. get out--this is for my journey . . . luka [_to satine_] and you--why are you trying to lead him astray? satine. tell me, soothsayer, beloved by the gods, what's my future going to be? i've gone to pieces, brother--but everything isn't lost yet, grandfather . . . there are sharks in this world who got more brains than i! luka. you're cheerful, constantine--and very agreeable! bubnoff. actor, come over here! [_the actor crosses to window, sits down on the sill before bubnoff, and speaks in a low voice with him_] satine. you know, brother, i used to be a clever youngster. it's nice to think of it. i was a devil of a fellow . . . danced splendidly, played on the stage, loved to amuse people . . . it was awfully gay . . . luka. how did you get to be what you are? satine. you're inquisitive, old man! you want to know everything? what for? luka. i want to understand the ways of men--i look at you, and i don't understand. you're a bold lad, constantine, and you're no fool . . . yet, all of a sudden . . . satine. it's prison, grandfather--i spent four years and seven months in prison . . . afterwards--where could i go? luka. aha! what were you there for? satine. on account of a scoundrel--whom i killed in a fit of rage . . . and despair . . . and in prison i learned to play cards . . . luka. you killed--because of a woman? satine. because of my own sister. . . . but look here--leave me alone! i don't care for these cross-examinations--and all this happened a long time ago. it's already nine years since my sister's death. . . . brother, she was a wonderful girl . . . luka. you take life easily! and only a while ago that locksmith was here--and how he did yell! satine. kleshtch? luka. yes--"there's no work," he shouted; "there isn't anything . . ." satine. he'll get used to it. what could i do? luka [_softly_] look--here he comes! [_kleshtch walks in slowly, his head bowed low._] satine. hey, widower! why are you so down in the mouth? what are you thinking? kleshtch. i'm thinking--what'll i do? i've no food--nothing--the funeral ate up all . . . satine. i'll give you a bit of advice . . . do nothing! just be a burden to the world at large! kleshtch. go on--talk--i'd be ashamed of myself . . . satine. why--people aren't ashamed to let you live worse than a dog. just think . . . you stop work--so do i--so do hundreds, thousands of others--everybody--understand?--everybody'll quit working . . . nobody'll do a damned thing--and then what'll happen? kleshtch. they'll all starve to death . . . luka [_to satine_] if those are your notions, you ought to join the order of begunes--you know--there's some such organization . . . satine. i know--grandfather--and they're no fools . . . [_natasha is heard screaming behind kostilyoff's window: "what for? stop! what have i done?"_] luka [_worried_] natasha! that was she crying--oh, god . . . [_from kostilyoff's room is heard noise, shuffling, breaking of crockery, and kostilyoff's shrill cry: "ah! heretic! bitch!"_] vassilisa. wait, wait--i'll teach her--there, there! natasha. they're beating me--killing me . . . satine [_shouts through the window_] hey--you there--. . . luka [_trembling_] where's vassily--? call vaska--oh, god--listen, brothers . . . the actor [_running out_] i'll find him at once! bubnoff. they beat her a lot these days . . . satine. come on, old man--we'll be witnesses . . . luka [_following satine_] oh--witnesses--what for? vassily--he should be called at once! natasha. sister--sister dear! va-a-a . . . bubnoff. they've gagged her--i'll go and see . . . [_the noise in kostilyoff's room dies down gradually as if they had gone into the hallway. the old man's cry: "stop!" is heard. a door is slammed noisily, and the latter sound cuts off all the other noises sharply. quiet on the stage. twilight._] kleshtch [_seated on the sledge, indifferently, rubbing his hands; mutters at first indistinguishably, then:_] what then? one must live. [_louder_] must have shelter--well? there's no shelter, no roof--nothing . . . there's only man--man alone--no hope . . . no help . . . [_exit slowly, his head bent. a few moments of ominous silence, then somewhere in the hallway a mass of sounds, which grows in volume and comes nearer. individual voices are heard._] vassilisa. i'm her sister--let go . . . kostilyoff. what right have you . . . ? vassilisa. jail-bird! satine. call vaska--quickly! zob--hit him! [_a police whistle. the tartar runs in, his right hand in a sling._] the tartar. there's a new law for you--kill only in daytime! [_enter zob, followed by miedviedieff._] zob. i handed him a good one! miedviedieff. you--how dare you fight? the tartar. what about yourself? what's your duty? miedviedieff [_running after_] stop--give back my whistle! kostilyoff [_runs in_] abram! stop him! hold him! he's a murderer--he . . . [_enter kvashnya and nastya supporting natasha who is disheveled. satine backs away, pushing away vassilisa who is trying to attack her sister, while, near her, alyoshka jumps up and down like a madman, whistles into her ear, shrieking, roaring. also other ragged men and women._] satine [_to vassilisa_] well--you damned bitch! vassilisa. let go, you jail-bird! i'll tear you to pieces--if i have to pay for it with my own life! kvashnya [_leading natasha aside_] you--karpovna--that's enough--stand back--aren't you ashamed? or are you crazy? miedviedieff [_seizes satine_] aha--caught at last! satine. zob--beat them up! vaska--vaska . . . [_they all, in a chaotic mass, struggle near the brick wall. they lead natasha to the right, and set her on a pile of wood. pepel rushes in from the hallway and, silently, with powerful movements, pushes the crowd aside._] pepel. natalia, where are you . . . you . . . kostilyoff [_disappearing behind a corner_] abram! seize vaska! comrades--help us get him! the thief! the robber! pepel. you--you old bastard! [_aiming a terrific blow at kostilyoff. kostilyoff falls so that only the upper part of his body is seen. pepel rushes to natasha_] vassilisa. beat vaska! brothers! beat the thief! miedviedieff [_yells to satine_] keep out of this--it's a family affair . . . they're relatives--and who are you . . . pepel [_to natasha_] what did she do to you? she used a knife? kvashnya. god--what beasts! they've scalded the child's feet with boiling water! nastya. they overturned the samovar . . . the tartar. maybe an accident--you must make sure--you can't exactly tell . . . natasha [_half fainting_] vassily--take me away-- vassilisa. good people! come! look! he's dead! murdered! [_all crowd into the hallway near kostilyoff. bubnoff leaves the crowd and crosses to pepel._] bubnoff [_in a low voice, to pepel_] vaska--the old man is done for! pepel [_looks at him, as though he does not understand_] go--for help--she must be taken to the hospital . . . i'll settle with them . . . bubnoff. i say--the old man--somebody's killed him . . . [_the noise on the stage dies out like a fire under water. distinct, whispered exclamations: "not really?" "well--let's go away, brothers!" "the devil!" "hold on now!" "let's get away before the police comes!" the crowd disappears. bubnoff, the tartar, nastya, and kvashnya, rush up to kostilyoff's body._] vassilisa [_rises and cries out triumphantly_] killed--my husband's killed! vaska killed him! i saw him! brothers, i saw him! well--vasya--the police! pepel [_moves away from natasha_] let me alone. [_looks at kostilyoff; to vassilisa_] well--are you glad? [_touches the corpse with his foot_] the old bastard is dead! your wish has been granted! why not do the same to you? [_throws himself at her_] [_satine and zob quickly overpower him, and vassilisa disappears in the passage._] satine. come to your senses! zob. hold on! not so fast! vassilisa [_appearing_] well, vaska, dear friend? you can't escape your fate. . . . police--abram--whistle! miedviedieff. those devils tore my whistle off! alyoshka. here it is! [_whistles, miedviedieff runs after him_] satine [_leading pepel to natasha_] don't be afraid, vaska! killed in a row! that's nonsense--only manslaughter--you won't have to serve a long term . . . vassilisa. hold vaska--he killed him--i saw it! satine. i, too, gave the old man a couple of blows--he was easily fixed . . . you call me as witness, vaska! pepel. i don't need to defend myself . . . i want to drag vassilisa into this mess--and i'll do it--she was the one who wanted it . . . she was the one who urged me to kill him--she goaded me on . . . natasha [_sudden and loud_] oh--i understand--so that's it, vassily? good people! they're both guilty--my sister and he--they're both guilty! they had it all planned! so, vassily, that's why you spoke to me a while ago--so that she should overhear everything--? good people! she's his mistress--you know it--everybody knows it--they're both guilty! she--she urged him to kill her husband--he was in their way--and so was i! and now they've maimed me . . . pepel. natalia! what's the matter with you? what are you saying? satine. oh--hell! vassilisa. you lie. she lies. he--vaska killed him . . . natasha. they're both guilty! god damn you both! satine. what a mix-up! hold on, vassily--or they'll ruin you between them! zob. i can't understand it--oh--what a mess! pepel. natalia! it can't be true! surely you don't believe that i--with her-- satine. so help me god, natasha! just think . . . vassilisa [_in the passage_] they've killed my husband--your excellency! vaska pepel, the thief, killed him. captain! i saw it--everybody saw it . . . natasha [_tossing about in agony; her mind wandering_] good people--my sister and vaska killed him! the police--listen--this sister of mine--here--she urged, coaxed her lover--there he stands--the scoundrel! they both killed him! put them in jail! bring them before the judge! take me along, too! to prison! christ almighty--take me to prison, too! curtain. act four. _same as act i. but pepel's room is no longer there, and the partition has been removed. furthermore, there is no anvil at the place where kleshtch used to sit and work. in the corner, where pepel's room used to be, the tartar lies stretched out, rather restless, and groaning from time to time. kleshtch sits at one end of the table, repairing a concertina and now and then testing the stops. at the other end of the table sit satine, the baron, and nastya. in front of them stand a bottle of vodka, three bottles of beer, and a large loaf of black bread. the actor lies on top of the stove, shifting about and coughing. it is night. the stage is lit by a lamp in the middle of the table. outside the wind howls._ kleshtch. yes . . . he disappeared during the confusion and noise . . . the baron. he vanished under the very eyes of the police--just like a puff of smoke . . . satine. that's how sinners flee from the company of the righteous! nastya. he was a dear old soul! but you--you aren't men--you're just--oh--like rust on iron! the baron [_drinks_] here's to you, my lady! satine. he was an inquisitive old fellow--yes! nastenka here fell in love with him . . . nastya. yes! i did! madly! it's true! he saw everything--understood everything . . . satine [_laughing_] yes, generally speaking, i would say that he was--oh--like mush to those who can't chew. . . . the baron [_laughing_] right! like plaster on a boil! kleshtch. he was merciful--you people don't know what pity means . . . satine. what good can i do you by pitying you? kleshtch. you needn't have pity--but you needn't harm or offend your fellow-beings, either! the tartar [_sits up on his bunk, nursing his wounded hand carefully_] he was a fine old man. the law of life was the law of his heart . . . and he who obeys this law, is good, while he who disregards it, perishes . . . the baron. what law, prince? the tartar. there are a number--different ones--you know . . . the baron. proceed! the tartar. do not do harm unto others--such is the law! satine. oh--you mean the penal code, criminal and correctional, eh? the baron. and also the code of penalties inflicted by justices of the peace! the tartar. no. i mean the koran. it is the supreme law--and your own soul ought to be the koran--yes! kleshtch [_testing his concertina_] it wheezes like all hell! but the prince speaks the truth--one must live abiding by the law--by the teachings of the gospels . . . satine. well--go ahead and do it! the baron. just try it! the tartar. the prophet mohammed gave to us the law. he said: "here is the law! do as it is written therein!" later on a time will arrive when the koran will have outlived its purpose--and time will bring forth its own laws--every generation will create its own . . . satine. to be sure! time passed on--and gave us--the criminal code . . . it's a strong law, brother--it won't wear off so very soon! nastya [_banging her glass on the table_] why--why do i stay here--with you? i'll go away somewhere--to the ends of the world! the baron. without any shoes, my lady? nastya. i'll go--naked, if must be--creeping on all fours! the baron. that'll be rather picturesque, my lady--on all fours! nastya. yes--and i'll crawl if i have to--anything at all--as long as i don't have to see your faces any longer--oh, i'm so sick of it all--the life--the people--everything! satine. when you go, please take the actor along--he's preparing to go to the very same place--he has learned that within a half mile's distance of the end of the world there's a hospital for diseased organons . . . the actor [_raising his head over the top of the stove_] a hospital for organisms--you fool! satine. for organons--poisoned with vodka! the actor. yes! he will go! he will indeed! you'll see! the baron. who is he, sir? the actor. i! the baron. thanks, servant of the goddess--what's her name--? the goddess of drama--tragedy--whatever is her name--? the actor. the muse, idiot! not the goddess--the muse! satine. lachesis--hera--aphrodite--atropos--oh! to hell with them all! you see--baron--it was the old man who stuffed the actor's head full with this rot . . . the baron. that old man's a fool . . . the actor. ignoramuses! beasts! melpomene--that's her name! heartless brutes! bastards! you'll see! he'll go! "on with the orgy, dismal spirits!"--poem--ah--by béranger! yes--he'll find some spot where there's no--no . . . the baron. where there's nothing, sir? the actor. right! nothing! "this hole shall be my grave--i am dying--ill and exhausted . . ." why do you exist? why? the baron. you! god or genius or orgy--or whatever you are--don't roar so loud! the actor. you lie! i'll roar all i want to! nastya [_lifting her head from the table and throwing up her hands_] go on! yell! let them listen to you! the baron. where is the sense, my lady? satine. leave them alone, baron! to hell with the lot! let them yell--let them knock their damned heads off if they feel like it! there's a method in their madness! don't you go and interfere with people as that old fellow did! yes--it's he--the damned old fool--he bewitched the whole gang of us! kleshtch. he persuaded them to go away--but failed to show them the road . . . the baron. that old man was a humbug! nastya. liar! you're a humbug yourself! the baron. shut up, my lady! kleshtch. the old man didn't like truth very much--as a matter of fact he strongly resented it--and wasn't he right, though? just look--where is there any truth? and yet, without it, you can't breathe! for instance, our tartar prince over there, crushed his hand at his work--and now he'll have to have his arm amputated--and there's the truth for you! satine [_striking the table with his clenched fist_] shut up! you sons of bitches! fools! not another word about that old fellow! [_to the baron_] you, baron, are the worst of the lot! you don't understand a thing, and you lie like the devil! the old man's no humbug! what's the truth? man! man--that's the truth! he understood man--you don't! you're all as dumb as stones! i understand the old man--yes! he lied--but lied out of sheer pity for you . . . god damn you! lots of people lie out of pity for their fellow-beings! i know! i've read about it! they lie--oh--beautifully, inspiringly, stirringly! some lies bring comfort, and others bring peace--a lie alone can justify the burden which crushed a workman's hand and condemns those who are starving! i know what lying means! the weakling and the one who is a parasite through his very weakness--they both need lies--lies are their support, their shield, their armor! but the man who is strong, who is his own master, who is free and does not have to suck his neighbors' blood--he needs no lies! to lie--it's the creed of slaves and masters of slaves! truth is the religion of the free man! the baron. bravo! well spoken! hear, hear! i agree! you speak like an honest man! satine. and why can't a crook at times speak the truth--since honest people at times speak like crooks? yes--i've forgotten a lot--but i still know a thing or two! the old man? oh--he's wise! he affected me as acid affects a dirty old silver coin! let's drink to his health! fill the glasses . . . [_nastya fills a glass with beer and hands it to satine, who laughs_] the old man lives within himself . . . he looks upon all the world from his own angle. once i asked him: "grand-dad, why do people live?" [_tries to imitate luka's voice and gestures_] and he replied: "why, my dear fellow, people live in the hope of something better! for example--let's say there are carpenters in this world, and all sorts of trash . . . people . . . and they give birth to a carpenter the like of which has never been seen upon the face of the earth . . . he's way above everybody else, and has no equal among carpenters! the brilliancy of his personality was reflected on all his trade, on all the other carpenters, so that they advanced twenty years in one day! this applies to all other trades--blacksmiths and shoemakers and other workmen--and all the peasants--and even the aristocrats live in the hopes of a higher life! each individual thinks that he's living for his own self, but in reality he lives in the hope of something better. a hundred years--sometimes longer--do we expect, live for the finer, higher life . . ." [_nastya stares intently into satine's face. kleshtch stops working and listens. the baron bows his head very low, drumming softly on the table with his fingers. the actor, peering down from the stove, tries to climb noiselessly into the bunk_] "every one, brothers, every one lives in the hope of something better. that's why we must respect each and every human being! how do we know who he is, why he was born, and what he is capable of accomplishing? perhaps his coming into the world will prove to be our good fortune . . . especially must we respect little children! children--need freedom! don't interfere with their lives! respect children!" [_pause_] the baron [_thoughtfully_] hm--yes--something better?--that reminds me of my family . . . an old family dating back to the time of catherine . . . all noblemen, soldiers, originally french . . . they served their country and gradually rose higher and higher. in the days of nicholas the first my grandfather, gustave debille, held a high post--riches--hundreds of serfs . . . horses--cooks-- nastya. you liar! it isn't true! the baron [_jumping up_] what? well--go on-- nastya. it isn't true. the baron [_screams_] a house in moscow! a house in petersburg! carriages! carriages with coats of arms! [_kleshtch takes his concertina and goes to one side, watching the scene with interest._] nastya. you lie! the baron. shut up!--i say--dozens of footmen . . . nastya [_delighted_] you lie! the baron. i'll kill you! nastya [_ready to run away_] there were no carriages! satine. stop, nastenka! don't infuriate him! the baron. wait--you bitch! my grandfather . . . nastya. there was no grandfather! there was nothing! [_satine roars with laughter._] the baron [_worn out with rage, sits down on bench_] satine! tell that slut--what--? you, too, are laughing? you--don't believe me either? [_cries out in despair, pounding the table with his fists_] it's true--damn the whole lot of you! nastya [_triumphantly_] so--you're crying? understand now what a human being feels like when nobody believes him? kleshtch [_returning to the table_] i thought there'd be a fight . . . the tartar. oh--people are fools! it's too bad . . . the baron. i shall not permit any one to ridicule me! i have proofs--documents--damn you! satine. forget it! forget about your grandfather's carriages! you can't drive anywhere in a carriage of the past! the baron. how dare she--just the same--? nastya. just imagine! how dare i--? satine. you see--she does dare! how is she any worse than you are? although, surely, in her past there wasn't even a father and mother, let alone carriages and a grandfather . . . the baron [_quieting down_] devil take you--you do know how to argue dispassionately--and i, it seems--i've no will-power . . . satine. acquire some--it's useful . . . [_pause_] nastya! are you going to the hospital? nastya. what for? satine. to see natashka. nastya. oh--just woke up, did you? she's been out of the hospital for some time--and they can't find a trace of her . . . satine. oh--that woman's a goner! kleshtch. it's interesting to see whether vaska will get the best of vassilisa, or the other way around--? nastya. vassilisa will win out! she's shrewd! and vaska will go to the gallows! satine. for manslaughter? no--only to jail . . . nastya. too bad--the gallows would have been better . . . that's where all of you should be sent . . . swept off into a hole--like filth . . . satine [_astonished_] what's the matter? are you crazy? the baron. oh--give her a wallop--that'll teach her to be less impertinent . . . nastya. just you try to touch me! the baron. i shall! satine. stop! don't insult her! i can't get the thought of the old man out of my head! [_roars with laughter_] don't offend your fellow-beings! suppose i were offended once in such a way that i'd remember it for the rest of my life? what then? should i forgive? no, no! the baron [_to nastya_] you must understand that i'm not your sort . . . you--ah--you piece of dirt! nastya. you bastard! why--you live off me like a worm off an apple! [_the men laugh amusedly._] kleshtch. fool! an apple--? the baron. you can't be angry with her--she's just an ass-- nastya. you laugh! liars? don't strike you as funny, eh? the actor [_morosely_] give them a good beating! nastya. if i only could! [_takes a cup from the table and throws it on the floor_] that's what i'd like to do to you all! the tartar. why break dishes--eh--silly girl? the baron [_rising_] that'll do! i'll teach her manners in half a second! nastya [_running toward door_] go to hell! satine [_calling after her_] hey! that's enough! whom are you trying to frighten? what's all the row about, anyway? nastya. dogs! i hope you'll croak! dogs! [_runs out_] the actor [_morosely_] amen! the tartar. allah! mad women, these russians! they're bold, wilful; tartar women aren't like that! they know the law and abide by it. . . . kleshtch. she ought to be given a sound hiding! the baron. the slut! kleshtch [_testing the concertina_] it's ready! but its owner isn't here yet--that young fellow is burning his life away . . . satine. care for a drink--now? kleshtch. thanks . . . it's time to go to bed . . . satine. getting used to us? kleshtch [_drinks, then goes to his bunk_] it's all right . . . there are people everywhere--at first you don't notice it . . . but after a while you don't mind. . . . [_the tartar spreads some rags over his bunk, then kneels on them and prays._] the baron [_to satine, pointing at the tartar_] look! satine. stop! he's a good fellow! leave him alone! [_roars with laughter_] i feel kindly to-day--the devil alone knows the reason why . . . the baron. you always feel kindly when you're drunk--you're even wiser at such times . . . satine. when i'm drunk? yes--then i like everything--right--he prays? that's fine! a man may believe or not--that's his own affair--a man is free--he pays for everything himself--belief or unbelief--love--wisdom . . . a man pays for everything--and that's just why he's free! man is--truth! and what is man? it's neither you nor i nor they--oh, no--it's you and they and i and the old man--and napoleon--mohammed--all in one! [_outlines vaguely in the air the contour of a human being_] do you understand? it's tremendous! it contains the beginning and the end of everything--everything is in man--and everything exists for him! man alone exists--everything else is the creation of his hands and his brain! man! it is glorious! it sounds--oh--so big! man must be respected--not degraded with pity--but respected, respected! let us drink to man, baron! [_rises_] it is good to feel that you are a man! i'm a convict, a murderer, a crook--granted!--when i'm out on the street people stare at me as if i were a scoundrel--they draw away from me--they look after me and often they say: "you dog! you humbug! work!" work? and what for? to fill my belly? [_roars with laughter_] i've always despised people who worry too much about their bellies. it isn't right, baron! it isn't! man is loftier than that! man stands above hunger! the baron. you--reason things out. . . . well and good--it brings you a certain amount of consolation. . . . personally i'm incapable of it . . . i don't know how. [_glances around him and then, softly, guardedly_] brother--i am afraid--at times. do you understand? afraid!--because--what next? satine. rot! what's a man to be afraid of? the baron [_pacing up and down_] you know--as far back as i can remember, there's been a sort of fog in my brain. i was never able to understand anything. somehow i feel embarrassed--it seems to me that all my life i've done nothing but change clothes--and why? i don't understand! i studied--i wore the uniform of the institute for the sons of the nobility . . . but what have i learned? i don't remember! i married--i wore a frock-coat--then a dressing-gown . . . but i chose a disagreeable wife . . . and why? i don't understand. i squandered everything that i possessed--i wore some sort of a grey jacket and brick-colored trousers--but how did i happen to ruin myself? i haven't the slightest idea. . . . i had a position in the department of state. . . . i wore a uniform and a cap with insignia of rank. . . . i embezzled government funds . . . so they dressed me in a convict's garb--and later on i got into these clothes here--and it all happened as in a dream--it's funny . . . satine. not very! it's rather--silly! the baron. yes--silly! i think so, too. still--wasn't i born for some sort of purpose? satine [_laughing_] probably--a man is born to conceive a better man. [_shaking his head_]--it's all right! the baron. that she-devil nastka! where did she run to? i'll go and see--after all, she . . . [_exit; pause_] the actor. tartar! [_pause_] prince! [_the tartar looks round_] say a prayer for me . . . the tartar. what? the actor [_softly_] pray--for me! the tartar [_after a silence_] pray for your own self! the actor [_quickly crawls off the stove and goes to the table, pours out a drink with shaking hands, drinks, then almost runs to passage_] all over! satine. hey, proud sicambrian! where are you going? [_satine whistles. miedviedieff enters, dressed in a woman's flannel shirt-waist; followed by bubnoff. both are slightly drunk. bubnoff carries a bunch of pretzels in one hand, a couple of smoked fish in the other, a bottle of vodka under one arm, another bottle in his coat pocket._] miedviedieff. a camel is something like a donkey--only it has no ears. . . . bubnoff. shut up! you're a variety of donkey yourself! miedviedieff. a camel has no ears at all, at all--it hears through its nostrils . . . bubnoff [_to satine_] friend! i've looked for you in all the saloons and all the cabarets! take this bottle--my hands are full . . . satine. put the pretzels on the table--then you'll have one hand free-- bubnoff. right! hey--you donkey--look! isn't he a clever fellow? miedviedieff. all crooks are clever--i know! they couldn't do a thing without brains. an honest man is all right even if he's an idiot . . . but a crook must have brains. but, speaking about camels, you're wrong . . . you can ride them--they have no horns . . . and no teeth either . . . bubnoff. where's everybody? why is there no one here? come on out . . . i treat! who's in the corner? satine. how soon will you drink up everything you have? scarecrow! bubnoff. very soon! i've very little this time. zob--where's zob? kleshtch [_crossing to table_] he isn't here . . . bubnoff. waughrr! bull-dog! brr-zz-zz!--turkey-cock! don't bark and don't growl! drink--make merry--and don't be sullen!--i treat everybody--brother, i love to treat--if i were rich, i'd run a free saloon! so help me god, i would! with an orchestra and a lot of singers! come, every one! drink and eat--listen to the music--and rest in peace! beggars--come, all you beggars--and enter my saloon free of charge! satine--you can have half my capital--just like that! satine. you better give me all you have straight away! bubnoff. all my capital? right now? well--here's a ruble--here's twenty kopecks--five kopecks--sun flower seeds--and that's all! satine. that's splendid! it'll be safer with me--i'll gamble with it . . . miedviedieff. i'm a witness--the money was given you for safe-keeping. how much is it? bubnoff. you? you're a camel--we don't need witnesses . . . alyoshka [_comes in barefoot_] brothers, i got my feet wet! bubnoff. go on and get your throat wet--and nothing'll happen--you're a fine fellow--you sing and you play--that's all right! but it's too bad you drink--drink, little brother, is harmful, very harmful . . . alyoshka. i judge by you! only when you're drunk do you resemble a human being . . . kleshtch! is my concertina fixed? [_sings and dances_] "if my mug were not so attractive, my sweetheart wouldn't love me at all . . ." boys, i'm frozen--it's cold . . . miedviedieff. hm--and may i ask who's this sweetheart? bubnoff. shut up! from now on, brother, you are neither a policeman nor an uncle! alyoshka. just auntie's husband! bubnoff. one of your nieces is in jail--the other one's dying . . . miedviedieff [_proudly_] you lie! she's not dying--she disappeared--without trace . . . [_satine roars._] bubnoff. all the same, brothers--a man without nieces isn't an uncle! alyoshka. your excellency! listen to the drummer of the retired billygoats' brigade! [_sings_] "my sweetheart has money, i haven't a cent. but i'm a cheerful, merry lad!" oh--isn't it cold! [_enter zob. from now until the final curtain men and women drift in, undress, and stretch out on the bunks, grumbling._] zob. bubnoff! why did you run off? bubnoff. come here--sit down--brother, let's sing my favorite ditty, eh? the tartar. night was made for sleep! sing your songs in the daytime! satine. well--never mind, prince--come here! the tartar. what do you mean--never mind? there's going to be a noise--there always is when people sing! bubnoff [_crossing to the tartar_] count--ah--i mean prince--how's your hand? did they cut it off? the tartar. what for? we'll wait and see--perhaps it won't be necessary . . . a hand isn't made of iron--it won't take long to cut it off . . . zob. it's your own affair, hassanka! you'll be good for nothing without your hand. we're judged by our hands and backs--without the pride of your hand, you're no longer a human being. tobacco-carting--that's your business! come on--have a drink of vodka--and stop worrying! kvashnya [_comes in_] ah, my beloved fellow-lodgers! it's horrible outside--snow and slush . . . is my policeman here? miedviedieff. right here! kvashnya. wearing my blouse again? and drunk, eh? what's the idea? miedviedieff. in celebration of bubnoff's birthday . . . besides, it's cold . . . kvashnya. better look out--stop fooling about and go to sleep! miedviedieff [_goes to kitchen_] sleep? i can--i want to--it's time--[_exit_] satine. what's the matter? why are you so strict with him? kvashnya. you can't be otherwise, friend. you have to be strict with his sort. i took him as a partner. i thought he'd be of some benefit to me--because he's a military man--and you're a rough lot . . . and i am a woman--and now he's turned drunkard--that won't do at all! satine. you picked a good one for partner! kvashnya. couldn't get a better one. you wouldn't want to live with me . . . you think you're too fine! and even if you did it wouldn't last more than a week . . . you gamble me and all i own away at cards! satine [_roars with laughter_] that's true, landlady--i'd gamble . . . kvashnya. yes, yes. alyoshka! alyoshka. here he is--i, myself! kvashnya. what do you mean by gossiping about me? alyoshka. i? i speak out everything--whatever my conscience tells me. there, i say, is a wonderful woman! splendid meat, fat, bones--over four hundred pounds! but brains--? not an ounce! kvashnya. you're a liar! i've lot of brains! what do you mean by saying i beat my policeman? alyoshka. i thought you did--when you pulled him by the hair! kvashnya [_laughs_] you fool! you aren't blind, are you? why wash dirty linen in public? and--it hurts his feelings--that's why he took to drink . . . alyoshka. it's true, evidently, that even a chicken likes vodka . . . [_satine and kleshtch roar with laughter._] kvashnya. go on--show your teeth! what sort of a man are you anyway, alyoshka? alyoshka. oh--i am first-rate! master of all trades! i follow my nose! bubnoff [_near the tartar's bunk_] come on! at all events--we won't let you sleep! we'll sing all night. zob! zob. sing--? all right . . . alyoshka. and i'll play . . . satine. we'll listen! the tartar [_smiling_] well--bubnoff--you devil--bring the vodka--we'll drink--we'll have a hell of a good time! the end will come soon enough--and then we'll be dead! bubnoff. fill his glass, satine! zob--sit down! ah--brothers--what does a man need after all? there, for instance, i've had a drink--and i'm happy! zob! start my favorite song! i'll sing--and then i'll cry. . . . zob [_begins to sing_] "the sun rises and sets . . ." bubnoff [_joining in_] "but my prison is all dark. . . ." [_door opens quickly._] the baron [_on the threshold; yells_] hey--you--come--come here! out in the waste--in the yard . . . over there . . . the actor--he's hanged himself. . . . [_silence. all stare at the baron. behind him appears nastya, and slowly, her eyes wide with horror, she walks to the table._] satine [_in a matter-of-fact voice_] damned fool--he ruined the song . . . ! curtain. transcriber's note this transcription is based on images digitized by the university of connecticut and posted by the internet archive at: https://archive.org/details/lowerdepthsdrama gork in general, this transcription attempts to retain the formatting, punctuation and spelling of the source text. the following changes were noted: -- p. : i'm sick myself--poisoned with alchohol . . .--changed "alchohol" to "alcohol". -- the portrait of gorky originally between pages and was moved so that it appears after page , between acts one and two. -- p. : satine [_screams_] the dead can't hear . . . the dead do not feel--scream!--roar! . . . the deaf don't hear!--a hand-written note in the source images changed the word "deaf" to "dead". to verify the change, translations by david magarshack, in _the storm and other russian plays_ (new york: hill and wang, ), edwin hopkins (first published in the winter issue of _poet lore_ as "a night's lodging"), and laurence irving (london: t. fisher unwin, ?) were checked. as a result, the line "the deaf don't hear!" was changed to "the dead don't hear!" -- p. : you can't escape your fate. . . . police--abram--whistle!--capitalized "police" for consistency. -- p. : the law of life was the law of his heart. . . . and he who obeys this law, is good--the period preceding the ellipsis was deleted for consistency. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/rupertsambition alge rupert's ambition by horatio alger, jr. author of "chester rand," "lester's luck," "ragged dick series," etc., etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago toronto copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. [illustration: a dangerous lunatic.] contents. chapter page i. rupert loses his place, ii. out of work, iii. in a tight place, iv. a false report, v. mrs. marlow's scheme, vi. rupert as a detective, vii. a lucky meeting, viii. julian lorimer, ix. rupert becomes a bell-boy, x. a bell-boy's experiences, xi. rupert receives a commission, xii. clayton's scheme, xiii. clayton's disappointment, xiv. the young newsboy, xv. mr. sylvester's birthday, xvi. julian has two disappointments, xvii. mr. packard of colorado, xviii. a scene at delmonico's, xix. what happened in no. , xx. mr. packard's gift, xxi. rupert becomes a confidant, xxii. trying to be an actor, xxiii. a baffled scheme, xxiv. leslie's progress, xxv. leslie waters as a dramatic star, xxvi. triumphant over obstacles, xxvii. an ingenious trick, xxviii. rupert resigns his situation, xxix. the st. james hotel, in denver, xxx. packard's home at red gulch, xxxi. ben boone, xxxii. an unpleasant bedfellow, xxxiii. ben boone's temptation, xxxiv. rupert's predicament, xxxv. rupert makes a discovery, xxxvi. a lucky encounter, xxxvii. an indian guide, xxxviii. how to manage a rogue, xxxix. new plans, xl. conclusion, rupert's ambition. chapter i. rupert loses his place. "rupert, the superintendent wishes to see you." rupert rollins, a tall boy of sixteen, was engaged in folding some pieces of cloth which had been shown during the day to customers. it was the principal salesroom of tenney & rhodes, who conducted a large wholesale dry goods house in the lower part of new york city. "very well, harry," he said. "i will go at once. i wonder what he wants to see me about." "i don't know. i hope it is to raise your wages." "that isn't likely in these dull times, though a raise would be very welcome." when rupert had finished folding the pieces he was upon he left his place and knocked at the door of a small room occupied by the superintendent. a man of about forty was seated at a desk writing. "mr. frost," said rupert, respectfully, "i hear you wish to speak with me." "yes; take a seat." rupert was tired, for he had been on his feet all day, and was glad to sink into a chair near the door. "how long have you been in our employ?" asked the superintendent, in the quick tones habitual to him. "nearly six months." "so i supposed. you are one of the last clerks taken on." "yes, sir." "i am sorry, i have bad news for you. mr. tenney feels, in view of the dullness in business, that it will be advisable to diminish his clerical force. as you are one of the last taken on, he has selected you and a few others for discharge." rupert turned pale. what a terrible misfortune this would be to him he well knew. the future seemed to him dark indeed. "i hope, sir," he said, in an unsteady voice, "that the firm is not dissatisfied with me." "oh, no. no indeed! i have heard only good reports of you. we shall be glad to recommend you to any other firm." "thank you, sir. when do you wish me to go?" "you can stay till the end of the week." rupert bowed and left the room. his head was in a whirl, and he felt that a calamity had indeed fallen upon him. his wages were but five dollars a week, but this sum, small as it was, was the main support of his mother and sister, the latter a chronic invalid, only two years younger than himself. what they were to do when this small income was taken away he could not conjecture. he felt that he must look out at once for a new place. "well, rupert, what business did the superintendent have with you?" asked harry bacon, rupert's most intimate friend in the store. "only to tell me that i was discharged," said rupert, quietly. "why, that's a shame!" exclaimed harry, impetuously. "what are you discharged for?" "only on account of dull times. the house will give me a recommendation." "it seems too bad you are to go. why didn't they discharge me, too?" "you have been here longer, and it is only those last taken on who must go. i suppose it is all right, but it is hard." "keep up your courage, rupert. it isn't as if you were discharged for cause. with a recommendation from tenney & rhodes you ought to find another place here." "yes, in ordinary times, but you know business is dull elsewhere as well as with us. it isn't a good time to change places." "well, you'll get something else. all branches of business may not be as dull as ours." harry bacon had a sanguine disposition, and always looked on the bright side. his assurances encouraged rupert a little, and he determined to do his best to find something to do, no matter what. at five o'clock the store closed. retail stores kept open later, but early hours are one of the advantages of a wholesale establishment. rupert bent his steps towards elizabeth street. in an upper apartment in one of the shabby houses fronting on this thoroughfare lived his mother and sister. it was only a three-story house, and there were but two flights of stairs to ascend. entering the principal room, rupert saw his mother with her head bent in an attitude of despondency over the table. through a door he could see his sister lying uneasily on a bed in a small inner room, her face showing that she was suffering pain. rupert stepped forward and with tender sympathy strove to raise his poor mother from her position of despondency. "what is the matter, mother?" he asked. "are you not well?" "yes, rupert," she answered, raising her head, "but for the moment i felt discouraged. grace has been suffering more than usual to-day. sickness and poverty, too, are hard to bear." "that is true, mother," and rupert's heart sank as he remembered that by the end of the week the poverty would become destitution. "grace has been unable to eat anything to-day. she thought she could eat an orange, but i absolutely didn't have money enough to buy one." "she shall have an orange," said rupert, in a low voice. the sick girl heard, and her face brightened. it was an instinctive craving, such as a sick person sometimes has. "i should enjoy an orange," she said, faintly. "i think i could sleep after eating one." "i will go right out and get one." rupert put on his hat and went down stairs. "you may buy a loaf of bread, rupert," said his mother, as he was starting, "that is, if you have money enough." "yes, mother." there was an italian fruit vender's stall at the next corner. as he stepped out on the sidewalk rupert took out his slender purse and examined its contents. it held but thirty-five cents, and this must last till saturday night, when he would receive his weekly wages. going to the stand, he examined the italian's stock. he saw some large, attractive oranges marked "five cents." there were some smaller ones marked three cents, but rupert judged that they were sour, and would not please his sister. yet five cents was considerable for him to pay under the circumstances. it represented one-seventh of his scanty stock of money. "won't you let me have one of these oranges for four cents?" he asked. nicolo, the italian, shook his head. "no," he answered. "it is good-a orange. it is worth more than i ask." rupert sighed and hesitated. "i suppose i shall have to pay it," he said, regretfully. he drew out his purse and took out a nickel. "i'll take an orange," he said. "is it for yourself?" asked a gentle voice. rupert turned, and saw a tiny woman, not over five feet in height, with a pleasant, kindly face. "no," he said, "it is for my sister." "is your sister sick?" "yes. she has taken a fancy to an orange, and i want her to have one, but--it is extravagant for one in my circumstances to pay a nickel for one." "would you mind," said the little woman, hesitatingly, "would you mind if i sent an orange to your sister?" rupert hesitated. he was proud, but not foolishly so, and he saw that the offer was meant in kindness. "i should say it was very kind in you," he said, candidly. the little woman nodded contentedly, and spoke a low word to the italian. he selected four oranges and put them in a paper bag. "but that is too many," expostulated rupert. "no," answered the little woman, with a smile. "keep the rest for to-morrow," and before rupert had a chance to thank her she had paid nicolo and was hurrying down the street. the spontaneous kindness of the little woman, who was a perfect stranger, helped to cheer rupert. he felt that there were some kind people in the world, and his trust in providence was increased. he went to a baker's, near by, and purchased a ten-cent loaf of bread. then he made his way back to his humble home in elizabeth street. as he entered the room, the sick girl looked up eagerly. rupert emptied the oranges on the table, and her face brightened as she saw the yellow fruit which she craved. "rupert, i am afraid you were extravagant," said his mother. "these oranges must have cost five cents each." "yes, they did." "we cannot afford such a large purchase in our circumstances." "they cost me nothing, mother. they are a present to grace from a lady who met me at the stand." "she must have a kind heart. do you know who she was?" "no, i never saw her before." "the world is not all unkind. grace, i will prepare an orange for you. i hope you will relish it." the sick girl enjoyed the fruit, and after eating it lay back content. "may i have another in the morning?" she asked. "yes, my child." so the evening passed not wholly unhappily, but still rupert could not help thinking of the next week, when he would be out of a position. chapter ii. out of work. on saturday rupert received his last week's wages at the store. "i am awfully sorry you are going, rupert," said harry bacon. "it is a shame you are discharged." "no, it is not a shame. it is only because business is dull that i have to go. i can't blame the firm." rupert ascended the stairway at his humble home in elizabeth street with a slow step. he felt that he could no longer conceal his discharge from his mother, and he knew what a blow it would be to her. so as he handed the money to mrs. rollins he said: "i have bad news for you, mother. i am discharged." "discharged!" repeated his mother, in dismay. "why? what have you done?" "there is no dissatisfaction with me. i am discharged because times are dull, and business has fallen off." "i am glad at least that no fault is found with you, but what shall we do? your salary was all we had to depend upon except the little i make by sewing." "don't be discouraged, mother. i shall start to find a place monday morning. i am allowed to refer to the old firm." "but--do you think there is any chance to get in elsewhere? won't other firms be affected by the dull times?" this was precisely what troubled rupert, but he answered his mother cheerfully. "to-morrow is sunday," he said. "don't let us think of the future till monday morning. i am sure something will turn up. at the worst, i can earn something by selling papers." when monday morning came rupert started out on his quest. he had been sent on errands to several houses in the same line, and he resolved to go from one to another in the hope of finding a vacancy. at the first he was pleasantly received. he was recognized as coming from tenney & rhodes, and it was supposed he came on an errand from them. when he asked for a place the superintendent looked distrustful. "why do you leave tenney & rhodes?" he was asked. "because the times are dull, and they are parting with some of their clerks." "will they recommend you?" "yes. here is a recommendation," and rupert took a folded paper from the envelope in which he had placed it. "that is satisfactory," said the superintendent, his face clearing, "but the same dullness which has reduced their business affects ours. so far from taking on new clerks, we may have to discharge some of those at present in our employ." of course there was no more to be said. rupert visited five other firms, but in each case the answer was the same. they had no vacancy, and did not expect to have any. it was one o'clock, time for lunch, but rupert did not feel hungry. his anxiety had taken away his appetite. he rested for an hour on one of the benches in city hall park, and then started out again. he resolved now to apply for a position of any kind, since there seemed to be no opening in the business to which he had been trained. but he met with no better success. everywhere there were complaints of hard times. "you are doing better than i am, my boy," said one business man bluntly. rupert looked about the large store in which he was standing, and said: "i don't see how that can be, sir, i am making nothing." "and i am making less than nothing. last month i fell behind five hundred dollars." "i am sorry to hear it, sir," said rupert, in a tone of sympathy. the merchant looked at him approvingly. "you appear to be a good boy," he said. "i wish i had a place for you. i can send you on an errand, if that will be any object to you." "anything, sir, will be welcome." "then you may take a note from me to a firm in astor place. wait five minutes and it will be ready." rupert took a seat, and in five minutes the merchant reappeared with a sealed note. "this is the note," he said, "and here is a quarter for taking it." "thank you, sir." the sum was not large, but rupert was pleased to think that he would earn something. "well," said his mother, when at five o'clock he entered the room. "have you found a place?" "no, mother, places seem to be scarce. still, i have earned something." she looked at him inquiringly. "it isn't much--only twenty-five cents. i received it for going on an errand." "it is better than nothing." "yes, it will buy our supper." two days more passed. they were equally barren of results. it was nearing the end of the week, and except the silver quarter rupert had earned nothing. things began to look serious. but little was left of his last week's wages, and the time was coming when they would be entirely destitute. rupert, as he passed through the business district, reflected sadly that while thousands were at work there seemed to be no place and no work for him. he was going down chambers street toward the elevated station when he saw in front of him a young man, perhaps thirty years of age, whose unsteady movements seemed to indicate that he was under the influence of liquor. he came near falling as rupert neared him. "can't i assist you?" asked rupert, stepping to his side. the young man glanced at the boy who addressed him with a look of inquiry. "yes," he said. "take my arm." rupert did so. "where do you wish to go?" he asked. "i live in harlem--at one-hundred-and-seventeenth street," replied the young man. "have you a couple of hours to spare?" "yes, sir." "then see me home. i will make it worth your while." "i shall be glad to do so," said rupert, cheerfully. "i suppose you understand what is the matter with me?" "i should think you had been drinking too much." "you are right. i have. shameful, isn't it?" "well, it isn't altogether creditable," said rupert, not wishing to hurt the other's feelings. "i should say not. however, it isn't quite so bad as it seems. i haven't been drinking hard, only i am so constituted that i can drink but little without its affecting me." they had now reached the stairway leading up to the elevated road. "help me upstairs, boy. what is your name?" "rupert." "very well, rupert." when they reached the landing the young man took his purse from his pocket. "pay out of that," he said. rupert selected a dime and bought two tickets. then they passed the box where the tickets were to be deposited, and entered a train which had just arrived. they took seats in one corner, and the young man sat down with an air of relief. "i feel sleepy," he said. "if i should fall asleep, wake me up at one-hundred-and-sixteenth street station." "yes, sir." rupert was able now to examine his companion a little more closely. he did not have a dissipated look, and rupert judged that he was not in the habit of allowing himself to be overcome by liquor. indeed, he had rather a refined look. it seemed to the boy a pity that he could not resist the temptation to drink. as they were approaching one-hundred-and-sixteenth street rupert aroused his companion, who opened his eyes in a bewildered way. "eh? what?" he asked. "this is where we are to get out, sir." "oh, yes, i remember. let me take your arm." with this help he got down stairs, and they turned to the left. "it is perhaps ten minutes' walk," said the young man. "you will see me all the way home?" "yes, sir. do you feel any better?" "i can walk a little more steadily. you are sure i am not putting you out?" "oh, yes, sir. i have plenty of time on my hands, for i am out of work." "indeed! and are you poor?" "yes, sir." "don't you live with your father?" "my father is dead. i am helping to support my mother and sister." "why, that is too bad!" said the young man, in a tone of sympathy. "i am out of work, too, but then i am rich." "i am not troubled in that way," said rupert, smiling. "i live with my mother. i am glad she is out of the city, so that she won't see me in my present condition." "don't you think of working, sir? i shouldn't think you would know how to pass the time." "i only lately returned from europe. i may go into business after awhile. to be sure i don't need to earn anything, but if i have some steady employment i shall be less likely to disgrace myself." "may i ask your name, sir?" "certainly. my name is frank sylvester, i hope you are not a newspaper reporter." "oh, no, sir," said rupert, smiling again. "i should not like to have this little adventure of mine get into the papers. do you see that house yonder?" "yes." "it is the one where i live. if you have a little more time to spare won't you come in and stay a short time?" "yes, sir, if you desire it." they reached the house and sylvester rang the bell. the door was opened by a maid servant about forty years of age. she looked at sylvester's companion curiously. "a young friend of mine, rachel," said the young man. "get ready a little supper for us, will you? some tea, cold meat and toast." "all right, mr. frank." they went into a pleasant sitting-room, where rupert was invited to sit down. "that was an old family servant," exclaimed sylvester. "if you hadn't been with me she would have taken me to task, for she saw i had been drinking." chapter iii. in a tight place. presently rachel announced tea. sylvester had bathed his face, and thus removed some of the indications of his conviviality. the house was handsomely furnished. the room in which the tea table was spread was particularly cozy and comfortable, and when he took his seat at the table, rupert could not help wishing that his mother could be with him. "what are you thinking about, rupert?" asked frank sylvester, who noticed his expression. rupert hesitated. "come, tell me. i am your friend." "i couldn't help thinking of the very different supper my mother will have." "to be sure. you are a good boy for thinking of her. where do you live?" "at elizabeth street." frank sylvester took out a note book and jotted down the address. rachel clark waited upon the table. sylvester saw that her curiosity was excited about rupert, and he decided to gratify it. "i suppose you are wondering where i met my new friend, rachel?" he said. "yes, sir." "he met me. i had been drinking too much, and i am afraid i should have got into trouble if he had not taken charge of me." rachel beamed upon rupert. "he was very kind," she said, "but oh, mr. frank----" "i know just what you are going to say, rachel," said sylvester, good-humoredly. "i am going to have rupert come and see me often, and he will help keep me straight. and by the way, rachel, his mother is poor, and i want you to put up some cold meat and other nice things in a basket. i will send them to her." "i shall be very glad to do so, mr. frank." "you will stand high in rachel's good graces, rupert," said sylvester, as she left the room. "she thinks everything of me, and evidently believes i am safe in your company. suppose i make you my guardian?" "i am afraid you wouldn't look up to me with the proper respect, mr. sylvester." "then for respect we will substitute attachment. now tell me a little about yourself. how does it happen that you are out of a place?" "it's the dull times, mr. sylvester. i was in the employ of tenney & rhodes." "i know the firm." "and they would have retained me if business had been good, but i was laid off on saturday." "what wages did they pay you?" "five dollars a week." "and you lived on that?" "we tried to." "while i have had and wasted large sums of money. if i were in business i would give you a place. as it is, i will see if any of my friends want a clerk." when supper was over, rupert said he must go. "won't you stay the evening?" asked his new friend. "at least wait a few minutes. rachel is putting up a basket for you." the servant presently appeared with a basket neatly covered with a napkin. "perhaps i had better send it by an expressman, rupert." "oh, no, sir. i shall be glad to carry it myself. it will be very acceptable at home." as rupert lifted it, sylvester took from his pocket the purse from which rupert had paid the car fare and handed it to him. "accept it," he said, "in return for your friendly services." "you are paying me too liberally, mr. sylvester." "let me judge of that." in the street rupert did not wait to examine the purse. it was growing late, and he was in haste to get home. he feared that his mother might feel anxious about him, and he made his way as quickly as possible to the nearest elevated station. the train was only partly full, and rupert found a seat near the door. he placed the basket on the floor in front of him. next to him sat a young woman rather showily dressed. rupert casually took out the purse which had just been given him with the intention of examining the contents, but it occurred to him that he might find a more suitable place than an elevated car, and he put it back again. his actions had, however, been noticed by the girl at his side. at fiftieth street she rose to leave the car, but had not quite reached the door when she put her hand into her pocket and uttered a cry. "i have been robbed," she exclaimed. "of what have you been robbed?" asked the guard. "of a purse." "where were you sitting?" "just here." "do you suspect anyone of taking your purse?" "yes, this boy took it. i am almost sure of it." as she spoke she pointed to rupert, who flushed with indignation. "it is false," he said. "if you don't believe me," said the girl, "search him. i am sure he has the purse in his pocket." "what kind of a purse was it?" asked a quiet-looking man, sitting on the opposite side. "it was a morocco purse," and the girl described the purse rupert had in his pocket. "young man we will have to search you," said the guard. "if you have a purse in your pocket, produce it." rupert did so mechanically. "there!" said the girl, triumphantly. "didn't i tell you? give it to me and i won't say anything more about it." "i can't do that," said rupert, sturdily, "for it belongs to me." "what barefaced depravity!" groaned a severe-looking old lady opposite. "and so young, too." "you're right, ma'am. it's shocking," said the girl. "i didn't think he'd go to do it, but you can't tell from appearances." "young man, you'd better give up the purse," said the guard, who was quite deceived by the young woman's assurance. "no, sir!" said rupert, pale but resolute. "the purse is mine, and i will keep it." "did you ever hear the like!" said the girl. "you'd better call an officer. i did mean to get off here, but i'll stay till i get my purse." "stop a minute," said the quiet-looking man opposite. "how much money was there in the purse you say the boy took from you?" "i can't rightly say," repeated the girl, hesitating. "you can give some idea." "well, there was a little over two dollars in silver change." "my boy," said the new actor in the scene, "will you trust me with the purse while i ascertain whether this young woman is correct." "yes, sir," answered rupert, who felt confidence in the good will of his new acquaintance. the lawyer, for he was one, opened the purse, and his eye lighted up, as he looked inside. "did you say there was as much as five dollars in the purse?" he asked. "no, sir, there wasn't as much as that," answered the girl, positively. the lawyer nodded as if a suspicion were verified. "then the purse isn't yours," he said. "there may have been more," said the girl, finding she had made a mistake. "yes, i remember now there was, for my sister paid me back some money she was owing me." "that won't do," said the lawyer, quietly. "the purse isn't yours." "if it isn't hers," said the old lady sharply, "how did she happen to describe it so exactly?" and she looked round triumphantly. "i could have described it just as accurately," returned the lawyer. "you're smart!" said the severe-looking old lady, with a sneer. "not at all. soon after the boy got in the car he took out the purse, so that anyone could see it. the person who charges him with taking it from her saw it in his hands, and scrutinized it closely. i understand now the object she had in doing so." "it's a shame," said the girl, with a last desperate effort at imposition. "it's a shame that a poor girl should be robbed, and a gentleman like you," she added spitefully, "should try to protect the thief." "so i say," put in the old lady, frowning severely at rupert. "i don't know who you are, young woman, but i advise you to call an officer and have the young scamp arrested." rupert felt uneasy, for he knew that in an arrest like this he might not be able to clear himself. "why don't you ask the boy how much money there is in the purse?" continued the old lady. "well thought of. my boy, can you tell me what the purse contains?" rupert colored. he saw at once that he was in a tight place. he wished now that he had examined the purse when he left the house in harlem. "no," he answered. "i do not know." "didn't i tell you?" cried the old lady, venomously. even the lawyer looked surprised. "how is it that you can't tell, if the purse is yours?" he asked. "because, sir, it was given me this evening by a gentleman in harlem, and i have not yet had time to examine it." "your story may be true," said the lawyer, "but it does not seem probable." "oho!" the old lady said, "the boy owns up that he is a thief. if he didn't get it from this young woman he stole it from a man in harlem." rupert glanced from one to the other, and he realized that things looked dark for him. chapter iv. a false report. "what was the name of the gentleman in harlem from whom you say you obtained the purse?" asked the lawyer. "mr. frank sylvester," answered rupert, promptly. the lawyer looked interested. "i know mr. sylvester," he said. "i live on the same street." "he gave me this basket of provisions also," added rupert. "why did he give you the purse?" "because i met him down town feeling ill, and at his request went home with him." "the boy is all right," said the lawyer, looking satisfied. "here is the purse. it is undoubtedly yours." "and where do i come in?" asked the young woman. "is that boy going off with my money?" just then they reached the next station, and among those who boarded the train was a policeman. the girl evidently recognized him, for she turned away to escape attention. before the officer had a chance to speak to her the old lady broke in with: "policeman, there's a poor girl been robbed of her purse by that boy, and that gentleman there is protecting him." the policeman laughed. "so, kate, you have had your purse stolen, have you?" he asked. the girl looked embarrassed. "i may be mistaken," she admitted. "i am afraid you have been up to one of your tricks." "do you know the girl?" asked the lawyer. "i have arrested her more than once for playing a confidence game. it is only three weeks since i had her up before the jefferson market police court." "well, i declare!" exclaimed the old lady, astounded. the girl sprang from her seat when the next station was reached, and hastily left the car. "my boy," said the lawyer, "i must ask your pardon for doubting you even for a moment. this good lady, too, ought to apologize to you." the old lady sniffed contemptuously. "i never apologize to boys," she said. "then, madam, take care you don't do them injustice," said the lawyer gravely. "i am old enough to manage my own affairs," cried the old lady, with asperity. "you are certainly old enough, but----" "don't you speak to me again, sir." the lawyer smiled, and crossing the car sat down at rupert's side. "my boy," he said, "you came near getting into a scrape because you did not know how much the purse contained. suppose you count the money now." rupert took out the purse and followed this friendly advice. to his gratification and surprise he found a ten-dollar gold piece and two dollars and a half in silver. his face expressed the joy he felt. "that is a godsend," he said. "do you think mr. sylvester knew about the gold?" "i have no doubt of it. he is a very kind-hearted and generous man. you may keep the money without hesitation." the time soon came when rupert was to leave the elevated train. he hurried home with joyful heart, feeling that he was carrying good news. when he entered the little room he found his mother again in an attitude of despondency. "what is the matter, mother?" he asked. "i don't know what we shall do, rupert," she said. "i went round to mr. jacob grubb's clothing store this afternoon for more work, and he said business was so dull he would not have any more work for a month." "then you can take a vacation, mother," said rupert, lightly. "but how shall we live in that case, rupert? you are out of work." "mother, don't worry. i have made more to-day than in any week when i had regular work. first, here is a basketful of provisions," and he removed the cover from the basket, displaying the contents. "have you had supper yet?" "no." "then suppose you make some tea, and we will have a nice supper." "you didn't buy those provisions, rupert?" "no, they were given me by a new friend. but that isn't all. what do you say to this?" and he emptied the purse on the table. "truly you have been fortunate," said mrs. rollins, with new cheerfulness. "it has come in good time, too, for our rent will fall due on saturday." "then, mother, you had better take this money, and take care of it till it is wanted." just as mrs. rollins was placing the purse in a bureau drawer mrs. marlow, who lived on the floor below, opened the door and entered the room without knocking. "excuse my comin' in without knockin'," she said. "i didn't think." mrs. marlow was in the habit of moving about in a noiseless, stealthy way, and was not a favorite with rupert or his mother. they felt that there was something suspicious and underhanded about her. "what can i do for you, mrs. marlow?" asked mrs. rollins, civilly. "i'm all out of matches. can you give me a few?" "certainly." mrs. marlow took the matches, but did not go. she sank into a chair and grew social. "and how is the times affectin' you, mrs. rollins?" she asked. "rupert is out of employment. all he has to depend upon are odd jobs." mrs. marlow darted a curious glance at the bureau drawer in which her neighbor had deposited the purse. "it don't make so much difference as long as a body has got money to fall back upon," she said. "that is not my condition." "i'm sorry for it. i surmised you might have money ahead. you're better off than i am, for i have no boy to work for me." "if i am better off than anybody," said mrs. rollins, with a faint smile, "i suppose i ought not to complain." "my! what a nice lot of provisions!" exclaimed mrs. marlow, espying for the first time the open basket. "sure, you buy things by the quantity." "that was a present to rupert from a rich gentleman whose acquaintance he made." "it's a nice thing to have rich friends. rupert, would you mind tellin' the gentleman that you know a poor widder that would be thankful for his kind assistance?" "i don't feel well enough acquainted with mr. sylvester for that," said rupert, annoyed. "sure his name is sylvester, is it? and where does he live?" "in harlem." "and what's the street and number?" "i should prefer not to tell you." "ah, it's selfish you are. you want to keep him to yourself." "i don't expect to see him again." "then why do you mind tellin' me where he lives?" "i don't want to annoy him." mrs. marlow turned her attention to his mother. "would you mind givin' me a small bit of meat for my supper, you've got so much?" she said. her request was complied with, and she at length left the room. "what a disagreeable woman!" exclaimed rupert. "she was prying about all the time she was here." "yes. i don't enjoy her company much, but i can't order her out of the room." they had a nice supper, which mrs. rollins and grace enjoyed. rupert sat down at the table, but confined himself to a cup of tea, having already supped at mr. sylvester's. the next day he resumed his hunt for a place, knowing well that his good luck of the day previous would not take the place of regular employment. but in dull times searching for a place is discouraging work. he was indeed offered a position in a drug store up town at three dollars a week, but there were two objections to accepting it. the small pay would not more than half defray the expenses of their little household, and, besides, the hours would be very long. resolving to leave no means untried, rupert decided to remain out till five o'clock. perhaps something might turn up for him at the last moment. he was walking in front of the metropolitan hotel when a boy hailed him in evident surprise. "are you all right?" he asked. "why shouldn't i be all right, george?" asked rupert, in great surprise. "i thought you had broken your leg." "who told you such nonsense?" "there was a slip of paper brought to your mother early this afternoon, saying that you had been run over by a horse car, and had been carried into a drug store near thirtieth street." rupert was amazed. "who brought the paper?" "a messenger boy." "and i suppose my mother was very much frightened?" "she went out directly, and took the car up to thirtieth street." "what can it mean?" "i don't know," said george parker, shaking his head. "i am glad it isn't true." "if anybody played this trick on purpose, i'd like to give him a good shaking." "you'd better go home and let your mother know you are all right." "i will." chapter v. mrs. marlow's scheme. mrs. marlow was of a covetous disposition, and not overburdened with principle. when she saw mrs. rollins drop a purse into her bureau drawer, she immediately began to consider how she could manage to appropriate it. it was necessary to get into the room when the widow was out, but unfortunately for her plans, mrs. rollins seldom left her daughter. "why can't she go out and get a bit of amusement like other folks?" she muttered. presently mrs. marlow had a bright idea. if the widow could suspect that some accident had happened to rupert her absence could be secured. she made her way to a district messenger office, and wrote a message announcing that rupert had been run over and had his leg broken. then she went home and waited for the success of her stratagem. opening her door, she soon saw the young messenger ascend the stairs. "where does mrs. rollins live?" he asked. "on the next floor," she answered, smiling with satisfaction. soon--almost immediately--mrs. rollins came down stairs in a terrible state of anxiety. she scarcely noticed mrs. marlow, who was watching her through the open door of her room, but hurried on her sad errand. "now's my chance!" thought mrs. marlow. "i hope the brat's asleep." she crept softly up stairs and stealthily opened the door of her neighbor's room without knocking. once in the room, she looked cautiously toward the bed. grace had her face turned toward the wall and was in a light slumber. "heaven be praised!" thought mrs. marlow. she walked on tiptoe to the bureau and opened the upper drawer. there was the purse! mrs. rollins had gone out in such a hurry that she had not thought to take it. mrs. marlow took it hurriedly and dropped it into her capacious pocket. before she could leave the room grace woke, and turning her head saw her. "what's the matter, mrs. marlow? why are you here?" she asked, in a startled voice. "drat the child!" muttered mrs. marlow, under her breath. then aloud, "i thought you was asleep, my dear, and i didn't want to disturb you." "but why are you here? where is my mother?" "she went out in a hurry like as if she had heard bad news. i saw her go out, and thought you might want something. so i came up, but i didn't want to disturb you." grace was surprised. it was not like mrs. marlow to be so thoughtful and considerate. "no," she said, "i don't want anything--except my mother." "she won't be gone long, my dear." "did she say anything to you when she went out?" "no; but i saw a telegraph boy come upstairs with a message like, and she went out directly afterwards." "i wish i knew what she went out for." "you'll know soon. i must hurry back now, for my kettle will be bilin'." once in her own room mrs. marlow opened the purse, after she had locked the door. her delight at discovering the gold piece was great. "and it's a gold piece you've got, mrs. rollins!" she exclaimed. "sure you're in luck, maggie marlow, for once in your life. it's ten dollars, as sure as you live. and i might be passin' it off for a quarter. i'll have to get it changed quick." mrs. rollins had taken a dollar in silver, but there was a dollar and a half left besides the gold piece. after she got into her own room it occurred to her that she might have hunted up the basket of provisions and helped herself from what was left. "but it don't matter," she reflected. "with all this money i can buy what i like." she put on her bonnet and shawl, and going down stairs went to the nearest grocery store. "what can i do for you, mrs. marlow?" asked the grocer. "you may give me a pound of tea, a pound of butter, a pound of sugar and a loaf of bread," answered mrs. marlow, volubly. "are you sure you've got money enough to pay for them?" asked the grocer, doubtfully. "yes, and more, too." upon this assurance the articles were put up, and mrs. marlow passed over the gold eagle. "a ten-dollar gold piece!" exclaimed the grocer, in surprise. "and where did you get so much money? have you come into a fortune?" "sure it was given me by a cousin of my husband--he's a rich man, and lives uptown. it isn't often he thinks of me, but he opened his heart this time." this explanation seemed plausible, and the grocer gave mrs. marlow her change--about nine dollars. "i'm glad you are so lucky," he remarked. "i shall be glad to have you come again--as long as the money lasts," he added, with a laugh. "sure i made a good excuse. he'll never mistrust," said mrs. marlow to herself, as she went back to her room. "now, mrs. rollins, you may come back as soon as you like." mrs. rollins was away three hours. she visited the locality mentioned in the note she had received, but could hear nothing of a boy being run over by the cars and having his leg broken. she went into a drug store, but neither the druggist nor his clerks had heard of any such accident. "where can they have taken my boy?" she moaned. "if i could only find him, and have him brought home!" there seemed to be absolutely no clew. after a while she bethought her of the sick girl she had left behind. "if grace wakes up she won't know what has become of me, and will feel frightened. i ought to have told her, or left word with mrs. marlow." weary and disheartened, she went home and toiled up the stairs to her own room. "where have you been, mother?" asked grace, anxiously, "and what did you go out for?" mrs. rollins sank into a chair, and could not answer at first for very weariness. "what message did the telegraph boy bring you, mother?" "what do you know about the telegraph boy, grace? were you awake when i went out?" "no, mother. mrs. marlow told me." "she told you about a telegraph boy calling on me?" "yes. i waked up and saw her in the room. she said you had gone out, and she thought the telegraph boy had brought you bad news." "so he did, grace," said the widow, and she burst into tears. "what is it, mother? anything about rupert?" "yes. your poor brother has been run over by the cars and got his leg broken." "did you see him? where is he?" asked grace, anxiously. "no. i couldn't find him. i went to where the note mentioned, but could not hear anything about him." "perhaps he was taken to some hospital." "yes, i didn't think of that. i am sure he will send me a message as soon as he gets a chance. i wish i knew where he is." mrs. marlow was aware that the widow had returned, but hesitated about going upstairs. she was afraid some questions might be asked that would involve her in trouble. besides, mrs. rollins might discover the loss of the purse, and the evidence of grace might expose her to suspicion. "drat the child? i wish she hadn't waked up. then i could deny that i had been in the room at all." but mrs. rollins did not have occasion to go to the bureau. she was absorbed in thoughts of rupert. she did not know what course to take to get further knowledge of him. it seemed hard, but she could think of nothing except to wait for some message from him. all at once she heard a familiar step on the stairs. "it sounds like rupert," said grace, half-rising from the bed in her eagerness. mrs. rollins rose and hurried to the door. she reached it just as rupert opened it and dashed into the room. "oh, rupert!" exclaimed the mother, joyfully. "then your leg isn't broken?" "i should say not. i should like to settle with the one that told you so. tell me all about it, mother." "so it was a telegraph boy who brought the message?" he said, thoughtfully, after the explanation. "yes." "let me see the message." rupert examined it, but the handwriting was not one that he was familiar with. "give it to me, mother. i'll find out the office it came from, and perhaps in that way i can get some light on the mystery." "i don't see what object anyone could have in playing such a cruel trick on me," said the widow. "thank heaven, it isn't true." rupert took the note and went to the nearest messenger office. "was any messenger boy sent from here this afternoon to elizabeth street?" the superintendent looked over the books. "yes," he answered. "can you tell who left the message?" "it was a stout woman, of medium height." "what did she wear?" "she had on a faded shawl. i don't remember what kind of a hat she wore." but a light had already dawned on rupert. "it was mrs. marlow!" he said to himself. chapter vi. rupert as a detective. the next question that suggested itself to rupert was, "what object could mrs. marlow have in sending off his mother on a wild goose chase?" the answer occurred immediately. "the purse." he hurried home, and fairly ran up stairs. "mother," he cried, entering out of breath, "where did you put the purse i gave you?" "in the bureau drawer." "will you look and see if it is there now?" wondering at his earnestness, mrs. rollins opened the bureau drawer. "it is gone!" she said, with a startled look. "i think i know where it has gone," said rupert, his suspicions now become certainties. "where?" "mrs. marlow can probably tell you." "do you mean that she has taken it, rupert?" said his mother. "i have found out that mrs. marlow sent the messenger giving you the false report of my accident. you can guess her motive." "it hardly seems credible." "i think there can be no doubt of it." "what shall we do?" "i will try to get some further evidence. you remember that grace woke up and saw her in the room." "you did not see her go near the bureau, grace?" asked mrs. rollins. "no, she was just leaving the room when i woke up." "wait here a minute, mother." rupert darted down stairs and made his way to the grocery store which he judged mrs. marlow would be likely to visit. "what can i do for you, rupert?" asked the grocer, pleasantly. "has mrs. marlow been here to-day?" "yes," laughed the grocer. "the old lady seems to be in funds. what do you think, rupert? she changed a ten-dollar gold piece here." "i thought so," said rupert. "that gold piece was stolen from my mother." "you don't tell me so!" ejaculated the grocer, opening wide his eyes in astonishment. "it's a fact. how did she account for having so much money?" "she said it was given her by a cousin of her late husband--a very rich man." "that was a fiction of mrs. marlow's." "it's too bad, rupert. what do you want me to do? i can't give you the gold piece, for i gave mrs. marlow the change, about nine dollars. i can't afford to lose so much." "you can help me to get back that money. when i call upon you, you can testify that she paid it to you." "so i will, rupert. i didn't think the woman was such a mean thief." five minutes later rupert knocked at mrs. marlow's door. the widow opened it herself, and when she saw her visitor she suspected his errand, but she was resolved to deny all knowledge of the money. "how do you do, rupert?" she said. "i thought you had met with an accident?" "did you? how came you to think so?" asked rupert, looking her full in the face. "the boy told me--the telegraph boy." "did he? that is strange. the note he brought my mother was sealed." "then he must have opened it. you can't trust them boys." "how are you getting along, mrs. marlow? i see you have been buying some groceries," for the packages were on the table. "yes. i got a few things that i needed," said the widow, uneasily. "then you didn't have your leg broken, after all?" "if i did, it's well again. by the way, mrs. marlow, when my mother was out a purse was taken from the room." "you don't tell me!" said mrs. marlow, flushing. "them thieves is so bold. i must look and see if i haven't had something taken." "i believe you came into the room while mother was gone." "so i did," answered mrs. marlow, with engaging frankness. "i went in to see if your dear sister wanted anything done." "you found her asleep?" "she waked up just as i entered the room. she was only having a cat nap. i told her why your mother had gone out, she seemed so alarmed like." "and then you went to the table drawer and took out the purse." "it was in the bureau drawer----" here mrs. marlow stopped short, feeling that she had betrayed herself. "you are right. you have good reason to know. you went to the bureau drawer and took out the purse." "it's a lie, whoever says it," exclaimed the widow. "you're in good business, rupert rollins, to be comin' round accusin' a poor woman of stealin'--me that's as honest as the babe unborn." "it may be so, mrs. marlow, but where did you get the gold piece you paid to mr. graves?" "sure, where did he hear that?" thought the widow, quite taken aback. "where did you get it?" demanded rupert, sternly. "sure i got it from a cousin of my late husband, who sent it to me yesterday." "where does he live?" "on lexington avenue." "what is his name?" "john sheehan," answered mrs. marlow, after a pause. "at what number does he live?" "i don't just remember," answered the widow, warily. "you can tell between what streets he lives." "i think it's somewhere between thirtieth and fortieth streets, but my memory isn't good." "there is no need of making up any more stories, mrs. marlow. the purse contained eleven dollars and a half, including the gold piece. you spent a dollar at the grocery store. i want the balance." "sure you're very cruel to a poor widow, rupert rollins," said mrs. marlow, bursting into tears, which she could command when occasion required. "i never was called a thafe before." as she spoke she drew out her handkerchief, but, unfortunately, there was something entangled with it, and the purse was twitched out and fell on the floor. rupert sprang forward and secured it, though mrs. marlow tried to put her foot on it. "this is the purse that was taken from mother," said rupert. "how came it in your pocket?" "i don't know," faltered the widow. "i can't account for it." "i can. hereafter, mrs. marlow, if you ever enter our room again i will send for a policeman." "it's my own purse!" asserted mrs. marlow, deciding to brazen it out. for answer rupert opened it, and showed written inside the name "frank sylvester." "do you see that, mrs. marlow? that is the name of the gentleman who gave me the purse." "why didn't i say that was my cousin's name?" thought mrs. marlow, but it was too late. rupert counted the contents of the purse, and found them intact, except the dollar which mrs. marlow had spent. "i won't say anything about the money you spent," he said, "though i might claim the groceries. good afternoon, and try to lead a better life." mrs. marlow sank into a rocking-chair, and began to cry dismally. her plans had miscarried for a certainty, and she felt angry with herself. "why didn't i put the purse in my trunk?" she asked herself. "then he wouldn't have found out. sure i cheated myself." rupert went upstairs with a light heart. "well, did you hear anything of the purse?" asked his mother. for answer he held it up. "where did you get it?" "it came from mrs. marlow's pocket." "what a wicked woman!" exclaimed grace. "she must have taken it when i was asleep." "did she give it up willingly? i thought she would have denied it." "so she did, mother, but your son is a detective. i'll tell you how i managed it," and he told the story. "there's only a dollar gone," he said in conclusion. "don't leave it in the bureau drawer again, though i don't think mrs. marlow will trouble you with another call." a day or two later the rent came due, and eight dollars had to be taken from the scanty fund, which left the family again very near destitution. rupert did not relax his efforts to secure a place, but when business is dull the difficulty of securing a position is much increased. he became anxious, and the prospect seemed very dark. "i must do something," he said to himself, "if it's only selling papers. that will be better than blacking boots, though that is an honest business." to make matters worse, his mother was unable to procure vests to make from any of the readymade clothing establishments. "we've got all the hands we need," was the invariable answer to her applications. they tried to economize more closely, but there was small chance for that. they had not eaten meat for three days, and remained contented with bread and tea, leaving out sugar, for they felt that this was a superfluity in their circumstances. it was emphatically a dull time, and there seemed no chance to earn anything. "rupert," said his mother, drawing a ring from her finger, "take this ring and pawn it. there seems no other way." "isn't it your wedding ring, mother?" "yes, rupert, but i cannot afford to keep it while we are so poor." rupert took the ring, and bent his steps towards simpson's, for he felt that there he would be likely to meet fair treatment. chapter vii. a lucky meeting. it saddened rupert to think his mother's wedding ring must be sacrificed, but when they were actually in need of food sentiment must not be considered. after that, when they had no longer anything to pawn except articles of clothing, rupert shuddered to think what might lay before them. he entered simpson's with a slow step. a woman was ahead of him and he waited for his turn. "well," said an attendant, courteously, "what can i do for you?" "what will you give me on this ring?" "what do you want on it?" "two dollars," answered rupert. "no doubt it is worth that, but we have so many rings in stock that we are not anxious to receive more. we will give you a dollar and a quarter." rupert hesitated, when to his surprise some one tapped him on the shoulder. "what brings you here, rupert?" were the words that reached his ear. he turned round in surprise. "mr. sylvester!" he exclaimed. "i see you have not forgotten me. what brings you here?" "sad necessity, mr. sylvester. but--i didn't expect to find you here. surely you----" "no, i have not come here to pawn anything," said the young man, smiling. "on the contrary, i want to redeem a watch for an old schoolmate who was obliged to pawn it. he has a wife and child and was thrown out of employment four weeks since. fortunately i ran across him, and have got him a place." "i will wait till you have attended to your business." soon a gold watch was placed in mr. sylvester's hands, and he paid the pawnbroker twenty dollars and sixty cents. it had been pledged not quite a month for twenty dollars. the sixty cents represented the three per cent. a month interest allowed by the laws regulating pawn shops. "now, young man," said the attendant, "do you want the dollar and a quarter i offered you on your ring?" "yes," answered rupert. "no," interposed frank sylvester, quietly. "what ring is this, rupert?" "my mother's wedding ring." "and you are actually reduced to pawning it?" "yes, mr. sylvester, i can't get anything to do, and we are out of money." "you have a mother and sister, i think you told me?" "yes, sir." "i think we can do better than pawn the ring. where do you live?" "in elizabeth street." "does your mother prefer the city to the country?" "no, sir; but she has no choice." "suppose i obtain for her a position as housekeeper in the family of an elderly gentleman in rutherford, about ten miles out on the erie railroad, would she accept?" "she would be glad to do so but for grace. she could not be separated from her." "there would be no occasion. my uncle lives alone in a large house, and a child would make the house pleasanter." "some gentlemen don't like children." "that is not the case with uncle ben. but let us go out. you have no further business here. we will go into the astor house reading room and have a chat." rupert followed his friend to the astor house and they ascended to the reading room on the second floor. taking adjoining armchairs, mr. sylvester drew from his pocket the following letter which he showed to rupert. it ran thus: "my housekeeper is about to leave me, to join her married daughter in wisconsin. i must supply her place, but i know of no one in rutherford who would suit me. can't you find me some one--a pleasant, ladylike person, who would make my house homelike and attractive? i think you know my tastes. please give this matter your early attention. benjamin strathmore." "now," continued mr. sylvester, "i was quite at a loss whom to recommend, but i think your mother would suit uncle ben." "suppose you call and make her acquaintance, mr. sylvester. then you can tell better. that is, if you don't object to visiting our poor home." "my dear rupert, i shall be delighted to meet your mother. one thing i am sure of in advance, she is a lady." "she is, mr. sylvester," said rupert, warmly. mrs. rollins was a good deal surprised when rupert entered the room, followed by a handsomely-dressed young man, and she rose from her seat in some trepidation. "mother," said rupert, "this is mr. sylvester, who was kind enough to give us the money and provisions i brought home the other day." "i am glad to meet so kind a friend," said the widow, with simple dignity. "ask him to take a seat." "i came to make you a business proposal," began mr. sylvester, who was already favorably impressed with rupert's mother. "your son thinks you might be willing to accept the position of housekeeper in my uncle's family, in rutherford." mrs. rollins instinctively looked towards grace. "i see what you are thinking of," interposed her caller. "there will be no difficulty about taking your daughter with you." "then i shall be glad to accept. and rupert----" "rupert, i am sure, will prefer to remain in the city. i will find him a place. till then he can stay with me." rupert brightened up at this suggestion. he had no desire to go to the country, but would like nothing more than a place in some city establishment. "how soon could you arrange to go, mrs. rollins?" "next monday." "that will answer. i will apprise my uncle. now as to the compensation." "if i have grace with me i shall hardly feel justified in asking compensation." "my uncle would not think of making any account of the little girl's board. i think he paid your predecessor twenty-five dollars a month. will that be satisfactory?" "it is very liberal, sir." "you will allow me to offer you a month's salary in advance. i can settle it with uncle ben." this relieved mrs. rollins from a great embarrassment, as she needed to replenish her wardrobe to some extent. "i will go out with you on monday, and take rupert with me, as he will wish to see how his mother and sister are situated." "how kind you are, mr. sylvester!" said rupert, gratefully. "don't give me too much credit, rupert. you have helped me out of an embarrassment. i expected to have a long hunt for a housekeeper. thanks to your mother i have escaped all that." "you don't know how much it means to us, mr. sylvester." "well, perhaps, i have some idea. it seems a good arrangement for all of us. well, good morning. oh, by the way, you meet me at the astor house to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock." "yes, sir, with pleasure." mrs. marlow was a very observing woman. she always kept her door ajar, and saw every one who went upstairs. her curiosity was considerably excited when she saw rupert's companion. "my stars!" she said to herself. "what a fine-looking young man! he looks like a real gentleman--i wonder does he know them rollinses." mrs. marlow would liked to have listened at the door and heard the conversation between her neighbors and the distinguished-looking visitor. but this was not practicable. however, as mr. sylvester came down stairs she ventured out and intercepted him. "sure, you've been callin' on my friend, mrs. rollins," she said. "is she a friend of yours?" asked sylvester, looking at her curiously. "indeed she is, and she's a fine lady. but she's been very unfortunate. i would like to have helped her, but i am poor myself, and----" "won't you accept this?" said sylvester, offering her a dollar as the easiest way of getting rid of her. "thank you, sir," said mrs. marlow, with a profound courtesy. "it's easy to see you're a kindhearted man." "what a curious woman! i should hardly think mrs. rollins would have made choice of her as a friend!" soliloquized the young man as he pushed on to the street. "i wonder what his name is and where he lives," speculated mrs. marlow. "he must be the young man that gave the rollinses the purse and the basket of provisions. if i knew where he lived i'd go and see him often." there is very little doubt that mrs. marlow would have kept her word, but unfortunately she had no clew to the residence of her new acquaintance. when rupert came downstairs, she put herself in his way. "you had a call from a nice gentleman this morning," she said, insinuatingly. rupert felt too happy to slight even mrs. marlow, and he answered, courteously, "yes." "i hope he brought a present for your mother." "no, mrs. marlow, but he brought something better." "and what can that be?" asked the widow, with intense curiosity. "he engaged mother to take a place as housekeeper for a gentleman in the country." "you don't say! and what'll be done with your sister? i'll board her cheap, and be like a mother to her." rupert could not help smiling at the idea of leaving his sister in such hands. he explained that grace would go with her mother. "sure your mother's a lucky woman! i'd like to be a housekeeper myself. wouldn't you speak to the gentleman for me?" "i'll mention it if you like." rupert could promise this safely, for he would take care that mr. sylvester understood the character of their unscrupulous neighbor. "if you'll do it, rupert, dear, i'll pay you back the dollar i borrowed the other day, when i get my first week's wages." "some folks is lucky!" soliloquized mrs. marlow. "the young man ought to have taken me. i'm much stronger than mrs. rollins, and i would have made a better housekeeper, but maybe my turn will come next." chapter viii. julian lorimer. on monday rupert saw his mother and sister established at rutherford. their new home was a large old-fashioned mansion, exceedingly comfortable. one of the best chambers was assigned to mrs. rollins, with a small room opening out of it for grace. benjamin strathmore was a stout old gentleman of seventy, tall, and patriarchal-looking with his abundant white hair. "how do you like my selection of housekeeper, uncle ben?" asked sylvester, when he had a chance to be alone with the old gentleman. "she will just suit me," said mr. strathmore, emphatically. "she is evidently a lady, and she will be an agreeable companion if i am not mistaken. mrs. martin was a good housekeeper, but she had no idea outside of her duties. i could not chat with her unless i talked about cooking. my evenings were solitary. she spent the time in the kitchen or in her own room. now the house will be really social." "i am delighted to have suited you, uncle ben." "where in the world did you come across mrs. rollins? have you known her long?" "i became acquainted through her son rupert, to whom i introduced you." "he seems a fine, manly boy. he can stay here, too. i will find something for him to do." "thank you, uncle ben, but i shall find him a place in new york. he prefers the city, and it will afford him more opportunities of advancement. rupert is ambitious, and i predict that he will rise in time to an excellent position." "just as you think best, frank; but remember that if ever there is need, or he becomes sick, there is room for him here." to anticipate a little. mr. strathmore was not disappointed in mrs. rollins. it came to be her custom to spend the evenings with her employer. sometimes she read aloud to him. at others, while she was engaged in needlework, and grace, now restored to health, was occupied with her books, the old gentleman sat back in his easy chair, and with calm content watched his companions. he no longer felt his former burden of solitude. "i have never been happier," he wrote later on to his nephew. "i regretted the loss of mrs. martin, but now i feel that it was for my happiness, since it has opened the way for such an acceptable substitute." rupert went at first to the house of mr. sylvester, where their acquaintance soon ripened into friendship. they were walking down broadway one day, when frank sylvester noticed a sudden start on the part of his young companion. "what is the matter, rupert?" he asked. "do you see that stout man on the opposite side of the street, mr. sylvester?" said rupert. "yes. what of him?" "he was the cause of my poor father's failure and death." "how was that?" "my father was a merchant in buffalo, and that man was his partner. during a three months' absence in california, where he went partly for his health, the business was managed by mr. lorimer in such a way that the firm became deeply involved and was brought to the brink of failure. "my father was greatly astonished at the sudden change, for when he left all was prosperous. he could not account for the disappearance of assets and the accumulation of claims against the firm except on the theory that large sums had been appropriated by his partner. he could prove nothing, however, and the firm was dissolved. when the business was closed there was barely enough money left to pay the creditors. my father found himself with nothing, and soon died of grief and mortification." "what became of lorimer?" "i have not seen him till to-day. i heard that he had come to new york and established himself on third avenue somewhere, in the same business. if so, he must have had capital, and this must have been the sum of which he defrauded my father." "the story is a sad one, rupert. you and your mother must have suffered from the change in circumstances." "we did. we did not care to stay in buffalo, where we had been accustomed to live in good style, so we came to new york, where we could live according to our change in circumstances among those who had never known us. i thought i might get employment that would enable me to support my mother and sister in tolerable comfort. i did get a place with tenney & rhodes, but i only earned five dollars a week. just before meeting you i lost that, and had you not come to our assistance i don't know what would have become of us." "i feel repaid for whatever i have done for you," said frank sylvester, kindly. "has this mr. lorimer a family?" "he has a wife and one son." "were your families intimate?" "yes. we occupied adjoining houses. julian lorimer was about my age, and attended the same school. i never liked him, however. he had a very high opinion of himself, and put on airs which made him generally unpopular." "did he put on airs with you?" "not till after the failure. my father moved out of his house, but mr. lorimer remained in his, and appeared to live in about the same style as before, while we moved into a few rooms in an unfashionable part of the city. after this julian took very little notice of me." "you haven't met him since you came to new york?" "no; i rather wonder i haven't, but i suppose i shall some day." the time came sooner than he anticipated. rupert was crossing eighth avenue near forty-second street one day, when he came near being run into by a bicycle. the rider gave a note of warning, and then stopped short in surprise. "rupert rollins!" he said, in a half tone of inquiry. "is it you, julian?" asked rupert, recognizing his former schoolmate. "yes. are you living in new york?" "yes." "whereabouts?" "at present i am staying in harlem." "i heard you and your mother were living in a tenement house down town." "my mother is not living in the city," returned rupert, coldly. he did not care to give julian any more information than was absolutely necessary. "where is she, then?" "in rutherford, new jersey." "why don't you live there, too?" "because i expect to be employed in new york." "then you are out of work now?" "yes." "why don't you live in the newsboys' lodge? that is cheap." "have you ever lived there?" "do you mean to insult me? i live in a nice house on one hundred and sixteenth street." "so do i." "you are bluffing." "why should i? what good would it do me?" further inquiry developed the fact that they lived in neighboring blocks. "i don't see how you can afford to live on such a street." "i am at present visiting a friend--mr. sylvester." "is he rich?" "yes. i believe so." "i suppose you know that my father has a nice new store on third avenue, near forty-second street?" "i heard something of the kind," said rupert, briefly. "he's doing a staving business--a good deal larger than he did in buffalo." rupert made no comment. "you said you were out of employment, didn't you?" "yes." "you might call round at the store. perhaps pa can find a place for you as a cash boy, though you would be rather large for that." "how much does he pay his cash boys?" "two and a half a week." "i hardly think i could live on that," said rupert, smiling. "it is better than being out of work." "that is true, but i shouldn't like to be getting more and more behindhand every week. are you attending school?" "yes, but i think of going into business soon." "perhaps," suggested rupert, "you will take one of the cash boys' places." "you must be crazy. when i go into business it won't be into a retail store. i will get a place in some wholesale establishment. there's a better chance to rise there." "i didn't know but you would go to college." "i am not very fond of study. pa would send me to columbia college or to harvard, if i wanted to go, but i prefer a life of business. i want to become a merchant prince." "it would certainly be agreeable. i shall be satisfied if i can be successful enough to support my mother and sister in comfort. that is my ambition." "oh, i dare say. you are a poor boy, you know." "look here, julian, there's one thing i don't understand. your father and mine were partners, and i supposed in the same circumstances. both failed together. yet your father now has a large store of his own, and we are poor. can you tell me why?" "i'm not good at conundrums. i'll have to be going. if you want a place as cash boy i'll ask pa to fit you out. ta ta!" and julian dashed off on his wheel. "i hope some time to be a successful and honorable man of business," thought rupert, as he followed his former schoolfellow with his glance. "my ambition would not be satisfied with anything short of this." chapter ix. rupert becomes a bell-boy. rupert found a pleasant home at the house of mr. sylvester, but he was anxious as soon as possible to secure employment. his friend was active in his behalf, but the general depression in business was such that there seemed to be no opening anywhere. one evening at supper mr. sylvester said: "i have been hoping to find you a place in a wholesale establishment in pearl street. i learned that one of the younger clerks was about to leave, but he has decided to stay six months longer, and, of course, we can't wait as long as that." "no, mr. sylvester, it would seem like six years to me." "even if your wants were all provided for in that time?" "i feel that i ought to be at work, and not depending on your generosity. i would rather work for two dollars a week than remain idle." "that is the right spirit, rupert. you will be glad, then, to hear that i have at last found employment for you." "but i thought you just said----" "that i could not get you a place in pearl street. true, but this is a different position--very different. it is that of bell-boy in a hotel." "what are the duties, mr. sylvester?" "you will be at the command of the clerk, and will have to run up and downstairs, answering calls from the guests, or carrying messages from the office. in fact, you will be a general utility clerk, and i have no doubt will get terribly tired the first few days." "never mind. i can stand that. if i make enough to pay my way i shall be satisfied." "you will be better paid than if you were in a mercantile house. you will receive five dollars a week and get your meals at the hotel." rupert's face brightened. "why, that is excellent," he said. "when i was at tenney & rhodes' i only received five dollars weekly and had to furnish my own meals." "true, but you were then in the line of promotion. here you cannot expect to rise any higher unless you qualify yourself to be a hotel man." "at any rate i am willing to try it. where is the hotel?" "it is the somerset house, on lower broadway. it is not a fashionable hotel, but comfortable and of good reputation. i am somewhat acquainted with the office clerk, who was an old schoolmate of mine, and at my request he has given you this position." "i hope i shall give satisfaction. i shall be a green hand." "the duties are easily understood and learned. if you show that you are desirous of succeeding you will make a good impression, and you will get on well." "when am i to commence work?" asked rupert. "i will take you down town with me to-morrow morning, and introduce you to mr. malcolm, the clerk. i suppose you will be expected to go to work directly." "i should prefer that." "one thing i must tell you. you will have to secure a room outside, as the employees are not expected to sleep in the hotel. all the rooms are reserved for guests." "what will my hours be?" "from seven in the morning till seven in the evening. by this arrangement you will have your evenings to yourself." rupert went to bed in good spirits. he was of an active temperament, and enjoyed occupation. it would be pleasant to him also to feel that he was earning his own living. in the morning mr. sylvester went down town with him. the somerset house was a hotel of moderate size, only five stories in height, which is low for a city hotel. i may as well say here that i have not given the correct name of the hotel for obvious reasons. so far as our story is concerned, the name i have chosen will do as well as any other. "those who frequent this hotel are not of the fashionable class," explained mr. sylvester, "but it is largely patronized by traveling salesmen and people from the country. the rates are moderate, and those come here who would not feel able to afford the fifth avenue or hotels of that grade." the entrance was neat, and rupert was well pleased with the aspect of his new place of employment. at some distance from the doorway was the office, and behind the reading room. "mr. malcolm," said sylvester to a pleasant-looking man of thirty-five, who stood behind a counter, "this is the young man i mentioned to you. he will be glad to fill the position of bell-boy, and from my acquaintance with him i feel quite sure he will suit you. his name is rupert rollins." the clerk smiled pleasantly. "we shall soon know each other better," he said. "i hope you are strong, for you will have a good deal of exercise here." "i think i can stand it," said rupert. "i shall soon get used to it." "i have a plan of the rooms here," went on the clerk. "take it and go upstairs and look about you on the different floors. it will be necessary that you should learn the location of the rooms." "i will leave you now, rupert," said mr. sylvester. "you can come back to my house to-night, and to-morrow you can look up a room near the hotel." for the first few days rupert got very tired. he would have to go upstairs perhaps thirty or forty times during the day, sometimes to the fifth floor. there was an elevator in the somerset hotel, but the bell-boys were not allowed to use it. when a guest registered and was assigned to a room on one of the upper floors he was conducted to the elevator, but the bell-boy, carrying his valise, was obliged to walk upstairs, and meet him at the landing-place. often rupert felt that there was an injustice in this, and that no harm would be done if he were also allowed to use the elevator. however, he was not foolish enough make any complaint, but by his pleasant manners and cheerful alacrity won the good opinion of mr. malcolm, the clerk. the somerset hotel was on the european and american systems combined. if a guest preferred simply to lodge at the hotel he could do so, and take his meals either at the hotel restaurant or in any other. one day a guest registered who was assigned to no. , on the fifth floor. to rupert was assigned the duty of carrying up the valise. he found it unusually heavy, and more than once as he climbed the stairs he felt that he would be glad to reach his destination. at the elevator landing he met the owner of the valise, a middle-aged man with a brown, sunburned face. "you found it rather a heavy tug, didn't you?" he asked, with a smile. "your clothes seem to be heavy," returned rupert. "it isn't clothes merely," said the stranger. "i come from colorado, and i have some specimens of quartz inside. here, give me the valise, and lead the way to my room." rupert did so. when they reached no. the stranger drew a fifty cent piece from his pocket and handed it to rupert. "take it," he said. "you deserve something for carrying such a load." "thank you, sir," said rupert. "i don't find many guests so liberal." "shall i tell you why i am so liberal? it is because when i was a boy, rather older than you, i was for four months a bell-boy in a chicago hotel." "were you, indeed, sir?" said rupert, with interest. "did you retire on a fortune?" "no; fees were few and far between. however, i saved a little and borrowed a little more, and made my way first to nevada, and afterwards to colorado. i have been pretty well prospered, and now i come home to see my old father and mother in maine." "i hope you will find them well." "thank you, my boy, i heartily hope so. it is seventeen years since i have seen their dear old faces, and it will be a good day for me when we meet again." "are your father and mother both living?" "both at last accounts." "then you are luckier than i am. my father is dead." "that is unfortunate. you are young to have lost a parent." "can i do anything for you, sir? have you all that you need?" "yes," answered the guest, with a look at the washstand. "what i want first is water and towels, for i have just got in from a long railroad journey. those seem to be provided. if i want anything else i will ring." "fifty cents!" repeated rupert. "i wish i could be as well paid every time i carry a valise up stairs. then i should get rich fast." during the second week a tall, thin man with long hair flowing down over his coat collar registered at the somerset. "no. ," said the clerk. "front!" rupert answered the summons. "take this gentleman's valise to no. ." rupert thought the stranger a very singular-looking man. his long, unkempt locks were of yellowish hue, and his eyes were shifty and evasive. but of course in a hotel frequented by all sorts of people, no special attention was paid to any particular guest. rupert met him upstairs and conducted him to his room. "take the valise inside," said the guest. rupert did so, when he was startled by the guest locking the door, making him a prisoner. "now, boy," he said, his eyes lighted with an insane gleam, "you must prepare to die!" "what?" exclaimed rupert, startled. "what do you mean?" "i am commanded by god to offer you up as a sacrifice, even as abraham offered up his son isaac." as he spoke he drew a knife from his breast and advanced toward the hapless bell-boy. chapter x. a bell-boy's experiences. it was evident that the guest whom rupert had conducted to his room was a maniac of the most dangerous character. the man's face was terrible to look upon. his small, ferret-like eyes seemed to dilate with ferocious cunning. he was a man not perhaps robust or strong, but too strong for a boy of sixteen. and rupert was alone with him. it was terrible to think that he was to become the victim of such a man. apart from the pain of death, it was made more terrible at the hands of an insane man. what should he do? rupert had read somewhere that to openly combat an insane person is dangerous. it is advisable to humor his delusions. fortunately he had read a story recently in which a man had escaped death by this very means. it was a desperate chance, but rupert resolved to make use of it. instead of showing the fear he really felt, he forced himself to appear calm. "you are mistaken," he said; "the boy you are to sacrifice is under the bed." the maniac was just about to lunge with his knife, but rupert's words made him pause. "look under the bed and you will see him," continued the bell-boy. the bed was at the other end of the room. the maniac went over to it, and, getting on his knees, began to peer underneath. here was rupert's opportunity. he sprang to the door, turned the key, but did not dare to stop to lock it on the outside, and dashed into the entry. the door of the next room chanced to be open. he darted inside, and bolted himself in. he was just in time. the maniac, discovering the ruse, rose to his feet, and, knife in hand, ran into the hall with a blood-curdling cry. he looked in vain for rupert, who was nowhere to be seen. the staircase was near. he ran down, flight after flight, till he reached the office floor, and made a great sensation as he dashed through it with his drawn knife. here, however, he had some one more formidable than a boy to contend with. two burly porters sprang upon him, and felled him to the floor. the knife was taken from him, and the clerk, horror-struck, leaning over him, asked, "what did you do with the boy?" "i tried to kill him, but he escaped," said the lunatic. "but i will have him yet!" "call two policemen," said mr. malcolm. "one of you go upstairs and find the bell-boy." rupert remained in his temporary refuge, not daring to come out. he heard his unpleasant acquaintance leaving the adjoining room, but was apprehensive that he might return. at length he heard some one calling, "rupert, where are you?" and recognized it as the voice of one of the other bell-boys. he opened the door and came out. "where is the insane man?" he asked quickly. "he was captured in the office, and his knife taken from him. how did you escape from him?" "wait till i go down stairs and i will tell you." when rupert reached the office he was eagerly questioned. he gave the particulars of his unpleasant interview with the crank. "i congratulate you on your presence of mind," said the clerk. "you had a narrow escape from a terrible fate." "where is he now?" "on his way to the station-house. you need not be afraid that he will come back. he is sure to be locked up." later in the day the proprietor of the hotel sent for rupert. "my boy," he said, "you ran a terrible risk this morning. it was in my service, and i feel that i ought in some way to express my appreciation of your remarkable courage and presence of mind. here are fifty dollars, which i hope you will find of service." it was not alone the gift, but the kind words, that gratified rupert. he was able to buy a new suit for best, and a few other articles of which he had need. during the day he had a call from a man connected with one of the daily papers, who wished his photograph to reproduce in connection with an account of the incident. this, however, rupert declined to give, not caring for notoriety. the account of the crank's onset, however, appeared, and a good many curious visitors were attracted to the somerset hotel. among these was julian lorimer. rupert's name had not been mentioned in the account, and julian was surprised to meet him. "how came you here?" he asked. "i am employed here," answered rupert, quietly. "what are you?" "a bell-boy." "is that so? can you tell me who it was that was nearly killed by a crazy crank yesterday?" "i was the one." "you don't say so!" exclaimed julian, in amazement. "was he really so dangerous?" "he came near killing me." "humph! that was rather unpleasant. do you get good pay here?" "yes, very good--enough to support me." "it isn't much of a position, though." "if you will find me a better one i will give this up," said rupert, smiling. "i am expecting to go into a wholesale house soon." "i hope you will succeed in getting such a place. it is rather hard getting business positions now." "oh, my father is well known in the city. he can find me one." "that will be in your favor." here rupert was called off by a summons from the office, and the interview terminated. he had not told julian of the handsome gift received from the proprietor, as he knew that his old schoolfellow had no real interest in his welfare. one who is employed in an american hotel has an excellent opportunity to study human nature. it is free to all comers, and among those who sit in the lobby or use the reading room there are always some who are not guests. the larger proportion of these are respectable persons, but some are adventurers who may be on the lookout for victims. one young man, stylishly dressed and sporting an eyeglass and a cane, rupert had more than once noticed. he came in from time to time, bought a sheet of paper and an envelope at the news stand, and wrote a letter at one of the tables in the reading room. rupert, whose acquaintance with the city was limited, decided from his dress that he belonged to some prominent family. it was noteworthy, however, that he always entered alone. he sometimes, however, entered into conversation with one of the guests of the hotel. those from the country seemed to have his preference. this surprised rupert, who wondered what attraction rural visitors could have for a young man of his elegant appearance. one day an old man of sixty registered from a town in orange county. his face was weather-beaten, and he looked like a farmer. his clothing was rusty, and appeared to have been worn for several years. he might have been taken for a poor man, but rupert had seen him draw out a large wallet full of bills, and judged that, if not rich, he was in comfortable circumstances. it so happened that the young man already referred to had also seen the wallet, and he at once began to pay attention to the rural visitor. watching his opportunity, he sat down beside him in the reading room one afternoon. "it is a pleasant day, sir," he said, sociably. "so 'tis, so 'tis," said the old man, feeling flattered by attention from a young man of such distinguished appearance. "i suppose you live in the country?" "yes, i am from orange county." "the finest part of the state. if my business did not keep me in the city i should like very much to make my residence there." "what might your business be?" asked the old man, with natural curiosity. "i am a broker, sir, in wall street. of course you have heard of wall street." "oh, yes," answered the old man, proud of his familiarity with the name of this famous street. "is it a pooty good business?" "well, that depends on circumstances. sometimes i make money hand over hand, but for the last month i give you my word i probably haven't made over two hundred dollars." "two hundred dollars in a month!" repeated the farmer. "why, that's doing first rate, i call it." the young man shrugged his shoulders. "not for a broker," he said. "why if i make less than five hundred i don't call it much." "five hundred dollars a month?" asked the farmer, much impressed. "yes." "why, that's six thousand dollars a year." "exactly. you are good in arithmetic," said the young man, languidly. "is--is there any chance to go into that business?" asked the orange county man, eagerly. "my friend, i would hardly advise you to go into it. you are rather old to begin a new business." "that's so, but i don't ask for myself. i've got a son--he's my youngest son--a young man of twenty-five, who's anxious to get something to do in the city. he ain't much good on a farm--don't seem to like it. he's read a good many books and stories about new york city, and he wants to come here. i wish i could get him a chance to learn the broker business. you haven't a place in your office now, have you?" the young swell laughed in his sleeve. "i've hooked the old man," he said to himself. "now if i work my cards right, i shall be able to make something out of him." "my friend," he said, "i can't tell you at once, but i will think it over, and--see you to-morrow morning." he had not intended to finish his sentence thus, but just then he espied at the door of the reading room a small, quiet-looking man whose glance rested for a moment upon him. he knew--he had reason to know--that this was richard darke, a well-known detective. he rose from his seat and sauntered to the door, and in two minutes he was one of the motley crowd that throng broadway. chapter xi. rupert receives a commission. the detective, as he left the reading room, passed rupert, who was just entering. "let me see," he said, tapping rupert on the shoulder, "you are the bell-boy who came near being murdered by a crank?" "yes, sir." "you escaped very cleverly. you are evidently a sharp boy. keep your eyes open, don't you?" "yes, sir; except when i'm asleep." "we detectives have to keep our eyes open all the time, but we can't be everywhere at once. now i feel a little inclined to make you my deputy--not permanently, but for a time." "all right, sir." "have you noticed rather a flashy young man, looking like a dude, with an eyeglass and cane?" "yes, sir; he is frequently in the hotel." "you know, of course, that he isn't a guest?" "yes, sir. we bell-boys know who are guests and who are not." "possibly you may have wondered what his business is here?" "yes, sir." "he is a confidence man. his business is to pick up victims, and make what he can out of them. do you see that old gentleman over by the window?" "yes, sir." "he is an honest and probably well-to-do old farmer, i judge. that fellow has been having a talk with him. when he saw me he had business elsewhere. but he hasn't given up his scheme for bleeding the old man. probably he will have another interview with him to-morrow. now i should like to have you keep your eye on the two. find out if you can what the man is after. i can't, for he knows me by sight. i want to foil his schemes and save the old man from loss. here is my address." the detective placed in rupert's hand a small, plain card, bearing the name, richard darke. below he put his address, which need not be given here. "don't say anything about this," he said, "except to me. should you mention it to anyone else in the hotel the fellow would soon see that he was watched, and we might fail to catch him. i am reposing considerable confidence in a boy." "yes, sir, but you will not regret it." "i believe you," said the detective, cordially. "i'll see you again soon." "one moment, mr. darke. what is the young man's name?" "he has several. the one he uses most frequently is clarence clayton." "i will remember it, sir." clarence clayton left the somerset hotel in good spirits. he felt like an angler who was on the point of landing a fine fish. "i wonder if old darke saw me talking with that old granger," he soliloquized. "i hope not. probably he knows me, though thus far i have escaped having my picture in the rogues' gallery. those old fellows know everybody. fortunately there is no regular detective at the somerset, and i shall be able to finish my negotiations with my country friend before he drops in again." mr. clarence clayton was getting low in funds. somehow fortune had not favored him of late, and the sums he had realized out of recent victims were very small. yet he felt so confident of success in the present instance that he sauntered up to the sinclair house, at the corner of broadway and eighth street, and going into the restaurant, which has a high reputation for choice viands, he ordered an appetizing repast at a cost of a dollar. he was scarcely half through when a young man, got up in very much the same style, came in and sat down opposite him. "ha, clayton!" he said, "so you're in luck." "how do, mortimer? what makes you think so?" "your extravagant spread. it isn't permitted to failures like your humble servant to dine in such princely style." "then why come here at all?" "i am only going to order fish balls and coffee, but i want those good, and shall get them good here. have you made a ten-strike?" "no; business is dull with me, but i think i'm on the track of a fair thing." "what is it, and where?" "wouldn't you like to know, mortimer?" said clarence, putting one finger waggishly on one side of his nose. "there isn't enough in it for two." "oh, i don't want to interfere with you, of course. i thought i'd like to know whereabouts you are operating at present." "what do you say to the windsor hotel?" "isn't that rash? don't the detective know you?" "he can't be everywhere, the worthy man. your friend clarence knows what he is about. you won't interfere with me?" "of course not." in spite of this assurance mortimer made it in his way to drop into the windsor hotel later in the evening, but of course he did not see clarence clayton, who had put him on the wrong scent. a good dinner was not the end of clayton's extravagance. he dropped into the star theatre, and enjoyed an attractive play, though it cost him a dollar. "josiah onthank will pay for it, i hope," he said, for he had ascertained from the hotel register the name of his orange county friend. "it will cost something," he laughed, "to get his son into my office in wall street. oh, clarence, you're a sly one, you are!" rupert was free from his duties at seven o'clock, but, remembering the commission he had received, he sought out the farmer and opened a conversation with him. "how do you like new york?" he asked. "it's a big city," answered the farmer. "i haven't been here before for twenty years." "have you ever traveled on the elevated cars?" "no, i'm a little mite afeard to travel so high in the air. suppose the train should go through?" "i don't think there's any danger, sir. the road is strongly built." "i s'pose i'm timid, but i guess i won't ventur'. my son ephraim wouldn't mind. i came to the city mostly on his account. he wanted me to see if there wasn't an opening here. he's got sick of the farm and wants to be a city man. are you at work here?" "yes, i'm a bell-boy in this hotel." "does it pay you well?" "yes, sir. i get five dollars a week and my board." "that's good for a boy like you. it's more than i pay my hired man, and he's twenty-eight. is your work hard?" "i have to run upstairs and down a good deal. i got pretty tired at first." "i met quite a slick young man here this afternoon; he says he's a broker in wall street. he knows how to make money." "does he, sir?" inquired rupert, getting interested. "yes; he says he made two hundred dollars last month, and he thinks that pretty small." "i should think it a good deal to make." "he doesn't have to work very hard, either. ephraim would like being a broker. he always did like to dress up, but at home he can't do it till evenin' after he has milked the cows and finished the chores." "did the gentleman mention his name to you?" "yes, he said his name was clarence clayton. he thinks he may be able to take my son ephraim into his office." "did he tell you where his office was?" "well, down in wall street somewhere. i s'pose there's a good deal of money made in wall street." "and a good deal lost, too," suggested rupert. "when are you going to see mr. clayton again?" "to-morrow morning. he's goin' down to show me his office, and he'll think it over whether he can take ephraim or not." "i suppose he is a rich man." "i expect he is. he dresses fine. ephraim would like to dress that way, but he hasn't the shape for it. i should feel proud to have him doin' as well as mr. clayton." "i hope you won't mind my giving you a little advice, mr. onthank, even if i am a boy." "go ahead, sonny! i'm sure you mean well." "don't make any arrangements with mr. clayton to take your son till you have had a chance to talk over the matter with some one. i have a friend, a very experienced man, and i am sure his advice would be worth taking." "you don't think there's anything wrong about mr. clayton, do you?" asked the farmer, startled. "i don't say that, but if he wants you to pay him some money for giving your son a a place, don't do it till you have mentioned it to me." "i won't. there won't be no harm in that." "and don't tell him who it is you are going to consult. supposing he wasn't all right, it would put him on his guard." "thank you, sonny, you are a young boy, but i guess you've got a level head." "i hope so," laughed rupert. "do you know where there's a good place to take supper--a good country supper? i've been to the hotel eatin' houses, but it don't exactly suit my country taste." "yes, mr. onthank, i think i can find a place that will suit you." rupert took the farmer to a plain restaurant not far away, where he got some cream toast, a good cup of strong tea, and a piece of apple pie. "that's good," said the farmer, with a sigh of satisfaction. "it's better than all them fancy dishes i get at some places. there ain't nothing like plain home livin'." rupert didn't part from mr. onthank till nine o'clock, when the farmer expressed a wish to go to bed. "i always go to bed at nine o'clock when i'm to home," he said. "folks here in york seem to sit up all night." chapter xii. clayton's scheme. about ten o'clock in the forenoon clarence clayton entered the somerset hotel and looked about for the orange county farmer. clayton was clean shaved, his shoes were brilliantly polished, and there was a rose in his buttonhole. "my dear old friend," he said, with effusion, as he espied josiah onthank sitting near the door, "i hope you are feeling in the best of health this fine morning." "thank you, mr. clayton. i feel pooty smart. why, you're all dressed up. you look as if you'd just come out of a bandbox." "men in my position have to be particular about their appearance. now if i was in the country i wouldn't care, but i have an appointment with mr. vanderbilt this morning, and, of course, i must be particular." "do you know mr. vanderbilt?" asked mr. onthank, considerably impressed. "intimately. i dined at his house last week." mr. clayton took in with a quick glance the dress and outward appearance of his rustic friend. mr. onthank certainly did not look as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. his clothing was dusty, and his shoes were innocent of blacking. "my friend," he said, "if you will pardon the suggestion, it would be well to have your boots blacked." "i didn't bring any blacking with me," responded the farmer. "besides, i had 'em blacked last sunday." "as you are going to wall street, and may meet some of the prominent people of the city, it will be well to have them blacked this morning. leave it to me. i will find a boy who will do it for a nickel." "i always black my own boots when i am to home." "in the city we employ bootblacks." "five cents seems pooty good pay for blackin' boots. it don't take more'n five minutes." "oh, well, the poor boys need the money. i look upon it in that light." "to be sure!" and mr. onthank began to look upon his companion as a very kind-hearted man. out in the street they came upon a boy who was quite ready to undertake the job. before he got through, however, he began to think there wasn't much profit in it. the farmer's shoes were of cowhide, and absorbed a great deal of blacking. still the boy was an expert, and made them look better than they ever had before. "that's worth a dime," he said. "i won't pay it," declared the farmer. "ten cents for blackin' a pair of boots! why it's ridiculous!" there might have been an angry discussion, but clayton drew a dime from his pocket and put it into the boy's outstretched palm. "very likely he's got a mother to support," he said. "besides, he's made your boots look fine." "that's so," assented the farmer, looking complacently at the boy's work. "he seems to know his business. mrs. onthank would be surprised if she could see me now." he walked along with unwonted pride, ever and anon glancing delightedly at his renovated boots. "i can't make 'em look like that," he said. "they look better than they did when they was new, but ten cents is an awful price to pay." they walked along broadway till they reached wall street, down which they turned. mr. onthank was considerably impressed by the tall and stately buildings on broadway. "is your office near here, mr. clayton?" he asked. "yes, quite near." near the junction of wall and new streets clayton led the way into a handsome office, occupied by a firm of well-known brokers. "this is my office," he said. "don't ask me any questions till we come out." they entered the room, but many were entering, and no particular notice was taken of them. "there's a sight of clerks," said the farmer. "you must do a big business." "we do. wait here a minute till i speak to my cashier." he went up to a window, and in a tone inaudible to mr. onthank asked the price of a particular stock. of course an answer was given, so that they appeared to be conferring together. then he rejoined his orange county friend, and they walked slowly to the end of the counter. "now we'll go out," said clayton. "i have one or two calls to make on the street." "do you trust your clerks to do the work while you are away?" "oh, yes, they understand their duties. things will go on like clockwork. you see we have a perfect system." "you don't do business alone, do you?" "no, there are several of us in the firm. i may say frankly that i only have one-fourth interest in the business. still i am well paid, very well paid." "i s'pose you have to pay a big rent." "ten thousand dollars a year." "you don't say! why, you can get a big store where i live for only twelve dollars a month." "very likely; but there is a good deal of difference between the country and the city. now let us walk along broadway, down to the battery. we will sit down there, and i will tell you what i can offer your son." in a few minutes they were sitting on one of the benches, looking out to governor's island. "it's a great privilege to live in new york, mr. onthank. i think your son would enjoy it." "i know he would. why, ephraim would give all his old boots to be at work here." "if they were all cowhide boots like yours the offer wouldn't be very tempting," thought clayton. "yes," he said, "i can easily believe it. may i ask what wages your son would expect." "well, i reckon twenty-five to thirty dollars a month would satisfy him." "twenty-five to thirty dollars a month! why, my dear friend, what are you thinking of?" "i thought he couldn't live in the city in good style for less," said the farmer, deprecatingly. "of course, of course, but you don't understand me. i wouldn't think of offering him less than seventy-five dollars a month, to begin with." "gosh! you don't mean it?" said the farmer, his eyes opened wide. "certainly i do. that is the minimum salary i pay my clerks." "why, ephraim would feel as rich as a king with that salary. when can you make room for him?" he added anxiously. "i must ask a few questions first. has your son a fair education?" "he attended the district school till he was fifteen." "then i suppose he is well up in the fundamental rules of arithmetic?" "what's them?" "i suppose he can add, subtract and multiply." "oh, yes." "and write a fair hand?" "he's pooty good at writin'." "i presume he will do. now, mr. onthank, i will tell you how i am placed. there will be a vacancy next week, but a merchant up town wants me very much to take his son. he will pay a liberal premium." "what's that?" "we always expect our clerks to pay a premium on entering our service. how much money have you brought with you?" "i've got two hundred dollars in my wallet. but what has that to do with it?" "a great deal, my friend. the premium must be paid down at once, and that guarantees your son the place." "how much do you ask?" "the merchant i refer to is willing to pay two hundred dollars, but between ourselves i don't favor engaging his son. i have been told that he drinks. i hope your son doesn't drink?" "ephraim drinks cider at thanksgivin', but he never drinks anything stronger." "i am glad to hear it. intemperance is very objectionable in our business. now about the premium. i will agree to take your son for a hundred and fifty dollars, though i have never before accepted less than two hundred." "a hundred and fifty dollars is a good deal of money," said ezekiel, cautiously. "so it is, but think of the advantages. think of his getting seventy-five dollars a month, to begin with. why in six months i shall probably raise him to a hundred dollars a month." ezekiel onthank was dazzled, and clayton saw that he was. he felt that he had almost landed the fish for which he was angling. "i guess i'll take a day to think on't," said the farmer. "i would advise you to accept at once. the other party may get in ahead of you." "can't you give us the refusal of it for a day?" "really i don't see how i can." "a hundred and fifty dollars is a good deal of money, and i want to think it over." "my dear friend, i don't see the need of it. such situations are not to be had every day. why, the young man's salary the first year, supposing he were promoted in six months, would amount to over a thousand dollars. deducting the premium, that would leave your son nearly nine hundred dollars. that's a good income, isn't it?" "yes, so 'tis. why our minister only gets six hundred dollars a year, and he's a man of forty-odd." "exactly. you see what a brilliant prospect ephraim will have. really i ought to insist on the full premium of two hundred dollars." clayton did his utmost to induce the farmer to decide at once, but mr. onthank had promised rupert not to do anything without talking the matter over with him, and he kept his word. "well," said clayton, "i'll give in to you. i'll give you twenty-four hours to think over the matter, but of course i must ask you to pay me something for the favor. give me five dollars on account of the premium, and you shall have a day to make up your mind." this mr. onthank finally agreed to, and when the matter was settled they walked back to the somerset hotel. "you had better not say much about our negotiation," clayton advised, "till the matter is decided." chapter xiii. clayton's disappointment. josiah onthank never for a moment doubted the good faith of the clever swindler who was dazzling him with the prospect of a fine situation for his son. he was a man well to do, and over and above his farm was easily worth five thousand dollars in bonds and money interest. still he was reluctant to part with a hundred and fifty dollars, for this seemed to him a good deal of money. yet if it would secure his son a position in the city with a large income it would be worth while. at any rate he would lay the matter before rupert, and ask his advice. during the afternoon he had a chance to speak with the bell-boy. "i've got something to tell you," he said. "all right, sir." "i've seen the young man i spoke to you about." "did he make you any offer?" "yes; he promised to give my son a place in his office at seventy-five dollars a month." "where is his office?" "in wall street. it's big and fine. he must do a raft of business." "he is very kind to give your son a place." "yes, but he wants a premium of a hundred and fifty dollars. that's what bothers me. a hundred and fifty dollars is a pile of money. what do you think of it?" "if you could really get a place for your son at seventy-five dollars a month--a permanent place--it would be worth the money." "so 'twould, so 'twould. then you'd advise me to pay the money?" "he wants it in advance, doesn't he?" "yes." "did you get into the office?" "yes." "how do you know it is his?" "he told me so," answered mr. onthank, in surprise. "is that all the evidence you have?" "he went and spoke to one of the men--his cashier, he told me. you don't think there's anything wrong, do you?" "i think, mr. onthank, the man is trying to swindle you." "you don't say!" ejaculated the farmer. "have you given him any money?" "no. yes, come to think on't, i have. i gave him five dollars for a refusal of the place. he said another man was after it." "you haven't lost much yet. if you should give him a hundred and fifty dollars you would lose it all." "what makes you think so? he seems like a gentleman." "my information comes from a private detective." "well, well, i guess i've been a fool," said the farmer, in a tone of disappointment and mortification. "what do you advise me to do?" "i will consult with the detective first, and tell you." the next day clarence clayton made his appearance. though, not quite so sanguine as at first, he still hoped to carry out his original plan and obtain possession of the bulk of the farmer's money. he found mr. onthank waiting for him in the reading room. "well, my friend," he said, "i presume you have made up your mind to secure a position for your son?" "you don't think you could let me have it for less?" asked mr. onthank, who had been instructed what to say. "i don't see how i can. nor can i give you long to decide. the other party is waiting for me at the fifth avenue hotel, and if you don't come to terms he will." "you see it's rather a risk," said the farmer. "suppose i pay my money and you don't keep your part of the agreement." "you seem to be very suspicious, mr. onthank," returned clayton, assuming indignation. "i am well known in the city as a man of the highest honor." "just so," said the farmer. "still, i should like to have you give me a paper, agreein' to give ephraim a position. then i should feel safe." "i see no objection to that," said clayton. "i'll make it out here." he sat down at the table, and in a few minutes handed ezekiel onthank the following agreement: "in consideration of a hundred and fifty dollars paid to me by mr. ezekiel onthank, of orange county, new york, i hereby promise to give his son ephraim a place in my wall street office, with a salary to begin with of seventy-five dollars per month. the engagement is to commence on the first of next month. clarence clayton." "is that satisfactory, mr. onthank?" he asked. "i reckon so," said the farmer, reading the document slowly. "do you want the money to-day?" "certainly." "then i will go and get it." mr. clayton leaned back in his chair in a pleasant frame of mind. he chuckled to himself as he thought of the ease with which he had imposed upon his rural dupe. "mr. onthank thinks he is sharp," he soliloquized. "he may change his opinion after awhile." the farmer did not keep him waiting long. he re-entered the reading room, but not alone. richard darke was with him. clarence clayton started to his feet in dismay. he recognized the detective at once. "sit down, mr. clayton," said darke, smoothly. "i see you have been doing a stroke of business with my friend, mr. onthank." clayton did not speak. he did not know what to say. "let me see the paper, mr. onthank." the farmer handed it to the detective, who read it aloud slowly. "you agree to give his son a situation in your wall street office? by the way, where is the office?" and the detective bent a penetrating glance on the face of the adventurer. "i believe i made a little mistake," muttered clayton. "give me back the paper, and i will correct it." "it is quite immaterial. it will do as it stands. you have not told me where your office is." "i took him into it." "have you given him any money, mr. onthank?" "i gave him five dollars yesterday." "what for?" "to get the refusal of the place." "very good. i see mr. clayton is a man of business. on the whole, however, i don't think you have got full value for your money. young man, i will trouble you to return the five dollars to my country friend." "i--i am afraid i haven't got it with me," said clayton, uncomfortably. "how much have you?" after searching his pockets the adventurer produced two dollars. "will it be convenient for you to remain in the city and prosecute this man?" asked the detective, turning to the farmer. "no--no. i want to leave town this afternoon." "then i am afraid we shall have to let him go. the three dollars you have lost you must consider paid for experience. if it makes you more cautious in future it will be well expended." "so 'twill, so 'twill," said the farmer. "much obleeged to ye, squire, for gettin' me out of a scrape." "you are still more indebted to the young bell-boy," indicating rupert. "let me suggest that you can't do better than to offer him the money you have saved from our sharp friend here." "i'll do better than that," said the farmer. "i will give him ten dollars. he has saved me from making a fool of myself." "you see, clayton," said the detective, "that it is better to be honest than a knave. the bell-boy has made more in this affair than you." "can i go?" asked clayton, crestfallen. "yes, and don't let me see you here again. i shall have my eye on you, and the next time you won't get off so easily." clayton lost no time in availing himself of this permission. in sadness and disappointment he left the hotel, inwardly resolving never to enter it again. "why wasn't i satisfied with the five dollars?" he asked himself. "confound that young bell-boy! he has spoiled my game. but for him i would be able to live in clover for a couple of months." the farmer started on his return to orange county in the afternoon. before going he handed rupert a ten-dollar bill. the bell-boy was surprised. he knew nothing of mr. darke's recommendation, and did not expect such liberality from ezekiel onthank, whom he looked upon as a poor man. "i don't think i ought to take it, mr. onthank," he said. "you needn't hesitate, sonny. i can afford it. i don't wear as good clothes as the young sprig that tried to swindle me, but i ain't a poor man by no means. if you ever have time to pay me a visit in orange county i'll make you welcome and see that you have a good time." "thank you, mr. onthank. if i should hear of a good situation for your son i will let you know, and i won't charge a hundred and fifty dollars for it, either. i haven't got an office in wall street, though." "that was a good joke. that 'ere clayton was a pooty smart rascal, after all." "ho, ho!" laughed the farmer. "shall you invite him to visit you in orange county, mr. onthank?" "i guess he wouldn't accept. we live plain, and he's a rich wall street broker. but we'll be glad to see you at any time." chapter xiv. the young newsboy. rupert had engaged a room on bleecker street. it is not a fashionable locality, but the time was when a. t. stewart and other men of social standing lived upon it. rupert's room, a small hall bedroom, cost him two dollars per week. it was rather large for a hall room, and was clean and well furnished, beyond the average of such rooms in that locality. the house was kept by a widow, a mrs. stetson, a good, hard-working woman, who deserved a better fate than the position of a lodging-house keeper. usually rupert reached his room about eight o'clock in the evening. he left the hotel at seven, and stopped for supper on the way. arrived at his room he generally spent an hour in reading or studying (he had undertaken to review his arithmetic, thinking that some time he might obtain a situation where a good knowledge of that science might be needed). he had nearly reached the house where he lodged on the evening after the departure of mr. onthank from the somerset hotel, when his attention was drawn to a boy of ten with a bundle of the "evening news" under his arm. he was shedding tears quietly. rupert had a warm heart and was always kind to younger boys. he was touched by the little fellow's evident distress and spoke to him. "what is the matter, johnny?" he asked. "i can't sell my papers," answered the boy. "how many have you got left?" "twelve copies." "how many did you have in the first place?" "twenty." "then you have only sold eight?" "yes, sir." "so that you are behindhand unless you sell more. have you a father and mother living?" the boy answered in the affirmative. "i shouldn't think they would let you go out selling papers so late." "they are very poor," answered the boy, in a sorrowful tone. "doesn't your father work?" "yes, he works for mr. lorimer, on third avenue." rupert's attention was aroused. this lorimer, as the reader has already been told, was his father's former partner, and, as rupert believed, the cause of his failure. "if your father has a position i should think he would be able to support his family." "mr. lorimer only pays him five dollars a week," explained the boy. "only five dollars a week!" repeated rupert, in amazement. "doesn't he pay more to his other salesmen?" "yes, but he knew father was poor, so he told him he must work for that or leave the store." rupert was not altogether surprised to hear this, as he knew that lorimer was a mean man who had no consideration for the poor. "where do you live?" he asked. "in that big house," answered the boy, pointing to a tall tenement, one of the shabbiest on the street. "we live on the fifth floor, but i guess well have to move out to-morrow." "why?" "father hasn't been able to save enough to pay the rent." "what rent do you pay?" "six dollars. father has only got three dollars toward it." "what is your name?" "harry benton." "well, harry, i am not very rich, but i can help you a little. i will take all your papers, to begin with." the little boy's face brightened. "you are very kind," he said. "and now you may take me to your home. perhaps i can think of some way to relieve your father." "come this way, then," said harry. rupert followed him to the entrance of the tenement house. "i don't know but you'll be tired going up so many stairs," he said. "we live on the top floor." "i'm not a very old man yet," laughed rupert. "i guess i can stand it if you can." the halls were dark and dingy, and there was an unwholesome tenement-house odor. through one open door rupert caught sight of a drunken man lying prone on the floor. evidently the occupants of the house were for the most part of a low class. but when rupert followed his little guide into the home of his parents on the upper floor, he found respectable, and not squalid, poverty. there was an air of neatness pervading the room, while harry's parents looked thoroughly honest. mr. benton gazed inquiringly at rupert. "i hope you'll excuse my intrusion," said rupert, politely, "but your little boy seemed in trouble and i ventured to come upstairs with him." "i couldn't sell my papers," explained harry. "he took all i had left," indicating rupert. "you were very kind to my little boy," said mrs. benton, gratefully. "won't you sit down? this is my husband." mr. benton was a man of medium size. his features were worn and sad. "pray take a seat," he said. "we haven't many callers and fewer friends. we can appreciate kindness, as we meet with it so seldom." "harry tells me you are in the employ of mr. lorimer on third avenue." "yes." "he says you are poorly paid." "five dollars a week can hardly be considered liberal," returned mr. benton, with a faint smile. "mr. lorimer is a very mean man." "do you know him?" "yes. he was my father's partner in buffalo." "your father is not in business with him now?" "my poor father died. i have every reason to think that mr. lorimer swindled him out of a large sum of money, and brought on his financial ruin." "i am sorry to hear it," said benton, gravely. "does he pay other salesmen as poorly as he pays you?" "there may be two or three others as poorly paid, but i think that he knew of my poverty and took advantage of it. at any rate he called me to the office one day, and told me that i must accept a reduction from eight dollars to five or leave his service. you can imagine how i decided. with my wife and child to be supported i had no choice. that was a month since, and my life has been a hard struggle from that time. i have been obliged to let harry sell papers in the streets, though the poor boy cannot earn more than from ten to fifteen cents a day in that way." "harry told me that you would have difficulty in paying your rent." "yes," answered mr. benton, despondently. "we lack three dollars of the sum required, and our landlord is a hard man. i am afraid we shall be turned into the street." "if you will allow me i will lend you the amount you need." "but i am afraid i shall not be able to repay you." "i will take my risk of that." "then i will not refuse. it will lift a burden from my mind. but how can you afford to be so kind? you don't look rich." "i am a bell-boy in a hotel, but i am pretty well paid, and i received to-day a handsome present from a guest. it is because i am poor myself that i can sympathize with the poor. besides, you have suffered from the meanness of the man who ruined my poor father. that alone gives you a claim upon me." "i should like to know the name of my new friend." "my name is rupert rollins." "i shall remember it. i hope you will come to see us sometimes." "i shall be glad to do so." "are none of your family living?" "yes, i have a mother and sister in rutherford, a few miles from the city. they are pleasantly situated, and mother is earning her living as a housekeeper. but i won't intrude on you longer to-night. i will call again soon." it seemed strange to rupert that he should again be reminded of his father's old partner. mr. lorimer apparently had not changed for the better since he had removed from buffalo to new york. he was the same mean, selfish man he had always been. yet he seemed to be prosperous, while his victims were suffering the ills of poverty. rupert could not understand it. it was a difficult problem for him to solve. this is not surprising, for it has puzzled a great many older and wiser persons than rupert. "well," he reflected, "i have parted with three dollars out of ten that mr. onthank gave me. but no matter. the three dollars will do more good to the bentons than to me. i can spare it, and i would not care to have it back." an idea came to rupert. the hall bedroom which he occupied was lonely and not homelike. if he could only make his home with a refined family like the bentons he would find it much more agreeable. if they, with the help of the eight dollars a month, which his rent cost him, could take a small flat, it would be a good arrangement all round. at present there were difficulties in the way, as they were unable to raise even the small rent which they were paying now. still circumstances might change. he resolved to keep up the acquaintance, and watch for some way of helping mr. benton to a better position. even ten dollars a week would be a poor salary for a good dry-goods salesman, yet upon this he would be able to live comfortably. rupert had the curiosity to enter a drug store and look up the name of mr. lorimer in the directory. he ascertained that the dry-goods merchant lived on lexington avenue, between thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth streets. this was a desirable location, and the house, as he afterwards learned, was a handsome, high-stoop residence, probably worth twenty-five thousand dollars. but rupert did not envy his father's old partner. "i would rather be poor and honest," he reflected, "than live in a fine house, surrounded by luxury, gained by grinding the faces of the poor." chapter xv. mr. sylvester's birthday. the next day rupert received a letter at the somerset hotel. it was signed by frank sylvester, and ran thus: "dear rupert: to-morrow is my birthday. come and spend the evening with me. i will wait dinner till you come. "your friend, "frank sylvester." rupert decided at once to accept the invitation. he had learned to like sylvester, as indeed he had reason to do. he was in doubt as to whether there would be much company, but he was not provided with a nice suit, so that he need not be ashamed of his appearance. arrived at his friend's residence, he found to his surprise that there was but one other guest besides himself, a mr. maxwell, a stout, pleasant-looking man of forty-five. "rupert," said sylvester, "this is my cousin, john maxwell. he is not an idler like myself, but is a partner in a large dry-goods house down on grand street. john, this is a special friend of mine. when we first met he was able to do me a service which i shall long remember. i am rather young to adopt him, having only reached the age of twenty-five." "quarter of a century," laughed maxwell. "that sounds older, to be sure. at any rate i look upon him as a younger brother, and so have invited him here to my birthday dinner, as a relative." "you don't seem to have many relatives, mr. sylvester," said rupert. "i thought there might be quite a party." "most of my relatives live in the west. however, i am satisfied to have you here and my cousin john." "if you are frank's brother, i suppose i am your cousin also, rupert," said mr. maxwell. "i shall feel proud to have you regard me so, mr. maxwell." "may i ask if you are in the same business as frank?" "doing nothing at all," laughed sylvester. "i am a bell-boy at the somerset hotel," answered rupert. he watched maxwell to see if the revelation of his position would affect that gentleman's opinion of him. "i hope you are well paid." "yes; i receive five dollars a week and my board." "that is better than you would do with us." "mr. maxwell," said rupert, with a sudden thought, "i wish i knew you better." "why?" "because then i might ask you a favor." "to enter our employment? i will take you if you wish, but i advise you to stay where you are." "it is not for myself that i ask, but for an experienced salesman who is in very hard luck. he is working for stephen lorimer, of third avenue, at five dollars a week." "five dollars!" exclaimed maxwell, in surprise. "and you say he is an experienced salesman?" "yes, sir." "but why should he work for such low wages then?" "mr. lorimer knew that he was poor, had a family, and was therefore in his power. he told him to choose between five dollars a week and dismissal." "that is like lorimer. he has the reputation of being the meanest man in the business. how did you become acquainted with the man you recommend?" rupert told the story, and both sylvester and maxwell were interested. "i suppose you don't know mr. lorimer?" said maxwell. "i know him only too well," answered rupert. "he was my father's partner in buffalo, and was the cause of his ruin and death." "was the firm name 'rollins & lorimer?'" asked maxwell. "yes, sir." "then i have met your father. i was for several years a traveling salesman, and sold goods to the firm in buffalo. i always preferred dealing with your father. i didn't like lorimer." "i am very glad to meet any one who knew my father," said rupert, brightening up. "i can hardly refuse your request now, rupert. tell your friend--what's his name?" "henry benton." "tell mr. benton to call at our store early next monday morning and inquire for me. give him a letter, so that i may know he is the right party. we are not taking on any salesmen, but one in the dress department is about to leave us and enter the employment of a firm in chicago. i will put your friend in his place at a salary of twelve dollars a week." "i can't tell you how much i thank you," said rupert, gratefully. "you will bring happiness to a deserving family, and i don't think you will have occasion to regret it." the dinner was an excellent one, and was enjoyed by the small company who partook of it. "i must tell you, rupert," said sylvester, "that i have peculiar reasons for enjoying my twenty-fifth birthday, even if i have, as cousin john expresses it, lived a quarter of a century. an old uncle left me fifty thousand dollars some years ago, directing that it should pass into my possession at the age of twenty-five." "i congratulate you, mr. sylvester. i am sure you will make good use of it." "i am not so sure of that, but i hope so. i have begun to make use of it already. you shake your head, cousin john, but i don't think you will disapprove my expenditure. i have invested seventy-five dollars in a gold watch for rupert, and thirty-five more in a gold chain." he drew from his pocket a watch and chain which he handed to the astonished bell-boy. "i don't know what to say, mr. sylvester," said rupert, gratefully. "your face speaks for you. i want no other thanks." "i don't know what they will say at the hotel. they will think i am putting on style for a bell-boy." "i want some one to share my good fortune. i believe it is the best way to show my gratitude to providence. as cousin john has done something for your new friend, mr. benton, i will follow his example. here are twenty-five dollars, which you may give him with my best wishes." "this gives me even more pleasure than the watch," said rupert, with radiant face. "i wish you could see how much happiness your gift will carry to a worthy family." "i will call with you and make their acquaintance some day." the evening passed pleasantly, and it was with a happy heart that rupert returned to his humble home. that is, it seemed humble compared with the fine house in which he had spent the evening. it was not until the next night that he was able to call on his friends in bleecker street. he toiled up to the fifth floor, and knocked at the door. there was a low "come in," and he lifted the latch and entered. he was startled to see that mrs. benton had been shedding tears, and her husband was leaning back in his chair, with a look of sadness and despondency. "what is the matter?" he asked quickly. "i thought we could not be any worse off," said mrs. benton, tearfully, "but i was mistaken. to-day mr. lorimer discharged my husband." "what! in the middle of the week?" "no; he is to leave on saturday." "but why is this?" "i will tell you," said mr. benton. "do you know mr. benton's son, julian?" "yes; he is a very disagreeable boy." "i got into trouble with him to-day. he interfered with me in my work, and i reproved him. the consequence is that he spoke to his father against me, and got me discharged." "you can imagine what this means to us," said mrs. benton. "it was hard enough to live on five dollars a week, even with the help of the few pennies that harry brings in, but now we must live on nothing. i don't know what will become of us." "but mr. benton may secure another position." "there is very little chance of it. no one is taking on new salesmen." "nevertheless mr. benton can go to work next monday in a store on grand street at a salary more than double what he is now getting." "surely you are not in earnest?" "quite so. i will give him a letter to gilbert & maxwell, and he will be set to work at once." "but this seems incredible." "i will explain it to you." "you are our good angel," said mrs. benton, when rupert had concluded his account. "you come to us in our sorrow with the best news we have had for many a day." "now, mr. benton, i have a proposal to make. i want you to hire a nice flat in a better neighborhood and take me as a lodger. i am willing to pay you eight dollars a month. for twenty i think you can hire a desirable tenement, which will only leave you twelve dollars to pay." "we shall be very much pleased to do so. if only we had a little ready money----" "i came near forgetting something important. i am the bearer of a gift to you from a good friend of mine, mr. sylvester, of harlem. yesterday was his birthday. he has given me a gold watch and chain, and to you he sends twenty-five dollars." mrs. benton's joy can be imagined. "you have indeed proved a friend," she said. "it is a satisfaction to me to feel that the malice of julian lorimer will be disappointed. if i see him to-morrow i shall not hesitate to give him a piece of my mind." chapter xvi. julian has two disappointments. had julian lorimer been older, and in political life, he would have aspired to the position of a boss. he enjoyed power, and desired to have his power acknowledged by others. when mr. benton reproved him for interfering with him he felt outraged and determined to have revenge upon the independent salesman. therefore he complained to his father, and a discharge was the result. mr. lorimer, however, regretted afterwards giving in to the wishes of his son. he recognized the fact that benton was an experienced salesman whose services were valuable, and that he was getting these at an extraordinary low rate of wages. he could secure a man in his place, doubtless, but it would not be so easy to get one so competent as cheaply. accordingly, on the morning succeeding the dismissal he had a conversation with julian at the breakfast table. "i think i shall have to take benton back, julian," he said. "what, after his impudence to me?" exclaimed julian, frowning. "probably you provoked him. at any rate he is a valuable man. i don't see how i can spare him." "there are lots of clerks out of employment." "that may be, but he has long experience." "if you take him back, pa, he will insult me again. i should think you would have more consideration for me." "i can require him to apologize to you. the man is poor as poverty, and won't dare to refuse." "can't you cut down his pay?" "not very well. i pay him very little now. you see, julian, this is a matter of business. i think you are too much in the store, as you have no employment there. if you want to go to work, that will be a different matter." "no, thank you. when i go into business i want to be a banker or a wholesale merchant." "if you will be at the store at noon i will have benton apologize to you." mr. benton was at work in his place when julian passed through the store and paused in front of his counter. "pa wants to see you in the office," he said, abruptly. "very well, as soon as i fold up these goods," answered the salesman. "you'd better hurry up if you know what's best for yourself." "and you'd better cease talking to me in that way or i may teach you better manners." julian lorimer flushed, and his eyes blazed with anger. "oho!" he said, "you don't seem to know who i am." "i know that you are an impudent boy." julian nodded vigorously, and went at once to his father. "well, i told benton to come, and he said he'd come as soon as he got ready." "are you repeating what he said exactly?" "yes, that is, he said he'd come when he'd folded up some goods." "that is a different matter." "he called me an impudent boy and threatened to lick me." mr. lorimer did not reply to this. he had a suspicion that julian had represented matters worse than they were. two minutes later henry benton presented himself at the office. he was quiet and calm. "i understand you wish to see me, mr. lorimer," he said. "yes. my son has complained of you." "you will excuse my saying that i am not in his employ, but in yours. if he were your partner he would have a right to speak to me about my work. as it is he is only your son, and i don't concede his right." "as my son he is entitled to your respect." "he would have been treated with respect had he treated me respectfully." "did you ever hear the like?" julian burst in. "silence, julian!" said his father. "in your circumstances, mr. benton, i think you have acted very unwisely." "how?" asked benton, briefly. "you depend upon the wages i pay you for your livelihood." "very well, sir." "and you make an enemy in my family and endanger your remaining in my service." "i understood that you discharged me yesterday." "ahem! yes, but i don't want to be too hard upon you. you have a family, have you not?" "i have a wife and young son." "if i should discharge you they would suffer." "what does this mean?" thought benton. "therefore i have decided to recall the discharge, on condition that you will apologize to julian for treating him with insolence." "if i am to retain my position on that condition, mr. lorimer, i prefer to leave the store." "i am surprised at your folly!" said the merchant, sharply. "here, i give you a chance to retain your place and your ill-timed pride steps in and interferes with your interest." "may i ask what i am to apologize to your son for, mr. lorimer?" "you did not treat him with the respect due to my son," answered mr. lorimer, pompously. "do you sustain him in interfering with my work?" asked benton, calmly. "i see you are incorrigible," said lorimer, angrily. "if your family suffers in consequence of your obstinacy, don't blame me." "i shall not have occasion to blame you or anyone else." "what do you mean by that? i don't understand you." "i mean only that though i shall leave your employment i have another place waiting for me. i shall not be idle for a day." "is this true?" asked lorimer, astonished. "yes, sir, quite true." "for whom are you going to work?" "you must excuse my keeping that a secret for the present." "when did you make application for a place?" "i made no application at all. it was offered to me." "i shall not give you any recommendation." "none will be necessary, sir. i have worked elsewhere, and my former employer will recommend me." "i don't believe he's got a place, pa," put in julian. "i'll bet he's bluffing." benton regarded julian with contempt, but did not say a word. "what pay are you to get?" asked lorimer. "more than twice what you are paying me, sir. you took advantage of my poverty and my necessities to reduce me to five dollars a week, a lower price, probably, than is paid by any dry-goods merchant in the city to an experienced salesman." "it seems to me you are getting very independent," said lorimer, annoyed. "i feel more independent than i did yesterday. i have one favor to ask." "i have already told you that i cannot give you a recommendation." "i don't care for one. if you can conveniently spare me i should like to retire from your service to-day." "let him go, pa." but mr. lorimer did not agree with julian. "i prefer that you should remain here till your week expires. if there is any failure to get the situation you expect, i will continue you in my service at six dollars a week." "thank you, sir, but i don't think there is any doubt about my situation. if you have nothing further to say to me i will return to my work." when benton had retired mr. lorimer turned to julian angrily. "there," he said, "i have lost one of my best salesmen, whom i was getting dirt cheap, on account of your misconduct." julian was rather taken aback at this reproach. "you can get lots of men in his place, pa," he said. "not at the same wages. now go away, i am busy." "i wish i knew where he is going to work," thought julian. "i might write an anonymous letter to his employer. i hate him. he puts on too many airs for a cheap clerk." julian's malicious plot had certainly failed signally. the next day about one o'clock he was passing the somerset hotel, on lower broadway, just as rupert was coming out on an errand. julian at once noticed the watch chain. as he had never known of rupert's owning a watch, his curiosity was excited. "what time is it?" he asked, jeeringly. rupert took out his watch. "five minutes after one," he answered. the watch was a handsome one, as julian noticed. "is that your watch?" he asked, abruptly. "yes." "is it oroide?" "no; it is gold. do you wish to look at it?" julian's curiosity was such that he took it into his hand. he could see at once that it was a genuine and probably expensive gold watch. "you must be making high pay to afford a watch like this," he said, in a tone of annoyance. "it was a present." "from whom?" "a friend up town." julian dropped the watch and went on his way in an ill humor. he had a watch himself, but it was of less than half the value of rupert's. he inwardly resolved to ask his father for a new one. chapter xvii. mr. packard of colorado. in a short time the bentons were settled in a neat flat located near washington square. they purchased additional furniture on the installment plan, and were able to offer rupert a home more desirable than the room he had occupied. the new prosperity was reflected in the faces of the now happy wife and mother. "it is you who have brought this happy change in our circumstances, rupert," she said. "i tremble to think what would have been our condition but for you." "in return you give me a pleasant home," said rupert. at the hotel things went on pleasantly. rupert's services were appreciated, and this was pleasant, though his salary had not been increased. clarence clayton never entered the hotel now. rupert wondered what had become of him. but one thursday afternoon--his afternoon off--he strayed down to the battery. seated on one of the benches, looking out towards governor's island, rupert's attention was drawn after a while to two men who occupied a neighboring bench. one of those he recognized at once as clayton. the other he also recognized as a guest at the somerset hotel, a new arrival. he was a man of middle age who had the appearance of a westerner. rupert now remembered that he had entered himself on the hotel register as from colorado. "i wonder what mischief clayton is up to now?" rupert asked himself. the benches were so near that he was able to hear the conversation between the two men. clayton had a showy gold watch in his hand which he was endeavoring to sell to his new acquaintance. "the fact is, my friend," rupert heard him say, "i am awfully hard up. i need money badly, and that is why i offer you such a bargain. this watch is nearly new and cost me one hundred and fifty dollars in cold cash. i offer it to you for fifty." "how did you get so hard up?" asked the stranger. "i took a flyer in wall street. i have a friend who is a broker, and he gave me a pointer. i don't blame him, for he believed it, and invested himself. however, things didn't turn out as we expected, and i was cleaned out." "how about him?" "he lost a good deal more than i did, but he could stand it and i couldn't." the western man took the watch in his hand. "it seems a good watch," he said. "i suppose it is solid gold?" "undoubtedly." "i don't know much about watches myself, though i come from a mineral producing state. we have plenty of miners there, but i am a cattleman." "indeed! is that a paying business?" "well, i've made a little money at it," said the other in a complacent tone. "i am looking for a paying business myself." the stranger laughed. "you are a city man," he said. "you wouldn't do for the west. you wouldn't make much of a cowboy." "i don't suppose i should." "you couldn't wear patent-leather shoes in colorado." "then i'll give it up if you say so. to tell the truth, i am better fixed than you would suppose. i have an income of a thousand dollars a year, paid me quarterly by the trustees of my late uncle's estate, but the next payment won't come due for a month. i must tide over till then. that is why i offer you this watch for fifty dollars." "i shouldn't think you would like to make such a sacrifice." "oh, well, i need the money. besides, what is my loss is your gain." "you seem to take matters philosophically." "that's my way. seriously, though, it will be a great favor to me if you take the watch. fifty dollars isn't much, but with economy it will carry me through till my next payment." "well, if you put it on that ground, i don't know but i will oblige you." the colorado man took from his pocket a large wallet, evidently stuffed with bills, and was about to consummate the bargain when rupert rose from his seat hastily. he felt that it was about time for him to take a hand in the transaction. "mr. packard," he said, "you'll excuse my interfering, but i advise you not to buy that watch." clarence clayton looked up quickly. he recognized rupert only too well, and would liked to have pitched him into the bay. what was to be done? he determined to brazen it out. "young man," he said sharply, "you'd better mind your own business." "how do you know my name?" asked the man from colorado, not recognizing rupert. "i am one of the bell-boys at the somerset hotel, where you are boarding." "why do you give this warning? can you judge of the value of the watch?" "no, sir; but i know this man." "that is false," asserted clayton; "i never saw you before to my knowledge." "i don't know what to think," said the cattleman, looking puzzled. "you say you know this man?" "yes. he came near cheating one of our guests not long since by offering to give his son a place in an office in wall street for a hundred and fifty dollars." "the boy lies," exclaimed clayton. "i have a good mind to give you in charge, you young rascal." "you are quite welcome to do it," said rupert, coolly. "i hope my word is as good as this boy's," continued clayton. "don't take either, mr. packard. i am no judge of watches. suppose you go to a jeweler's and ask him the value of it. if it is worth even a hundred dollars, you can venture to give this man what he asks, that is, supposing he has come by it honestly." "that is a sensible proposal. i accept it." "but i don't!" said clayton. "i feel that i have been insulted, and i decline to sell the watch. as for you, you young rascal, i shall remember your interference with me in my business." he rose and went off with his head very high in the air. "sit down and tell me all about this fellow," said the cattleman. "i suspect you have saved me from being imposed upon." rupert told the story, and the stranger thanked him heartily. "i have always been told that i must look out for myself in new york, and i begin to realize it. how does it happen you are so far away from the hotel?" "it is my afternoon off." they sat and chatted of colorado, about which rupert felt considerable curiosity. at the end of fifteen minutes their attention was drawn to a man of prosperous appearance who seemed in trouble. he paused as he reached their bench, and asked anxiously, "has either of you seen a young man, nicely dressed and carrying a cane?" and he went on to describe clarence clayton. "yes," answered packard and rupert, simultaneously, "the fellow was sitting here less than half an hour since." "he has stolen my gold watch," said the new acquaintance. "he tried to sell it to me. he said it cost a hundred and fifty dollars." "so it did, and more, too." "he offered it for fifty dollars." "how did it happen that you did not buy it?" "i was about to do so, but this boy told me he was a confidence man." "then you knew him?" asked the stranger. "yes," answered rupert. "can you suggest any way in which i can recover my property?" "yes, sir. report the matter to the police, and ask to have richard darke, a well-known detective, put on the case. i will give you a line to him. he will know at once who it is." "i will do so. where can i find you again?" "at the somerset hotel, on broadway." "thank you. if i receive it i will gladly compensate you for your suggestion." "i thank you, but do not wish any compensation. if i can defeat this man's dishonest scheme i shall feel well repaid." "our cunning friend will soon be overhauled, i suspect," said the cattleman. "did you say you were off this afternoon?" "yes, sir." "i am new to the city and want a guide. are you open to an engagement?" "yes, sir," answered rupert, with a smile. "but i don't care for pay." "then we don't go. business is business, and there is no reason why i should take up your time without paying you a fair sum." "just as you like, sir." the two spent the next three or four hours in visiting different objects of interest in new york. the colorado man seemed much pleased with his young companion. "you must come out to colorado some time, rupert," he said. "you are a boy who would succeed there, or indeed anywhere. we have some men come out there who are failures at the east, and they are surprised that they don't succeed in the west. but i tell you that it takes as much brains to win success in colorado as in new york." "is that always the case? i have heard of men getting rich in the west who were poor at home." "that is true. perhaps they were in the wrong business. i don't mind saying that was the case with me. i was in the insurance business in hartford, but i wasn't particularly well adapted for it. i couldn't talk. out in colorado i have learned to understand cattle, and they have made me rich." "mr. clayton can talk." "yes, a little too well. unfortunately he is not honest, and a dishonest man ought not to thrive anywhere. in colorado he wouldn't live wrong. thieves are summarily dealt with." about seven o'clock mr. packard invited rupert to dine with him at delmonico's. rupert had heard a great deal about this celebrated restaurant, and was glad to accept the invitation. chapter xviii. a scene at delmonico's. the two friends entered delmonico's on the broadway side, and took seats at one of the windows. rupert, after giving the order, looked about him. he was curious to see that famous restaurant. he was destined to a surprise. at the second table, sitting with his back to mr. packard and himself, was a person whom he had the best reason to remember. it was clarence clayton. he touched mr. packard's arm, and silently pointed to clayton. "well, i'll be jiggered!" exclaimed the cattleman, in surprise. "that fellow has got nerve." mr. clayton was evidently enjoying himself. beside his plate stood a pint bottle of champagne of delmonico's special brand. his dinner would probably involve an expense of five dollars. "he must have sold or pawned the watch," suggested rupert in a low voice. at this moment clayton looked around. he at once recognized the two whom he had last seen at the battery. "so we meet again?" he said, coolly. "yes," answered the cattleman. "you appear to be having a pleasant time." "i generally do," returned clayton. "you seem to have negotiated a loan." "i met a party who seemed to know more about gold watches than you do." "i congratulate you," said packard, dryly. clayton returned to the discussion of his dinner, and soon the two friends were served. "shall i order some champagne, rupert?" asked the man from colorado. "not for me. i have promised my mother to avoid drink." "you are wise. far be it from me to tempt you. i have seen too much of the evil done by intemperance." clarence clayton evidently had no such objection to drink. he drained the bottle, and calling for a cigar, leaned back in his chair, with a self-satisfied smile. "that fellow is a curiosity," packard said. "he probably has good abilities, and would meet with success in an honest career. he has made poor use of his talents. i wonder if he ever reflects upon the inevitable end of his dishonesty?" "it doesn't seem to trouble him much," returned rupert. neither he nor clayton observed the quiet entrance of a small, unobtrusive man, with sharp eyes, who, taking rapid glances at the guests, moved towards the table occupied by the adventurer. sitting in pleasant enjoyment of his cigar, clayton's attention was drawn by a slight tap on his shoulder. looking up in momentary impatience he saw the newcomer at his side. stifling an ejaculation he stared at him in dismay. "mr. clayton," said detective darke, in a low voice, "i see you know me." "no, i can't say i have the pleasure," stammered clayton. "you are polite to call it a pleasure. i am richard darke." "can i offer you a glass of champagne, mr. darke?" "there doesn't seem to be any left in the bottle." "i will order another." "i won't put you to that trouble. i have business with you, and must request you to go with me." "but----" "i can take no denial," said the detective, sharply. "go up to the desk, settle your bill, and then we will go out together. there will be no scene, and no one will know my errand, if you obey my directions." clayton went up to the desk, paid his check, and then, turning to the detective, said, "i am at your service." by this time rupert noticed what was going on, and silently called the attention of mr. packard to it. "poor chap!" said the cattleman, as clayton and his unwelcome companion left the restaurant, "his punishment has come sooner than i anticipated. he will be punished, but i am afraid the owner of the watch stands a poor chance of recovering his property." "probably he will get possession of the pawn ticket and so secure the watch, though it may cost him twenty-five dollars." "it will be some time before the thief gets another such dinner as he has eaten to-night." after supper packard said, "are you feeling tired, rupert?" "oh, no, sir." "then suppose we go to some theatre." "all right, sir. what theatre do you prefer?" "i leave the choice to you." "palmer's theatre is very near." "then let us go there." they reached the theatre just as the curtain was rising. mr. packard bought two choice seats, and they were soon seated in the orchestra. as soon as he had a chance to look about him, rupert discovered to his surprise that mr. lorimer and julian were sitting directly in front of him. at the sound of his voice julian turned, and was greatly surprised to see the bell-boy occupying as high-priced a seat as himself. when the first act was ended, he took measures to gratify his curiosity. "i am surprised to see you here," he said. "it is a mutual surprise," responded rupert. "you know what i mean. it is not usual to meet bell-boys in orchestra seats." "i was not asked at the ticket office what was my employment." "are you here alone?" "no; let me introduce my friend, mr. packard, of colorado." julian glanced at the cattleman, and was not impressed. mr. packard's clothing was by no means stylish. julian naturally supposed him to be a person of small means and no particular consequence. he gave him a slight nod, and turned his face towards the stage. "what is the name of that boy?" asked the cattleman. "julian lorimer." "is he related to stephen lorimer?" "stephen lorimer is his father. do you know him?" asked rupert, in surprise. "stephen lorimer is a cousin of mine." "there he is, next to julian." mr. lorimer's ears caught the sound of his own name, and, turning, he recognized rupert, but not his cousin. "you here, rupert rollins?" he said, in surprise. "yes, sir. do you know this gentleman with me?" stephen lorimer regarded the cattleman blankly. "no," he answered slowly. "i don't know him." "perhaps you will remember the name of giles packard," said the cattleman, but his tone was cold and not cordial. "are you giles packard?" "yes." stephen lorimer looked embarrassed. "i hope you are prosperous," he said. "thank you--i am doing well now." "where do you live?" "in colorado." "ah! mines?" "no, cattle." "call and see me. rupert will tell you where i may be found." "i may do so." "is he a cowboy?" asked julian, in an audible whisper. giles packard heard the words and he looked at rupert with a smile. "he is like his father," he said. they did not again speak. after the play stephen lorimer went out of the theatre without even a look at his new-found relative. rupert and the man from colorado, following slowly, made the best of their way down broadway to the somerset house. "how came you to know stephen lorimer?" asked packard. "he and my father were in business together in buffalo some years since. they failed, and i have always believed that my father was defrauded. at any rate he lost everything, while his old partner had money enough to start in the dry-goods business in new york." "history repeats itself," said packard. "many years ago, when i was twenty-two, i was the partner of stephen lorimer." "you!" "yes. in fact i furnished three-fourths of the capital. at the end of eighteen months we failed. i never could understand why, for our business had been good. stephen kept the books, and i examined without being able to understand them. the upshot of it was that i was thrown upon the world penniless, while he soon went into business for himself in another place. i have not seen lorimer for twenty years, till accident brought us together to-night." "i am glad you are prosperous again." "yes. i have far more money than when i belonged to the firm of lorimer & packard." "perhaps mr. lorimer would take you in as partner again." "i have no desire to be associated with him in any way. i believe him to be a thoroughly dishonest man. i am sorry that your father has suffered also at his hands." rupert accompanied mr. packard to the hotel, having agreed to relieve another bell-boy from midnight till six o'clock the next morning. when he reached the hotel he found it a scene of excitement. the bell of no. had been ringing violently for some time. the other bell-boy had come downstairs in a panic. "i can't get into no. ," he reported. "there is somebody dead or murdered there." chapter xix. what happened in no. . "come upstairs with me, rupert," said mr. malcolm, the clerk. "you've got a head on your shoulders. we'll soon find out what's the matter." they ascended in the elevator to the third floor, and made their way hurriedly to no. . there was a sound of a child crying inside. mr. malcolm tried the door but it was locked. "open the door!" he called out. "i can't," was the answer, in a young child's voice. "it's locked." "can't you turn the key?" "no; i don't know how." "you will have to get through the transom," said the clerk. "if we only had a step-ladder." "lift me up and i'll get through," said rupert. "i have practiced in a gymnasium." "very well, if you think you can." the clerk bent over, and rupert, standing on his shoulders, was lifted so that he could reach the transom. then, by a skillful movement, he raised himself still farther till he could look inside. "what do you see?" asked malcolm. "there is a man lying on his face on the floor. he must have had a fit or something." "can you get through and lower yourself to the floor?" "i think so. i will try." "it is the only way to get into the room." in very quick time rupert accomplished his object. he turned the key and opened the door. it was as he had said. a man lay prone upon the floor, and beside him, crying bitterly, was a pretty little boy of five, who was evidently very much frightened. "papa sick," he said. malcolm bent over the prostrate man, and tearing open his vest placed his hand on his heart. "the man is dead!" he said, gravely, turning to rupert. the child was undressed, and the appearance of the bed showed that he at least had occupied it. "how long has your papa been lying here?" asked malcolm. "i don't know. i woke up a little while ago, and i saw him on the floor." "is he cold?" asked rupert. "yes; he must have been lying here for some time. probably he was about to undress, when he had an attack of some kind, and fell as we see him. call dr. bancroft." a physician from massachusetts was one of the guests of the hotel, and occupied room . summoned by rupert, he entered the room, and immediately made an examination of the body. "died of heart disease!" he said, briefly. "will papa soon be well?" asked the little boy, anxiously. "we can tell better to-morrow," said the physician, pityingly. "you had better go with this gentleman, so as not to disturb your father, and we will do what we can for him." soothed by this assurance, for the little fellow did not understand that his father was beyond earthly help, the boy was led away and put in charge of a sympathetic lady guest for the night. "has he been dead long, doctor?" asked malcolm. "probably for over an hour. what is his name?" "i have forgotten. it is on the register." "perhaps we may find a letter in his pocket that will throw light on the matter." malcolm put his hand in the inside coat pocket and drew out, first, a letter addressed to paul harvey, albany, new york. the other had no envelope and seemed to be an open letter. it ran thus: to whom it may concern-- "my doctor tells me that i am liable at any moment to drop dead from heart disease. i do not dread death for myself, but when i think of my little fred, soon to be left fatherless, as he is already motherless, i am filled with anxiety. i am practically alone in the world, and there is no one to whom i can confide. should death come to me suddenly, i trust some kind-hearted person will adopt freddie, and supply a father's place to him. in my inside vest pocket will be found securities amounting to eleven hundred dollars. after defraying my funeral expenses there will probably be a thousand dollars left. i leave it to any one who will undertake the care and maintenance of my dear little boy. paul harvey." the three looked at one another after the clerk had read the letter. "here is a responsibility for some one," said dr. bancroft. "i wish it were in my power to take the little boy, but i am only here as a guest, and circumstances will not permit." "i am a bachelor, and should find it impossible to assume such a charge," said the clerk, "though i feel for the little fellow." an inspiration had come to rupert. his heart had gone out to the little boy so tragically deprived of his natural protector. "i will take the little boy if you are willing," he said. "you! a boy! what can you do with him?" asked malcolm. "i am boarding in a nice family," he said. "i will put him under the care of mrs. benton, who has a young son of her own." "but do you realize what a responsibility you are assuming?" "i do, and i am not afraid. i never had a little fellow, and i shall be very fond of fred." "what do you think, doctor?" asked the clerk. "i think from the little i know of this boy, that, though a young guardian, he will be a reliable one. i recommend that fred, if that's his name, be put under his charge." "in that case, according to the father's direction, the money will go to rupert." "please take charge of it, mr. malcolm, till the funeral is over. then we will place it in some bank." "it will not go very far towards paying for the boy's board and education. he can't be more than five or six." "when it is gone i will support him." no objection was made, and it was agreed that rupert should have the custody of the little orphan, not yet conscious of his loss. chapter xx. mr. packard's gift. it was not until the next day that giles packard knew of the tragedy in no. . he had gone to bed at once on reaching the hotel, and had not heard of rupert's adopting a child. "what is this i hear, rupert?" he asked, on meeting the bell-boy. "i hear you have an adopted son." "yes," answered rupert, with a smile. "won't you get tired of the care and responsibility?" "i think not." "besides, there will be considerable expense." "the money left by his father will pay that till i am older and am earning more." "not many boys of your age would dare to assume such a charge." "perhaps not, but fred is such a sweet boy i cannot help loving him." "look here, rupert, won't you let me share the expense? i am rich and have no family ties?" "thank you, mr. packard. i am very much obliged to you, but i should like to feel that i am fred's sole guardian. i want him to learn to love me." "i don't know but you are right. i won't interfere if you don't wish me to." that evening rupert took fred to mr. benton's. "i have brought you another boarder," he said. mrs. benton looked surprised. "is it a relation of yours?" she asked. "he is my son." the good lady looked amazed. "my adopted son," amended rupert, with a smile; and then he told her of the sudden death at the hotel, and little fred's bereavement. mrs. benton's heart went out to the little orphan, and she stooped and kissed him. "will you live with me?" she asked. "i am going to live with him," said little fred, taking rupert's hand. "he will live here, too." "then i will stay," answered the child, gravely. "i am to stay with him till papa comes back." they had told the little boy that his father had gone on a long journey, and wished him to stay with rupert during his absence. he had acquiesced quietly, for he was a docile child, and transferred his affection to rupert, of whose love he felt assured. "now, mrs. benton, i must make a bargain with you for fred's board." mrs. benton at first refused to accept anything, protesting that a child would be little expense, but rupert told her that the father had left money, and finally induced her to accept three dollars a week. "i am afraid that is too little," said the bell-boy. "no; it will help pay the rent, and i shall like to have freddie here as a companion for harry." so it was arranged, and the little boy was provided with a happy and comfortable home at small expense. two days later giles packard sought out rupert during an interval of the bell-boy's labors. "how is the little boy?" asked the cattleman. "he is well, and he seems to be happy. he thinks his father is away on a journey." "the journey we must all take some time," said packard, gravely. "then you won't accept my help towards paying for the child's maintenance?" "it won't be necessary, mr. packard. i am to pay only three dollars a week for his board." "his clothing will cost something." "mrs. benton will manage that. she says it won't cost over fifty dollars a year." "i foresaw that you wouldn't let me help support the boy, so i have got even with you in another way." "how is that?" asked rupert, puzzled. mr. packard, smiled. "i decided to make you a present," he said. "you won't refuse that?" "no; i am sure you are a good friend, and i won't reject your kindness." rupert fancied mr. packard might be intending to give him fifty dollars, or something like that, and he felt that it would be ungracious to refuse. the man from colorado drew from his pocket a large-sized envelope, and from it took a legal document. "this," he said, "is a deed of two lots in harlem, not far from one-hundred-and-twenty-fifth street. the deed is made out to you, and establishes your ownership." "i didn't know you had any lots in harlem," said rupert, in surprise. "neither had i till yesterday. i bought them through a real estate agent on third avenue, after carefully considering several others." "but, mr. packard, they must have cost you a good deal of money." "two thousand dollars." "and you give me such a valuable present?" "yes, rupert, and i am glad to do so. don't think i have pinched myself to do it. i am a rich man, and i haven't a chick or child, except--well, except you," he continued, with a smile. "i don't know that i ought to accept such a handsome present, though i fully appreciate your great kindness." "i don't quite see that you have any choice. the deed is made out in your name, and in due time you will find that you will have to pay taxes on them." "then i suppose i must submit. i don't know how to thank you." "then don't do it. it would make me feel awkward. i will give you some good advice before i leave you. those lots i believe will advance in price very rapidly. building is going on very near them, and they are in the path of improvement. my advice is that you hold on to them at least five years. they may realize you a small fortune." "i will certainly be guided by your advice. do you know, mr. packard, i imagine there are very few bell-boys in new york who are as rich as i am?" "i don't think i have ever heard of a bell-boy millionaire," said the cattleman, smiling, "though i hope the one before me may make the first exception to a general rule. did i tell you that i expect to start on my return to colorado to-morrow?" "so soon as that?" "yes; i have received news from my agent there--good news, mind--that makes it advisable for me to abridge my visit. may i hope that you will write me sometimes?" "i shall be glad to do so, mr. packard." "mind, it is a compact. some time i expect you to visit me out there." "when my child gets a little older," said rupert, with a smile. "and if at any time you find the expense too great for your means, let me help you." "i will." so the two friends parted, and rupert resumed his regular routine as a bell-boy. chapter xxi. rupert becomes a confidant. some three months later rupert's attention was called to a boy of seventeen or thereabouts, with long black hair and a high forehead, who registered as a guest, and took one of the cheapest rooms in the hotel. the boy seemed to have no companion, and to know very little about the city. "can you direct me to palmer's theatre?" he asked, rather diffidently. "it is on broadway, corner of thirtieth street," answered rupert. "and daly's?" "that is nearly opposite, on the other side of broadway." the boy took out a memorandum-book and noted down these addresses. "what can he want at those theatres?" thought rupert. of course he might want to buy a reserved seat in advance, but rupert did not think it likely. after getting his information the boy went out (it was about ten o'clock), and did not reappear till four o'clock in the afternoon. rupert noticed him as he entered the hotel, and observed that he looked anxious and despondent. he did not go upstairs at once, but sank into a chair near rupert, and apparently gave way to sorrowful reflections. "he has some secret trouble," thought the bell-boy. "if he would speak to me i might be able to comfort him." on the impulse of the moment he went up to the young guest, and asked, in a low tone of sympathy, "are you in any trouble?" the boy started, flushed, and looked at rupert half suspiciously. but there was something so friendly and sympathetic in rupert's face that he was assured of his being a safe confidant. "yes," he said, "i am in trouble." "if you will tell me, perhaps i can help you." the boy looked about him hesitatingly. "i shouldn't like to tell you here," he answered. "there are too many people round." "i shall be at leisure after six o'clock. will that do?" "yes. could you come up to my room?" "i will come with pleasure." "i want a confidant. i want advice. you are younger than i am--at least you look so--but you have lived in the city while i am from the country." "at any rate i will give you the best advice i can." "thank you. i feel better for having found a friend. i will go and take a walk, and you will find me here at six o'clock." when rupert got through work he found the boy waiting for him in the same place. "i can go upstairs with you now." "all right!" said the young guest, rising from his seat quickly. "we will take the elevator, for my room is on the top floor." "in business hours," said rupert, "i am not allowed to use the elevator. now i am no longer a bell-boy, but your visitor." the room was a small hall bedroom. it was one that was let for seventy-five cents a day, while the better and larger rooms ranged upwards to a dollar and a half. the room contained one chair only. "please take a seat," said the young host. "but where will you sit?" "i will sit on the bed. i don't know but you will laugh at me," he went on, "when i tell you what brought me to new york." "oh, no. i shall not laugh at you. but first, as we are to be friends, let me tell you my name and ask yours. i am rupert rollins." "that is a nice name. it sounds like a story name. mine is leslie waters." "where do you live?"' "i was born and brought up in rahway. that is in new jersey, about twenty miles from new york. my father lives about a mile from the village. he has a small farm." "and you were brought up to work on the farm?" "well, it isn't exactly a farm, but we raise vegetables and fruits for the new york market. i went to school till a year ago. then i graduated, and since then i have worked for my father." "did you like it?" "no, i don't like working on land. i feel," continued leslie, flushing, "that i was born for something better and nobler. besides, i don't want to live in the country. i prefer the city. there's something going on here." "yes, that is true." "and i wanted to be in the excitement. i'd rather live half as long in the city. you can live more here in a year than in the country in two years." "was there any particular thing that you wished to do?" "yes, i am coming to that. when i attended school there was one exercise that many of the boys did not like, but i did. i liked to declaim. i began with such pieces as 'casabianca'--you know that, don't you?" "oh, yes," said rupert, smiling. "i have spoken it more than once myself." "but of course i got beyond that after a while. i used to speak pieces from shakespeare and other dramatic authors. there was one i liked to speak in particular. it begins: "the warrior bowed his crested head and tamed his heart of fire, and sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire." "yes, i know the poem." "i got a prize for speaking it at one of our closing examinations," said leslie, proudly. "would you like to have me speak it for you now?" "i afraid it would attract attention in some of the neighboring rooms, as it is a spirited piece." leslie looked disappointed but continued. "then i have spoken 'young lochinvar' also--i liked that." "did you never speak any prose pieces?" "no, i didn't care for prose. i like poetry best. i wish we were alone, so i could speak something for you." "we will go on an excursion some sunday--say to weehawken--and then i shall have a chance to hear you." "i am afraid i shall not be able to stay in the city," said leslie, gloomily. "i have met nothing but disappointment since i came here." chapter xxii. trying to be an actor. "have you inquired for work?" asked rupert. "yes." "what kind of work?" "i wanted to be an actor. so i applied at palmer's theatre and daly's this forenoon, and this afternoon i went to others." "how were you received?" asked rupert, in considerable curiosity. "they wouldn't talk with me," answered leslie, indignantly. "one of the managers laughed at me when i asked if he would let me speak a piece, so that he might judge of my ability." "perhaps they had no vacancy," suggested rupert, trying to keep his countenance. "they asked me if i had ever acted. of course i can't till i get the chance. i told him i would be willing to work for five dollars a week till i got some experience. i told them they might try me in small parts. one of them asked me if i had ever played hamlet. he must have been in fun." "i should think so." "of course great actors like booth must have served an apprenticeship. i was reading an account of booth's early life lately, and he began just as i want to begin." "i expect the profession must be crowded. there was an actor staying at the hotel last week. he is out of employment, and i think he must be out of funds, for he got me to go out and pawn an overcoat for him." "i am sure i could succeed if i only had a show," continued leslie. "you don't happen to know any manager, do you?" "no. perhaps you would stand a better chance of getting into a variety theatre. can you sing or dance?" "no; i should not be willing to. i don't think booth ever did, or irving, or forrest." "no. i don't think they did." "and i'll get some time to be a famous actor, so i wouldn't like to have it mentioned in my biographies that i ever played in a variety theatre." "are you going to make any more applications, leslie?" "i shall apply to every manager in the city," answered leslie, energetically. "i like your pluck. you deserve to succeed." "didn't you ever think of being an actor?" "no; i don't think i have any talent for it." "don't you like to speak pieces?" "pretty well, but i like to write compositions better. how long do you expect to stay in the city?" "well, i'll tell you how i am situated. i had twelve dollars in a savings bank in newark, and i took it out without letting my father know. i was sure he wouldn't approve it, especially if he thought i was trying to go on the stage. you see he doesn't approve of theatres. it is very strange, considering that the greatest man that ever lived was an actor and dramatic author." "you mean shakespeare?" "yes. however, father is old-fashioned in his ideas. i should like to become a great actor, and make piles of money. then he might be proud of me." leslie's face flushed and his voice trembled, he was so carried away by the thought of becoming a dramatic star. "you said you had twelve dollars?" remarked rupert, by way of bringing him back to solid ground. "yes; but i have spent four dollars, though i have tried to be economical. i pay seventy-five cents a day for my room, and that counts up." "yes, so it does. if you were going to stop long in the city i think i could get a room for you at two dollars a week." "i should like that, but i can't pay even that if i don't get something to do." "in that case i suppose you would go home." "i should have to. i suppose my father is very angry at me." "did you leave home without letting him know?" "yes; i knew he wouldn't let me come if he knew my plans." "didn't you leave a note for him?" "yes. i'll tell you what i wrote. i have a copy of it here." leslie drew from his pocket a half sheet of note paper, and read aloud the following words: "dear father-- "when you read these words i shall be far from home. i suppose i ought not to go, but i am tired of the country, and i want to win fame and fortune. i have a plan in view which i have considered for years. i won't tell you what it is now, for though strictly honorable, you might not approve it. i think i understand myself better than you do, though you are my father. i will let you hear from me soon. your son, leslie waters." "of course you don't know how this was received by your father?" "i met a boy from rahway this morning. he told me that father was mad, and said he washed his hands of me, that i was a fool, and would very soon find it out." "then you don't think he will pursue you?" "no, he isn't that kind of a man." "it will be rather awkward for you to go home." "yes. i wouldn't like to do that." "suppose you don't get a chance to go on the stage, would you be willing to take a business place?" "yes, i would rather do that than go home. here i should be in the midst of life, and if i bided my time i might get a chance to go on the stage after all." "that is true. now i will tell you why i asked. one of the bell-boys here is going to leave. i might get the position for you." "you are a bell-boy, are you not?" "yes." "how much do you get?" "five dollars a week and my meals. i have to hire a room outside." "and you say i can get a room for two dollars a week?" "yes. perhaps for a dollar and a half." "then i could get along." "you might not like the duties of a bell-boy." "what are they?" rupert explained. "how early should i get off at night?" "at six o'clock. the bell-boy who is about to leave is on through the day like myself." "that would suit me. i could go to the theatre in the evening." "true." "if i don't get a chance to act to-day i will take the place if you can get it for me. it will be much better than going back to rahway. besides, my father will think better of me if he hears that i have found a place where i can make my expenses." "does he know that you have had thoughts of becoming an actor?" "no; i never told him, but my mother knows it." "what does she say to it?" "she thinks i am smart enough to succeed, but fears i might get into bad company." "there is danger of that." "not for me. i don't care for drinking, and i belong to the temperance society." "so do i." "when a boy is ambitious to be great i don't think he is likely to get dissipated." "perhaps you are right. one thing i must say to you, leslie. if you take the place of bell-boy you must try to give satisfaction." "i will, for it will keep me in the city. in rahway there is no chance of my rising in life." rupert foresaw that there was very little chance of his new friend getting a position in any theatre, and he spoke at once to the manager of the hotel about giving a place as bell-boy to leslie. "is he a friend of yours, rupert?" asked the manager. "yes, sir." "have you known him long?" "not long enough to be sure that he will be satisfactory. still you might be willing to take him on trial." "i will try him for a week. if at the end of that time he suits me moderately well i will retain him." "i will coach him a little and instruct him in his duties." "that will help." in the evening leslie came home just before rupert got through his day's work. he did not look as if he had succeeded. still he was not as sober as the day before. "well?" said rupert. "what luck?" "i don't get a place. in some of the theatres they did not treat me respectfully, though one manager admitted that he went on the stage earlier than i did." "where was that?" "in brooklyn." "then i suppose you will be ready to accept the place of bell-boy?" "yes; but if a chance should come of my going on the stage i should want to resign it." "you had better not say anything about that. wait till the chance comes." "i have one piece of good news," said leslie, more cheerfully. "in two weeks a spectacular piece will be put on the stage at niblo's, and they have promised me a place as supe." "how much will you be paid?" "only twenty-five cents a night, but it will be a beginning. i shall have a place behind the footlights. more than one actor has made his start in that way." "i am glad for you. i will go and see you when you make your first appearance." chapter xxiii. a baffled scheme. both julian lorimer and his father felt mortified at the failure of their attempt to humiliate mr. benton. they had supposed he had neither friends nor influence and were very much surprised at his securing another position elsewhere at an advanced salary. they tried to find out where he was now employed, but without success. julian inquired of rupert one day when he met him, but the bell-boy refused to tell. "oh, it's a secret, is it?" sneered julian. "yes, to you," answered rupert. "why did you wish to know?" rupert was confident that julian meant mischief, and in the interest of mr. benton he declined to give him any information. of course this made julian all the more anxious to gain his point. he got in the way of visiting every dry-goods store, and scanning the clerks and salesmen. but there are a good many such stores in new york, and it was some time before he made any discovery. one day, however, he strayed into grand street, and entered a large store in quest of some cheap neckties which he saw exposed outside. julian was rather a dude, and these ties had attracted his notice. as he was passing through the store without any special thought of his father's old clerk, he chanced to pass by the counter where dress goods were sold. his face lighted up with malicious joy when he saw benton measuring off a dress pattern for a lady. he stopped until the salesman was at leisure. then, stepping up to the counter, he said, "good morning, mr. benton." benton certainly was not pleased to see his old persecutor. perhaps his countenance expressed his feelings as he answered, "good morning, julian." "so it is here you are employed?" "yes, as you see." "did you come here directly from pa's store?" "yes. how did you find out that i was here?" "i didn't find out till just now." "can i do anything for you? do you wish to buy anything in my line?" "no. i came in for some neckties. do you ever see anything of rupert rollins?" "yes, he has a room at my house." "oho, i didn't know that. that accounts for his interest in you." "i am glad he has an interest in me. he is a very good friend of mine." "a poor boy like him isn't much of a friend. he can't do much for you." "he got me this position." "did he?" said julian, in some surprise. "yes." benton might have told julian that rupert owned two valuable lots in harlem, but he thought it more proper that rupert himself should make it known whenever he saw fit. "well, so long. i may see you again before long." "i am not in the least desirous of it," thought benton, but he answered civilly. "well, pa," said julian, at dinner, "i saw your old clerk, benton, to-day." "did you, indeed," said mr. lorimer, interested. "is he out of work?" "no; he's employed in a grand street store." "did you speak to him?" "yes." "how did he appear?" "he was better dressed than when he worked for you." "i mean was he cordial?" "not very. i don't think he was very glad to see me. good reason why." "i wonder whether he is well paid?" "i didn't ask him, for i knew he wouldn't tell me if i did. i have no doubt he gets a good deal more than what you paid him." "they must have taken him without a recommendation," mused lorimer. "you wouldn't give him a recommendation, would you?" "no, i should have to say that he was insubordinate and gave me trouble." julian lorimer could be depended upon to act meanly and maliciously, without any scruples of conscience. two days later mr. benton was summoned to the superintendent's room. "you wished to see me, sir?" he said. "yes. i wish to show you a letter which the firm has received." henry benton took the proffered letter, and read with what feelings can be imagined the following communication: "gentlemen-- "in visiting your store yesterday i saw a mr. benton behind the dress goods counter who used to work in our, that is, my father's store. i was surprised that you should employ him. he brought no recommendation from us, or if he presented one it was forged. my father found him unsatisfactory, and was quite glad to get rid of him. he is a poor man, and i don't want to injure him, but i thought it only right that i should tell you what my father thinks of him. he would not tell us where he was going, and it was only by chance that i found out. yours truly, "julian lorimer." "well, mr. wilson, i have read the letter," said benton. "is there anything you would like to ask me in reference to it?" "is the writer correct in his statements?" "so far from it that his father asked me to stay longer, and offered me an additional dollar a week." "did you have any trouble when in mr. lorimer's store?" "yes; this boy julian, who has nothing to do with the business, interfered with my work and was very insolent. i rebuked him and he succeeded in getting his father to discharge me. afterward his father revoked the dismissal and wished me to stay. but i had already a situation offered me here, and i declined. i hope this letter will not prejudice you against me." "by no means. even without your explanation i understood pretty well the character of the writer of the note." "shall you answer it?" "yes; i have a curiosity to see the boy." julian lorimer smiled with satisfaction when he received a letter inviting him to call at the grand street store. "things are working as i desired," he said to himself. "i think, mr. benton, your career will be brief, and you will soon be looking for another position." he entered the store about ten o'clock, and took good care to walk by the counter behind which mr. benton was employed. the latter saw him, but after his interview with the superintendent he did not feel anxious. "i am julian lorimer," announced julian, as he entered the presence of the superintendent. "you wrote us a letter, i believe?" "yes, sir." "in relation to a clerk in our employ?" "yes. mr. benton." "he used to work for your father?" "yes, sir. he was in father's employ rather more than a year." "he stayed some time, then?" "yes; father didn't want to discharge him as he had a family." "very considerate on your father's part, certainly," said mr. wilson, in a peculiar tone, in which julian did not detect the sarcasm. "on the whole, your father did not find him satisfactory? what was the matter? isn't he a good salesman?" "pretty fair," answered julian. "nothing alarming." "then what fault did he find with him? i suppose he was honest?" "yes, so far as we know." "and still your father found him unsatisfactory. there must have been some cause of complaint?" "he was impudent," said julian. "he felt too large for his position." "was he impudent to your father?" "no." "to whom, then?" "to me." "oh, to you. were you employed in the store?" "no, sir." "then i don't see how you could have come in contact with him." "i used to go into the store sometimes. that was very natural, as it was my father's store." "and on one of these occasions he was impudent to you?" "yes, sir." "this is a serious charge. what would you advise me to do? do you think i ought to discharge him?" "i will only say this, that my father would not have him in the store." "you said in your letter that you did not wish to injure him. if he should be discharged that would certainly be an injury." "yes, sir, i suppose so," answered julian, with hesitation. he was puzzled and could not understand what mr. wilson was driving at. "i will send for mr. benton." when benton came into the presence of the superintendent, mr. wilson said, "mr. benton, this boy, mr. julian lorimer, has been bringing charges against you." "i am not surprised to hear it, sir." "he says you did not treat him respectfully when you were in his father's store; that, in short, you were impudent to him." "there is some truth in my not treating him respectfully. he came up to my counter and interfered with my work." "you were aware that he was mr. lorimer's son?" "oh, yes, sir." "and yet you rebuked or snubbed him?" "yes, sir." "he thinks that a serious matter. he thinks i ought to discharge you. my own feeling is that you treated him just right." julian looked paralyzed. "and to make up to you for his malicious attempt to injure you, i will raise your salary two dollars a week." "thank you, sir." "as for you, young man, i don't wish to see you in the store again. james, you may show mr. lorimer out." julian lost no time in getting out of the place. he had never felt so humiliated before. it would be hard to describe his blended rage and mortification. it was certainly aggravating to reflect that he had only succeeded in raising mr. benton's salary. chapter xxiv. leslie's progress. leslie waters obtained the situation of bell-boy through rupert's recommendation, and entered upon his duties at once. he had failed in his ambition to become an actor. with his elevated ideas of the position of a member of the profession, he did not immediately become reconciled to figuring as a bell-boy, but it enabled him to live in the great city, which became daily more and more attractive to him. rupert engaged for him a small hall bedroom in the same house in which he was himself living. the price agreed upon was only a dollar and a half weekly, which, with his salary, he could pay without inconvenience. rupert was afraid that leslie would prove too flighty and impracticable for his humble duties, but was agreeably disappointed. accustomed to work on a farm in a quiet country town, leslie found hotel life very attractive, and labored zealously to give satisfaction. the day after he went to work he wrote to his father in rahway as follows: "dear father-- "i hope you are not angry at my leaving home so suddenly. i had got tired of country life, and felt that i was destined to a career in the city. i was not sure what employment awaited me, but hoped in some way to make a living. i have succeeded--i have secured a position in the somerset hotel, on broadway. i take my meals at the hotel, and am paid a salary of five dollars per week besides. i have to pay a dollar and a half for a room, and the balance of my pay will defray the rest of my expenses. "i owe my success to a very friendly boy, not quite as old as i am, who is employed in the hotel. my hours are from six to six, so that i have my evenings to myself. i think you will agree that i am doing better and earning more than i ever did in rahway. of course i hope to be promoted, perhaps to go into some more congenial business when i get better acquainted in the city. if you should come to the city at any time i shall be glad to have you call at the hotel. "your son, "leslie waters." in reply, leslie received the following letter, written in a cramped hand, indicating that the writer was not accustomed to epistolary composition: "son leslie-- "i have received your letter, and am glad to learn that you are not quite so foolish as i supposed. i was afraid you had the foolish notion of becoming a play actor. i never knew one in that profession who was a solid, sensible man. to my mind it is a very poor business. it is all very well for boys to speak pieces at school exhibitions, but when they start in to speak pieces for a livelihood it is very foolish. i surmised from some things i had observed in you that you had such a notion in your head, but i am glad i was mistaken. "the hotel business is a good business, i am told. you don't tell me what your duties are, but you seem to be earning pretty good pay. i hope you will give satisfaction. you never earned even three dollars a week at farming, so that perhaps it may be well for you to stay where you are really earning a good income. some time you may be qualified to keep a hotel yourself. your mother's cousin keeps a hotel somewhere in kansas, and i hear that he is making money. you did wrong to leave home without permission, but i will not find fault with you under the circumstances. when i go to new york i will call in and see how you are getting along. your mother will make up a bundle of clothing and send you by express. "your father, "jethro waters." leslie showed this letter to rupert. "your father doesn't suspect that you came to the city intending to go on the stage?" he said. "no, he thinks i have given up my ambition to become an actor. he has no idea what a glorious profession it is. i don't suppose he ever went to the theatre in his life. i wish he could see edwin booth, or irving, or joseph jefferson. yet i suppose he would rather have me keep a hotel than become as great as either of these." "it takes a smart man to keep a hotel, leslie. very likely booth or irving wouldn't succeed in that line." "i hope some time i may get a chance on the stage. will you go with me to-night to see mansfield in 'jekyll and hyde'?" "yes; i have no other engagement." that evening the two bell-boys had front seats in the gallery of a broadway theatre, and saw mr. mansfield in his remarkable impersonation of the two contrasted characters. leslie was filled with admiration. "do you know, rupert, i think i will learn to act those parts in time?" "you might succeed in jekyll, but it would be more difficult to play the part of hyde." "perhaps so. indeed, i know you are right. but it is a part which i should enjoy. i have a great mind to make a study of it." "if i were you i would try something easier." "it is the hard parts that are best worth acting," said leslie, grandly. rupert thought little more of this conversation, but two evenings later, as he sat playing checkers with harry benton, there was a knock at the door of mrs. benton's apartment. on the door being opened, mrs. spenser appeared. she was the lady of whom leslie hired his room. she seemed to be quite excited. "oh, mr. rollins," she exclaimed, addressing rupert, "i wanted to see you. i am so frightened." rupert looked up in surprise. "what is the matter, mrs. spenser?" "your friend, mr. waters, is making a terrible noise. is he subject to fits?" "not that i ever heard." "i don't dare to go in. he is acting like a wild man. i never heard anything to equal it. do you know if any of his family were ever crazy?" "i will go and see what is the matter. i don't think you need be alarmed." "if he is really crazy," continued mrs. spenser, "i don't think i can keep him, though i need the money he pays for room rent." rupert abandoned his game, and, accompanied by the frightened woman, proceeded to the part of the house where leslie lodged. as he stood outside in the hall he heard leslie in a low, guttural voice rehearsing the part of hyde. one who was not familiar with the _rôle_ or the play might be excused for being startled. rupert tried the door, and entered. there was his associate bell-boy, half-crouching, and with his black hair carefully disordered, walking across the room, with his naturally pleasant face distorted by a grin as fiendish as he could make it. "look at him! he is certainly crazy!" ejaculated the terrified landlady. "he looks awful." "what are you doing, leslie?" asked rupert. leslie looked up, and his face showed embarrassment when he saw his visitors. "i am practicing the part of hyde," he said. "i thought so. you have frightened mrs. spenser, who thought you had a fit or were crazy." instead of being offended, leslie took this as a tribute to his art. "yes," he said, "it is a frightful character. did i really look dreadful?" "awful!" said mrs. spenser. "that's the way mansfield looked. isn't it, rupert?" "something like it, leslie, but i shouldn't think you would like to imitate such a personation. why don't you try romeo?" "romeo is a silly character. he is only a sixteenth century dude." "then imitate claude melnotte, in the 'lady of lyons.'" "i never saw it." "in that character, instead of looking frightful, you would need to look handsome, romantic and attractive. if mrs. spenser should see you in that she wouldn't be frightened." "are you an actor, mr. waters?" asked the landlady, curiously. "i hope to be some day," returned leslie, much flattered. "i am going to have some friends come in to see me christmas evening. i should be very much obliged if you would do some acting for us, only not that hyde," and she shuddered. "i shall be pleased to do what i can, mrs. spenser," replied leslie, graciously. "i will speak some pieces for you--some pieces that require acting. i have a recitation called 'the tramp.'" "i shall be very glad to have you. it will be a great favor. don't you act, too, mr. rollins?" "no; i leave all that to my friend leslie." the landlady retired, leaving the two boys alone. "what did you think of my acting, rupert?" said leslie. "if i could see it again i think it would give me a nightmare." "i consider that a compliment," said leslie, complacently. "i shall never be satisfied, rupert, till i go on the stage." chapter xxv. leslie waters as a dramatic star. a year passed; not an eventful year, however, nor did it materially change the position of the principal characters introduced in our story. rupert was still a bell-boy in the somerset hotel. he had been raised three dollars a week, however, and was now receiving a salary of eight dollars, besides his board. his friend leslie waters was doing satisfactory service at six dollars. he had by no means lost his love for the stage. he economized on clothing in order to attend the theatre. it must be said that his taste was good, and that he preferred standard plays and good acting to the sensational pieces that too often eclipse in success the better class of dramas. he had joined the violet dramatic club of young men, meeting weekly somewhere on west fourteenth street. the members of the club laboriously rehearsed short plays, and offered their services gratuitously, or for a slight compensation, to charitable societies, and thus obtained some valuable training and a share of applause. of course leslie waters was always cast for a prominent part. of all the members of the society he was the most ambitious, and the most willing to work. for a long time he tried to induce his fellow-members to essay a long play. he was particularly desirous of playing claude melnotte, in the "lady of lyons." the main difficulty, however, was in obtaining a young lady capable of playing pauline. at length that difficulty was surmounted. a young lady of eighteen, from brooklyn, the cousin of one of the members of the club, who, like leslie, thought herself born for the stage, offered her services, and was adjudged competent, although rather disposed to overdo the part. one day leslie brought to his friend rupert a circular to the following effect: "the violet dramatic club beg leave to inform their friends and the public generally that they will produce bulwer's noted play, the lady of lyons, at amaranth hall, on first avenue, on the evening of thursday, may , with the distinguished actor, leslie waters, in the character of claude melnotte. miss ida strassburger, an accomplished amateur from brooklyn, will appear as pauline. "tickets, and cents." "the proceeds will be given to the society for the relief of indigent laundresses." "what do you think of that, rupert?" asked leslie, with a complacent smile. "i congratulate you on your opportunity to make a hit. i am glad it is you, and not i, who is to play the part of claude." "of course you would hardly be competent. if you would like some light part, like that of a servant, i think i might have got you into the cast." "thank you, leslie, but i have no ambition in that direction. who is the pauline? do you know her?" "it is ida strassburger, of brooklyn. she is a cousin of one of our members." "how does she play?" "pretty well, but she has something of the bowery style; that is, she rather overdoes her part. i have tried to tone her down." "does she look the part?" "well, no. i am sorry to say it, but she is rather short and fat. she is german, as you may guess from her name. still i think she will do, if she will be guided by me. you see we can't afford to be too particular about a pauline, for it is harder to get actresses than actors." "do you feel at all nervous about your first appearance in a star part?" "oh, no, i never was troubled with stage fright. i have considerable confidence in myself." this was quite true. had leslie been requested to appear as hamlet, he would have had no misgivings, but with sufficient time for preparation would have walked on the stage prepared to enact the _rôle_ of the melancholy dane. "i hope you will win the popular favor, and get your name before the public." "i hope so. one of our members, who sometimes reports for the _evening news_, has promised to write an account for that paper, and we hope to be noticed by the _sun_ and _world_." "suppose your father reads the account? does he take either of these papers?" "i hope he will. in fact i shall make sure that he does, for i will send the papers to him marked, getting you to address the wrappers. while he would object to my going on the stage professionally, i don't think he will mind my appearing for the benefit of a charitable society." "do you know anything about the society for the relief of indigent laundresses?" "no." "yet you are going to work very hard for them." "oh, i don't care anything for the society. i would be willing to work for any society, as long as i got a chance to appear in a prominent part." "i am not sure," said rupert, laughing, "but i would like to have your club give a performance for the benefit of destitute bell-boys." "i am quite ready, if any such society should be formed." "i'll think about forming one, though i am glad to say i don't know of any destitute bell-boys at present." rupert bought several tickets, and invited the entire benton family, including his young charge, to attend the performance. mrs. spenser and her daughters received an invitation from leslie waters himself. the widow felt quite flattered. "i am sure, mr. waters," she said, "i am proud to think a distinguished actor like you is a lodger of mine. it will seem so odd to see you on the stage. i don't see how you can do it." "it comes natural to me, mrs. spenser," said leslie, much flattered. "and do you think you will ever go on the stage as a regular business, mr. waters?" "i will if i have a good opportunity. to be a bell-boy does not satisfy my ambition." "it is a good, steady business." "yes, but i feel that i was born for higher things. anyone can be a bell-boy, but there are few who are qualified to become actors." "i wonder your friend mr. rollins doesn't act." "well, you see, rupert is a very good fellow, but i don't think he is gifted enough to become an actor, that is, a prominent actor. i offered to get him the part of a servant, but he didn't care to attempt it. some time, mrs. spenser, when a child is needed in any of my plays, i may get the chance for your sophie." "oh, mr. waters, how kind you are. do you really think sophie could act?" "yes, if i should train her. you know not very much is expected of a child." "i should feel so proud to see my little girl on the stage. did you ever see elsie leslie act?" "yes, she is very clever. i only wish she were old enough, and would consent to take the part of pauline. she would be far better than ida strassburger." "is she pretty?" "she is fair-looking, but she is too fat. however, she has a lover, a stout, young german, who, i understand, is jealous because on the stage i am to personate her lover. i presume he will be present. i will harrow him up by being a little extra affectionate." "now, mr. waters, you are really too bad. you ought to consider the feelings of the poor young man." "his name is otto schaefer, and he is a butcher's assistant, i understand. i really hope he won't bring a butcher knife with him, for it might prove serious for me." "rupert," said leslie in a mysterious tone, a few hours before the play, "i will tell you a secret if you won't breathe a word about it." "is it that you are engaged to the fair pauline?" "oh, bother, no. otto schaefer may have her, if he wishes." "what is it, then?" "i have sent complimentary tickets to palmer and daly. do you think they will come?" "i imagine they are both very busy men, and cannot afford the time." "i thought, if they should be impressed with my playing, one of them might offer me an engagement in his stock company." "and you would like that?" "would i like it? it would make me supremely happy." "then you are not satisfied with the position of a bell-boy?" "certainly not. are you?" "for the present, yes." "should you be willing to be a bell-boy for the next twenty years?" "no, i don't think i should, but i am still very young. i have just passed seventeen." "and i am a year older. it is high time i entered upon my chosen vocation." at length the eventful evening arrived. the hall was well filled, but the audience were from the neighborhood of first avenue and avenue a. many of them were german or of german descent. the fact that miss strassburger, who was to play pauline, was of teutonic blood, doubtless accounted for this fact. the play commenced and progressed smoothly. the actors were well up in their parts. ida strassburger, to be sure, hardly looked aristocratic enough for pauline, her figure being decidedly dumpy. she assumed a coquettish air, and from time to time glanced from the corner of her eye at a short, stout german young man who sat but a few feet from the stage. it is needless to say that this was otto schaefer, her brooklyn lover. he seemed restless and ill at ease, especially when there were any affectionate passages between ida and leslie. for instance, when pauline has to say, "sweet prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without pauline," otto's lip curled with scorn, and he glared at the prince with a hostile eye. towards the end of the play, when melnotte presents himself after a long absence, and pauline, recognizing her husband, rushes into his arms, otto could stand it no longer. he sprang from his seat, jumped on the stage, and called out in an excited tone to leslie: "you quit that! that gal is my promised wife." instantly there was a chorus of exclamations, and half the audience rose to their feet in excitement. chapter xxvi. triumphant over obstacles. never, probably, in the many representations of "the lady of lyons" has there been a stranger tableau than was presented on the stage in amaranth hall on the evening when leslie made his _début_ as a star. leslie stood in the centre of the stage, with his arm encircling the waist of the fair ida, while otto, short, stout, and decidedly teutonic, stood a few feet to the left, shaking his fist at the two leading characters. it was enough to throw a veteran actor into confusion. but leslie was not wholly unprepared. still encircling the fair pauline's waist, he half turned and thundered in indignant words not to be found in bulwer's play this stern defiance: "caitiff, avaunt! this rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as i." the melodramatic defiance caught the house. there was a chorus of shouts and laughter, and some small boys in the gallery called out, "pitch into him, claude!" otto, not being accustomed to standing on a stage facing a crowded audience, appeared somewhat abashed, but his indignation was still warm. he turned to the audience and said, in an explanatory tone, "he ain't got no right to hug my gal." by this time ida, too, was indignant. she felt that otto was exposing both her and himself to ridicule, and she cried out, in a vexed tone, "you just sit down, otto schaefer, and don't make a fool of yourself, or i'll never speak to you again." "sit down! sit down!" resounded from all parts of the house. otto could not stand the clamor. with one last indignant glance at leslie and his promised bride he descended from the stage and made his way to his seat in the orchestra. when leslie, resuming the business of the play, said, "look up! look up, pauline! for i can bear thine eyes. the stain is blotted from my name. i have redeemed mine honor," there was a shout of applause. then leslie, perceiving his opportunity, interpolated a few words appropriate to the occasion. pointing to the discomfited otto, he said, "heed not that vulgar groundling, who would step in between us and our happiness. let him return in shame and failure to his butcher shop in brooklyn, nor dare profane thy presence, sweet pauline." otto felt that this was addressed to him, and he called out in a passion: "don't you call me names, you new york dude!" here a policeman appeared, and hurried the unfortunate man from the hall, and the play proceeded to the close. at the end claude and pauline were called before the curtain by the excited audience. the applause was terrific. then there was a cry of "speech! speech!" nothing could have suited leslie better. "my generous friends," he said, "this is the proudest moment of my life. i don't feel that i have merited your applause, but i accept it for the fair pauline. if my poor efforts have pleased you i am more than satisfied. i did not anticipate the unpleasant interruption which marred our closing scene, but miss strassburger and myself were sustained by the thought that you were with us. trusting to meet you again ere long, i bid you good-night." there was another chorus of cheers. leslie led ida out at the wings, and the audience left the hall. "what did you think of it, rupert?" asked leslie proudly, as he joined his fellow bell-boy in the street. "i give you credit for getting out of a tight place so neatly." "i was too much for the butcher boy, eh, rupert?" "you certainly were," said rupert, laughing. "i hope ida will forgive him." "i think she will after a while, as long as he didn't spoil the play. the audience were very enthusiastic." "yes, more so probably on account of otto's ill-timed interruption." "so i think. it was a splendid ovation. oh, rupert, it was delicious. it was, as i said, the proudest moment of my life. i wonder if there will he anything in the papers about it." "i think it quite likely." "you didn't see anything of daly or palmer in the hall, did you?" "i don't know the gentlemen by sight." "i wish they had been there. i think they would have appreciated my triumph over the young butcher from brooklyn." "perhaps they would," said rupert, dubiously. the next evening leslie read the following notice in the _evening news_: "last evening bulwer's play, 'the lady of lyons' was produced by the violet dramatic company at amaranth hall, on first avenue. the performance was smooth and creditable to the young players. mr. leslie waters as claude melnotte, was earnest and effective, while miss ida strassburger made an acceptable pauline. towards the close of the play an excitable young german, who was probably under the influence of beer, left his seat, and, jumping on the stage, interrupted the performance. he appeared to be jealous of melnotte's attentions to pauline. mr. waters showed remarkable composure in a trying situation, and interpolated a rebuke to the officious intruder. the audience sustained him, and he and miss strassburger were called before the curtain with terrific applause. we shall doubtless hear from mr. waters again." "that is very complimentary, leslie," said rupert. "i hope it won't unfit you for your duties as bell-boy." "no, but it will make me impatient to close them for good and all, and embrace the glorious profession of booth and irving." chapter xxvii. an ingenious trick. one morning a tailor's boy entered the somerset hotel with a bundle which he carried to the clerk. "it is an overcoat for mr. silas drayton," he said. "very well," said the clerk. "you can leave it, and we will send it to his room." upon this the boy left the hotel. a young man of twenty-five or thereabouts, who was sitting near by, listened attentively to what passed between the boy and the clerk. the latter summoned rupert, and said: "here is the key of . you may take up this coat and leave it in the room. it belongs to mr. drayton." "all right, sir." rupert started with the bundle, and the young man started for the elevator, and got into it just as it was about to ascend. "i want to go up to no. ," he said. "very well." when they reached the third floor the elevator boy halted. "you will find no. on this floor," he said. "thank you." the young man found the room, and was standing in front of it when rupert made his appearance. "is that my uncle's coat?" he asked. "it is mr. drayton's coat." "exactly. mr. drayton is my uncle. you may give it to me, and i will take it in. have you the key?" "yes, sir." "then you may give it to me; i came up without one." he spoke with such assurance that rupert, accustomed as he was to impostors, was quite taken in. he handed the package and the key to the young man, who at once opened the door and went into the room. when rupert had got half-way down stairs he began to wonder if he had not made a mistake. he did not feel at all sure that the young man to whom he had handed the bundle had any right to claim it. as it might prove to be a serious mistake he went to the clerk and inquired, "has mr. drayton got a nephew stopping here?" "no. why do you ask?" "i am afraid i have made a blunder. at the door of no. i met a young man who told me he was mr. drayton's nephew, and asked me to hand him the bundle." "did he come down stairs?" "no, he went into the room." "i didn't think you could be so easily imposed upon, rupert. the man is undoubtedly an adventurer. describe him." rupert did so. "he had been sitting in the office for half an hour. he must have seen the tailor's boy bring in the bundle." "he is upstairs yet. can't we get back the coat?" "you will know him when you see him again?" "oh, yes." "then take your position by the elevator, and if you see him come down, signal to the detective whom i will also station there. he will take care of him." ten minutes later the elevator reached the office floor. among those who stepped out was the young man, wearing an overcoat considerably too large for him. it was clear that he had put it on in no. , and was now about to wear it out of the hotel. he stepped out of the elevator, and with a slight glance about him made briskly for the door. but he had taken only two steps when rupert caught him by the arm. "i want to see you a minute," he said. "i am in a hurry. i have an appointment. i will see you on my return." but the detective had now stepped forward. "you will have to stop now," he said, firmly. "i don't understand you. by what right do you detain me?" "where did you get that overcoat you have on?" "it is my own. hasn't a man a right to wear an overcoat?" "yes, if it belongs to him. this seems too large for you." "true," said the young man, "it belongs to my uncle, mr. drayton." "indeed. then how do you happen to be wearing it?" "i have borrowed it for the day. really this is very annoying." "what is your name?" "charles drayton," answered the young man, with some hesitation. "you will have to take off the coat and accompany me to the police station." "this is an outrage!" exclaimed the young man. "my uncle will be very angry." "if he identifies you, and assures us that it was by his authority you borrowed the coat, we will apologize." "but that won't make up to me for your unwarrantable interference. take the coat and let me go." in spite of his protestations, however, mr. charles drayton, as he called himself, was escorted to the nearest police station and held for examination. he was tried, and would have been sentenced to a term of imprisonment, mr. silas drayton disclaiming all relationship, had not the old gentleman taken pity on him and declined to prosecute. it appeared at the trial that the young man was well known to the police as sidney marvin, an expert thief, born in london, but for three years a resident of the united states. mr. drayton was blamed for allowing him to escape punishment, but he was a soft-hearted man, and disposed to give the young man another chance. chapter xxviii. rupert resigns his situation. rupert had been a bell-boy for more than a year. he found his employers very pleasant and considerate, and his salary was larger, probably, than he could get anywhere else. still the position was not likely to lead to anything better, unless he might in time qualify himself to be a hotel clerk. sometimes he talked over the matter with leslie, but the latter had the advantage of knowing just what he aspired to. he was determined some day to be an actor, and was content to remain in his present place till there was an opening for him on the stage. one day rupert received a letter from colorado. he knew, of course, that the letter was written by his old acquaintance, giles packard, from whom he heard occasionally. this was the letter: "friend rupert-- "i have been meaning for some time to write to you, but my mode of life is not favorable to letter-writing, and whenever i take my pen in hand i feel as awkward as a chinaman would with a knife and fork. i think it is three months since i heard from you, but i hope you are well and getting on nicely. how is the little boy you took charge of? it was a pretty big responsibility for a lad of your age, but i am sure you would take better care of him than a good many older persons. "don't forget that you promised to let me know if you needed some help. even small boys cost something to bring up, and i have plenty, while you are only beginning life. i suppose you are still a bell-boy at the somerset hotel. now that is a good position for a boy, but it seems to me that it is about time you took up something else. before choosing what it shall be, i want you to come out and make me a visit. i feel pretty lonely sometimes, having neither 'chick nor child,' unless i count you. i think it would do you good to see a little something of the far west. i inclose a draft for two hundred dollars for your expenses out here. if all is right i want you either to ask for a vacation or leave your situation, and start as soon as you can. don't be afraid, for i will see that you don't suffer, even if you don't get a new place right off." here followed some directions as to finding him, and then the letter ended. the proposal struck rupert favorably. he had a natural desire to travel, and had a great anxiety to see chicago and other places, of which he had heard a great deal. he went at once to the proprietor of the hotel and showed him the letter. "you want to accept the invitation, i suppose?" said the landlord. "yes, sir, if it won't inconvenience you." "as it happens, one of my old friends wants me to give his son a place in the hotel. i had thought of discharging leslie to make room for him, but if you really wish to give up your position i will put him in your place." "that will suit me, sir." "but in that case i cannot take you back on your return." "i will not expect you to do so. i think i can find something outside, and mr. packard agreed to see me through." "that draft looks like it. i will send for the boy at once, and during the balance of the week you can instruct him in his duties." "i am sorry you are going, rupert," said leslie. "if you get acquainted with any managers on your western trip, speak a good word for me." "i will." "i am going to play at a benefit next week, wednesday. it is a variety entertainment, and i am to give imitations of celebrated actors. i've got irving down fine. you ought to stay and see me." "perhaps you will give me a private rehearsal. it wouldn't be convenient for me to put off my journey." "i will. come into my room to-night, and you shall see me imitate irving, booth and joe jefferson." rupert stayed two days in chicago, and visited the principal localities, including jackson park, soon to become known all over the country as the site of the world's fair. he was impressed with the business activity and greatness of the queen city of the west, and left it reluctantly at the end of two days. at the railroad station, while purchasing his ticket to denver, his attention was called to a tall old man who looked to be nearly seventy. he was thin and bent, and his face was sad. his suit was black, but it was well-worn and looked shabby. his eyes were fixed on rupert as he bought his ticket, and he heaved a sigh. "i envy you, young man," he said in answer to rupert's inquiring look. "why so?" asked the bell-boy. "because you are going to denver." "do you wish to go there?" "yes, but it is impossible." "why is that? won't your business permit you?" "alas, i have no business. i came to chicago from my old home in rochester, new york, hoping to get a situation as bookkeeper. i understand bookkeeping thoroughly, and for fifteen years occupied that position in one of the largest firms in buffalo. but they went out of business, and i was thrown on my own resources." "had you not laid up any money?" "yes. i took what i had, and went by invitation to make my home at the house of a niece in rochester who was married to a man named jackson. i had three thousand dollars, and i thought that if i should get something to do i might with the help of that live comfortably for the balance of my days. that was a year ago, and i was then sixty-five. i can hardly expect to live many years, and i considered myself well provided for. "well, i sought out my niece, and was cordially received by her husband and herself after they learned that i had money. i agreed to board with them, and sought a position in my old line. but a man over sixty is at a disadvantage when he is seeking employment. in vain i showed a first-class recommendation from my past employers in buffalo. "'i dare say you understand your business,' one and another said to me, 'but you are too old for us. we want a young man who can hustle.' "'but i can hustle, too,' i said. "they only laughed. "'you are too old to work. you ought to retire,' they said. "i reported my disappointment to my niece and her husband. "'uncle john,' said my nephew, 'i feel for you, and i will try to do something for you. i think i can make a place for you in my store. i can't afford to pay you high wages. if you will work for ten dollars a week i will employ you.' "i was very glad to accept this proposal, though i had in my time been paid a hundred dollars a month. "i entered the store, and had reason to think that i was doing satisfactory work. but at the end of three weeks eben jackson called me aside and said: 'uncle john, i have been figuring up my expenses, and i don't see how i can afford to employ you.' "'you wish me to go, then?' "'i shall have to dispense with your services unless i can get additional capital to enlarge my business.' "presently he made me a proposal. "'if you will lend me three thousand dollars,' he said, 'and allow me to use it in my business, i will pay you six per cent. interest, and advance your wages to twelve dollars a week.' "i thought over this proposal and determined to accept it. eben jackson was very plausible and smooth-spoken, and i saw no reason to doubt him. i transferred my small capital to him. he increased his stock, but only by five hundred dollars' worth, as i afterwards ascertained, and i continued to work for him. for a month he paid me twelve dollars per week, then he reduced me to ten, on the plea that business was poor, afterwards to eight, and finally he allowed me only my board. i became indignant and demanded my money back, but he absolutely refused to repay it. i consulted a lawyer, but found upon inquiry that he had made over all his property to his wife. i saw that nothing was to be expected, and a month since i left rochester and came to chicago, in the hope of finding employment here." chapter xxix. the st. james hotel, in denver. "what has been your success here, mr. plympton?" inquired rupert. "no better than in rochester. why is it that no one is willing to employ an old man? i am in good bodily health, and i can do as good work as i ever could, but no one will have me." "chicago seems to be a city of young men--more so than new york." "have you noticed that? some of the successful business men are men young enough to be my sons." "i understand you to say that you wished to go to denver. have you any reason to think you will succeed any better there?" "no, but i have a nephew somewhere in colorado, and perhaps in denver. if i can fall in with him, i am sure he will help me. i haven't seen giles for twenty years, but--" "giles!" repeated rupert, in surprise. "what is his full name?" "giles packard. he is my sister's son." "well, that is astonishing," ejaculated rupert. "what is astonishing?" "your nephew is my particular friend, and i am going out to colorado at his special invitation." "is it possible?" asked the old man, eagerly. "then you know where he lives?" "yes." "will you tell him you met me, and ask him if he will send money to bring me on to where he lives? giles was always good-hearted, and i am sure he will do it." "it won't be necessary to wait. i will buy you another ticket, and take you on with me." john plympton's face lighted up with joy. "how kind you are," he said, grasping rupert's hand. "i hope when you are old you will find some one who will be as kind to you. you are not related to me in any way, you only saw me within the hour, yet you are going to do me a great kindness. may heaven bless you." "thank you, but don't give me too much credit. i am sure mr. packard will approve what i am doing, and will consider it a favor done to himself." "i hope so, but my niece's treatment has made me uncertain how far the ties of relationship will be regarded. yet i will accept your offer thankfully." rupert lost no time in purchasing another ticket, and secured pullman accommodations for himself and his new acquaintance. "you used to live in buffalo," he said. "yes, i worked in one place there for fifteen years." "did you ever hear of the firm of rollins & lorimer?" "certainly. they were dry-goods merchants." "i am rupert rollins, son of the senior partner." "is it possible? i knew your father well. he was a fine man." "i am glad to hear you say so." "but i didn't like mr. lorimer as well." "i have little reason to like him, for he ruined my poor father, and indirectly caused his death." "i am not surprised to hear it. i never had any dealings with mr. lorimer, but i knew his reputation. is your mother living?" "yes, thank god, she is living, and my sister grace as well." "did your father lose all his property?" "all." "how, then, is your mother getting along?" rupert explained. "and yourself? are you in any employment?" "i have been a bell-boy in a new york hotel for the last year and a half." "you could hardly be very well paid." "yes, i received larger pay than i would have received in a mercantile house. but i have finally given up the business." "what do you propose to do?" "i shall ask the advice of your nephew. he is a very good friend of mine--the best i have outside my own family with one exception--and i shall be guided by what he says." "i wish i had been able to go to him instead of to my niece and her husband." "i don't see how they could have treated you so meanly." "mary would have treated me better, but she is under the thumb of her husband, and he is as mean a man as i ever encountered." "excepting mr. lorimer." "there isn't much choice between them." "did he give you a note for the three thousand dollars you lent him?" "yes, i have his note--but what is it worth?" "keep it and show it to mr. packard. he may be able to advise you how to secure it." "do you know if giles has been successful? has he bettered himself in colorado?" "i have reason to think that he is a rich man. he has been very kind to me, who am a recent acquaintance, and i am sure he will not turn his back upon his uncle." this assurance brightened up the old man, who rapidly recovered his cheerfulness, and looked forward to a meeting with the nephew whom he had not seen for twenty years. rupert had telegraphed to mr. packard when he would reach denver, and received a return telegram directing him to go to the st. james hotel. thither he repaired, taking his companion with him. mr. plympton displayed some anxiety as they were approaching denver. "perhaps my nephew will receive me coldly," he said. "if he does, there will be nothing left me but destitution and the poorhouse." "don't be alarmed, mr. plympton," rejoined rupert. "you have not seen your nephew for twenty years. i have met him more recently, and i probably know him better than you. leave all in my hands. i will speak to him about you." they reached the st. james, and rupert engaged rooms for both. on examining the hotel register he found that giles packard had already arrived. he had been in the hotel hardly half an hour when mr. packard entered. his face lighted up with pleasure when he saw rupert. "i am delighted to see you, rupert," he said. "somehow you seem very near to me. i shall take you, after a day or two in denver, to my cattle ranch near red gulch, and i think i can promise you a good time and a comfortable home for as long as you are willing to stay." "have you room for another, mr. packard? i have brought a companion with me." "why, certainly. any friend of yours shall have a cordial welcome." "but he is nearer to you than to me." mr. packard's face expressed surprise. "i don't understand you." "i found a relative of yours in chicago. he was in hard luck, and i thought you would be willing to help him. here he is." he led giles packard up to his uncle, who anxiously scanned the face of his nephew. "don't you know me, giles?" he asked, in a tremulous tone. "surely you are not my uncle john?" "the same. i hope you will forgive me for seeking you out." "don't speak like that, uncle john. i have not forgotten that i am your nephew." "but, giles, i come to you as a pauper." "i have enough for us both. did you save nothing, then, by your long years of business?" "i saved three thousand dollars." then he explained how he had been defrauded of it by eben jackson. giles packard's face became stern. "the scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "and after he got your money he had no further use for you?" "no, he turned me out to starve." "you were very imprudent in trusting him with the money." "so i was, but he promised, if i lent it to him, that he would give me a position in his store." "and he broke his promise?" "no; he employed me for about two months, but in the end he would only give me my board, and refused to let me have money enough to buy a suit of clothes. then i became indignant and left the house." "did you make an effort to recover the money?" "yes, but it was of no use. he refused to give it back." "he must have given you a note?" "yes, i have his note." "i will give you the money, and you will transfer the note to me. he will find me a different customer to deal with." "keep the money yourself, giles, and pay me interest on it. i shall not be afraid to trust you." "i will. if i treat you as eben jackson did, may i lose my property and become a pauper." "you are sure you can afford to do this, giles? you have accumulated some property?" "well," answered giles, smiling, "i am not a millionaire, but i think perhaps i might realize seventy-five thousand dollars if i should take account of stock. i have been very successful in gathering property, but i have had a great many lonely hours." "don't you need a bookkeeper?" asked the old man, eagerly. "yes, i can find you something to do in your own line, uncle john. my business isn't very complicated, but i find it necessary to keep some accounts. i will give you a home and you shall want for nothing. has eben jackson got any children?" "yes, he has two, a boy and a girl. they are fourteen and eleven." "what sort of children are they?" "the boy is like his father. he never treated me with respect, but looked upon me as a poor relation. the girl is of a better disposition." "and they would be among my heirs. i will look them up some day, and shape my will accordingly. shall you be ready to go back with me on monday, rupert?" "i will be ready whenever you are, mr. packard." chapter xxx. packard's home at red gulch. mr. packard's cattle ranch was located in one of the extensive parks for which colorado is noted. it included several square miles of territory. the cattleman had erected a dwelling, covering a good deal of ground, but only one story high. while it was comfortable, it was easy to see that it was the home of a bachelor. he had as housekeeper the widow of a herdsman, or perhaps i may say, cowboy, who had died a year before. she cooked and took care of the house. "well, rupert," he said, "this is my home. mrs. jones, get ready two rooms for my friends here. uncle john, you are the oldest and shall have the choice." "any room will do for me, giles," said the old man modestly. "you shall have as good a one as the house affords." "you treat me differently from eben jackson. he gave me a small room in the attic." "and did his wife allow that?" "she had very little to say. her husband's will is law in that household." "i am sorry for her. she deserved a better fate. as a girl she was good-hearted and had a cheerful disposition." "she is greatly changed. i am afraid her husband has taught her to be selfish. she seemed to have little more consideration for me than eben." rupert found that mr. packard was a cattle owner on a large scale. he had a great number of cowboys in his employ, over whom he exercised supervision. "is all your property in cattle, giles?" asked his uncle. "no. i have mining interests. the money i have made in the cattle business i have invested, at least partially, in mines and mining claims. i don't believe in having all my eggs in one basket." "you seem to have done well in coming out west." "yes, when i came out here i probably was not worth over two thousand dollars all told. now i am worth somewhere from seventy-five to one hundred thousand." "i should think you would marry." giles packard shook his head. "when a man reaches the age of forty-five unmarried," he said, "he had better remain so. after that, marriage is a lottery." mr. packard's guests found that he lived in a generous style. his housekeeper was an excellent cook, and his table was well supplied. but the days seemed long without employment. rupert was supplied with a saddle-horse, and rode far and wide with his host, but john plympton had reached an age when a man enjoys home comforts better than out-of-door exercise. "giles," he said, on the third day, "i am tired of doing nothing. suppose you bring out your books and give me something to do." "i will, uncle john. when i was in denver i bought some new books, and i will commission you to transfer my accounts from the old ones. i never was much of a bookkeeper, and i am not sure whether you can understand my entries. however, you will be able to refer to me when you get puzzled." the old man felt quite happy when set to work in his old business. as mr. packard's books covered a period of over fifteen years he found the task by no means a short one, but this pleased him all the more. "i like to feel that i am earning my living," he said. "what do you think of me as a bookkeeper, uncle john?" "i think you would find it hard to obtain a position in any first-class house," answered the old man, smiling. "i have no doubt you are right. however, i never was ambitious to become a bookkeeper. what salary were you accustomed to earn?" "a hundred dollars a month." "you couldn't get rich on that. i have done better than that. every man to his trade, as some wise man has said." "are you fond of hunting, rupert?" asked giles packard one day. "when i lived in the country i used to go gunning sometimes." "we have some very good hunting here. i should like to go with you, but at present my business will not permit. i think, however, that i can find you a companion, if you would like to try it." "i should," answered rupert, promptly. "there is a man who lives about three miles from me, in a small house near the river. he is a shiftless sort of fellow, but he is a good hunter. i will offer him pay to go with you, and his living during the trip. you will find it pleasant to stay about a week. i suppose you won't mind roughing it?' "no, that is what i shall like." "then i shall send for ben--his name is ben boone--and you can start bright and early monday morning." chapter xxxi. ben boone. ben boone was a tall, loose-jointed man with a shambling gait, who looked as if he wished to get through life as easily as possible. it would be hard to find a man less ambitious. his movements were slow, and he seemed the incarnation of laziness. he was as slow in speech as in action. yet he was a successful hunter and had tramped about colorado so much that no better guide could be found. "i heard you wanted to see me, mr. packard," he said, when he made his appearance. "yes, i may have something for you to do. how are you getting on?" "not at all, squire. i'm a dreadfully unlucky man." "so should i have been if i had been as lazy as you." "what's the use of workin'? things allus goes ag'inst me." "i don't believe you would succeed under any circumstances. do you know what makes the difference between you and me?" "i reckon you was born to be rich." "i was not rich till i came to colorado, but when i came here i went to work." ben shrugged his shoulders. "i've worked, too," he said, "but what's the good of it all?" "not much good in your case, i admit. however, i don't suppose you can be made over again, and if you could i don't think i would undertake it. there's one thing you do understand, and that's hunting. you've been pretty much all over colorado." "yes, squire." "i have a young friend here who would like to spend a week among the hills. he may not do much in the way of hunting, but he will carry a gun with him. he would like to explore the country a little under your guidance. i believe that is the only kind of work you are willing to undertake." "yes," answered ben, in a tone of satisfaction. "i don't mind that." "then i'll tell you what i will do. you will take my young friend with you--his name is rupert rollins--and see that he has a good time." "i'll do that, squire." "i will furnish you with provisions sufficient to last you both a week, and will give you three dollars a day for your trouble. if there are any other expenses, rupert will have money and will pay them. you won't need to spend anything, so there is no reason why you shouldn't save all your wages. how is your wife?" "oh, she's allus complainin'. she's had the fever'n ager last week." "it is fortunate you have no children, for you don't seem to provide for even your wife." "that's because i ain't lucky." "luck doesn't often come in the way of a shiftless man like yourself. well, do you accept my offer?" "yes, squire. i'll be glad to do it." "send your wife here to-morrow morning. i will give her a part of your wages, so that she will have enough to carry her through while you are away." "give it to me, squire. i'll give it to her." giles packard regarded him keenly. "i can't trust you," he said. "if i give her the money i shall be sure she gets it." "how much are you goin' to give her?" "two days' pay--six dollars. when you return, if you are away seven days there will be fifteen dollars for you." ben boone grumbled some. he thought three dollars would be enough for his wife, but mr. packard was obstinate. he understood ben thoroughly and had very little confidence in him. "you may be surprised, rupert, that i should send you with such a man, but, shiftless and lazy as he is, he understands his business. he will prove a good guide, and will make you acquainted with some of the wonders of colorado." "i am quite satisfied, mr. packard." "uncle john, if you wish to join the party i am entirely willing, and will pay your expenses also." "no, giles, i am getting too old for adventure. i have got to an age when a man prefers the chimney corner to camping out. it will do very well for rupert, but i am about fifty years older than he is, and fifty years make a great difference. he can tell me till about his trip when he comes back." "so i will, mr. plympton," said rupert, with a smile. rupert looked forward to the journey with eager interest. he had always been fond of out-of-door sports, and the hunting expedition seemed to promise an experience entirely new to him. he little imagined what shape a portion of this experience would take. chapter xxxii. an unpleasant bedfellow. rupert was provided with a hunter's outfit and a gun by his host, and in company with his guide started out on monday morning. "i suppose you won't mind roughing it, rupert?" said mr. packard. "no, that is what i shall like. i remember when i lived in the country i went with some other boys to a point fifteen miles away, and camped out for a week. i wish i could see the boys now. there was harry bacon, and george parker, and eugene sweetland, and--but you won't be interested in hearing about it." "i am glad you have had some experience in that kind of life. of course you won't have the comforts of home, but you may meet with adventures. at any rate, if you get tired you can start for home any time." "mr. boone," said rupert, when they were fairly on their way, "are you related to daniel boone?" "i don't think there was any daniel in our family," answered ben, in a matter-of-fact tone. "where did he live?" "in kentucky." "i never was in kentucky myself, though my wife has a cousin who lives there somewhere." "this daniel boone was a great hunter," explained rupert, rather surprised that ben had not heard of him. "then he must be a relation to me. all my family were fond of hunting." at the end of ten miles they struck a river, which was pleasant, as it afforded them a change of travel. they had brought with them a skeleton skiff, a sort of framework, with skins to cover it, and they were able to launch it on the river. the stream was narrow, and bordered on one side by mountain scenery. the channel seemed to be deep, and as the skiff moved rapidly on, with comparatively slight exertion in the way of rowing, rupert felt that he was indeed in a wonderful land. the country seemed very sparsely settled. once in a great while they caught sight of a rude cabin, which appeared to contain but one room. "have you ever been on those mountains, mr. boone?" asked rupert. "well, i've never been to the top of any of the peaks. i reckon i've been half-way up pike's peak (that's north of us) and long's peak. it's dreadful hard climbing, and there don't seem to be any good in it when you've done it. did you want to climb up any of the mountains?" "well, i might like to some time, but perhaps i'd better wait till another trip." "i reckon you'd better." it was clear that mr. boone had no desire to go mountain-climbing. he was not fond of exertion; it was easier getting over level ground. they kept to the river for as much as fifty miles. occasionally they landed, and made a little trip into the woods, but after a while they returned again to the river. at night they slept on the ground, covering themselves with blankets. they shot a few birds, but thus far they had met with no large game. one morning rupert had a fright. it was about four o'clock, and the light was indistinct. as he turned from one side to the other he was startled by finding that he had a bedfellow. there, coiled at his side, was a large rattlesnake, apparently asleep. rupert did not start up suddenly. he did not dare do so, for fear of rousing his unpleasant neighbor, and perhaps receiving a bite. rupert was naturally a brave boy, but he turned very pale, and his heart came up in his mouth. with extreme caution he moved somewhat to the opposite side, and managed to raise himself to his feet. he was not sure whether rattlesnakes had a quick sense of hearing, and this made him unusually circumspect. he wondered that the snake, which must have taken his position after he was asleep, had not attacked him before. "but i suppose he was not hungry," he reflected, and then he shuddered as he thought that, had he slept two or three hours longer, the snake might have waked up and felt ready for breakfast. in that case, he would have been a ready victim. however, he was on his feet and unhurt. ben boone lay ten feet away. he was snoring loudly, so loudly that rupert wondered he had not waked up the rattlesnake, who could hardly be accustomed to sounds of that nature. he approached his companion, and, bending over, called out, "mr. boone," but ben never moved. he was a sound sleeper. rupert shook him, first gently, afterwards more roughly, till at last he opened his eyes, but seemed dazed and not quite conscious. "eh? eh? what's the matter?" he ejaculated at length. "look there," said rupert, pointing to the rattlesnake. "oh, yes, a rattlesnake," returned ben, wholly without excitement. "there's a good many of 'em in these parts." "that one coiled himself up close to where i was lying." "yes, it's a way they have. seems as if they liked company," answered ben, coolly. "but--aren't they dangerous?" "well--they might be, if you interfered with 'em," drawled boone. "as long as you lay still and didn't meddle with 'em they'd be all right." "but suppose in my sleep i'd thrown out my arm, as i sometimes do, and hit the snake?" "then there'd be a chance of his biting you." "and i suppose that would be fatal?" "i've been bit myself," said ben, in a reminiscent tone. "and did you die?" it was upon rupert's lips to say this, but it occurred to him that it would be rather an absurd question, so he changed it to, "how did you get over it?" "i filled myself full of whiskey--it's the only way. i was never so drunk in my life. but when i got over it, i was all right." "i suppose the whiskey neutralized the poison," suggested rupert. "i reckon so," answered boone, who was not quite clear in his mind as to the meaning of the word which rupert had used. "what time is it?" rupert consulted his watch. "it is fifteen minutes past four." "that's too early to get up. i'll have another nap." "i can't sleep. i shall be all the time thinking of the snake." "he won't do you any harm." "you are more used to such sights than i. can't we kill the snake?" "we might, but it's likely there's more not far away." "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll go into the boat and see if i can't stretch myself out there." "just as you like," said boone, drowsily. he turned over, and in two minutes he was snoring as noisily as ever. rupert shared the repugnance that most persons have for snakes, and he had read so much about rattlesnakes and the fatal effects of their bite that he had an unusual dread of them. it would have been a relief if this particular snake were killed. how would it do for him to shoot it in the head, which he judged was the most vulnerable part? only, if he missed fire, and the snake were only wounded, he would probably be roused to anger, and in that case would become dangerous. doubtless ben could cope with him, but rupert felt that it would be imprudent in him, a mere boy, and unaccustomed to hunting, to arouse such a dangerous antagonist. so, giving up all thoughts of an encounter, he proceeded to the river, and lay down as well as he could in the boat. it was not very comfortable, but we felt relieved from all fear of the snake, and after a while he fell asleep. when he woke up he got out of the boat and went on shore. he looked at the spot where the snake had been coiled, but could not see him. he had evidently waked up and vacated the premises. rupert glanced over to where the guide was lying and saw that he was still asleep. the fact that the rattlesnake was so near had not interfered at all with his ease of mind or his slumbers. rupert looked at his watch. it was already seven o'clock, and that was the hour when they generally got up. "seven o'clock, mr. boone!" he called out, giving ben a shake. "oh! ah! is it?" and ben stretched himself out in a sleepy way. "yes. isn't it time to get up?" ben took the hint, and rose from his recumbent position. "didn't you wake me some time ago?" he asked. "what was it all about?" "there was a rattlesnake lying beside me." "where is it now?" "it's gone." "then there's no harm done." ben boone was not only the guide, but the cook of the little party. they had brought with them materials for camping-out meals, and it was his work to make a fire and prepare their simple repasts. sometimes they caught a fish or two in the river, and it made a pleasant addition to their fare. rupert found that in this new life he always had a good appetite for breakfast--more, even, than for their other meals. he had never had so good an appetite at the somerset house, though the cook at that establishment was probably superior to ben boone in his chosen line. chapter xxxiii. ben boone's temptation. the reader may naturally expect to hear something of rupert's experience as a hunter. but so far as this story is concerned, this is not called for. he had other experiences which will speedily be set forth. for, after all, it was not so much the hunting that rupert cared about. he thoroughly enjoyed his opportunity to travel through the wild scenery of middle colorado. it was camping out in a much more interesting way than when, as a boy, he went but a little way from home, and knew that only a few miles intervened between him and his ordinary life. then he was interested in his guide. at the east he had never met such a man as ben boone. he seemed a product of the country. as for ben, he carried out his contract, and served as a guide, philosopher and--i was about to say friend, but on the whole we'll substitute companion. though ben was a skillful hunter and mountaineer he did not particularly enjoy his work. he was a thoroughly lazy man, and would prefer to have remained at home in the rude cabin which passed for such, and, lying on his back with a pipe in his mouth, have drowsed and dreamed away his time. he did not understand, for his part, why city people who could live comfortably should want to rough it, incurring the fatigue of hunting just for the sake of amusement. "i am tired," he said, on the night after rupert's adventure with the snake. "yes," said rupert, "i am tired, too. we have come a good many miles." "do you like it?" "oh, yes," said rupert enthusiastically; "it is grand." "i don't see what good it is," rejoined ben, lying back with a sense of exquisite enjoyment in his chance to rest. "you are not making any money." "no," replied rupert, laughing, "but i enjoy the wild mountain scenery; don't you?" "no; a mountain isn't much to see." "then there are the valleys, the woods and the waterfalls." "oh, i've seen plenty of them. i don't care for them." "i suppose that is why you don't care for them. you are too familiar with them." "i reckon so," drawled ben. "don't you enjoy seeing anything? is there anything you would rather see than this wild and romantic scenery?" "yes. i would rather see cities. where do you live when you are at home?" "in new york." "that is a wonderful city, isn't it?" "yes." "i expect it is a great deal larger than denver?" "yes; forty or fifty times as large." at this time denver probably had a population of less than thirty thousand. ben boone's eyes opened. "and i suppose there are some grand buildings?" he said, inquiringly. "yes," and rupert told his guide something about the great city, of the horse-car lines, the elevated trains running thirty feet above the ground, the big hotels, the brooklyn bridge, and other marvels, to which ben boone listened with rapt attention. "i should like to see new york before i die," he said. "have you ever been there?" "no." "but you have probably seen other cities--st. louis, or chicago?" "no; i have only seen denver. well, yes, i saw st. louis when i was a boy. it seemed a large city to me then, but i reckon new york is much bigger." "yes, it is a great deal larger--several times as large as st. louis was when you saw it." "does it cost a great deal of money to go to new york?" "i think one might go there for fifty dollars, ten less by second class." "second class is good enough for me." "yes, you would be a good deal more comfortable traveling second class than we are on our hunting trip." "then i should be satisfied. i ain't used to living first class." "i should think you would like to go to new york. is there any reason why you should not go?" "there's the money." "but, as i told you, it doesn't cost a very large sum." "fifty dollars is a good deal to me. i never had so much money in my life." "because you don't save up your money." "i don't know how to save money," said ben boone in a listless manner. "but you could. now how much money is mr. packard paying you for going with me?" "three dollars a day." "now suppose we are out ten days--that will make thirty dollars, won't it?" "yes; but i had to leave some money with my wife." "you will at any rate have twenty-five dollars. now, why can't you put that aside, and add to it when you can. then by and by you will have money enough to go to new york. when you get there you can find work and earn enough to keep you and pay your expenses back." "yes, i reckon i might," said ben, not knowing how to controvert rupert's statement. "if you really try hard to save, i will give you something toward your expenses myself." "are you rich?" asked ben, looking up quickly. "no, but i have some money." "how much?" this question rupert did not care to answer. ben boone was a very good guide and hunting companion, but he was not exactly the kind of man he would choose as a confidant. "i think everybody is rich that lives in new york," said ben, with a touch of envy. "what makes you think that?" "i have had new york people with me before. i have traveled with them, and hunted with them. they always seemed to have plenty of money." "it may be so with those who come out here, but there are plenty who never travel at all, who live in poor houses in a poor way, who earn small wages, and are no better off than you, perhaps not so well off. i was very poor myself once, and had scarcely money enough to buy myself food." "but you got over it. you got rich after a while." rupert protested that he was not rich, but ben boone was incredulous, though he did not say so. he talked more and more about new york. he seemed to want to learn all he could about it. rupert was not surprised. he remembered that when he was a boy in the country, he, too, thought and dreamed a great deal about the great city. after he lived there and grew familiar with its marvels, he became indifferent to it, as much so as ben boone was to the wonderful mountain scenery. he felt disposed to joke a little about is. "there is one thing you have here that we don't have in new york," he said with a laugh. "what is that?" "rattlesnakes." "no. i reckon not. i shouldn't miss rattlesnakes." ben boone said this so gravely that rupert could not forbear laughing. "nor i," he said. "i am willing that colorado should keep all her rattlesnakes." ben boone, for a wonder, lay awake beyond his usual time. he could not get new york and its wonders out of his head. the more he thought of it the more he longed to see it. and there wasn't so much time, either. he was forty-nine years old, and yet he had never been on the other side of the mississippi river. yet here was rupert, who couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, who had actually lived in new york, and now had wandered to the far west and seen that also. if a boy could have those happy experiences, why not he? why not? the question was easily answered. the difference between them was money. he didn't know how much money rupert had, but probably he had more than the sum necessary to carry him to new york. ben felt that it was not fair that a mere boy should have so much and he so little. this was a dangerous path of thought, and led to a strong temptation. this temptation was increased when, waking at an early hour, he looked across at rupert, lying not many yards away, and noticed that his pocketbook had in some way dropped out of his pocket and was lying on the grass beside him. ben's eyes sparkled with unholy excitement. an eager curiosity assailed him to learn how much money the pocketbook contained. it was a temptation which he did not seem able to resist. he looked over towards rupert again. the boy was sleeping calmly, peacefully. there was little chance that he would wake up. ben rose cautiously from his couch, and with a stealthy step he made his way to the sleeping boy. he stooped down and picked up the wallet and then opened it, peering eagerly at the contents. there was a thick roll of bills. he counted them in a quick, stealthy way, and his heart beat with excitement when he ascertained that the roll contained eighty-one dollars. "why, that will take me to new york," he thought. yes, it would take him to new york. there would be no weary waiting, no probable disappointment in the end. the dream of his life might be realized, and at once. ben was not naturally dishonest. if he had not had a special use for the money it would not have tempted him. but he wanted to go to new york, and the temptation seemed too great for him to resist. his resolution was taken. with one backward glance at the sleeping boy he thrust the wallet into his pocket and started for the river, where the skiff awaited him. chapter xxxiv. rupert's predicament. rupert did not wake till later than usual. the previous day had been unusually fatiguing and nature had asserted her rights. he turned over and mechanically looked over to where his companion lay at the time he went to sleep. he was a little surprised to find that he was not visible. usually boone slumbered till rupert went over and waked him up. "ben has gone to take a walk," he said to himself. "it must be later than usual." he looked at his watch and found that it was eight o'clock. "well, i did oversleep myself," he said, as he rose to his feet. "no wonder boone got the start of me." upon reflection he decided that ben had probably gone down to the boat, which was tied to a small tree on the river bank not more than five minutes' walk distant. he turned his steps in that direction. when he reached the place where the skiff was fastened, a surprise awaited him. the boat was not there! still he had not the faintest suspicion that his guide had played him false and deserted him in the wilderness. "ben must have taken a row himself," he decided. "it is rather strange, for he isn't generally enterprising enough for that. he must have had a headache or something that prevented his sleeping. well, i might as well take breakfast." there was something left from supper of the night before. rupert ate this with a hearty relish. he did not stop to make any hot coffee. ben usually attended to this duty, and he was likely to appear at any moment. "i will wait for ben to come," rupert said to himself. "i hope he hasn't gone very far." after eating he lay back on the ground, for he still felt a little tired. "it seems odd to be alone," he reflected. he had not formed any particular attachment to ben boone, but he had a certain satisfaction in his companionship. they had become closely acquainted, and though ben was not especially sociable, they had had some long talks together, so that rupert felt a certain interest in his rough companion. half an hour passed, and rupert began to feel impatient, as well as solitary. "why doesn't ben come?" he asked himself. "it is very strange that he should go away so early and stay away so long." as this thought came to him he happened to put his hand into the pocket where he usually kept his money. the pocket was empty. a suspicion for the first time dawned upon him that startled and alarmed him. he made a hurried examination of the ground around him, for he knew that it was possible that the pocketbook had slipped out of his pocket. but his search was fruitless. the pocketbook was nowhere to be seen. was it possible, he asked himself, that he had been robbed? was ben capable of such black treachery? the thought that his companion had proved false disturbed him more at first than the sense of his loss, but he began almost immediately to realize his predicament. probably he was a hundred miles away from the ranch of his friend giles packard. not only this, but he was without money and without provisions, except the small supply of food which remained over from his frugal breakfast. then, again, he was without a boat, for the skiff had been carried away by ben. he was alone in a wilderness. there were very few houses within the distance over which they had traveled. if he had been in any portion of the eastern states, among settlements and villages, he would not have minded his destitute condition--that is, not so much. he would have felt sure of getting along somehow. but as it was, there was no one to appeal to. there was no one to lend him a helping hand. if only ben had left him the boat, matters would not have been so bad. he would, of course, have instantly started on his return. he didn't feel at all tempted to explore farther. the fine mountain scenery which he had enjoyed yesterday had no attraction for him now. "i'd give fifty dollars--if i had it"--he added, as the thought came to him that he had no money whatever, "to be back with giles packard on his ranch. shall i ever see him again, or am i doomed to starve to death in this wilderness?" chapter xxxv. rupert makes a discovery. it was not easy for rupert to form plans in his present destitute condition. the money which he had lost was a minor consideration. the boat and provisions were much more important. besides this, he still had his gun and his watch. both these were likely to prove useful. he wondered a little why ben had not taken the watch. but his wonder diminished when he remembered that boone had told him one day that he had never owned a watch. "how, then, do you tell time?" rupert inquired. "by the sun," answered ben. rupert had tested him more than once, and found that from long and close observation his guide could always guess within a few minutes of the correct time. to ben the watch had no value, and it didn't occur to him that he might raise money on it when he reached the settlements. rupert felt that he must lose no time in forming some plan of reaching the point from which he started. he went down to the river, faintly hoping that he might see ben returning in the skiff, but this he owned to himself was extremely improbable. ben was ten, perhaps fifteen miles on the way back. what his object could have been in playing him such a dastardly trick, or what possible excuse he could make to giles packard for returning alone, rupert could not conjecture. he took it for granted that boone would go back to his old home at red gulch. he did not dream of his plan of going to new york. if he had, this would have explained his sudden defection. rupert stood on the shore of the river and looked up the stream. everything was calm and placid, and lonely. at the east he would have seen houses, on the banks and passing boats, but here he found himself alone with nature. without thinking especially what he was doing, he started to walk up stream, that is, along the river bank in an easterly direction. "if i could only come across a boat," he soliloquized, "no matter how poor, i should think it a piece of great luck." but it was too great luck for him. still he kept on walking and looking about him, but he not only saw no boat, but no indication of any human presence. he had walked quite five miles, as he judged from the passage of time, when at last he made a discovery. moored to the bank was a dismantled raft, if such an expression is allowable. rupert remembered now that on their trip down the river boone had called his attention to it, saying: "it must have been left there by some party of travelers." rupert little thought how serviceable this would prove to him. his eyes lighted up with joy, for he hailed the finding of the raft as a good omen, and foresaw how important it would prove to him. "but was it in a condition for use?" that was the important question. rupert bent down and examined it critically. the boards were still pretty firm, though water-soaked, and seemed to be securely fastened together. the rope that fastened it to the small sapling on the bank was quite rotten, and it was a wonder that it had not parted. rupert pulled on it to see how secure it was, and it broke. this, however, was of little consequence. he selected a long stick to serve as an oar, and getting on the raft, pushed out into the stream. the stick, however, made a very poor substitute for an oar. still he found that it was of some use. but just as he was starting he discovered, almost covered with underbrush, the paddle which had probably been used by the parties who had constructed and used the raft. this worked tolerably well, and he was glad to have found it. at last he was ready, and started on his journey. he found his progress slow, and his task toilsome. still he was making progress, and that was encouraging. how rapid this progress he could only conjecture. it might be two miles an hour; probably it was not more than that, and he was obliged to confess with a sinking of the heart that it would take a very long time at this rate before he would get back. he had tugged away possibly three hours, when his strength began to give out. he began to feel faint and hungry, especially as his breakfast had not been very satisfying. then, for the first time, with a sinking heart, he realized that he had made a serious blunder. what few provisions were left after breakfast he had left behind him, and he was absolutely without a mouthful to eat. chapter xxxvi. a lucky encounter. unsatisfied hunger is always a serious discomfort. what it was to a young, healthy boy like rupert, who had been working hard for several hours, may be imagined. even if there had been a prospect of his dining in two or three hours, it would have been inconvenient, but he could have endured it. as it was, he did not know when he could satisfy his appetite, if at all. he discovered in his pockets some silver change which ben hadn't taken, but that could do him no good in the colorado wilderness. rupert was in general sanguine and light-hearted. but it must be owned that he felt terribly depressed about this time. he had his gun with him, but even if he should succeed in shooting anything, how could he cook it? he had not even a match with which to light a fire. was he destined to starve in this out of the way region? he asked himself. a hundred miles off he had a rich friend. in new york he owned two valuable lots and had money in the bank besides, but neither of these could do him any good now. the french speak of an uncomfortable quarter of an hour. rupert had two hours at least that could be described in this way. all this while, faint as he was and tired as his exertions on an empty stomach had made him, he still paddled on. at last, to his great joy, there came light in the darkness. as the raft turned a corner in the windings of the river he saw on the bank, curiously regarding him, a tall, thin, dark-complexioned girl, in a calico dress too short for her. a new hope was born in rupert's heart? and he stopped paddling. "do you live around here?" he asked. "yes," answered the girl. "could i buy some food at your house?" "don't know. i reckon so." "then i'll stop, and you can show me the way to your house." "where did you come from?" "from below--about ten miles down the river." "is that where you live?" "no. i live in new york." "where is that? is it in colorado?" "didn't you ever hear of new york?" asked rupert, in genuine surprise at the ignorance of his new acquaintance. "no." "it's a large city." the girl seemed to take very little interest in the information he gave her. "did you always live here?" asked rupert, becoming himself the questioner. "reckon so." by this time rupert had brought the raft to shore and tied it to a stump. he obtained a nearer view of the girl, but did not find her attractive. she was tall, thin, and had a sallow complexion. her dress hung straight down. moreover, it was not clean. the girl eyed him attentively, and didn't seem in the least bashful. she seemed to arrive at a decision in regard to him. "say, you're good-lookin'," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "do you think so?" returned rupert, blushing. "yes. how old be you?" "seventeen." "i'm fourteen. if you lived round here i'd take you for my beau." "but i don't live round here," said rupert, with an air of relief. "what is your name?" he asked, with a sudden thought. "sal. that's what mam calls me. what's yours?" "rupert." "that's a mighty cur'us name. never heard it afore." "i don't think it is a common name." "you jest come along, if you want some dinner. you said you'd pay for it, didn't you?" "yes." "then i guess mam will give you some." "do you live far off?" asked rupert, anxiously. "no. jest in the woods a little way." rupert followed the girl for about a quarter of a mile. then, in a little clearing, he saw a rude cabin--just such a house as he fancied sal would live in. "that's our house, and there's mam at the door," said his young guide. a tall, thin woman, between whom and sal there was considerable resemblance, not only in appearance but in dress, stood in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked down the path. "she's lookin' for me," explained sal, with a grin. "here you, sal!" called her mother. "where've you been gallivantin' to?" then she stopped short, for she caught sight of rupert. "who've you got with you?" she asked, abruptly. "a boy," answered sal. "ain't he nice lookin'?" rupert blushed again, as most of my boy readers would probably have done under like circumstances. "no matter how he looks," said the mother, sharply. "what does he want here?" "he wants somethin' to eat, and he's got money to pay for it," answered sal. "i am very hungry, madam," said rupert, taking off his hat. "i shall consider it a great favor if you will give me some dinner." "i reckon i kin scare up something," said the woman, more amiably. "jest come in." rupert entered the cabin. it was rudely and scantily furnished, but doubtless the occupants enjoyed it as much as a new york millionaire enjoys his elegant mansion on fifth avenue. there was a fire in the cooking-stove, and in a pantry rupert noticed some cold remnants of the noonday meal. "sit down," said the woman. "i'll scare you up something in a jiffy." "i'll sit down outside, if you don't mind," answered rupert. he sat down on a settee on one side of the door. soon the odor of some meat which was being fried assailed his nostrils, and gave him the keenest delight. in about twenty minutes sal called him in, and he was glad to accept her rather unceremonious invitation. on the table was a dish of meat. he didn't know what kind it was, but it smelled good. on another plate was some corn bread, but no butter was provided. "we ain't got no whiskey," said the woman. "we're sort o' run out, but i can give you some tea." "that will do just as well, madam." rupert might have said that it would do better, but he saw that the family were not prohibitionists and might take offense if he spoke against the use of whiskey. rupert had seldom enjoyed a meal more than the one he sat down to in that rude cabin. "what kind of meat is this?" he asked. "bear meat. didn't you ever eat any?" "no, madam." "we reckon it's good. my man killed the bear." "it is excellent," said rupert, and he really meant what he said. "i'm glad you like it." rupert ate till he was ashamed. he had not asked the price of the meal in advance, for he was fully resolved to eat it, even if it took every cent he had left to pay for it. but when at last he laid down his knife and fork he summoned courage to ask how much he must pay. "i reckon a quarter'll do," said the woman. rupert breathed a sigh of relief. it not only came within his means, but he would have fifty cents left after paying. then the woman began to ask questions. "where mought you be goin'?" she asked. rupert mentioned his destination. "how far away is that?" "nearly a hundred miles." "are you travelin' alone?" "i had a man with me till this morning." "where is he now?" "he got up early, robbed me of all my money and ran off, taking the boat with him," rupert answered in indignant tones. "if he took all your money, how are you goin' to pay for your dinner?" asked the woman, frowning. "i have a little money left in silver," said rupert, producing the quarter. "how are you goin' to get back?" "i don't know. i have no money, and only a raft." then an idea came to him. "if i could find a man who would go back with me, i would pay him well." "but you have no money." "mr. packard, of red gulch, is my friend. he is a rich man and he would pay for me." "do you mean giles packard?" "yes." "i know about him. he is rich. is he your friend?" "yes." rupert followed up his advantage. "if i could find a man who would take me to him i would promise him fifty dollars--and this gun." the woman's eyes showed her interest. she was fond of money, and fifty dollars seemed to her a large sum. "i reckon my man would go along with you," she said slowly. "the fifty dollars would be sure?" "yes, and if i was satisfied with him, i would give him ten dollars more." "mam," said sal, "you'd better say yes. we'll all be rich if dad gets sixty dollars." "when will your husband be home?" asked rupert, becoming hopeful. "i reckon he'll be home directly--if you kin wait." "oh, yes, i can wait. has he got a boat?" "he has a canoe." "that will do just as well." "and will you give me the raft?" asked sal. "you won't want it." "yes, you shall have the raft." sal was so delighted that she threw her arms round rupert's neck and kissed him, much to his confusion. "quit that, you sal. ain't you got no manners?" said her mother, sharply. "there's your dad comin' now." rupert raised his flushed face, and was indescribably astonished when a tall indian entered the cabin. chapter xxxvii. an indian guide. "is that your husband?" asked rupert, in a tone that betrayed his surprise. "yes. what yer gawkin' at? he's enough sight better'n my first husband, who was a white man. isn't he, sal?" "you bet, mam!" the indian, who had an air of natural dignity, seemed pleased with their tributes to his excellence. "yes," continued sal's mother, "he's my man now. john, this boy wants you to take him to giles packard's ranch." "it's a long way," said the indian, slowly. "yes, i know that," answered rupert, "but i am willing to pay you. that is, i haven't money with me, but mr. packard will pay you fifty dollars, and i will give you my gun besides." the indian seemed most impressed with the last part of the offer. he held out the gun and examined it closely. then a look of satisfaction overspread his face, and he said "good." "he seems straight, though he's only a boy," remarked the woman. "you'd better go. fifty dollars is a good deal of money." "gun good," said the indian, sententiously. "yes, but the money is better." "when you want to go?" asked john. "you'd better wait till to-morrow morning," put in the woman. "i'll bake up some bread and fry some bear steak for you to carry." "that will suit me if you will give me a place to sleep and some supper," said rupert. this was readily agreed to. one of those best pleased with this arrangement was sal. she seemed so impressed with rupert that the latter was afraid she would kiss him again, but fortunately she refrained. she made up her mind, however, to enjoy the boy's companionship, and challenged him to a trial of speed. rupert was almost ashamed to compete with a girl, but he found that sal was a rival by no means to be despised. she kept up well with him in a quarter mile run, and in a running jump she beat him once out of three times. "you jump very well--for a girl," said rupert. "you're taller'n i be, or i'd beat you. besides, you're older." "and your mother's older than you. can she beat you?" "i'd jump mam out of her boots," said sal, confidently. "want to try, mam?" "try what?" "jumpin'." "oh, quit yer foolin'. a nice sight i'd be, jumpin'. your dad will jump with you." "yes," said john, smiling gravely. "oh, he can beat me, of course." "won't you jump, john?" asked rupert, thinking the indian looked desirous of a trial. "yes," answered john. like most of his race, he was supple and well trained in all athletic exercises. he jumped three feet farther than rupert, though the white boy plumed himself on his agility. later rupert and sal took a trip down the river on the raft. sal desired to do the paddling, and rupert was obliged to confess that she understood the art of paddling a raft better than he. "you gave it to me, didn't you?" she said. "yes, sal, it is yours." the girl looked pleased. "i will go out on it a good deal," she said. "dad doesn't like me to use his canoe." "where does he keep his canoe?" "up the river a way. shall i show you?" "yes, if you will." she kept on paddling till they reached a secluded part of the stream, where there was a circular indentation in the bank. here was the indian's canoe. it was higher than the skiff in which rupert had traveled with ben boone, and though as long, was narrower. "it is a beautiful canoe!" said rupert, admiringly. "isn't it? dad's proud of it." "how long has he been married to your mother?" "'bout three years." "you don't mind having an indian for a father?" asked rupert, feeling that he might be on delicate ground. "no, john's a good man. he never drinks, as my own father did. he's good to mam. then he is a good hunter, and brings us plenty of bear's meat." "would you be willing to marry an indian yourself?" "no, i'd rather marry you," was sal's disconcerting reply. "i am not old enough to be married," said rupert, blushing. "you will be some day." "yes. i shall be some day--if i live." "then will you come and marry me?" this was a leap year proposal with a vengeance. rupert was hardly prepared with an answer. he replied diplomatically, "i can't tell yet. i must ask my mother." "mam would be willing i should marry you," said sal. "where does your mother live?" "near new york." "won't you ask her?" "yes," answered rupert; "but perhaps you will see some one else you will like better." "no, i shan't," said sal, positively. "you are awful handsome." "am i?" said rupert, in rather an embarrassed tone. "yes, you've got such nice red cheeks." rupert scanned her critically, but he was unable to return the compliment. her face was thin and sallow, and the only feature that was passable was her bright black eyes. the next morning, when rupert was ready to start, sal showed an inclination to kiss him again, but he hurried off with the indian, and escaped this affectionate demonstration. "you'll come back some time?" said sal, anxiously, as she looked after him. "yes, some day." rupert hoped that before he saw sal again she would have secured a husband in her own station in life. rupert found the indian a very satisfactory companion. compared to ben he was silent and reserved, but he was willing to answer questions, and the young traveler managed to extract considerable information from him. there was no unnecessary delay. rupert had no desire to remain longer in the wilderness. so on the evening of the third day he reached red gulch and sought out his friend giles packard. the cattleman eyed his companion with surprise. "where have you left ben?" he said. "he left me," answered rupert, and he told the story of ben boone's treachery. giles packard was very angry. "the rascal!" he said. "i knew he was lazy and shiftless, but i didn't think he was a villain. if i could get hold of him he'd find it worse than being in a bear's clutches. have you any idea where he went?" "no; i thought he might have come home." "he wouldn't dare to come home without you." "i've got it!" exclaimed rupert, suddenly. "what is it?" "i understand now. he's on his way to new york." "what do you mean?" "he asked a great deal about new york, and said he would go there if he only had money enough. i expect he is using my money for traveling expenses." "where did you pick up your indian friend?" rupert told of the compact he had made with the indian, and asked mr. packard to lend him money enough to keep it. "certainly, lad, and i'd do a great deal more for you, if necessary." john was paid his money, and received the gun besides as a free gift. with them he started for home happy and proud. rupert might have sent his love to sal, but he refrained. "by the way, rupert," said giles packard, "i have two letters for you." rupert opened them hastily. the first was from his mother. the important part ran thus: "mr. strathmore is sick with pneumonia, and there is little hope of his living. of course this will make it necessary for me and grace to seek a new home. i wish we might all be together again. i have been contented, because i knew you were doing well, but i should be happier to have you with me. will you be back soon? i will make no arrangements till you return." the second letter was from leslie waters. he wrote: "congratulate me, rupert! i have at last realized my ambition and am to become an actor. i have been engaged to play a part in the comedy of 'fireflies.' you won't get any idea of the piece from the title. my part is a very good one. i am to represent a broadway swell. i can't give you any idea of the plot, but i hope some time you may be able to see it played. of course i have resigned my position as a bell-boy. we start on the road on monday, opening at albany, and going thence to buffalo. i will send you my route as soon as i can. answer this to cleveland, ohio." "i suppose leslie is happy," thought rupert. "i hope he will succeed." "i trust your letters contain good news," said giles packard. "one contains bad news. my mother is about to lose her home, and i am afraid i must start at once for new york." "wait till to-morrow, rupert, and i will go with you. i have a capable superintendent who will take my place, and a journey will do me good." "i shall be delighted to have your company, mr. packard." giles packard looked pleased, for the longer he knew rupert the better he liked him. chapter xxxviii. how to manage a rogue. at the last moment giles packard decided to take his uncle, john plympton, with him, finding that the old man was reluctant to be left alone. "i shall stop on the way at rochester and see if i can collect uncle john's note," he said. "perhaps i may be more successful than he." "if you don't mind, mr. packard," said rupert, "i will go on at once to new york, as i feel anxious about my mother." "very well. go to the somerset hotel, and put up as a guest. i shall follow you soon." leaving rupert to pursue his journey, we will detail the experiences of giles and his uncle at rochester. "we will put up at a cheap hotel, uncle john," he said. "i don't want eben to suspect that i am well off." "he wouldn't judge so from your dress, giles," remarked the old man, with a humorous glance at his nephew's well-worn suit. "that is true, uncle john. i don't look very much like a dude, i admit. however, i will go to a first-class tailor in new york and get myself rigged out. while i am about it i will get a new suit for you." "i need it badly enough, giles, but having given all my money to eben jackson, i did not feel able to buy new clothes." "you won't have occasion to complain of being without money long." "thank you, giles. it has been a great relief to me, your purchasing the note, but i don't want you to lose money." "i don't intend to. eben jackson may swindle you. he will find it harder to get the advantage of me." eben jackson was standing at the desk in his store when giles and john plympton entered. eben took no particular notice of the middle-aged and rather rough-looking stranger, whom he did not recognize, but frowned perceptibly when he saw john plympton. "you here, uncle john?" he said, roughly. "yes," answered the old man, meekly. "where have you been?" "i went to chicago." "didn't you find anything to do there?" "no." "probably you didn't try very hard." "it wasn't that. they all said i was too old. chicago is a city of young men." "yes, you have seen your best days," said his nephew, unfeelingly. "and i suppose i ought not to cumber the ground. is that what you mean, eben?" "well, not exactly, but you can't expect that you can find employment as you used to do." "isn't that pretty hard? i am only sixty-five." "that's old for a man seeking employment." "what will you do when you are sixty-five?" "it will be different with me. i have a business of my own." "i hope you'll be better off than i am at that age." "i shall. you never had much business capacity." "i've been thinking, eben, i'd better take that three thousand dollars of mine and buy an annuity. at my age i ought to get enough to take care of me economically." "i don't see how you're going to do that. i've got your money." "true, but i should like to have it back." "you can't have it at present. it would be inconvenient for me to take it from my business." "but, eben, i need it. at any rate you can let me have the interest that has already accrued." "i'll see about it." "but i want money at once." "then you can't get it," said the nephew, rudely. "where are you staying?" john plympton mentioned the name of the hotel. eben jackson turned up his nose. this was distinctly a third-class house, charging one dollar and a quarter a day. "you'd better go to a cheap boarding-house. you needn't expect me to pay your hotel bill." "i have a right to expect you will give me enough of my own money to pay the bill." "i won't encourage you in any such ridiculous extravagance, uncle john." "perhaps you think it is extravagant in me to eat at all." "i think it is extravagant to pay a dollar and a quarter a day for board. who is that man with you?" on hearing this, giles packard came forward. "you ought to know me, eben," he said. eben jackson took stock of the cattleman's shabby clothes, and answered, coldly, "you have the advantage of me, sir." "then you don't remember your cousin, giles packard?" "are you giles packard? i didn't know but you were dead." "no, thank you, not just yet." "where have you been living?" "in colorado." "have you met with any success? what business have you followed?" "i have been in the cattle business." "oh, a cowboy?" sneered eben. "if you choose to call me so." "why didn't you stay in colorado? why have you come east?" "i thought i should enjoy a vacation." "but traveling costs money." "so it does. uncle john tells me you have three thousand dollars of his." eben jackson frowned. "yes," he said, "i am taking care of his money for him." "as he can't find employment, he will need to have it returned." "that can't be done. he has my note for it." "yes. i have seen the note. i observe that it is made out 'on demand.'" "well?" "that means that he can call for it at any time." "i shall pay it when i get ready," said eben, haughtily. "it may be wise for you to get ready very soon." "oh, you threaten, do you? that is all the good it will do you." to eben jackson's surprise giles packard took the matter very coolly. he even smiled. "i suspect you will change your mind," he said. "i understand your drift. you want to get hold of uncle john's money yourself." "perhaps so. uncle john, are you willing that i should take charge of your money?" "yes, giles." "ah, a very nice conspiracy. uncle john, you are a fool." "why?" asked the old man, mildly. "this man has made a failure of his life, and is as poor as poverty, judging from his appearance. he has got up a nice scheme for depriving you of your money. if he got hold of it you would never see a cent of it. he is evidently an adventurer." "then you won't give me my money?" "no. i shall keep it in your own interest. why, if you gave it to him you would be a pauper in less than a year." giles packard did not seem in the least irritated by his cousin's uncomplimentary remarks. turning to john plympton, he said: "i think we may as well go, uncle john." "i am glad you realize that," observed jackson. "before you go, let me say that your scheme has utterly failed." "my scheme of getting you to return uncle john his money?" "your plan of getting his money into your own possession." "call it as you like. you will hear from us very soon." "is that meant as a threat?" "well, perhaps so." "go ahead. take what measures you choose. it is immaterial to me." "what did i tell you, giles?" said john plympton, as they left the store. "eben jackson is meaner than i supposed. we will give him a little surprise." "before night eben jackson received the following letter from the leading lawyer in rochester: "sir-- "my client, mr. giles packard, has placed in my hands for collection a demand note for three thousand dollars, signed by yourself, transferred to him by john plympton. will you arrange to pay it? if not, i am instructed by my client to sue. "yours respectfully, "edward nettleton, att'y." this was like a bomb in the camp of the enemy. mr. nettleton was a sharp and successful lawyer, and to be feared. he was steep in his charges, and eben felt that his cousin was a fool to employ so high-priced an attorney. he lost no time in seeking the humble hotel where his uncle and cousin were domiciled. "what does all this mean?" he demanded, angrily. "what do you refer to?" "to mr. nettleton's letter." "it means that i am going to have my uncle's money," said giles, firmly. "your lawyer will charge you an immense fee. better let the matter drop." "eben jackson, i'll make you pay that money if it costs me five thousand dollars for expenses." "ridiculous! why, you are almost a pauper." "i hope not. when i left colorado i was worth nearly a hundred thousand dollars. i don't think i have lost any money since." "is this true?" gasped jackson. "it is. you thought me poor, because i was poorly dressed. you were mistaken. i am what is called a rich man. i am unmarried, but after the way you have treated me, you can judge what chances you have of being remembered in my will." "it is all a mistake, cousin giles," said eben, in a conciliatory tone. "i'll pay the money, and i hope you and uncle john will do me the favor of staying at my house while you are in rochester." giles packard smiled grimly. "we shall start for new york to-morrow," he said, "and it won't be advisable for us to leave the hotel. i shall leave the note in mr. nettleton's hands, and i will give you a month in which to pay it." "thank you. won't you call at the house? mary will be glad to see you, and i want to show you the children." "yes, we will call." giles packard smiled when his cousin left the hotel. "eben seems to have changed," he said. "i think we shan't have any more trouble with him." chapter xxxix. new plans. when rupert entered the somerset hotel on his return from the west he received a cordial welcome from mr. malcolm, the clerk. "i hope you have had a pleasant journey," he said. "very pleasant, on the whole." "and do you want your old place again?" "no," answered rupert. "i hope to go into some other line of business." "i'm glad for one reason. i have taken a very good boy in your place--david williams--and i would not like to discharge him." "i hear leslie has left you also." "yes. he has gone on the stage, i believe," said the clerk, smiling. "have you any plans in that direction?" "no; i couldn't make as much as the wages you were paying me." "i doubt if leslie will find the change to his advantage." "whom have you in his place?" "a boy named bernard benton. he is also a good boy. by the way, a letter came for you yesterday. here it is." rupert supposed the letter might be from his mother, but on reading the address he found that it was in a business hand. he opened the envelope and read as follows. "mr. rupert rollins-- "dear sir: i learn that you are the owner of two lots on one hundred and twenty-fifth street, in harlem. i should like to buy them, and am willing to pay you seven thousand dollars for the two. "yours truly, "albert crossman." rupert read the letter with mingled pleasure and surprise. the lots had cost but one thousand dollars each. that they should have increased in value to such an extent was hardly credible. he did not feel like deciding the matter until he had a chance to consult with mr. packard, and he so wrote mr. crossman. now that his mother had lost her position he felt that this stroke of good luck was particularly timely. he went out in the afternoon to see his mother and grace. he found that mr. strathmore was dead, and that his funeral had taken place. "i don't know what we shall do, rupert," said mrs. rollins anxiously. "it may be some time before i can obtain another position where i can support myself and grace. however, i have saved seventy-five dollars, so that for a time i shall not be a burden upon you." "don't talk of being a burden, mother. you never can be that." "but how can your small earnings support three persons?" "you forget, mother, that i have property." "to what do you refer, rupert?" "to the two lots mr. packard gave me." "i had not supposed them of much value." "i have an offer of seven thousand dollars for them." "is it possible?" asked mrs. rollins in amazement. "it is quite possible. i don't think we are in any immediate danger of the poorhouse. when shall you be ready to come to new york?" "whenever i have a home provided; but you remember that i sold my furniture when i accepted the position with mr. strathmore." "i have already looked at a furnished flat on west nineteenth street. it is but twenty dollars a month, and will make you a pleasant home." "but isn't that a high rent to pay?" "not in our present circumstances. however, i will wait till mr. packard reaches the city, and consult with him. i expect him in a day or two." "will the proprietor of the somerset hotel receive you back as a bell-boy?" "he would, but i have declined the place." "but you will have to do something, rupert." rupert smiled. "don't feel anxious, mother," he said, "mr. packard is a rich man, and he is a faithful friend. i think he will arrange something for me." the next day mr. packard and his uncle, john plympton, reached new york and established themselves at the somerset hotel. rupert learned with satisfaction of mr. plympton's recovery of his money from his knavish nephew. "and now, rupert," said the cattleman, "tell me about your own affairs." "first, i have received an offer of seven thousand dollars for the two lots you gave me." "that is fine. they have gone up surprisingly." "would you advise me to sell them?" "yes. sell them and invest half the money in other lots less desirably situated. it is only a question of time when they, too, can be sold to advantage." "and the other half of the money?" "invest in good bank stock or government bonds, where they will yield an income." "i am sure that is good advice." "how about your mother?" "the gentleman for whom she acted as housekeeper is dead, and she must seek a new home. i have looked at a furnished flat in west nineteenth street, renting at twenty dollars a month." "i have another plan to propose. i have got tired of living in colorado, though i shall retain my business interests there. i want to have a home for my uncle and myself here. i shall hire a moderate-sized house, and run it myself, and engage your mother to take charge of it, if she should be willing." "nothing would please her better, mr. packard," said rupert, earnestly. "as it may take me a little time to make the necessary arrangements, send for your mother and let her make a temporary home at this hotel. i will defray the expenses." "you are very kind, mr. packard." "well, who has a better right? i have a great mind to adopt you, young man." "i shan't make any violent opposition, mr. packard. but what will your nephew in rochester say?" "of course eben won't like it, but i claim a right to do what i like with my own. i shall not disinherit his family wholly, but what i leave to them will be so tied up that eben can't get at it. it is amusing, the change that came over him when he learned that i was not a destitute cowboy, but a man of property." the next day mrs. rollins was installed at the hotel, and mr. packard began to look around for a house such as he desired. "there shall be a nice room for you, uncle john," he said. "i will promise to treat you as well as eben did." "i can pay for my board, giles. i don't want to cost you too much." "you will pay for your board when i send in a bill. don't trouble yourself till then." "but i am able to work, giles." "i may find some light work for you, uncle john, just to keep you from being uneasy." mr. packard was a man of promptness and energy. he visited a real estate agent, and soon made choice of a medium-sized house in a good neighborhood. this he furnished plainly and quickly, for there is no need of delay where means are abundant. inside of a month the little family were comfortably established in their new home. "will there be room for fred, my little ward?" asked rupert. "certainly. it will be pleasant to have a young child in the house." rupert had one apprehension. he feared that his friends, the bentons, would miss the sum he paid for the little boy's board. but mrs. benton set him at ease. "an old schoolmate of my husband, who is in a business position on pearl street, would like to board with us," she said, "and is able and willing to pay a liberal sum. i feared at first that he would not be satisfied with our modest quarters, but he says he wants a home, not a stylish boarding-house, so he will be content." "then you won't be inconvenienced by losing fred's board?" "no, but we shall miss the dear child's company. you must let him come to see us sometimes." "certainly i will, and we shall always be glad to see you as a visitor. does mr. benton still find his place on grand street agreeable and satisfactory?" "yes. he seems to stand high in the estimation of his employer." little fred at first was sorry to leave mrs. benton, but soon formed an attachment for mrs. rollins and grace. "since he is your adopted son, rupert," said his mother, "i suppose i may look upon him as my grandson." "by adoption, mother," said rupert, with a smile. "now, mr. packard, what do you advise me to do?" asked rupert. "spend at least six months in study. go to some commercial college, and when you have completed your course of instruction i shall be ready with some plan for you." chapter xl. conclusion. rupert was walking down broadway some two months later when he came unexpectedly upon julian lorimer. julian was swinging a light cane, and wore a "stunning" necktie. he glanced superciliously at rupert, and was about to pass without recognition, but curiosity overcame pride, and he called out, "halloo, rollins!" "halloo, lorimer!" answered rupert. julian frowned slightly. it was all very well for him to say "rollins," but he expected rupert to say "mr. lorimer." "i haven't seen you for some time," he said. "are you still a bell-boy?" "no." "got sacked, eh?" "i sacked myself." "what are you doing, then?" "going to a commercial school." julian looked surprised. "who pays your expenses if you are earning nothing?" "i pay my own bills, thank you." "it's very foolish for you to give up work. you will spend all your money, and what will you do then?" "perhaps apply to your father for a situation," said rupert, smiling. "i don't think he needs any cash-boys at present. "are you working?" "yes, i am with ward & weston, wall street brokers." "i hope you like it." "i do. when i am twenty-one pop will buy me a seat on the brokers' board, and i will go in for myself." "i wish you success, julian." "you are very kind," said julian, ironically. "i guess there's no doubt of that. we have a great many influential friends. i go into the best society," he added, pompously. "you must enjoy it." "i do. a week from this evening i am to attend a party at the house of albert fraser. his father is a rich merchant in the china trade." rupert's face lighted up with amusement. albert fraser was his most intimate friend, being a student at the same commercial college, and he, too, had received an invitation to the party. "julian will be astonished to see me there," he thought. "is albert fraser a nice fellow?" he asked, demurely. "first class." "i wish you would introduce me to him, julian." "you!" said julian, contemptuously. "didn't you hear me say that his father was a wealthy merchant?" "yes." "i shouldn't feel at liberty to introduce you," said julian, haughtily. "why not?" "because there is a great difference between a boy in his position and one in yours." "i don't see why." "aren't you an ex-bell-boy?" "yes." "that's enough." "for all that, i think albert fraser and i will some time be friends." "you are foolish. bell-boys and bootblacks don't associate with gentlemen's sons." "yet i associate with you, julian." "i look upon you as an humble acquaintance." "then i suppose i ought to feel complimented by your condescending to notice me." "i think i must leave you, as i have an engagement." "very well. i will meet you at albert fraser's party." "i suppose that is meant for a joke. it isn't a very good one." when the evening of the party came, julian got himself up regardless of expense. he had never before attended a party on madison avenue, and he was particular about his appearance. entering the house, he was directed to the gentlemen's dressing-room. what was his surprise--it might almost be called dismay--to find rupert rollins arranging his toilet before the mirror. "good evening, julian!" said rupert, half turning. "what are you doing here?" demanded julian abruptly. "getting ready to go down stairs. shall i wait for you?" "but what calls you to this house, any way?" "an invitation! didn't i tell you that i would meet you here this evening?" "do you mean to tell me that you know albert fraser?" "certainly. shall i wait for you?" "no." rupert smiled and went down stairs by himself. he was talking with albert fraser when julian entered. the latter half drew back when he saw the two boys together. he had tried to persuade himself that rupert was an unauthorized intruder. "good evening," he said with a ceremonious bow. "good evening," responded albert. rupert bowed slightly, smiling as he did so. "ha! are you two acquainted?" "yes," answered julian superciliously. "i knew mr. rollins when he was a bell-boy at the somerset hotel." "and i knew mr. lorimer years before that, when his father and my father were partners in buffalo." albert fraser looked from one to the other and smiled at julian's angry confusion. "rupert," he said, "let me take you up to my sister and introduce you. the grand march will soon begin." "thank you, albert." rupert and edith fraser led the march, while julian followed considerably behind, with a fat, red-headed girl of very limited attractions. it was hard upon poor julian, and his enjoyment was quite taken away by the social success of his quondam friend rupert. rupert, on the other hand, enjoyed himself immensely, and was treated very graciously by his fair partner. * * * * * * * six months later mr. packard called rupert aside. he was evidently nervous and ill at ease. "rupert," he said, "i am going to ask your advice." "if you think my advice worth asking, i shall be glad to give it." "i want you to be plain with me, rupert do you think i am too old to be married?" "certainly not, mr. packard." "i am forty-five, and i never was very good-looking." "you are a good, kind-hearted man, and any woman ought to be happy with you. but i didn't know you had made many lady acquaintances." "i haven't, but there is one lady i should like to marry. i may as well come out with it, rupert. do you think your mother would marry me? but--i see you look surprised. i suppose i am a great fool." "you mistake me, mr. packard. i am surprised, for the idea never entered my head before." "i suppose you wouldn't like the idea," said giles packard nervously. "on the contrary, i approve it. of course i don't know how mother may look upon it." "but you don't object to it?" "no, mr. packard, i wish you success." mrs. rollins was surprised to receive an offer of marriage from mr. packard, but she had learned to know his many good qualities and was grateful to him for his kindness to rupert, and after a brief time for consideration she gave her consent. there was little change in their way of living, but of course there was an end of pecuniary cares and anxiety for the future. mr. packard decided to go into business in new york on his own account. rupert is his confidential clerk, and has a handsome salary. mr. packard's natural shrewdness has made his venture a success from the start he sold out his colorado cattle ranch on very favorable terms to two parties from the east, and now his time is exclusively employed in his new york business. some time since the _evening world_ contained the following announcement: "mr. stephen lorimer, the well-known dry-goods merchant of third avenue, is reported in difficulties. a meeting of his creditors has been called, but so serious are his embarrassments that it is doubted whether he will be permitted to go on." this prediction was verified. mr. lorimer now occupies a position as salesman in a dry-goods house in chicago, not being willing to fill such a place in any city where he had been in business for himself, and is obliged to live in a very plain way. there was little sympathy felt for him by those who had been in his employ. he had done nothing to win their favor. but julian is very discontented. he is working in an office at four dollars a week, and feels that life is not worth living under his altered circumstances. rupert's real estate has increased largely in value, and he is worth quite a competency in his own right. his young charge, fred, has developed a taste for study, and rupert intends to have him prepare for college. "you ought to have gone to college yourself," said mr. packard. "no," answered rupert. "i am cut out for business. fred must be the scholar, and i will be the business man." frank sylvester, rupert's first friend, has returned from europe, and the friendship between them has been renewed. though rupert has been so prosperous, he is never ashamed to refer to the time when he was a bell-boy. nor does he forget his old friends. recently he met leslie waters standing in front of the coleman house looking seedy and dilapidated. "how is the world using you, leslie?" he asked. "badly, my dear boy," answered leslie, mournfully. "our company was stranded at pittsburg and i had to walk all the way to new york. the profession isn't what it was." "then why not leave it? i think i can get you a business position." but leslie waters was too much enamored of the stage to forsake it. when he is in hard luck rupert always helps him, and he still works on, hoping some day to achieve eminence. but the prospect does not look encouraging. [illustration: cover art] how a farthing made a fortune [illustration: "dick had to be busy." _p_. .] how a farthing made a fortune or "honesty is the best policy." by mrs. c. e. bowen _authoress of "jack the conqueror," "how paul's penny became a pound," "how peter's pound became a penny," "the brook's story," etc., etc._ _third edition._ london s. w. partridge & co. paternoster row. hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london and aylesbury. contents. chapter i. dick and the apples chapter ii. dick's mistake chapter iii. a new home chapter iv. life at denham court chapter v. the visitor at the lodge chapter vi. sir john's proposal chapter vii. returning good for evil illustrations "dick had to be busy." _p_. "i want to speak a word to you, my man." "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." susan and dick in the railway-carriage. the meeting of mr walters and dick. "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves." how a farthing made a fortune; or, "honesty is the best policy." chapter i. dick and the apples. few children, if any, who read this tale will probably be able to form any idea of such a wretched home as that in which lived little dick nason, the ragman's son. there are houses and rooms in some of the back streets in london where men, women, and children herd almost like wild beasts--haunts of iniquity and misery, and where the name of god is never heard except in the utterance of terrible oaths or execrations. such was roan's court, a place which gave the police continual trouble, and many a hard blow in the execution of their duty. the houses were let out in rooms, of which the upper ones were the most healthy, as possessing a little more light and air than the others; but the cellar floors were almost destitute of both these common luxuries of life, being sunk considerably below the level of the court, and the windows, consisting of four small panes of glass, begrimed with dirt, or if broken, as was generally the case, stuffed up with dirty rags or paper. it was in one of these cellar rooms that dick nason had been born, and in which he lived till he was twelve years old. _how_ he had lived, _how_ he had been fed, and _how_ clothed, it would be difficult to imagine. his mother had been a tidy sort of woman in her younger days, gaining her living as a servant in the family of a small tradesman. but she married a man who was not of sober habits, and who in consequence lost all steady employment, and sank lower and lower till he was reduced to the position of a ragman, going about to collect clothes, bones, rabbit-skins, and such odds and ends as he could scrape together from the servants. the trade was not an unlucrative one on the whole, but nason spent so much in drink, and his wife having fallen into the same bad habit, kept so little of what she could contrive to get from her husband for household purposes, that they seldom sat down to a regular meal, but scrambled on in a wretched way, becoming every year more degraded and more confirmed in their habits of intemperance. such was the home in which little dick was reared. fortunately he was the only child. his father took little notice of him. his mother was not without affection for him, but it was constantly deadened by the almost stupefied state in which she lived. the child seldom knew real hunger, for there was generally something to be found in the three-cornered cupboard to which he had free access, nor did he often get the hard words and blows that are so apt to fall to the lot of the unfortunate children of drinking parents. neither nason nor his wife were ranked amongst the more brawling and disorderly inhabitants of roan's court; though drink stupefied and rendered them helpless and good-for-nothing often for days together, especially after nason had had a good haul into his big clothes-bag, and had turned its contents into money. but as for the dirt, untidiness, and general discomfort of their abode, they might have won the prize in this respect had one been offered for the most wretched room. dick was a queer little figure to look at, though he had the brightest face possible. he used to be clothed entirely out of his father's rag-bag. nason had three of these bags, which hung up on three nails in their cellar room. one was blue, made of strong material, for the reception of old garments; the second, of stout canvas, was for rabbit-skins; and the third for bones. out of the blue bag used to come forth jackets, which were by no means worn out, as well as jackets well patched and darned. the latter always fell to dick's share, as the better ones were more valuable to turn into cash. as to the fit, that was considered to be utterly unimportant. if only they were large enough for dick to squeeze into them, or small enough for him to be able to walk about in them, that was deemed sufficient; so the little fellow would at one time be seen to be almost bursting through his things from their tightness, and at another he looked like a walking clothes-peg with his garments hanging loosely upon him. but it was all the same to dick, whether they were tight or loose, and his bright eyes and curly head were what people looked at most after all. dick's life for the first few years was a very free and easy one. he made dirt pies beautifully as soon as he was able to walk, being instructed in that art by some children a little older than himself who lived next door. then came the ball-playing age--for even the poorest youngsters contrive to get balls somehow or other--and dick had his to roll about long before he knew how to play with it. a little later on his amusement was to stroll about the streets, peep in at the shop windows, look longingly at the tempting piles of oranges and lollipops on the stalls at the corner of the street, and occasionally, but very rarely, produce a halfpenny from his pocket with which to purchase a scrap of the said lollipops, or one of the smallest and most sour of the oranges. but the greatest delight of dick's life was to go to covent garden market to look at the flowers, his love for which seemed born with him in a remarkable degree. he was in a perfect ecstasy of delight the first time he went there in company with some other children, who like himself had nothing to do but to stroll about the streets. what they looked at with indifference, dick gazed upon with rapture, and from that day he constantly found his way to the same spot, which was at no great distance from roan's court. he was there so often that his appearance became familiar to the stall-holders, and they sometimes employed him in running errands or doing little jobs for them, rewarding him with an apple or orange, or, if it were towards the evening, perhaps a bunch of flowers that had begun to fade. nothing ever pleased him so much as to have them to take home; and then he tenderly put them in a cracked mug on the window seat, where he could see them as soon as he awoke in the morning. in after years he used to say that his first idea of god was taken from those flowers; that their beauty carried off his mind in wonder as to the greatness of the power that made them. the strange contrast between them in all their loveliness and the dingy dirty room he lived in, had doubtless much to do with the effect they produced on his mind. dick knew little about religion. once or twice he had peeped into a church when service was going on, but had not cared to stay long; not at all understanding what he heard, and feeling rather alarmed at the man in the black gown whom he saw sitting near the door to keep order. but though dick was a stranger to both church and sunday-school, an instructor was raised up for him in a quarter no one would have expected. not far from covent garden, in a single room, lived an old man named john walters, who had a small pension from a gentleman whose servant he had once been, and who increased his means by doing a variety of jobs about the market, where he was quite an institution. this old man loved his god and loved his bible. he lived quite alone. his wife had been dead some years, and the only child he ever had, a boy, died of measles when he was about twelve years of age. perhaps it was the remembrance of this boy made him notice little dick as he lingered day after day about the market; but he might never have spoken to him had it not been for an incident which we will relate. one day as a woman from the country was beginning to put up her fruit and vegetables, she tripped and upset her basket of apples, which rolled away in every direction. dick was standing near and helped to pick them up. the woman was anxious to collect them all, for they were a valuable sort of apple which sold for a good price for dessert, and every one was precious. several rolled away to a distance and lodged under a heap of empty hampers. dick ran amongst the hampers and picked them up; as he did so he slipped three of them into the capacious pockets of the very loose clothes he had on, which had lately been produced from the blue bag and would have fitted a boy nearly twice his size. there was an eye above that saw him commit this theft, that almighty eye which never sleeps; but there was also a human one upon the little boy at the moment, and it was that of old john walters. he was standing very near, but was concealed by some tall shrubs. he saw dick turn round to look if any one could see him before he put the apples in his pocket, and this made him watch what he was about; and he also saw him go up to the woman with several apples in his hands, which he gave her. she warmly thanked him, and returned him one as a present for the trouble he had taken. it was getting late in the afternoon, and walters was soon going home. he felt unhappy about dick, who reminded him of his own boy. he thought he looked like a neglected lad who had no one to teach him how wrong it is to steal. he did not like to bring him into disgrace and trouble in the market by accusing him of taking the apples, neither did he feel it would be right in him to see a child steal and take no notice. "for," thought he, "if he goes on from one thing to another he may come to be a housebreaker in course of time; but if stopped now, a boy with such a face as that may become an honest, good man." then after a few minutes' thought he said to himself, "'tis one of christ's little ones, and so for the master's sake i'll have a try at him." meanwhile dick was devouring the apple the woman had given him, with the not unpleasant recollection that the pleasure to his palate would be repeated three times over, since he had three more in his pocket. i am afraid the said pleasure was in no way diminished by the consciousness that they were stolen. i do not mean to say that he was a thief habitually, for he was not. some boys make thieving a trade and exult in it. dick had sometimes purloined what was not his own, in the same manner that he had done the apples. he did not look out for opportunities, but if one such as this came in his way he did not try to resist the temptation. he was rather startled when he felt some one lay a hand firmly on his shoulder. it was the hand of john walters, who said to him-- "i want to speak a word to you, my man. come home with me and i'll give you a cup of tea. i'm going to have mine directly." dick looked up into his face. it was a very kindly one, though rough and furrowed with years; he did not feel afraid of it; so he went off with walters, for the cup of tea sounded tempting. it was not often such a chance fell in his way. he walked by the old man's side and answered all his questions as to his name, and where he lived, and what his father did, etc., and by the time walters knew all about him, they had arrived at the room which he rented in a small back street of some people who kept a little shop. it was but a humble abode, but it seemed a palace to dick compared with his own. in the first place, it was quite clean, for the woman of whom walters rented it was careful to keep it well swept, and he himself did all the tidying and dusting part. then the furniture was better than what dick was accustomed to see in any of the rooms in roan's court. there was a little round table in the middle of the room, and another at the side with two or three large books on it. [illustration: "i want to speak a word to you, my man."] and there was a cupboard in one corner and a narrow bedstead in another, and over the bedstead was laid a large tiger-skin which walters' master had given him many years before, and which served as an ornament by day and a warm covering for cold nights. also there was a shelf over the side table with a few books on it. walters was a good scholar, and had always been fond of reading, but of late years he had cared for few books except his bible and prayer-book, which gave evidence of being often used. walters told dick to sit down, and he gave him a book with some pictures of animals in it to look at whilst he made tea; but the boy could not help watching walters and his doings, which had greater attractions than his book, on the whole. first he put a match to the fire, which was laid ready for lighting. then he went out with his kettle and fetched some water. next he unlocked the cupboard, and brought out a tea-pot and two blue and white cups and saucers, and a half-loaf of bread and some butter. he set them on the table very tidily, and then going out again, he went into the little shop on the other side of the passage and bought two or three slices of bacon of his landlady, who sold provisions. these he fried in a little pan that was hung up by the fireside, and when the water was poured into the tea-pot, and the frizzling, delicious-smelling bacon was lifted off the fire and put on a dish on the table, dick's mouth watered so that he could scarcely wait to be told to begin and eat. "now then, dick, come along," said walters, and dick needed no second bidding. he pulled his chair in an instant close to the table, and taking his seat, looked ready for action. but old walters had something else to do before he would begin. he told dick he was going to say grace, and bade him stand, which he did, and looked rather wonderingly at the old man as he took his little black cap off his head, and raising his hands, asked god to bless the food his goodness had given them. the boy had never seen this done before, and it puzzled him; but the next moment he forgot all about it in the pleasure of satisfying his hunger with the bacon and bread, of which walters cut him a large slice. his kind-hearted host ate very little himself; but he enjoyed watching dick's satisfaction, and perhaps wished he had not to do so disagreeable a thing as to tell his young guest that he had seen him stealing. when tea was over, the methodical old gentleman washed up the cups and saucers and plates, and put everything away in the cupboard. then he said-- "now, dick, i have something to say to you--something you won't like half as much as eating the bacon. you have some apples in your pockets, which you stole from the woman when she dropped them and they rolled under the hamper. dick, it is a very shocking thing to be a thief, and yet you _are_ one!" poor dick's blue eyes grew enormous, and his cheeks became scarlet. he knew too well that when thieves were detected their fate was to be carried off to prison. he began to suspect he had been entrapped, and that walters was a policeman in disguise; yet it seemed strange if he were going to be punished that he should begin by giving him such a good tea. he had no time to collect his ideas, for walters was waiting for him to speak; he could only fly to the resource of trying to help himself by telling a falsehood, so he said that the woman had given them to him. "no, dick, that is untrue; she gave you one only, which you ate." more and more alarmed at finding how thoroughly acquainted walters was with the late transaction, dick began to cry and begged him to let him off. the kind-hearted old man drew the boy to his side, and told him he was not going to punish him or tell anybody about his theft; and when his tears were completely dried, he said-- "but there is one who does know it, my boy, and who will one day punish you for stealing and telling stories if you go on thus, and if you do not feel sorry for this and other naughty deeds you have done." and then he talked of things very new to little dick. he spoke of sin and of hell, and of jesus christ, and of repentance and heaven, in such simple words as came naturally to the old man, who was simple as a child himself, and yet was wiser and more learned in these precious truths than many a great scholar. he talked till the blue eyes brimmed over with tears again, but this time not with terror lest he was going to be sent to prison, but with sorrow for having done so wrongly. for dick had a very tender heart, and one that was quite ready to receive all that was said to him. he brought the three apples out of his pockets and asked walters to take them away from him. "but they are not mine; i can't take them," he said. "then i will throw them away," said dick. "that will not be right," said walters, "for they are not yours to throw away; they are the woman's." dick looked bewildered; he did not know what to do with them. "i think you ought to give them back to their owner," said walters. "i know her, and she is very kind and will forgive you directly, i am sure. if you are really sorry, you will be glad to take them back to her. suppose you leave them here till to-morrow, and then come, and i will go with you to her stall." dick promised, and then old walters kneeled down with the little boy by his side, and he prayed-- "o dear lord, forgive this young child for what he has done wrong, and help him not to steal and tell stories any more, for thy dear son jesus christ's sake. amen." then dick ran home, thinking all the way of what walters had been talking about. the next morning when he woke he saw his little mug of flowers standing on the window-sill, and the old thought came into his mind about god making such beautiful things, and he felt very sorry that he had offended god the day before, and ventured to say a little prayer to him himself, the very first that had passed his lips-- "o god, who made the flowers, please make me a good boy. i don't mean to steal apples any more, or tell stories." a little later on, dick learnt to ask for god's _help_ to keep him from stealing and lying and doing wrong things. and old walters had his prayer that morning about dick-- "o god, i am old and not able to do much for thee, but help me to teach the little boy thy ways. amen." he was very glad when dick came running in, for he was half afraid he might shirk the business of taking the apples back to the woman. it showed that he was really sorry, and willing to punish himself by doing a disagreeable thing; for it was of course very disagreeable to go and own that he had stolen the apples. let all children who read this little tale remember, that when we do any wrong thing, it is right that we should suffer for it. it is not enough merely to tell god we are sorry and to ask his forgiveness; we must prove to god and to ourselves that we really _are_ grieved for our sin by humbling ourselves to ask pardon of those to whom we have done wrong, and by trying to repair the wrong. if we shrink from this when it is in our power to do it, we may be pretty sure that our penitence is not of the kind to lead us to hope that our fault will be forgiven by god; and if he does not forgive our fault, then it will rise up before us in that day when all, both small and great, must appear before the judgment-seat of god. the woman, mrs. needham by name, was greatly surprised when walters came to her stall as she was laying it out, and told her that dick wished to return her three apples he had been tempted to put into his pockets the day before. poor dick scarcely said a word himself, he felt so frightened lest mrs. needham should be very angry; but she only spoke kindly to him, and said she hoped he would never do such a thing again. indeed, she was just going to give him back one of the apples; but walters was wiser, and shook his head at her and led dick away. he knew it would be bad for the boy to be rewarded for taking back the stolen fruit. that afternoon when mrs. needham and walters happened to be together for a few minutes, she talked to him about dick, and he told her how he had tried to show the boy the sin of stealing. "after all, though," said the soft-hearted woman, who was more kind than wise, "it was no such great thing he did. an apple or two he just slipped into his pocket when he had the chance, that was all." but walters turned to her, and laying his hand on her arm, said almost solemnly-- "and what turned adam and eve out of paradise and brought sin upon millions and millions of us, mrs. needham? why, the taking of an apple, and '_that was all!_'" "well, walters, you've your own way of talking about these things, and you understand them better than i do, because you're so bible-read." mrs. needham was prevented saying more, because a customer just then came up to purchase some of the very apples in question. chapter ii. dick's mistake. from that day dick had a friend in old walters--a very humble one, but of priceless worth to the neglected child. he encouraged him to come often to his room to see him, and finding he could not read, he commenced to try to teach him. he bought a spelling-book, and began what was in truth a most difficult and arduous task to one of his age. but dick was quick, and walters persevering, and in course of time the letters were mastered, and then came words of one syllable. after that progress was rapid. a copy-book next appeared on the scene, and the constant inky state of dick's fingers bore grimy testimony to the industry of both master and pupil. it was a proud day for them both when the boy could write his name quite legibly and neatly in the little prayer-book which walters had promised should be his whenever he could do so. but it was not only the art of reading and writing that dick was acquiring from his newly-found friend. lessons of far higher value were being constantly given to him by walters, whose heart was full of love for his saviour, and who longed to bring this little lamb into his fold, and secure him against all the temptations that, with such parents and in such a neighbourhood as roan's court, he would be subjected to as he grew older. fortunately for dick, his father's and mother's carelessness about him turned to good account by enabling him to be a great deal with walters. on sundays he went often with him to church, instead of as formerly playing all day in the court or back streets with other idle, uncared-for children. this was a real pleasure to him, for the music possessed as great a fascination for him as flowers. for some time things went on thus. dick was getting older and taller, and walters thought it was time for him to have some regular employment. he was so interested in the lad that he took a walk to roan's court one day to speak to his parents about him; but it was unfortunately an evening when they were neither of them quite in a state to be talked to on the subject. he left them in disgust, and with feelings of deep pity for their child. he did not know how to help him, for he lived his own lonely life, knowing scarcely any one; certainly no one who could be of use to dick. he consulted his landlady, but she could give no advice, and only remarked that "boys were troublesome creatures, and of no use whilst young." the poor woman had two of her own, for whom she had difficulty in providing, so she spoke feelingly. but though walters was unable to serve the lad in this respect, he had been unconsciously paving the way for a bright future for him by teaching him honesty and the fear of god. one morning as dick was going down the strand with another boy, they stopped to look in at a shop window just as a gentleman drew up his horse at the door, and looked round for some one to come and hold it whilst he entered the shop. dick ran forward and offered himself. the gentleman gave one look at his pleasant face and put the bridle into his hand, saying, "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." he was some time in the shop, which was a bookseller's, and he was looking over books. once or twice he came to the door to see that all was right with his horse, and finding that dick was holding him carefully, he gave him a nod and returned into the shop. dick thought his face was a very kind one. when he had finished his business and came out to remount his horse, he put his hand into his pocket and took out some coppers wrapped in paper, and giving them to dick, said-- "there, my lad, take these. i don't know how many pence you will find inside the paper, but the more there are the better for you." he was just going to ride off, when the shopman came to the door and asked him some question, to which he replied in a loud voice-- "let them be sent to no.-- grosvenor square." dick eagerly opened the paper; there were four pennies inside--and he stared with amazement, there was also a small, very bright yellow coin! he had only once or twice seen a sovereign in his life, and never had had one in his hand. his companion, a boy named larkins who lived near roan's court, uttered an exclamation. "why, dick, he's given you a bit of yellow money; you lucky fellow!" dick gave quite a shout of joy. [illustration: "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough."] he felt almost giddy, and as if a large fortune had fallen into his hands. "i tell you what, dick," said larkins, who secretly hoped he might come in for a share of the money, "don't you be looking at it like that here in the street, or people will think you've no business with it. yellow money doesn't often come to the like of us; and, i say, don't you go telling your father or mother of your luck, or they'll take it from you and go and spend it in drink." dick did not reply; he was wrapping up the coppers and the yellow bit as carefully in the paper as when they were given him, and he put the little parcel in his jacket pocket. "i say, dick," continued larkins, "what are you going to do with it? how shall you spend it? won't you go and have a good feed at the cook-shop to begin with?" dick heard, and a savoury thought about hot meat and potatoes crossed his mind; but he put it away again, for more important ideas were floating there. his countenance was grave and thoughtful. "i don't think," said he, "that the gentleman _meant_ to give me yellow money. he said there were pence inside the paper. i'm quite sure he did not know there was any gold there." "why, then, all the better for you that he made a mistake," said larkins. "what a lucky thing that he did not look to see what there was inside the paper before he gave it you!" time was, before he knew old walters, that dick would have thought so too, but now he could not feel any pleasure in taking possession of what it was not intended he should have. "i should like to give it back to the gentleman," he said. "it would be like stealing, i think, if i kept it." "well, you _would_ be a silly chap to do that," exclaimed larkins--"but one good thing is, you can't give it back; you don't know where he lives." "yes, i think i do," said dick. "he said that something was to be sent to no.-- grosvenor square; so he lives there, i daresay, and i can find him, perhaps." larkins' indignation was very great at his stupid folly, as he called it. his visions of being treated to a hot dinner at the cook-shop were melting away. then he tried ridicule: called him "a young saint," "pious dick," "parson dick," "preaching dick," but all to no purpose. at length dick escaped from his teasing by taking the turning which led to walters' lodging, whose advice he wished to ask. he was out. then he went and looked for him in the market, but he was not to be found. "i know he would tell me i ought to try and find the gentleman," he said to himself, "so i'll go at once." he knew his way about london pretty well, though it was not often he had been to the west end, and he had to ask his road once or twice before he could find grosvenor square. when he got there it was some time before he could discover the number he wanted, and when he did at last pause before no.--, he felt quite frightened at seeing what a grand house it was. the doors looked so tall, and the knockers so high up, it was impossible to reach them. then he remembered it would not be right for a poor boy to go to the front door, so he turned and went to the area gate and looked down the flight of steps that led to the kitchen. it took a great deal of courage to descend them and knock at the door below--more than he could all at once summon to his aid--and he stood irresolute, with the handle of the gate in his hand. he went down at length and knocked timidly at the kitchen door. no one came, so after some time he knocked again and louder. it was opened by a girl, who asked him what he wanted. "please, i want to see the gentleman who said he lived here," said dick. the girl stared, and made him repeat his words. this time he spoke rather plainer, and said he wanted to see a gentleman who had given him some money an hour or two ago, in the strand, for holding his horse. a servant in livery crossed the passage at this moment, and heard what he said. he came to the door and exclaimed harshly-- "and so, because he gave you some money, you have come here hoping to get more, you young vagabond. that's always the way with you beggars." "i'm not come to beg," replied dick, indignantly. "i'm come to give the gentleman money, not to ask him for it." "did the gentleman bid you come?" asked the man. "no," said dick. "did any one send you?" "no," was again the reply. "and yet you say you've come to give the gentleman money, and not to beg," said the servant. "now, youngster, take my advice--get off from here as fast as you can go, for it strikes me you are lurking about for no good. there's a bobby not far off who will come if i call him." he shut the door in dick's face, and the servant girl went back into the kitchen, and amused her companions by telling them that a boy had just come under the pretence of wanting to give some money to the master. "that's just what those young rascals do," remarked the cook. "they are taught by the thieves who employ them to go to gentlemen's houses with some pretence that shall get them admitted inside--and then, whilst waiting, they take notice of doors and windows and bolts and keys, and go and tell their masters, who know how to set to work at night with their instruments when they come to break in. i daresay that that boy has been taking stock of the lower part of the house, for now i think of it, i saw a boy some time ago standing on the top of the area steps and looking down at the door and windows. this lad is the same, no doubt. he'll be as likely as not to come to-night with a practised house-breaker or two and try to get in." "oh, dear!" exclaimed susan, the before-named girl, who slept in a room on the area floor with another kitchen domestic. "dear me, cook! do you really think so? i'm sure i shan't dare to go to bed to-night." "take the poker to bed with you, and never fear," said the cook. "i should take a real pleasure in bringing it down on the back of a man if he had got in. i wish i'd the chance." "then do please, cook, change rooms with me to-night," exclaimed poor susan, who was pale with fright, and too inexperienced in the study of human character to know that bragging was not courage. "i'm sure i should only scream if they came. i'm not brave like you." but cook shirked exchanging rooms, saying the reason was that she could not sleep comfortably in any bed but her own, or else she'd do it with the greatest of pleasure. while this conversation was going on in the kitchen, the innocent subject of it had ascended the steps, and was walking away from the house, when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs behind him, and, looking round, he saw the very gentleman he was in search of coming through the square at a rapid pace. dick recognised him in a moment, and was rejoiced to see him stop in front of no.--. he jumped off his horse, and, as he was about to enter the house, he caught sight of dick, who was bowing and trying to attract his attention. "ah, my little man," he said; "why, are not you the same small chap that held my horse in the strand this morning?" "yes, sir; and, please, i have come to tell you that you gave me yellow money by mistake amongst the pence--a whole sovereign! so i have brought it for you." and he took the little packet out of his pocket and held it to him. "what do you mean, my boy?" said sir john tralaway, for such was the name of the gentleman. "there surely was no gold amongst the coppers i gave you?" and he undid the paper. a smile passed over his lips as he examined the contents. then he looked attentively at dick. "and so," said he, "you have brought the money back to me because you thought i had given you more than i intended. how did you find out where i lived?" "i heard you tell the shopman to send some things to no.-- grosvenor square," said dick, "and so i thought i had better come here." "you are an honest, good boy," said sir john; "and though you have made a mistake, and taken a bright new farthing fresh from the mint for a sovereign, yet it is all the same thing in the sight of god, and in my eyes too, as if it had been indeed a piece of gold. did you ever see a sovereign?" he asked. "never but once or twice," replied dick, "and they looked exactly like that;" and he pointed to the bright yellow farthing in sir john's fingers. "your mistake is a very natural one, my boy. eyes more accustomed than yours to look at gold might easily have been deceived. now come in with me and tell me all about yourself, and where you learned to be so honest." sir john took him into a little room by the side of the hall door, and asked him many questions. he was a man of well-known benevolence, who was ever doing some deed of public or private charity. the circumstance of dick bringing him what he supposed to be a sovereign given by mistake touched him greatly. he listened with interest to what he told him about walters, who was evidently a character rarely to be met with in his class of life, and told dick to ask him to call and see him the next day at a given hour. when he dismissed him, he gave him half-a-crown, and said he should not lose sight of him. dick did not quite understand what he meant by that, but was sure it was something kind, and he ran off, one of the happiest little boys in all london. he had so much to tell walters, he scarcely knew where to begin. the old man was indeed pleased to hear that dick's principles had stood fire under a strong temptation, and he hoped he might find a friend in sir john at the very time he most needed one. the next morning, walters gave an extra brushing to his coat, an extra polish to his boots, and an extra smoothing to his sunday hat before setting forth to grosvenor square. he seldom now went near the mansions of the rich, though in former days his duties had lain amongst them almost entirely. sir john received him with great kindness, nay, even with respect, for what dick had said had filled him with admiration for him. walters told him about dick's miserable home, and of the sad example set him by his parents and the other inmates of roan's court. he mentioned his is love for flowers, which had first made him hover so constantly about covent garden market, and so had brought him under his notice. "then it is to you," said sir john, "that this little fellow is indebted for the high principle which brought him here yesterday with the supposed sovereign?" "it's little i have been able to do for him," replied the old man, "but god has blessed that little, and he has given the child a tender, teachable mind, and a grateful, loving heart. but i wish he could be taken out of that wicked roan's court, where they are a drunken, dishonest lot, and his parents are as good as no parents to him." "he _shall_ be taken away, my good man," replied sir john. "i will think the matter over, and see you again. i suppose his parents will not object to any plan for the boy's good?" "not they, sir john. they never look after him; they leave him to play about and shift for himself. i believe they would be glad enough to have him taken off their hands." "do you think he would like to be brought up as a gardener?" asked sir john. "as he is so fond of flowers, i should think his tastes would lie that way." "it would be just what would suit him," said walters. "the lad is wild after flowers. the first thing he did yesterday after you gave him half a-crown, was to go and spend a shilling of it in buying a rose-tree in a pot for my window. the little chap wanted to give me something, so he bought what he cared most about himself." "well, walters, you have been a true friend to this boy, and god will bless you for it; he shall be my care now, and i will try and follow up the good work you have begun. i have a plan in my head which, if it can be carried out, will, i think, be all you could wish for your little friend. will you come here again next monday and bring dick with you? and by that time i hope i shall have arranged matters." sir john was as good as his word. when walters and dick went to grosvenor square at the time appointed, he asked the boy whether he would like to live in the country, and learn gardening and the management of flowers. dick's face was worth looking at, so full was it of intense happiness at the idea. there was no occasion for him to express his assent in words. "i have a very clever head gardener at my country house," said sir john; "and i have written to him about you. i shall board you in his house; and if you continue to be a good boy, and try to please him by your attention and industry, i am sure you will be very happy with him and his wife; and in the gardens you will find yourself in the midst of abundance of your friends the flowers." sir john then gave walters money with which to buy dick two suits of clothes and such other things as he would require, and asked him to settle the matter with his parents. the london season being nearly over, the family were going out of town in a fortnight, and dick was to go down to denham court, sir john's country place, with some of the servants, a short time before the rest of the party. it was not in dick's power to say much by way of thanks; his heart was too full. but walters, who was scarcely less pleased, spoke for him. when they had left the house and were walking down the square, walters said-- "dick, you are proving the truth of those words in your copy-book which you wrote yesterday, that 'honesty is the best policy.'" chapter iii. a new home. we have now to request our readers to follow dick to a very different scene to that of roan's court. his parents were glad he had found such grand friends, and were quite willing to part with him. they were not improving in their habits, but rather the reverse. walters did as sir john had requested, and bought the boy suitable clothes and other necessaries for his new position in life. he looked so different when dressed in a cloth suit, with a white collar and black necktie, that he could scarcely be recognised for the same boy who had worn the old garments out of the blue clothes bag. the children in roan's court gathered round him when he first appeared in his new attire on the day he was to leave altogether, and stared at their old playmate with astonishment. a few of the elder ones, amongst whom was larkins (who had never got over the hot dinner disappointment), derided him, called after him "gentleman dick," and other nicknames. he was not sorry when he was fairly out of hearing, and on his way to walters, who had promised to go with him to grosvenor square, and say good-bye there. an omnibus was standing at the door when they arrived, which was to take the servants to the station. it was being loaded under the eye of a manservant. when he saw walters and dick, he directed them to go down into the kitchen, where all was bustle and confusion from the hurry of departure. amongst the servants going away was susan, who had been so terrified lest dick should prove an accomplice of burglars. she looked at him with very complacent feelings now, for sir john had told the story of the bright farthing, and explained that he had spoken truth when he said he wanted to give the gentleman some money and not to beg of him. with his usual kind thoughtfulness, the baronet had been anxious that the servants should feel an interest in their young fellow-traveller, who would naturally be strange and shy amongst them all. at length all was ready, and dick was told to take his place in the omnibus with the others. he was very sorry to say farewell to his dear old friend, who, in his turn, felt as if his home would be lonely without the bright, merry face he was so accustomed to see popping in constantly. "god bless you, my lad," he said. "never forget your prayers. remember, those are my parting words to you." then came the rumbling of the omnibus, and the arrival at the station; and after that the puffing of the steam-engine, and for the first time dick saw houses and churches rushing away from them, as it seemed to him. soon, great, busy london was left behind, and houses and churches only came at intervals, but green fields and trees took their place, and they were in the country, which was far more beautiful than dick's wildest dreams had ever pictured it. he was quite surprised that all the servants talked away to each other, and scarcely ever turned their heads to look out of the window. susan was the only one who seemed to understand his admiration. she was very kind, and gave him her place in the corner that he might see better; and she pointed out things to him, and told him the names of the places they passed through, for she had been so often backwards and forwards that the road was quite familiar to her and her fellow-servants. towards evening they arrived at a station, where they stopped. here an open carriage was waiting, large enough to hold them all, and the luggage followed in a cart. dick had a delightful place on the box between the driver and the footman, from which he could see the hedges and trees, etc., to perfection as they drove rapidly past them. after a drive of about a mile, they came in sight of a large mansion standing on a rising ground in the midst of beautiful gardens, which glowed with flowers of every colour. the carriage stopped at a lodge, and now dick was told he was to get down, as here he was to live with the gardener and his wife. a pleasant, motherly-looking woman appeared at the door, who was addressed as mrs naylor. she gave the servants a kindly greeting, and as the carriage drove on, took hold of dick's hand, and said she was sure he must be tired and hungry, and had better have some tea directly. she took him into a nice pleasant kitchen, where a table was spread with a substantial tea. her little lads came running in to look at the new boy, and to do justice to the viands. they were followed by mr naylor, the gardener--a tall, fine-looking man, with a rather grave face. [illustration: susan and dick in the railway-carriage.] he spoke kindly to dick, and said he had heard all about him from sir john, and he hoped he would be a good boy, and then he should be glad to have him to lodge in his house. dick thought he had never been so hungry or tasted such good food. after tea, mrs naylor showed him a room in which he was to sleep. it was very small, little more than a large closet, but there was in it everything he could want, and it had a window looking into a garden full of flowers. he was so thoroughly tired with his journey and with the day's excitement, that mrs naylor proposed he should go to bed, and he was thankful to do so. probably no little boy in england slept a sounder sleep or had a happier heart than our young hero that night. chapter iv. life at denham court. it will be easier for the reader to imagine than for me to describe the delight of a young london boy, removed from such a home as that of dick's in roan's court, to this in which he awoke the morning after his arrival. mrs naylor was disposed to be pleased with her young charge. her husband at first thought him too young and ignorant to have been worth transplanting from london to denham court. it was "one of sir john's whims," he said to his wife. however, the liberal board that they were to receive for him was not to be despised, and being so young was a fault which he would gradually grow out of. then as for his ignorance, he soon found it was not so great as he supposed. thanks to walters, he could read and write very fairly; and what astonished naylor greatly, was finding he knew the names of almost all the flowers in the gardens, and of some in the greenhouses. he had supposed he would not know a bit of groundsel from a fern, he said. but the mystery was explained when he found that he had been so constantly in covent garden market, where he had contrived to learn the different names of shrubs and flowers as few other boys would have done. there were a good many men employed about the grounds, and several boys, who came from the village every morning and returned home to their meals and to sleep at night. dick was looked at with curiosity at first, because sir john had sent him down from london and was boarding him at his head gardener's. it was all very new and strange to him, and he could not help feeling rather lonely at times. sir john and his family were gone to the sea for a little while, and were not expected till the shooting season began. dick rather longed to see sir john's kind face again, and he felt so grateful to him for his kindness that he thought he never could do enough to show his gratitude. the work that was given him in the gardens was easy enough. clearing the gravel walks of weeds, carrying in vegetables and fruit to the house, or sometimes--and this he liked best--helping one of the under gardeners to pot geraniums or other plants. one of his greatest treats was to be allowed to go through the hothouses and greenhouses with mr naylor, who began to grow fond of the intelligent lad, and to think that after all sir john knew what he was about when he sent him down to learn gardening. "he's an uncommon little chap," he said to his wife one day--"nothing seems to escape his observation; and if i tell him the name of a plant or flower he remembers it. most boys would forget it as soon as told. such a memory as he's got will do him good service some day." "he's a nice, good little fellow," remarked mrs naylor, "and so obliging. he's always ready to run errands for me of an evening, or to play with the little boys. i thought i shouldn't like having him when sir john first wrote about his coming, but i declare i'd sooner have him here than not. and as for ned and tommy, they follow him like their shadow whenever he's in the house." ned and tommy were mrs naylor's own two children. they were merry little fellows, several years younger than dick. to them he was a great acquisition. when the day's work was over, they were sure to be watching for him at the lodge gate, to claim his services in mending their paper kites, and to help to fly them when mended, as well as many other similar offices, such as good-natured older boys can execute for little ones. no wonder that mrs naylor's motherly feelings made her think she would sooner have dick as an inmate than not. when the days were beginning to shorten, and the first delicate tinge of autumn brown was stealing gently over the green foliage, it was announced that sir john and the family were coming home. they had been detained at the sea longer than was at first intended, owing to the illness of one of the young ladies. but now the day was fixed, and preparations were being made for them both within and without the house. even dick had to be busy. not a weed must be seen on the walks, not a dead leaf on the geranium beds. pot plants were to be placed in rows on either side of the broad terrace in front of the house, and others had to be carried into the drawing-room to fill the jardinière and baskets. also the conservatory adjoining the morning-room was to be adorned with choice flowers from the greenhouses. dick carried and fetched, carried and fetched, till his arms ached; but they might almost have dropped off before he would have given in, so pleased was he to have such a chance for seeing the tasteful and artistic way in which mr naylor arranged the different plants according to their colouring. when all was complete, mr naylor stepped to a little distance to see that the effect was quite to his mind, and he caught sight of dick standing in such enrapt admiration that he fixed his gaze on him for a moment rather than on the flowers. "well, dick," said he, "what do you think of it?" "oh, sir, it is beautiful! i could look at it for ever." "the boy is born to be a gardener," said mr naylor to himself. "he ought to begin and learn latin. i shall tell sir john so." all honour was due to worthy, honest-hearted mr naylor, that not a shade of jealousy crossed his mind about dick, although he hoped to bring up his two boys to his own profession. full of taste and intelligence himself, he quickly saw that the boy was naturally gifted with these qualities in no common degree, and felt they ought to be thoroughly cultivated. the next day the family arrived. dick was standing at the lodge, well pleased to be allowed to throw open the gates for the carriage to enter, and to receive a smile and nod from sir john as he sat inside it with his wife and daughters. the report that mr naylor was able to give of his charge was very satisfactory to the benevolent baronet, and he quite agreed with him that it would be well to let the boy have some education. there was an excellent village school in denham, and a superior schoolmaster. so it was arranged for dick to attend school every morning, and be in the garden in the afternoon. the schoolmaster also agreed to teach him latin three evenings in the week. "sir john never does things by halves," remarked mrs naylor to her husband. "he'll be the making of that boy, you'll see." "he'll help him to be the making of himself," replied naylor. "dick is a boy, if i mistake not, who will make good use of whatever advantages are held out to him." time went on. dick learnt quickly, and pleased his master. he was a favourite with most people from his good humour and readiness to oblige. sir john took great interest in his improvement; and his wife and daughter often stopped and spoke to the boy who had come to denham court under such peculiar circumstances. but go where we will, happen to us what will in this world, trouble of some sort is sure to crop up, and dick was not without his, even in his happy life at denham court. it seems strange that he could have an enemy, but so it was. there was a boy named george bentham, who was employed in the gardens, and who from the first had looked upon the london lad with jealousy and dislike. he saw that he was a favourite with sir john and with mr naylor, and being of a mean and selfish disposition, he took an aversion to him for this reason. to use his own expression, he liked to _spite_ him. that is to say, he never lost an occasion of saying or doing anything that he thought would be disagreeable to him; and it is wonderful how much petty tyranny may be exercised by one boy over another when opportunities are sought. for instance, he would sometimes hide his garden tools to cause him to waste time in searching for them, and so bring on him mr naylor's displeasure. one day in autumn, when dick had been industriously sweeping up the fallen leaves in one of the walks, and had gone to fetch a wheelbarrow to carry them away, he found that some one had, during his short absence, scattered the heaps which he had so carefully piled up at regular distances, so that his work had almost all to be done over again. he had been told to finish it by eleven o'clock, at which hour lady tralaway generally came to walk there, as being a sunny, sheltered spot. he did his very best to try and set it all right in time, but the leaves at the end of the walk were in a sadly untidy state when her ladyship appeared with one of her daughters. she remarked on the unswept state of the path, and asked dick to have it cleared earlier another day; and she repeated her request to mr naylor a little later, when she met him in the greenhouse. this caused mr naylor to reprove dick for idleness, and he seemed inclined to think that what he said about the leaves having been scattered was all an excuse, especially as dick could not say who had done it, though in his secret heart he felt quite sure he knew. another ill-natured trick that was played on dick by an unseen, though to him not an unknown hand, was when he one day left his slate for a few minutes on a seat just inside the lodge gate, on which was a difficult sum over which he had spent a long time the evening before, and had at last mastered, though with great difficulty. he had just started to go to school, slate and books in hand, when he remembered he had forgotten one of them, and ran back into the lodge to fetch it. he could not immediately find it, though he was not away from his slate for more than five or six minutes, and it stood precisely where he had left it when he returned. he snatched it up and ran off, but it was not till he had got near the school-house that he discovered the lower figures of the sum were all rubbed out carefully as with a sponge. he was sorely distressed, but could only tell the master of what had happened, and begged to be allowed to do it over again that evening. the master, accustomed to boys often making excuses at the expense of truth, reproved him for leaving his slate so carelessly about, and said he could not understand who would care to take the trouble to do such a thing as efface the figures just to get him into a scrape. dick saw he was not believed, and it distressed him a good deal. yet he could not tell his suspicions about george, for he had no proof that he had done it. he only knew that about that time he generally passed through the gate on his way back from breakfast, and he also knew that he would be quite ready to do him such a bit of mischief as this. old walters did not forget his little friend, nor did dick lose his warm, affectionate love for him. they exchanged letters from time to time, and the correspondence was very useful in keeping up in dick's mind the remembrance of all walters had taught him. sir john kindly sent for the old man when he was in town to give a favourable report of the boy, and tell him that mr naylor was well satisfied with him, and believed he would one day make a first-rate gardener, for that his good taste was something quite unusual, and his general intelligence of no ordinary stamp. "i should like him to be a great gardener some day," said walters; "and still more, i should like him to be a good man, with the fear of god ever before him." "i trust he will be both, my friend," said sir john. "how are his parents going on?" "worse than ever," said walters. "the mother is in such a wretched state of health from drinking that she is not likely to be long alive, and the father is seldom sober. i went lately to tell them i had heard from their boy, but they seemed very indifferent to what he was doing, and scarcely asked any questions about him. they will probably soon both be in the union." "then it is clear it is no use bringing up their son to london to see them," said sir john, "as i would have done had they been respectable. he is better to be quite separated from them under the circumstances." "far better, sir john. roan's court is no place for him now. the sooner he forgets the very existence of what goes on there the better. i should like to see my lad again some day, please god, but it's not likely, for i'm getting nigh to seventy, and though i'm hale and hearty as ever now, yet at my age i mustn't expect many more years. god bless you, sir john, for being such a friend to him; he's got strangely about my heart, and i shall pray for him whilst i live." chapter v. the visitor at the lodge. that spring, like other springs, passed away. the london season was longer than usual, for parliament had weighty and important matters to discuss, and families longing to be in the country were obliged to remain in hot, dusty london till august. amongst the number of these was that of sir john tralaway, who was an active member of the house of commons. but at length the house broke up, and without loss of time the great world fled from the heated atmosphere to go and enjoy either the mountain breezes of switzerland or the refreshing shades of english country houses. sir john's domestics went off as usual a day or two before the rest of the family, to make all ready for their arrival. no one was better pleased than dick that the season was over. he liked to see the ladies walking or riding about the grounds, and to have their kind smile and almost daily greeting. also he loved to have the encouraging word which was sure to be given by sir john when he had questioned naylor and the schoolmaster about him, and heard a good report. on the day when the servants were to arrive, mrs naylor told dick that she had a friend coming to visit them, and she should be glad if he would give up his room for the time. she proposed making him up a bed in her boys' room, at which arrangement the two youngsters expressed their warm approbation, for dick was as great a favourite with them as ever. when evening came he took care to be in the way to open the gate, and so be the first to give a welcome. the carriage came and turned in, but instead of driving on, it stopped at the lodge. the door behind was opened, and the footman assisted out an old gentleman, who wore a great-coat, notwithstanding its being a warm evening, and a well-brushed beaver hat. mrs naylor hastened out to receive him, but before she could speak dick had flown into walters' arms. it had been kind sir john's contrivance to give him a surprise. he had asked the naylors to receive him as their guest, and when he found their willingness to do so, he proposed to him to go down into the country with his servants, and spend several weeks under the same roof as dick. [illustration: the meeting of mr walters and dick.] he knew the pleasure it would give to both to be together again. he had desired that dick should not be told who was mrs naylor's expected guest. dick was more altered than walters. he had grown taller and stouter, and his cheeks were rounder and more rosy than they had been when he lived in roan's court. "now come in, mr walters," said mrs naylor, when the first surprise and greeting was over. "come in, we'll do our best to make you comfortable, and i'm sure i hope you'll spend a pleasant time here. it shan't be our fault if you don't. as for dick, i expect he won't sleep a wink to-night for joy." it was a pleasant reception, and when the old man went to bed in dick's little chamber, he kneeled and thanked god for this new and unexpected mercy that had been vouchsafed him. as for dick, far from fulfilling mrs naylor's prognostication that he would not sleep a wink, he was in so profound a slumber, at the hour when the other two lads awoke in the morning, that they had a delightful excuse for jumping on his bed and playing off a variety of tricks in order, as they said, to "arouse him thoroughly." very pleased and proud was dick to take his old friend over the gardens and numerous glass-houses, containing such fruits and flowers as he had never seen even in former days, when he had visited with his master at gentlemen's houses. dick had an entire holiday given him the day after walters' arrival, both from school and from gardening, and mr naylor told him to take his friend where he liked. such a permission made him feel of almost as much importance as if he were master of the estate himself. he found it difficult to limit his own pace to that of walters', so eager was he to go from one place to another, always assuring him the next thing he had to show was far better than any he had yet seen. walters' admiration quite satisfied him, for it was unbounded. chapter vi. sir john's proposal. a month passed, and still old walters was a visitor at the lodge. still he might be seen sitting on fine days under a wide-spreading oak-tree in the park, sometimes leaning forward with his chin resting on his stick, at others reading his large bible as it lay upon his knees. not unfrequently sir john might be observed sitting by his side, for he delighted in his remarks, so full of simple piety and humility, and consequently of instruction to himself. the high-born baronet was not above being edified by the conversation of the aged pilgrim, whose mind seemed ripening fast for the world which could not be far distant from him. but walters began to speak in earnest of returning to london. his feelings were sensitive and delicate, and though urged to remain longer, he would not take advantage of the kindness that proposed it. he said he had been permitted to spend a month of happiness amidst god's beautiful country works with his dear boy dick, but now the time was come for him to return to his room and his old ways in london. "and perhaps you feel more at home there than in any other place," said sir john one morning, when he had been talking to him on his favourite bench under the oak-tree. "you have lived there so many years that this country life may seem irksome to you after the long habit of the other." "nay," replied he, "london will seem very lonely after such a month as i have spent here in my boy's company, with everybody showing me such kindness. and i shall miss the trees and the flowers, and the songs of the birds. no, sir john, i could find it in my heart to wish i could end my days in the country, but god has willed it otherwise, and given me a home i do not deserve, although it is amongst the crowd and bustle and noise. besides, why did i say i should be lonely? shall i not have _him_"--and he uncovered his head, as was his wont, at the great name--"who died for me, and loves me, and will never leave me nor forsake me?" sir john was silent for a few moments; then he spoke to him on a subject he had been turning over in his mind for some days. "you are right, my worthy friend," he said; "no place can be lonely to you, and god will assuredly watch over you to the end. but suppose he were to point out that his way of doing so, as far as this world is concerned, would be to give you a home in the country, where you would be cared for in health and in sickness, and where the remainder of your years would pass in quietness and repose, would you not be willing to follow his leading?" "assuredly, assuredly," replied walters, not in the least seeing the drift of his remark. "but as such has not been his will, i thank him gratefully for my little room in town." "now listen to me, my friend," said the baronet. "it seems to me that just as it was put into my heart to take dick from the scenes of sin and temptation he was exposed to in roan's court, so now it is given me to have the privilege of making your last years far more comfortable than they would be in your lodging in town. the proposal i wish to make to you is this: i have a cottage in the village which i have given for her life to an attached faithful old servant, who lives there with her niece. it is larger than she requires, and she says she could quite well spare the little parlour and the bedroom over it, and that she would be very glad to have you as a lodger, and she and her niece would do their best to make you comfortable. i will take all the arrangements for you on myself, so you will only have to return to london to pack up your things and bid your present landlady good-bye, and then come back again to your new country home, where you may see dick every day." walters was silent. he could not speak. he took in all sir john's plan for him, and the lonely old man's heart leaped at the thought of living near the child of his love. at length he rose, and with a voice quivering with emotion, said-- "i thank you, i do indeed thank you, sir john. it seems too much, too much happiness for such an one as i am. but my whole life has been filled with mercies, and this may be going to be the crowning one. may i think over it? i am too old to be able all at once to decide. when i have been alone awhile i can better answer you." "take as long as you like to think it over," replied sir john--"there is no hurry whatever." then kindly shaking hands with him, he went away, for he saw that walters was a good deal overcome. yet he knew that though he left him, he would not be alone, but that he would seek the counsel and direction of him whom he had for so long made his dearest friend. chapter vii. returning good for evil. walters soon made up his mind, and with much thankfulness accepted sir john's offer of a home in denham. that gentleman took him to see the cottage in which he proposed he should occupy two rooms, and introduced him to good mrs benson, who, with her niece, promised to do all they could for his comfort. he could only exclaim every now and then, "too good, too good for me! who would have thought of such a home as this coming to me in my old age?" he went back to london, packed up his few goods and chattels, and bid good-bye to his friends in covent garden. he was well known there, and all were sorry to part with him, but glad to hear of his good fortune. his landlady regretted losing her quiet lodger, whose regular payments and steady habits she knew how to value. it was with quite a heavy heart she saw him into the cab that was to take him to the station. she did the last good office she could for him by putting into his hand a paper parcel containing some sandwiches, that he might not be hungry on the journey. dick's delight when he found his dear old friend was going to move to denham may be easily imagined. he only regretted that he had to go back to london at all. mrs benson was quite ready for him when he arrived one evening in the middle of october. dick went to meet him at the station in the conveyance sent by sir john to take him to the cottage, and was glad to be the one to lead him into the comfortable little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning and tea laid out on the round table. mrs benson followed, looking and saying kind things, and her niece bustled about to make the tea and toast the bread. it rather distressed him to be waited on thus; he had always been accustomed to do these things for himself; but he comforted his mind by saying that they must not think he should give them such trouble in future. in a very short time he was quite settled, and seeing that he would really prefer it, mrs benson allowed him to wait a good deal on himself, and to do in every respect as he had been accustomed. the neighbours soon learned to like the gentle, kind old man who was ever ready to perform any little service for them in his power, such as going on an errand, sitting with a sick child, or reading to an invalid of riper years. george bentham's character did not improve as he got older. he was so unsatisfactory in many ways that mr naylor would have dismissed him altogether, had it not been for sir john's kind desire to keep him on, for he knew the wages he gave were higher than he would obtain elsewhere. neither he nor naylor were aware of the dislike he had from the first taken to dick, who never named the annoyances he had to bear from him to any one except walters. "i have never done anything to him," he said one day; "yet he is always trying to spite me in every way he can. i really will begin and give it him back again. i know twenty ways in which i can do him a bad turn." "stop, stop, my boy," said walters, "i don't like to hear you speak so. that would be spite for spite. the dear master did not act so when they tried all they could to vex him. yet _he_ never did wrong in any way. you, on the contrary, are constantly standing in need of forgiveness from god. so you must learn to forgive even as you would be forgiven." "i will try," said dick, feeling rather ashamed of his speech. "do, my lad; but you won't be able to do it in your own strength, for it goes contrary to human nature. you must pray--nothing like prayer--and so you will find. and then, dick, there's another thing to remember. look here"--and walters turned over the leaves of the bible that was never far from his hand--"see this verse which the master spoke for the good of boys as much as for older people, 'do _good_ to them that hate you.' you see you must not be content with only forgiving." "but what can i do for george?" asked dick. "i never go near him if i can help--there isn't any good i can do him in any way." "yes, lad, you can say a prayer for him now and then; and if ever you see he needs a bit of help at any time, be you the one to offer it, and you'll get a blessing, take my word for it." they were sitting by the fireside in walters' little parlour. dick had been to take his latin lesson. as mrs benson's cottage lay on his way home, he had turned in to see walters. he was about to bid good-bye to him after these last words, but the old man stopped him and said-- "wait a bit, and i'll tell you something that will show you how bad a thing is spite or revenge. maybe it will prevent you ever feeling the desire to vex a person back because they vex you. it's a sad story, but you shall hear it, though the very telling of it gives me a pain all these long years after. "when i was a young man i was very fond of horses, and liked to be about them. my father wanted me to become a schoolmaster in a village, because i'd had a better education than most boys of my sort; but nothing would serve me but to go about the stables. so my father spoke to our squire about it, and he said i should go under his coachman, and so i did; and i got to understand horses, and could ride and drive them--according to my own thinking--as well as the coachman himself, when suddenly my master died and the establishment was all broken up. i returned home to wait till i could find another situation. just at this time a young man about my own age, named james bennett, came home out of place likewise. he had been, like myself, in a gentleman's stables, and had only left his place because the family had gone abroad. he and i had lived near each other as boys, and had had many a game together, but we had not met for three or four years, as he had been away in quite another part of england. we used to see one another pretty often, as we had neither of us much to do then but to idle about. "it so happened that just at this time a mr anderson, living about two miles off, wanted a groom quite unexpectedly, and a friend of mine called and advised me to lose no time in applying for the situation, as a new servant must be had instantly. james bennett happened to be in our cottage when i was told this, but he left it almost instantly. i lost no time, but went upstairs and put on my best clothes; and then i set out, to walk to newton hall, where mr anderson lived. i was anxious for the place, for i knew it was a good one; and as it had only become vacant a few hours, i felt i had a real good chance of getting it. when i arrived there i was shown in to mr anderson, who said i was a likely enough fellow, but that he had just seen another young man whom he had promised to take if his character satisfied him. 'you know him probably,' he said, 'for he comes from your village; his name is james bennett.' "i started with surprise and indignation. in an instant i saw just how it was. james had heard what my friend had said about mr anderson's situation being vacant, and advising me to lose no time in applying. he had quietly sneaked of and got before me; for, as i afterwards found, he had had a lift in a gig, whilst i walked all the way, so he had considerably the start of me. "i left the house full of angry feelings, and despising james from the bottom of my heart for his meanness; and i took care to tell him so. he could not defend himself, though he tried to make out it was all fair play, and a case of first go, first served. "he got the place and went to it directly, on good wages. i, on the other hand, could not hear of one anywhere. i used to see james ride by, exercising his new master's horse, and my thoughts were very bitter. "mr anderson had a daughter who was very delicate, and was ordered horse exercise. her father had bought her a beautiful creature which had arab blood in its veins--that means that it was high bred and full of spirit. now miss anderson had not yet been allowed to mount him because he had such a bad trick of shying when he came to any water. there was a certain pool which lay by the roadside between our village and mr anderson's house, which he would never pass without a great fuss. the former groom and mr anderson had tried in vain to cure him of the trick. james said he thought he should be able to do it, and he was proud to try. "so he took him in hand. every day he practised the animal. he tamed him at last so that he scarcely moved an ear when he saw the pond. i heard that after one day's more practice he meant to pronounce him quite cured. now all this time i was feeling angry, and longing to spite him for the trick he had played me. i grudged him the fame of having cured the horse of shying, for i knew i could have done it as well, and i was always thinking about the way he had stolen the place from me. "well, dick, satan saw now that was a fine time for him, and he made the most of it. he put into my heart to do a mean trick by which i thought to pay james back something of what i owed him. "i bought some crackers and put them in my pocket, and i walked to the place where the pond lay, a little before the time when i knew james would come with the horse. my idea was to conceal myself behind the thick hedge, and pull a cracker just at the moment the horse was passing the pond. i thought so to startle him that it would make him worse than ever about shying in future, and then all james's trouble would be thrown away, and he would not have the credit of curing him of the bad habit. "i crept behind the hedge and was completely hidden. after a time i heard horse's hoofs, and saw james come up. he walked by the pond, slowly at first, then he went quicker, and next he trotted. the pretty creature was quite quiet. then he went to a little distance, and put him into a canter. now was my time; i pulled my cracker just as he got to the pond. the horse sprang up into the air, bolted forward, and the next instant was running away fast and fleet as the very wind. i heard the hoofs going at a mad pace, and i knew his rider had lost all control over him. not for one moment had i intended to drive the horse wild like that. the most i had thought of was to cause him to prance and kick, and begin his old trick of not passing the pond. i felt no anxiety lest any real harm would come of it. i knew james was a good rider, and supposed he would give the horse his head for awhile and then pull him in. so i walked home, thinking i had paid master james off in some degree at all events. "we were just finishing dinner when a neighbour looked in, and asked if we had heard what had happened. he said that james bennett had been riding mr anderson's horse, and that it had run away with him and thrown him violently against a milestone; that he was taken up quite senseless, and it was feared there was concussion of the brain! he had been carried to a farmhouse close by, which there was little chance of his leaving alive. it was dreadful hearing for me. i felt as if i should have committed murder, if he died! not that i had wished really to harm him bodily in any way. i could comfort myself a little with that thought, but i had intended to do him a mischief of another kind; and now the ugliness of the sin of revenge rose up before me in its true colours, and i hated myself. "i kept my own secret. i argued that it could make matters neither better nor worse to tell what had made the horse run off. but i was very wretched. i walked to the farm towards evening to inquire after him. they said he was still insensible, and the doctor could give little hope. his parents were there, and mr anderson drove up as i was going away, having brought a second doctor with him. it was a comfort to know that he would be well cared for. the next day he had come to himself when i went to inquire, but there was no more hope than before. he lay in a very precarious state for a week, and then there was a change for the better. a few days more and the doctor said he would live, but that it would be many months probably before he would be well enough to go into service again. mr anderson was very kind, and promised to continue his wages to enable him to live at home till he was quite well. but he could not keep his place open for him, so he offered it to me. "i positively declined to accept it, much to mr anderson's surprise. i felt that i could not endure to reap any benefit from my wrong-doing. my conscience had been tormenting me ever since the accident, and i made up my mind that i would never take a situation as groom again, for the very sight of a horse made me uncomfortable. in a short time, thanks to my late mistress's recommendation, i obtained a place as personal servant to a gentleman who was going on the continent for a couple of years. now it seems natural that new countries and new ways should put what had just passed out of my head; but they didn't, though i certainly did enjoy travelling about very much. we went to france and germany, stopping for a time at all the principal cities, and then we went to italy and spent some time in rome. but notwithstanding the novelty of all around me i was not altogether happy. i believe i was beginning to feel what a sinful heart i had then, and i often longed to open my mind to some one, but there was nobody i knew to whom i liked to speak. however, god had his own designs for me, as you will hear. "my master visited venice on our return home, and from there he took an excursion through some mountains called 'the dolomites.' one day, as we were crossing a narrow plank thrown across a steep gorge, my foot slipped and i fell down a very considerable distance on to a hard rock, and it is wonderful that i was not killed on the spot. i was taken up senseless by some peasants who were fortunately near, and carried into a hut, where my master joined me, and he and they did all in their power to restore consciousness. i recovered my senses after awhile, but i had to lie in that hut for upwards of ten days, and during that time i looked back on my past life and saw how sinful i had been, and i trembled when i thought how death and i had been face to face when i fell into the gorge. my revengeful conduct towards james bennett stared me in the face in such black colours as it had never done before. 'what would have become of me had i been killed?' was my constant thought. "when i returned to england i went to live with a clergyman, who was a good and holy man, to whom, after awhile, i ventured to open my mind. he taught me what my saviour had done for me by his death, and how i might look for pardon through his merits, and grace and help for the future. i have told you all this, dick, that you may beware of ever wishing to give what is called 'tit for tat.' now go home, and whenever you say your prayers ask god to keep you from all malice and bitterness." this advice of walters came at a very opportune time, for not long after dick had occasion to bring it to mind. it was george bentham's duty to shut up the greenhouse windows at a certain hour in the afternoon, and mr naylor was extremely particular on this point. he had neglected it once or twice, and had been severely reprimanded but when a third time mr naylor found the windows open late, he took the duty away from him entirely, and gave it to dick in his presence, remarking that he felt sure he might trust him. george said nothing at the time, but his jealousy increased. he went away revolving in his mind how he could lower dick in mr naylor's opinion, and a way soon suggested itself. dick was surprised one evening after he had carefully closed the windows in the afternoon at the proper time, by mr naylor reproving him sharply when he came in to tea for having left one of them open. "indeed, sir, i shut them all," said dick. "you mean you _meant_ to do so, but were careless and forgot the end one," said mr naylor. "now don't get into the way of making excuses; better own your fault at once, and say you will be more careful in future; then i shall have hope that it will not happen again." dick said no more. he was puzzled, for he felt almost sure he _had_ shut that end window. yet how could it have got open again? no one ever went near the greenhouses in the afternoon after they were shut. he always turned the key on the outside when he went out, though he left it in the door by order, because mr naylor went his rounds towards evening, and then took the keys home with him. at length he was obliged to come to the conclusion that he must have overlooked that window without being aware of it. about a week afterwards a frost set in, and though it was sunny and fine for some hours, the air grew cold directly the sun began to decline, and dick received orders to close the windows earlier than customary, and he did so. the head gardener went the rounds as usual that afternoon before going home to tea. the cold was severe, and his vigilance for his plants was consequently greater than ever. as he came to the door of the greenhouse he thought he heard a slight noise within, and looked carefully about on opening the door, but could see nothing to have caused it, so thought it must have been fancy. when he examined the windows he found one of them wide open. "again!" he said to himself. "so that boy is as bad as the other, and must be trusted no more." he shut it, and a second time fancied he heard a noise, and listened, but all was still. when he went home he spoke more angrily to dick than he had ever done before, and desired him not to enter the greenhouses again, since he found he could not be trusted. "had i not gone in there," he said, "and seen that the window was left wide open, some of the choicest of the plants must have been frostbitten." "but indeed, indeed, i shut them every one, sir," exclaimed dick. "some one must have gone in after me, and opened that window. oh! it was too bad; it must have been done from spite." "i can scarcely believe that," said the gardener. "excuses of that sort won't help you." "it is not an excuse, sir. _do_ believe me, for indeed i shut all the windows carefully." "maybe the lad is right," said mrs naylor, who was fond of dick, and had always found him truthful. "perhaps some one has a grudge against him, and took that way of doing him a mischief." "have you any reason to suppose you have an enemy?" inquired mr naylor. "yes, i have, sir," replied dick. "who is it?" dick did not reply; he was not sure whether he ought to name him. but johnnie naylor, who with his brother was present, exclaimed-- "george bentham is his enemy, i think, for he said the other day he hated dick, because he was put over him about the windows just because he was a favourite." a new idea appeared to strike mr naylor. he seemed in deep thought for a moment. he was thinking of the noise he fancied he had heard. then taking down a lantern and lighting the lamp within, he strode off without a word, and took his way to the greenhouse. unlocking the door, he entered, and closed it after him. again there was a slight noise. this time he was sure that something alive was there besides himself, and he began to search. [illustration: "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves."] the house was a good-sized one, and he examined every corner, but in vain. then he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves which stood out a little way from the wall. a dark figure was there crouching down. it was george bentham, who, with a face white as ashes, came forth at mr naylor's command. "what are you doing here, sir?" he asked, in a voice of thunder. "i got locked in, sir." "and what brought you here at all?" the ready lie that he would fain have had rise to his lips, failed him from actual terror, and he was silent. "i will tell you why you are here," said the gardener. "you came to open that window in order to get an innocent companion into trouble, and to have it supposed that he was careless and had neglected his duty, and it is the second time you have done the base deed. you are a coward of the worst kind, and you shall come with me instantly to sir john himself, and hear his opinion of your conduct." then george found his voice, and implored mr naylor to punish him in any way rather than take him before sir john, but in vain. he marched him off without another word, and made him walk before him to the house, where he requested to see the baronet. very shocked and indignant was sir john at what he heard about the wretched boy before him, who did not attempt to deny that he had hoped to bring dick into disgrace, and so had slipped into the greenhouse to open the window, but had not time to escape before mr naylor came and locked him in. he had no way of getting out without breaking the windows, owing to their peculiar method of opening. he acknowledged that dick had never done him any harm, and could only say in reply to the questions put to him, that "he had never liked him." sir john dismissed him from his service on the spot, and told him his opinion of his conduct in terms which remained in his memory for many a day. dick was very glad when mr naylor told him the mystery about the open window had been cleared up; but to his credit be it spoken, he was really grieved to hear that george was to work no more in the gardens. he longed to plead for him, but knew it would be useless, as sir john and mr naylor were so seriously displeased. but when a little time had passed by, and george was still without regular employment, hanging about the village, often reminded by jeers and taunts of his mean conduct, dick felt more and more sorry for him, and at length he ventured to ask mr naylor if he would say a good word for him to sir john. "and so _you_ want him to be taken on again, do you?" was the reply. "that's queer, now." but queer as he thought it, naylor could appreciate dick's forgiving spirit, and admired it sufficiently to induce him to ask sir john if the boy might have another trial, and he obtained his consent. he took care to tell george who it was had pleaded for his return. the boy had avoided dick since his disgrace, but this generous conduct quite overcame him. though foreign to his own nature to act thus, he was touched and grateful, and actually thanked dick, and told him he was sorry he had behaved so shabbily to him. from that day the two lads were good friends. george never again annoyed dick. we must pass over the next few years of dick's history more rapidly. he did not disappoint the expectations of those who had done so much for him. he improved rapidly, and developed so strong a taste for landscape gardening that sir john and mr naylor advised him to lay himself out chiefly for that branch of the profession, and every aid was given him to do so. sir john thought that his steady character, united to considerable natural talent, well deserved encouragement. the result was, that when he grew to manhood he introduced him to the notice of several families of distinction, and he soon began to get a name and to acquire a considerable income. walters lived to see him married and prosperous, and ever true to the principles he had instilled into him as a child. at a good old age dear old john walters passed away to his rest. his death was calm and happy as his life had been. his remains lie in the little churchyard at denham, a plain white stone marking the spot. many still remember and speak of him with affection. amongst the number is sir john, now himself grown old. sometimes he has been heard to exclaim, as he pauses an instant before the grave-- "let my last end be like his!" catalogue of new and popular works published by s. w. partridge & co. new books. s. the grand chaco: a boy's adventures in an unknown land by g. manville fenn, author of "the crystal hunters," "nolens volens," "dick o' the fens," etc., etc. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra, gilt edges. s. d. each. ailsa's reaping; 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(paper, fourteenth thousand, d.) women of the bible. old and new testament. in one volume. royal mo. cloth. s. each. _picture books for the young. fcap_. _to_. _with coloured covers,_ _and full of illustrations_. sunbeam's pictures and stories: a picture story book for boys and girls. by d. j. d., author of "sunny faces," etc., etc. four full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. little rosebud's picture book: a picture story book for little folks. by j. d., author of "bright rays for cloudy days," etc. four full-page coloured and many other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. sunny hours: a picture story book for the young. by james weston, author of "the young folks' picture book," etc., etc. with four full-page beautifully coloured and many other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. bright rays for cloudy days. pictures and stories for the little ones. by j. d., author of "smiles and dimples," etc. with four full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s. cloth, s. d. smiles and dimples; 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(new edition.) marion and augusta; or, love and selfishness. by emma leslie, author of "ellerslie house," "the five cousins," etc. mind whom you marry; or, the gardener's daughter. by the rev. c. g. rowe. the mother's chain; or, the broken link. by emma marshall, author of "fine gold; or, ravenswood courtenay," etc. nan; or, the power of love. by eliza f. pollard, author of "avice," "hope deferred," etc. nan's story; or, the life and work of a city arab. by l. sharp. no gains without pains. a true story. by h. c. knight. only a little fault. by emma leslie, author of "water waifs," etc. poor blossom. the story of a horse. by e. h. b. sweet nancy. by l. t. meade, author of "scamp and i," "a band of three," etc. temperance stories for the young. by t. s. arthur, author of "ten nights in a bar room." toil and trust; or, life-story of patty, the workhouse girl. by mrs. balfour. wait till it blooms. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," etc. who was the culprit? by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," "the man of the family," "dulcie delight," etc. books by rev. dr newton. new and cheap edition. pages. crown vo. prettily bound in cloth boards, s. each. bible jewels. bible wonders. the giants, and how to fight them. the great pilot and his lessons. rills from the fountain of life. specially suitable for sunday school libraries and rewards. brave and true. talks to young men by thain davidson, d.d., author of "talks with young men," "sure to succeed," "a good start," etc. small crown vo. cloth. biblical difficulties, and how to meet them. a series of papers by dr. clifford, dr. hiles hitchens, rev. f. b. meyer, and others. edited by f. a. atkins. small crown vo. cloth. daybreak in the soul. by the rev. e. w. moore, m.a., author of "the overcoming life." imperial mo. pages. cloth. my guest chamber; or, for the master's use. by sophia m. nugent, author of "the prince in the midst," etc., etc. imperial mo. pages. cloth. women of the bible. 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"vic:" the autobiography of a pomeranian dog. by alfred c. fryer, ph.d., m.a. third edition. lost in the snow; or, the kentish fishermen. by mrs. c. rigg. friendless bob; and other stories. come home, mother. by nelsie brook. maude's visit to sandybeach. by mrs. waller. dick and his donkey; or, how to pay the rent. by mrs. c. e. bowen. that boy bob, and all about him. by jesse page. snowdrops; or, life from the dead. with illustrations. leonard franklin, the watercress seller. by h. c. h. a. sybil and her live snowball. by the author of "dick and his donkey." to which is added "the story of the bird's nest." donald's charge. by harriet boultwood, author of "john farrar's ordeal," etc. dottles and carrie. by jesse page. carlos, and what the flowers did. barker's gardens. by jesse page, author of "that boy bob," "dottles and carrie," etc. two lilies and other stories. by jennie chappell. only a bunch of cherries. by emma marshall. dandy jim. by the same author. dick's schooldays. by jesse page. the pearly gates. by mrs. rigg. daybreak. by florence a. sitwell. toots: the autobiography of a persian cat. by alfred c. fryer, ph.d., m.a., author of "vic: the autobiography of a pomeranian dog," etc. the church mouse, and the young potato roasters. ronald's reason; or, the little cripple, and other stories. aunt kelly's christmas box; or, the mystery of a £ note. by jennie chappell. bright ben. the story of a mother's boy. by jesse page. buy your own cherries; and how sam adams' pipe became a pig. by j. w. kirton. d. each. partridge's cheap "pansy" series. imperial vo. pages. many illustrations. cover printed in five colours. new issues. interrupted. the pocket measure. little fishers and their nets. a new graft on the family tree. the man of the house. julia ried mrs. solomon smith looking on. links in rebecca's life. chrissy's endeavour. three people. four girls at chautauqua. an endless chain. the king's daughter. the chautauqua girls at home. wise and otherwise. ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. ruth erskine's crosses. the above numbers may also be had in three vols., cloth, s. d. each. the tiny library. books printed in large type. cloth. little chrissie; and other stories. harry carlton's holiday. a little loss and a big find. what a little cripple did. bobby. matty and tom. the broken window. john madge's cure for selfishness the pedlar's loan. letty young's trials. brave boys. little jem, the rag merchant. illustrated monthlies. the yearly volume, with coloured paper boards, and full of engravings, s. d. each; cloth, s. d. enlarged to eight pages. the british workman. an illustrated paper containing popular articles and stories inculcating religion, temperance, thrift, and the general well-being of the working classes. one penny monthly. the yearly volumes for , , , , , , and , may still be had as above. the five-year volume, to , may still be had, cloth gilt, gilt edges, s. d. the yearly volume, coloured cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the family friend. full of entertaining and useful reading, and beautiful illustrations. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with numerous engravings, ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth s.; gilt edges, s. d. the children's friend. with excellent serial and short stories, prize competition, puzzles, music, etc., and illustrations by the best artists. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for may still be had as above. the yearly volume, ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the infants' magazine. printed in clear, bold type, and containing charming pictures for the little ones. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, in ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the friendly visitor. gospel stories and poems, printed in large type, and finely illustrated. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , , , , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with coloured cover and full of engravings, s.; gilt, s. each. the band of hope review. the leading temperance journal for youth, with striking illustrations by the foremost artists of the day. one halfpenny monthly. the yearly volumes for , , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with coloured cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. each. the mothers' companion. one penny monthly ( pages), fully illustrated. containing, in addition to serial stories and articles of general interest by popular writers, papers upon all matters relating to the management of the home. the yearly volumes for , , , , and , may still be had. , paternoster row, london. [transcriber's notes: this book contains a number of misprints. the following misprints have been corrected: [hazell, watson, and viney, ld. printers, london] --> [hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london] ["perseverence and success,"] --> ["perseverance and success,"] [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustration.] -> [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustrations.] in the catalog at the end of the book, near "our lifeboats:" the size of the book is described with two numbers, the first of which is unreadable. this has been replaced with {unreadable} an illustrations-list has been added after the contents-list ] generously made available by the google books library project (https://books.google.com) note: images of the original pages are available through the google books library project. see https://books.google.com/books?id=gnj lvjclz c&hl=e jed, the poorhouse boy by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick," "luck and pluck," "tattered tom," etc., etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago toronto copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. jed, ii. mr. and mrs. fogson, iii. the scranton poorhouse, iv. an exciting contest, v. jed secures an ally, vi. mr. fogson makes up his mind, vii. fogson's mistake, viii. mr. fogson is astonished, ix. jed leaves the poorhouse, x. jed reaches duncan, xi. jed's first appearance on the stage, xii. percy dixon is bewildered, xiii. fogson in pursuit, xiv. jed's luck, xv. two old acquaintances, xvi. miss holbrook, spinster, xvii. jed meets an old acquaintance, xviii. mr. fogson receives a letter, xix. discharged, xx. jed's poor prospects, xxi. jed arrives in new york, xxii. jed makes two calls, xxiii. jed's bad luck, xxiv. a startling discovery, xxv. without a penny, xxvi. in search of employment, xxvii. an intractable agent, xxviii. a strange commission, xxix. a surprise party, xxx. jed entertains an old acquaintance, xxxi. jed returns good for evil, xxxii. at bar harbor, xxxiii. the poorhouse receives two visitors, xxxiv. the detective, xxxv. mrs. avery's story, xxxvi. "who was jed?" xxxvii. jane gilman, xxxviii. the detective secures an ally, xxxix. jed learns who he is, xl. guy fenwick's defeat, xli. conclusion, jed, the poorhouse boy. chapter i. jed. "here, you jed!" jed paused in his work with his axe suspended above him, for he was splitting wood. he turned his face toward the side door at which stood a woman, thin and sharp-visaged, and asked: "well, what's wanted?" "none of your impudence, you young rascal! come here, i say!" jed laid down the axe and walked slowly to the back door. he was a strongly-made and well-knit boy of nearly sixteen, but he was poorly dressed in an old tennis shirt and a pair of overalls. yet his face was attractive, and an observer skilled in physiognomy would have read in it signs of a strong character, a warm and grateful disposition, and a resolute will. "i have not been impudent, mrs. fogson," he said quietly. "don't you dare to contradict me!" snapped the woman, stamping her foot. "what's wanted?" asked jed again. "go down to the gate and hold it open. squire dixon will be here in five minutes, and we must treat him with respect, for he is overseer of the poor." jed smiled to himself (it was well he did not betray his amusement), for he knew that mrs. fogson and her husband, though tyrannical to the inmates of the poorhouse, of which they had been placed in charge by squire dixon three months before, were almost servile in the presence of the overseer of the poor, with whom it was their object to stand well. "all right, ma'am!" he said bluntly, and started for the gate. he did not appear to move fast enough for the amiable mrs. fogson, for she called out in a sharp voice: "why do you walk like a snail? hurry up, i tell you. i see squire dixon coming up the road." "i shall get to the gate before he does," announced jed, independently, not increasing his pace a particle. "i hate that boy!" soliloquized mrs. fogson, looking after him with a frown. "he is the most independent young rascal i ever came across--he actually disobeys and defies me. i must get fogson to give him a horse-whipping some of these fine days; and when he does, i'm going to be there and see it done!" she continued, her black eyes twinkling viciously. "every blow he received would do me good. i'd gloat over it! i'd flog him myself if i was strong enough." the amiable character of mrs. fogson may be inferred from this gentle soliloquy. when fogson married her he caught a tartar, as he found to his cost. but he was not so much to be pitied, for his own disposition was not unlike that of his wife, but he lacked her courage and intense malignity, and was a craven at heart. as jed walked to the gate his face became grave and almost melancholy. "i can't stand this kind of life long!" he said to himself. "mrs. fogson is about the ugliest-tempered woman i ever knew, and her husband isn't much better. what a contrast to mr. avery and his good wife! when they kept the poorhouse we were all happy and contented. they had a kind word for all. but when squire dixon became overseer he put in the fogsons, and since then we haven't heard a kind word or had a happy day." just then squire dixon's top buggy neared the gate. he was a pompous-looking man with a bald head and red face, the color, as was well known, being imparted by too frequent potations of brandy. with him was his only son and heir, percy dixon, a boy who "put on airs," and was, in consequence, heartily detested by his schoolmates and companions. he had small, mean features and a pair of gray eyes, while his nose had an upward tendency, as if he were turning it up at the world in general. jed held the gate open in silence and the top buggy passed through. then he slowly closed the gate and walked up to the house. there stood mrs. fogson, her thin lips wreathed in smiles, as she ducked her head obsequiously to the town magnate. "how do you do, squire dixon?" she said. "it does me good to see you. but i needn't ask for your health, you look so fine and noble this morning." squire dixon was far from being inaccessible to flattery. "i am very well, i thank you, my good friend, mrs. fogson," he said in a stately tone, with a gracious smile upon his florid countenance. "and how are you yourself?" "as well as i can be, squire, thanking you for asking, but them paupers is trials, as i daily discover." "nothing new in the way of trouble, i hope, mrs. fogson?" "well, no; but walk in and i'll send for my husband. he would never forgive me if i didn't send for him when you were here. master percy, forgive me for not speaking to you before. i hear such good accounts of you from everybody. your father is indeed fortunate to have such a son." percy raised his eyebrows a little. even he was aware of his unpopularity, and he wondered who had been speaking so well of him. "i'm all right!" he answered curtly. squire dixon, too, though he overestimated percy, who was popularly regarded as a chip of the old block, was at a loss to know why he should be proud of him. still it was pleasing to have one so near to him complimented. "you are kind to speak of percy in that way," he said. "he's so like you, the dear boy!" murmured mrs. fogson. this might be a compliment, but as percy stood low in his studies and frequently quarreled with his school companions, squire dixon hardly knew whether to feel flattered. percy looked rather disgusted to be called a "dear boy" by a woman whom he regarded as so much his social inferior as mrs. fogson, but it was difficult to resent so complimentary a speech, and he remained silent. he looked scornfully about the plainly-furnished room, and reflected that it would be pleasanter out of doors. "i guess i'll go out in the yard," he said abruptly. "would you be kind enough in that case, master percy, to tell the boy jed to go and call my husband from the three-acre lot? he is at work there." "yes, mrs. fogson, i'll tell him." percy left the room and walked up to where jed was splitting wood. "go and call mr. fogson from the three-acre lot!" he said peremptorily. jed paused in his work. "who says so?" he inquired. "i say so!" "then i shan't go. you are not my boss." "you are an impudent boy." "why am i?" "you have no business to talk back to me. you'd better go after mr. fogson, if you know what's best for yourself." "did mrs. fogson send the message by you?" "yes." "then i will go. why didn't you tell me that before?" "because it was enough that i told you. my father's the overseer of the poor." "i am aware of that." "and he put the fogsons where they are." "then i wish he hadn't. we had a good time when mr. avery was here. now all is changed." "so you don't like mr. and mrs. fogson?" asked percy curiously. "no, i don't. but i must be going to the lot to call mr. fogson." "i'll go with you. i don't want to be left alone." jed ought doubtless to have felt complimented at this offer of company from his high-toned visitor, but he did not appear to be overwhelmed by it. "you can go along if you like," he said. "of course i can. i don't need to ask permission of you." "certainly not. no offense was meant." "it is well for you that there isn't. so you liked mr. and mrs. avery better than the fogsons?" "yes," answered jed guardedly, for he understood now that percy wanted to "pump" him. "why?" "because they treated me better." "my father thinks well of the fogsons. he says that old avery pampered the paupers and almost spoiled them." "i won't argue the question. i only know that we all liked mr. and mrs. avery. now it's scold, scold, scold all day and every day, and we don't live nearly as well as we did." "paupers mustn't expect to live as well as at a first-class hotel!" said percy sarcastically. "they certainly don't live like that here." "and they won't while my father is overseer. he says he's going to put a stop to their being pampered at the town's expense. you live well enough now." "if you think we live so well, i wish you would come and board here for a week." "_me_--board at a poorhouse!" ejaculated percy in intense disgust. "you are very kind, but i shouldn't like it." "i don't think you would." "all the same, you ought to be grateful for such a good home." "it may be a good home, but i shan't stay here long." "you shan't stay here long?" exclaimed percy in amazement. "do you mean to tell me you are going to run away?" "i haven't formed any plans yet." "i'll tell my father, and he'll put a spoke in your wheel. what do you expect to do if you leave? you haven't got any money?" "no." "then don't make a fool of yourself." jed did not reply, for they had reached the fence that bounded the three-acre lot, and mr. fogson had discovered their approach. chapter ii. mr. and mrs. fogson. mr. fogson was about as unpleasant-looking as his wife, but was not so thin. he had stiff red hair with a tendency to stand up straight, a blotched complexion, and red eyes, corresponding very well with the color of his hair. he was quite as cross as his wife, but she was more venomous and malicious. like her he was disposed to fawn upon squire dixon, the overseer of the poor, with whom he knew it was necessary to stand well. had jed come alone he might have met with a disagreeable reception; but mr. fogson's quick eye recognized in his companion the son of the poorhouse autocrat, squire dixon, and he summoned up an ingratiating smile on his rugged features. "how are you, master percy?" he said smoothly. "did your pa come with you?" "yes, he's over to the house. mrs. fogson wants you to go right home, as he may want to see you." "all right! it will give me pleasure. it always does me good to see your pa." percy looked at him critically, and thought that mr. fogson was about as homely a man as he had ever seen. it was fortunate that the keeper of the poorhouse could not read his thoughts, for, like most ugly men, mr. fogson thought himself on the whole rather prepossessing. fogson took his place beside percy, and curtly desired jed to walk behind. jed smiled to himself, for he understood that mr. fogson considered him not entitled to a place in such superior company. mr. fogson addressed several questions to percy, which the latter answered languidly, as if he considered it rather a bore to be entertained by a man in fogson's position. indeed he almost snubbed him, and jed was pleased to find the man who made so many unpleasant speeches to others treated in the same manner himself. as a general thing, a man who bullies others has to take his turn in being bullied himself. meanwhile mrs. fogson was chatting with squire dixon. "nobody can tell what i have to put up with from them paupers," she said. "you'd actilly think they paid their board by the way they talk. the fact is, the averys pampered and indulged them altogether too much." "that is so, mrs. fogson," said the squire pompously, "and that, i may remark, was the reason i dismissed them from their responsible position. do they--ahem!--complain of anything in particular?" "why, they want butter every day!" exclaimed mrs. fogson. "think of it! butter every day for paupers!" "as you justly observe, this is very unreasonable. and how often do you give them butter?" "once a week--on sundays." "very judicious. it impresses them with the difference between sunday and other days. it shows your religious training, mrs. fogson." "i always aim to be religious, squire dixon," said mrs. fogson meekly. "well, and what else?" "likewise the old people expect tea every day. they say mrs. avery gave it to them." "i dare say she did. it's an imposition on the town to spend their--ahem!--hard-earned money on such luxuries." "that's the way i look at it, squire dixon." "how often do you give them meat?" "every other day. i get the cheapest cuts from the butcher--what he has left over. but they ain't satisfied. they want it every day." "shocking!" exclaimed the squire, arching his brows. "so i say. of course i get a good many sour looks, and more complaints, but i tell 'em that if they ain't suited with their boarding-house they can go somewhere else." "very good! very good indeed; ha, ha! i presume none of them have left the poorhouse in consequence?" "no, but one has threatened to do so." "who is that?" asked squire dixon quickly. "the boy jed." "oh, yes, he was the one who opened the gate for me. now, what sort of a boy is he, mrs. fogson?" "he's an impudent young jackanapes," answered mrs. fogson spitefully, "begging your pardon for using such an inelegant expression." "it is forcible, however, mrs. fogson. it is forcible, and i think you are quite justified in using it. so he is impudent?" "yes; you'd think, by the airs he puts on, that he owned the poorhouse, instead of being a miserable pauper. why, i venture to say he considers himself the equal of your son, master percy." "no, no, mrs. fogson, that is a little too strong. he couldn't be so absurd as that." "i am not so sure of that, squire dixon. there is no end to that boy's impudence and--and uppishness. why, he said the other day that the meat wasn't fit for the hogs." "and was it, mrs. fogson?" asked the squire in an absent-minded way. "to be sure, squire, though i must admit that it was a trifle touched, being warm weather; but paupers can't expect first-class hotel fare--can they, now, squire?" "to be sure not." "then, again, jed is always praising up mr. and mrs. avery, which, as you can imagine, isn't very pleasant for mr. fogson and me. i expect he was mr. avery's pet, from all i hear." "very likely he was. he was brought to the poorhouse when a mere baby, and they took care of him from his infancy. i've heard mrs. avery say she looked upon him as if he were her own child." "and that is why she pampered him--at the town's expense." "as you truly observe, at the town's expense. i am sure you and mr. fogson will feel it your duty to make the poorhouse as inexpensive as possible to the town, bearing in mind the great responsibility that has devolved upon you." "of course, squire, me and fogson bear that in mind, but we ain't paid any too well for our hard labor." "that reminds me, mrs. fogson, another month has rolled by, and----" "i understand, squire," said mrs. fogson. "i have got it all ready," and she drew a sealed envelope out of her pocket and passed it to the squire, who pocketed it with a deprecatory cough. his face brightened up, for he knew what the envelope contained. "you can depend on me to use my official influence in your favor, mrs. fogson," he said cheerfully. "as long as you show a proper appreciation of my service in giving you the place, i will stand by you." squire dixon was a rich man. he was paid by the town for his services as overseer, yet he was not above accepting five dollars a month from the man he had installed in office. he had never distinctly asked for it, but he had hinted in a manner not to be mistaken that it would be politic for mr. fogson to allow him a percentage on their salary and profits. they got the money back, and more, for in auditing their accounts he did not scrutinize too closely the prices they claimed to have paid for supplies. it was an arrangement mutually advantageous, which had never occurred to mr. and mrs. avery, who in their scrupulous honesty were altogether behind the times, according to the squire's thinking. "and how many paupers have you in the house at present, mrs. fogson?" asked the overseer. "nineteen, squire. would you like to look at them?" "well, perhaps in my official capacity it would be as well." "come in here, then," and mrs. fogson led the way into a large room where sat the paupers, a forlorn, unhappy-looking company. two of the old ladies were knitting; one young woman, who had lost her child, and with it her mind, was fondling a rag baby; two were braiding a rag carpet, and others were sitting with vacant faces, looking as if life had no attraction for them. "will you address them, squire?" asked mrs. fogson. "ahem!" said the squire, straightening up and looking around him with the air of a benignant father. "i will say a few words." "attention all!" exclaimed mrs. fogson in a sharp voice. "squire dixon has consented to make a few remarks. i hope you will appreciate your privilege in hearing him." chapter iii. the scranton poorhouse. "ahem!" began squire dixon, clearing his throat; "the announcement of my friend mrs. fogson furnishes me with a text. i hope you all appreciate your privileges in sharing this comfortable home at the expense of the town. here all your material wants are cared for, and though you are without means, you need have no anxiety. a well-filled board is spread for you three times a day, and you enjoy the maternal care of mrs. fogson." here there was a shrill laugh from one of the old women. squire dixon frowned, and mrs. fogson looked anything but maternal as she scowled at the offending "boarder." "i am surprised at this unseemly interruption," said squire dixon severely. "i am constrained to believe that there is at least one person present who does not appreciate the privileges of this happy home. you are probably all aware that i am the overseer of the poor, and that it was through my agency that the services of mr. and mrs. fogson were obtained." here it would have been in order for some one to propose "three cheers for mr. and mrs. fogson," but instead all looked gloomy and depressed. "i don't know that i have any more to say," concluded squire dixon after a pause. "i will only exhort you to do your duty in the position in which providence has placed you, and to give as little trouble as possible to your good friends mr. and mrs. fogson." here there was another cackling laugh, which caused mrs. fogson to look angry. "i'm on to you, sally stokes," she said sharply. "you'll have to go without your supper to-night." the poor, half-witted creature immediately burst into tears, and rocked to and fro in a dismal manner. "you have done perfectly right in rebuking such unseemly behavior, mrs. fogson," said squire dixon. "i didn't mind the insult to myself, squire," returned mrs. fogson meekly. "it made me angry to have you insulted while you were making your interesting remarks. the paupers are very ill-behaved; i give you my word that i slave for them from morning till night, and you see how i am repaid." "mrs. fogson, virtue is its own reward," observed the squire solemnly. "it has to be in my case," said mrs. fogson; "but it comforts me to think that you at least appreciate my efforts." "i do; i do, indeed! you can always rely upon me to--to--in a word, to back you up." here a diversion was made by the appearance of mr. fogson and the two boys. "oh, simeon!" exclaimed mrs. fogson impulsively. "you don't know what you have lost." mr. fogson mechanically glanced at his vest to see whether his watch-chain and the watch appended were gone. "what have i lost?" he demanded. "squire dixon's interesting speech to the paupers. it was truly eloquent." "my dear mrs. fogson," said the squire, looking modest, "you quite overrate my simple words." "they were simple, but they were to the point," said the lady of the poorhouse, "and i hope--i do hope that the paupers will lay them to heart." there was an amused smile on the face of jed, who was sharp enough to see through the shallow humbug which was being enacted before him. he understood very well the interested motives of mrs. fogson, and why she saw fit to flatter the town official from whom she and her husband had received their appointment. "i wish you had heard the squire, too, jed!" said mrs. fogson, detecting the smile on the boy's face. "perhaps, ma'am, you can tell me what he said," returned jed demurely. mrs. fogson was a little taken aback, but she accepted the invitation. "he said you ought to consider yourself very lucky to have such a comfortable home." "i do," said jed with a comical look. "i am glad to hear it," said mrs. fogson, suspiciously, "though it hasn't always looked that way, i am bound to say." "are you going to stay much longer, father?" asked percy, who was getting tired. "perhaps we had better go," said squire dixon. "we have staid quite a while." "when do you have dinner?" asked percy, turning to jed. "in about an hour. i have no doubt mrs. fogson will invite you, if you would like to stay." "_me_--eat with paupers?" retorted percy with fine scorn. "i don't think you would like it," said jed. "i don't." "why, you are a pauper yourself." "i don't think so. i earn my living, such as it is. i work from morning till night." "what do they give you for dinner?" asked percy, moved by curiosity. "mrs. fogson puts a bone in the boiler and makes bone soup," answered jed gravely. "you can't tell how good it is till you try it." "is there anything else?" "a few soggy potatoes, and some stale bread without butter." "don't you have tea?" "once on sundays. it don't do to pamper us, you know." "do you have puddings or pies?" "no; the town can't afford it," returned jed without a smile. "what do you think of our bill of fare?" "pretty mean, i think. do mr. and mrs. fogson eat with you?" "no; they eat later, in the small room adjoining." "do they have the same dinner as you?" "sometimes they have roast chicken, and the other day when i went into the room there was a plum pudding on the table." percy laughed. "just what i thought. the old man and old woman aren't going to get left." "i don't know about that." "what do you mean?" "i'll explain another time," said jed, nodding. "i wish i was overseer of the poor." "what would you do?" "i'd turn out the fogsons and put back mr. and mrs. avery." "father says they spoiled the paupers." "at any rate they didn't starve them." "old fogson is saving money to the town--so father says." "wait till the end of the year. you'll find the town will have just as much to pay. what they save off the food they will put into their own pockets." "what are you talking about?" asked mrs. fogson suspiciously. jed did not have to reply, for percy took offense at what he rightly judged to be a piece of impertinence. "mrs. fogson," he said, "what we are talking about is no concern of yours." a bright red spot showed itself in either cheek of mrs. fogson, and she would have annihilated the speaker if she could; but she was politic, and remembered that percy was the son of the overseer. "i didn't mean any offense, master percy," she said. "it was simply a playful remark on my part." "i'm glad to hear it," responded percy. "you didn't look very playful." squire dixon was conversing with mr. fogson, and didn't hear this little conversation. "i am just digging my potatoes," said fogson deferentially. "i have some excellent jackson whites. i will send you round a bushel to try." "you are very kind, mr. fogson," said the squire, smiling urbanely. "i shall appreciate them, you may be sure. mr. avery never would have made me such an offer. it is clear to me that you are the right man in the right place." "i am proud to hear you say so, squire dixon. with such an overseer of the poor as you are, i am sure the interests of the town will be safe." "thank you! good-by." "come again soon, squire," said mrs. fogson with a frosty smile. she did not extend a similar invitation to percy, who had wounded her pride by his unceremonious words. "they are very worthy people, percy," said the squire as they rode away. "do you think so, father? i don't admire your taste." "my son, i am surprised at you," but in his secret heart the squire agreed with percy. soon after squire dixon and percy left the poorhouse dinner was served. it answered very well the description given by jed. though the boy was hungry, he found it almost impossible to eat his portion, scanty though it was. "turning up your nose at your dinner as usual!" said mrs. fogson sharply. "if you don't like it you can get another boarding-house." "i think i shall," answered jed. "what do you mean by that?" demanded mrs. fogson quickly. "if the board doesn't improve i shall dry up and blow away," returned jed. mrs. fogson sniffed and let the matter drop. towards the close of the afternoon, as jed was splitting wood in the yard, his attention was drawn to a runaway horse which was speeding down the road at breakneck speed, while a lady's terrified face was visible looking vainly around in search of help. jed dropped his axe, ran to the bend of the road, and dashed out, waving a branch which he picked up by the roadside. the horse slowed down, and jed, seizing the opportunity, ran to his head, seized him by the bridle, and brought him to a permanent stop. "how brave you are!" said the lady. "will you jump into the buggy and drive me to my home? i don't dare to trust myself alone with the horse again." jed did as desired, and at the end of the ride mrs. redmond (she was the wife of dr. redmond) gave him a dollar, accompanying it with hearty thanks. "i suppose fogson will try to get this dollar away from me," thought jed, "but he won't succeed." chapter iv. an exciting contest. jed was not mistaken. when he returned to the poorhouse supper was ready, and mr. and mrs. fogson were waiting for him with sour and angry faces. "where have you been?" demanded fogson. "absent on business," announced jed coolly. "don't you know that your business is to stay here and work?" "i have been working all day." "no, you haven't. you have been to the village." "i had a good reason for going." "why didn't you ask permission of me or mrs. fogson?" "because there wasn't time." "you are two minutes late for supper. i've a good mind to let you go without," said mrs. fogson. "it wouldn't be much of a loss," answered jed, not looking much alarmed. "you are getting more and more impudent every day. why do you say there wasn't time to ask permission to leave your work?" "because the runaway horse wouldn't stop while i was asking." "what runaway horse?" demanded fogson with sudden interest. "while i was splitting wood i saw dr. redmond's wife being run away with. she looked awfully frightened. i ran out to the bend and stopped the horse. then she wanted me to drive her home, for she was afraid he would run off again." "is that so? well, of course that makes a difference. did she give you anything?" "now it's coming," thought jed. "yes," he answered. "how much?" asked mr. fogson with a greedy look. "a dollar." "quite handsome, on my word. well, hand it over." "what?" ejaculated jed. "give me the dollar!" said fogson in a peremptory tone. "the dollar is mine." "you are a pauper. you can't hold any property. it's against the law." "is it? who told you so?" "no matter who told me so. i hope i understand the law." "i hope i understand my rights." "boy, this is trifling. you'd better not make me any trouble, or you will find yourself in a bad box." "what do you want to do with the dollar?" "none of your business! i shall keep it." "i have no doubt you will if you get it, but it is mine," said jed firmly. "mrs. fogson," said her husband solemnly, "did you ever hear of such perverseness?" "no. the boy is about the worst i ever see." "mr. fogson," said jed, "when mr. avery was here i had money given me several times, though never as much as this. he never thought of asking me for it, but always allowed me to spend it for myself." "mr. avery and i are two different persons," remarked mr. fogson with asperity. "you are right, there," said jed, in hearty concurrence with the speaker. "and he was very unwise to let you keep the money. if it was five cents, now, i wouldn't mind," continued mr. fogson with noteworthy liberality. "but a dollar! you couldn't be trusted to spend a sum like that properly at your age." "i am almost sixteen," said jed significantly. "no matter if you are. you are still a mere boy. but i don't propose to waste any more words. hand over that money!" jed felt that the critical moment had come. he must submit to a flagrant piece of injustice or resist. he determined to resist. he met fogson's glance firmly and resolutely, and uttered but two words: "i won't!" "did you ever hear such impudence, mrs. fogson?" asked her husband, his face becoming red and mottled in his excitement. "no, simeon, i didn't!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "what shall i do?" "thrash him. it's the only way to cure him of his cantankerous conduct." jed was of good height for his age, and unusually thickset and strong. though poorhouse fare was hardly calculated to give him strength, he had an intimate friend and school companion on a farm near by whose mother often gave him a substantial meal, so that he alone of the inmates of the poorhouse could afford to be comparatively indifferent to the mean table kept by the managers. jed was five feet six, and simeon fogson but two inches taller. fogson, however, was not a well man. he was a dyspeptic, and frequently indulged in alcoholic drinks, which, as my young readers doubtless know, have a direct tendency to impair physical vigor. "get me the whip, gloriana," said mr. fogson fiercely, addressing his wife by her rather uncommon first name. "i will see whether this young upstart is to rule you and me and the whole establishment." "i don't care about ruling anybody except myself," said jed. "you can't rule yourself. i am put in authority over you." "who put you in authority over me?" asked jed defiantly. "the town." "and did the town give you leave to rob me? answer me that!" "did you ever hear the like?" exclaimed mrs. fogson, raising her arms in almost incredulous surprise. by this time mr. fogson had the whip in his hand, and with an air of enjoyment drew the lash through his fingers. "take off your coat!" he said. "i would rather keep it on," replied jed undauntedly. "it won't do you any good. i shall strike hard enough for you to feel it even if you had two coats on." "you'd better not!" said jed, eyeing mr. fogson warily. "are you going to stand the boy's impudence, simeon?" demanded his wife sharply. "no, i'm not;" and simeon fogson, flourishing the whip, brought it down on jed's shoulders and back. then something happened which took the poorhouse superintendent by surprise. jed sprang toward him, and, grasping the whip with energy, tore it from his grasp, and with angry and inflamed face confronted his persecutor. mr. fogson turned pale, and looked undecided what to do. "shall i hold him, simeon?" asked his wife venomously. "no; i'm a match for a half-grown boy like him," returned fogson, ashamed to ask for help in so unequal a contest. he sprang forward and grabbed jed, who accepted the gage of battle and clinched with his adversary. a moment afterward they were rolling on the floor, first one being uppermost, then the other. chapter v. jed secures an ally. it was trying to mrs. fogson to see her husband apparently getting the worst of it from "that young viper," as she mentally apostrophized jed, and she longed to take a part, notwithstanding her husband's refusal to accept her assistance. a bright but malicious idea struck her. she seized a tin dipper and filled it half full from the tea-kettle, the water in which was almost scalding. then she seized an opportunity to empty it over jed. but unfortunately for the success of her amiable plan, by the time she was ready to pour it out it was mr. fogson who was exposed, and he received the whole of the water on his neck and shoulder. "help! help! murder!" he shrieked in anguish. "you have scalded me, you--you she cat!" as he spoke he released his hold on jed, who sprang to his feet and stood watching for the next movement of the enemy. "did i scald you, simeon?" asked mrs. fogson in dismay. "yes; i am almost dead. get some flour and sweet oil--quick!" "i didn't mean to," said his wife repentantly. "i meant it for that boy." "you're an idiot!" roared fogson, stamping his foot. "go and get the oil--quick!" mrs. fogson, much frightened, hurried to obey orders, and the next fifteen minutes were spent in allaying the anguish of her lord and master, who made it very unpleasant for her by his bitter complaints and upbraidings. "i think i'd better get out of this," thought jed. "the old woman will be trying to scald me next." he disappeared through the side door, leaving the amiable couple busily but not pleasantly employed. he had scarcely left the house when dr. redmond drove up, his errand being to see one of the inmates of the poorhouse. "how are you, jed?" he said pleasantly. "my wife tells me you did her a great service to-day?" "i was glad to do it, doctor," said jed. "here's a dollar. i am sure you can use it." "but, doctor, mrs. redmond gave me a dollar." "never mind! you can use both." "thank you," said jed. "you'd better go right in, doctor; mrs. fogson has just scalded her husband, and he is in great pain." "how did it happen?" asked the doctor in amazement. "go in and they'll tell you," said jed. "i'll see you afterwards and tell you whether their story is correct." when mr. and mrs. fogson saw the doctor enter they were overjoyed. "oh, dr. redmond," groaned fogson, "do something to relieve me quick. i'm in terrible pain." "what's the matter?" asked dr. redmond. "i am scalded." "how did it happen?" "_she_ did it!" said fogson, pointing scornfully to mrs. fogson. dr. redmond set himself at once to relieve the suffering one, making use of the remedies that fogson himself had suggested to his wife. when the patient was more comfortable he turned gravely to mrs. fogson and asked: "will you explain how your husband got scalded?" "the woman poured hot water on me," interrupted fogson with an ugly scowl. "it would serve her right if i treated her in the same manner." "you don't mean that she did it on purpose, mr. fogson?" exclaimed the doctor. "of course i didn't," retorted mrs. fogson indignantly. "i meant it for jed." "you meant to scald jed?" said the doctor sternly. "yes; he assaulted my husband, and i feared he would kill him. it was all the way i could help." "mrs. fogson, i can hardly believe you would be guilty of such an atrocious act even on your own confession, nor can i believe that jed would assault your husband without good cause." "it is true, whether you believe it or not," said mrs. fogson sullenly. dr. redmond's answer was to open the outer door and call "jed!" jed entered at once, and stood in the presence of his persecutors, calm and undisturbed. "jed," said the doctor, "mrs. fogson admits that she scalded her husband in trying to scald you, and urges, in defense, that you assaulted mr. fogson. what do you say to this?" "that mr. fogson struck me over the shoulder with a horsewhip, and that i pulled it away from him. upon this he sprang at me, and in self-defense i grappled with him, and while we were rolling over the floor mrs. fogson poured a dipper of hot water over her husband, meaning it for me." "is this true, mr. fogson?" asked the doctor. "yes, it's about so. mrs. fogson acted like an idiot." "if she had scalded jed instead of you, would you say the same thing?" "well, of course that would have been different." "i can see no difference," said dr. redmond sternly. "it was not an idiotic, but a brutal and inhuman act." "come, doctor, that's rather strong," protested fogson uncomfortably. "it is not too strong! i don't think there is a person in the village but would agree with me. had the victim of the scalding been jed, i would have reported the matter to the authorities. now tell me why you attempted to horsewhip the boy?" "because he was impudent," replied fogson evasively. "and that was all?" "he disobeyed me." "jed, let me hear your version of the story." "mr. fogson knew that i had a dollar given me by mrs. redmond, and he called upon me to give it up to him. i wouldn't do it, and upon that he tried to horsewhip me." "you see he owns up to his disobeying me, doctor," put in fogson triumphantly. "why did you require him to give you the dollar, mr. fogson?" "because he is a pauper, and a pauper has no right to hold money." "i won't discuss that point. what did you propose to do with the dollar in case you had obtained it from jed?" "as you are not overseer of the poor, dr. redmond, i don't know that i have any call to tell you. when squire dixon asks me i will make it all straight with him." "probably," answered the doctor in a significant tone, for he as well as others understood that there was some secret compact between mr. fogson and the town official, and he had earnestly opposed squire dixon at the polls. "not only you, but squire dixon will have to give an account of your stewardship," he said. "if any outrage should be committed against the boy jed, or any one else in this establishment, you will find that making it straight with squire dixon won't be sufficient." "i will report what you say to squire dixon," said fogson defiantly. "i wish you would. i shouldn't object to saying the same thing to his face. now, mrs. fogson, if you will lead the way i will go and see mrs. connolly." "come along, then," said mrs. fogson, compressing her thin lips. "i don't believe there is anything the matter with that old woman." "i am a better judge of that matter than you, mrs. fogson." the poor old woman looked thin and wan, and hardly had strength to lift up her head to meet the doctor's glance. after a brief examination he said: "your trouble is nervous debility. you have no strength. what you need is nourishment. do you have tea three times a day, mrs. connolly?" "only once a week, doctor," wailed the poor old woman, bursting into tears. "only once a week!" repeated the doctor shocked. "what does this mean, mrs. fogson?" "it means, dr. redmond," answered the mistress of the poorhouse, "that this is not a first-class hotel." "i should say not," commented the doctor. "how often did you have tea, mrs. connolly, when mr. and mrs. avery were here?" "at breakfast and supper, and on sundays three times a day." "precisely. what do you say to that, mrs. fogson?" "i say, as everybody says, that the averys squandered the town's money." "they certainly didn't put it into their own pockets. the town, i think i am safe in saying, doesn't mean to starve the poor people whom it provides for. do i understand that you are actuated by a desire to save the town's money?" "of course i am, and squire dixon approves all i do," answered mrs. fogson defiantly. "if he approves your withholding the necessities of life from those under your charge he is unfit for his position. when the accounts of the poorhouse are audited at the end of the year i shall make a searching examination, and ascertain how much less they are under your administration than under that of your predecessors." judging from her looks, mrs. fogson was aching to scratch dr. redmond's eyes out; but as he was not a pauper she was compelled to restrain her anger. "now, mrs. connolly," said the doctor, "you are to have tea twice a day, and three times on sunday. i shall see that it is given to you," he added, with a significant glance at mrs. fogson. "oh, how glad i am!" said the poor creature. "god bless you, dr. redmond!" "mrs. fogson," went on the doctor, "do you limit yourself to tea once a week?" "i ain't a pauper, dr. redmond!" replied mrs. fogson indignantly. "no; you are much stronger than a pauper, and could bear the deprivation better. let me tell you that you needn't be afraid to supply decent food to the poor people in your charge. it won't cost any more than it did under the averys, for prices are, on the whole, cheaper." "perhaps if it does cost more you'll pay it out of your own pocket." "i contribute already to the support of the poorhouse, being a large taxpayer, and i give my medical services without exacting payment. the town is not mean, and i will see that no fault is found with reasonable bills." "i wish you'd fall and break your neck, you old meddler," thought mrs. fogson, but she did not dare to say this. "one thing more, madam!" said the doctor, who had now entered the room where jed and her husband were; "reserve your hot water for its legitimate uses. no more scalding, if you please." "that's well put, doctor!" growled fogson. "if she wants to scald anybody else, she had better try herself." "that's all the gratitude i get for taking your part, simeon fogson," said the exasperated helpmeet. "the next time, jed may beat you black and blue for all i care." "it strikes me," remarked the doctor dryly, "that your husband is a match for a boy of sixteen, and need be under no apprehension. no more horsewhips, mr. fogson, if _you_ please, and don't trouble yourself about any small sums that jed may receive. jed, jump into my buggy, and i will take you home with me. i think mrs. redmond will give you some supper." "the boy hasn't done his chores," said mrs. fogson maliciously. "very well, i will make a bargain with you. don't object to his going, and i won't charge mr. fogson anything for my attendance upon him just now." this appeal to the selfish interests of mr. fogson had its effect, and jed jumped into the doctor's buggy with eager alacrity. chapter vi mr. fogson makes up his mind. "i don't know, jed, whether i can make up to you for the supper you will lose at the poorhouse," observed the doctor jocosely. "mrs. redmond may not be as good a cook as mrs. fogson." "i will risk it," said jed. "is the fare much worse than it was when mrs. avery was in charge?" "very much worse. i don't mind it much myself, for i often get a meal at fred morrison's, but the poor old people have a hard time." "i will make it my business to see that there is an improvement." "dr. redmond," said jed after a pause, "do you think it would be wrong for me to run away from the poorhouse?" "have you any such intention?" asked the doctor quickly. "yes; i think i can earn my own living, and a better living than i have there. i am young and strong, and i am not afraid to try." "as to that, jed, i don't see why there should be any objection to your making the attempt. the town of scranton ought not to object to lessening the number it is required to support." "mr. and mrs. fogson would object. they would miss my work." "have you ever spoken to them on the subject?" "i did one day, and they said i would have to stay till i was twenty-one." "that is not true." "i don't think i could stay that long," said jed soberly. "i should be dead before that time if i had to live with mr. and mrs. fogson, and fared no better. besides, you see how i am dressed. i should think you would be ashamed to have me at your table." jed's clothes certainly were far from becoming. they were of unknown antiquity, and were two sizes too small for him, so that the sleeves and the legs of the trousers were so scant as to attract attention. in his working hours he wore a pair of overalls, but those he took off when he accepted dr. redmond's invitation. "i didn't invite your clothes, jed; i invited you," responded the doctor. "i confess, however, that your suit is pretty shabby. how long have you worn it?" "it was given me nearly two years ago." "and you have had no other since?" "no. if i stayed there till i was twenty-one i expect i should have to wear the same old things." dr. redmond laughed. "i am bound to say, jed, that in that case you would cut a comical figure. however, i don't think it will be as bad as that. my son ross is in college. he is now twenty. i will ask my wife to look about the house and see if there isn't an old suit of his that will fit you. it will, at any rate, be a good deal better than this." "thank you, doctor; but will you save it till i am ready to leave scranton?" "yes, jed. i will have it put in a bundle, and it will be ready for you any time you call for it." "there's another thing, doctor. i think mr. fogson will try to get my money away, notwithstanding all you said." "he wouldn't dare to." "he is very cunning. he will find some excuse." jed was right. to prove this, we will go back to the poorhouse and relate the conversation between the well-matched pair after dr. redmond's departure. "simeon," said his wife, "if you had any spunk you wouldn't let dr. redmond insult and bully you, as he did just now." "what would you have me to do?" demanded her husband irritably. "i couldn't knock him down, could i?" "no, but you could have talked up to him." "i did; but you must remember that he is an important man in the town, and it wouldn't be wise to make him an enemy." "squire dixon is still more important. if he backs you up you needn't be afraid of this trumpery doctor." "well, what would you advise?" "go this evening and see the squire. tell him what has happened, and if he gives you authority to take jed's money, take it." "really, that is a good suggestion, mrs. f. i will go soon after supper." "it would do no good to triumph over dr. redmond. he is an impertinent meddler." "so he is. i agree with you there." soon after seven o'clock squire dixon was somewhat surprised when the servant ushered mr. fogson into his presence. "ah, fogson," he exclaimed. "i was not expecting to see you. has anything gone wrong?" "i should think so. jed has rebelled against my lawful authority, and dr. redmond is aiding and abetting him in it." "you astonish me, fogson. are you sure you are not mistaken?" "i'll tell you the whole story, squire, and you can judge for yourself." upon this mr. fogson gave an account of the scenes that had taken place in the poorhouse, including his contest with jed, and mrs. fogson's ill-judged attempt to assist him. "certainly, you were in bad luck," said the squire. "is the injury serious?" "the burn is very painful, squire. mrs. fogson acted like an idiot. why didn't she take better aim?" "to be sure, to be sure. wasn't the boy scalded at all?" "not a particle," answered fogson in an aggrieved tone. "now, what i want to know is, didn't i have a right to take the money from jed?" "yes, i think so. the boy would probably have made bad use of it." "the ground i take, squire, is that a pauper has no right to possess money." "i quite agree with you. since the town maintains him, the town should have a right to exact any money of which he becomes accidentally possessed." "i don't quite see that the town should have it," said fogson. "as the boy's official guardian, i think i ought to keep it, to use for the boy whenever i thought it judicious." "yes, i think that view is correct. i had only given the point a superficial consideration." "dr. redmond denies this. he says i have no right to take the money from jed." "dr. redmond's view is not entitled to any weight. he has no official right to intermeddle." "you'd think he had, by the manner in which he lectured mrs. fogson and myself. i never heard such impudence." "dr. redmond assumes too much. he doesn't appear to understand that i, and not he, was appointed overseer of the poor." "he says you are not fit for the position," said fogson, transcending the limits of strict accuracy, as the reader will understand. "what?" ejaculated squire dixon, his face flushing angrily. "that's just what he said," repeated fogson, delighted by the effect of his misrepresentations. "it's my belief that he wanted the office himself." "very likely, very likely!" said the squire angrily. "do i understand you to say that he actually called me unfit for the position?" "yes he did. he appears to think that he can boss you and mrs. f. and myself. why, he stood by that boy, though he had actually assaulted me, and invited him home to supper." "you don't mean this, mr. fogson?" "yes i do. jed is at this very moment at the doctor's house. what mischief they are concocting i can't tell, but i am sure that i shall have more trouble with the boy." squire dixon was very much disturbed. he was a vain man, and his pride sustained a severe shock when told that the doctor considered him unfit for his position. "however," resumed the crafty fogson, "i suppose we shall have to give in to the doctor." "give in!" exclaimed the squire, his face turning purple. "never, mr. fogson, never!" "i hate to give in, i confess, squire, but the doctor is a prominent man, and----" "prominent man! i should like to know whether i am not a prominent man also, mr. fogson? moreover, i represent the town, and dr. redmond doesn't." "i am glad you will stand by me, squire. with you on my side, i will not fear." "i will stand by you, mr. fogson." "i should hate to be triumphed over by a mere boy." "you shall not be, mr. fogson." "then will you authorize me to demand the money from him?" "i will authorize you, mr. fogson, and if the boy persists in refusing, i authorize you to use coercive measures. do you understand?" "i believe i do, squire. you will let it be understood that you have given me authority, won't you? suppose the boy complains to dr. redmond?" "you may refer dr. redmond to me, mr. fogson," said the squire pompously. "i think i shall be tempted to give this meddling doctor a piece of my mind." mr. fogson took leave of the squire and pursued his way homeward with a smile on his face. he had accomplished what he desired, and secured a powerful ally in his campaign against the boy jed and dr. redmond. he returned home a little after eight, and just before nine jed made his appearance at the door of the poorhouse. he was in good spirits, for he had decided that he would soon turn his back upon the place which had been his home for fourteen years. chapter vii. fogson's mistake. "so you have got home?" said mr. fogson with an unpleasant smile as he opened the door to admit jed later that evening. "yes, sir." "you had a pleasant time, i presume?" "yes, sir," answered jed, wondering to what all these questions tended. "i suppose dr. redmond put himself out to entertain such a distinguished guest?" "no, mr. fogson, i don't think he did." "he didn't make arrangements to run the poorhouse, with your help, did he?" "no," answered jed with emphasis. "we ought to be thankful, mrs. fogson and i, humbly thankful, that we ain't to be turned out by this high and mighty doctor." "if you don't like the doctor you had better tell him so," said jed; "he don't need me to defend him." "do you know where i've been to-night?" queried fogson, changing his tone. "how could i tell?" "i've been to see squire dixon." "well, sir, i suppose you had a right to. i hope you had a pleasant call." "i did, and what's more, i told him of dr. redmond's impertinent interference with me in my management of the poorhouse. he told me not to pay any attention to redmond, but to be guided by him. so long as he was satisfied with me, it was all right." "you'd better tell dr. redmond that when he calls here next time." "i shall; but there's something i've got to say to you. he said i had a perfect right to take the dollar from you, for as a pauper you had no right to hold property of any kind. that's what squire dixon says. now hand over that money, or you'll get into trouble." "i wouldn't give the money to squire dixon himself," answered jed boldly. "you wouldn't, hey? i'll tell him that. you'll give it to me to-night, though." he put out his hand to seize jed, but the boy quietly moved aside, and said, "you can't get the money from me to-night, mr. fogson." "why can't i? there's no dr. redmond to take your part now. why can't i, i'd like to know?" "because i haven't got it." "what!" exclaimed fogson. "do you mean to say you've spent it already? if you have----" "no, i haven't spent it, but i have given it to dr. redmond to keep for me." fogson showed in his face his intense disappointment. he expected to get the money without fail, and lo! the victory was snatched from him. he glared at jed, and seemed about to pounce upon him, but he thought better of it. "you'll go and get the money in the morning," he said. "you and dr. redmond are engaged in a conspiracy against the town and the laws, and i am not sure but i could have you both arrested. mind, if that money is not handed to me to-morrow you will get a thrashing. now go to bed!" jed was not sorry to avail himself of this permission. he had not enjoyed the interview with mr. fogson, and he felt tired and in need of rest. accordingly he went up stairs to the attic, where there was a cot bed under the bare rafters, which he usually occupied. there had been another boy, three months before, who had shared the desolate room with him, but he had been bound out to a farmer, and now jed was the sole occupant. tired as he was, he did not go to sleep immediately. he undressed himself slowly in the obscurity, for he was not allowed a lamp, and made a movement to get into bed. but a surprise awaited him. his extended hand came in contact with a human face, and one on which there was a mustache. somebody was in his bed! naturally, jed was startled. "who are you?" he inquired. "who'm i? i'm a gentleman," was the drowsy reply. "you're in my bed," said jed, annoyed as well as surprised. "where is _my_ bed?" hiccoughed the other. "i don't know. how did you get in here?" "i came in when no one was lookin'," answered the intruder. "zis a hotel?" "no; it's the scranton poorhouse." "you don't say? dad always told me i'd end up in the poorhouse, but i didn't expect to get there so quick." "you'd better get up and go down stairs. fogson wouldn't like to have you stay here all night." "who's fogson?" "he is the manager of the poorhouse." "who cares for fogson? i don't b'lieve fogson is a gen'leman." "nor i," inwardly assented jed. this was the last word that he could get from the intruder, who coolly turned over and began to snore. fortunately for jed, there was another cot bed--the one formerly occupied by the other boy--and he got into it. fatigued by the events of the day, jed soon slept a sound and refreshing sleep. in fact his sleep was so sound that it is doubtful whether a thunderstorm would have awakened him. towards morning the occupant of the other bed turned in such a way as to lie on his back. this position, as my readers are probably aware, is conducive to heavy snoring, and the intruder availed himself of this to the utmost. mr. and mrs. fogson slept directly underneath, and after awhile, the door leading to the attic being open, the sound of the snoring attracted the attention of mrs. fogson. "simeon!" she said, shaking her recumbent husband. "what is it, mrs. f.?" inquired her lord and master drowsily. "did you hear that?" "did i hear what?" "that terrific snoring. it is loud enough to wake the dead." by this time fogson was fairly awake. "so it is," he assented. "who is it?" "jed, of course. what possesses the boy to snore so?" "can't say, i'm sure. i never heard a boy of his age make such a noise." "it must be stopped, simeon. it can't be more than three o'clock, and if it continues i shan't sleep another wink." "well, go up and stop it." "it is more suitable for you to go, mr. fogson. i do believe the boy is snoring out of spite." even fogson laughed at this idea. "he couldn't do that unless he snored when he was awake," he replied. "it isn't easy to snore when you are not asleep. if you don't believe it, try it." "i am ashamed of you, simeon. do you think i would demean myself by any such low action? if that snoring isn't stopped right off i shall go into a fit." "i wouldn't like to have you do that," said fogson, rather amused. "it would be rather worse than hearing jed snore." about this time there was an unusual outburst on the part of the sleeper. "a little hot water would fix him," said fogson. "it is a pity you had not saved your hot water till to-night." "cold water would do just as well." "so it would. mrs. f., that's a bright idea. i owe the boy a grudge for giving his money to dr. redmond. i'll go down stairs and get a clipper of cold water, and i'll see if i can't stop the boy's noise." mr. fogson went down stairs, chuckling, as he went, at the large joke he was intending to perpetrate. it would not be so bad as being scalded, but it would probably be very disagreeable to jed to be roused from a sound sleep by a dash of cold water. "i hope he won't wake up before i get there," thought mr. fogson, as he descended to the kitchen in his stocking feet to procure the water. he pumped for a minute or two in order that the water might be colder, and then with the dipper in hand ascended two flights of stairs to the attic. up there it was still profoundly dark. there was but one window, and that was screened by a curtain. moreover, it was very dark outside. mr. fogson, however, was not embarrassed, for he knew just where jed's bed was situated, and, even if he had not, the loud snoring, which still continued, would have been sufficient to guide him to the place. "it beats me how a boy can snore like that," soliloquized fogson. "he must have eaten something at dr. redmond's that didn't agree with him. if i didn't know it was jed i should feel frightened at such an unearthly hubbub. however, it won't continue long," and fogson laughed to himself as he thought of the sensation which his dipper of water was likely to produce. he approached a little nearer, and in spite of the darkness could see the outlines of a form on the bed, but he could not see clearly enough to make out the difference between it and jed's. he poised himself carefully, and then dashed the water vigorously into the face of the sleeping figure. the results were not exactly what he had anticipated. chapter viii. mr. fogson is astonished. the sleeper had already slept off pretty nearly all the effects of his potations, and the sudden cold bath restored him wholly to himself. but it also aroused in him a feeling of anger, justifiable under the circumstances, and, not belonging to the peace society, he was moved to punish the person to whom he was indebted for his unpleasant experience. with a smothered imprecation he sprang from the bed and seized the astonished fogson by the throat, while he shook him violently. "you--you--scoundrel!" he ejaculated. "i'll teach you to play such a scurvy trick on a gentleman." mr. fogson screamed in fright. he did not catch his late victim's words, and was still under the impression that it was jed who had tackled him. meanwhile the intruder was flinging him about and bumping him against the floor so forcibly that mrs. fogson's attention was attracted. indeed, she was at the foot of the stairs, desiring to enjoy jed's dismay when drenched with the contents of the tin dipper. "what's the matter, simeon?" she cried. "jed's killing me!" called out fogson in muffled tones. "you don't mean to say you ain't a match for that boy!" ejaculated mrs. fogson scornfully. "i'll come up and help you." disregarding her light attire she hurried up stairs, and was astonished beyond measure when she saw how unceremoniously her husband was being handled. she rushed to seize jed, when she found her hands clutching a mustache. "why, it ain't jed!" she screamed in dismay. "no, it ain't jed," said the intruder. "did you mean that soaking for jed, whoever he is?" "yes, yes, it was--quite a mistake!" gasped fogson. "i am glad to hear you say so, for i meant to fling you down stairs, and might have broken your neck." "oh, what a dreadful man!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "how came you here and where is jed?" "i am here!" answered jed, who had waked up two or three minutes previous and was enjoying the defeat of his persecutor. "did you bring in this man?" demanded mrs. fogson sternly. "no. i walked in myself," answered the intruder. "i was rather mellow--in other words i had drunk too much mixed ale, and i really didn't know where i was. i had an idea that this was a hotel." "you made a mistake, sir. this is the scranton poorhouse." "so the boy told me when he came in. i wouldn't have taken a bed here if i had known your playful way of pouring cold water on your guests." "sir, apart from your assault on me, _me_, the master of the poorhouse," said fogson, trying to recover some of his lost dignity, "you committed a trespass in entering the house without permission and appropriating a bed." "all right, old man, but just remember that i was drunk." "i don't think that is an excuse." "isn't it? just get drunk yourself, and see what you'll do." "i don't allow mr. fogson to get drunk," said his wife with asperity. "maybe my wife wouldn't let me, if there was any such a person, but i haven't been so fortunate as mr. fogson, if that is his name." "mrs. f.," said her husband with a sudden thought, "you are not dressed for company." mrs. fogson, upon this hint, scuttled down stairs, and the intruder resumed: "if i've taken a liberty i'm willing to apologize. what's more, i'll pay you fifty cents for the use of your bed and stay the night out." he was appealing to mr. fogson's weak point, which was a love of money. "i see you're ready to do the square thing," he said in softened accents. "if you'll say seventy-five----" "no, i won't pay over fifty. i don't care to take it another night on those terms, if i am to be waked up by a dipper of water. you've wet the sheet and pillow so that i may take my death of cold if i sleep here any longer." "i'll bring you a comforter which you can lay over the wet clothes." "all right! bring it up and i'll hand you the fifty cents." "and--and if you would like breakfast in the morning, for the small extra sum of twenty-five cents----" "isn't that rather steep for a poorhouse breakfast?" "you will not eat with the paupers, of course, but at a private table, with mrs. fogson and myself." "all right! your offer is accepted." mr. fogson brought up the comforter, and the visitor resumed the slumbers which had been so unceremoniously interrupted. the sun rose early, and when its rays crept in through the side window both jed and his companion were awake. "i say, boy, come over here and share my bed. i want to talk to you." jed's curiosity was excited, and he accepted the invitation. he found his roommate to be a good-looking young man of perhaps thirty, and with a pleasant expression. "so you are jed?" he asked. "yes, sir." "and you live in the poorhouse?" "yes," answered jed, half-ashamed to admit it, "but i don't mean to stay here." "good! a smart boy like you ought not to be a pauper. you are able to earn your own living outside. but perhaps you are attached to the queer people who made me a visit last night." "not much!" answered jed emphatically. "i don't admire them much myself. i didn't see the old lady. is she beautiful?" jed laughed heartily. "you'll see her at the breakfast table," he said. "then you can judge for yourself." "i don't think i shall do anything to excite fogson's jealousy. zounds, if this isn't the queerest hotel i ever struck. i am sorry to have taken your bed from you." "i was glad not to be in it when mr. fogson came up." "you're right there," said the other laughing. "whew! how the cold water startled me. sorry to have deprived you of it." "mr. fogson got a dose himself yesterday, only it was hot water." "you don't say so! was that meant for you, too?" "yes;" and jed told the story of his struggle with mr. fogson, and his wife's unfortunate interference. "that's a capital joke," said the visitor laughing. "now i suppose you wonder who i am." "yes; i should like to know." "i'm harry bertram, the actor. i don't know if you ever heard of me." "i never attended the theatre in my life." "is that so? why, you're quite a heathen. never went to a theatre? well, i _am_ surprised." "is it a good business?" asked jed. "sometimes, if the play happens to catch on. when you are stranded five hundred miles from home, and your salary isn't paid, it isn't exactly hilarious." "are you going to play anywhere near here?" asked jed, who was beginning to think he would like to see a performance. "we are billed to play in duncan to-morrow evening, or rather this evening, for it's morning now." "duncan is only five miles away." "if you want to attend i'll give you a pass. it's the least i can do to pay for turning you out of your bed." "i could walk the five miles," said jed. "then come. i'll see you at the door and pass you in. ask for harry bertram." "thank you, mr. bertram." "old fogson won't make a fuss about your going, will he?" "yes, he will; but i've made up my mind to leave the poorhouse, and i might as well leave it to-day as any time." "good! i admire your pluck." "i wish i knew what i could do to make a living." "leave that to me. i'll arrange to have you travel with the show for two or three days and bunk with me. have you got any--any better clothes than those?" and bertram pointed to the dilapidated garments lying on a chair near by. "yes, i am promised a good suit by a friend of mine in the village. i'll go there and put them on before starting." "do; the actors sometimes look pretty tough, but i never saw one dressed like that." "jed!" screamed mrs. fogson from the bottom of the stairs. "you get right up and come down stairs!" "they're calling me," said jed, starting up. "will i have to get up too?" "no; mr. and mrs. fogson don't breakfast till seven. they'll send me up to call you." "all right! we'll soon be travelling together where there are no fogsons." "i hope so," and jed went down stairs with new life in his step. chapter ix. jed leaves the poorhouse. at eight o'clock harry bertram was summoned to breakfast in the private sitting-room of mr. and mrs. fogson. in spite of the poor fare of which the paupers complained the fogsons took care themselves to have appetizing meals, and the well-spread table looked really attractive. "sit down here, mr. bertram," said mrs. fogson, pointing to a seat. the place opposite was vacant, as the heads of the table were occupied by mr. and mrs. fogson. "mrs. fogson," said the actor, "i am going to ask a favor." "what is it?" returned the lady, wreathing her features into a frosty smile. "i see the seat opposite me is unoccupied. will you oblige me by letting the boy jed take it?" mrs. fogson's face changed. "i should prefer not to have him here," she answered in a forbidding tone. "of course i propose to pay for his breakfast the same price that i pay for my own." "the boy is insubordinate and disobedient," said the lady coldly. "still he gave me his bed last night. some boys would have objected." "my dear," said fogson, whose weakness for money has already been mentioned, "i think, as the gentleman has agreed to pay for jed's breakfast, we may give our consent, merely to gratify him." "very well," answered mrs. fogson, resolved to claim the twenty-five cents for herself. she rose from her seat, went to the window, and opening it, called to jed, who was at work in the yard. he speedily made his appearance. "sit down to the table, jedediah," said mr. fogson with dignity. "mr. bertram desires you to breakfast with him." jed was very much surprised, but as he noted the warm biscuit and beefsteak, which emitted an appetizing odor, he felt that it was an invitation not to be rejected. "i am very much obliged to mr. bertram," he said, "and also to you and mrs. fogson." this was a politic remark to make, and he was served as liberally as the guest. "do you find your position a pleasant one, mr. fogson?" asked bertram politely. "no, mr. bertram, far from it. the paupers are a thankless, ungrateful set, but i am sustained by a sense of duty." "the paupers were spoiled by our predecessors, mr. and mrs. avery," chimed in mrs. fogson. "really, mr. bertram, you would be surprised to learn how unreasonable they are. they are always complaining of their meals." "i am sure they must be unreasonable if they complain of meals like this, mrs. fogson," said the actor. "of course we can't afford to treat them like this. the town would object. but we give them as good fare as we can afford. are you going to stay long in scranton?" "no; i am merely passing through. i shall sleep to-night at duncan." "at the poorhouse?" asked jed with a comical smile. "yes, if i could be sure of as good fare as this," replied the actor with an answering smile. "but that would be very doubtful." mrs. fogson, who, cross-grained as she was, was not above flattery, mentally pronounced mr. bertram a most agreeable young man--in fact, a perfect gentleman. "i am really ashamed," continued bertram, "to have entered your house in such a condition, but i was feeling a little internal disturbance, and fancied that whisky would relieve it. unfortunately i took too much." "it might have happened to anyone," said fogson considerately. "i am myself a temperance man, but sometimes i find whisky beneficial to my health." bertram, noticing the ruddy hue of mr. fogson's nose, was quite ready to believe this statement. "may i ask if you are a business man?" remarked fogson. "my business is acting. i belong to the gold king company, which is to play at duncan to-night." "indeed!" said mrs. fogson, with a glance of curiosity. "i never saw an actor before." "i am sorry you should see such an unworthy representative of the thespian art. if we were to play in scranton, it would give me pleasure to offer you and mr. fogson complimentary tickets." "i wish you were to play here," said mrs. fogson in a tone of regret. "i haven't seen a play for five years." "i suppose you couldn't come to duncan?" "no; we could not be spared. besides, we have no horse and carriage," said fogson. "we must wait till you perform in scranton." jed was very much relieved to hear this remark, for it would have interfered with his own plans if mr. and mrs. fogson had accepted an invitation to witness the play at duncan. "is it a good paying business?" asked mr. fogson. "well, so so. my salary is fifty dollars a week." "you don't say so!" exclaimed fogson in envious surprise. "you ought to lay up money." "it seems so, but in the summer we generally have a long vacation. besides, we have to pay our hotel bills; so that, after all, we don't have as much left as you would suppose. besides, we have to buy our costumes, and some of them are quite expensive." in spite of these drawbacks the fogsons evidently looked upon bertram as a wealthy young man. at length they rose from the table. jed had never before eaten such a meal since he entered the poorhouse, and he felt in a degree envious of mr. and mrs. fogson, who probably fared thus every day. when he considered, however, how they nearly starved the poor people of whom they had charge he felt indignant, and could not help wishing that some time they might exchange places with the unfortunate paupers. he went out to the yard again, and resumed his work at the woodpile. harry bertram strolled out and lazily watched him. "i suppose you never did work of this kind, mr. bertram?" said jed. "oh yes, i lived for nearly a year with an aunt who required me to prepare all the wood for the kitchen stove. i can tell you one thing, though, i did not enjoy it, and when i left her i retired forever from that line of business." "are you going to stay in scranton to-day?" "no; i must be getting over to duncan. we have taken on a new actor and shall be obliged to have a rehearsal. will you go along with me?" "i should like to, but it would only get me into trouble. i will start about four o'clock, and go over to dr. redmond's to get the suit of clothes he promised me." "i suppose you won't have to take a trunk of clothes from here?" "about all the clothes i own are on my back. if i leave any behind me, anyone is welcome to them." "do you think there will be any difficulty in your getting away?" "i think i can slip off without being noticed." "do you think they will go after you?" "they might if they suspected where i was going." "then i shall have to help you. join me at the theatre, and it will go hard if, between us, we cannot foil the enemy." "thank you, mr. bertram. you are a real friend." "some people say i am everybody's friend but my own. you can judge for yourself about that when you know me better." harry bertram walked off whistling, and jed was left to his reflections. it is needless to say that he felt in an excited mood, for it seemed to him that he had come to a turning-point in his life. as far back as he could remember he had been an inmate of the scranton poorhouse. when mr. and mrs. avery were in charge he had not minded this much, such was the kindness with which he was treated by those good people. but when, through the influence of squire dixon, they were removed and mr. and mrs. fogson put in their place he began to feel the bitterness of his position. the three months which had passed since then seemed to him like so many years. but now he had resolved, once for all, to end his thralldom, and go out into the great world and see what he could do for himself. circumstances favored him. about half-past three mr. fogson called him down. "i want you to go to squire dixon's and carry this letter," he said. jed's heart leaped with joy. it at once occurred to him that squire dixon lived only about twenty rods from dr. redmond, and that he could call at the doctor's house after doing his errand. "is there any answer?" he asked. "no; i have asked the squire to call here this evening, if he can. he is the overseer, and i wish to consult him." "very well, sir." jed took the letter, glad that no answer would be required. even if there had been, he would have neglected to bring it, for he could not afford to throw away this chance of escape. the distance from the poorhouse to squire dixon's residence was about three-quarters of a mile. jed covered it in less than fifteen minutes. in the front yard percy dixon was strutting about with the airy consequence habitual to him. "what brings you here?" he asked rudely. "i've come with a note for your father. after i've delivered it i will stop a little while and play with you if you want me to." "you needn't trouble yourself. i don't care to play with paupers." "don't call me that again, percy dixon!" said jed, his patience worn out. "what will happen if i do?" demanded percy tauntingly. "i may be obliged to give you a thrashing." chapter x. jed reaches duncan. percy dixon's face flushed with resentment. "do you know who you are talking to?" he demanded. "yes," answered jed coolly. "i am talking to a boy who thinks a great deal more of himself than any one else does." "i would punish you, but i don't want to dirty my hands with you. i'll tell my father, and he'll see that old fogson flogs you." jed smiled. he never meant to see fogson again if he could help it, but he was too wise to impart his plans to percy. at this moment his father came up to the gate, and as he opened it his attention was drawn to jed. "have you come here with any message for me?" he asked. "i have a note for you." "give it to me." "humph!" said the squire, casting his eye over the note. "mr. fogson asks me to call this evening. i will do so." "very well, sir." "father," interrupted percy, "there is to be a play performed at duncan this evening." "is there?" "yes; i saw a bill in the post-office. it's the 'gold king,' i believe. may i go?" "i don't know," said the squire, hesitating. "mr. fogson wants me to call at the poorhouse." "if you don't care about going, i can drive mother and alice over. you know you promised we should attend the next theatrical performance anywhere near." "if your mother and alice would like to go i have no objection. you must drive carefully, and you can leave the horses in the hotel stable." "all right," said percy joyfully. "did you ever go to a theatre?" he asked jed in a patronizing tone. "no." "i have been quite often," said percy complacently. "but, of course, paupers can't attend amusements." "you may change your mind this evening," thought jed. jed went at once to the doctor's house. dr. redmond had just arrived from a round of visits. "good morning, jed," he said pleasantly. "good morning, dr. redmond." "do you want to see me?" "i have come to claim your promise," said jed. "what is that?" "you promised me a suit of clothes when i got ready to leave the poorhouse." dr. redmond's face instantly assumed a look of interest. "and you have decided to take this important step?" he said. "yes, doctor. i am tired of being called a pauper. i am sure i can earn my own living, and i mean to try it." "i don't know but you are right, jed. at any rate, you have my best wishes. come into the house, and i will ask mrs. redmond to look up the suit. if i am not mistaken you will need other things also--socks, handkerchiefs, and underclothing." "i need them, no doubt, but i don't want to ask too much." "i think mrs. redmond can fit you out. and, by the way, i think you can manage a little supper. in what direction are you going?" "to duncan." "why there, in particular?" "i have a friend there." "who is it?" "harry bertram, the actor." dr. redmond looked surprised. "how did you get acquainted with him?" jed told the story. the incident of fogson's assault on the sleeping actor and his defeat amused the doctor not a little. "he may be of service to you," he said. "at any rate, an actor sees a good deal of the world, and he may be able to give you some advice. now put on your clothes and see what a transformation they will make." mrs. redmond took jed up to a small chamber belonging to her absent son, and laid the clothing on the bed, advising jed to go into the bathroom close by and take a good bath. when, half an hour or more later, he descended to the floor below, dr. redmond started in surprise. in place of the poorhouse drudge there stood before him a good-looking boy, attired in a brown suit, with clean linen and his hair neatly brushed. dr. and mrs. redmond exchanged glances. "i wouldn't believe clothes made such a difference," exclaimed the doctor. "nor i," chimed in his wife. the same idea came into the mind of each. jed's personal appearance would do credit to any family, however exclusive. yet he had been brought up in the scranton poorhouse, and associated with paupers all his life. "i mustn't forget to give you your money," said the doctor, and he put a roll of bills into jed's hand. "but here is five dollars!" said jed. "it was only two you had of mine." "take the five. you will need it. it is small enough capital for a boy to go forth into the world with to seek his fortune. now how are you going to duncan?" "i am going to walk." "i am afraid you will get very tired," said mrs. redmond in a tone of sympathy. "no, ma'am, it is only five miles." "and five miles is a trifle to a strong boy like jed." "won't you wait till after supper?" asked mrs. redmond. "no, thank you. it would get me there too late." "then i will make up some sandwiches for you. your walk will make you hungry." jed started with a small valise in which were packed some extra underclothing, and he carried in his hand a substantial lunch wrapped in paper. it was far better than the supper which he missed at the poorhouse. he was rather afraid of meeting some one whom he knew, particularly percy dixon, who he was sure would be delighted to thwart his plan by reporting him; but fortunately he escaped observation. he passed two men whom he knew very well, but in his new dress they did not know him. jed had walked about half way when a man in a top buggy overtook him, and, stopping his horse, called out, "is this the road to duncan?" "yes, sir." "is it a straight road all the way?" "not quite, sir. there are one or two turns." "i am sorry to hear it. i am not acquainted hereabouts, and i shouldn't like to lose my way. are you going to duncan?" "yes, sir." "then jump in, unless you prefer walking. with a good guide i shall be all right." "i would rather ride, and i will accept your invitation with pleasure." "then we are both suited." jed's new acquaintance was a stout man of middle age, with a prompt, alert manner, and looked like a business man. he had a quick, impulsive way with him. "are you travelling?" he asked, noticing jed's valise. "yes, sir." "going to see the world, eh?" "i'm going in search of a living, sir," answered jed. "got parents?" "no, sir. i'm alone in the world." "well, you've got a tough job before you." "yes, sir, i don't doubt it; but i am young and healthy, and i think i ought to be able to earn my living. are you a business man?" "no, not exactly. why do you ask?" "i thought you might have a place for me if you were." "i am not in the right sort of business for you, my lad. i am the manager of the gold king dramatic company." "then you are acquainted with harry bertram?" said jed eagerly. "yes, he is one of my actors. what do you know of harry bertram?" "he slept in the same room with me last night. he told me to come to duncan, and he would see what he could do for me." "ha, indeed! well, harry is a good fellow, and a good friend. he has one fault. he is a little too convivial." "yes, sir; i thought so. is he a good actor?" "excellent in his line. he gets a very good salary, but i am afraid he doesn't save very much of it. are you going to see the play this evening?" "yes; mr. bertram thought he could get me in." "you won't need to ask him for a pass. here is one;" and the manager scribbled on a leaf from his note-book _admit bearer._ mordaunt. "thank you, sir," said jed, as he pocketed the pass. "i suppose you are mr. mordaunt?" "john mordaunt, manager of the gold king company. in my humbler days i was known to my friends as jack mordaunt." by this time they had reached duncan, and drove at once to the hotel. chapter xi. jed's first appearance on the stage. several gentlemen were sitting on the piazza in front of the hotel. among them was jed's acquaintance of the night before, harry bertram. when he saw mr. mordaunt in the buggy he advanced to greet him. "i am glad to see you, mr. mordaunt," he said. "i wanted to consult you." "any hitch, bertram?" asked the manager. "yes. young clinton is sick and can't play to-night." "what's the matter with the boy?" "he is threatened with fever." "couldn't he play to-night? his part is a small one, but it is important." "the doctor absolutely forbids his appearing on the stage." "that is awkward. if we were in the city we might get a substitute, but a common country boy would make a mess of the part." "you have a boy with you. do you think he would do?" "you have known him longer than i. i refer the matter to you." "why, it's jed!" exclaimed bertram, examining our hero closely. "didn't you know me, mr. bertram?" asked jed smilingly. "who could, with such a change of dress? you must have met some good fairy. and how did you fall in with mr. mordaunt?" "he kindly offered me a ride." "then you have left scranton for good?" "for good, i hope. if i can help you in any way i will do my best." "try him, bertram," said the manager. "he is very presentable. take him in hand, and see if you can't get him ready to take ralph clinton's place." "then no time is to be lost. come up to my room, jed, and i will tell you what you are expected to do--that is, if you have had supper." "i ate my supper on the road before i fell in with mr. mordaunt." "follow me, then, jed." harry bertram led the way to a comfortable chamber on the second floor. "now sit down, and i'll tell you what you will have to do. first, do you think you have the nerve to stand before an audience and play the part of a telegraph boy?" "yes, sir. i am not troubled with bashfulness." "have you ever spoken in public?" "yes, at school examinations." "then i think you'll do. here is your part." he handed jed a small manuscript book containing the lines of his rôle, with the cues. "you see it isn't long. i may be able to give you a little rehearsal, as you appear only in the first and last acts." the next half hour was devoted to teaching jed his part. bertram was delighted with the aptitude shown by his pupil. "have you never attended a theatre?" he asked, almost incredulously. "never, mr. bertram." "then i can only say that you have the dramatic instinct, luckily for us. if you are sure you won't be afraid before the footlights, you'll do." "then i shall do," said jed. "i never should think of being nervous." "one thing more--nothing will be said of any substitution. to the audience you will be ralph clinton, as put down on the bill." "that will suit me. i am afraid if i were announced as jed, the poorhouse boy, it wouldn't help you," continued jed with a smile. "you may have to continue in the part a week or more. as to the pay, i can't speak of that yet. mr. mordaunt will arrange with you." "if i can earn my board i shall be satisfied." "i can promise you that, and fully as good board as you have been accustomed to." "i hope it won't be worse," said jed laughing. "when you go to the theatre i will see if ralph clinton's uniform will fit you. i haven't much doubt on that point, as you seem to be about the same size." the performance was to commence at eight. harry bertram and his protégé went to the hall, which was to be used as a theatre, early, so that jed might be introduced to his fellow-actors and receive a little instruction as to the business of his part. he was very quick to comprehend, and forgot nothing, so that bertram felt quite easy in regard to him, though it was his first appearance on any stage. jed was very well received by the other members of the company, all of whom expressed satisfaction at having the gap so quickly filled. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, my boy," said george osprey, the leading man. "where have you played?" "nowhere, sir. this is my first appearance." "i hope you won't funk." "if that means break down, i am sure i won't." "good! your confidence will pull you through." "mr. osprey, introduce me, please," lisped an elderly young lady, of affected manners. "this is miss celesta raffles,mr.----, i don't think i know your name." "jed gilman, but i believe i am to be billed as ralph clinton." "i am delighted to meet you, mr. gilman," said miss raffles. "i am sure you will be an honor to our noble profession." "i hope so, miss raffles," said jed smilingly, "but i shall be able to tell better to-morrow." "i always sympathize with youth--with impulsive, enthusiastic youth," gushed miss raffles. "if they are of the male sex," interpolated mr. osprey. "mr. gilman, i must warn you that miss raffles is a dangerous woman. she will do her best to make an impression on your heart." "oh, you wicked slanderer!" said the delighted celesta. "mr. gilman, i am not dangerous at all. i will merely ask you to look upon me as your sister--your elder sister." "thank you, miss raffles," said jed, showing a tact and self-possession hardly to be expected of one with his training. "is mr. osprey one of your brothers?" "yes, she told me that she would be a sister to me. i have never--never recovered from the blow." "i may change my mind," said celesta, who admired the handsome leading man. "if you try again, you may meet with better success----" "no," answered osprey warily. "i never ask the same favor a second time. i leave you to mr. gilman. may you be happy, my children!" as celesta raffles looked to be thirty-five, and jed was but sixteen, he was a good deal amused, but miss raffles was disposed to take the matter in earnest. "don't let him prejudice you against me, mr. gilman!" she murmured. "we shall soon be better acquainted, i am sure. do you know, i am to be your mother in the play? it is a little absurd, as i am only twenty-three, but we have to do strange things on the stage." "she's thirty-six if she's a day," whispered osprey, "but if you want to keep in her good graces you must believe her own reports of her age." "time to dress, jed!" said harry bertram. "it will take you longer than usual, as it is the first time. your nerve won't fail you, will it?" jed shook his head. "i feel as cool as ever i did," he answered. fortunately the telegraph boy's uniform fitted him exactly. he hardly knew himself as he looked at his reflection in the little mirror in his dressing-room. "i wonder if mr. and mrs. fogson would recognize me if they should see me on the stage?" thought jed. then it occurred to him that percy dixon and his mother would be present. he smiled to himself as he thought of percy's bewilderment when he saw him under such a strange change of circumstances. it is not necessary to give the plot of the gold king. it is sufficient to say that jed, the telegraph boy, had been stolen from his parents in early life, the gold king being his father. he is obliged to earn his own living as a boy, but in the last act he is restored to his friends and his old station in life. in the first act jed appeared in his predecessor's uniform. in the last he wore his own suit, this being quite as well adapted to the character as ralph clinton's street costume. mrs. dixon and percy occupied seats in the third row from the front. they always paid the highest prices, and secured the most eligible seats. at the end of ten minutes jed's cue was called and he appeared on the stage. percy, who was watching the play with the greatest attention, started in amazement when he saw the boy actor. "mother," he whispered, "that boy is the perfect image of jed, the poorhouse boy." "is he, indeed? very singular, on my word!" "and he has the same voice," continued percy, still more excited. "but i suppose it can't be he," said mrs. dixon inquiringly. "no, i think not," answered percy. "jed doesn't know anything about acting, and this boy is perfectly at home on the stage." this was indeed true. jed was quite self-possessed. moreover, he never hesitated for a word or stumbled, but was letter-perfect. his scene was with george osprey, as member of a fashionable club, who had inquired into his history. "yes," said jed, repeating his part, "yes, mr. glendower, i am a poor boy, but those who look down upon me will one day find their mistake--they may find that the poor telegraph boy whom they once despised is able to look down upon them." as he uttered these words, jed, perhaps intentionally, let his glance rest on percy dixon, while the latter gazed at him open-mouthed. "i believe it is jed, after all, mother!" he ejaculated. chapter xii. percy dixon is bewildered. at the end of the first act jed and george osprey were called before the curtain. jed had been instructed to bow his thanks, and did so. percy watched his face eagerly, for this brought jed within a few feet of him. "mother," he said, "if that boy isn't jed, it is his twin brother." "but, percy," said his mother, who was a practical woman, "i never heard that the boy had a twin brother." "oh, pshaw! i meant that he is exactly like him." "but this boy is ralph clinton. the bill says so." "i know it," said percy, with a puzzled expression. "i don't understand it at all." "the boy you mean is probably in bed at the scranton poorhouse." "perhaps he is. i don't see, for my part, how he could be here, or know how to act." the play proceeded. it was in five acts, and jed was not called upon to appear again till the last one. he proved himself up to the requirements of the part, and evidently produced a favorable impression on the audience. "mother," said percy, "i would like to wait at the stage door till the actors come out." "but, percy, it is already late. we ought to be starting for home." "but, mother, you know father is overseer of the poor, and if this boy is jed, he has run away from the scranton poorhouse, and father will be held responsible." "why should he?" "because the paupers are under his charge. if one of them runs away he will be blamed." "well, if you think we ought to stop," said the lady undecidedly. "but i don't see what you expect to accomplish." "i want to see that boy face to face. i want to speak to him, and find out for certain who he is." "well, don't be any longer than you can help." "i won't." meanwhile jed and harry bertram were conversing in the greenroom. "you did yourself proud, my boy," said bertram. "you acted as well as clinton, and in some respects better." "i am glad to hear you say so, mr. bertram," said jed, gratified. "i could hardly believe that this was your first appearance on the stage. weren't you frightened at all?" "not a bit. i enjoyed it." "did you see any of your scranton friends in the audience?" "i saw none of my scranton _friends_," answered jed, "but i saw two scranton acquaintances." "who were they?" "percy dixon, son of the overseer of the poor, and his mother." "where were they sitting?" "in the third row from the stage." "do you think they recognized you?" "i saw percy watching me very closely i am sure he noticed my resemblance to his old acquaintance jed, but he couldn't understand how it was possible for me to be the same boy." "then you baffled him?" "i don't know. i shouldn't wonder if he would be waiting outside to get a view of me." "and if he does?" "he will do all he can to get me back to the poorhouse." "then i'll tell you what to do. go out of the stage door arm in arm with me, and i will address you as ralph. if he speaks, appear not to know him." "that will be a capital joke," said jed taking in the humor of the situation. "between us, i think we can bluff him off." jed had appeared in the last act in his street costume, and had no preparations to make, but bertram had to exchange his stage for his ordinary dress. when they were ready they emerged from the stage door arm in arm. a glance showed jed that percy was waiting to intercept him. he did not appear to notice percy, but passed on. percy hastened forward, and touched him on the arm. "look here, i want to speak to you," he said. "speak on, my boy," said jed, assuming the style of his new profession. "how did you come here?" demanded percy bluntly. "what do you mean?" "i mean that you are jed gilman." "my dear ralph, what does this person mean?" said bertram. "he evidently mistakes me for some one he knows," said jed coolly. "may i ask your name, young man?" "you know me well enough," said percy angrily, for jed had not tried to change his voice. "i am percy dixon." "percy dixon?" repeated jed. "where have i met you?" "where have you met me?" retorted percy. "at the scranton poorhouse." "do you reside there?" asked jed with admirable composure. "do i live at the poorhouse?" repeated percy, exasperated. "of course i don't." mrs. dixon had heard this colloquy, as she was sitting in the carriage only six feet away. "percy," she said, "i told you you had made a mistake." "i don't believe i have," said percy in a sulky tone. "for whom do you take me, mr. dixon?" asked jed. "for jed gilman, a poorhouse boy." "i feel very much complimented," said jed smoothly. "i hope jed is a nice boy." "no, he isn't. he is an impudent young rascal." "then how dare you compare my friend ralph to a boy like that?" demanded bertram savagely. "you must be crazy, or do you mean to deliberately insult him?" poor percy was overwhelmed. he wasn't half so certain now that he was right. true, there was a wonderful resemblance between the young actor and jed, but then it seemed impossible that jed should have left the poorhouse suddenly (and percy remembered seeing him that very afternoon at his own home) and developed into a member of a dramatic company. "i may have made a mistake," he said doubtfully. "i am glad you realize this possibility," said bertram. "did you witness the play this evening?" "yes, sir." "do you think your friend jed----" "he is not my friend." "well, do you think that jed, whatever he is, could act like my friend ralph?" "no, i don't think he could," percy admitted. "probably this jed is a very ordinary boy?" "i should say so. ordinary is no name for it. he is stupid." "then you will see for yourself that it is not very likely that he should become an accomplished actor all at once. if it were you it might be different. you are evidently a young man of social position, while this jed is a poor boy, and i presume without education." "yes, he is very ignorant," answered percy, falling into the trap. "is it--hard to learn to act?" he added. "not if you have talent and education. do you think of trying the stage?" "i might some time," said percy, flattered by the question. "if you do, i hope you will succeed. now, mr. dixon, i must bid you good night, as my friend ralph and myself are fatigued with our acting and must get to bed." "good evening!" said jed, raising his hat gravely. "good evening!" returned percy, more puzzled than ever. he jumped into the carriage and started to drive home. "then it wasn't jed?" said his mother. "i suppose not," answered percy, "but i never in all my life saw such a resemblance." "very likely," replied mrs. dixon placidly. "there was a woman in trenton who looked just like me, so that no one could tell us apart." "yes," admitted percy; "i must be mistaken. this boy had a very nice suit on, while jed was dressed in rags." when they reached home squire dixon was abed and asleep. percy came down late to breakfast. "by the way, percy," said his father, as he helped him to breakfast, "fogson has just been over to report that the boy jed has mysteriously disappeared. he never went back after bringing me the message yesterday afternoon." percy dropped his knife and fork and stared at his father in open-eyed amazement. "then it was jed, after all!" he exclaimed. chapter xiii. fogson in pursuit. "what do you mean, percy?" asked squire dixon, referring to his son's exclamation at the close of the preceding chapter. "do you know anything of jed?" "yes; i saw him last evening at duncan." "but what took him there? what was he doing?" "he was on the stage. he was playing in 'the gold king.'" "what do you mean by this absurd statement?" demanded his father angrily. "it is true. ask mother if it isn't." "i think percy is right," said mrs. dixon. "the young actor bears a wonderful resemblance to the boy jed." "but jed doesn't know anything about acting." "that is why i thought i was mistaken. but if jed has run away it must be he." "why didn't you manage to speak to him after the play?" "i did, and he denied that he was jed. he calls himself ralph clinton." "really, this is a most surprising circumstance," said the squire. "the boy is a hardened young villain. his running away from those who are lawfully set over him in authority is a most audacious and highhanded outrage." "that's what i think," chimed in percy. "what shall you do about it? shan't you go after him?" "i think it my duty to do so. as soon as breakfast is over, ask mr. fogson to come round here. tell him i have news of the fugitive." three-quarters of an hour later simeon fogson was admitted into the august presence of the overseer of the poor. "i hear you have news of jed gilman," he said. "that is what your son percy tells me." "it is true, mr. fogson. the young scapegrace has joined a company of actors. what is he coming to?" "to the gallows, i think," answered fogson. "but how did you learn this?" "percy saw him on the stage last evening." "and he actually played a part?" "yes." "in his ragged suit?" "no," answered percy. "he had a telegraph boy's suit first, and afterwards a nice brown suit--as nice as mine." "where did he get 'em?" asked fogson. "that's the question!" returned the squire solemnly. "there is a strange mystery about the boy's goings on. have you observed anything queer in his conduct of late?" "i have noticed that he has been unusually impudent. ha, i have it!" said fogson, suddenly, slapping his thigh. "what have you?" asked percy. "there was an actor stayed at the poorhouse night before last--an actor named bertram. it is he that has lured jed astray." "there was an actor by that name in the play last evening." "then that settles it. squire dixon, what shall i do?" "i think, mr. fogson, you had better go at once to duncan--i will lend you my buggy--and secure the boy, tying him hand and foot, if necessary, and take him back to the poorhouse." simeon fogson smiled grimly. it was an errand that suited him. "i will do so," he said, "and i will lose no time." "don't ask for jed gilman," suggested percy. "ask for ralph clinton. that's the name he goes by now." mr. fogson drew out a stub of a lead-pencil and put down this name. in twenty minutes he was on his way, and an hour later he drew up in front of the hotel in duncan. he left the buggy and entered the public room of the inn. "is there such a boy as ralph clinton here?" he asked the clerk. "yes; do you want to see him?" "i should like very much to see him," answered fogson grimly. "he is in no. . jim, show the gentleman up. he is sick." fogson nodded. "i dare say," he added significantly. "i guess his acting made him sick." "yes, that's what i heard. is he your son?" "no, but i am his guardian." fogson was quite elated at so easily getting on the track of the fugitive. "sick!" he repeated to himself, as he ascended the staircase. "i guess he'll be sick before he gets through with me." the servant knocked at no. , and a boy's voice was heard to say "come in!" the door was opened, and fogson, rushing in, grasped the arm of a boy sitting in a rocking-chair. "i've got you, you young rascal!" he exclaimed. "what do you mean, you lunatic?" demanded the boy in a clear voice, higher pitched than was jed's. then for the first time fogson, who was shortsighted, found out that the boy was not jed, but a youth of lighter complexion and slighter physique. he fell back in confusion. "i was told you were ralph clinton," he explained, looking rather foolish. "i am ralph clinton." "but i want jed gilman." "then why don't you look for jed gilman? what have i got to do with him?" "do you act with the gold king company?" "yes, when i am well." "did you act last evening?" "no; there was another boy that took my place." "that's the one i want. he ran away from me." "are you his father?" "no, i'm his guardian." "i don't like your looks," said ralph, who was a very free-spoken young man. "i don't blame him for running away from you." fogson scowled. "i believe you're as bad as he," he growled. "there's one thing sure--i'm going to get the boy back. where is he?" "on the road, i expect. he will take my place till i get well." "not much, he won't. have the rest of the actors left duncan?" "you'd better ask down stairs. i'm not going to help you get the boy back." fogson had nothing to do but to go down again to the public room. the clerk told him that the company were to play that evening at bolton, twelve miles away, and were probably there now, having taken the morning train. "twelve miles away!" thought fogson in dismay. "i can't drive so far as that. squire dixon wouldn't like to have me drive his horse so many miles. what shall i do?" this was a question easier asked than answered. if he had not been burdened with the horse and buggy he would have taken the next train for bolton. as it was, he didn't feel at liberty to do this. he wished squire dixon were at hand, so that he might ask his advice, for he felt quite unable to decide for himself what was best to be done. as he stood beside his team in a state of indecision he heard the sound of approaching wheels, and looking up, recognized dr. redmond's carriage. "what brings you to duncan, mr. fogson?" asked the doctor with a peculiar smile. "i've come after that rascal jed." "is he here?" asked the doctor innocently. "he has run away from the poorhouse and joined some strolling players. he played in the theatre last evening." "did he, indeed?" asked the doctor, really surprised. "he must be a smart boy to take up acting so suddenly." "he is a very impudent boy." "is he? then i should think you would be glad to get rid of him." "i don't mean to let him off so easily. i'm going to bring him back to the poorhouse, and when i get hold of him i'll----" mr. fogson nodded his head significantly. it was clear that he intended that the way of the transgressor should be hard. "it strikes me, mr. fogson, that you are acting in a very foolish manner," said the doctor. "why am i?" "i will tell you. jed has got tired of being supported by the town, and he has taken the matter into his own hands. in other words, he proposes to relieve the town of the expense of his maintenance. the town will doubtless be glad to have one dependent less on its hands. you appear to want to get him back, and make the town once more responsible for his support. is it not so?" fogson looked blank. the matter had never presented itself to him in that light before. "you certainly won't make yourself very popular by this action," proceeded dr. redmond. "as a good citizen you ought to be glad that the town's expenses are lessened." "would you have me let the boy go?" fogson ejaculated. "certainly, i would. jed is able to support himself, and there is no earthly reason for keeping him in the poorhouse. i advise you to represent the matter to squire dixon, and see what he thinks about it." mr. fogson drove home slowly. he found it hard to have jed escape from his clutches, but squire dixon, upon consultation, reluctantly decided that perhaps it was best to drop the matter then and there. no one was more disappointed over this decision than percy dixon. chapter xiv. jed's luck. jed continued to act in the part assigned to him. he knew that he was liable to be superseded at any time by ralph clinton, but he did not care to borrow trouble. as a matter of fact, however, he was allowed to play till the end of the season, but this was not very far off. warm weather had set in, and audiences became small. one day harry bertram called jed aside. "well, jed," he said, "i am afraid we must part." "why, mr. bertram?" "the weather has become so warm that we are no longer paying expenses. mr. mordaunt has decided to close the season on saturday night." jed looked blank. he didn't know what would come next. "i thought we might hold out another week, and we might if the weather had remained comfortable, but people won't come to see 'the gold king' or any other play when the thermometer stands at eighty degrees." "what shall you do, mr. bertram?" "fall back on my trade, if possible." "what is that?" "i am a telegraph operator, and i may be able to fill in the summer in some western union office. i have to work at summer prices, but as long as i make my board and lodging i shall be content." "i wish _i_ had a trade," said jed thoughtfully. "you don't feel like going back to your old home?" "in the scranton poorhouse? not much!" answered jed energetically. "i'll starve first. have you got any place engaged?" "no, but i have worked two summers at sea spray, an atlantic coast summer resort. i shall go there and see if there is an opening." "is it far away?" "about fifty miles. i'll tell you what, jed, you had better come with me. something may turn up for you." "what is the fare, mr. bertram?" "about a dollar and a half. you will have some money coming to you. you haven't been paid anything yet, have you?" "no; i didn't suppose i was entitled to any." "you will get something. i will speak to the treasurer and arrange matters for you." accordingly on saturday evening, after the last performance, jed was made happy by receiving twelve dollars, or at the rate of four dollars per week for the time he had been employed. "mr. mordaunt directs me to say that he would pay you more if the business would permit," said the treasurer. "tell him this is more than i expected," said jed elated. "that isn't professional," remarked bertram smiling. "actors generally claim to be worth a good deal more than they are paid." "i haven't been on the stage long enough to be professional," said jed. early on monday morning jed and his friend bertram took the cars for sea spray. as they neared the coast, the ocean breeze entered cool and refreshing through the open windows. presently the cars stopped, only two hundred feet from the bluff, and jed for the first time gazed with delight at the atlantic billows rolling in on the beach. "this is beautiful!" he exclaimed. "i hope i can stay here all summer." "have you never seen the sea before?" "no; i have never travelled before. all my life has been spent at scranton." "take a walk with me along ocean avenue, and i will see what chance there is of my obtaining employment." harry bertram made his way to the principal hotel, where he knew there was a western union office. he told jed to sit down in the reading-room while he sought for information. in ten minutes he came back with a smile of satisfaction on his face. "i am in great luck," he said. "the operator here has just been summoned home by the serious illness of his father in chicago. he was considering whom he could get to take his place when i presented myself. the result is that i am engaged to take charge of the telegraph office at twelve dollars a week and my board." "then you are provided for." "yes. i can get through the summer very well." "i should think so. you will have the twelve dollars a week clear." "no; i must get a room outside. however, my predecessor has recommended his--in a private house about a quarter of a mile from the shore--at only four dollars a week." "then i suppose we must part," said jed with a tinge of sadness. "no, jed. you shall room with me, and your room will cost you nothing. as to meals, i can see you through till you secure some work." "but i don't want to be a burden upon you, mr. bertram." "i don't mean that you shall be, any longer than is necessary. it will go hard if a boy like you can't find something to do that will buy his meals at a crowded watering-place." "thank you, mr. bertram. i have money enough left to buy my meals for two weeks at least." "if we were at a regular office i could employ you as messenger, but most of the messages will come to guests in the hotel." "i don't know exactly what i can do, but i am ready to do anything." "except black boots," said bertram with a smile. "i don't think i should like to do that if there is anything else to be found." "i couldn't think of allowing a member of our honorable profession to undertake such menial employment." harry bertram went to work that evening. jed kept him company in the office a part of the time, and during the three succeeding days went from one hotel to another to see if he could obtain anything to do. but every position had been filled for the season. jed began to fear that there was no work for him at sea spray. on the fourth morning, as he was sitting with bertram, a gentleman whom he had several times seen--a guest of the house--approached them. "is this boy your brother?" he asked of bertram. "no, but he is my valued friend. in fact, i may call myself his guardian for the time being." "yes," assented jed with a smile. "he does not assist you?" "no, he knows nothing of telegraphy." "would you like employment?" asked the gentleman, turning to jed. "i am very anxious to get work," said jed quickly. "then i think i may be able to meet your wishes. how old are you?" "sixteen." "you may have seen a boy of ten walking about with me?" "yes, sir." "he is my son. he and i are here alone, but until yesterday i had a nurse in my employ whose sole business was to look after chester. i felt entire confidence in her, but discovered last evening that she had purloined some jewelry belonging to me. of course i discharged her instantly, and in consequence am obliged to find some one in her place. "chester objects to another nurse. it hurts his boyish pride to have a woman accompanying him everywhere. it appears to me that a boy old enough to look after him will suit him much better. but perhaps you would not like being encumbered with a small boy?" "i should like it very much, sir," said jed. "i like young boys, and i am sure i should like your son." "come up stairs, then. i will see how he likes you." jed followed his new acquaintance up to a suite of two rooms on the second floor. a young boy was at the window. he looked inquiringly at his father and jed. "come here, chester," said the former. "are you quite sure you don't want another nurse?" "yes," answered the boy. "some of the boys in the hotel call me 'sissy' because i have a girl always with me." "would you prefer this boy?" chester took a long, close look at jed, who met his glance with a smile. "yes," said the little boy confidently. "i shall like him much better than a girl." "that settles it," said mr. holbrook in a tone of satisfaction. "what is your name?" "jed gilman." "what was your last employment?" "i took the boy's part in 'the gold king.'" "are you an actor?" asked chester, much interested. "not much of one." "you must have some talent," remarked mr. holbrook, "or mr. mordaunt, who is a manager of reputation, would not have employed you. is your season over?" "yes, sir." "i think you will suit me. i am obliged to be in new york every day on business, and this leaves chester alone. i wish you to act as his companion, to go with him on the beach and in bathing, and to look after him while i am away. are you boarding here?" "no, sir; i could not afford it." "i shall arrange to have you take meals here with chester, but after eight o'clock in the evenings you will be your own master. now as to the matter of compensation. will ten dollars a week satisfy you?" "ten dollars a week and my meals?" "yes." "i didn't expect so much." "i like to pay liberally, and expect to be well served." "when shall i commence, sir?" "at once. i want to take the next train for the city. as i go down stairs i will tell them that you are to take your meals here. now, chester, i will leave you with your new friend, as i have barely time to reach the next train for new york." chapter xv. two odd acquaintances. "ten dollars a week!" repeated harry bertram, to who jed communicated his good luck. "why, that is famous!" "ten dollars a week and my meals!" "better still. that is better than acting." "i don't know how i shall suit mr. holbrook." "you will suit him if you suit the boy." by this time chester made his appearance. "i want to walk on the beach," he said. "come, jed." and the boy put his hand confidingly in that of jed. they descended the steps that led from the bluff to the beach, and walked leisurely up and down on the sand. presently chester expressed a wish to sit down, and before long was engaged with a small wooden spade in making a sand fortification. relieved from duty, since his young charge could come to no harm, jed had leisure to watch the crowds passing him in both directions. presently a thin, dark-complexioned man, of perhaps thirty-five, after walking up and down the beach, came to a stop, and, apparently without motive, seated himself on the sand beside chester and his youthful guardian. "a pleasant day," he remarked, looking at jed. "yes," answered jed politely. he was not favorably impressed by the stranger's appearance, but recognized the claims of courtesy. "is this little boy your brother?" "no," answered jed. "i thought perhaps you brought him down to the beach." "i did." "i have seen him about before--with a girl." "that was clara, my old nurse," said chester, who caught the drift of the conversation. "i haven't got any nurse now," he added proudly. "i saw you talking to clara one day," he added, after a closer examination of the stranger's features. "oh, no, my little boy!" said the man, seeming annoyed. "i don't know clara, as you call her." "then you look just like the man that was talking with her." the stranger opened his mouth and smiled unpleasantly. "i dare say there are people that look like me," he said, "though i can't say i ever met one. what is your name, my little friend?" "i am not your friend," said chester, who did not appear favorably impressed by his new acquaintance. "my little enemy, then." "my name is chester holbrook." "and how old are you?" "ten years old. how old are you?" again the man's lips opened in an unpleasant smile. "you have an inquiring mind, chester," he said. "i am--thirty years old." "you look older than that." "i am afraid that is not polite, chester," said jed gently. "why isn't it?" asked chester innocently. "people don't like to be thought older than they are." "oh, never mind," said the dark man. "a child is licensed to say what he pleases. so he is your charge?" "yes, sir." "i don't think i have seen you here before. have you known mr. holbrook long?" "no." then upon the impulse of the moment jed inquired, "do you know him?" the man's face changed, and he looked a shade embarrassed. "why do you think i know him?" he asked. "i don't think it, but as you seemed interested in the boy, i asked you the question." "oh, that's it. i have seen mr. holbrook, and i may have spoken to him. i can't be sure on the subject, as i meet a good many people. are you going in bathing?" "do you want to bathe, chester?" asked jed. "no; papa told me not to go to-day, as i have a cold." "i thought perhaps i would have had your company in the surf. well, i must be going or i shall be late for the bath." the stranger got up slowly and sauntered away. "i don't like that man. do you, jed?" asked chester. "not very much. i never saw him before." "i have seen him. i saw him one day last week." "did you see him on the beach?" "yes; he came up and talked with clara." "but he said you were mistaken about that." "i was not mistaken," said chester positively. "i remember him very well." "do you remember what he was talking about?" asked jed, struck by what the boy said. "yes; he was asking questions about me." "he seems a good deal interested in you. perhaps he is especially fond of small boys." chester shook his head. "i don't think he is," he answered. when the bathing hour was over they ascended the steps and took seats in a summer house on the bluff. ten minutes later a tall woman, with piercing black eyes and a swarthy complexion, entered the arbor and sat down beside them. "do you want your fortune told?" she asked of jed. he shook his head. "i don't believe in fortune-tellers," he said. "don't you? let me convince you of my power. give me your hand." there seemed a fascination about the woman, and almost involuntarily he suffered her to take his hand. "you look prosperous," she began abruptly, "but your life has been full of poverty and privation. is this true?" "yes," answered jed, impressed in spite of himself by the woman's words. "shall i tell you where your early years were passed?" "no," answered jed, with a quick look at chester. he did not care to have the boy hear that his life had been passed in the scranton poorhouse. "you are right. the knowledge could do no good and might embarrass you. you admit that i have told the truth?" "yes." "then shall i tell you of the future?" jed did not answer, but the woman took his assent for granted and went on. "you will be rich--some day." "shall i? i am glad to hear that. but i don't know where the wealth is to come from." "it is not necessary for you to know. it will be enough if it comes." "i agree with you there," said jed, smiling. "will it be soon?" "that is a question which i might answer, but i will not." "i don't care to know, as long as i am to be prosperous some day. shall i ever go back to--to the place where my earlier years were passed?" "you may, but not to live. that part of your life is over." "i am glad of that at any rate. one question more. shall i meet my--any one belonging to me--any one to whom i am related?" jed fixed his eyes anxiously upon the fortune-teller, for skeptical as he was at first, he was beginning to have some confidence in her claims to knowledge. "yes." "when?" "don't seek to know more. let me look at this boy's hand. do you want me to tell your fortune, my pretty?" chester laughed. "yes," he said. "perhaps you can tell me if i will ever be a soldier. i would like to be a general." "no; you will never be a soldier, but you will have a fight before you." "a fight? what kind of a fight?" the fortune-teller turned to jed and said rapidly, "this boy is threatened with a serious danger. he has an enemy." "how can a young boy have an enemy?" "there are few who do not have enemies," said the woman sententiously. "can you describe the enemy?" "he is a dark man, not tall, but taller than you. he is thin." "i met such a man on the beach," said jed, surprised. "i met him only this morning. is he the one you mean?" "when you meet such a man beware of him!" said the woman, and without waiting for a reply she rose from her seat and walked away rapidly. "what a funny old woman!" said chester. "i am hungry. let us go up to the hotel. it is time for lunch." jed's face became thoughtful. what he had heard left a deep impression upon his mind. chapter xvi. miss holbrook, spinster. it was at first on jed's mind to tell mr. holbrook of his encounter with the young man upon the beach and his subsequent conversation with the fortune-teller and her predictions in regard to chester. but he was afraid of being laughed at. moreover, as the days passed the impression made upon his mind became weaker, and was only recalled when from time to time he saw the young man on the sands or walking on the bluff. he got on very well with chester. the boy became strongly attached to him, much to the satisfaction of his father. "so you like jed, do you?" said mr. holbrook one evening, on his return from the city. "yes, papa, i like him ever so much." "do you like him as much as clara?" "why, i don't like her at all." time wore on till the middle of august. jed enjoyed his generous meals and the sea bathing which he shared in company with his young charge. he still lodged with harry bertram, but he shared the expense of the room. but a change was coming, and an unwelcome one. "chester," said his father one evening, "i am going away for a week or ten days." "take me with you, papa!" "no, i cannot. i am called to chicago on business, and you will be much better off here at the beach." "jed will stay with me?" "yes, and i have sent for your aunt maria to come and look after you while i am gone." "but i don't like aunt maria," objected the little boy. "she's always scolding me. she doesn't like boys." "perhaps not," said mr. holbrook with a smile. "if maria had married it might have been different, but i believe few maiden ladies are fond of children." "then why do you have her come here, papa? jed can take care of me." "i have great confidence in jed, chester, but you will need some one to look after your clothes and oversee you in other ways." "isn't there any one else you can send for, papa? i don't like old maids." "don't trouble me with your objections, chester. it will only be for a little while, remember. i am sure you can get along with your aunt for ten days." "i will try to," answered the boy with a look of resignation. the next day miss maria holbrook came to sea spray with her brother. she was a tall, slender lady of middle age, with a thin face, and looked as if she were dissatisfied with a large proportion of her fellow-creatures. chester looked at her, but did not show any disposition to welcome her to the beach. "you may kiss me, chester," said the lady with an acid smile. "thank you, aunt maria, but i am not particular about it." "well, upon my word!" ejaculated the spinster. "my own brother's child, too!" "kiss your aunt, chester," said his father. "no, it is not necessary," put in miss holbrook sharply. "i don't want any hypocritical caresses. robert, i am afraid you are spoiling that boy." "oh, no, maria, not quite so bad as that. chester is a middling good boy." miss maria holbrook sniffed incredulously. "i am afraid you judge him too leniently," she said. "well, you can tell better after you have had time to observe him. it is two years now since you have seen chester." "let us hope that my first impressions may be modified," said the spinster in a tone that indicated great doubt whether such would be the case. "jed, you may go. chester will not need you any more this evening," said mr. holbrook. "thank you, sir," said jed, and walked away. "who is that boy?" asked the spinster abruptly, looking at him through her eyeglasses. "he is in charge of chester while i am in the city." "why, he is only a boy!" "is that against him?" "i thought chester had a nurse." "so he did, but she proved dishonest." "then why didn't you engage another?" "because chester felt sensitive about having a girl following him. the other boys in the hotel laughed at him." "let them laugh!" said miss holbrook severely. "are you to have your plans changed by a set of graceless boys?" "as to that, maria, i find this boy more satisfactory, both to chester and myself." "humph! what is his name?" "jed." "a very plebeian name." "it isn't exactly fashionable, but names are not important." "i beg your pardon. i think names _are_ important." "perhaps that is the reason you have never changed yours, maria. you might have been mrs. boggs if you had been less particular." "i would rather remain unmarried all my life. but where did you pick up this boy?" "i met him in the hotel." "was he boarding here?" "no; i think he was boarding somewhere in the village." "do you know anything of his family?" "no." "do you know anything of his antecedents?" continued miss holbrook. "yes; he played a part last season in the 'gold king.'" "heavens and earth!" ejaculated the spinster, holding up her hands in horror. "do you mean to tell me that you have placed your son in the charge of a young play actor?" mr. holbrook laughed. "why not?" "i am surprised that you should ask. you know as well as i do the character of actors." "i know that some of them are very estimable gentlemen. as to jed, he has not been long on the stage, i believe." "do you know anything of his family? is he respectably connected?" "i didn't think it important to inquire. it seems to me that the boy's own character is much more to the point. i have found jed faithful and reliable, without bad habits, and i feel that chester is safe in his hands." "oh you men, you men!" exclaimed miss holbrook. "you don't seem to have any judgment." "i suppose," said mr. holbrook with good-natured sarcasm, "that all the good judgment is monopolized by the old maids. what a pity they have no children to bring up." "brother!" said miss holbrook in a freezing tone. "i beg your pardon, maria, but please credit me with a little good sense." miss holbrook went up to the room assigned her with an offended expression, and had nothing further to say about jed that evening. the next morning jed reported for duty just as mr. holbrook was leaving for his journey. "look after chester while i am gone, jed," said mr. holbrook pleasantly. "this is my sister, miss maria holbrook, who will take my place here while i am gone." jed took off his hat politely, and miss holbrook honored him with a slight inclination of her head and a forbidding look. "good-by, maria! i will telegraph you on my arrival in chicago." "good-by, brother! you need have no apprehensions about chester while i am here." "i shall rest quite easy. between you and jed i am sure he will come to no harm." miss holbrook pursed up her mouth at the conjunction of her name with jed's, but said nothing. "shall i go and take a walk with jed?" asked chester. "yes, in a moment. i wish to speak to the young man first." "what young man?" "jedediah." "jedediah!" echoed chester with a merry laugh. "how funny that sounds!" "i apprehend that jedediah is your right name," said miss holbrook severely. "i suppose so," answered jed. "you _suppose_ so?" "i mean that i have always been called jed. i don't remember ever having been called by the full name." "don't your parents call you so?" "my parents are not living." "when did they die?" jed looked troubled. "when i was a baby," he answered gravely. "indeed! then who brought you up?" "mr. and mrs. avery." "were they any relations of yours?" "no, but they were very kind to me." "come along, jed! there's the steamboat just leaving the pier!" called chester impatiently. without waiting to be further questioned jed answered the call of his young charge. he was glad to get away, for he felt that the spinster might ask him some questions which he would find it difficult to answer. chapter xvii. jed meets an old acquaintance. jed was not long in finding that chester's aunt looked upon him, if not with hostility, at least with distrust. this was an unpleasant discovery. mr. holbrook had always appeared to have confidence in him, and approved his management of his son. while chester and jed were walking on the beach miss holbrook took a seat upon the bluff and watched them through her spectacles, as jed could not help seeing. "i say, jed," asked the little boy, "how do you like aunt maria?" "i don't feel very well acquainted with her yet," answered jed cautiously. "_i_ don't like her!" said chester emphatically. "why not?" "oh, she's always scolding and finding fault. papa says it's because she's an old maid." jed smiled. "i wish papa had not sent for her," went on chester. "we could get along well enough without her." "i think _we_ should get along very well together, chester." "i am sure we should. have you got any old maid aunts?" "not that i know of," replied jed soberly, as he had forced upon him the thought of his solitary condition. "then you are lucky. i'll give you aunt maria if you want her." "perhaps she might not consent to be given away, chester." half an hour later jed met with a surprise, and one not altogether agreeable. "hello! you here!" exclaimed an amazed voice that sounded familiar to jed. he looked up and saw percy dixon approaching. "oh, it's you, percy?" he said. "when did you arrive?" "this morning. father and i are staying at the spray house." this was the largest hotel, and percy mentioned the name with evident pride. "it is a nice hotel," responded jed. "i should say so. why, it's the most expensive one here. but you haven't told me how you came here." "i have been here for some weeks." "where do you live?" "i have a room in the village, but i take my meals at the spray house." "you take your meals at the spray house?" ejaculated percy. "yes." "how can you afford it?" "this boy's father pays my board. i look after chester." "what's your name?" asked chester, who was by no means bashful. "percy dixon," answered percy politely, for he judged that chester belonged to a rich family. "so you know jed?" "yes. i have that honor," returned percy with a curl of the lip. "when did you leave off acting?" he asked, turning to jed. "at the end of the season. few dramatic companies play during the summer." "are you going to play with them again?" "i don't know yet. the boy whose place i took may be ready to take his own part in the fall." "i saw your old friends mr. and mrs. fogson just before i came away," said percy significantly. "wouldn't you like to know how they are?" "no; i feel no particular interest in them." "they are interested in you. fogson says he's bound to get you back some time." "i don't care to talk of them," said jed coldly. "are you going in bathing?" asked chester. "yes, i think so. do you go in?" "shall we go in, jed?" asked the little boy. "yes, if you like, chester." the three boys repaired to the bathing-houses and prepared for their bath. as they walked up to the hotel together afterwards, percy remarked: "it seems strange to see you in such a place as this." "i suppose so." "it's funny how you get on. how did you get the chance to take care of the little boy?" jed explained. "is chester's father rich?" "i presume so, from what i hear." "is he here now?" "no; he is in chicago for a week or ten days." "and is there no one except you to take care of the boy?" "there is an aunt of chester's in the hotel--his father's sister. there she is now!" and jed pointed out miss maria holbrook. percy noticed her attentively, and was observed in turn by the spinster, who privately resolved to seek some information about jed from one who appeared to know him. after dinner, while on the piazza, miss holbrook noticed percy sitting but a few feet distant. "ahem!" she began. "young man, will you do me the favor to move your chair a little nearer?" percy did so gladly. he wished for a chance to become acquainted with jed's employers. "thank you. may i ask your name?" "percy dixon." "i noticed that you seemed to be acquainted with the boy who is in charge of my young nephew chester." "yes, ma'am, i know him." "have you known him long?" "as far back as i can remember." "did you live in the same town?" "yes, ma'am." "where?" "scranton." "you must pardon my curiosity, but my brother--chester's father--engaged this boy without apparently knowing much about him, except that he had been on the stage." "he wasn't on the stage long." "perhaps not, but probably he didn't get any good from it. what is your opinion of him. though, as you are his friend----" "i am _not_ his friend!" said percy bluntly. "then you haven't a high opinion of him?" said miss holbrook eagerly. "no; i never liked him." "i don't like him myself, though i can't tell exactly why not, and i am bound to say that chester and his father seem infatuated with him." "i think you are quite right, miss holbrook." "i can't help thinking there is some mystery about him." "you are right, miss holbrook. there _is_ a mystery about him." "i was sure of it," exclaimed the spinster. "what is the character of his relations?" "he has none that i know of." "i believe he told me his parents were dead, and that he was brought up by a mr. and mrs. avery." "ho, ho!" laughed percy. "why do you laugh?" "at his being brought up by mr. and mrs. avery." "isn't it true, then?" "yes; but he probably didn't tell you that mr. and mrs. avery had charge of the scranton poorhouse." "what!" ejaculated the spinster. "it is as i say. until a few weeks since jed was an inmate of the scranton poorhouse." "and this boy is actually in charge of my nephew!" exclaimed miss holbrook, overwhelmed with horror. "yes; i was very much surprised to see jed in such company." "my poor brother must be quite unaware of this astounding fact!" "no doubt, miss holbrook. jed is cunning. he wouldn't be very apt to tell your brother that he is a pauper." "a pauper! what a horrid thought! and that boy has actually the effrontery to push himself in among people of position. i can hardly believe it." "if you have any doubt about it, miss holbrook, just write a note to mr. simeon fogson, and ask him what he thinks of jed gilman." "but i thought it was mr. avery who kept the poorhouse." "he did; but when my father became overseer of the poor," said percy with conscious pride, "he removed the averys and put in mr. and mrs. fogson, whom he considered more fit for the office. the averys were weak people and pampered the paupers." "mr. simeon fogson, scranton," miss holbrook entered on her tablets. "really, mr. dixon, i am very much obliged to you for the important information you have given me, and so ought my brother to be. he has been very careless and indiscreet in engaging a boy of unknown antecedents, but it is fortunate that chester has an aunt who is keenly alive to his interests." as she rose to go to her room to write to mr. fogson, percy smiled. "jed gilman will find that his goose is cooked," he said to himself. "won't he be astonished when the thunderbolt falls?" chapter xviii. mr. fogson receives a letter. let us go back to the scranton poorhouse. mr. fogson was sawing wood near the house. it was a task which jed had been accustomed to do, but in his absence it devolved upon mr. fogson, who was very much disinclined to that form of labor, but still more to paying for having it done. he had thought of requiring isaac needham, one of the paupers, to do the sawing; but the old man, who was over seventy-five, proved physically unable to do the work, and very much against his will mr. fogson found himself compelled to undertake it himself. "drat that jed!" he muttered, as he stopped to mop his forehead with his red cotton handkerchief. "it's an outrage for him to throw his work on me. i wish i had him here this blessed minute and could give him a taste of the strap." at this point a neighbor's boy, joe coakley, entered the yard. "here's a letter for you, mr. fogson," he said. "i guess it's from a lady." with considerable surprise mr. fogson took the letter in his hand. the envelope was square, and of fine paper, while the address was in a lady's handwriting. mr. fogson examined the postmark curiously. "sea spray!" he repeated. "why, that's a fashionable watering-place. who can have written me from there?" just then mrs. fogson came out from the side door. "what letter have you there?" she asked. "it is from a lady, mrs. f.," answered her husband with a grin. "what business has a lady writing to you?" demanded mrs. fogson suspiciously. "really i don't know, as i have not read the letter." "give it to me!" "no, thank you. i read my own letters." "mr. fogson, if you are engaged in a private correspondence with any lady i intend to find out all about it." "don't be a fool, mrs. f.; i don't know who the writer is, and i have never had a letter from her before." by this time he had opened the envelope, and his face quickly assumed an expression of interest. "it's about jed," he exclaimed. "i'll read it to you." this was the letter: my dear sir: i am informed that you can give me information as to the past history of jedediah gilman. some weeks ago my brother, robert holbrook, a well-known merchant of new york, engaged the boy as a companion and personal attendant of his young son chester, without knowing much about him or taking the trouble to inquire. having seen the boy, i have doubts as to whether he is a suitable companion for a boy in my nephew's high social station. i learn from young mr. percy dixon, of your town, that you can give me full information as to the boy's antecedents. i shall feel indebted to you if you will take the trouble to communicate with me by letter. my brother is now in chicago, and i am in temporary charge of my nephew. i feel that it is my duty to inquire into the character of a boy who by his intimate association with him may, if he is unworthy, do incalculable harm to his young and trustful nature. yours very truly, maria holbrook, _spray hotel_, sea spray, n. j. "well, upon my word!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "so that young villain has wormed his way into the confidence of a rich new york merchant!" "like a snake in the grass," suggested simeon fogson. "exactly. it makes me shudder to think what an impostor he is. it is providential that percy dixon should find him out and show him up." "i'll show him up!" said fogson, nodding. "i'll just write to miss holbrook, and tell her of his goin's on. i reckon he won't keep his place long after they get my letter." "you'd better let me write the letter, simeon." "no, mrs. f., the letter was addressed to me, and i'm goin' to answer it." "just as you like, mr. fogson, but you are well aware that you are weak in your spelling." "never mind, mrs. f., i reckon i can make myself understood." "just as you like, fogson. only make it strong enough." "you can trust me for that." chapter xix. discharged. in a front room on the second floor of the spray hotel sat miss maria holbrook with a letter in her hand. it was written on the cheapest note-paper, and inclosed in a plebeian brown envelope. of course it will be understood that it was the epistolary effort of mr. simeon fogson. "just as i thought!" soliloquized the lady. "this boy seems to be a disreputable character of the lowest antecedents, and utterly unworthy to associate even as a servant with a member of my family." here chester entered in his usual impetuous manner. "oh, aunt maria," he cried, "i had a bully bath." "i am shocked to hear you use such a low term as 'bully,' chester," said his aunt. "no doubt you learned it of jedediah." "no, i didn't. jed never uses the word. at least i never heard him." "will you tell jedediah that i wish to see him at once on important business?" "it seems funny to hear you call him jedediah, aunt maria." "i apprehend that it is his right name; 'jed' sounds low." "well, i'll tell him to come up." when jed made his appearance miss holbrook said: "you may go below, chester. i wish to speak to jedediah in private." "what's up now, i wonder?" thought jed. the lady turned upon him a severe look. "jedediah," she said, "is it true that your earlier years were spent at the scranton poorhouse?" "yes, madam," answered jed, coloring. "did you apprise my brother of this fact when he engaged you?" "no, madam. i suppose you learned it from percy dixon." "i learned it from young mr. dixon, but i could hardly believe it. he referred me to mr. simeon fogson, of scranton, and i have a letter from that gentleman in my hand. you probably will not care to read it." "i should like very much to read it, miss holbrook. i should like to know whether mr. fogson tells the truth." "here is the letter, then." jed read it with conflicting emotions. respected madam: i am glad to give you the informashun you ask about that young villen jed gilman, who ran away from the poor house some weeks since after a violent assault on me, his offishul guardeen. words cannot tell you how much trouble i have had with that boy. likewise he has been very impident to mrs. fogson. the reeson is that he was too much indulged by my predicesors in offis mr. and mrs. avery. i have tried to do my dooty by the boy, but as squire dixon, the overseer will tell you my efforts has been in vane. i am not supprised that your brother was took in by jed for he is the artfulest boy i ever seen. i hope for the sake of your young nefew's welfare you will discharge him at once and not allow him to corrup his youthful mind. yours respectfully, simeon fogson. "well," said miss holbrook triumphantly, "that doesn't seem to commend you very highly." "no," answered jed, returning the letter to the envelope. "it is such a letter as i should expect mr. fogson to write." "why?" "because he is unfit for his place," answered jed boldly. "he half starves the poor people under his charge, treats them roughly, and is detested by all." "he says you are impudent and troublesome." "i did not allow him to impose upon me." "he says you ran away." "i had a right to leave, as i felt able to support myself. i was recommended to do so by dr. redmond, the best physician in scranton, who is a friend of mine." "i have listened to your side of the story," said miss holbrook coldly, "and the terms in which you speak of mr. fogson convince me that his charges are correct. of course you will not expect me to keep you in charge of my nephew." "will you wait till mr. holbrook returns?" pleaded jed, who felt sad at the prospect of parting with chester. "no; i shall not feel justified in doing so. i will pay you up to date, and assume the charge of chester myself." she drew a bill from her pocket and handed it to jed, who took it mechanically and left the room with a sober face. he was dismissed from his position in disgrace, a disgrace which he felt was not deserved. what was he to do next? chapter xx. jed's poor prospects. jed walked around to the office of his friend harry bertram. the telegraph operator noticed at once that he looked disturbed. "what has happened, jed?" he asked. "i am discharged! that is all." "discharged? who discharged you?" "miss holbrook." "what is her reason? what have you done?" asked bertram, much surprised. "i have done nothing, but she has discovered that i was brought up in the scranton poorhouse," announced jed despondently. "as if that made you any the worse!" ejaculated bertram indignantly. "it isn't to my credit, at any rate. i am ashamed of it myself." "i don't know why you should be ashamed. you have left it, and are now earning your own living." "i was, but i am out of work now, and i may find it hard to get another position." "you can perhaps go back to the stage." "if i can take my part in the 'gold king' i shall be satisfied," said jed hopefully. "when will the season commence?" "september --three weeks from next thursday." at that moment one of the bell boys came to the telegraph office with a letter in his hand. "i have a letter for you, mr. bertram," he said. "ha! this is from mordaunt. now we shall know." he tore open the envelope hastily. his countenance fell, and he handed it in silence to jed. this is the letter. dear bertram: season of the gold king opens at jersey city on the seventh of september. as we shall have two new actors i shall call rehearsals for the tuesday previous. please report at middleton agency in new york on the first. john mordaunt, manager. p. s.--ralph clinton has recovered from his sickness, and will be ready to resume his part. "that settles it!" said jed soberly, as he handed back the letter. "that opening is closed to me." "i am awfully sorry, jed," returned bertram in a tone of sympathy. "perhaps if you enroll your name at the agency you can get a chance in some other play. i will speak a good word for you, and so i am sure will mordaunt." jed shook his head. "i don't think my chance would be very good," he said, "as i have had so little experience. besides, it is three weeks from now. i must try to get work before then." "stay here, jed. i will pay your expenses." "thank you, mr. bertram, but i have more than money enough for that, and you will need all yours. it will be better for me to leave sea spray, and go out in the world in search of work." "i hate to have you go, jed. i shall feel lonesome." "so shall i, mr. bertram, but we are sure to meet again," said jed with forced cheerfulness. "you must promise if things don't go well with you to write to me. you can learn from the _clipper_ or any of the dramatic papers where we are playing." "i'll promise that, harry," said jed, pressing the hand of his friend. "that's right, jed! don't call me mr. bertram again." "i will remember." "don't go till to-morrow." "no, i won't. i shall need a little time to get ready." at this point a message came for bertram to transmit, and jed walked over to the beach, feeling dull and despondent. as he sauntered on slowly with his eyes on the sand some one called out, "hallo, there!" looking up, he met the gaze of percy dixon. "where's chester?" asked percy. "in the hotel, i suppose." "why isn't he with you?" "because he is no longer under my charge," answered jed eyeing percy fixedly. "ho, ho! you don't mean to say that you're bounced!" queried percy, with a look of malicious pleasure. "that is about the size of it." "well, i _am_ surprised," returned percy cheerfully. "what have you been up to?" "nothing." "then why are you discharged?" asked percy with a look of innocent wonder. "i don't think _you_ need ask, percy dixon," said jed coldly. "if you had not made your appearance at sea spray i should have kept my place." "ho, ho! what have i been doing, i should like to know?" asked percy smiling. "i don't need to tell you. you told miss holbrook that i had been brought up in the scranton poorhouse." "well, it's true, isn't it?" "yes, it is true, but you understood very well what would be the result of your communication." "as she asked me about you, i had to tell." "you gave her the name of mr. fogson, and led to her writing to him." "so he's written, has he." "yes; miss holbrook showed me the letter this morning." "what did he say?" asked percy, smiling. "probably miss holbrook will show you the letter if you ask her." "i will. i should like to see what old fogson says. he don't admire you very much." "there is no love lost between us." "well, what are you going to do?" inquired percy, whose weak point was curiosity. "i shall try to get another position." "do you expect to go back to the stage?" "no; my old part in the 'gold king' has been taken by the actor whose place i filled during his sickness." "then you haven't anything in view." "nothing particular." "then i advise you to go back to the poorhouse. fogson will be glad to see you. i will arrange it with father." "you are very kind, but i have no more idea of returning to the poorhouse than you have of making your home there." "i'll thank you not to mention my name in connection with the poorhouse," said percy, coloring and speaking angrily. "i will make the same request of you." "you are getting on your high horse," remarked percy sarcastically. "perhaps so. good morning." "that fellow's the proudest beggar i ever saw," mused percy, as he stood still on the beach and watched jed's receding figure. "it's so ridiculous, too! a boy brought up in a poorhouse! i wonder if he has any idea what a fool he is making of himself." "why is percy so malicious?" thought jed, as he pursued his way, feeling, if anything, a little more despondent than before. "if our situations were changed i should delight in helping him along. he seems determined to force me back to the poorhouse. but i won't go! i'll starve first." to one who has been steadily employed enforced idleness is tedious and tiresome. as jed paced the sands his life seemed perfectly aimless, and he wondered how he was going to get through the day. moreover he missed chester. the boy's warm heart and affectionate ways had endeared him to his young guardian, and jed felt sad to think that in all probability he should never again be on terms of intimacy with the little fellow. plunged in thought and despondent he sauntered along till suddenly he heard a young fresh voice, that brought a brighter look to his face. "jed, jed!" jed turned, and saw only a couple of rods distant the boy of whom he had been thinking, walking beside his tall and stately aunt, who, after discharging jed, had felt obliged to undertake the charge of her young nephew herself. "why, chester!" said jed with a bright smile. chester broke away from his aunt, and running up to jed took his hand confidingly. "aunt maria says you are going away!" he broke out. "what makes you go away?" "your aunt has sent me away," announced jed. "but i won't let you go," said the little boy, taking a firmer grip of jed's hand. "come back directly, chester!" said miss holbrook frowning. "i want to stay with jed," said chester rebelliously. "but i don't want you to stay with him. come back directly, you naughty boy!" exclaimed miss holbrook angrily. "i'd rather stay with jed!" "jedediah!" said miss holbrook, turning a look of displeasure upon jed. "i am sorry that you incite chester to acts of disobedience." "miss holbrook," returned jed independently, "i don't think i have done what you charge me with. i like chester, and i cannot drive him away." "that is all very well, but i understand your motives. you want to force me to take you back." "excuse me, i have no such thought. if your brother will take me back i shall be glad to return to him." "i will see that he does not recall you. chester, if you don't come back at once i will punish you." looking at his aunt's angry face, chester very reluctantly felt compelled to obey. "kiss me, jed!" he said. jed bent over and kissed the little boy. tears nearly came to his eyes when he felt that it might be for the last time. "i trust, jedediah," said miss holbrook stiffly, "that your sense of propriety will prevent your speaking to chester again." "miss holbrook," said jed with a tremor in his voice, "as i am to leave sea spray to-morrow morning i shall hardly meet chester again." then, as chester walked away unwillingly with his aunt, jed's heart sank within him. in all the world he seemed to be alone, and he cared little at that moment what was to become of him in the future. chapter xxi. jed arrives in new york. jed counted over his money and found he had thirty-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents. he would have had more, but he had supplied himself with clothes, so that he was on the whole very well provided in that way. he resolutely refused to borrow from harry bertram, though the actor pressed a loan upon him. "no, harry," he said, "i have almost forty dollars, and i am sure that will last me till i can earn some more." "well, perhaps so," replied the actor, "but you have no idea how fast money melts away. what are your plans?" "i am afraid i haven't any," answered jed, looking perplexed. "i want to make a living, but i don't know what i am fit for." "where do you mean to go?" "i think i should like to go to new york," answered jed. "i have never been there." "you will find the city very dull at this time of year. business is very quiet in august." "but there must be a good many chances in a city of over a million inhabitants." "well, perhaps you may as well find out for yourself. i am afraid you will be disappointed." jed attached considerable importance to the opinion of his friend bertram, but in his own mind there was a conviction that the other exaggerated the chances of failure. he was of a sanguine temperament himself, and this made him hopeful. there were two ways of reaching new york from sea spray. one was a combination of cars and boat, the other took one all the way by steamer. this, on the whole, jed preferred. with his modest gripsack in his hand he passed over the gang-plank and took a seat forward. next to him was a tall, thin man, dressed in shabby attire, who did not appear to have shaved for several days. though the weather was warm, he had his coat buttoned tight across his chest, possibly to conceal the lack of a vest. when the boat had been perhaps fifteen minutes under way, he turned and eyed jed with some attention. "are you staying at sea spray this summer, young man?" he asked. "i have spent some weeks there," answered jed. "i suppose you are going to new york for the day?" "no; i am going for good. that is i hope i am going for good." "you are going to fill a business position, perhaps?" "i hope so, but i have none engaged." "are you acquainted in new york?" "no; i have never been there. this will be my first visit." "indeed! this is very interesting. i should be glad to help you to a position." jed thought privately that his new acquaintance must stand quite as much in need of a place as he, but courtesy led him to say, "thank you." "have you any particular choice as to the business you take up?" "no; anything that will enable me to pay my expenses will satisfy me." "just so. you have heard of h. b. claflin, probably?" "yes; he is a dry goods merchant." "on a very large scale. i have a mind to give you a letter to him." "do you know him?" asked jed doubtfully. "yes; horace and i used to go to school together. he was older than i, but we were pretty intimate." "why don't you apply for a position for yourself?" "dry goods are not in my line. i am an editor--that is, an editorial writer." "indeed!" jed had read from time to time squibs and witty paragraphs touching the poverty of editors, and this seemed to explain the shabby appearance of his new friend. "what paper do you write for?" he ventured to ask. "i contribute editorially to most of the city dailies. sometimes i get as high as fifteen and twenty dollars a column." jed was rather surprised at this. he concluded that mr. hamilton barry--for this was the name the stranger had given--was not a very good financial manager. "that seems a high price," said jed. "yes, but brain-work ought to be paid handsomely. do you ever write for publication yourself?" "oh, no," said jed, flattered nevertheless by the question. "i haven't education enough." "i thought if you did i might get you something to do. but perhaps business is more in your line?" "i think it will be." "then i had better write you a note to mr. claflin. when we get to the city i will run into some hotel and write you a letter of recommendation." "but, mr. barry, you don't know me. how can you recommend me?" "my dear boy, i judge you by your appearance. besides, i know something of phrenology, and you have a good head--a very good head. i read in it honesty, integrity, enterprise and fidelity. those qualities certainly ought to qualify you to succeed in business." "i don't know anything about phrenology, but i hope it's true." "my young friend you may rely implicitly on the verdict of the wonderful science." "i shall be glad to," said jed smiling, "since, as you say, it is so favorable to me." when they reached the pier hamilton barry passed his arm familiarly through jed's, and led the way to a small public house, the office of which seemed also to be a bar. "won't you take a glass of something?" asked the editor. "i don't drink," answered jed, rather embarrassed. "take a glass of sarsaparilla. it won't harm an infant." "thank you. i don't mind." upon this mr. barry stepped up to the bar and ordered one sarsaparilla and one whisky straight. while jed was solemnly drinking the first, the editor poured down the whisky at one gulp. then he felt in his pockets for the fifteen cents which were due. but somehow no silver was forthcoming. "upon my word," he exclaimed, "i must have left my money at home. mr. gilman, can you oblige me with a quarter?" jed produced the required coin. taking it, barry paid the score, and quietly pocketed the change. "now for the letter!" he said. "where is your writing-room?" "haven't got any," answered the barkeeper. "can't you scare up a sheet of paper and an envelope?" after some time these were produced, also a pen and a bottle of ink. barry sat down at one of the tables generally used for bar customers, and in a short time produced a letter which he handed to jed. it ran thus: dear horace: this letter will be handed to you by a talented young friend, who is in search of a business position. mr. j. gilman is in my judgment possessed of superior business qualifications, and will prove a valuable man in your store. i advise you to engage him at once. your old friend, hamilton barry. this note was placed in an envelope directed to horace b. claflin. in the corner barry wrote: "to introduce mr. j. gilman." "there," he said. "take this letter round to claflin and he will undoubtedly give you a good place." he spoke with so much confidence that jed was led to think himself in luck to be the recipient of such a testimonial. "thank you," he said. "i feel very much obliged." "oh don't mention it!" said barry in an airy way. "it gives me pleasure to assist you, mr. gilman, i assure you. when you have ascended round by round until you are at the top of the ladder, i trust you will not forget your chance acquaintance, hamilton barry." "i certainly will not, mr. barry," said jed warmly, grasping the hand of the editor. "i hope some day to thank you as i wish." "my dear boy, the sentiment does you credit. i know you are sincere." "certainly," said jed. "it is because i know this that i venture to suggest that you may do me a favor at once." "what is it?" "let me have a fiver till next monday. i shall then call at the office of the _tribune_ for twenty dollars due me for two editorials published early this week." this request rather staggered jed. now that he had paid his fare to new york he had only about thirty-seven dollars, and five dollars would cut rather seriously into his small balance. "i am afraid," he said awkwardly, "that i can hardly spare five dollars. if two dollars would help you----" "it would materially," interposed barry. "of course it is only a loan. meet me here next monday, at six o'clock, say, after your duties are over at claflin's, and i will gladly repay you." this off-hand allusion to claflin, taking for granted his engagement there, made jed ashamed of his temporary distrust, and he drew from his pocketbook a two-dollar note, which he handed to mr. barry. "thanks," said the editor, as he carelessly slipped it into his pocket. "be here on monday at six o'clock sharp." then with a jaunty air he touched his hat and walked rapidly around the corner. "i think i will go around to claflin's at once," decided jed. "i may as well strike while the iron is hot." chapter xxii. jed makes two calls. on church street jed found an imposing-looking building which a passing policeman informed him was claflin's place of business. the size rather impressed jed, accustomed as he had been hitherto to the small stores in scranton, but he felt that it was no time for diffidence. so he opened the outer door and entered. he found himself in a scene of activity. the shelves were filled with goods, and behind the counters were numerous salesmen. no one took any notice of jed at first till a tall, stout man, in walking across the room, espied him. "any one waiting on you, young man?" he asked. "no," answered jed. "here, wilkins," said the floor-walker, "attend to this young man. what house do you represent?" "none, sir," answered jed uncomfortably, feeling out of place. "ah, you want to buy at retail. go into the next room." "no, sir, i didn't come to buy anything," stammered jed. "i have a letter for mr. claflin." the great merchant is now dead, but at the time of jed's call he was living. "wilkins, you may take the letter and carry it to mr. claflin." wilkins took the letter from jed's hands, walked across the room, and ascended to mr. claflin's office on the second floor. he reappeared within five minutes and signaled to jed to approach. "mr. claflin will see you," he said. "follow me." presently jed found himself in the presence of the great merchant, who surveyed him curiously. "are you mr. j. gilman?" he asked. "yes, sir," answered jed, blushing. "you bring a letter from--" here mr. claflin referred to a note--"from a man who calls himself hamilton barry?" "yes, sir." "i don't know any such man. how did he happen to offer you a letter?" "i told him i wanted a position." "exactly. did he say he knew me?" "yes, sir. he said he used to go to school with you." mr. claflin laughed. "did he borrow any money from you?" "yes," answered jed, surprised that the merchant should have guessed this. "not much, i hope." "two dollars." "that was all?" "no, sir; he treated me to some sarsaparilla and did not have the money to pay for it." "he is evidently a fraud and an impostor. did he say he ever worked for me?" "no, sir; he said he was an editor--that he wrote articles for the daily papers." "when did he offer to repay you?" "next monday, when he had received pay from the _tribune_ for some articles he had written." "what was the man's appearance?" "he was tall, and not very well dressed." "it is hardly likely that he ever wrote an article for the _tribune_ or any other of the city dailies. i hope he did not get all your money?" "no, sir. i have considerable besides." "i advise you to take good care of it, and to steer clear of questionable acquaintances." mr. claflin turned to a letter which he was writing, and jed felt that he was dismissed. mr. claflin had said nothing about taking him into his employment, and he went down stairs feeling mortified and depressed. mingled with these feelings was one of anger at having been so cruelly deceived by his steamboat acquaintance. "i'd just like to meet him again!" soliloquized jed, involuntarily doubling up his fist. "i wonder whether he really writes for the _tribune_?" he asked himself. he decided to solve this question at once, though he had not much doubt on the subject. he wanted to know exactly what he had to depend on. he walked up to broadway, then down to the city hall park, and asked a boy whom he met, "where is the _tribune_ office?" "there it is across the park," said the boy, pointing to a tall building with a lofty tower. "what do you want to do--sell papers?" "no," answered jed. "i want to ask about one of the editors." "you're from the country, ain't you?" "yes. what makes you think so?" "because all the boys in the city know the _tribune_ building. say, what do you do for a livin'?" inquired the boy confidentially. this was rather a puzzling question, but jed, remembering that he had been on the stage for a time, felt justified in answering, "i am an actor." "cracky! you don't say. you ain't little lord fauntleroy, are you?" "no; i played the telegraph boy in the play of 'the gold king.'" "how did you like it?" asked the newsboy, becoming interested. "very much." "are you goin' to play it again?" "no; i took the place of the regular actor for a few weeks while he was sick. now he is well, and i am not needed." "say, does actin' pay well?" asked the boy curiously. "i was paid pretty well." "do you think you could get me a chance?" "i am afraid i can't get another chance myself." the newsboy had no more questions to ask, and jed, following directions, crossed the park and the street beyond to the _tribune_ building. he entered the office, and walked up to a window, beyond which stood a young man who was handing out papers to a purchaser who wanted some back numbers. jed presented himself next, and the clerk looked at him inquiringly. "do you wish to subscribe?" asked the clerk, as jed remained silent. "no; i want to ask whether you have an editor named hamilton barry?" "i don't think so. why do you ask?" "he borrowed some money of me, and said he would pay me when he collected some money due him from the _tribune_." the clerk smiled. "i am sure none of our editors borrow money from boys," he said. "you have been imposed upon, young man." "i guess you are right," responded jed, coloring. "if you like, i will send up to the city editor to inquire if there is a man named barry in his department." "i guess i won't trouble you." jed turned away quite satisfied in his own mind that he had been cleverly swindled and would never see his two dollars again. he reflected that it might have been more, and stoutly resolved not to let any designing persons wheedle him out of any more money. he had never visited new york before, and the streets were all new to him. so he strolled about for a couple of hours, gazing curiously at shops, buildings, streets, and street scenes. this naturally led to a feeling of hunger, and at twelve o'clock he began to look around for a restaurant. he found one on fulton street, and went in. he took a seat on the right-hand side, about midway up the room, and consulted the bill of fare. he found that roast meats were fifteen and twenty-five cents, the latter being for large plates. tea and coffee were five cents each, and pie or pudding was ten cents. he ordered a large plate of roast beef, feeling quite hungry, and a cup of coffee. jed had about half finished his dinner when his attention was drawn by a familiar voice at the next table. looking up, he saw that two men had entered the restaurant since he had been served and were sitting with their backs to him. one of them he recognized, with a thrill of excitement, as his acquaintance of the morning, hamilton barry. "i say, barry," said his companion, "you've had a streak of luck. how do you happen to be in funds?" "i negotiated a loan, my boy." "that is interesting. would the party accommodate me, do you think?" "depends upon your invention, my boy. i told him a plausible story, and did him a favor." "explain." "he was looking for a position, and i gave him a letter of introduction to h. b. claflin." the friend burst into a fit of laughter. "i admire your cheek," he said. "what do you know of claflin?" "i told him that claflin and i went to school together." "a lie, of course?" "yes; i never set eyes on the man in my life." "and on the strength of that you negotiated a loan." "precisely." "how much?" "i struck him for a five, but he only let me have two." "which, of course, you promised to repay." "i told him i would repay him next monday when the _tribune_ paid me for two editorial articles i wrote for them." this tickled the fancy of both, and they burst into uproarious laughter. it may be imagined with what feelings of indignation poor jed listened to these rascals, and understood how adroitly he had been swindled. he felt tempted to get up and address the man who had swindled him in fitting terms, but concluded to wait until he had finished his dinner. he felt particularly angry when barry ordered a high-priced dish--a plate of roast turkey--to be paid for with his money. at last his dinner was over, and taking the check in his hand, jed made his way to the table in front. "mr. barry," he said as calmly as he could, "i believe you owe me two dollars. i shall be glad if you will pay me now." barry looked up quickly, and actually seemed embarrassed when he recognized jed. "confusion!" he ejaculated. "the kid!" chapter xxiii. jed's bad luck. "yes," answered jed coolly, "it is the kid. i have called upon mr. claflin, and also at the office of the _tribune_. probably you can guess what i was told at both places." mr. barry felt that he was in a tight place, but reflecting that jed was only a boy, he determined to bluff him off. "i don't know what you are talking about, boy," he said. "i know nothing of mr. claflin, and have nothing to do with the _tribune_ office." "i am aware of that, but you gave me a letter of introduction to h. b. claflin, and borrowed two dollars of me, promising to pay me when you settled with the _tribune_ for editorial contributions." "there is not a word of truth in this," said barry, fidgeting in his chair. "i have been listening to your conversation for fifteen minutes," continued jed, "and i heard you give an account of the matter to your friend here." barry hesitated a moment. even his brazen hardihood was scarcely adequate to the emergency. he was the more uneasy because a policeman was sitting at the next table but one. "it was only a practical joke, boy," he said hurriedly. "i'll pay you back the two dollars." "that will be satisfactory," returned jed. "but i can't do it to-day. i'll meet you on monday afternoon, as i said. i am in rather a hurry now and must be going." he rose from the table precipitately, and went up to the desk followed by his friend. "shall i stop him?" thought jed. he decided not to do so, as he felt sure barry could not pay him. the loss was not a serious one, but it would not do to make a second mistake. he paid his check and left the restaurant. jed knew very little of new york, even for a country boy. some scranton people doubtless had visited the great city, but, as an inmate of a poorhouse, he had not been thrown in their way. accordingly he was like a mariner without a compass. he could only follow where impulse led. he turned into broadway, and with his gripsack in his hand walked up the great thoroughfare, looking in at shop windows as he strolled along. travelling in this leisurely manner, it was perhaps four o'clock when he reached union square. he was by this time fatigued and ready to rest on one of the benches which he found in the park. one person was sitting there already. it was a slender young man with a diamond ring on one of the fingers of his right hand. at least it looked to be a diamond. he was dressed in rather a showy manner. he was perhaps twenty-two, but so slender that he must have weighed a dozen or fifteen pounds less than jed, who was only sixteen. he looked casually at the country boy as the latter sat down, and presently turned and addressed him. "it is a warm day," he said. "yes," answered jed, who felt lonely and was glad to be social with some one. "i judge from your bag," he glanced at the gripsack, "that you are a visitor to new york." "yes," answered jed frankly. "i have never been in new york before." "that was my case two years ago. now i feel quite like an old resident. are you staying at a hotel?" "no; that is what i should like to ask about. i must spend the night somewhere. can you recommend a _cheap_ hotel?" "why do you go to a hotel? no hotel is cheap in the long run. it is much better to hire a room in a lodging-house and take your meals at restaurants." "yes, i suppose it would be. but i don't know where to find such a lodging-house." "come, i'll make you an offer. i have a room on twenty-seventh street. you shall pay for my supper, and i will let you stay in my room without charge till to-morrow. then if you like it well enough to room with me, i shall be glad to have you." "thank you; how much do you pay for your room?" "four dollars a week. that will be two dollars a piece. that is cheap for the city. you can't get a room at a hotel for less than a dollar a night." "is that so?" asked jed. "that would be seven dollars a week." "precisely." "i couldn't afford to pay that." "there is no reason why you should. i couldn't afford it myself. well, do you accept my offer? do just as you please. of course i have no motive except to give a helping hand to a stranger in the city." "you are very kind," said jed gratefully. "i know so little of new york that i feel quite helpless." "quite natural. i've been through it all." "are you--in business?" rather wondering how his companion should be free at that hour. "yes, i am in a broker's office down town. we have easy hours. i am off for the day at three o'clock." "are you well paid? but perhaps you don't care to tell." "oh, yes, i don't mind. i get twenty dollars a week." "i wish i could get twelve," said jed wistfully. "i shall have to get work soon." "you have some money to keep you while you are waiting for work?" said the other quickly. "yes. i have about thirty-five dollars." the young man's face brightened up. "i am glad for you," he said. "you can make that last a good while, if you are guided by me, and keep down your expenses." "that is exactly what i want to do," responded jed earnestly. "oh well, i will put my experience at your service. i hope you will conclude to room with me. i feel rather lonesome at times. of course i could easily get a roommate, but i am rather particular." "you might not like me," said jed. "i am sure i shall. i can tell in five minutes whether i am going to like a person or not. how old are you?" "sixteen." "indeed! you look older. that's going to help you, you know, about a situation. you can pass for a young man, and they won't think of offering you boy's pay." "perhaps you will be able to advise me about the kind of place i had better apply for." "of course i will. i already begin to take a great interest in you. what kind of work have you done?" "well, i have acted a little." "you don't say so!" ejaculated his new friend in genuine surprise, for he had looked upon jed as an unsophisticated country boy who probably had never seen the inside of a theatre. "i suppose you mean," he suggested as an afterthought, "in some village entertainment." "no; i played in 'the gold king' for some time." "you don't say so! what part did you take?" "the boy's part." the young man regarded jed with more respect. "i shouldn't have thought it," he said. "how did you happen to get such a fine chance as that?" "i knew one of the actors--harry bertram--and the one who played the boy's part regularly was taken sick. i only played about four or five weeks all together." "still that makes you a regular actor. do you think of trying to get a place at daly's or palmer's?" "oh, no. i don't suppose i should stand any show. i could only take a boy's part." "well, we can talk over our plans later. i don't mind confessing that i am hungry. how about yourself?" "i think i could eat some supper." "come along, then. i'll take you to a good restaurant. it's some way off, but it is near my room." "all right." the two rose, and leaving the park, walked up broadway, past the fifth avenue hotel, the hoffman house, and the st. james, till they reached a well-known eating-house known as smith & green's, situated on the east side of broadway, between twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth streets. "come in here. i won't take you to delmonico's, a little further down, as you haven't a private bank to draw from. this is a nice restaurant and moderate in its charges." they entered, sat down at a round table and studied the bill of fare. the prices seemed to be moderate. jed's dinner cost thirty-five cents, but his companion was more lavish in his orders, and ran up a bill of sixty-five cents. "that makes just a dollar," he remarked. it seemed considerable to jed, who decided that he would rather order and pay for his own meals separately hereafter. during the repast jed learned that his new friend's name was maurice graham. "now we'll go around to my room, and you can dispose of your gripsack." "i shall be glad to do so. i am tired of carrying it about." graham led the way to a three-story brick house near seventh avenue, and mounted to a small square room on the upper story. it was plainly furnished with a three-quarters bed, a bureau, and the usual chamber furniture. "you can leave your bag anywhere, and then we will go out for a walk." "i think i would rather stay here and lie down." "all right! make yourself at home. i will go out. shall probably be back by ten." when graham returned at a little past ten he found jed in bed and fast asleep. his eyes sparkled with pleasure. he raised jed's clothes from the chair on which he had thrown them and went through the pockets expeditiously. poor jed's small stock of money was quickly transferred to his own pockets. "he hasn't any watch," soliloquized graham. "that's a pity." when his search was completed he put on his hat again. "i shall sleep in jersey city to-night," he said to himself. "that will be safer." he went out softly, leaving jed alone, the victim of a cruel trick. chapter xxiv. a startling discovery. jed slept on, unconscious of his loss, till the sun flooded the room with golden light. then he opened his eyes and wondered for a moment where he was. but recollection came to his aid, and he recalled the incidents of his meeting with graham and sharing the latter's room. he looked over to the other side of the bed, but his roommate was not to be seen. "i suppose it is late and he has gone to his business," thought jed tranquilly. "probably he didn't want to wake me up." this explanation seemed natural enough till he noticed that the pillow on the right-hand side of the bed did not seem to have been used. lifting the quilt, he discovered that the sheet was smooth. clearly graham had not slept there at all. "what does it mean?" thought jed, perplexed. "why didn't he come back last evening?" this was a question which he could not answer. no suspicion, however, had yet dawned upon him that anything was wrong. "well," he said, jumping out of bed, "i must get up and try for a place. i guess i can find that eating-house where we took supper. let me see, what was the name? oh, smith & green. well, i feel as if i could dispose of a good breakfast." he washed his face and hands and proceeded to dress. mechanically, but not from any feeling of uneasiness, he thrust his hand into his pocket in search of his wallet. the pocket was empty! his heart gave a jump, and he hurriedly examined his other pockets, but it was of no avail. then he looked about the room and on the floor, but there was no trace of the lost wallet. jed felt faint, and his legs trembled under him, as he thought of the terrible situation in which he was placed. he began to connect graham's absence with his loss, and understood that his new acquaintance had played him false. it was a shock to him, for his nature was trustful, and he hated to believe that a young man who had seemed so friendly should prove so treacherous. "what shall i do?" thought poor jed. "i haven't enough money for my breakfast, and i am _very_ hungry." at this point, just as he was ready to go out, there came a knock at the door. jed rose and opened it. he confronted a stout woman of middle age with a very serious expression of countenance that seemed to indicate that she meant business. she regarded jed with surprise. "i expected to see mr. graham," she said. "are you a friend of his?" "i only met him yesterday. he invited me to come and spend the night in his room." "is he here, or has he gone out?" "i don't think he slept here at all last night. he left early in the evening, and said he would come back, but the bed doesn't seem to have been slept in except by myself." "he is very liberal in offering the use of a room that he has not paid for," said the lady sarcastically. "i don't know anything about that," faltered jed. "no, i suppose not. but it's true. he only came here two weeks and a half ago, and paid one week's rent in advance--four dollars. when the next week's rent became due he said that his employer was on a visit to chicago, and he could not get his pay till he came back. do you know whether that is true?" "no, i don't. i never saw him before yesterday afternoon about four o'clock in a park about half a mile from here." "so he wasn't at work at that time?" "no; he said he worked for a broker and got through at three o'clock." "a broker? why he told me he was working in a wholesale house down town. at any rate, i wish he'd pay me the eight dollars he owes me." "i wish he'd pay me the thirty-five dollars he owes me," said jed despondently. "you don't mean to say that you were goose enough to lend him thirty-five dollars?" exclaimed mrs. gately in a crescendo voice. "no; i didn't lend it to him," returned jed bitterly. "he must have taken it out of my pocket when i was asleep." "well, i declare! so he's a thief, too." she looked around the room, and opening a bureau examined the drawers. "he's gone off and taken all of his things," she reported. "that settles it. we shall not see our money again." "i--i don't know what to do," said jed sorrowfully. "did he take _all_ your money?" asked mrs. gately, drawn from a consideration of her own misfortune to that of her fellow-sufferer. "yes, he took every cent," answered jed mournfully. "and the worst of it is that i am a stranger in new york." "well, that is too bad!" said the landlady, an expression of sympathy relieving the severity of her face. "your case is worse than mine. you actually haven't anything left?" "except my gripsack." "and of course you haven't had any breakfast?" "no, ma'am." "well, i do pity you. i suppose you are hungry?" "i don't know when i have ever felt so hungry," answered jed. "i will see that you don't leave the house in that condition at any rate. i'm a poor woman, as any one must be who has to depend on lodgers for an income, but i'm not penniless. come down stairs, mr.--mr.--" "gilman," suggested jed. "and i will skirmish round and scare you up something to eat." "you are very kind," said jed gratefully. "wait and see what you get," returned mrs. gately with a laugh and a softer expression, for jed's case appealed to her heart. she led the way to the front basement. a table was set in the centre of the room. evidently it had not yet been cleared off. "i'm a little behindhand this morning," remarked mrs. gately, beginning to bustle round. "i don't take boarders in a general way, but i have a young girl in the house that works at macy's. i suppose you've heard of macy's?" "no, ma'am." "never heard of macy's? i thought everybody had heard of macy's, fo'teenth street and sixth avenue. luella dickinson works there, and i give her breakfast in the house as a favor. let me see, there's a little coffee left--i'll warm it over--and there's bread and butter, and--i can cook you a sausage, and boil a couple of eggs." "i hope you won't take too much trouble," said jed. "i guess i can afford to take a little trouble, especially as there's no knowing when you will have any dinner." jed owned to himself with a sigh that there was a good deal of doubt on that point. however, it isn't wise to borrow trouble too far in advance, and the odor of the sausage as it was frying was very grateful to his nostrils. he was sure of one meal at any rate, and that was something, though the day before he thought he had enough money to last a month. "i don't think the coffee will do," said mrs. gately, as she bustled round the stove in the next room. "i'll make some fresh. i don't think coffee amounts to much when it is warmed over." jed was of the same opinion, and did not utter a protest. he was very fond of coffee, and felt that with a fresh pot of it the breakfast would be fit for a king. "haven't you got any folks, mr. gilman?" asked the landlady, as she brought the pot of coffee and sat it on the table. "no, ma'am," answered jed. "i am alone in the world." "dear me, that's sad! and so young as you are, too!" "yes, ma'am. i'm only sixteen." "what did you calc'late to do, if you could get a chance?" "anything. i'm not particular." "you haven't any trade, have you?" "no. i've been living in the country most of the time, and did chores on a farm." "well, we haven't many farms in new york," said the landlady with a laugh. "no. i suppose not. even if there were, i don't like that kind of work." "have you never done anything else?" "i acted for a few weeks." "gracious! you don't mean to say you've been a play actor?" "yes, ma'am." "how luella dickinson would like to see you! she dotes on play actors, but i don't think she ever met one." "i am afraid she would be disappointed in me. "oh, i guess not. if you've played on the stage that's enough. why can't you call round some evening? luella would _so_ like to see you." "thank you, mrs. gately. if i can get anything to do, i will call." jed finished his breakfast. he ate heartily, for he had no idea where he should get another meal. "i guess i'll be going," he said, as he rose from the table. "you have been very kind." "oh, that's nothing. i hope you'll meet that rascally graham and make him give up your money." "i am afraid there is little hope of that. good morning, and thank you!" and so jed passed out of the hospitable house into the inhospitable street, without a cent of money or a prospect of earning any. chapter xxv. without a penny. there is nothing that makes one feel so helpless as to be without a penny in a strange city. if jed had had even a dollar he would have felt better. the fact of his poverty was emphasized when a boy came up to him and asked him to buy a morning paper. jed instinctively felt in his pocket for a penny, but not even a cent was forthcoming. "i have no change," he said, by way of excuse. "i can change a dollar," responded the newsboy, who was more than usually enterprising. "i wish _i_ could," thought jed, but he only said, "no, it is no matter." so he walked along broadway, fairly well dressed, but, so far as money went, a pauper. yes, though no longer an inmate of the scranton poorhouse, he was even poorer than when he was there, for then he had a home, and now he had none. "i wonder when it is all going to end?" reflected poor jed despondently. then his anger was excited when he thought of the unprincipled rascal who had brought him to this pass. "if i could only get hold of him," muttered jed vengefully, "i would give him something to remember me by." all the while jed walked on, though his walk was aimless. he was as well off in one part of the city as another, and only walked to fill up time. he found himself passing a drug store. just outside the door he saw the sign "boy wanted," and with a little kindling of hope he entered the store. just behind the counter stood a man with a sandy beard, who appeared to be the proprietor. to him jed addressed himself. "i see you want a boy," he said. "yes; do you want a place?" "yes, sir." "i hardly think you would be satisfied with the wages we pay, unless you particularly wish to learn our business." "what do you pay, sir?" "three dollars a week." three dollars a week! it was certainly better than no income at all, but jed knew well that it would be impossible to live on this sum, and he had no reserve fund to draw upon. "no," he said, "i am afraid i couldn't get along on that salary." "are you entirely dependent on your earnings?" asked the druggist. "yes, sir." "have you parents residing in the city?" "no, sir; i am all alone." "that would be an objection. we prefer to employ those who live at home." "do most employers require that, sir?" "many do." here a customer came in and asked for a bottle of cough medicine, and the druggist turned away to fill the order. jed walked slowly out of the store. "i wonder whether there is any work for me anywhere?" he asked himself despondently. jed continued his walk down broadway. it was a bright, clear, exhilarating day, and jed would have enjoyed it thoroughly if he had been better fixed, but it is hard to keep up the spirits when your pocket is empty. when jed reached city hall park he went in and sat down on one of the benches. one of the boy bootblacks who carry on business in the park came up to him with his box on his shoulder and asked, "shine your boots?" jed shook his head. "not this morning," he replied. "they need it," said the boy. jed looked at his boots, and was fain to admit that the boy was right. but he was not possessed of the necessary nickel. "yes, they do need it," he said, "but i haven't money enough to pay you for doing it." "only five cents." "i haven't five cents. i'm poorer than you are, my boy," said jed in a burst of confidence. the boy looked puzzled. "you don't look like it," he said after scrutinizing jed's appearance. "how did you come to be so poor?" "had all my money stolen last night." "how much was there?" "thirty-five dollars." "whew!" whistled the bootblack. "that was a haul. who did it?" "a young man i fell in with. he invited me to share his room. i woke this morning to find that he had stolen all my money." "he was a snide, he was! i'd like to step on his necktie." "i'd like to do something of that sort myself," said jed with a smile. "would you know him if you saw him again?" "yes; i shan't forget him very soon." "when you do see him hand him over to a cop. just hold out your foot," and the boy got down in a position to black jed's shoe. "but i haven't any money. i can't pay you." "i'll do it for nothin', seein' as you're down on your luck. you can pay me some time when times is better." "i am afraid you will have to wait a good while for your money." "never mind! it won't kill me if i lose it." "you're very kind to a stranger," said jed, grateful for the boy's friendly proffer. "oh, it ain't nothin'. you look like a good fellow. you'll get a place quicker if your shoes look nice." there was something practical in this suggestion, and jed accepted the offer without further hesitation. the boy exerted himself specially, and jed's dirty shoes soon showed a dazzling polish. "there, you can see your face in 'em!" exclaimed the boy, as he rose from his knees. "thank you," said jed. "i see you understand your business. will you tell me your name?" "jim parker." "well, jim, i am much obliged to you. i hope some time i can do you a favor." "oh, that's all right. so long! i hope you'll get a job." and the independent young bootblack, with his box over his shoulder, walked across the park in search of another job. somehow jed was cheered by this act of kindness. he felt a little better satisfied with himself, moreover, when he saw the transformation of his dirty shoes to the polish that marks the gentleman. a man rather shabbily dressed was drawn by this outward sign of affluence to sit down beside him. he took a brief inventory of jed, and then doffing his hat, said deferentially, "young gentleman, i hope you will excuse the liberty i am taking, but i have walked all the way from buffalo, and am reduced almost to my last penny. in fact this nickel," producing one from his pocket, "is all the money i have left. if you will kindly loan me a quarter i shall esteem it a great favor." jed felt like laughing. he had not a penny, yet here was a man richer than himself asking for a loan. "i wish i were able to oblige you," he said, "but you are asking me for more than i possess." the man glanced incredulously at jed's polished shoes. "you don't look poor," he said, in a tone of sarcasm. "no, i don't look poor, but you are five cents richer than i." the man shrugged his shoulders. he evidently did not believe jed. "it is quite true," continued jed, answering the doubt on the man's face. "last night i was robbed of all the money i had. had you applied to me yesterday i would have granted your request." this frank statement disarmed the man's suspicion. "i think your are speaking the truth," he said. "though there are plenty who pretend to be poor to get rid of giving. perhaps i shall surprise you when i say that a year ago i should have been able to lend you five thousand dollars, and have as much more left." "yes, you do surprise me! how did you lose your money?" "i was a fool--that explains it. i bought mining stocks. i was in san francisco at the time, and my money melted like snow in the sun. a year since i was worth ten thousand dollars. to-day i am worth a nickel. do you know what i will do with it?" jed looked at him inquiringly. "i will buy a glass of beer, and drink to our good luck--yours and mine." "i hope it will bring the good luck," said jed smiling. "i would offer you a glass too, if i had another nickel." "thank you, but i never drink beer. i thank you all the same." his companion rose and left the park, probably in search of a beer saloon. jed got up, too, and took another walk. by half-past twelve he felt decidedly hungry. his breakfast had lasted him till then, but he was young and healthy, and craved three meals a day. "how shall i manage to get dinner?" thought jed seriously. he paused in front of the astor house, which he knew to be a hotel, and saw business men entering in quest of their midday lunch. it was tantalizing. there was plenty of food inside, but he lacked the wherewithal to purchase a portion. "why, jed, how are you?" came unexpectedly to his ears. he looked up and saw a brown-bearded, pleasant-faced man, whom he recognized as a fellow-guest at the spray hotel at sea spray. "when did you leave sea spray?" asked his friend. "only yesterday." "going to stay in the city?" "yes, if i can get anything to do." "have you been to lunch?" "not yet." "come in and lunch with me, then. i think we can find something inviting at the astor." "saved!" thought jed, as he gladly passed into the famous hostelry with his friend. "i wonder if he has any idea how glad i am to accept his invitation?" chapter xxvi. in search of employment. jed followed his hotel friend up stairs into an upper dining-room, and they took seats at a corner table. "i never like to dine alone," said howell foster. "i am glad i fell in with you, jed." "so am i," answered jed. "i am more glad than you have any idea of," he said to himself. "what will you order?" asked mr. foster, pushing over the bill of fare to his companion. "i have a healthy appetite and shall enjoy anything," said jed with a smile. "please order the same for me as for yourself." howell foster was rather proud of his gastronomic knowledge, and took this as a compliment. "you can trust me to do that," he replied. "i am used to the place and know what they succeed best in." thereupon he ordered a dinner which jed found delicious. no expense was spared, and jed, glancing at the bill when it was brought, found that the charge was three dollars and a half. during the repast the host kept up a bright and chatty conversation. "i hope you enjoyed your dinner," he said, when it was over. "actions speak louder than words," answered jed with a smile. "this is a good, reliable place. i advise you to come here often." "what would he say if he could see the inside of my pocket-book?" thought jed. "i am afraid," he said aloud, "it is too expensive for my means." "yes, probably; i didn't think of that. by the way, what have you in view?" "i hardly know yet." "come round and see me some day," and foster handed jed his card. "thank you, sir." "will you have a cigar?" "no, thank you, sir. i don't smoke." "it would be money in my pocket if i didn't. my cigars cost me last year five hundred dollars." "i wish i was sure of that for my entire income," thought jed. they parted at the entrance to the hotel. it was clear from his manner and speech that howell foster thought jed in easy circumstances. it made the boy feel almost like an impostor, but he reflected that he had done nothing to give mr. foster a false impression. it was about half-past one when he left the hotel. the dinner had occupied an hour. the world was still before him, but he had eaten a hearty meal and felt that he could get along, if necessary, till the next morning, so far as eating was concerned. where to sleep presented a perplexing problem, but it would be some time before it required to be solved. how to spend the afternoon puzzled jed. he went back to city hall park, and on the seat he had formerly occupied he found a copy of the new york _herald_ which somebody had left there. he took it up and looked over the advertisements for help wanted. he found the following: wanted.--smart, enterprising agents to sell packages of stationery. fifteen dollars a week can easily be made. call at no. nassau street, room . this struck jed as just the thing. it could not be very hard to sell stationery, and fifteen dollars a week would support him comfortably. "where is nassau street?" he inquired of a bootblack who took a temporary seat beside him. "there 'tis," said the street boy, pointing in the direction of the _tribune_ building. "you just go down in front of the tribune." "is no. far off?" "no, it's close by. you can get there in less than no time." "thank you!" and with hope in his heart jed rose and walked in the direction indicated. he found the building. at the entrance was a list of occupants of rooms. he went up two flights of stairs, and halted in front of no. . he knocked at the door and was bidden in a deep, hoarse voice to "come in!" opening the door, he found himself in the presence of a short, humpbacked man, whose voice was quite out of proportion to his size. "i suppose you come to see me about the advertisement in the _herald_," said the dwarf. "yes, sir," answered jed, gazing as if fascinated at the stunted figure, huge head and long arms of the person before him. "i have engaged several agents already this morning," went on the dwarf, turning over a large book on the desk before him. "then perhaps you don't need any more?" said jed despondently. "oh, yes, i do if i can get the right ones," was the answer. "it is to sell packages of stationery, i believe. can you show me some?" the dwarf handed jed a flat package, on the outside of which was printed a list of the contents. they included a pen holder, pens, a quire of paper, a supply of envelopes, and several other articles. "this is the best package in the market for the money," said the dwarf. "observe how varied are the contents, and only a paltry twenty-five cents for the whole." "yes, it seems a good bargain," said jed. "you are right there," said the dwarf confidently. "why, you can make money hand over hand. our agents are actually coining it. we allow them to retain ten cents on each package. two or three, and sometimes five, are sold to the same person. would you like to have me read one or two agents' letters?" "yes, if you please." "here is one from theodore jenkins, who is operating in pennsylvania: "'hugo higgins, esq. "'dear sir: "'please send me at once two hundred packages of stationery. they sell like hot cakes. i got rid of forty yesterday, and it rained half the day, too. i have held several agencies for different articles, but none that paid as well as this. i shall be disappointed if i don't make forty dollars per week. it looks as if it might exceed that sum. "'yours respectfully, "'theodore jenkins.' "that letter speaks for itself," remarked the dwarf as he folded it up and replaced it in an envelope. "yes," said jed, "it is certainly very encouraging." "i will read you another from a party who has been in our employ for fourteen months. he is operating in ohio. "'dear sir: "'you may send me three hundred packages by adams express, and please don't delay, for i need them at once. i have been working for you for fourteen months. during that time i have supported my family and bought a house, on which i have paid cash down a thousand dollars. in the course of the next year and a half i expect to complete the payment and own the house clean. it was certainly a lucky thing for me when i saw your advertisement for agents and engaged in your service. "'yours gratefully, "'arthur waters.' "that is another letter that speaks for itself," observed mr. higgins. "i have plenty more, but i don't think i need to read any others to convince you that the business will pay any one that takes hold of it." "perhaps," added jed, "these gentlemen had experience as agents." "one of them had, but the other was quite green in the business." "you think then that i could succeed?" "undoubtedly. you look smart and have a taking way with you. you can't fail to succeed." this was pleasant to hear, and jed felt strongly impelled to engage in the service of the plausible higgins. "if you will trust me with twenty packages," he said, "i will see what i can do." "certainly. that will be three dollars. you see we charge you fifteen cents each, and you sell them for twenty-five. that gives you two dollars. you had better take fifty packages, and then you won't have to come back to-morrow." "very well, i will take fifty." "all right. you may pay me seven dollars and a half, and i will get the packages ready." "do you require payment in advance?" asked jed quickly. "certainly. you are a stranger to me, and even if you were not, i should not feel like risking so much money or money's worth. what is there to hinder your making off with it and never coming back?" "i wouldn't be dishonest for a great deal more money than that." "i dare say you are right, but we must adhere to our business methods. you will get your money back in two days probably." "but i haven't the money to pay in advance." "oh, that alters the matter," said higgins, become less gracious. "how much have you?" "i am unable to pay anything," said jed desperately. mr. hugo higgins turned away, no longer interested in jed. poor jed felt sadly disappointed at losing so good a chance, but something happened to mitigate his regret. a stout man with red hair opened the door of the office and dashed in, carrying in his hands a large package. "i want my money back!" he said. "you are a big schwindler!" chapter xxvii. an intractable agent. the new visitor was a large man, evidently a german, weighing not less than two hundred pounds. he approached hugo higgins, towering above the dwarf by at least fourteen inches, and shook his fist in his face. mr. higgins shrank back as if fearful of a personal assault, and inquired in uneasy tones: "who are you, my friend?" "who am i?" retorted the other, laughing gutturally. "you know me well enough, you villain!" "i think i have seen you somewhere," said hugo, not daring to show the anger he felt at the hard name by which the other addressed him. "you have seen me somewhere? come, that's good. my name is otto schmidt, and i am one of your victims. you understand that, hey?" "no. i can't say i do." "then i'll tell you. i came in here last week and bought some of your confounded packages. i was to make big wages by selling them, hey?" "certainly, i hope you did." "you hope i did?" repeated mr. otto schmidt fiercely. "well, i tell you. i went round two days in montclair, and how many packages you think i sell, hey?" "about fifty," answered hugo with a sickly smile. "about fifty? ha, ha!" returned the german, laughing wildly. "i sell just one to a young boy named chester noyes. that's all i sell." "my dear mr. schmidt, i am afraid you got discouraged too soon," said hugo suavely. "so i am your dear mr. schmidt, hey? you cost me dear enough with your lies about the business, you scoundrel!" "i cannot allow you to talk to me in this way," said hugo in a dignified tone. "oh, you won't, hey?" retorted the german, beginning to dance about the floor. "well, i won't. maybe you prefer to have me step on your necktie, hey?" hugo higgins looked alarmed, and jed could hardly help laughing. "well, what do you want?" asked hugo, afraid some applicant for an agency might enter and be frightened away. "what do i want? i want my money back." "that is against our rules," said hugo. "my good mr. schmidt, take the packages and go to some other place. other agents have told me that montclair is not a good town for business. go to--to rahway! i am sure you will sell all your packages there." "no; i don't go to rahway. i sell all my packages here." "but, my good friend----" "i am not your good friend. i am no friend to a rascal." "really, this language----" "never mind about the language! i ain't going to be schwindled by no fakir. i've got forty-nine packages here, and i want you to pay me back my money, seven dollars and thirty-five cents." "i can't think of such a thing." "then i give you in charge for schwindling," said otto schmidt, thrusting a fat fist directly under hugo's nose. "i may be one dutchman, but i ain't so dumb as you think i am." "i don't think you dumb at all," said hugo soothingly. "i think you are a smart man of business." "you find me too schmart to be schwindled, i tell you that." "still, if you don't want to go on with the business, i'll take back the packages and give you five dollars for them." "and i to lose two dollars and thirty-five cents, besides all my time. not much, mr. hugo higgins." "you can't expect me to give you back all the money." "well, i do," said mr. schmidt stoutly. "i give you just two minutes to make up your mind." just then the door opened, and a young man who was evidently from the country entered. "i seed your advertisement," he said. "i want to be an agent, if you can give me a chance." otto schmidt smiled sardonically, and was about to speak, when hugo said hurriedly, "come out into the hall, mr. schmidt, and i think we can arrange your business satisfactorily." "all right! i come," and he followed hugo out into the entry. "i will pay you your money," said the agent. "it is quite against my rules, but i will make an exception in your case." "i want a dollar more to pay me for my time," said the german, appreciating his advantage. "but, my dear sir, this is very unreasonable," said mr. higgins uneasily. "then i go back into the room and show you up." "very well, here is your money!" and hugo with great reluctance drew out eight dollars and thirty-five cents and handed it to mr. schmidt. otto schmidt chuckled and nodded significantly at the discomfited hugo. "i may be a dutchman," he said, "but i ain't no chump." hugo re-entered the office and smiled affably at the young man from the country. "one of our successful agents," he said, nodding towards the door. "i won't tell you how much that german gentleman has made by selling our famous packages, for you might not believe me." "can you give me a chance?" asked the young hayseed anxiously. "well, i think i can," said hugo with assumed hesitation, and then he explained on what terms he sold, as he had done to jed. "how many packages will you take?" he asked pleasantly. "i guess i'll take a dozen to begin with," said the young man from the country. "a dozen!" replied hugo, much disappointed. "my, that's no order at all. you would have to come back for more before the day was out." "well, i'll take fifteen," said the young man after reflection. "you'd better take fifty. very few of our agents take less than fifty." "no, i ain't got much money. i'll only take fifteen to begin with." and to this determination he adhered, in spite of the persuasions of mr. higgins. as hugo wrapped up the packages and received back two dollars and twenty-five cents, he regretted that he had so hastily agreed to buy back mr. schmidt's boxes at an advance on the original cost. "where would you advise me to sell?" asked the young man. "country towns are best," said hugo. "some distance from the city, i advise, as those who live near new york can come here and buy, and are less ready to patronize agents." jed smiled to himself. he understood that mr. higgins wished to guard against a visit from the young man in case his business failed to meet his anticipations. he lingered behind after the rural visitor had gone. "i hope," said hugo, "you took no stock in what that stupid dutchman said." "well," replied jed, "it shows that some of your agents are not successful." "a man like that could not succeed in selling anything," said hugo scornfully. "now it is different with you. you look smart." jed smiled. he began to understand mr. higgins and his methods. "then you remember the letters from the agents which i read you." "yes," answered jed, but he felt convinced now that the letters were bogus, and manufactured by mr. higgins himself. "when you can command the necessary funds i shall be glad to have you call and buy a bundle of samples." "i don't think i shall care to enter into the business, mr. higgins," said jed. "it would be an experiment, and i am not in a position to try experiments." higgins looked at jed, and saw that he was understood. "very well!" he said coldly. "you must do as you like, but you are making a mistake." jed left the office and went down stairs. what had happened did not encourage him. it seemed a good deal harder to make a living in a large city than he supposed. he saw now that there were sharpers ready to fleece the young and inexperienced. if he had not been robbed of his money, in all probability he would have fallen a victim to the persuasive but deceptive representations of mr. higgins, and have come back disappointed like mr. otto schmidt. he continued his walk down nassau street, and presently turned into broadway. his attention was attracted to a church with a very high spire facing wall street. he inquired the name and found it was trinity church. the scranton meeting-house could easily have been tucked away in one corner of the large edifice, and as far as height was concerned, it was but an infant compared with a six-footer. he walked still further down broadway, till he reached a green park, which he found was called the battery. feeling somewhat fatigued, he sat down on a bench near the sea-wall and looked over toward governor's island. craft of different sizes were passing, and jed was interested and exhilarated by the spectacle. chapter xxviii. a strange commission. jed's companion on the seat was a sallow-faced, black-bearded man. jed merely glanced at him, but presently became aware that he had become the object of the sallow man's scrutiny. finally the latter moved rather nearer jed, and showed a disposition to be sociable. "a fine day, young man," he began. "yes, sir." "and a fine view we have before us," went on the stranger, pointing to the harbor and the numerous craft that were passing in both directions. "however, i suppose it is quite familiar to you?" "no, sir; i am a stranger in the city." "indeed!" and here the stranger allowed his gaze to rest on the small gripsack that jed had placed on the seat beside him. "perhaps you have come in quest of work?" "yes, sir," answered jed. "have you found anything yet?" "no, sir, but i have only been here since yesterday morning. do you know of any situation that i could fill?" "well, no, no permanent position," answered the other deliberately. "i might give you a chance to earn," here he hesitated, "two dollars this evening. but perhaps that would not be worth your while." "yes, sir, i should be glad to earn even that," said jed eagerly. "then perhaps i may employ you. can you row a boat?" "yes, sir. i think so. i have rowed on a pond up in scranton." "then you can probably row here. i would row part of the way myself." "when do you want me?" asked jed. "not till late this evening. i will explain when the time comes." jed was disappointed. he had hoped to do the work at once, and receive the money. then he could buy himself some supper, for he was already hungry. he found that his appetite was just as regular as if he were earning a living income, instead of being impecunious and without work. "at what time shall i meet you, sir?" "at eleven o'clock, here." "yes, sir," answered jed, wondering what he was to do during the intervening time. as he had no money, he must defer eating till then, and it occurred to him that he would hardly feel able to row any considerable distance unless refreshed by food. could he venture to ask a part of the sum he was to earn in advance? he decided to do so. "i am going to ask a favor," he said hurriedly. "i have been robbed of all my money, and i have not enough to buy my supper. if you let me have half a dollar on account----" he feared that this proposal would be distasteful to his companion, but the sallow-faced man did not seem offended. "perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "i had better keep you with me, and let you eat supper with me." "very well, sir," said jed, feeling relieved. the other looked relieved. "it is half-past five," he said. "we may as well start now." he rose leisurely from his seat, and jed followed him. he walked to the head of the battery, and keeping near the piers, led the way to a humble tavern called "the sailor's rest." "this will do," he said. "it is not very fashionable, but they can give us a comfortable meal." certainly the interior presented a great contrast to the astor house, where jed had lunched, or rather dined. the floor was sanded, the tables were unprovided with tablecloths. there was a bar on one side of the room, over which presided a stout bartender with mottled cheeks and a dirty white apron. "where is the restaurant?" asked jed's companion. "in there," answered the bartender with a jerk of his finger in the direction of a back room. with a nod the sallow-faced man beckoned jed to follow him. opening a door, he led the way into a room provided with four tables only. on each table was a small bell. jed and his guide sat down, and the latter rang the bell. a dirty-faced man, with a beard of several days' growth, made his appearance. "we want some supper." "what'll you have?" "what can we have?" "beefsteak, ham and eggs." "what else?" "eggs without." "without what?" "ham." the sallow man shrugged his shoulders. "it seems we must choose between beefsteak and ham and eggs," he said. "what will you have?" "ham and eggs," answered jed. "all right. ham and eggs for two." "anything else?" "two bottles of lager. you drink beer, don't you?" "no," answered jed. "then bring the boy some tea or coffee--whichever he prefers." "tea," suggested jed. "bread and butter, of course, and fried potatoes, if you can get them ready." while they were waiting the man leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window at a dirty back yard, but his thoughts seemed to be otherwise occupied. jed's eyes wandered about the room, but found little to attract him in the two or three prints--one of a yacht, another of a merchant vessel--that adorned the walls. on the mantel was a soiled piece of coral and a large seashell. all seemed to harmonize with the name of the inn. jed, however, felt but a fleeting interest in the furnishings of the place. his mind dwelt rather on the promised supper. he could not understand how in this crisis of his fortunes, when there was so much to discourage him, he should have such an appetite. savory odors from the neighboring kitchen found their way into the room when the waiter opened the door and entered to set the table. jed was glad to overlook the cheap and dark-hued crockery, the rusty knives and forks and the chipped glasses, as the odor of the ham and eggs was wafted to his nostrils. finally the beer and tea were brought in, and his companion signaled to him to fall to. "where did you dine?" he asked abruptly. "at the astor house." the sallow-faced man paused with his glass, which he had just filled, half-way to his lips. "was that before you were robbed of your money?" he asked. "no, sir, but i met a gentleman whom i knew at the seaside, and he invited me to dine with him." "oh, that explains it. this is a very different place from the astor house." "i should think so," said jed smiling. "still we can probably satisfy our hunger." "oh, yes," responded jed, and he made a vigorous onslaught on the contents of his plate. in a few minutes supper was over, and jed felt better. it is wonderful how much more cheerful views we take of life and the world on a full than on an empty stomach. jed experienced this. he couldn't, to be sure, look very far ahead, but he had had three meals that day in spite of an empty purse, and the money he was to earn would insure him a bed and three meals for the coming day, in all probability. "it is half-past six" said his companion, referring to his watch--"a good while before i shall need your services. do you feel tired?" "yes, sir; i have been on my feet all day." "wait a minute." he went out and returned in a moment. "i have engaged a room for you," he said. "you can occupy it now if you like it, and after our expedition return to pass the balance of the night. you can leave your valise there, as it will only be in your way on the boat." "thank you, sir." this solved one of jed's problems in a pleasant manner. the waiter led the way up stairs to a small room just large enough to hold a bed and washstand, and said, "that'll do you, i guess." "oh yes," responded jed cheerfully. "the gentleman says you can lie down, and he'll call you when you're wanted." jed was glad of this permission, for he felt very much in need of rest. he took off his coat and laid down on the bed. the couch he found not a very luxurious one. it consisted of a thin--a very thin--mattress laid upon wooden slats, and the pillow was meagre. but he soon fell asleep, and slept so soundly that it seemed as if only five minutes had elapsed when some one shook him, and opening his eyes, they rested on his sallow-faced employer. "time to get up," said the latter abruptly. jed sprang from the bed, and, his eyes only half open, said, "i am ready." "follow me, then." he followed his guide, who walked rapidly through the dark streets till he reached a pier not far from the battery. there was a boat moored alongside, rising and falling with the tide. there was one man already in it. "come along!" said his guide briefly. jed descended a ladder, and took his place in the boat. his companion seized the oars, signing to jed to take his seat in the bow. then he began to row, much better then jed could have done. they struck out towards governor's island, passed it, and proceeded a considerable distance beyond. here lay a yacht. there was no light on board, so far as jed could see, and it looked to be quite deserted. the rower slackened his speed (he had not yet called upon jed to row) and said quickly: "i want you to board that yacht. go down into the cabin. there you will see a box, perhaps a foot square and ten inches deep. bring it to me." "but," said jed, in bewilderment, "is--is it yours?" "no," answered the sallow-faced man composedly. "it belongs to a friend of mine, the owner of the yacht. i promised to come out and get it for him." chapter xxix. a surprise party. the words of the sallow-faced man dissipated any suspicions which jed may have entertained, and he clambered on board the yacht without much difficulty, for he was active and agile. "good!" said his employer. "now go into the cabin, and be quick about it." jed did not understand why he should be quick about it. there was plenty of time, he thought. another thing puzzled him, now that he had had a chance to think the matter over. why was the visit postponed till near midnight? a city boy would not have had his suspicions so easily allayed; but jed was unused to city ways, and, it may be added, to city wickedness. the cabin seemed to be dark. he felt his way down stairs, and struck a match which he had in his pocket in order to see better the location of the box. he had just picked up the latter, finding it to be heavy, when he felt a hand laid on his arm, and looking up, met the stern gaze of a young man about twenty-eight years of age. "what are you about here, young fellow?" he asked abruptly. jed was a little startled, but, not being aware that he was doing anything wrong, he replied composedly, "i was taking this box, sir." "i see you were; but what business have you to take the box?" "i was sent for it." "sent for it?" repeated the young man, looking puzzled. "who sent you for it?" "the gentleman in the boat outside." "oh ho! so there is a gentleman in the boat outside?" "certainly, sir. isn't it--all right?" "well, i should say not, unless you consider theft right." "what!" exclaimed jed aghast. "is the man who employed me a thief?" "it looks very much like it." at this moment the sallow-faced man called in an impatient tone, "what are you about there, you lazy young rascal? don't be all night!" "is there more than one man in the boat?" asked the young man in the cabin. "yes, sir; there are two." "the harbor police ought to be somewhere about. i'll rouse them if i can." the young man went to the port-hole which served to light the cabin and fired a pistol. "confusion! there's some one on the yacht!" exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "we must get off." dipping his oars in the water, he rowed quickly away, leaving jed to his fate. but the shot had been heard on another boat not fifty rods distant, and the piratical craft was pursued and eventually overhauled. meanwhile jed remained on board the yacht, whether as a prisoner or not he did not know. "your companions have taken alarm," said the young man. "i hear them rowing away. they have deserted you." "i am glad of it," said jed. "i don't want anything more to do with them. will you tell me if that box contains anything valuable?" "probably the contents are worth five thousand dollars." "is it possible!" ejaculated jed in amazement. "you see you have lost quite a prize," said the young man, eyeing him closely. "don't say that i have lost a prize," returned jed half indignantly. "i supposed the man who sent me for it was honest." "what did he tell you?" "he said that the box belonged to a friend, who had employed him to get it." "all a lie! i am the owner of the box, and the yacht also, and i have no acquaintance with your principal. if i had not been here he would have got a rich prize." "i am glad you were here," said jed earnestly. "i don't understand your connection with such a man. how much were you to be paid for your services?" "two dollars," answered jed. "didn't it strike you as singular that you should have been employed on such an errand?" "well, a little; but i am a stranger to the city, and i thought it might be because i was inexperienced." "do you mind telling me how long you have known the person who employed you?" "i met him for the first time at five o'clock this afternoon on the battery. he asked me if i wanted a job, and that is how i came to be engaged." "that sounds plausible and i am inclined to believe you." at this moment they were interrupted. there was a sound of oars, and leaving the cabin, jed and his companion saw the boat of the harbor police under the side. it had in tow the boat in which jed had come from shore. "was there any attempt to rob the yacht?" asked the captain of police. "yes, sir," answered the owner. "have you one of the thieves aboard?" "no, sir." "that's not true!" said the sallow-faced man, now a prisoner. "that boy came with us," and he pointed to jed. "is that true?" asked the police captain. "this boy was sent on board by the thieves, but he was quite ignorant of the character of his employer. he is a country boy, and was an innocent agent of the guilty parties." "you are convinced then of his innocence?" "entirely so." "we shall need his evidence against these men. will you guarantee that it shall be forthcoming?" "yes, captain. i will give my name and his, and will call at your office to-morrow morning." "that will answer." the young man took out one of his cards, bearing the name of schuyler roper, and wrote jed's name, which he had ascertained, underneath. "you will be responsible for the boy's appearance, mr. roper?" said the officer respectfully, reading the name by the light of a lantern. "yes; he will stay with me." this seemed satisfactory, and the boat rowed away. "i am very much obliged to you for believing in my innocence, mr. roper," said jed earnestly. "you have an innocent face," responded the young man kindly. "i am sure you are a good boy." "i hope you won't see any reason to doubt it. i am afraid i am putting you to trouble," continued jed, realizing that he could not leave the yacht, and was thrown on the hospitality of the owner. "not at all. i can accommodate you easily. you must be tired, if you have been about the city all day." jed admitted that he was. in fact he felt very tired, and found it hard work to keep his eyes open. "i have sleeping accommodations for six persons on board my yacht, so that i can easily provide for you. so far from giving me trouble i shall be glad of your company, though i don't expect any more visitors to-night." mr. roper pointed out a comfortable bunk, and jed lost no time in taking possession of it. he sank into a deep sleep, which was only broken by a gentle shake from his young host. as he opened his eyes, and they met the unusual surroundings, he was at first bewildered. "don't you know where you are?" asked schuyler roper, smiling. "don't you remember boarding my yacht with felonious intent last night?" "yes," answered jed with an answering smile. "i remember that i was taken prisoner." "then you are subject to my orders. when i am on a cruise we have meals aboard the yacht, but i am not keeping house now. if you will assist me, we'll direct our course to land and find breakfast somewhere." jed did not know much about a yacht, but he liked the water and proved very quick in comprehension, so that in a comparatively short time they had reached the battery. here mr. roper found two men whom he had engaged to help man the yacht, and leaving the juno in their charge he walked up broadway with jed. "we will take breakfast at the astor house," he said. "i dined there yesterday," replied jed. "you did!" exclaimed the other in a tone of surprise. "yet you tell me you are penniless?" "yes, sir, but i fell in with a gentleman whom i knew at sea spray, a mr. foster." "not howell foster?" "yes." "i know him very well. if he is a friend of yours, i shall feel that i am justified in reposing confidence in you." just then mr. foster entered the room. "good morning, jed," he said in a friendly tone. "so you like the astor well enough to come back?" "i am here by invitation of mr. roper." mr. foster, who was shortsighted, now for the first time observed jed's companion. "so you know roper, too?" he said. "why, he's one of my closest friends. when did you pick him up, schuyler?" "i caught him boarding my yacht on a marauding expedition last night," said roper, smiling. "bless my soul! what do you mean?" "sit down and take breakfast with us, and i will explain." "and what are you going to do with this desperate young man?" asked the broker at the end of the story. "i shall invite him to accompany me to bar harbor on my yacht. but first we must call on the harbor police, as our testimony will be needed to convict the rascals who came near robbing me of five thousand dollars' worth of valuables." chapter xxx. jed entertains an old acquaintance. though the trial of the harbor thieves was expedited, it was a week before jed and mr. roper were able to leave new york. jed's testimony settled the matter, and the two thieves were sentenced to terms of five years' imprisonment. "i'll get even with you yet, young fellow!" muttered the sallow-faced man, eyeing jed with deep malignity as he left the witness-box. "where is your trunk?" asked mr. roper after their first visit to the office of the harbor police. "i never owned one, mr. roper." "your valise, then." "it is at a small hotel near the battery." "get it and bring it on board the yacht." jed did so, and mr. roper asked to see it. "you are poorly equipped, jed," he said. "that reminds me that if i am going to monopolize your services i must pay you some salary. how will fifty dollars a month answer?" "but, mr. roper, i can't earn as much as that." "perhaps not, but if i am willing to pay it, you can set your mind at rest. i will see that you are better provided with clothing, undergarments, et cetera. here, give me a piece of paper." mr. roper drew up a list of articles which he thought jed might need--a very liberal list, by the way--and sent him with a note to his own tradesmen, with directions to supply him with such articles as he might select. he also gave him an order on his own tailor for a suit of clothes. "but, mr. roper, it will take me a long time to pay for all these out of my wages," protested jed. schuyler roper laughed. "my dear boy," he said, "i haven't the least idea of making you pay for them. just look upon me as your older brother, who is able and willing to provide for you." "i am deeply grateful to you, mr. roper," responded jed earnestly. "i certainly stumbled into luck when i boarded your yacht." "i don't know how it is," said roper, as he eyed jed thoughtfully, "you didn't seem a stranger to me even when i first saw you. it seemed natural for me to look after you. i am an only son, and you never knew what it was to have a brother. i begin to think that i have lost a great deal in being so much alone." "you may be deceived in me, mr. roper. you know very little of me, and that is not at all to my advantage." "well, i admit that, jed. considering that i caught you in the act of robbing me, i may be said to have known you at your worst." "you know nothing of my past life." "you shall tell me all about it after a while, when we are not so busy." meanwhile jed became familiar with his duties on board the yacht, and during the absence of mr. roper was regarded by the men as his representative. no one could have treated him with more generous confidence than his new friend. jed was intrusted at times with considerable sums for disbursements, and was proud of the confidence reposed in him. of mr. roper, except that he appeared to be a rich young man, he knew next to nothing, till one day he fell in with his watering-place friend, howell foster. "you are still with schuyler?" he asked. "oh yes, sir. i am going with him to bar harbor." "and then?" "i believe he means to keep me with him." "you are in luck. schuyler is a generous, open-hearted young man, liberal to a fault, and ready to do anything for one he takes to. i suppose you know that he is rich?" "i thought he must be." "his father died two years since, leaving him half a million of dollars. he spends freely, but does not squander his money. he is paying for the college education of a poor boy in whom he feels an interest--the son of an old bookkeeper of his father's--as i happen to know. he is a favorite in society, but has never shown an inclination to marry." "is his mother living?" asked jed. "no; she died before his father. he is very much alone in the world." "that is why he is so generous to me, i think." "perhaps so, but it is his nature to be kind. by the way, jed, when my family comes back from sea spray i would like to have you call upon us. we live on madison avenue." "thank you, mr. foster. if i am in new york i shall be glad to do so." "i begin to think i am getting into society," thought jed. "it is not over three months since i left the scranton poorhouse, and here i am adopted by one rich man and welcomed at the house of another." it was natural that jed should feel elated by his good luck. but he was not allowed to forget his early adversity, for on the fourth day after entering the service of mr. roper he met on broadway, just above chambers street, his old enemy, percy dixon. percy was the first to recognize him. "oh it's you, is it?" he said in considerable surprise. jed smiled. he felt that he could afford to disregard percy's impertinence. "my dear friend percy," he said. "how well you remember me!" "yes, i remember you, and so does mr. fogson of the scranton poorhouse." "remember me to the kind old man!" said jed comically. "how soon are you going back?" "not very soon. of course it would be pleasant to me to be able to see you every day, percy, but----" "you needn't flatter yourself that i would take any notice of you. what are you doing for a living?" "i am going yachting in a few days." "what! oh, i understand. you have hired out as a sailor." "well no, not exactly." "what yacht are you working on?" "perhaps you would like to visit it?" "yes, i would," said percy, feeling puzzled and curious. "come to the battery with me, then. we'd better board the next car." percy followed jed into a broadway car, and jed, to his surprise, paid the fare. "_i_ was going to pay the fare," said percy. "oh never mind!" returned jed carelessly. "i don't want to put you to expense." "oh! it's not worth minding." arrived at the battery, jed called a boatman and said, "row me out to the juno, beyond governor's island." jed leaned back in the boat, and percy stared at him in wonder. when they reached the yacht one of the men produced a ladder, and jed led the way on board. "any orders, mr. gilman?" asked the sailor respectfully. "no, kimball; i haven't seen mr. roper since morning, and don't know if he wants anything done." "do you think you can spare me to go on shore for a couple of hours?" "yes, you may go." jed went to the side and said to the boatman, "you may take this man on shore, and come back in an hour and a half for my friend and myself. "now, percy, allow me to offer you a little refreshment." jed went to the pantry and brought out some cold meat, bread and butter, and two bottles of ginger ale, with the necessary dishes. "i can't offer you anything very tempting," he said, "but the boat ride may have given you an appetite for plain fare." percy could hardly conceal his surprise. he stared at jed as if fascinated. "won't you get into trouble by making so free with your master's things?" "who told you i had a master?" "who owns this yacht?" "mr. schuyler roper." "he must be rich." "i hear that he is worth half a million dollars," said jed in an off-hand manner. "and how did you get in with him?" asked percy rather enviously. "it was an accident," answered jed, by no means disposed to tell percy the particulars of his first meeting with mr. roper. "suppose he should come now, what would he say to your making so free?" "that he was glad to have me entertain my friends." "you seem to be pretty sure of your footing with him." "i have reason to be. he tells me to look upon him as an older brother." "he may find you out some time," suggested percy with disagreeable significance. "what do you mean?" "he may find out that his _younger brother_ was raised in a poorhouse." "i have no doubt he will learn it if he gets acquainted with you." "what do you mean?" asked percy coloring. "that you would probably tell him. by the way, has mr. holbrook got home from chicago yet?" "i believe not. do you expect he will take you back?" "no; i prefer my present position. i shall probably sail for bar harbor with mr. roper on saturday." "it's strange how you've got on since you left the poorhouse," said percy uncomfortably. "yes; i think even you will agree that i did well to leave it." "your luck may turn," added percy hopefully. "perhaps it will, but i hope not." presently the boatman came back, and jed sent percy back to the city, paying the boatman in advance. "it beats all how that pauper gets along!" reflected percy, but from his expression the reflection gave him no pleasure. chapter xxxi. jed returns good for evil. in the short time before the juno left for bar harbor, schuyler roper became quite intimate with jed. there was never a trace of condescension in his manner to his boy friend, but jed was always treated as if in birth and position he was the equal of the young patrician. together they walked about the city, and frequently dined together, always at some expensive hotel or restaurant. "what time is it, jed?" asked mr. roper one day as they were passing the star theatre. "i am afraid i left my watch at home," answered jed, smiling. "then we shall have to supply its place." schuyler roper turned the corner of fourteenth street, and led the way to tiffany's well-known establishment on the corner of fifteenth street and union square. "let us see some gold watches," he said to a salesman. a tray of handsome timepieces was produced. "how expensive a watch would you like, sir? is it for yourself?" "no, for this young gentleman. look over these watches, jed, and see what one you like best." jed made choice of a very neat gold watch with a handsome dial. "what is the price?" asked mr. roper. "a hundred and twenty-five dollars." jed opened his eyes wide in astonishment. a hundred and twenty-five dollars seemed to him a very large sum, and so unaccustomed was he to expensive jewelry that he had not known that there were any watches so costly. "very well; we will take it. show me some gold chains." choice was made of a fifty-dollar gold chain. it was attached to the watch, and mr. roper, handing it to jed, said, "put it in your pocket." "do you really mean the watch and chain for me?" asked jed, almost incredulous. "certainly." "how can i thank you, mr. roper?" said jed gratefully. "my dear boy," rejoined roper kindly, "i want your appearance to do me credit. that _you_ will do me credit i feel confident." it was about this time that jed met an old acquaintance--one whom he had no reason to remember with kindly feelings. he had occasion to go across cortlandt street ferry, when on board the boat he saw in front of him a figure that seemed familiar. he walked forward till he could see the face of the young man to whom it belonged. then it flashed upon him that it was maurice graham, the young man who had invited him to his room on twenty-seventh street and robbed him of his small stock of money. now that the tide had turned, jed did not feel so incensed against the fellow as at first. still he determined to let him understand that he knew exactly how he had been swindled. he touched graham on the shoulder, and the young man wheeled round with an apprehensive look, which he did not lose when he saw and recognized jed. "did you touch me?" he asked, with an evident intention of ignoring jed's acquaintance. "yes, mr. graham. we parted rather suddenly, you remember," said jed significantly. "oh, i see. you are----" "jed gilman." "i was wondering what became of you. i was called up town to the house of a sick friend that evening, and when i went back the next day mrs. gately told me you had gone away." "indeed! did she tell you that i was robbed of thirty-five dollars during the night, and that i awoke penniless?" "no," answered graham faintly. "i am surprised." "i thought you might be. are you in the habit of borrowing money from people who are asleep?" "what do you mean? you don't think i took the money?" "yes, i think you did." "why, didn't i tell you that i spent the night with a sick friend in--in eighty-seventh street. how could i rob you?" "you came back during the evening and found me asleep." "that's a mistake!" said graham quickly. "it is true. mrs. gately let you in, as she informed me the next morning." maurice graham looked very much disconcerted, and looked eagerly to the jersey shore, which they were fast approaching. "do you know that i would have had no breakfast if mrs. gately had not taken compassion on me?" "you don't look--very destitute--now." "i am not. i have been lucky enough to find a good position. but that thirty-five dollars belonged to me. how much of it can you return to me?" maurice graham colored and looked embarrassed. "i--the fact is," he stammered, "i'm almost broke." "is this true?" "on my honor i've only got a dollar and ten cents in my pocket, and i don't know what will become of me when that is gone." "you have got rid of it very quick." "i've been a fool," said graham gloomily. "i spent it mostly on pool and drinks. then of course i've had to live." "but your situation----" "i haven't any." "perhaps you will meet another boy from the country." "i treated you awful mean--i know i did," burst out graham, "and i've been very sorry for it. i've often wished that i had left you five dollars." "well, that would have helped me. but don't you think it would have been better to have left me the whole?" "yes, it would; but i am very unlucky." "i am afraid you don't deserve good luck. isn't there anything you can do?" "yes." "can't you find another broker to take you in his office?" "i never was in a broker's office," confessed graham. "what was your business, then? i suppose you had some way of making a living?" "i am a barber by trade, but i got tired of the confinement, and so i thought i'd become a sport. i started out with a hundred dollars which it took me a year to save up, and i got rid of it in two weeks. then i fell in with you." "and with my thirty-five dollars." "yes." "the best thing you can do is to go back to your business." "i would if i could." "why can't you?" "because my razors are in hock." it is the custom of journeymen barbers to supply their own razors and a pair of shears for hair-cutting. "i suppose that means in pawn?" "yes." "when can you get a place if you get your razors back?" "i can go to work to-morrow." "what sum will get them out?" "four dollars and a half." "where are they?" "in a pawnshop on the bowery." "come with me and i will get them out for you if you will promise to go to work." "i will," answered graham earnestly. "i'll give you my word i will." "come back on the next boat, then, and i will go with you to the pawnshop." "it will take up your time. you don't mean to give me in charge when we reach new york?" said graham apprehensively. "no; i am willing to give you a fresh chance. i hope you will improve it." jed took out his watch to note the time. "is that watch yours? it's a beauty," said graham. "yes; it came from tiffany's." "did you have it when i met you?" "no; if i had, that would have gone the same way as the money." "you must be awfully lucky!" "i suppose i have been. at any rate i have been honest." "honesty seems to pay. i must try it." "i advise you to," said jed, smiling. when jed parted from graham it occurred to him that he would call on mrs. gately. she had provided him with a breakfast when he needed one, and seemed kindly disposed towards him. when he rang the bell of the small house on twenty-seventh street, mrs. gately herself came to the door. "did you wish to see me, sir?" "you don't remember me, mrs. gately?" the old lady peered through her glasses. "why bless me!" she said, "if it isn't the young man from the country. but you're dressed so fine i hardly knew you. i hope you're prosperin'." "yes, thank you, mrs. gately. i have been quite lucky, but i was pretty low in spirits as well as in pockets when i left you." "why, you're lookin' fine. won't you stay for supper? luella dickinson will be home soon--she that tends at macy's. i've often spoken to her about you. luella's very romantic." "i am not, mrs. gately, and i'm afraid i can't stop. i must be on board my yacht in an hour." "your yacht! bless me, you don't mean to say you've got a yacht?" "well, it belongs to a friend, but we enjoy it together." "have you seen the bad young man who robbed you?" "yes; i saw him this afternoon." "you don't say! did you have him arrested?" "no; i helped him get some things out of pawn." "that's a real christian act, but i don't think i'd have done it. you deserve to prosper. i wish you could stay and meet luella." "some other time, mrs. gately." at supper the landlady told miss dickinson of jed's call. luella expressed great regret that she had not seen him. "i should fall in love with mr. gilman, i know i would," she said. "why didn't you ask him to call at macy's?" "i will when i see him again." chapter xxxii. at bar harbor. about eleven o'clock one forenoon the yacht juno came to anchor in the harbor of mount desert. jed gazed admiringly at the rugged shores, the picturesque village, the background of hills, the smaller islands surrounding the main island, like the satellites of a larger planet. "it is beautiful!" he said. "i never dreamed of such a place." "yes," said roper, "it is by far the most attractive island on the american coast. i think we shall find it pleasant to stay here for a time." "i shall enjoy it at any rate," said jed. "where shall we stay?" "i generally go to the newport. it is one of the smaller hotels, but its location is excellent, being very near the water. besides, i am expecting my aunt, mrs. frost, to arrive in a few days. she always goes to the newport, and has the same room every year. there is the hotel yonder." mr. roper pointed out a pleasant but unpretentious hostelry on the left of the pier. "the large house farther up the hill is rodick's," he said. "rodick is an old name at mount desert, and the island just across from the wharf, separated by a bar, was once called rodick's island." the yacht was anchored, and jed and mr. roper were rowed to shore. they secured rooms at the newport, and walked up the hill. as they passed the post-office schuyler roper said, "i will see if there are any letters awaiting me. there may be one from my aunt." jed waited at the door. mr. roper came out, holding a letter which he regarded with some curiosity. "here is a letter in an unknown hand, post-marked scranton," he said. "i don't know any person living there." "i do," said jed. "it was my old home." "then why should it be addressed to me? it ought to have been sent to you." "will you let me see the handwriting?" asked jed. his heart beat a little rapidly, for he recognized the hand as that of percy dixon. "i know who it is from," he said. "is it from a friend of yours?" "no, an enemy." "i don't understand." "you will understand when you come to read it, mr. roper. it is from a boy whom i entertained on the yacht three days before we sailed for bar harbor. he has probably written you in the hope of injuring me." "does he know anything to your disadvantage then?" "not to the disadvantage of my character. but please read the letter, mr. roper, and then you will understand." schuyler roper's curiosity was aroused, and he cut open the envelope. the letter, which was written in a schoolboy hand, read thus: dear sir: though i am a stranger to you, i will take the liberty to write and let you know something of the boy who is travelling with you. he is not fit to associate with a gentleman like yourself, for he was brought up in the poorhouse in this place, and lived here till four months ago, when he ran away, and has been living since by hook or by crook. he has a great deal of cheek, and that is what has helped him to push himself in among people who are far above him. perhaps you may like to know who i am. my father, squire dixon, is a prominent man in scranton, and is overseer of the poor, which makes him a sort of guardian of jed gilman. he could force him to go back to his old home, but the boy gave so much trouble, being naturally headstrong and rebellious, that he thinks it best to let him follow his own course. probably jed will some time apply to be taken back to his old home, as he is likely to be found out to be an impostor sooner or later. i have taken the trouble to write you because my father thinks it very proper that you should know the character of the boy whom you have taken into your employ. when i was in new york lately he invited me to go on board of your yacht in order to show off. he made as free as if the yacht were his own, treating me to a lunch, and ordering the men around as if he owned the yacht. i couldn't help being amused, remembering that he was nothing but a pauper a few months since. excuse me for taking up so much of your valuable time. i have no ill-will against jed, but i should think better of him if he would keep his place, and not try to intrude into fashionable society. yours respectfully, percy dixon. jed noticed the face of mr. roper rather anxiously when he was reading this letter. "will it prejudice him against me?" he asked himself. he felt that in that case he should indeed be depressed, for he had come to have a sincere attachment for his patron. he was reassured by the smile that lighted up the young man's countenance as he finished reading the letter. "this letter appears to have been written by a great friend of yours, jed," he said. "he is a great friend of mine, too, for he seems afraid that i shall be injured by associating with you, and so puts me on my guard." "i thought as much," said jed. "i suppose he tells you that i was brought up in the scranton poorhouse." "yes; is this true?" "yes," answered jed soberly. "but how did it happen? did your parents lose their property?" "i know nothing of them, mr. roper. i was only two years of age when i was placed in the poorhouse. mr. and mrs. avery were in charge. they were kind people and took good care of me." "did they never tell you the circumstances of your being placed in the institution?" "no; but mrs. avery always promised that she would tell me all she knew on my sixteenth birthday." "are you not sixteen yet?" "yes; but when i reached that age mr. and mrs. fogson were in charge of the poorhouse. mr. and mrs. avery were removed by the father of this percy dixon who has written to you." "what sort of people are they?" "mean, selfish and unkind to the poor people who are unfortunate enough to be under their charge. mr. fogson tried to tyrannize over me, and i rebelled." "i can't blame you," said roper. "finally i ran away, as percy writes. it was high time i did, for i felt able to earn my own living, and was ashamed to be supported by the town, though i am sure i did work enough to pay for the miserable board i got at the poorhouse. "when mr. and mrs. avery were in charge i did not feel my position. it seemed to me as if i were living with kind friends. when they went away i realized that i was a pauper. indeed, mr. and mrs. fogson reminded me of it half a dozen times a day." "so you ran away? what did you do first?" "perhaps you will laugh, mr. roper, but i became an actor." schuyler roper looked amazed. "but how on earth did you get a chance to go on the stage?" he asked. "through an actor whose acquaintance i made. he was playing in 'the gold king.' the young actor who took the boy's part was taken suddenly sick, and they tried me. the manager seemed satisfied, and i played in it till the end of the season." "there must be something in you, jed, or you could not have met the requirements of such a position. well, and what next?" "i went to sea spray and was given the charge of a young boy, boarding at the spray hotel, by his father. i lost the place through the same percy dixon who wrote to you." "how was that?" "he informed the boy's aunt, in the absence of his father at chicago, that i was only a pauper, and miss maria holbrook discharged me at once." "do you think mr. holbrook would have discharged you?" "i don't think so, for the boy was very fond of me." "so am i, jed," said mr. roper affectionately, "and i shall not allow young dixon to separate us." "thank you, mr. roper," replied jed gratefully. "as to your history, you ought to know more of it. when we leave bar harbor i will let you go back to scranton and obtain from the averys all the information you can. you may get a clew that may lead to a discovery of your parentage." "i hope so," answered jed. "i don't like to feel that i have no relations." "meanwhile you may take this letter of your friend percy's and answer it as you see fit." a few days later percy dixon received the following letter: my dear and considerate friend percy: mr. roper has asked me to answer your kind letter. he appreciates your interest in him, but he doesn't seem to think that my company will injure him as much as you imagine. he thinks i shall enjoy myself better with him than in the company of mr. and mrs. fogson, and therefore won't send me away. we are staying at the newport house, and enjoying ourselves very much. if you come down this way call on us, and i will give you a good dinner. tell mr. and mrs. fogson not to worry about me, as i am well and happy. yours truly, jed gilman. "i never saw such cheek!" said percy in mortified anger as he tore jed's letter to pieces. "it is strange how that young pauper prospers. but it won't always last!" and this reflection afforded him some satisfaction. chapter xxxiii. the poorhouse receives two visitors. let us change the scene to the scranton poorhouse. mr. fogson has just come in from splitting wood. it was a task to which he was very much averse, but he had not been able to find any one to fill jed's place. "drat that boy!" he said, as he sank into a chair. "what boy?" "jed gilman. he ought to be here at work instead of roaming round doing no good to himself or anybody else." "perhaps he would be glad to come back. i dare say he has seen the time when he didn't know where his next meal was coming from," rejoined mrs. fogson hopefully. "i hope so." "i don't know as i want him back," went on the woman. "i do! he's good for splitting wood, if he ain't good for anything else." at this moment a knock was heard at the door, and percy dixon entered the house. "how do you do, master percy?" said mrs. fogson deferentially. "i am always glad to see you enter our humble house." "we were just talking of jed gilman before you came in," added fogson. "i saw him two days since," said percy. "you did!" exclaimed fogson eagerly. "where was he?" "in the streets of new york. you know i went to the city tuesday." "what was he doing--blacking boots for a living?" "not much! i wish he was. that boy is about the luckiest chap i ever set eyes on." "what did he do?" asked mrs. fogson curiously. "invited me to go on board his yacht." "what!" "that's just what he did." "he was bluffing. he wanted to deceive you." "no he didn't, for i accepted his invitation and went on board." "you don't say! jed gilman got a yacht!" exclaimed fogson, his eyes almost protruding from their sockets. "well, i don't say it's his, but he acts as if it were. he hired a boat to take me out to the juno--that's the name of the yacht, and it's a regular beauty--and took me on board and treated me to some lunch. he ordered the men about just as if he were a gentleman." "well, of all things!" exclaimed mrs. fogson, looking surprised and scandalized. "did he explain how he came to have anything to do with the boat?" "yes; he said the owner had taken a fancy to him and was taking care of him." "did he say who the owner was?" "yes; it's schuyler roper, a rich young man living in new york." "well, what next?" "i stayed on board an hour or more, and then went back to the city." "it seems strange how that boy gets along. mr. roper will find him out sooner or later." "i should say he would. i've written him a letter, and i brought it along, thinking you might like to hear it read." so percy read the letter already laid before the reader in the last chapter. mr. and mrs. fogson nodded delighted approval as percy read his exposure of jed's humble past. "i do say that's about the best-written letter i ever heard," said mrs. fogson, as percy concluded. "do you think so?" asked percy with a gratified smile. "think so! i am sure of it. master percy, i had no idea you had so much talent. did it take you long to write it?" "oh no, i just dashed it off in a few minutes," answered percy carelessly. "you ought to be a lawyer; you do express things so neat. don't you think so, simeon?" "yes, mrs. fogson. i always thought percy a smart boy. but where are you going to send the letter?" "to bar harbor. jed said that they were going there in a day or two. i thought mr. roper ought to know what a low fellow he has with him." "of course he ought. you've only done your duty in informing him against jed. when are you going to mail the letter?" "to-night. it'll go off the first thing to-morrow morning." "i'm very much obliged to you for letting us hear the letter, master percy. i expect it'll cook jed's goose." "probably mr. roper will send him off as soon as he reads it. i'd just like to be there when it is read." percy left the poorhouse and went on his way to the post-office. he sealed the letter, first reading it over again to himself complacently, and inclined to agree with the fogsons that it was a decidedly clever piece of composition. he had hardly walked a hundred yards when he met a quiet-looking man of medium height dressed in a gray suit. "young man," said the stranger, "am i on my way to the poorhouse?" "well, sir," replied percy jocosely, "that depends on your habits." the other smiled. "i see you are a young man of original humor. is the building used as a poorhouse near by?" "yes, sir, that is it," said percy, pointing to the forlorn-looking dwelling he had just left. "thank you, sir," said the stranger, and resumed his walk. "i wonder what he wants," speculated percy. "perhaps he is a relation of mr. and mrs. fogson. i wish i had asked him." the quiet-looking man was soon at the outer door of the poorhouse, and knocked, for there was no bell. mrs. fogson answered the knock, and surveyed the stranger with some curiosity. "i believe this is the scranton poorhouse." "yes, sir." "and you, perhaps, are in charge." "yes, sir. did you wish to see any of the paupers?" asked mrs. fogson, thinking that the visitor, who was inexpensively dressed, might be related to some of her boarders. "first let me inquire how long you have been in your present position, mrs.----" "fogson." "exactly, mrs. fogson." "me and fogson have been here about a year." the stranger's countenance fell. "only a year!" he repeated. "who was here before you?" "mr. and mrs. avery; but the overseer of the poor thought there was need of a change, and persuaded me and fogson to come here." "very obliging of you!" murmured the visitor. "can you tell me how long mr. and mrs. avery were here?" "fifteen years." the stranger brightened up. "they live in the village--in a small four-room house not far from the post-office." "thank you," and the visitor took out a note-book and wrote something in it. he stood a moment silent, and then said, in a hesitating tone, "is there a boy in the institution named jed gilman?" instantly the face of mrs. fogson expressed surprise and curiosity. "there was!" she answered, "but he's run away." "run away!" ejaculated the stranger, looking disappointed. "yes; he was a bad, rebellious boy. me and fogson couldn't do anything with him." "it is very sad," said the visitor with a dubious smile. "do you want to see him particular?" asked mrs. fogson. "yes; i wished to see him." "has he got into any scrape?" asked she with malicious eagerness. the visitor eyed mrs. fogson closely, and saw at once that she was jed's enemy. "that's about the size of it," he answered. "of course as you are his friend you would rather not tell me where he is." "who said i was his friend? i'll tell you with pleasure. percy dixon came and told me only a few minutes since. he's probably at bar harbor, or he'll get there some time this week." "bar harbor!" repeated the visitor in evident surprise. "yes; he's working for a mr. roper--mr. schuyler roper. he went down there on a yacht. if you want to arrest him, or anything, you'd better go down there right off, for percy dixon has written to mr. roper that jed was brought up in the poorhouse, and will probably get bounced very soon." "thank you very much for telling me, mrs. fogson. i am glad you have put me on his track." "you don't mind telling me what he has been doing?" asked the lady. "no; i might defeat the ends of justice by doing so." "just so!" rejoined mrs. fogson. "i do wonder what that boy's done?" she said to herself as the stranger turned into the public road. "very likely it's burglary, or forgery." chapter xxxiv. the detective. the man in drab smiled to himself as he left the presence of mrs. fogson. "i wonder whether that woman's husband has her amiable traits?" he speculated. "if so, the scranton poor must be made very uncomfortable." as he reached the village he met percy dixon once more. percy had an ungovernable curiosity, and he crossed the street to intercept the stranger. "i suppose you found the poorhouse," he said suggestively. "yes; i could not miss it after your clear directions." "are you related to mr. and mrs. fogson?" asked percy, rather boldly. "well no," answered the stranger with a smile. "i haven't the honor." "have you any relations among the paupers?" "not that i am aware of. however, i called to inquire after one of them--a boy." "jed gilman?" said percy eagerly. "yes; i believe that is his name. are you acquainted with him?" "i have known him for years." "i suppose he is a friend of yours?" "not much. do you think i would be friends with a pauper?" "i don't know. i see no reason why not if he is a nice boy." "but jed isn't a nice boy. he's an artful, forward, presuming young jackanapes, and was awfully troublesome." "i am sorry to hear it. mrs. fogson seems to think of him very much as you do." "i should think she would. she and fogson couldn't do anything with him." "mrs. fogson says he isn't there now." "no; he ran away after making a brutal assault on fogson." the man in drab felt an inclination to smile, but suppressed it. "i don't know as i ought to have spoken against him," continued percy with a cunning look of inquiry. "you may be after him." the man in drab paused a moment, then assuming a look of mystery, said, "can you keep a secret?" "yes," answered percy eagerly. "come here, then." percy drew near, and the other whispered mysteriously, "_i am a detective!_" "you don't say so!" ejaculated percy, gazing at him with a species of awe, begotten of his idea of detectives as introduced into books which he had read. the other nodded. "and i am after jed gilman!" he continued. "is that so?" said the delighted percy. "what has he done?" "that is a secret which i am not permitted to reveal at present." "do you want to find him?" "very much." "then i'll tell you where he is. he's gone to bar harbor--in maine, you know." the detective nodded. "he went on a yacht--the juno--owned by mr. schuyler roper--a rich new york gentleman." "but how did he get into such company?" "oh, mr. roper took pity on him and gave him a place." "then you think he is comfortably situated?" "yes, but he won't be long." "why not?" "because i have written a letter to mr. roper, telling him jed's real character. i expect he'll be bounced when that letter arrives." "that would upset all my plans and enable him to escape." percy looked perplexed and disappointed. "i am sorry for that," he said. "i guess i'd better write again and tell him to keep jed another week." "perhaps you had better do so. say that---- but no. i will telegraph to him to keep jed with him till i arrive." "that'll do better. you couldn't possibly tell me what jed has done?" "not at present." "you'll let me know sometime?" "i think i shall be able to gratify your curiosity before long." "i'll give you my address, and you can write to me. i wish i knew whether jed had stolen anything or not." "i cannot say a word! my lips are sealed!" said the detective in a solemn tone. percy was impressed. the man in drab quite came up to his idea of a detective. "by the way," said his companion, "i want to call on mr. and mrs. avery, who, i understand, know something of the boy's early life." "they live there--in that small house. i'll go with you." "no, i prefer to go alone. one can't be too careful." "all right," said percy. "i wonder what under the canopy jed's been doing? it's likely he'll have to go to jail." chapter xxxv. mrs. avery's story. the detective crossed the street, walked up a tiny footpath and rang the bell of the small house. mrs. avery came to the door, a gentle-faced little woman with white hair. she looked inquiringly at the visitor. "mrs. avery, i believe?" said the man in drab. "that is my name." "i would like the favor of a few words with you, madam." "come in then," and she led the way to a modest sitting-room. "my husband," she said, introducing him to a kindly old man, as white-haired as herself. "my name is fletcher," said the visitor, "and i have come to you for information. but first, am i right in my belief that you were once in charge of the scranton poorhouse?" "yes, sir. my husband and i had charge of it for fifteen years. we should have been there now, but for squire dixon, the new overseer of the poor, who wanted the place for some friends of his, mr. and mrs. fogson." "i have had the pleasure of seeing mrs. fogson," said fletcher with a smile. "i am sure, now that i have seen you both, that the change was for the worse." "i fear that the poor people are very shabbily treated," said mrs. avery gravely. "it makes me feel very badly, but what can i do? squire dixon sustains them, and he has everything to say. but you say you want some information. i shall be glad to tell you what i can." "i want information touching a boy, now perhaps sixteen years of age, bearing the name of jed gilman." mr. and mrs. avery immediately showed signs of interest. "he has left the poorhouse," said mr. avery. "so i am told." "do you inquire as a friend of the poor boy?" asked mrs. avery. "emphatically his friend. but first tell me, what kind of a boy is he?" "a fine, manly, spirited lad, warm-hearted and attractive." the detective looked pleased, but surprised. "that doesn't correspond with what mrs. fogson told me," he said. "i suppose not. she and her husband tried to bully jed and overwork him, till he was compelled to run away. i don't know where he is now." "but i do. he is at bar harbor, in the company of a rich gentleman from new york, and i believe employed on his yacht." "i am thankful to hear it." "but what i wish to learn are the circumstances attending his being placed at the poorhouse. i suppose you remember them?" "oh yes, as well as if it were yesterday, though it is fourteen years since." "go on, madam, i am all interest." "it was a cold evening in november," began mrs. avery reflectively, "and i was about to lock up, though it was but nine o'clock, for we kept early hours at the poorhouse, when there was a knock at the door. i opened it and saw before me a young woman of dark hair and complexion, holding by the hand a pretty boy of about two years of age. "'can you give me and my boy a night's lodging?' she asked. "we often had such applications, and never sent away a decent-looking person. so i said yes readily enough and the two entered. they seemed hungry, and though it was late for us i gave them some bread and milk, of which the child in particular partook heartily. i asked the young woman some questions but she was very close-mouthed. "'wait till morning,' she said. 'the boy and i are very tired.' "i asked no more but gave them a bed, and i suppose they both slept well. i was able to give them a small room to themselves. "in the morning when i entered i found only the boy. the young woman had gone, but pinned to the child's clothing was this note: "'i am obliged to leave the boy with you for the present. i hope you will take care of him. his name is jed gilman. some time he will probably be called for. don't try to find me for it will be useless.' "that was all. mr. avery and myself were dumfounded, but we had taken a fancy to the boy and resolved to keep him. there was some difficulty about it, for he was not legally entitled to be brought up at the town's cost. however, mr. avery and i agreed to pay part of the expense for the first year, and after that he was looked upon as one of the regular inmates and cared for as such." "and the young woman never called again?" "never." "nor sent you any message, oral or written?" "never." "was there any article of dress, or any ornament, left with the child that might help to identify it?" "yes. wait here a minute and i will show you something which i have carefully preserved from that day to this." chapter xxxvi. "who was jed?" mrs. avery went up stairs to her own room, but reappeared in five minutes. she had in her hand an old-fashioned gold locket. "this," she said, "was attached to the neck of the boy when he came into our hands." "have you opened it?" asked the detective eagerly. "is there a picture inside?" "there are two miniatures--one on each side." she opened the locket, and it proved to be as she said. one of these was a miniature of a young and handsome man, apparently thirty years of age, the other of a young lady with a very sweet and attractive face, probably five years younger. "these must represent the parents of the boy jed," said the detective. "so we concluded--mr. avery and myself." "does the lady bear any resemblance to the girl who brought the child to you?" "not the slightest. the girl was common in appearance. she probably filled the position of a servant or nursemaid." "did it occur to you that she might be in any way related to the child?" "not for a moment. he was evidently the child of parents wealthy or well to do." "did you form any conjectures relative to her or her object in bringing you the child?" "no. there was nothing to serve as a clew. it was all guesswork on our part. still the thought did occur to us that the child had been stolen or abducted from his people for some reason unknown to us." the detective hesitated a moment, and then, having apparently made up his mind to confide in the worthy couple, said: "your guess was very near the truth. the child, i have every reason to believe, was stolen from its mother--the father was dead--through the machinations of an uncle who wanted the boy's title and estate." "title!" exclaimed mrs. avery, in great surprise. "yes. this boy i believe to be the only son of the late sir charles fenwick, of fenwick hall, gloucestershire, england." "well, well!" ejaculated mrs. avery. "then if the boy had his rights would he be sir jed gilman?" "no," answered the detective smiling. "he has no more claim to the name jed gilman than i have." "what is his real name?" "robert fenwick, as i have every reason to believe." "why has there been no search for him till now?" "there has been a search covering all the intervening years; but the mother, who is still living, had no information to guide her, and the search has been a groping in the dark." "and did the wicked uncle get the title and estate?" asked mrs. avery. "yes. he is enjoying both now." "is it a large estate?" "it would not be considered large in england. probably it amounts to five thousand pounds annual rental." "five thousand pounds!" said mrs. avery. "yes, or in our money about twenty-five thousand dollars." "and this large estate ought to belong to poor jed?" "i submit that, if so, he will not need to be called poor jed." "and you say that the mother is living?" "she is living, and in new york. she is comfortably established at the windsor hotel on fifth avenue. it is by her that i am employed. this is my card." he drew out a small card bearing the name james peake. "yes. i am an american," he said in reply to a question by mrs. avery. "i am a new york detective, and was detailed for this work by inspector byrnes." "what sort of a person is jed's mother?" asked mrs. avery. "still a beautiful woman, though she cannot be far from forty years of age." "does she look like the picture in the locket?" "there is considerable resemblance--of course, making allowance for the difference in the ages of the two. this locket, mrs. avery, is most important, and will, i think, establish the identity of jed gilman with the stolen heir of the fenwick estate. will you permit me to take it and show it to lady fenwick?" "has she a title, too?" "certainly. she was the wife of sir charles fenwick." "and what is the name of the wicked uncle?" "guy fenwick. he is known as sir guy fenwick, but probably, almost positively, has no rightful claim to the title." "does he know that you are looking for his nephew?" "i presume he has taken measures to keep acquainted with all the movements of lady fenwick." "i wonder how the girl came to give the boy the name of jed gilman?" "i think i can explain this. the name of this treacherous nursemaid was jane gilman. she selected a name as near to her own as possible. you say you have neither seen nor heard anything of this girl since jed was left in your hands?" "we have heard nothing whatever." at this moment there was a ring at the door-bell--a sharp, quick, impatient ring. mrs. avery answered it. she came back, her face showing excitement. "it is a woman of middle age," she said, "and she, too, has come to make inquiries about jed gilman." the detective also looked excited. "do you think," he asked, "it can be jane gilman herself come back after all these years?" "that's it!" said mrs. avery, her face lighting up. "i wondered where i had seen her face before. now, though she is so much older, i recognize in this middle-aged woman the girl who brought jed to the door fourteen years ago." "bring her in here, hear what she has to say, and place me somewhere, so that, myself unseen, i can hear what she says." this was what the detective said in a quick, decided tone. "very well, sir, go in there. it is a small bedroom. you can keep the door ajar." the detective lost no time in concealing himself. the woman came in. she was a stout, florid-complexioned woman, rather showily dressed, with the look of an englishwoman of the middle class. before we proceed to record the interview that took place between mr. and mrs. avery and herself we must go back again to the poorhouse, and our friends, mr. and mrs. fogson. twenty minutes after the departure of james peake, the detective, this woman knocked at the door of the poorhouse. her summons was answered by mrs. fogson. "what's wanted?" asked the poorhouse matron, looking inquisitively at the new arrival. "is there a boy named jed gilman living here?" asked the woman eagerly. "jed gilman again!" repeated mrs. fogson. "what do you want of jed gilman?" "answer my question first, if you please." "such a boy was living here till lately, but he became very troublesome and finally ran away." "then he is not here now?" said the woman, looking very much disappointed. "no, but i expect he'll have to come back some time. a bad penny generally returns. you haven't told me what you have to do with him?" "then i will tell you. i was the person who brought him here fourteen years ago." "you don't say so?" ejaculated mrs. fogson, her little bead-like eyes sparkling with curiosity. "was he your child?" "certainly not, but he was my brother's child." "and what was your object in bringing him here?" "my brother was dead, and the child was thrown upon me for support," answered the woman after a little hesitation. "i could not support him, and so brought him where i thought he would have a home. but you are not the woman who was in charge of the poorhouse at that time." "no; that was mrs. avery." "and is mrs. avery still living?" "yes; she lives in a small house in the village." "i will go and see her." but this did not suit the views of mrs. fogson, who was curious to hear more about the antecedents of jed. "won't you come in and take a cup of tea?" she asked with unusual hospitality. "i don't care for tea--it's slops," answered the visitor. "if you could give me a thimbleful of whiskey i wouldn't mind taking it. when i am tired and dragged out it goes to the right spot." "yes, i can give you a glass," answered mrs. fogson. "me and fogson generally keeps a little in case of sickness, though we wouldn't have it known, as this is a temperance town." "you are safe with me, i won't mention it," said the caller. she then learned that jed was probably at bar harbor; but mrs. fogson found out very little from her in return. after a few minutes the strange woman set out on her walk to the avery cottage. chapter xxxvii. jane gilman. the visitor took a seat in the rocking-chair offered her by mrs. avery. "do you remember me?" she asked, throwing back her veil so as to give an unobstructed view of her full, florid face. "are you the girl who brought the boy jed to me fourteen years ago?" "the same. i don't find you in your old place." "no; we--my husband and i--left the poor farm about a year since. have you been there?" "yes, i saw the new woman, and a spiteful piece she is, i'll be bound." mrs. avery smiled. "i don't admire mrs. fogson," she said, "but i suppose that is natural." "she tells me the boy is no longer in the poorhouse." "no." "can you tell me why he left?" "he was ill-treated by mr. and mrs. fogson." "that woman tells me he was very troublesome." "we never found him so, and up to a year ago he was under our charge." "i surmised as much. then he has grown up a good boy?" "excellent. i feel great affection for jed." "that is gratifying to my feelings, seeing i am his aunt." mrs. avery regarded her visitor with surprise. "do you claim jed as your nephew?" she asked. "certainly. he is the son of my only brother." but for her interview with the detective mrs. avery would have believed this story. as it was, she did not choose to dispute it. she only sought to draw out her visitor so as to understand better her object in calling. "are you willing to explain why it was that you were led to place your nephew under my care?" "certainly. there is no secret about that _now_. my brother, who was a blacksmith, failed, and was unable to support the boy." "what was your brother's name?" "jedediah gilman. that is why i desired to have the boy called jed gilman, after his father. my name is jane gilman." "then you are not married?" "no," said miss gilman. "not but i might have been married half a dozen times if i had wanted to. but the men are a shiftless lot, in my opinion." "not all of them. i never charged my husband with being shiftless." "oh, well, there are exceptions. but i liked my freedom, so i am jane gilman still. i may change my mind yet, and get married. there's a many after me, and i am only thirty-two." mrs. avery was too polite to question her statement, but privately decided that the other was ten years older. "are you an american?" she asked. "no, i'm english, and i'm proud to own it." "was jed born in england?" jane gilman hesitated, but finally answered in the affirmative. "in what english town or village was he born?" "oh, lor, you wouldn't know any better if i should tell you. my brother came over here with jed when he was a baby, to better his fortunes. he went out to iowa, leaving the baby with me. but i found i couldn't get a place with a baby on my hands, and so i took it to the scranton poorhouse." "and where have you been since?" "i went to philadelphia and got a position there. since then i've been in a many places." "i wonder you didn't write to me for some news of the baby." "i got news of him from time to time, though i don't mean to tell you how," answered jane gilman with a cunning smile. "but i've been away for the last three years, and so i didn't know that jed had gone off." "you must be disappointed not to find him." "so i am. it seems so long since i've seen the dear child," and jane drew out a handkerchief of ample size and pressed it to her tearless eyes. "is he a nice-looking boy?" "he has a fine, frank, open face, but you'll excuse my saying that he doesn't resemble you in the least." "no," answered jane, not the least bit disconcerted. "he didn't look like the gilmans, but like his ma's family." "what was his mother's maiden name?" "fenwick," responded jane gilman, having no suspicion that mrs. avery had heard the name before. mrs. avery started. "i've heard that name before," she said. "have you?" asked jane, momentarily uneasy, but quickly recovering her self-possession she reflected that the averys could not possibly know anything of jed's real history. "i suppose there's a many fenwicks in the world and some of 'em in america. my brother's wife was a good-looking woman, and the boy takes after her." "she died young, i suppose?" "only three months after he was born." "is your brother still living?" "no; he was killed in a railroad accident out in iowa six months since. he was a brakeman on the railroad. he left me a tidy sum of money, and said that i was to look up jed." "this accounts for your visit, then?" "yes; i want to take my nephew with me and see to his education, as my brother wished me to." "did mrs. fogson give you any idea where he was?" "she said he had run away, but she had information that he was at bar harbor, wherever that is, in the service of some rich gentleman." "we have heard the same thing. what do you propose to do?" "i'll have to go there, i suppose. but there is one thing i want to ask you about." "what is that?" "when i left the baby with you there was a gold locket suspended from his neck. did you find it?" "yes, i found it." "i'll thank you if you'll give it to me. i meant to take it at the time, but i went away in a hurry, as you know, and i thought it would be safe in your hands." "i can't let you have it to-day, miss gilman." "and why not?" demanded jane suspiciously. "i deposited it with a party i had confidence in, for safe keeping," replied mrs. avery. "then i'll be glad to have you get it as soon as you can. i want it," rejoined jane gilman sharply. "how am i to feel sure you are entitled to it?" asked mrs. avery. "if i am not, who is, i'd like to know? i'm the one that left the boy with you at the poorhouse." "i presume this is true." "of course it's true. i'll tell you what, mrs. avery, i'm not much pleased with your trying to keep the locket. are you sure you haven't sold or pawned it?" "yes, i am sure of that. but perhaps i shall not have to make you wait long for it. the gentleman in whose hands i placed it is in this house at this very minute." jane gilman looked very much surprised. "where is he?" she asked. detective peake answered for himself. he stepped into the room from the small bedroom and held up the locket. "is this the one?" he asked. "yes," answered the woman eagerly. "give it to me." mr. peake quietly put it back into his pocket. "not till i have asked you a few questions," he answered. "what right have you to ask me questions?" asked jane defiantly. "i will assume that i have the right," the detective answered. "whose miniatures are those in the locket?" "they are my brother and his wife." "your brother doesn't seem to look like you, miss gilman." "perhaps you know better than i who it is," said jane sullenly. "well, perhaps so." "and who do you say they are?" "sir charles and laura fenwick of fenwick hall, england." jane gilman started to her feet in astonishment. "who told you?" she asked hoarsely. "it is not necessary for me to tell you. it is enough that i am commissioned by the boy's mother to find him and restore him to her. there may be trouble in store for you, miss jane gilman," he added significantly. jane gilman fanned herself vigorously and seemed very ill at ease. "however," continued the detective, "you can save yourself and secure a handsome reward by giving me all the help you can, and making full confession of your stealing the child, and telling who instigated you to do it." the woman hesitated, but her hesitation was brief. "will you promise this?" she asked. "yes. i am the confidential agent of lady fenwick, who is now in america." "then i'll do it. guy fenwick hasn't treated me right, and i don't mind if i do go back on him. it was he that hired me to make off with little robert, though i didn't let him know what i did with him." "and what was your present object?" "to take the boy away and make sir guy pay a good round sum for my keeping the secret." chapter xxxviii. the detective secures an ally. "are you in communication with guy fenwick? do you know whether he is now at fenwick hall?" asked the detective. "no, he is not there." "where is he, then?" "at sea. in a day or two he will probably be in new york," answered jane gilman coolly. mr. peake started. this was unexpected intelligence. "what brings him to new york?" he inquired hastily. "i do." "what do you mean by that?" "i wrote him some time since for a hundred pounds. he sent me five pounds and told me that i needn't call on him again." "he doesn't seem much afraid of you." "no; he thought the boy was dead." "i suppose you told him so?" "i let him think that the boy had died of fever four years ago. that made him feel safe, and he concluded that he had no more use for jane gilman. he'll find out!" and jane tossed her head, in an independent manner. "have you any letters from him in reference to the matter?" asked detective peake. from a pocket of unknown depth miss gilman drew out an epistle which she handed to the detective. "you can read it if you want to," she said. mr. peake opened the letter and read it. it ran thus: miss jane gilman: your letter requesting me to send you a hundred pounds is received. your request is certainly an audacious one. why i should send you a hundred pounds, or even ten pounds, i am at a loss to imagine. the boy robert, whose existence you think would be dangerous to me, is dead by your own admission, and my right to the fenwick title and estates is undisputed and indisputable. if you expect me to support you for the balance of your life, your expectations are doomed to disappointment. you are strong and healthy, and are able to earn your own living in the sphere in which you were born. besides, if you had been prudent you would have saved a considerable sum out of the large pension you have received from me during the last dozen or more years. i think it quite probable that you have a snug sum invested and are not in any danger of suffering. still i don't want to be hard upon you. i accordingly inclose a five-pound note, which you will please consider as a final gift on my part. guy fenwick. "miss gilman," said detective peake, "will you permit me to keep this letter--for the present?" "what do you want to do with it?" asked jane suspiciously. "use it against the man who calls himself sir guy fenwick. in connection with your testimony it will prove valuable evidence." "you have promised that i shall be well paid?" "yes, i can take it upon myself to promise that." "very well. you may keep the letter." "one question more. you tell me that sir guy fenwick is on his way to new york. can you tell me why he is coming?" "yes. i dropped him a hint, in answer to this letter, that the boy robert was still living, and this alarmed my gentleman," she added with a laugh. "did he write you that he was coming?" "yes." "have you that letter?" "no; but i can tell you what was in it. he wrote that he did not believe my story, but he would come to new york, and i might call upon him at the brevoort house on monday next." "you infer from that that he was anxious?" "it looks like it, doesn't it?" "yes. what did you propose to say to him?" "that the boy was living, and that i could lay my hand upon him." "that is why you came to scranton?" "yes." "i see. the whole thing lies in a nutshell. even without your evidence i shall probably be able to establish the rights of my young client. but your help will make it surer." "i am at your service, if you will keep your promise. what do you want me to do?" "go with me to bar harbor and see the boy." "i would like to," said jane gilman with an expression of pleasure. "i haven't seen him since he was a baby. i'd like to see how he looks now." "when he is restored to his title and estate he will not see you suffer." "when will you start for bar harbor?" "we shall leave scranton by the next train." chapter xxxix. jed learns who he is. mr. roper and jed were having a very enjoyable time at bar harbor. they made trips, chiefly on foot, to the various interesting localities--schooner head, great head, hull's cove and the ovens--being favored with unusually fine and clear weather. they had just returned at four o'clock in the afternoon from a trip to the summit of green mountain when they were informed at the hotel that a gentleman wished to see them. mr. roper took the card and examined it. "james peake," he said. "i don't know of any such person. do you, jed?" "no, sir," answered jed. "you may bring him up," said roper, turning to the bell boy. in less than a minute the latter reappeared, followed by a plain-looking man, who scanned both attentively as he entered, but devoted the most attention to jed. "mr. peake?" said schuyler roper interrogatively. "yes, sir." "you have business with me?" "rather with your young friend. is he known as jed gilman?" "yes," answered the boy so designated. "i am a detective from the staff of inspector byrnes of new york." jed blushed and looked uneasy. this announcement naturally alarmed him. "am i charged with any offense?" he asked quickly. "no," answered mr. peake with a pleasant smile. "when i state my business i am inclined to think you will be glad to see me." "i feel relieved, jed," said mr. roper with a smile. "i took you without a character, and i trembled lest some terrible charge was to be brought against you." "rest easy on that score, mr. roper," returned the detective. "my mission may involve some one else in trouble, but not your young friend. will you permit me to ask him a few questions?" "i am sure he will be quite ready to answer any questions you may ask." jed nodded assent. "then, mr. gilman, may i inquire your age?" "i am sixteen." "what is the date of your birth?" jed colored and looked embarrassed. "i do not know," he answered. "can you tell me where you were born?" "no, sir," returned jed. "i was left at the age of two years at the scranton poorhouse by a girl who disappeared the next morning. of course i was too young to know anything of my earlier history." "exactly; and you spent the intervening years at that interesting institution." jed laughed. "it didn't prove very interesting at the last," he said. "when my good friends the averys were turned out, mr. and mrs. fogson succeeded them, and i concluded to leave." "i am not surprised to hear it. i have seen mrs. fogson," remarked the detective dryly. "did she give me a good character?" "quite the contrary. she prepared me to find you a desperate young ruffian." jed laughed. "do i come up to your expectations?" he asked. "not altogether. i may conclude that you have no information in regard to your family or parentage?" "no, sir. can you"--something in the detective's face prompted the question--"can you give me any information on the subject?" jed fixed his eyes with painful intensity upon the visitor. "i think i can," he answered. "who, then, am i?" "to the best of my knowledge you are the nephew of sir guy fenwick, of fenwick hall, gloucestershire, england." both mr. roper and jed looked exceedingly surprised. "sir guy fenwick?" repeated roper. "he is so called, but i have reason to believe he is a usurper, and that the title and estates belong to your young friend, who, if i am correct, isn't jed gilman, but sir robert fenwick." jed looked dazed. schuyler roper went up to him and grasped his hand. "my dear jed, or rather robert," he said, "let me be the first to congratulate you. but, mr. peake, are you prepared to substantiate jed's claim to his title and inheritance?" "i think so. i will tell you how the case stands." when he had concluded, mr. roper asked, "and where is this nurse whose testimony is so important?" "at rodick's. i brought her with me to bar harbor." "and what is your program?" "i should like to carry our young friend with me to new york to confront the pseudo baronet." "we will be ready whenever you say. i say _we_, for i propose to accompany jed--i beg pardon, sir robert--and stand by him at this eventful period." "call me jed, mr. roper, till i have proved myself entitled to the other name," returned the "poorhouse boy." chapter xl. guy fenwick's defeat. sir guy fenwick sat in his handsome apartment at the brevoort house. he was of slender build and dark complexion, bearing a very slight resemblance to jed, but his expression was much less agreeable. "jane gilman was to have called this morning. she ought to be here now," he muttered, consulting his watch. "she is certain to come," he added with a sneer, "for she wants money. i shall never be safe from annoyance while she lives. however, she can do me little harm." there was a knock at the door, and a bell boy appeared with a card. sir guy took it from his hand, and regarded it with surprise. "mr. james peake!" he repeated. "what does he want?" "i don't know, sir guy." "let him come up, but the interview must be brief, for i am expecting another party." directly afterward detective peake entered the presence of the baronet. "you wish to see me, mr.--ahem!--mr. peake?" "yes. mr. fenwick?" "mr. fenwick!" repeated the englishman, frowning. "i am sir guy fenwick." "i am aware that you call yourself so," said the detective quietly. "what do you mean by this insolence?" demanded guy fenwick, his face flaming. "you will understand me when i say i call in behalf of sir robert fenwick, the real baronet." guy fenwick half rose from his seat. he looked angry and alarmed. "i don't know what you mean," he said. "i think you do. sir robert is your nephew, and the title and estate are his by right." guy fenwick laughed--a harsh, mirthless laugh. "really," he said, "this is most amusing. robert fenwick is dead. if any one calls himself by that name he is an impostor." "that remains to be seen. i have to inform you that sir robert fenwick is in this city, in the company of his mother, who has received and acknowledged him." "this is a conspiracy!" exclaimed guy fenwick, whose appearance showed that he was deeply disturbed. "it is a very foolish conspiracy, i will add. of course i understand the object of my amiable sister-in-law in giving her countenance to what she must know to be an imposture. do me the favor to inform me where you discovered the boy who impudently claims the title and estate which i inherited from my brother." "only by procuring the disappearance of that brother's lawful heir." "who says this--who dares say it?" "you are partially acquainted with a woman named jane gilman?" guy fenwick's countenance changed. "yes," he said after a pause, "i do know a woman of that name. she has been writing me blackmailing letters, and threatening to injure me if i did not send her a hundred pounds. so this is the mare's nest you have stirred up? i congratulate you." "call it a mare's nest if you like, mr. fenwick," said the detective undisturbed. "you may find it a very serious matter. shall i tell you what we are able to prove?" "if you please. i should like to know the details of this base conspiracy." "fourteen years ago jane gilman appeared towards nightfall at the door of a poorhouse not far away and left a child of two years old with the people in charge. before morning she disappeared. the child grew up a healthy, sturdy boy; frank and handsome." "so he prepared himself to claim the fenwick title in an almshouse?" "it wasn't his fault that he was brought up there, only his misfortune." "what name was given him?" "jed gilman." "he had better retain it." "not while he has a better claim to the name of robert fenwick. hanging from his neck at the time he was placed in the poorhouse was a locket containing miniatures of your brother, the late sir charles fenwick, and lady mary fenwick, still living." "have you the locket with you?" "it is in safe custody. you will admit that this is pretty strong evidence of our claim. but we have in addition the confession of jane gilman, who testifies that, in obedience to your instructions, she abducted and disposed of the boy as aforesaid." "this is a very cunning conspiracy, mr. peake, if that is your name, but it won't succeed. i shall defend my right to the title and estate; but if this boy is poor i don't mind settling a pension of a hundred pounds upon him, and finding him some employment." "in his name i decline your offer." "then i defy you! what are you going to do about it?" "lady fenwick has engaged the services of one of our most famous lawyers, and legal proceedings will be commenced at once. we will, however, give you a week to decide on your course." "give me the name of your lawyer. i will call upon him and show him that he has consented to aid an imposture." before the week ended, however, sir guy, to give him this title once more, had decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and had consented to surrender the title and estates, his nephew agreeing to pay him an income of a thousand pounds per annum, in order that he might still be able to live like a gentleman. when matters were arranged guy fenwick returned hastily to england, and, making but a short stay there, went to the continent, where he would not have the humiliation of meeting old acquaintances whom he had known in the days of his grandeur. chapter xli. conclusion. not the least gratifying circumstance in his sudden change of fortune was jed's discovery of a mother--a gracious and beautiful woman--to whom he was drawn in almost instinctive affection. before leaving new york for his native land he expressed a wish to revisit scranton, and view once more the scenes of his early privations. his mother not only consented, but decided to accompany him. mr. and mrs. fogson were engaged in their usual morning labors when a handsome carriage stopped at the gate. a servant descended and made his way to the front door, which mrs. fogson herself opened. "madam," said the servant bowing, "do you receive visitors?" mrs. fogson espying the handsome carriage was dazzled, and responded graciously: "we ain't fixed for company," she said, "but if you'll make allowances i shall be happy to receive visitors. who is it?" she inquired curiously. "lady fenwick and sir robert fenwick, of fenwick hall, england." "you don't say!" ejaculated mrs. fogson, awe-stricken. "tell 'em to come right in." jed assisted his mother to alight and walk up to the front door, mrs. fogson having retreated inside to change her dress. "and you say you lived in this forlorn place, robert?" asked lady fenwick with a shudder. "for fourteen years, mother." "i never can forgive guy fenwick--never!" "i am none the worse for it now, mother." jed led the way into mrs. fogson's private sitting-room, where that lady found them. she stopped short at the threshold. "why, it's jed gilman!" she said sharply, with a feeling that she had been humbugged. "mrs. fogson," said jed, gravely, "i am jed gilman no more. i have found out that i am entitled to a large estate in england, but best of all i have found a mother, and am no longer alone in the world." mr. fogson, who had followed his wife into the room, was the first to "take in" the surprising news. jed's handsome suit, his gold watch-chain and diamond scarf-pin, as well as his mother's stately figure, convinced him that the story was true. "no one is more glad to hear of your good fortune, my dear boy, than mrs. f. and myself," he said in a gushing tone. "i have often thought that you were a nobleman in disguise." "you never let me suspect it, mr. fogson," said jed, amused. "probably you didn't want to raise my expectations." "just so, jed, i mean sir robert. we feel that it was an honor to have you so long under our roof--don't we, mrs. f.?" "certainly, simeon. if lady fenwick will permit me to offer an humble collation, some of my ginger snaps; you remember them, jed, i mean sir robert." "you are very kind," said lady fenwick hastily, "but i seldom eat between meals." just then percy dixon, who came with a message from his father, appeared in the door. he opened his eyes wide in amazement when he saw jed. "jed gilman!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "no, master percy," said mrs. fogson. "we have just learned that our dear jed is sir robert fenwick, of fenwick hall, england." "jehoshaphat!" cried percy, astounded. "percy," said jed, whose good fortune made him good-natured, "let me introduce you to my mother, lady fenwick. mother, this is master percy dixon." "i am glad to meet any of your friends, robert," said lady fenwick, really supposing that jed and percy were on intimate terms. "glad to know you--to make your acquaintance, lady fenwick," replied percy. "are you really and truly a lord, jed?" "no, not a lord, but a baronet. however, that needn't make any difference between friends like ourselves." "no, of course not. you know i always liked you, jed, i mean sir jed." "sir robert," prompted mr. fogson. "sir robert. i feel sort of confused by the sudden change," explained percy embarrassed. "call me jed, then. in scranton i mean to be jed." "won't you call at our house? my father, squire dixon, will be honored by a visit." "we are to call on mr. and mrs. avery first, and then if we have time we will call on you. won't you get into the carriage and go with us, percy?" percy dixon accepted the invitation with intense delight, and long afterwards boasted of his ride with lady fenwick. though jed and his mother were able to spend but ten minutes at the house of squire dixon, the squire showed himself deeply sensible of the honor, and several times alluded to his dear young friend sir robert. it was the way of the world. mr. and mrs. avery received from lady fenwick a handsome present in recognition of their past kindness to jed, and this was the first of many. jed and his mother remained at the windsor till they were ready to embark for england. while walking on fifth avenue one day he saw just ahead his little friend, chester holbrook, accompanied by his aunt, miss maria holbrook. he hurried forward, and taking off his hat to miss holbrook, said, "chester, don't you remember me?" chester uttered a cry of delight. "why it's jed!" he said. miss maria holbrook, surprised at jed's improved appearance, eyed him with suspicion. "where are you staying, jedediah?" she inquired. "have you a situation?" "i am boarding at the windsor hotel, miss holbrook. i am in no situation." "then how can you afford to board at a first-class hotel?" asked the spinster in surprise. "i am with my mother, lady fenwick. allow me to hand you my card." jed placed in her hand a card on which was engraved the name: sir robert fenwick, bart. the story had already appeared in the daily papers of new york, but miss holbrook never suspected that the young english baronet was chester's humble guardian. "are you sir robert fenwick?" she ejaculated in amazement. "i believe so," he answered with a smile. "now, miss holbrook, i have a favor to ask. may i take chester in and introduce him to my mother?" "i should also like to meet lady fenwick," said miss holbrook. "i shall be most happy to present you." "isn't your name jed after all?" asked chester, as he confidingly placed his hand in that of his former guardian. "you may call me so, chester; i wish you would." miss maria holbrook was delighted with her visit. like many americans, she had a great respect for english aristocracy, and did not understand that there was considerable difference between titles. it is wonderful how differently she came to regard one whom she had been accustomed to style "that boy jedediah." she was much pleased with lady fenwick's gracious reception, though she found it difficult to think of her as jed's mother. i neglected to say in the proper place that jed did not fail to call, when in scranton, on his two friends dr. and mrs. redmond, and gave them a cordial invitation to visit his mother and himself if they should ever come to england. he did not see fit to extend a similar invitation to mr. and mrs. fogson. misfortune has come to these worthy people. their mismanagement of the poorhouse had become so notorious that the best citizens of scranton not only demanded their removal from the poorhouse, but at the next town meeting defeated squire dixon for re-election to the position of overseer of the poor. mr. and mrs. avery were invited to succeed the fogsons, but felt that they were entitled to rest and quiet for the balance of their lives. the liberal gifts of jed and his mother made them independent, and they were willing that younger persons should fill their old positions. jed devoted several years to making up the deficiencies in his education. the only disagreeable thing in his change of fortune was his removal from america, but he will probably arrange to spend a portion of his time in his adopted country, to which he feels the attachment of a loyal son. then he has a link connecting him with it in the frequent visits at fenwick hall of his friend schuyler roper. notwithstanding his accession to the ancestral title and estate, he has not forgotten the fourteen years during which he was known as "jed, the poorhouse boy." * * * * * every child's library _books "that every child can read" for four reasons_: . because the subjects have all proved their lasting popularity. . because of the simple language in which they are written. . because they have been carefully edited, and anything that might prove objectionable for children's reading has been eliminated. . because of their accuracy of statement. +this series of books+ comprises subjects that appeal to all young people. besides the historical subjects that are necessary to the education of children, it also contains standard books written in language that children can read and understand. +carefully edited.+ each work is carefully edited by rev. jesse lyman hurlbut, d.d., to make sure that the style is simple and suitable for young readers, and to eliminate anything which might be objectionable. dr. hurlbut's large and varied experience in the instruction of young people, and in the preparation of literature in language that is easily understood, makes this series of books +a welcome addition to libraries, reading circles, schools and home+. issued in uniform style of binding. _cloth. mo. illustrated. price, cents._ list of titles. lives of our presidents--every child can read. the leatherstocking tales--every child can read. the story of jesus--every child can read. the history of america--every child can read. pilgrim's progress--every child can read. stories of our naval heroes--every child can read. stories of great americans--every child can read. stories about children of all nations--every child can read. robinson crusoe--every child can read. stories about indians--every child can read. stories of royal children--every child can read. dickens' stories about children--every child can read. (other titles in preparation) catalogue mailed on application _the john c. winston company, publishers_ - arch street, philadelphia pa. [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: playmates. page ] [illustration: title page] _alone in london_ _by the author of "jessica's first prayer," "little meg's children," etc._ london: the religious tract society, , paternoster row; , st. paul's churchyard: and , piccadilly. right of translation reserved. contents. chapter i. not alone ii. waifs and strays iii. a little peacemaker iv. old oliver's master v. forsaken again vi. the grasshopper a burden vii. the prince of life viii. no pipe for old oliver ix. a new broom and a crossing x. highly respectable xi. among thieves xii. tony's welcome xiii. new boots xiv. in hospital xv. tony's future prospects xvi. a bud fading xvii. a very dark shadow xviii. no room for dolly xix. the golden city xx. a fresh day dawns xxi. polly [illustration: chapter i headpiece] chapter i. not alone. it had been a close and sultry day--one of the hottest of the dog-days--even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves had never stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds had found themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now and then. all day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets of london, with a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefooted children had felt the dusty pavement burn under their tread almost as painfully as the icy pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter. in the parks, and in every open space, especially about the cool splash of the fountains at charing cross, the people, who had escaped from the crowded and unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or sought every corner where a shadow could be found. but in the alleys and slums the air was heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up and down, charged with sickening smells from the refuse of fish and vegetables decaying in the gutters. overhead the small, straight strip of sky was almost white, and the light, as it fell, seemed to quiver with the burden of its own burning heat. out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between holborn and the strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet across, with high buildings on each side. in the most part the ground floors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but leads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short cut to it, pretty often used. these shops are not of any size or importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods, two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare, but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads. above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words, "james oliver, news agent." the shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. after two customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would have been almost impossible to find room for a third. along the end ran a little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to the living-room lying behind the shop. this evening the flap was down--a certain sign that james oliver, the news agent, had some guest within, for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size of the counter. the room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the great city. but inside james oliver's house the gas was already lighted in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air, though both door and window were wide open. for there was a window, though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide, which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the very core of the maze of streets. as the houses were four stories high, it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noon-day it was twilight there. this room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former times. it was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was clean and whole. there had been a fire, but it had died out, and the coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it. james oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where he could keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hour no customers ever turned into it. he was an old man, and seemed very old and infirm by the dim light. he was thin and spare, with that peculiar spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one can. his teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years ago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. a fine network of wrinkles puckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. he stooped a good deal, and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. yet his face was very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile now and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome and the more noticed when it came. old oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman, with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room to rights, and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. she was just replacing her needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife, which she always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on her black silk bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him good-bye. "eh, charlotte," said oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath, "what would i give to be a-top of the wrekin, seeing the sun set this evening! many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when we were young, and all of us alive. dost remember how many a mile of country we could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across the thousands of green fields? why, i saw snowdon once, more than sixty miles off, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. i always think of the top of the wrekin when i read of moses going up mount pisgah and seeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. eh, lass! there's a change in us all now!" "ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her head slowly. "all the folks i used to sew for at aston, and uppington, and overlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. it wouldn't seem like the same place at all. and now there's none but you and me left, brother james. well, well! it's lonesome, growing old." "yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old oliver, in a dreamy voice. "i'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and i don't feel quite myself like i used to do; but i've got something i didn't use to have. sometimes of an evening, before i've lit the gas, i've a sort of a feeling as if i could almost see the lord jesus, and hear him talking to me. he looks to me something like our eldest brother, him that died when we were little. charlotte, thee remembers him? a white, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behind clouds. well, whether it's only a dream or no i cannot tell, but there's a face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and i think to myself, maybe the lord jesus says, 'old oliver's lonesome down there in the dark, and his eyes growing dim. i'll make myself half-plain to him.' then he comes and sits here with me for a little while." "oh, that's all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," said charlotte, sharply. "perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but i should be very lonesome without that." they did not speak again until charlotte had given a final shake to the bed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. she put them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spoke again in a constrained and mysterious manner. "heard nothing of susan, i suppose?" she said. "not a word," answered old oliver, sadly. "it's the only trouble i've got. that were the last passion i ever went into, and i was hot and hasty, i know." "so you always used to be at times," said his sister. "ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speaking slowly. "i told her if she married young raleigh, she should never darken my doors again--never again. and she took me at my word, though she might have known it was nothing but father's hot temper. darken my doors! why, the brightest sunshine i could have 'ud be to see her come smiling into my shop, like she used to do at home." "well, i think susan ought to have humbled herself," said charlotte. "it's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see her folly. do you know where she is?" "i know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully. "young raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him; but i didn't mean susan to take me at my word. i shouldn't speak so hasty and hot now." "and to think i'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with such pretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "she might have done so much better with her cleverness too. such a milliner as she might have turned out! well good-bye, brother james, and don't go having any more of those visions; they're not wholesome for you." "i should be very lonesome without them," answered oliver. "good-bye, charlotte, good-bye, and god bless you. come again as soon as you can." he went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quiet alley, till she turned into the street. then, with a last nod to the back of her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly into his dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to the darker room within. hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a little chilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, and threw a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk, looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. he must have fallen into a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled by the constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softened murmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found that complete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. a church clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. he went out hurriedly to put the shutters up. chapter ii. waifs and strays. in the shop it was not yet so dark but that old oliver could see his way out with the shutters, which during the day occupied a place behind the door. he lifted the flap of the counter, and was about to go on with his usual business, when a small voice, trembling a little, and speaking from the floor at his very feet, caused him to pause suddenly. "please, rere's a little girl here," said the voice. oliver stooped down to bring his eyes nearer to the ground, until he could make out the indistinct outline of the figure of a child, seated on his shop floor, and closely hugging a dog in her arms. her face looked small to him; it was pale, as if she had been crying quietly, and though he could not see them, a large tear stood on each of her cheeks. "what little girl are you?" he asked, almost timidly. "rey called me dolly," answered the child. "haven't you any other name?" inquired old oliver. "nosing else but poppet," she said; "rey call me dolly sometimes, and poppet sometimes. ris is my little dog, beppo." she introduced the dog by pushing its nose into his hand, and beppo complacently wagged his tail and licked the old man's withered fingers. "what brings you here in my shop, my little woman?" asked oliver. "mammy brought me," she said, with a stifled sob; "she told me run in rere, dolly, and stay till mammy comes back, and be a good girl always. am i a good girl?" "yes, yes," he answered, soothingly; "you're a very good little girl, i'm sure; and mother 'ill come back soon, very soon. let us go to the door, and look for her." he took her little hand in his own; such a little hand it felt, that he could not help tightening his fingers fondly over it; and then they stood for a few minutes on the door-sill, while old oliver looked anxiously up and down the alley. at the green-grocer's next door there flared a bright jet of gas, and the light shone well into the deepening darkness. but there was no woman in sight, and the only person about was a ragged boy, barefoot and bareheaded, with no clothing but a torn pair of trousers, very jagged about the ankles, and a jacket through which his thin shoulders displayed themselves. he was lolling in the lowest window-sill of the house opposite, and watched oliver and the little girl looking about them with sundry signs of interest and amusement. "she ain't nowhere in sight," he called across to them after a while, "nor won't be, neither, i'll bet you. you're looking out for the little un's mother, ain't you, old master?" "yes," answered oliver; "do you know anything about her, my boy?" "nothink," he said, with a laugh; "only she looked as if she were up to some move, and as i'd nothink particular on hand, i just followed her. she was somethink like my mother, as is dead, not fat or rosy, you know, with a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her. i thought there'd be a lark when she left the little 'un in your shop, so i just stopped to see. she bolted as if the bobbies were after her." "how long ago?" asked oliver, anxiously. "the clocks had just gone eight," he answered; "i've been watching for you ever since." "why! that's a full hour ago," said the old man, looking wistfully down the alley; "it's time she was come back again for her little girl." [illustration: the little stranger.] but there was no symptom of anybody coming to claim the little girl, who stood very quietly at his side, one hand holding the dog fast by his ear, and the other still lying in oliver's grasp. the boy hopped on one foot across the narrow alley, and looked up with bright, eager eyes into the old man's face. "i say," he said, earnestly, "don't you go to give her up to the p'lice. they'd take her to the house, and that's worse than the jail. bless yer! they'd never take up a little thing like that to jail for a wagrant. you just give her to me, and i'll take care of her. it 'ud be easy enough to find victuals for such a pretty little thing as her. you give her up to me, i say." "what's your name?" asked oliver, clasping the little hand tighter, "and where do you come from?" "from nowhere particular," answered the boy; "and my name's antony; tony, for short. i used to have another name; mother told it me afore she died, but it's gone clean out o' my head. tony i am, anyhow, and you can call me by it, if you choose." "how old are you, tony?" inquired oliver, still lingering on the threshold, and looking up and down with his dim eyes. "bless yer! i don't know," replied tony; "i weren't much bigger nor her when mother died, and i've found myself ever since. i never had any father." "found yourself!" repeated the old man, absently. "ah, it's not bad in the summer," said tony, more earnestly than before: "and i could find for the little 'un easy enough. i sleep anywhere, in covent garden sometimes, and the parks--anywhere as the p'lice 'ill let me alone. you won't go to give her up to them p'lice, will you now, and she so pretty?" he spoke in a beseeching tone, and old oliver looked down upon him through his spectacles, with a closer survey than he had given to him before. the boy's face was pale and meagre, with an unboyish sharpness about it, though he did not seem more than nine or ten years old. his glittering eyes were filled with tears, and his colourless lips quivered. he wiped away the tears roughly upon the ragged sleeve of his jacket. "i never were such a baby before," said tony, "only she is such a nice little thing, and such a tiny little 'un. you'll keep her, master, won't you? or give her up to me?" "ay, ay! i'll take care of her," answered oliver, "till her mother comes back for her. she'll come pretty soon, i know. but she wants her supper now, doesn't she?" he stooped down to bring his face nearer to the child's, and she raised her hand to it, and stroked his cheek with her warm, soft fingers. "beppo wants his supper, too," she said, in a clear, shrill, little voice, which penetrated easily through old oliver's deafened hearing. "and beppo shall have some supper as well as the little woman," he answered. "i'll put the shutters up now, and leave the door ajar, and the gas lit for mother to see when she comes back; and if mother shouldn't come back to night, the little woman will sleep in my bed, won't she?" "dolly's to be a good girl till mammy comes back," said the child, plaintively, and holding harder by beppo's ear. "let me put the shutters up, master," cried tony, eagerly; "i won't charge you nothink, and i'll just look round in the morning to see how you're getting along. she is such a very little thing." the shutters were put up briskly, and then tony took a long, farewell gaze of the old man and the little child, but he could not offer to touch either of them. he glanced at his hands, and oliver did the same; but they both shook their heads. "i'll have a wash in the morning afore i come," he said, nodding resolutely; "good-bye, guv'ner; good-bye, little 'un." old oliver went in, leaving his door ajar, and his gas lit, as he had said. he fed the hungry child with bread and butter, and used up his half-pennyworth of milk, which he bought for himself every evening. then he lifted her on to his knee, with beppo in her arms, and sat for a long while waiting. the little head nodded, and dolly sat up, unsteadily striving hard to keep awake; but at last she let beppo drop to the floor, while she herself fell upon the old man's breast, and lay there without moving. it chimed eleven o'clock at last, and oliver knew it was of no use to watch any longer. he managed to undress his little charge with gentle, though trembling hands, and then he laid her down on his bed, putting his only pillow against the wall to make a soft nest for the tender and sleepy child. she roused herself for a minute, and stared about her, gazing steadily, with large, tearful eyes, into his face. then as he sat down on the bedstead beside her, to comfort her as well as he could, she lifted herself up, and knelt down, with her folded hands laid against his shoulder. "dolly vewy seepy," she lisped, "but must say her prayers always." "what are your prayers, my dear?" he asked. "on'y god bless ganpa, and father, and mammy, and poor beppo, and make me a good girl," murmured the drowsy voice, as dolly closed her eyes again, and fell off into a deep sleep the next moment. chapter iii a little peacemaker. it was a very strange event which had befallen old oliver. he went back to his own chair, where he smoked his broseley pipe every night, and sank down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had nursed any child, and even dolly's small weight was a burden to him. her tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. in shaking out her frock a letter fell from it, and oliver picked it up, wondering whoever it could be for. it was directed to himself, "mr. james oliver, news-agent," and he broke the seal with eager expectation. the contents were these, written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:-- "dear father, "i am very very sorry i ever did anything to make you angry with me. this is your poor susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker betwixt you and me. i'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your door. i'm going down to portsmouth for three days, because he listed five months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to india, and he sails on friday. so i thought i wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and i said i'll leave her with father till i come back, and her pretty little ways will soften him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his regiment comes home again, poor fellow. for he's very good to me when he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. please do forgive me for pity's sake, and for christ's sake, if i'm worthy to use his name, and do take care of my little girl till i come home to you both on friday. from your now dutiful daughter, "poor susan." the tears rolled fast down old oliver's cheeks as he read this letter through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. why! this was his own little grandchild, then--his very own! and no doubt susan had christened her dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died so many years ago. dolly was the short for dorothy, and in early times he had often called his wife by that name. he had turned his gas off and lighted a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new treasure. the tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. his spectacles grew very dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. then he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and sobbed out, "bless her! bless her!" he returned to his chair, his head shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again. "dear lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear lord! how very good thou art to me! didst thee not say, 'i'll not leave thee comfortless, i'll come to thee?' i know what that means, bless thy name; and the good spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart. i know thou didst not leave me alone before. no, no! that was far from thee, lord. alone!--why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as well. lonesome!--they don't know thee, lord, and they don't know me. thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. yes, yes,--yes." he murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. but no sleep came to the old man. he was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child waking in the night and wanting something. the air was close and hot, and now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. his grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three days. oh, how he would welcome her! he would not let her speak one word of her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. it was partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-tempered. he had learnt better since then. chapter iv. old oliver's master. very early in the morning, before the tardy daylight could creep into the darkened room, old oliver was up and busy. he had been in the habit of doing for himself, as he called it, ever since his daughter had forsaken him, and he was by nature fastidiously clean and neat. but now there would be additional duties for him during the next three days; for there would be dolly to wash, and dress, and provide breakfast for. every few minutes he stole a look at her lying still asleep; and as soon as he discovered symptoms of awaking, he hastily lifted beppo on to the bed, that her opening eyes should be greeted by some familiar sight. she stretched out her wonderful little hands, and caught hold of the dog's rough head before venturing to lift her eyelids, while oliver looked on in speechless delight. at length she ventured to peep slyly at him, and then addressed herself to beppo. "what am i to call ris funny old man, beppo?" she asked. "i am your grandpa, my darling," said oliver, in his softest voice. "are you god-bless-ganpa?" inquired dolly, sitting up on her pillow, and staring very hard with her blue eyes into his wrinkled face. "yes, i am," he answered, looking at her anxiously. "dolly knows," she said, counting upon her little fingers; "rere's father, and mammy, and beppo; and now rere's gan-pa. dolly 'll get up now." she flung her arms suddenly about his neck and kissed him, while old oliver trembled with intense joy. it was quite a marvel to him how she helped him to dress her, laughing merrily at the strange mistakes he made in putting on her clothes the wrong side before; and when he assured her that her mother would come back very soon, she seemed satisfied to put up with any passing inconvenience. the shop, with its duties, and the necessity of getting in his daily stock of newspapers, entirely slipped his memory; and he was only recalled to it by a very loud rapping at the door as he was pouring out dolly's breakfast. to his great surprise he discovered that he had forgotten to take down his shutters, though it was past the hour when his best customers passed by. [illustration: tony] the person knocking proved to be none other than tony, who greeted the old man's appearance with a prolonged whistle, and a grave and reproachful stare. "come," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "this'll never do, you know. business is business, and must be minded. you pretty nearly frightened me into fits; anybody could have knocked me down with a straw when i see the shutters up. how is she?" "she's very well, thank you, my boy," answered oliver, meekly. "mother not turned up, i guess?" said tony. "no; she comes on friday," he replied. tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to no remark until after the shutters were in their place. then he surveyed himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. his face and hands were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were unsoiled. his jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also. "washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much about," remarked tony, "in the fountains at charing cross; but i hadn't time to get my rags done, so i did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were going down; but i could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out. anyhow, i'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master." "to be sure, to be sure," answered oliver. "come in, my boy, and i'll give you a bit of breakfast with her and me." "you haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked tony, in a patronizing tone. "not to-day's paper, i'm afraid," he said. "i'm afraid not," continued tony; "overslept yourself, eh? not as i can read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one here as well as anywhere else. shall i run and get 'em for you, now i'm on my legs?" oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest gaze, and said, "honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money. there was some doubt in the old man's mind after tony had disappeared as to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have reached the place and returned, tony was back again with his right number of papers. before many minutes tony was sitting upon an old box at a little distance from the table, where oliver sat with his grandchild. a basin of coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and beppo was sniffing round him with a doubtful air. dolly was shy in this strange company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her companions with astonishment and admiration. when the meal was finished, old oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it aloud to tony, who listened with undivided interest. "then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "you'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,--nor to the p'lice neither," he added, with a brightening face. "no, no, no!" answered oliver, emphatically. "besides, her mother's coming on friday. i wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!" "and he's 'listed!" said tony, in a tone of envy "they wouldn't take me yet a while, if i offered to go. but who's that she speaks of?--'for christ's sake, if i am worthy to use his name.' who is he?" "don't you know?" asked oliver. "no, never heard tell of him before," he answered, "is he any friend o' yours?"[*] [*] it may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not exaggerated. the city mission reports, and similar records, show that such cases are too frequent. "ay!" said oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. and he's my master, besides." "and she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued tony. "yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud grieve him to his heart. why, he's always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. if she hadn't been my own little girl, i daren't have turned her out of my doors. no, no, dear lord, thee knows as i'd have taken care of her, for thy sake." he spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily. "how long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last. "not very long," replied oliver, regretfully. "i used to fancy i was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o' work; and now i can't do very much. only he knows how old i am, and he doesn't care so that i love him, which i do, tony." "i should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his fingers through his wet and tangled hair. "he takes to children and little 'uns?" he said, in a questioning tone. "ay, dearly!" answered old oliver. "i reckon he'd scarcely take me for a man yet," said tony, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height; "though i don't know as i should care to work for him. i'd rather have a crossing, and be my own master. but if i get hard up, do you think he'd take to me, if you spoke a word for me?" "are you sure you don't know anything about him?" asked oliver. "not i; how should i?" answered tony. "why, you don't s'pose as i know all the great folks in london, though i've seen sights and sights of 'em riding about in their carriages. i told you i weren't much bigger nor her there when mother died, and i've picked up my living up and down the streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till i can help 'em on now. it don't cost much to keep a boy on the streets. there's nothink to pay for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and a rag now and then. all i want's a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn't i get along just? but i don't know how to get 'em." "perhaps the lord jesus would give them to you, if you'd ask him," said oliver, earnestly. "who's he?" inquired tony, with an eager face. "him--christ. it's his other name," answered the old man. "ah! i see," he said, nodding. "well, if i can't get 'em myself, i'll think about it. he'll want me to work for him, you know. where does he live?" "i'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied oliver. "well," said the boy, "i'll just look in after friday, and see if the little 'un's mother's come back. good-bye,--good-bye, little miss." he could take dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked down curiously at it,--a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen before so closely. a lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted with tears again. it was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. there was no fear that tony would forget to come back to old oliver's house. "thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if i do come to see you, it'll be to see her again--not for anythink as i can get." chapter v. forsaken again. the next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old oliver. the little child was so merry, yet withal so gentle and sweet-tempered, that she kept him in a state of unwearied delight, without any alloy of anxiety or trouble. she trotted at his side with short, running footsteps, when he went out early in the morning to fetch his daily stock of newspapers. she watched him set his room tidy, and made believe to help him by dusting the lees and seats of his two chairs. she stood with folded hands and serious face, looking on as he was busy with his cooking. when she was not thus engaged she played contentedly with beppo, prattling to him in such a manner, that oliver often forgot what he was about while listening to her. she played with him, too, frolicsome little games of hide-and-seek, in which he grew as eager as herself; and sometimes she stole his spectacles, or handkerchief, or anything she could lay her mischievous fingers upon to hide away in some unthought-of spot; while her shrewd, cunning little face put on an expression of profound gravity as old oliver sought everywhere for them. as friday evening drew near, the old man's gladness took a shade of anxiety. his daughter was coming home to him, and his heart was full of unutterable joy and gratitude; but he did not know exactly how they should go on in the future. he was averse to change; yet this little house, with its single room, to which he had moved when she forsook him, was too scanty in its accommodation. he had made up a rude sort of bed for himself under the counter in the shop, and was quite ready to give up his own to susan and his little love, as he called dolly; but would susan let him have his own way in this, and many other things? he provided a sumptuous tea, and added a fresh salad to it from the greengrocer's next door; but though he and dolly waited and watched till long after the child's bed-time, taking occasional snatches of bread and butter, still susan did not arrive. at length a postman entered the little shop with a noise which made oliver's heart beat violently, and tossed a letter down upon the counter. he carried it to the door, where there was still light enough to read it, and saw that it was in susan's handwriting. "my dear and dearest father, "my heart is almost broke, betwixt one thing and another. his regiment is to set sail immediate, and the colonel's lady has offered me very handsome wages to go out with her as lady's maid, her own having disappointed her at the last moment; which i could do very well, knowing the dressmaking. he said, 'do come, susan, and i'll never get drunk again, so help me god; and if you don't, i shall go to the bad altogether; for i do love you, susan.' i said, 'oh my child!' and the colonel's lady said, 'she's safe with her grandfather; and if he's a good man, as you say he is, he'll take the best of care of her. i'll give you three pounds to send him from here, and we'll send more from calcutta.' so they overpersuaded me, and there isn't even time to come back to london, for we are going in a few hours. you'll take care of my little dear, i know, you and aunt charlotte. i've sent a little box of clothes for her by the railway, and what more she wants aunt charlotte will see to, i'm sure, and do her mending, and see to her manners till i come home. oh! if i could only hear you say 'susan, my dear, i forgive you, and love you almost as much as ever,' i'd go with a lighter heart, and be almost glad to leave dolly to be a comfort to you, she will be a comfort to you, though she is so little, i'm sure. tell her mammy says she must be a good girl always till mammy comes back. a hundred thousand kisses for my dear father and my little girl. we shall come home as soon as ever we can; but i don't rightly know where india is. i think it's my bounden duty to go with him, as things have turned out. pray god take care of us all. "your loving, sorrowful daughter, "susan raleigh." chapter vi. the grasshopper a burden. it was some time before the full meaning of susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. true, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. but as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. the little child would belong to him alone. they might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. if he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence. he put dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night. as he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to tony, who took the shutter out of his hands. "s'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said pointing with his thumb through the half open door. "no," answered oliver. "i've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to india with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me." "but whatever'll the master say to that?" inquired tony. "what master?" asked old oliver. "him--lord jesus christ. what'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said tony, with an eager face. "oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband," he answered, somewhat sadly. "it's all right, that is." "i s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said tony. "ay will he; him and me," replied old oliver; "there's no fear of that. you never read the testament, of course, my boy?" "can't read, i told you," he answered. "but what's that?" "a book all about him, the lord jesus," said oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. if you'll come of an evening, i'll read it aloud to you and my little love. she'll listen as quiet and good as any angel." "i'll come to-morrow," answered tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of glass over the door. then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of covent garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed. old oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. a chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. he lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the wrekin. he felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, hoary old man. his sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. his limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. but, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. he could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. and now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. it was very thoughtless and reckless of susan! suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and nobody would comfort her! it might very easily be so. he was not the hale man he was when susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. it was as much as he could do to lift dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long! old oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. his joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. he was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. what would become of them both, alone in london? he did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still small voice, which said, "even to your old age i am he, and even to hoar hairs i will carry you: i have made, and i will bear; even i will carry, and will deliver you." and old oliver answered, with a sob, "yes, lord, yes!" chapter vii. the prince of life. in the new life which had now fairly begun for oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. when he was in the house playing with dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. on the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from india in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. he tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. he even forgot that he did forget; and when dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in london. the person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about dolly was tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. it was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for oliver. tony could not keep away from the place. though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while oliver read aloud, with dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections. the chief subject of their reading was the life of the master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old oliver. tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. he had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. but none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to tony of this master, as one who was always very near at hand. [illustration: dolly on oliver's knee] "i s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening." "ay, does he!" answered oliver, earnestly. "my boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. didn't i read you last night how he said, 'suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him." "i should very much like to see him some day," pursued tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--peter, and john, and them. i s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?" "they are dead," said oliver. "all of 'em?" asked tony. "all of them," he repeated. "dear, dear!" cried tony, his eyes glistening. "whatever did the master do when they all died? i'm very sorry for him now. he's had a many troubles, hasn't he?" "yes, yes," replied old oliver, with a faltering voice. "he was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. nobody ever bore so many troubles as him." "how long is it ago since they all died?" asked tony. "i can't rightly say," he answered. "i heard once, but it is gone out of my head. i only know it was the same when i was a boy. it must have been a long, long time ago." "the same when you was a boy!" repeated tony, in a tone of disappointment. "it must ha' been a long while ago. i thought all along as the master was alive now. "so he is, so he is!" exclaimed old oliver, eagerly. "i'll read to you all about it. they put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the prince of life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. his own words to john were, 'i am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, i am alive for evermore.' what else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?" tony made no answer. he sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. a very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. he had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could oliver's. his heart was heavy, and very sad. "i s'pose i can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last. "not exactly like other folks," said oliver. "i think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. but he sees us, and hears us. he himself says, 'behold, i am with you always.' i don't know whatever i should do, even with my little love here, if i wasn't sure jesus was with me as well." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said tony, after another pause. "i'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, i shall know he hears me.--i should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please." he had turned his face away from oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. the old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and tony was listening in rapt attention. "my boy," he said, as the hour came for tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?" "anywhere as i can get out o' the wind," he answered. "it's cold now, nights--wery cold, master. but i must get along a bit farder on. lodgings is wery dear." "i've been thinking," said oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. i've heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, tony. look here, and see how you'd like it." it looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old oliver aright. he looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. but the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. he felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips. [illustration: chapter viii headpiece] chapter viii. no pipe for old oliver. as some weeks went by, and no crossing and broom had been given to tony, he began to suspect that oliver was imposing upon him. now that he slept under the counter, he could often hear the old man talking aloud to his invisible friend as he smoked his pipe; and once or twice tony crept noiselessly to the door and watched him, after he had finished smoking, kneel down and hide his face in his hands for some minutes together. but the boy could see nothing, and his wish had not been granted; even though, as he grew more instructed, he followed oliver's example, and, kneeling down behind the counter, whispered out a prayer for it. to be sure his life was easier, especially the nights of it; for he never now went hungry and starved to bed upon some cold, hard door-step. but it was old oliver who did that for him, not old oliver's master. so far as he knew, the lord jesus had taken no notice whatever of him; and the feeling, at first angry, softened down into a kind of patient grief, which was quickly dying away into indifference. oliver had done himself no bad turn by offering a shelter to the solitary lad. tony always woke early in the morning, and if it rained he would run for the papers, before turning out to "find for himself" in the streets. he generally took care to be out of the way at meal-times; for it was as much as the old man could do to provide for himself and dolly. sometimes tony saw him at the till, counting over his pence with rather a troubled face. once, after receiving a silver four-penny piece, an extraordinary and undreamed of event, tony dropped it, almost with a feeling of guilt, through the slit in the counter which communicated with the till. but oliver was so bewildered by its presence among the coppers, that he was compelled to confess what he had done, saying it would have cost him more than that for lodgings these cold nights. "no, no, tony," said oliver; "you're very useful, fetching my papers, and taking my little love out a-walking when the weather's fine. i ought to pay you something, instead of taking it of you." "keep it for dolly," said tony, bashfully, and pushing the coin into her little hand. "sank 'oo," answered dolly, accepting it promptly; "me'll give 'oo twenty kisses for it." it seemed ample payment to tony, who went down on his knees to have the kisses pressed upon his face, which had never felt a kiss since his mother died. but oliver was not satisfied with the bargain, though he drew dolly to him fondly, and left the money in her hand. "it 'ud buy you a broom, tony," he said. "oh, i've give up asking for a crossing," he answered dejectedly; "for he never heard, or if he heard, he never cared; so it were no use going on teazing either him or me." "but this money 'ud buy the broom," said oliver; "and if you looked about you, you'd find the crossing. you never got such a bit of money before, did you?" "no, never," replied tony. "a tall, thin gentleman, with a dark face and very sharp eyes, gave it me for holding his horse, near temple bar. he says, 'mind you spend that well, my lad.' i'd know him again anywhere." "you ought to have bought a broom," said oliver, looking down at dolly's tightly-closed hand. "don't you go to take it of her," cried tony. "bless you! i'll get another some way. i never thought that were the way he'd give me a broom and a crossing. i thought it 'ud be sure to come direct." "well," said oliver, after a little pause, "i'll save the fourpence for you. it'll only be going without my pipe for a few nights, that's all. that's nothing, tony." it did not seem much to tony, who had no idea as yet of the pleasures of smoking; yet he roused up just before falling into his deep sleep at night to step softly to the door, and look in upon oliver. he was sitting in his arm-chair, with his pipe between his lips, but there was no tobacco in it; and he was holding more eager converse than ever with his unseen companion. "dear lord!" he said, "i'd do ten times more than this for thee. thou hast said, 'inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' tony's one of thy little ones. dear lord, do thee give him a crossing, if it be thy blessed will. do thee now, lord." tony could hear no more, and he stole back to bed, his mind full of new and vague hopes. he dreamed of the fourpenny piece, and the gentleman who had given it, and of dolly, who bought a wondrous broom with it, in his dream, which swept a beautiful crossing of itself. but old oliver sat still a long time, talking half aloud; for his usual drowsiness did not come to him. it was nearly five months now since dolly was left to him, and he felt his deafness and blindness growing upon him slowly. his infirmities were not yet so burdensome as to make him dependent upon others; but he felt himself gradually drawing near to such a state. dolly's clothes were getting sadly in want of mending; there was scarcely a fastening left upon them, and neither he nor tony could sew on a button or tape. it was a long time--a very long time--since his sister had been to see him; and, with the reluctancy of old age to any active exertion, he had put off from week to week the task of writing to her, to tell her of susan's departure, and the charge he had in his little grandchild. he made up his mind that he would do it to-morrow. chapter ix. a new broom and a crossing. the morning was a fine soft, sunny december day, such as comes sometimes after a long season of rain and fog, and tony proposed taking dolly out for a walk through the streets, to which oliver gladly consented, as it would give to him exactly the undisturbed leisure he needed for writing his letter to charlotte. but dolly was not in her usual spirits; on the contrary, she was grave and sober, and at length tony, thinking she was tired, sat down on a door-step, and took her upon his knee, to tell her his dream of the wonderful broom which swept beautifully all by itself. dolly grew more and more pensive after hearing this, and sat silent for a long time, with her small head resting thoughtfully upon her hand, as she looked up and down the street. "dolly 'ud like to buy a boom," she said, at last, "a great, big boom; and granpa 'ill smoke his pipe again to-night. dolly's growing a big girl; and me must be a good girl till mammy comes back. let us go and buy a big boom, tony." for a few minutes tony tried to shake her resolution, and persuade her to change her mind. he even tempted her with the sight of a doll in a shop-window; but she remained stedfast, and he was not sorry to give in at last. since the idea had entered his head that the money had been given to him for the purpose of buying a broom, he had rather regretted parting with it, and he felt some anxiety lest he should not be allowed a second chance. dolly's light-heartedness had returned, and she trotted cheerfully by his side as they walked on in search of a shop where they could make their purchase. it was some time before they found one, and they had already left behind them the busier thoroughfares, and had reached a knot of quieter streets where there were more foot-passengers, for the fine morning had tempted many people out for pleasure as well as business. tony was particular in his choice of a broom, but once bought, he carried it over his shoulder, and went on his way with dolly in triumph. they were passing along chattering busily, when tony's eyes fell upon a child about as old as dolly, standing on the kerb-stone with a lady, who looked anxiously across to the other side of the broad and very dirty road, for the day before had been rainy. they were both finely dressed, and the little girl had on new boots of shining leather, which it was evident she was very much afraid of soiling. for a minute tony only looked on at their perplexity, but then he went up to them, holding dolly by the hand. [illustration: a new broom and a crossing.] "if you'll take care of my little girl," he said, "i'll carry your little girl across the road. i'm wery clean for a street-boy, all but my feet, 'cos i've got this little girl to take care of; and i'll do it wery gentle." both the lady and the child looked very searchingly into tony's face. it was pale and meagre; but there was a pleasant smile upon it, and his eyes shone down upon the two children with a very loving light in them. the lady took dolly's hand in hers, nodding permission for him to carry her little child over to the other side, and she waited for him to come back to his own charge. then she took out her purse, and put two-pence into his hand. "thank ye, my lady," said tony; "but i didn't do it for that. i'm only looking out for a crossing. me and dolly have bought this broom, and i'm looking out for a place to make a good crossing in." "why not make one here?" asked the lady. it seemed a good place to try one in; there were four roads meeting, and a cab-stand close by. plenty of people were passing to and fro, and the middle of the road was very muddy. tony begged a wisp of straw from a cabman, to make a seat for dolly in the sunshine under a blank bit of wall, while he set to work with a will, feeling rather pleased than not that the broom would not sweep of itself. a crossing was speedily made, and for two or three hours tony kept it well swept. by that time it was twelve o'clock, and dolly's dinner would be ready for her before they could reach home, if old oliver had not forgotten it. it seemed a great pity to leave his new post so early. most passers-by, certainly, had appeared not to see him at all; but he had already received fivepence halfpenny, chiefly in halfpence, from ladies who were out for their morning's walk; and dolly was enjoying herself very much in the sunshine, receiving all the attention which he could spare from his crossing. however a beginning was made. the broom and the crossing were his property; and tony's heart beat fast with pride and gladness as he carried the weary little dolly all the way home again. he resolved to put by half of his morning's earnings towards replacing the fourpenny-piece she had given back to him; or perhaps he would buy her a beautiful doll, dressed like a real lady. chapter x. highly respectable. as old oliver was stooping over his desk on the counter, and bringing his dim eyes as close as he could to the letter he was writing, his shop-door was darkened by the unexpected entrance of his sister charlotte herself. she was dressed with her usual extreme neatness, bordering upon gentility, and she carried upon her arm a small fancy reticule, which contained some fresh eggs, and a few russet apples, brought up expressly from the country. oliver welcomed her with more than ordinary pleasure, and led her at once into his room behind. charlotte's quick eyes detected in an instant the traces of a child's dwelling there; and before oliver could utter a word, she picked up a little frock, and was holding it out at arm's length, with an air of utter surprise and misgiving. "brother james!" she exclaimed, and her questioning voice, with its tone of amazement, rang very clearly into his ears. "it's my little dolly's," he answered, in haste; "poor susan's little girl, who's gone out with her husband, young raleigh, to india, because he's 'listed, and left her little girl with me, her grandfather. she came on the very last day you were here." "well, to be sure!" cried his sister, sinking down on a chair, but still keeping the torn little frock in her hand. "i've had two letters from poor susan," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and i'll read them to you. the child's such a precious treasure to me, charlotte--such a little love, a hundred times better than any gold; and now you're come to mend up her clothes a bit, and see what she wants for me, there's nothing else that i desire. i was writing about her to you when you came in." "i thought you'd gone and picked up a lost child out of the streets," said charlotte, with a sigh of relief. "no, no; she's my own," he answered. "you hearken while i read poor susan's letters, and then you'll understand all about it. i couldn't give her up for a hundred gold guineas--not for a deal more than that." he knew susan's letters off by heart, and did not need his spectacles, nor a good light to read them by. charlotte listened with emphatic nods, and many exclamations of astonishment. "that's very pretty of susan," she remarked, "saying as aunt charlotte 'll do her sewing, and see to her manners. ay, that i will! for who should know manners better than me, who used to work for the staniers, and dine at the housekeeper's table, with the butler and all the head servants? to be sure i'll take care that she does not grow up ungenteel. where is the dear child, brother james?" "she's gone out for a walk this fine morning," he answered. "not alone?" cried charlotte. "who's gone out with her? a child under five years old could never go out all alone in london: at least i should think not. she might get run over and killed a score of times." "oh! there's a person with her i've every confidence in," replied oliver. "what sort of person; man or woman; male or female?" inquired charlotte. "a boy," he answered, in some confusion. "a boy!" repeated his sister, as if he had said a monster. "what boy?" "his name's tony," he replied. "but where does he come from? is he respectable?" she pursued, fixing him with her glittering eyes in a manner which did not tend to restore his composure. "i don't know, sister," he said in a feeble tone. "don't know, brother james!" she exclaimed. "don't you know where he lives?" "he lives here," stammered old oliver; "at least he sleeps here under the counter; but he finds his own food about the streets." charlotte's consternation was past all powers of speech. here was her brother, a respectable man, who had seen better days, and whose sister had been a dressmaker in good families, harbouring in his own house a common boy off the streets, who, no doubt, was a thief and pickpocket, with all sorts of low ways and bad language. at the same time there was poor susan's little girl dwelling under the same roof; the child whose pretty manners she was to attend to, living in constant companionship with a vulgar and vicious boy! what she might have said upon recovering her speech, neither she nor oliver ever knew; for at this crisis tony himself appeared, carrying dolly and his new broom in his arms, and looking very haggard and tattered himself, his bare feet black with mud, and his bare head in a hopeless condition of confusion, and tangle. "we've bought a geat big boom, ganpa," shouted dolly, as she came through the shop, and before she perceived the presence of a stranger; "and tony and dolly made a great big crossing, and dot ever so much money----" she was suddenly silent as soon as her eye fell upon the stranger; but aunt charlotte had heard enough. she rose with great dignity from her chair, and was about to address herself vehemently to tony, when old oliver interrupted her. [illustration: charlotte speaking to tony and dolly] "charlotte," he said, "the boy's a good boy, and he's a help to me. i couldn't send him away. he's one of the lord's poor little ones as are scattered up and down in this great city, without father or mother, and i must do all i can for him. it isn't much; it's only a bed under the counter, and a crust now and then, and he more than pays for it. you musn't come betwixt me and tony." old oliver spoke so emphatically, that his sister was impressed and silenced for a minute. she took the little girl away from tony, and glared at him with a sternness which made him feel very uncomfortable; but her eye softened a little, and her face grew less harsh. "you can't read or write?" she said, in a sharp voice. "no," he answered. "and you've not got any manners, or boots, or a cap on your head. you are ragged and ignorant, and not fit to live with this little girl," she continued, with energy. "if this little girl's mother saw her going about with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it 'ud break her heart i know. so if you wish to stay here with my brother, mr. oliver, and this little girl, miss dorothy raleigh, as i suppose her name is, you must get all these things. you must begin to learn to read and write, and talk properly. i shall come here again in a month's time--i shall come every month now--and if you haven't got some shoes for your feet, and a cap for your head, before i see you again, i shall just take the little girl away down into the country, where i live, and you'll never see her again. do you understand?" "yes," answered tony, nodding his head. "then you may take yourself away now," said the sharp old woman, "i don't want to be too hard upon you; but i've got this little girl to look after for her mother, and you must do as i say, or i shall carry her right off to be out of your way. take your broom and go; and never you think of such a thing as taking this little girl to sweep a crossing again. i never heard of such a thing. there, go!" tony slunk away sadly, with a sudden downheartedness. he returned so joyous and triumphant, in spite of his weariness, that this unexpected and unpleasant greeting had been a very severe shock to him. with his broom over his shoulder, and with his listless, slouching steps, he sauntered slowly back to his crossing; but he had no heart for it now. chapter xi. among thieves. the night fell early, for a thick fog came on in the afternoon. tony cowered down upon his broom under the wall where dolly had sat in the sunshine all the morning to watch him sweep his crossing. it was all over now. she was lost to him; for he should never dare to go back to old oliver's house, and face that terrible old woman again. there was nothing for him but to return to his old life and his old haunts; and a chill ran through him, body and spirit, as he thought of it. his heap of paper shavings under the counter, where the biting winds could not reach him, came to his mind, and the tears rushed to his eyes. but to-night, at least, there would be no need to sleep out of doors, for he had some money in the safest corner of his ragged pocket, tied up in it securely with a bit of string. he could afford to pay for a night's lodging, and he knew very well where he could get one. about nine o'clock tony turned his weary feet towards a slum he knew of in westminster, where there was a cellar open to everybody who could pay two-pence for a night's shelter. his heart was very full and heavy with resentment against his enemy; and a great longing to see dolly. he loitered about the door of the cellar, reluctant and almost afraid to venture in; for it was so long since he had been driven to any of these places that he felt nearly like a stranger among them. besides, in former times he had been kicked, and beaten, and driven from the fire, and fought with by the bigger boys; and he had become unaccustomed to such treatment of late. how different this lodging-house was to the quiet peaceful home where dolly knelt down every evening at her grandfather's knee, and prayed for him; for now she always put tony's name into her childish prayers! he should never, never hear her again, nor see old oliver seated in his arm-chair, smoking his long pipe, while he talked with that strange friend and master of his. ah! he would never hear or know any more of that unseen christ, who was so willing to be his master and friend, for the lord jesus christ could never come into such a wicked place as this, which was the only home he had. he had given him the crossing and the broom, and that was the end of it. he must take care of himself now, and keep out of gaol if he could, and if not, why then he had better make a business of thieving, and become as good a pickpocket as "clever dog tom," who had once stolen a watch from a policeman himself. clever dog tom was the first to greet tony when he slipped in at last, and he seemed inclined to make much of him; but tony was too troubled for receiving any consolation from tom's friendly advances. he crept away into the darkest corner, and stretched himself on the thin straw which covered the damp and dirty floor, but he could not fall asleep. there was a good deal of quarrelling among the boys, and the men who wished to sleep swore long and loudly at them. then there followed a fight, which grew so exciting at last that every person in the place, except tony, gathered about the boys in a ring, encouraging and cheering them. it was long after midnight before silence and rest came, and then he fell into a broken slumber, dreaming of dolly and old oliver, until he awoke and found his face wet with tears. he got up before any of his bed-fellows were aroused, and made his way out into the fresh keen air of a december morning. day after day went by, and night after night. tony was growing more indifferent again to the swearing and fighting of his old comrades. he began to listen with delight to the tales of clever dog tom, who told him that hands like his would work well in his line, and his innocent-looking face would go a long way towards softening any judge and jury, or would bring him favour with the chaplain, and easy times in gaol. he kept his crossing still, and did tolerably well, earning enough to keep himself in food, and to pay for his night's shelter; but he was beginning to hanker after something more. if he could not be good, and be on the same side as old oliver and dolly, he thought it would be better to be altogether on the other side, like tom, who dressed well, and lived well, and was looked up to by other boys. it was a week after he had left old oliver's house, and he was about to leave his crossing for the night, when a gentleman stopped him suddenly, and looked keenly into his face. "hollo, my lad!" he said, "you're the boy i gave fourpence to a week ago for holding my horse, i told you to lay it out well. what did you do with it?" "me and dolly bought this broom," he answered, "and i've kept this crossing ever since." "well done!" said the gentleman. "and who is dolly?" "it's a little girl as i was very fond of," replied tony, with a deep sigh. it seemed so long ago that he spoke of his love for her as if it was a thing altogether passed away and dead, yet his heart still ached at the memory of it. "well, here's another fourpenny-bit for you," said his friend, "quite a new one. see how bright it is; no one has ever bought anything with it yet. dolly will like to see it." tony held it in the palm of his hand long after the gentleman was out of sight, gazing at it in the lamplight. it was very beautiful and shining; and oh! how dolly's eyes would shine and sparkle if she could only see it! and she ought to see it. by right it belonged to her; for had he not given her his first fourpenny-piece freely, and had twenty kisses for it, and then had she not given it him back to buy a broom with? she had never had a single farthing of all his earnings. how he would like to show her this beautiful piece of silver, and feel her soft little arms round his neck, when he said it was to be her very own! he felt that he dare not pass the night in the cellar with such a treasure about him, for tom, who was so clever, would be sure to find out that his pocket was worth the picking, and tony had not found that there was much honour among thieves. what was he to do? where was he to go? chapter xii. tony's welcome. almost without knowing where his feet were carrying him, tony sauntered through the streets until he found himself at the turn into the alley within a few yards of oliver's home, and his beloved dolly. at any rate he could pass down it, and, if the shop-door was not shut, he would wrap his beautiful silver coin in a rag, and throw it into the inside; they would be sure to guess who had done it, and what it was for. it was dark down the alley, only one lamp and the greengrocer's gas lighting it up, and tony stole along quietly in the shadow. it was nearly time for dolly to be going to bed, he thought, and old oliver was sure to be with her in the inner room; but just as he came into the revealing glare of the greengrocer's stall, his ears rang and his heart throbbed violently at the sound of a shrill little scream of gladness, and the next moment he felt himself caught by dolly's arms, and dragged into the house by them. "tony's come home, tony's come home, gan-pa!" she shouted with all her might. "dolly's found tony at last!" dolly's voice quivered, and broke down into quick, childish sobs, while she held tony very fast, lest he should escape from her once again; and old oliver came quickly from the room beyond, and laid his hand fondly upon the boy's shoulder. "why have you kept away from us so long, tony?" he asked. "oh, master!" he cried, "i've been a wicked boy, and a miserable boy. do forgive me, and i'll never do so no more. i s'pose you'll never let me sleep under the counter again?" "come in, come in!" answered oliver, pushing him gently before him into the house. "we've been waiting and watching for you every night, me and my little love. you ought not to have served us so, my lad; but we're too glad to be angry with you. charlotte's sharp, and she's very much afraid of low ways and manners; but she isn't a hard woman, and she didn't know anything about you. when i told her as you'd been left no bigger than my little love here to take care of yourself, alone, in london,--mother dead, and no father,--she shed tears about you, she did. and she left you the biggest of her eggs to be kept for your supper, with her kind love; and we've put it by for you. you shall have it this very night. dolly, my love, bring me the little saucepan." "i'm not so clean as i could wish," said tony, mournfully; for he had neglected himself during the last week, and looked very much like what he had done when he had first seen old oliver and his little grand-daughter. "take a bowl full of water into the shop, then," answered oliver, "and wash yourself, while i boil the egg. dolly'll find you a bit of soap and a towel; she's learning to be grand-pa's little housekeeper, she is." when tony returned to the kitchen he looked a different being; the gloom was gone as well as the grime. he felt as if he had come to himself after a long and very miserable dream. here was old oliver again, looking at him with a kindly light in his dim eyes, and dolly dancing about, with her pretty, merry little ways; and beppo wagging his tail in joyous welcome, as he sniffed round and round him. even the egg was a token of forgiveness and friendliness. that terrible old woman was not his enemy, after all. he recollected what she had said he must do, and he resolved to do it for dolly's sake, and old oliver's. he would learn to read and write, and he would pinch himself hard to buy some better clothing, lest he should continue to be a disgrace to them; shoes he must have first of all, as those were what the sharp but friendly old woman had particularly mentioned. at any rate, he could never run away again from this home, where he was so loved and cared for. oliver told him how sadly dolly had fretted after him, and watched for him at the door, hour after hour, to see him come home again. he said that in the same way, only with a far greater longing and love, his master, the lord jesus christ, was waiting for tony to go to him. he could not half understand it, but a vague feeling of a love passing all understanding sank deeply into his heart. he fell asleep that night under the counter with the tranquil peacefulness of one who has been tossed about in a great storm and tempest, and has been brought safely to the desired haven. chapter xiii. new boots. it was several weeks before tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. he did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. he was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt charlotte came up to town again. she had sent word she was coming the last saturday in january; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from stratford, tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase. it was a small open space in one of the streets of whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. one dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. it was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of london streets. the salesman tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. for the first time in his life tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. there were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than tony, and he was not troubled about it. his chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet. he fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. they were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. there was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. he shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. it was a long way home to old oliver's alley, between holborn and the strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. he watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of st. paul's strike six. tea would be quite over now, and tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots. it was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. he felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. these back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. he lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. he fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. what hurt had been done to him? how was it that he could not bear to walk? he took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. he could not endure the agony of standing or moving. yet he must move; he must get up and walk. if he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting dolly's aunt. at that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. what if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets: and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. it was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. if he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning. but if that was true which old oliver said so often, that the lord jesus christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. oh! if he could but feel the hand of christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. it became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "oh! lord jesus christ! lord jesus christ!" after uttering this cry tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm. "why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,--my little fourpenny-bit, i call you. what brings you sitting here this cold night?" "i've fell down and hurt myself," answered tony, faintly. "where?" asked the stranger. "my leg," he answered. the gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain. "broken!" he said to himself. "my boy, where's your home?" "i haven't got any right home," answered tony, more faintly than before. he felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. the gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where tony was lying. [illustration: tony's accident.] chapter xiv. in hospital. the pain tony was suffering kept him partially conscious of what was happening to him. he knew that he was carried gently into a large hall, and that two or three persons came to look at him, to whom his new friend spoke in eager and rapid tones. "i know you do not take in accidents," he said; "but what could i do with the little fellow? he told me he had no home, and that was all he could say. you have two or three cots empty; and i'll double my subscription if it's necessary, rather than take him away. come, doctor, you'll admit my patient?" "i don't think i could send him away, mr. ross," answered another hearty voice. "we must get him into bed as soon as possible." tony felt himself carried up stairs into a large room, where there were a number of small beds, with a pale little face lying on every pillow. there was a vacant cot at the end, and he was laid upon it, after having his tattered clothes taken off him. his new boots were gone altogether, having been left behind on the steps of the warehouse. his hands and knees, bruised with crawling along the frosty stones, were gently bathed with a soft sponge and warm water. he was surrounded by kind faces, looking pitifully down upon him, and the gentleman who had brought him there spoke to him in a very pleasant and cheering voice. "my boy," he said, "you have broken your leg in your fall; but the doctor here, who is a great friend of mine, is going to mend it for you. it will give you a good deal of pain for a few minutes; but you'll bear it like a man, i know." "yes," murmured tony; "but will you let me go as soon as it's done?" "you could not do that," answered mr. ross, smiling. "it will be some weeks before you will be well enough to go; but you will be very happy here, i promise you." "oh! but i must go!" cried tony, starting up, but falling back again with a groan. "there's dolly and mr. oliver,--they'll think i've run away again, and i were trying all i could to get back to 'em. she'll be watching for me, and she'll fret ever so. oh! dolly, dolly!" he spoke in a tone of so much grief, that the smile quite passed away from the face of mr. ross, and he laid his hand upon his, and answered him very earnestly: "if you will tell me where they live," he said, "i will go at once and let them know all about your accident; and they shall come to see you to-morrow, if you are well enough to see them." tony gave him very minute and urgent directions where to find old oliver's shop; and then he resigned himself, with the patience and fortitude of most of the little sufferers in that hospital, to the necessary pain he had to bear. it was sunday afternoon when old oliver and dolly entered the hall of the children's hospital and inquired for tony. there was something about the old man's look of age and the little child's sweet face which found them favour, even in a place where everybody was received with kindness. a nurse, who met them slowly climbing the broad staircase, turned back with them, taking dolly's hand in hers, and led them up to the room where they would find tony. there were many windows in it, and the sunshine, which never shone into their own home, was lighting it up gaily. the cots were all covered with white counterpanes, and most of the little patients, who had been asleep the night before, were now awake, and sitting up in bed, with little tables before them, which they could slide up and down as they wished along the sides of their cots. there was no sign of medicine, and nothing painful to see, except the wan faces of the children themselves. but oliver and dolly had no eyes but for tony, and they hurried on to the corner where he was lying. his face was very white, and his eyelids were closed, and his lips drawn in as if he were still in pain. but at the very gentle and almost frightened touch of dolly's fingers his eyes opened quickly, and then how his face changed! it looked as if all the sunshine in the room had centred upon it, and his voice shook with gladness. "dolly hasn't had to fret for tony this time," he said. "but dolly will fret till tony gets well again," she answered, clasping both her small hands round his. "no, no!" said old oliver; "dolly's going to be a very good girl, and help grand-pa to mind shop till tony comes home again." this promise of promotion partly satisfied dolly, and she sat still upon oliver's knee beside tony's cot, where his eyes could rest with contentment and pleasure upon them both, though the nurse would not let them talk much. when they went away she took them through the girls' wards in the story below; for the girls were more sumptuously lodged than the boys. these rooms were very lofty, with windows reaching to the cornice of the ceiling, and with grand marble chimney-pieces about the fireplaces; for in former times, the nurse told them, this had been a gentleman's mansion, where gay parties and assemblies had been held; but never had there been such a party and assembly as the one now in it. old oliver walked down between the rows of cots, with his little love clinging shyly to his hand, smiling tenderly upon each poor little face turned to look at them. some of the children smiled back to him, and nodded cheerfully to dolly, lifting up their dolls for her to see, and calling to her to listen to the pretty tunes their musical boxes were playing. but others lay quietly upon their pillows half asleep, with beautiful pictures hanging over their feeble heads,--pictures of christ tarrying a lamb in his arms; and again, of christ with a little child upon his knee; and again, of christ holding the hand of the young girl who seemed dead, but whose ear heard his voice saying "arise!" and she came to life again in her father's and mother's house. the tears stood in old oliver's eyes, and his white head trembled a great deal before he had seen all, and given one of his tender glances to each child. "i wonder whatever the lord 'ud have said," he exclaimed, "if there'd been such a place as this in his days! he'd have come here very often. he does come, i know, and walks to and fro here of nights when the little ones are asleep, or may be awake through pain, and he blesses every one of them. ah, bless them! bless the little children, and the good folks who keep a place like this. bless them everyone!" he felt reluctant to go away; but his time was gone, and the nurse was needed elsewhere. she kissed dolly before she went, putting a biscuit in her hand, and told oliver the house was open every sunday afternoon for the friends of the children, if he chose to come again; and then they walked home with slow, short footsteps, and all the sunday evening they talked together of the beautiful place they had seen, and how happy tony would be in the children's hospital. chapter xv. tony's future prospects. old oliver and dolly made several visits to tony while he was in the hospital. every sunday afternoon they went back to it, until its great door, and wide staircase, and sunny ward, became almost as familiar to them as their own dull little house. tony recovered quickly, yet he was there some weeks before the doctor pronounced him strong enough to turn out again to rough it in the world. as he grew better he learned a number of things which were making him a wiser, as well as a stronger boy, before the time came for him to leave. the day before he was to go out of hospital, his friend, mr. ross, who had been often to see him, called for the last time, and found him in the room where the little patients who were nearly well were at play together. some of them were making believe to have a feast, with a small dinner-service of wooden plates and dishes, and a few bits of orange-peel, and biscuits; but tony was sitting quietly and gravely on one side, looking on from a distance. he had never learned to play. "antony," said mr. ross--he was the only person who ever called him antony, and it seemed to make more of a man of him--"what are you thinking to do when you leave here to-morrow?" "i s'pose i must go back to my crossing," answered tony, looking very grave. "no, i think i can do better for you than that," said his friend, "i have a sister living out in the country, about fifty miles from london; and she wants a boy to help the gardener, and run on errands for the house. she has promised to provide you with a home, and clothing, and to send you to school for two years, till you are about twelve, for we think you must be about ten years old now; and after that you shall have settled wages." tony listened with a quick throbbing of his heart and a contraction in his throat, which hindered him from speaking all at once when mr. ross had finished. what a grand thing it would be for himself! but then there were old oliver and dolly to be remembered. "it 'ud do first-rate for me," he said at last, "and i'd try my best to help in the garden: but i couldn't never leave mr. oliver and the little girl. she'd fret ever so; and he's gone so forgetful he'd lose his own head, if he could anyhow. why! of a morning they sell him any papers as they've too many of. sometimes it's all the 'star,' and sometimes it's all the 'standard;' and them as buys one won't have the other. i don't know why, i'm sure. but you see when i go for 'em i say twenty-five this, and thirteen that, and i count 'em over pretty sharp, i can tell you; though i couldn't read at all afore i came here, but i could tell which was which easy enough. then he'd never think to open his shop some mornings; and other mornings he'd open at four or five o'clock, just when he woke of hisself. no. i must stay and take care of 'em a bit; but thank you, sir, all the same." he had spoken so gravely and thoughtfully that his reasons went directly to the heart of mr. ross; but he asked him one more question, before he could let his good plan for the boy drop. "what has he done for you, antony? is he any relation of yours?" "no, no!" cried tony, his eyes growing bright, "i haven't got any relation in all the world; but he took me in out of love, and let me sleep comfortable under the counter, instead of in the streets. i love him, and dolly, i do. i'll stay by 'em as long as ever i live, if i have to sweep a crossing till i'm an old man like him. besides, i hear him speak a good word for me often and often to his master; and i s'pose nobody else 'ud do that." "what master?" inquired mr. ross.. "him," answered tony, pointing to a picture of the saviour blessing young children, "he's always talking to him as if he could see him, and he tells him everythink. no, it 'ud be better for me to stay with him and dolly, and keep hard by my crossing, than go away from 'em, and have clothes, and lodging, and schooling for nothink." "i think it would," said mr. ross, "so you must go on as you are, antony, till i can find you something better than a crossing. you are looking very well, my boy; that's a nice, warm suit of clothes you have on, better than the rags you came in by a long way." it was a sailor's suit, sent to the hospital by some mother, whose boy had perhaps outgrown it; or, it may be, whose boy had been taken away from all her tender care for him. it was of good, rough, thick blue cloth, and fitted tony well. he had grown a good deal during his illness, and his face had become whiter and more refined; his hair, too, was cut to a proper length, and parted down the side, no longer lying about his head in a tangled mass. he coloured up with pleasure as mr. ross looked approvingly at him. "they've lent it me till i go out," he said, with a tone slightly regretful in his voice, "i only wish dolly could have seen me in it, and her aunt charlotte. my own things were too ragged for me to wear 'em in a place like this." "they've given it to you, antony," replied mr. ross, "those are the clothes you will go home in to-morrow." it seemed too much for tony to believe, though a nurse who was sitting by and sewing away busily, told him it was quite true. he was intensely happy all the rest of the day, often standing up, and almost straining his neck to get a satisfactory view of his own back, and stroking the nap of his blue trousers with a fondling touch. they would all see him in it; old oliver, dolly, and aunt charlotte. there would be no question now as to his fitness for taking dolly out for a walk; he would be dressed well enough to attend upon a princess. this made famous amends for the pair of old boots he had lost the night he broke his leg; a loss he had often silently lamented over in his own mind. the nurse told him she was patching up his old clothes, and making him a cap, to wear when he was at work on his crossing, for the new ones were much too good for that; and tony felt as rich as if a large fortune had been left to him. it was a very joyful thing to go home again. dolly was a little shy at first of this new tony, so different from the poor, ragged, wild-looking old tony; but a very short time was enough to make her familiar with his nice blue suit, and the anchor-buttons upon it. he found his place under the counter all nicely papered to keep the draughts out; and a little chaff mattress, made by aunt charlotte, laid down instead of the shavings upon the floor. it was even pleasanter to be here than in the hospital. but tony found it hard work to go back to his crossing in the morning; and he could not make out what was the matter with himself, he felt so cross and idle. his old clothes seemed really such horrid rags that he could scarcely bear to feel them about him; and if any passer-by looked closely at him, he went red and hot all over. he was not so successful as he thought he had been before his accident, or as he thought he ought to be; for the roads were getting cleaner with the drier weather, and few persons considered it necessary to give him a copper for his almost needless labour. worst of all,--clever dog tom found him out, and would come often to see him; sometimes jeering him for his poor spirit in being content with such low work, and sometimes boasting of the fine things he could do, and displaying the fine clothes he could wear. it was truly very hard work for tony, after his long holiday at the hospital, where he had had as much luxury and attention as a rich man's son. but at home in the evening tony felt all right again. old oliver set him to learn to read and write, and he was making rapid progress, more rapid than dolly, who began at the same time, but who was apt to look upon it all as only another kind of game, of which she grew more quickly tired than of hide-and-seek. there was no one to check her, or to make her understand it was real, serious work: neither old oliver nor tony could find any fault with their darling. now and then there came letters from her mother, full of anxious questions about her, and loving messages to her, telling her to be a good girl till she came back, but never saying a word as to when there was any chance of her returning to england. in one of these letters she sent word that a little sister was come for her out in india, who was just like what dolly herself had been when she was a baby; but neither oliver nor tony could quite believe that. there never had been such a child as dolly; there never would be again. chapter xvi. a bud fading. a second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets. out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much. but away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat. old oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness. he never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year. if any one had told him in the dog-days of july that it was still april, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year. but about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set tony full of longings after the country, with its corn-fields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen. he remembered his bible, too, and could repeat chapter after chapter describing his master's life, as they sat together in the perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it did not seem right to keep the gas burning. tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody wanted it; but in this extremity mr. ross came to his aid, and procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still open old oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went out, and put the shutters up when he came back. to become an errand-boy was a good step forwards, and tony was more than content. he never ran about bare-headed and bare-footed now as he had done twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him. he did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. he kicked them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him. [illustration: dolly's monthly register.] but, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad change was creeping over dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. on the first of every month, which old oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly head reached to. he looked at this record often, smiling at the rate his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from under her drooping eyelids. the house was too dark for any sight to see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could not find its way into it, and day after day dolly became more like one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up, but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. one by one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows, along their road homewards. yet all the time old oliver was loving and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to the master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there was any change in her. dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would sit still for hours together, her arm around beppo, and her sweet, patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned towards the flickering light of the fire, while oliver pottered toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter. just as oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about dolly, so tony was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. moreover, when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day, with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and what he had seen, dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. he seemed to bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's. how should tony detect anything amiss with her? she never complained of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and still while he was busy with his lessons. but when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of november were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before christmas--a frost which had none of the beauty of white rime and clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank before it, and were chilled through and through, then dolly drooped and failed altogether. even old oliver's dull ears began to hear a little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away; and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. the old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. he bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. he intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him; but aunt charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism, and could not get up to old oliver's house. chapter xvii. a very dark shadow. the christmas week passed by, and the new year came in, cold and bleak, but tony was well secured against the weather, and liked the frosty air, which made it pleasant to run as fast as he could from place to place as he delivered his parcels. when boxing day came, which was half-holiday for him, he returned to the house at mid-day, carrying with him three mince-pies, which he had felt himself rich enough to buy in honour of the holiday. he had for a long time been reckoning upon shutting up shop for the whole afternoon, and upon going out for a long stroll through the streets with old oliver and dolly; and now that the hour was positively come he felt very light-hearted and full of spirits, defying the wind which wrestled with him at every turn. dolly must be wrapped up well, he said to himself, and old oliver must put on his drab great coat, with mother o' pearl buttons, which he had brought up from the country forty years ago, and which was still good for keeping out the cold. he ran down the alley, and passed through the shop whistling cheerily, and disdaining to lift the flap of the counter, he took a running vault over it, and landed at once inside the open kitchen-door. but there was old oliver sitting close to the fire, with dolly on his knee, and her little head lying upon his breast, while the tears trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks on to her pretty curls. beppo was standing between his legs, licking dolly's small hand, which hung languidly by her side. her eyelids were closed, and her face was deadly white; but when tony uttered a great cry of trouble, and fell on his knees before her, she opened her heavy eyes, and stretched out her cold thin hand to stroke his cheeks. "dolly's so very ill, tony," she murmured, "poor dolly's very ill indeed." "i don't know whatever is the matter with my little love," said the old man, in a low and trembling voice; "she fell down all of a sudden, and i thought she was dead, tony; but she's coming round again now. isn't my little love better now?" "yes, gan-pa, yes; dolly's better," she answered faintly. "let me hold her, master," said tony, his heart beating fast; "i can hold her stronger and more comfortable, maybe, than you. you're tired ever so, and you'd better get yourself a bit of dinner. shall tony nurse you now, dolly?" the little girl raised her arms to him, and tony took her gently into his own, sitting down upon the old box in the chimney-corner, and putting her to nestle comfortably against him. dolly closed her eyes again, and by-and-bye he knew that she had fallen into a light sleep, while old oliver moved noiselessly to and fro, only now and then saying half aloud, in a tone of strange earnestness and entreaty, "lord! dear lord!" after awhile the old man came and bent over them both, taking dolly's arm softly between his withered fingers, and looking down at it with a shaking head. "she's very thin, tony; look at this little arm," he said, "wasting away! wasting away! i've watched all my little ones waste away except my poor susan. couldn't there anything be done to save her?" "ay!" answered tony, in an energetic whisper, while he clasped dolly a little tighter in his arms; "ay! they could cure her easily at the hospital. bless yer! there were little 'uns ten times worse than her as they sent home cured. let us take her there as soon as ever she wakes up, and she'll be quite well directly, i promise you. the doctor knows me, and i'll speak to mr. ross for her. do you get a bit of dinner, and hearten yourself up for it; and we'll set off as soon as she's awake." old oliver turned away comforted, and prepared his own and tony's dinner, and put a mince-pie into the oven to be ready to tempt dolly's appetite when she awoke. but she slept heavily all the afternoon till it was almost dark outside, and the lamps were being lit, when she awoke, restless and feverish. "would dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like tony was." "yes, yes!" cried, dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun shines, and dolly 'ud like to go. only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa." it was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. old oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. after they had put on all her own warmest clothing, tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by beppo. it was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower classes of the inhabitants were taking holiday. but old oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. he walked on by tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to one whom no one else could see or hear. once or twice tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his assent to what is said to him. so they passed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many passers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time. chapter xviii. no room for dolly. old oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. the door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. old oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly. "we've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, i know. i'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her." "we're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway. "full?" repeated old oliver, in a tone of questioning. "ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. there ain't no more room. we've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. this isn't the right time to bring any child here." "but my little love is very ill," continued old oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? the place where they nurse little children who are ill?" "it's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. we couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. but you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while i fetch one of the ladies." old oliver and tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. there was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. the old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them. "i think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the hospital for sick children, i think, and i've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. i think it must be a mistake." "no," said the lady; "i am sorry to say it is no mistake. we are quite full; there is not room for even one more. indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. who is your recommendation from?" "i didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than tony and me, and i thought that was enough. i never thought of getting any recommendation, and i don't know where i could get one." "mr. ross 'ud give us one," said tony, eagerly. "yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty." "you don't know me," interrupted tony, eagerly; "but mr. ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. they was so wery kind to me, that i couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. i'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. you jest say as it's tony and dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, i'm sure." "i wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. we should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. you had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. let me look at the poor child for a minute." she lifted up the collar of tony's bluejacket, which covered dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. it was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly. she stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile. "put dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun shines, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa." "what can i do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face. "the place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done." "how many children have you got here?" asked old oliver. "we have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full." "only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in london! they are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines. is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?" "there are two or three other hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. they are sure to be full just now. i think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all london for sick children." "then there's no room for my dolly?" he said. the lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face. "eh!" cried old oliver in a wailing voice, "i don't know whatever the dear lord 'ill say to that." he made a sign to tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. old oliver put his stick down, and took dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast. [illustration: no room for dolly.] "let me carry her a little way, tony," he said. "she's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. i'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home." "i'll tell you what i can do," said the lady, wrapping dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live i will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in--for he is out just now--and perhaps he will come to see her. he knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them." "thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old oliver, feeling a little comforted. but when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. he tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to tony again. these streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they passed by; yet tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking. "dear lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. whatever can thy people be thinking about? they've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with nobody to help them or care for them as i care for this little one. oh, lord, lord! let my little love live! yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. thou loves her more than i do; and see, lord, she is very ill indeed." they reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried dolly in and laid her upon old oliver's bed. she was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. he crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. what was going to happen to dolly? what could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face? chapter xix. the golden city. tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old oliver calling his name feebly. he hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where dolly was lying. he had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. the fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless, the room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. but tony saw nothing except the clear face of dolly, resting on one cheek upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. old oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over dolly, as if to save he? from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them. "don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. nor tony. are i going to die, gan-pa?" "yes, my little love," cried old oliver, moaning as he said it. "where are i going to?" asked dolly, very faintly. "you're going to see my lord and master," he said; "him as loves little children so, and carries them in his arms, and never lets them be sorrowful or ill or die again." "does he live in a bootiful place?" she asked, again. "it's a more beautiful place than i can tell," answered old oliver. "the lord jesus gives them light brighter than the sun; and the streets are all of gold, and there are many little children there, who always see the face of their father." "dolly's going rere," said the little child, solemnly. she smiled for a minute or two, holding beppo's ear between her failing fingers, and playing with it. tony's eyes were dim with tears, yet he could see her dear face clearly through them. what could he do? was there no one to help? "master, master!" he cried. "if the lord jesus is here he can save her. ask him, master." but old oliver paid no heed to him. for the child who was passing away from him he was all eye and ear, watching and listening as keenly as in his best and strongest days; but he was blind and deaf to everything else around him. tony's voice could not reach his brain. "will gan-pa come rere?" whispered the failing and faltering voice of dolly. "very soon," he answered; a radiant smile coming to his face, which made her smile as her eyes caught the glory of it. "very, very soon, my little love. you'll be there to meet me when i come." "dolly 'll watch for gan-pa," she murmured, with long pauses between the words, which seemed to drop one by one upon tony's ear; "and dolly 'll watch at the door for tony to come home; and she'll fret ever so if he never comes." tony felt her stir restlessly under his arm, and stretch her tiny limbs upon the bed as if she were very tired, and the languid eyelids drooped slowly till they quite hid her blue eyes, and she sighed softly as children sigh when they fall asleep, weary of their play. old oliver laid his shaking hand tenderly upon her head. "dear lord!" he said, "take my little love to thyself. i give her up to thee." it seemed to tony as if a thick mist of darkness fell all about him, and as if he were sinking down, down, very low into some horrible pit where he would never see the light of day again. but by-and-bye he came to himself, and found old oliver sobbing in short, heavy sobs, and swaying himself to and fro, while beppo was licking dolly's hand, and barking with a sharp, quiet bark, as he had been wont to do when he wanted her to play with him. the child's small features were quite still, but there was an awful smile upon them such as there had never been before, and tony could not bear to look upon it. he crossed her tiny hands lightly over one another upon her breast, and then he lifted beppo away gently, and drew the bed-clothes about her, so as to hide her smiling face. "master," he cried, "master, is she gone?" old oliver only answered by a deep moan; and tony put his arm about him, and raised him up. "come to your own chair, master," he said. he yielded to tony like a child, and seated himself in the chair, where he had so often sat and watched dolly while he smoked his pipe. the boy put his pipe between his fingers; but he only let it fall to the ground, where it broke into many pieces. tony did not know what to do, nor where to go for any help. "lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for him; for i don't know whatever to do, now little dolly's gone." he sat down on his old box, staring at oliver and the motionless form on the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. he could scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since--only it seemed like long years--since he had leaped over the counter in his light-heartedness. but he had not sat there many minutes before he heard a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask who was there. "antony," said a voice he knew very well, "i have come with the doctor, to see what we can do for your little girl." in an instant tony opened the door, and as mr. ross entered the boy flung his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly. "oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! dolly's dead, and i'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. they couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home." the doctor and mr. ross went on into the inner room, and tony pointed silently to the bed where dolly lay. old oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon tony's shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face. "i don't murmur," he said. "my dear lord can't do anything unkind. he'll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now i'm deaf and blind, even to him. i've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but there's a many things ought to be done, and i cannot think what." "leave it all to us," said mr. ross, leading him back to his chair. "but have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? you are an old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep." "no," he answered, shaking his head; "i'd rather stay here in my own place, if i'd a hundred other places to go to. i'm not afraid of my little love,--no, no! when everything is done as ought to be done, i'll lie in my own bed and watch her. it won't be lonesome, as long as she's here." in an hour's time all was settled for that night. a little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. the old man had given his promise to go to bed when mr. ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. a faint light burnt all night in the room, and tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with beppo upon his knees. there was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. that little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. it must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home. chapter xx. a fresh day dawns. old oliver and tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. the house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. yet from time to time old oliver forgot that dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. when meal-times came round he would put out dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "gentle jesus, meek and mild." it was quite plain to tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop. "i've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to mr. ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and i must mind shop for him now as well as i can. he's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. he talks to dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till i can't hardly bear it. but i'm very fond of him,--fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little dolly; and i've made up my mind as his master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. i'm no ways afeared of not getting along." tony found that they got along very well. mr. ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without dolly. every sunday afternoon, however, old oliver and tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with tony's help, till they reached the children's hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. old oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "dear lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!" it was a reopening of tony's sorrow when aunt charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. she discovered, too, that old oliver had forgotten to write to susan,--indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,--and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach calcutta before susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound. it was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when susan raleigh had sent her little girl into old oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. it was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him. "hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "i'm antony oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name. "antony oliver!" repeated the stranger; "i never heard of you before." "well, i'm only tony," he answered; "but i live with old mr. oliver now, and call him grandfather. he likes it, and it does me good. it's like somebody belonging to me." "why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again. "ever since our little dolly died," said tony, in a faltering voice. "dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "oh! my poor susan!--my poor, dear girl!--however can i tell her this bad news?" "who are you?" cried tony. "are you dolly's father? oh, she's dead! she died last january, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think." "let me see poor susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face. "ay, come in," said tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "he's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. i know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. come in." raleigh entered the room, and saw old oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. the gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry. "don't you know me, father?" cried raleigh, almost unable to utter a word. "it's your poor susan's husband, and dolly's father." "dolly's father!" repeated old oliver, rising from his chair, and resting his hand upon raleigh's shoulder. "do you know that the dear lord has taken her to be where he is in glory?" "yes, i know it," he said, with a sob. he put the old man back in his seat, and drew a chair close up to him. they sat thus together in sorrowful silence for some minutes, until old oliver laid his hand upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "you've lost your arm," he said, pityingly. "ay!" answered raleigh; "our colonel was set upon by a tiger in the jungle, and i saved him; but the brute tore my arm, and craunched the bone between his teeth till it had to come off. it's spoiled me for a soldier." "yes, yes, poor fellow," answered old oliver, "but the lord knew all about it." "that he did," answered raleigh; "and he's taught me a bit more about himself than i used to know. i'm not spoiled to be his soldier. but i don't know much about the service yet, and i shall want you to teach me, father. you'll let me call you father, for poor susan's sake, won't you?" "to be sure--to be sure," said old oliver, keeping his hand still upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "well, father," he continued, "as i am not fit for a soldier, and as the colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. only susan's gone straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through london to see after you and dolly." "your little girl?" said oliver questioningly. "yes, the one born in india. her name's mary, but we call her polly. susan said it made her think of our little dolly at home. dear! dear! i don't know however i shall let her know." another fit of silence fell upon them, and tony left them together, for it was time to put up the shop shutters. it seemed just like the night when he had followed susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in the shop. he fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving him, or caring for him, and that he saw old oliver and dolly standing on the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to see her darling again. tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs and crying. when he went back into the house raleigh was talking again. "so susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park," he said, "and i'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor servants about the garden and premises. it's a house with three bedrooms, and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and scullery place downstairs. you can see the wrekin from the parlour window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the wrekin. as soon as ever the colonel's lady told susan where it was, she cried out, 'that's the very place for father!' you'd like to come and live with your own susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?" "yes, yes; for a little while," answered old oliver, with a smile upon his face. tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. if the old man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone, with nobody to love. he could get his living now in a respectable manner, and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in covent garden, or under the bridges. but he would be alone, and all the links which bound him to dolly and old oliver would be snapped asunder. he wondered if the lord jesus would let such a thing be. "but i couldn't leave tony," cried old oliver, suddenly; and putting on his spectacles to look for him. "come here, tony. he's like my own son to me, bless him! he calls me grandfather, and kept my heart up when i should have sunk very low without him. my master gave him to me the very same night he gave me my little love. no, no; dolly loved tony, and susan must come here to see me, but i could never leave my boy." old oliver had put his arm round tony, drawing him closer and closer to him as he spoke, until his withered cheek pressed fondly against his face. since dolly died neither of them had felt such a thrill of happiness as now. "the colonel and his lady must be told about this," said raleigh, after he had heard all that tony had been and done for old oliver; and when he was obliged to go away for the night, the soldier gave him such a cordial grasp of the hand, as set all his fingers tingling, and his heart throbbing with exultation. chapter xxi. polly. the lodge stood in a very lovely place, upon a slope of ground, which rose still higher to where the colonel's grand house was situated. there was a porch before the door, built of rough logs of pines, covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with seats in it, where you could sit and look out over a wide, rich plain, with little hills and dales in it, stretching far away towards the sky-line, where some distant mountains lay, so like to clouds, that you could scarcely tell which were soft and misty vapours, and which were solid and everlasting hills. the severn ran through the beautiful plain with so many windings, sometimes lying in shadow under deep banks, and sometimes glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, that it looked more like many little pools scattered about the meadows than one long, continuous river. not very far away, as raleigh had said, stood the wrekin, purple in the evening haze, but by day so plain, that one could see the great rock on its summit, which in olden times served as an altar to the god of fire. susan was very busy, and had been very busy all day over two things--preparing the house for the reception of her father, whom she had not seen for so many years, and in teaching her little girl, who was now eighteen months old, to say grand-pa. the one work was quite finished; everything was ready for old oliver, and now she was waiting and watching to see the colonel's spring cart arrive from the station with her husband, who was gone to meet old oliver and tony. for tony was not on any account to be parted from the old man--so said the colonel and his lady--but was to be employed about the garden, and as general errand boy for the house, and to live at the lodge with old oliver. susan's eyes were red, for as she had been busy about her work, she had several times cried bitterly over her lost little girl; but she had resolved within herself not to shed a single tear after her father was come, lest she should spoil the gladness of his coming home to her. at last the cart came in sight, and stopped, and raleigh and tony sprang out to help oliver to get down, while susan put down polly in the porch, and ran to throw her arms round her dear old father's neck. he was very quiet, poor old oliver. he had not spoken a word since he left the station, but had gazed about him as they drove along the pleasant lane with almost a troubled look upon his tranquil face. when his dim eyes caught the first glimpse of the wrekin he lifted his hat from his white and trembling head, as if to greet it like some great and dear friend, after so many years of absence. now he stood still at the wicket, leaning upon susan's arm, and looking round him again with a gentle yet sad smile. the air was so fresh, after the close streets of london, that to him it seemed even full of scents of numberless flowers; and the sun was shining everywhere, upon the blossoms in the garden, and the fine old elm-trees in the park. and the far-off hills. he grasped tony's hand in his, and bade him look well about him. [illustration: oliver, leaning on susan's arm] "if only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!" he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice. but just then--scarcely had he finished speaking--there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like dolly's, that both old oliver and tony turned round quickly. it could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that dolly had had two years before. she ran and hid her face in her mother's gown; but susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old oliver. "say grand-pa, and kiss him, polly," she said, coaxingly. the little child held back shyly for a minute, for old oliver's head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him. "gan-pa!" she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight. they went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old oliver's arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the wrekin; and polly sat first on his knee, and then upon tony's, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements. but still it was not their own dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in london so happy and so merry for them. she was gone home to the father's house, and was watching for them there. tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old oliver the parting would be but short. as he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while susan sang polly to sleep in the kitchen, tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, "yet a little, and i will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where i am ye may be also. even so, come, lord jesus!" printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross.